Arseniy finished the last slice of quiche off his plate without taking his eyes off his phone. He chewed slowly, savoring every bite—a sign that he truly enjoyed it. Irina observed as he licked his fingers, picking up the flaky pastry crumbs. Her mother, Lydia Pavlovna, had brought these quiches warm, filled with the rich aroma of butter and rosemary. There were six in total; he had already devoured four throughout the day, and now he was finishing the fifth. Irina had only managed to take a bite of hers once.
“Starting tomorrow, you’ll cover your share,” he stated, still glued to his device. “Or find a way to manage your leisure expenses.”
Irina froze, fork in hand. Their two-year-old son, Lev, was nearby, fiddling with building blocks and knocking them against the wooden floor.
“What did you just say?”
“Separate budget. It’s standard practice. I handle the rent, and you take care of your own expenses—phone, clothes, cosmetics. Everything is fair.”
Setting his phone down screen-side to the table, he finally met her gaze. His expression was calm—almost condescending.
“Arseniy, I’m on maternity leave. Lev is two years old. I take care of our child.”
“You’re at home all day—what are you doing? You could work remotely. You have a degree in architecture. Or did you think I would support you indefinitely?”
Slowly, Irina lowered her fork. The quiche she had started to eat felt stuck in her throat. Arseniy stood, pushed back his chair with a loud scrape, took the empty plate without washing it, and walked away to his room. He quietly closed the door, but she still heard the click of the lock.
During the first few days, she moved through life as if in a fog. She checked her phone—there was hardly any money left, just enough to last a week if she economized. Arseniy had become silent at breakfast, leaving early and returning late. Sometimes, she heard him talking softly on the phone in the hall. One time, she heard a woman’s laughter echoing from the speaker—light and ringing. She didn’t ask; she merely remembered.
A week later, she signed up on a freelance platform. Interior design and visualization—tasks she could do with her eyes closed. Her mother contributed her first project.
- “My friend is renovating. Can you help with the layout?”
They paid her a small amount, but it was her money. Irina stared at the numbers on the screen, feeling something harden and chill inside her, coiling into a fist.
After a month, she received more orders. She worked during the nights while Lev was asleep. Arseniy still didn’t notice—he would have dinner in his room, sometimes disappearing for weekends without explanation. He would say, “meeting with colleagues,” and wouldn’t look her in the eye.
Then, she spotted his tablet.
It lay on the table, its screen still lit. Arseniy went to take a shower, and Irina walked past. She glanced at it and stopped.
Messages. From someone named Stella.
“You do understand this is temporary? I can’t leave now, but I’ve already scouted out a studio. For us.”
Irina reached for the tablet. The password was four digits. Randomly, she entered the date of their wedding. Incorrect. She tried Lev’s birthday. Wrong again. Her last attempt was the day they moved into this apartment. The screen unlocked.
She scrolled through the messages quickly, her fingers moving mechanically. The sound of the shower continued. Receipts for hotels. Gifts. Restaurant reservations. And then this:
“She’s a non-liquid asset, Arseniy. You need to write her off. Just do it legally.”
Irina took screenshots. Many. Everything in sight. The conversations, photos, receipts—everything he didn’t have money for when she asked him to buy vitamins for Lev. She placed the tablet back and sat at the table. Her hands were steady. Inside, it felt unfathomably empty and cold, like an unfinished building.
Arseniy returned home on Friday evening from his trip. He dropped his bag by the entrance and headed straight for the kitchen. Irina had already set the table—scrambled eggs, toast, coffee. Perfect, just like before.
“Why the sudden hospitality?” he asked with a smirk as he took a seat. “Or have you completely run out of money?”
“There’s enough money. Sit down.”
He picked up the fork. Irina retrieved a thin folder from the drawer and placed it in front of him.
“What’s this?”
“An estimate for the project ‘Division of Property.’ An architectural approach—you like it when everything is calculated.”
Arseniy opened the folder, flipping through the first page. His face went pale and then flushed.
“Where did you get this?”
“That’s not important. What matters is what happens next. You have two options. The first—you move out today, leave the apartment for me and Lev, and pay child support as is expected from an IT project manager. The second—I send a copy of the estimate to your HR director along with the hotel receipts from working hours and evidence of personal use of the company credit card. How do you think they would label that in your bank?”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“No. I’ve simply done the calculations. Remember, you taught me how to add? A separate budget—that was your idea.”
Arseniy stood abruptly, knocking his chair over. He grabbed the folder, clenching it in his hands.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would. And one more thing. Say hi to Stella. Ask if she knows how to make quiche with salmon. Or do you plan on feeding her mom’s pastries too?”
He stood there, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. Then slowly, he relaxed his grip, slamming the folder onto the table.
“I’ll collect my things tomorrow.”
“Today. Or I press ‘send’ right now.”
He left in half an hour, slamming the door so hard that Lev woke up and cried. Irina picked up her son, holding him close, standing by the window, watching as Arseniy loaded bags into the car. Inside her, there was no anger or sense of victory—only fatigue and a strange relief, like after completing a challenging project.
The divorce proceeded swiftly. Arseniy didn’t resist, fearing scandal. Child support arrived regularly—he valued his position too much to take any risks. Irina gained the apartment and focused on work.
Orders came in fast and steady. A year later, she opened her own studio—small, with just three employees, but it was hers. Clients found her based on referrals. Lev started preschool and then school. Her life reorganized itself—without scrutiny, without control, without the question of “what did you spend this on?”
Irina met Damir at a project site three years later. He was a tall construction engineer with a soft voice and a scar on his hand from welding. He was inspecting load-bearing structures in the building she was decorating.
“You’ve made a mistake here,” he pointed at the plan. “This wall is load-bearing; it can’t be demolished.”
Irina looked, recounted, and nodded.
“You’re right.”
They shared coffee after work. Then again, a second time. Damir didn’t pry into her past, nor did he offer unsolicited advice. He was just there. He brought Lev an engineering building set with bolts and gears. Her son fell in love with it instantly.
They collaborated together—he built, she designed. Without calculations or who invested what. Just half of everything.
Irina unexpectedly encountered Arseniy five years later at a shopping mall. He was alone, slightly slouched, wearing a worn-out jacket. Spotting her, he froze.
“Irina.”
“Arseniy.”
The silence hung in the air, heavy and awkward. He spoke first.
“How are you?”
“Good. The studio is expanding; I’ve hired two more employees. Lev is in third grade, fascinated by robotics. And you?”
“Work. I’m renting an apartment now.”
“And Stella?”
His face twitched, as if struck.
“She left a year ago. Said I was too critical of her spending. Funny, right?”
Irina looked at him—at this man who once demanded receipts for baby food while he spent money on a mistress. She felt nothing. No anger, no pity. Just emptiness.
“Funny. Good luck to you.”
She walked toward her car, where Damir waited with grocery bags. They were heading out of town to the house he was building, which she was designing. Their home—without separate budgets and estimates.
“Who was that?” Damir asked once she settled in.
“No one. Just an ex.”
Her phone vibrated—a message from her mother: “Sweetie, I baked quiche with salmon. I’ll bring some tomorrow.”
Irina smiled and typed back: “No thanks, Mom. I learned to make it myself. Mine even turns out better than yours.”
Damir chuckled, glancing at the screen over her shoulder.
“You fibber. Didn’t you burn the dough yesterday?”
“It’s nothing; I’ll learn. I have time now.”
He took her hand—warm, roughened from work—and kissed her knuckles. Outside, snow fell gently. Lev was animatedly recounting something from the back seat about a school robot. Damir drove slowly, unhurriedly.
And Irina gazed ahead, pondering that separating the budget isn’t just about money. It’s about how you share your life. Half or each on their own.
She chose half. And not once did she regret it.