Anfisa stood by the stove, lost in a daydream. She imagined herself sitting in a cozy bistro downtown, enjoying a warm goat cheese salad and a glass of expensive wine, instead of slaving over fifteen servings of Olivier salad. She could have been wearing a beautiful dress and lipstick, looking like the wife of a successful man, rather than an exhausted cook with messy hair and mayo stains on her sweatshirt.
«Mmm, smells delicious!» Marta Kirillovna sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea with jam. «Now this is real food. Not like those cafes and restaurants of yours. They serve nothing but water for crazy prices! It’s better to eat at home: it’s filling, it’s clean, and you actually know what’s in it.»
Anfisa just nodded, silently continuing to dice carrots. Arguing with her mother-in-law was a lost cause.
Two weeks ago, when it became clear Marat was getting promoted, she had suggested celebrating at a restaurant. But her mother-in-law had instantly hijacked the plan: «Don’t be silly! There’s no place like home! I’ll help you prepare everything.»
«Helping,» of course, meant nothing but unsolicited advice and criticism.
«Remember when Maratik competed in the physics Olympiad in high school?» Marta Kirillovna continued. «I told everyone back then my son would go far! He doesn’t have an ordinary brain. It’s an analytical mind!»
Anfisa closed her eyes for a second. She had heard the Olympiad story at least two hundred times. Along with the story of little Marat building radios and his third-grade teacher calling him a «special talent.»
«At least the Crone recognized his potential immediately,» the mother-in-law went on. «She’s a smart woman, say what you will. Tough, sure, but fair.»
Anfisa smirked. Every employee at the university called Elena Viktorovna Gromova «the Crone» behind her back. She had arrived six months ago as the new rector, audited the entire staff, forced half the old professors into retirement, and introduced new standards. Anfisa didn’t like her—she was too abrasive and blunt—but the results were undeniable: the university was actually running more efficiently.
«Can you imagine?» Marta Kirillovna said. «Dean of the faculty! And Marat is only thirty-four. Most people his age are still working as assistants.»
«We’ve both worked at the university for eight years,» Anfisa reminded her quietly. «And we both have PhDs.»
«Well, of course, dear! I’m not diminishing your accomplishments. Но you understand that leadership requires a special talent. Not everyone is meant to manage people.»
Anfisa pulled the pot of potatoes off the burner and began to drain the water. The steam scalded her face. Yes, she understood. She understood that her eight years of teaching, her academic articles, her dissertation on modern Russian literature… none of it meant anything compared to Marat’s appointment. To her mother-in-law, she was just the Dean’s wife, tasked with setting a festive table.
Truthfully, she was happy for him. Her husband was a great organizer; the students respected him and his colleagues listened to him. He deserved this. And the salary would be decent now. Maybe they could finally afford their own apartment instead of scraping by in this dilapidated two-bedroom.
«And remember, Anfisochka,» the mother-in-law sang sweetly, «how worried you were when Gromova started? You thought you’d both be laid off. But it turned out to be the opposite! She saw right away what kind of talent she had right under her nose.»
«Mom, we’re home!» Marat’s voice echoed from the hallway.
Anfisa wiped her hands on a towel and quickly fixed her hair. Marat walked into the kitchen with his younger brother, Denis, and two colleagues from the department.
«How are our hostesses doing?» Marat kissed his wife on the cheek and then hugged his mother. «Smells great!»
«Anfisa is working hard! She’s been in the kitchen all day preparing for your guests.»
Marat looked pleased. Success suited him; he seemed taller in his own eyes, carrying himself with more confidence and speaking louder.
«Hey, maybe we should order some pizza?» Denis suggested. «There’s going to be a lot of people.»
«Why pizza?» Marta Kirillovna cut in immediately. «We have plenty! Anfisa is going to set a table that’ll make your mouth water!»
Anfisa looked at her husband, hoping he’d back the pizza idea. But Marat was already nodding in agreement with his mother.
«Mom’s right. Why waste the money? Fisa is a pro.»
By 10:00 PM, the apartment was buzzing with voices and laughter. Guests were drinking, dancing, and having a great time. The bottles of vodka and cognac were noticeably empty.
Anfisa scurried between the kitchen and the living room, clearing plates, refilling drinks, and slicing more salad. Her shoes were rubbing her feet raw and her back ached, but she kept going. It was an important day, after all.
«Fisa!» Marat shouted as she passed by again. «Run out and get some cigarettes! Volodya ran out.»
Anfisa froze in the middle of the room. The store? Now? Seriously? She was in her house clothes, wearing no makeup, and dead tired.
«Marat, maybe one of the guys could go?» she suggested quietly.
«What?» Her husband narrowed his eyes aggressively. «Are you the hostess or not? We have guests, and you’re being difficult.»
Anfisa pressed her lips together and went to get her coat.
«Now make some coffee,» Marat ordered when she returned from the store. «And bring some cookies with it.»
«Maratik, tell us again about the appointment,» Marta Kirillovna purred. «How did Gromova break the news to you?»
Marat squared his shoulders and began recounting the conversation with the rector in great detail. Anfisa listened from the corner of her ear, scoffing inwardly. The story was gaining new details: now it seemed Elena Viktorovna had practically begged him to take the job.
«Fisa!» the shout came from the living room again. «Where’s the coffee? We’re dying of thirst here!»
She brought in the tray of cups, her legs throbbing with fatigue.
«And now bring the cognac,» her husband commanded. «The bottle in the cabinet.»
«Marat,» she whispered, leaning down toward him. «Maybe that’s enough? You have work tomorrow…»
«What?» He turned on her sharply. «You dare tell me what to do? On the day of my appointment? You’ve got some nerve.»
The colleagues looked away, embarrassed. Anfisa’s cheeks burned with shame.
«I just…»
«Bring the cognac and stop trying to be smart!» he snapped.
She brought the bottle, set it on the table, and tried to leave, but he grabbed her arm.
«Stay. Pour the rounds. And be careful.»
Anfisa poured the cognac, feeling everyone’s eyes on her. Some guests looked genuinely uncomfortable; others pretended not to notice.
«Anfisa,» Marta Kirillovna suddenly chimed in, «bring me my slippers from the bedroom. My feet are cold. And hurry up!»
Anfisa was stunned by the sheer audacity. She straightened her back and looked her mother-in-law in the eye.
«No. I won’t.»
The room went dead silent. Marta Kirillovna blinked, as if she didn’t understand the words.
«Excuse me?»
«I said… no. I am not a servant in this house. If you need your slippers, go get them yourself.»
«I’m sorry… what do you think you’re doing?» Marat’s face turned a deep shade of purple. «How dare you talk to my mother like that?»
«The same way you dare to bark orders at me in front of guests,» Anfisa replied. Her voice was steady, even though her heart was pounding.
«You’ve completely lost it! My mother asked you—»
«Your mother didn’t ask me anything. She gave me an order. Like I’m the help.»
Marta Kirillovna threw her hands up. «Unbelievable! Such ingratitude! After everything we’ve done for her!»
The guests sat in a trance. One studied the contents of his glass; another developed a sudden, awkward cough.
«Listen to me,» Marat said, pointing a finger at his mother. «You are going to apologize to her right now. Right here, in front of everyone. And then you’re going to get her slippers!»
«For what?» his wife asked.
«For your mouth! For the disrespect!»
«I won’t.»
«You won’t? Are you sure? Fine… then start packing,» Marat cut her off coldly. «If you can’t behave yourself in decent society, then we’re done. I’m divorcing you.»
Marta Kirillovna let out a satisfied little chuckle. There was so much malice in that sound that it sent shivers down Anfisa’s spine.
«Fine,» Anfisa said, looking her husband straight in the eye. «I agree.»
And for the first time that night, she smiled.
The guests began to clear out immediately, mumbling awkward goodbyes about early mornings and busy schedules. Anfisa sat in the kitchen, ignoring everyone.
Marat saw the last guest out and returned to the living room. She could hear him whispering intensely to his mother.
«You think you scared me?» Fifteen minutes later, Marat appeared in the kitchen. «You think I won’t go through with it?»
«No, I don’t,» Anfisa replied calmly. «You’ve already made up your mind. And honestly, I’m actually glad.»
Marat frowned, clearly expecting a different reaction—tears, begging, or a breakdown.
«Fine! I’m filing the paperwork tomorrow.»
«Go ahead.»
Marta Kirillovna peered into the kitchen with a triumphant look on her face.
«Don’t worry, son. It’s for the best. You’re a Dean now; you need a wife who fits the part. Not this gray little mouse!»
Anfisa finished her tea and stood up.
«I’m going to pack my things.»
«Whoa, what’s the rush?» Marat suddenly countered. «Pack in the morning. Where are you going to go in the middle of the night?»
«That’s no longer any of your business. Got it?»
She walked into the bedroom, pulled a small suitcase from the closet, and started packing the essentials. She wasn’t even nervous. A year ago, she would have been sobbing, begging for forgiveness, promising to change. Now, she felt nothing but a strange sense of relief.
«Are you serious?» Marat stood in the doorway, watching her pack. «You’re just going to up and leave? Just like that?»
«Why not? Did you think I’d cling to someone who doesn’t want me? You really don’t know me at all, do you?»
«I didn’t say I didn’t want you.»
«You did. Just in different words.»
Anfisa tucked her makeup bag, phone charger, and a change of clothes into the bag. Marat stayed silent, looking genuinely caught off guard.
«Fisa, look, let’s not make any rash decisions. Let’s think about this…»
She looked at her husband in disbelief. «Marat, you treated me like a servant in front of our guests. And your mother was giggling when you brought up divorce. You humiliated me. What is there to ‘think about’?»
«I was just drunk! I said things I didn’t mean…»
«Well, I was sober when I heard them! Besides, ‘a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts,’ right?»
Anfisa zipped up her suitcase and headed for the door. In the living room, Marta Kirillovna was clearing the table, humming a little tune to herself.
«Anfisa!» she called out with a smirk. «And who’s going to do the dishes?»
«I don’t know. But it definitely won’t be me!»
It was freezing outside, but the air felt crisp and easy to breathe. She called an Uber and headed to her close friend Olga’s place. Olga opened the door and ushered her inside, looking concerned.
«Fisa? What happened? Why the suitcase?»
«I’m getting a divorce,» Anfisa said shortly. «Can I crash here tonight?»
«Oh my God, of course! Come in, tell me everything!»
The two friends sat in the kitchen until 3:00 AM. Olga made tea, shook her head in disbelief, and tore into Marat and his mother. Anfisa told her story and realized something surprising: she wasn’t crying. Eight years of marriage were over, and she felt as if she had just been waiting for this exit.
«So, what’s the plan now?» Olga asked. «Are you looking for a new job?»
«No, I have a job. And I don’t plan on changing that. Though I don’t know how it’ll work now… with Marat being the Dean.»
«So what? You’re a great professor, you publish articles. He can’t just fire you because of personal drama!»
Anfisa nodded, though she had her doubts. She knew Marat. He was petty; he would definitely try to squeeze her out of the university. And there weren’t many other jobs for her specialty in this town.
The next morning, she checked her phone first thing. Her husband had called several times and sent one text:
“Come home. Let’s talk.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, Anfisa dialed the Rector’s office.
«Hello, this is Anfisa Kruglova from the Philology Department. I’d like to request a meeting with Elena Viktorovna.»
«Regarding what matter?» the secretary asked.
Anfisa paused for a beat, then answered firmly, «Professional. I have several proposals regarding the development of the faculty.»
Elena Viktorovna saw her at 9:00 AM the following morning.
«Come in, Anfisa Sergeyevna. Have a seat!» The Rector gestured to the chair across from her desk. «Tell me what’s on your mind. But I’ll warn you, I’m short on time. I only have twenty minutes.»
Anfisa sat down, trying to project more confidence than she actually felt.
«Elena Viktorovna, I wanted to discuss the future of the Philology Department. I have a few ideas—»
«Stop,» the Rector raised a hand. «Let’s start at the beginning. I already know what happened at your place the other night. News travels fast at this university.»
Anfisa’s face turned bright red. «That’s not why I’m here…»
«Then why are you here?» Elena Viktorovna leaned back in her chair. «Do you want to know if I’ve officially filed the paperwork for your husband’s deanship yet?»
Anfisa nodded slowly.
«Anfisa Sergeyevna, you were the one who turned down the position,» the Rector said, pausing for effect. «For three months, I carefully reviewed the candidates for Dean. You and your husband have nearly identical credentials: publications, student ratings, administrative experience. But your work on modern literature impressed me more. It’s more innovative, more daring.»
Anfisa sat in silence, processing the words.
«That’s why I called you in for the first interview. Remember?»
«I remember,» Anfisa whispered hoarsely. «You asked if I was ready for the extra responsibility.»
«Exactly. And what did you tell me?»
«That… that Marat and I were both qualified. And that if the choice was between us, I would step aside for him. I didn’t want to compete with my husband.»
«Precisely!» Elena Viktorovna poured herself a glass of water. «I understood your choice. I respected it, even if I thought it was wrong.»
«Why wrong?»
«Because personal relationships should never dictate professional decisions. You were the superior candidate, but you sacrificed the position for the sake of ‘domestic bliss.'» The Rector looked Anfisa dead in the eye. «So… did it live up to your expectations?»
Anfisa lowered her head. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
«So, why are you here now, Anfisa Sergeyevna? Is it for revenge? Justice? Or do you actually want to work?»
«I want a chance. Just a chance to prove what I can do.»
«This isn’t a lottery, my dear,» Elena Viktorovna said sharply. «This isn’t a sporting event or a game of tag. I am not going to rescind your husband’s appointment just because he turned out to be a lousy family man.»
«I understand…»
«However!» The Rector raised a finger. «I have always admired your professionalism. And your ideas for the faculty’s development have piqued my interest. Therefore, I propose the following…»
Anfisa straightened her back, hanging on every word.
«Over the next two weeks, you and your husband will each prepare a development plan for the faculty for the coming year. You will then present them to the faculty and the student council. We will hold an open vote. Whoever’s project wins becomes the Dean.»
«But Marat has already been appointed…»
«He is on a probationary period. Don’t forget that!» Elena Viktorovna stood up. «Do we have a deal?»
Anfisa felt a spark of competitive fire ignite within her—an ambition she had suppressed for far too long.
«Deal,» she replied firmly.
«Excellent! But I have one condition. No one is to know about this conversation. Officially, this will be presented as a project competition open to all faculty members.»
«And if he refuses to participate?»
«Then he loses by default!» The Rector extended her hand. «Let’s see what you’re capable of, Anfisa Sergeyevna, when you’re no longer looking over your shoulder at your marriage.»
Anfisa shook her hand, feeling a strange lightness spread through her body.
«Thank you for the chance, Elena Viktorovna!»
«Don’t thank me yet. Show me results.»
For the next two weeks, Anfisa worked like a woman possessed.
She rented a tiny studio apartment near the university and lived on instant coffee and sandwiches, yet she felt a surge of energy every single day. Her proposal grew, gaining detail and depth.
She proposed creating a media center for student publications, establishing partnerships with major publishing houses, and launching a program in digital journalism. She meticulously calculated the budget, identified potential sponsors, and drafted a three-year roadmap.
Marat only called for the first three days: first demanding explanations in a rage, then begging her to come back, promising that everything would be different. She didn’t answer. He found out about the competition from the official notice posted on the department bulletin board.
«What do you think you’re doing?» he cornered her in the hallway the day before the presentations. «You think you can go toe-to-toe with me? Did you come up with this stupid contest?»
«You’re wrong,» Anfisa replied calmly. «I just decided to stop giving up.»
«Is this what a good wife does? Sabotaging her husband?»
«Ex-husband,» she corrected him. «The divorce papers have been filed, remember?»
Marat tried to argue, but she walked away.
On the day of the presentations, the auditorium was packed. The entire faculty was there, along with the student council and even some underclassmen. Elena Viktorovna sat in the front row, as stoic and imposing as ever.
Marat went first. His project was solid but predictable: standard measures to improve grades, new equipment purchases, and schedule optimization. He spoke with confidence, but there was no spark.
When Anfisa was called to the stage, the room went silent. Everyone was expecting something different.
She delivered her presentation with total conviction. She spoke about student startups, international exchanges, and transforming the Philology Department from a dusty academic wing into a cutting-edge center for media education.
«We can stay exactly as we are,» she concluded. «Or we can become who we were meant to be. The choice is yours.»
The applause was thunderous. Anfisa saw the inspired faces of the students and the approving nods from her colleagues. Marat sat there, pale, his jaw clenched.
The vote was a secret ballot. The Rector herself announced the results:
«Seventy-three votes for Anfisa Sergeyevna Kruglova’s project. Twenty-one votes for Marat Olegovich Kruglov. Congratulations to our new Dean!»
Anfisa stood on stage, unable to believe it. Colleagues swarmed her, shaking her hand and offering congratulations. Students lined up to ask about the new programs.
Marat vanished the moment the results were read. Marta Kirillovna also stormed out, her face a mask of resentment.
«Congratulations,» Elena Viktorovna said, approaching Anfisa once the room had mostly cleared. «You handled that brilliantly.»
«Thank you. For everything.»
«Thank yourself. I only provided the door; you walked through it.»
That evening, Anfisa invited Olga over. Her new contract was sitting on the table.
«So, was it worth it?» her friend asked.
«You know,» Anfisa looked out the window at the city lights, «I think this is only the beginning.»
Suddenly, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.
«Saw a recording of your presentation. Impressive. I’d like to discuss a potential partnership. — Igor Semenov, Editor-in-Chief of ‘The Contemporary.'»
Anfisa smiled and began to type a reply. Tomorrow would be a new day, full of possibilities. And she intended to seize every single one of them.
Justice had been served. She was finally where she belonged. At last.
