The envelope lay on the table, torn open.
Ekaterina noticed it immediately—the moment she crossed the threshold, before she’d even taken off her coat. The white rectangle that had been tucked away neatly in the cabinet that morning was now tossed into the middle of the kitchen table, its side ripped open.
Nearby stood Roman, and one look at his slumped shoulders was enough to know: something bad had happened.
«Hey,» Ekaterina said, leaning against the doorframe.
Her legs were throbbing. Twelve hours on her feet, six surgeries, two emergencies—just another day in the surgical ward. A senior nurse with fifteen years of experience, she had hands that didn’t shake even after a twenty-four-hour shift. But right now, those hands suddenly felt like lead.
«Katya, look, don’t get mad right away,» her husband said, turning around.
Ekaterina saw that look on his face. Guilty, yet defiant. Like a child who knows they’ve messed up but already has an excuse locked and loaded.
«What happened?»
«My mom’s fridge died. For good. The repairman said it’s junk.»
Ekaterina slowly pulled off her coat and hung it on the hook. She walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and began washing her hands—long and meticulously, as if scrubbing in for surgery. It bought her time to think. Time to keep from snapping.
«And?»
«Well… her pension is tiny, you know that. And fridges cost a fortune these days…» Roman spread his hands as if measuring the size of the problem. «I promised her we’d help.»
The water ran over her fingers—cold, almost icy. Ekaterina watched the streams disappear down the drain and counted to herself. One, two, three… Usually, the tension broke by seven. By twelve, she could speak calmly.
She didn’t make it to twelve.
«You promised,» she repeated, shutting off the tap. «Without asking me.»
«Katya, come on, it was an emergency. Her food is going to spoil.»
«And what about our plans? I guess our own apartment can wait another year. Or five. Or ten.»
Roman winced as if he had a toothache.
«There you go again with the apartment. It’s not like we’re living on the street; we have a roof over our heads…»
«It’s a rental, Roma. A rental that hasn’t been renovated in a decade, with paper-thin walls and ancient furniture. I want a normal life.»
Her husband turned back toward the window. Outside, a November evening was darkening—early twilight, bare poplar branches, the dim glow of a streetlamp in the courtyard.
«My mother is alone,» Roman said without turning around. «My father is gone, no brothers or sisters. She has nobody to help her but me.»
«Polina Mikhailovna has an apartment. A two-bedroom. In a good neighborhood. If money is that tight, she can rent out a room.»
«Are you serious right now? Putting strangers in with an elderly woman?»
«But putting a hand in my pocket every single month—that’s normal?»
Roman spun around. His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tight.
«In your pocket? For the record, I was earning money too. Until the layoffs.»
«Until the layoffs—yes. Three months ago. Now you’re sitting at home ‘finding yourself.’ And I’m putting up with it, Roma. I’m not throwing it in your face. But this money,» Ekaterina nodded toward the envelope, «is my overtime. My night shifts. My weekends that I spent in the OR instead of resting.»
«Money in a family is shared.»
«Is it? Then why did your salary, back when you had one, only go toward your needs? A new phone, subscriptions, beer with friends on Fridays? That was yours. But my money is ours?»
She walked to the table and picked up the envelope. She peeked inside—empty. Her heart did a slow, heavy drop into her stomach.
«Where is the money, Roma?»
«I… I took it to Mom. This afternoon.»
Ekaterina lowered herself onto a stool. She moved slowly, as if she were afraid she might miss the seat entirely. There had been eighty thousand in that envelope. Almost three months of saving, of saying ‘no’ to everything—no decent food, no makeup, skipping her friend’s milestone birthday trip out of town.
«You took the money. You didn’t even wait for me to get home.»
«Mom was crying on the phone. She said everything would rot without a fridge…»
«Polina Mikhailovna cries every time she wants something. Just recently she was crying over the washing machine. The time before that, it was her teeth. Now it’s the fridge. What’s next month? A TV? A sofa? New curtains?»
Roman slammed his fist on the table. Not hard, but the sound was sharp and ugly.
«Enough! That’s my mother! She raised me, she stayed up nights when I was sick!»
«And now you’re paying her back. With my hands,» Ekaterina said, holding her palms up for him to see. «See these? Dry from soap and latex gloves. Calloused. I stand in an OR for twelve hours so people can stay alive. Then I come home and find out my money has already been chauffeured over to your ‘mommy’ for a fridge.»
«Don’t call her that.»
«Call her what?»
«‘Mommy.’ With that much contempt.»
«What else should I call her? Polina Mikhailovna didn’t even bother to wish me a happy birthday last month. But she has an excellent memory for when I get paid and when my bonuses hit.»
Roman jumped up, nearly knocking over his stool.
«What do you know! Your parents are alive and well, growing grapes on their pension in Krasnodar! But my mother is alone, in a cold apartment, with a dead fridge!»
«Polina Mikhailovna’s apartment isn’t cold. I was there in September. It was seventy-seven degrees and stuffy; she was complaining the radiators were too hot.»
«You twist everything!»
«I just remember. I have a professional memory, Roma. I remember details; it’s part of the job. And I remember that three months ago, we gave Polina Mikhailovna forty thousand for her teeth. Two months ago—thirty-five for a washing machine. Now eighty for a fridge. That’s a hundred and fifty-five thousand in three months. For one retiree.»
Her husband froze mid-step.
«You’re keeping score?»
«Of course I am. Someone has to.»
«That’s disgusting. Counting pennies when it comes to helping family.»
«You want to know what’s disgusting?» Ekaterina stood up, the two of them facing off across the kitchen table.
«What’s disgusting is when your mother calls me instead of you. She calls me directly. She tells me all her woes, her tiny pension, her loneliness. And then she adds, ‘Katenka, you’ll help, won’t you? You’re such a good girl, unlike some people.'»
«Mom doesn’t talk like that.»
«She does. You just don’t hear it because she tells you something else. To you, she complains about me—how I’m greedy, how I count every cent, how I don’t respect my elders. But to me, she plays the pity and guilt cards. It’s classic manipulation, Roma. I see it every day at the hospital.»
Roman went pale. Then flushed. Then pale again—his face changed so rapidly that Ekaterina instinctively noted: his blood pressure is spiking; that’s not good.
«You’re calling my mother a manipulator?»
«I’m calling a spade a spade.»
«That’s enough!» Her husband lunged toward the table, grabbed the empty envelope, and crushed it in his fist. «I’m not listening to this! You’ve become bitter at the whole world, Katya. You’ve grown… callous. Cold. There’s nothing human left in you.»
«There’s no money left in me, Roma. The ‘human’ part is still there. The cash is what ran out.»
Silence fell over the room. Through the wall, the neighbors’ TV was blaring—some talk show filled with shouting and canned applause. Just another ordinary evening in an ordinary five-story apartment block.
Ekaterina sank back onto the stool and looked out the window. The streetlamp in the courtyard flickered and died—ancient wiring the city had promised to fix back in the summer. Now the yard was drowning in darkness, save for the yellow squares of light from the neighboring windows.
«Do you remember what we used to dream about?» she asked quietly. «Two years ago, when we first got married. You used to show me apartment listings. You’d say, ‘Look at this one, look at that balcony.’ Or, ‘There’s a park right next to this one, we can go for morning runs.'»
«Katya…»
«Мы calculated exactly how much we needed to save. We made a plan. You said we’d definitely have a down payment in three years. And I believed you, Roma. I worked overtime; I took every shift I could get. I thought it was for our future.»
«Circumstances changed.»
«The ‘circumstances’ are your layoff. I understand that, and I don’t blame you for it. But giving money to your mother isn’t a ‘circumstance.’ It’s a choice. Your choice.»
Roman stood in the middle of the kitchen, clutching the crumpled envelope. His shoulders slumped, his head bowed—the posture of a man who knows he’s wrong but can’t bring himself to admit it.
«She’s my mother,» he repeated hollowly. «The only one I have.»
«And I’m your wife. Also the only one you have. Or at least, I was.»
Those last two words hung in the air like smoke from a snuffed-out match.
«What do you mean, ‘was’?» Roman lifted his head.
«I mean exactly that. I can’t do this anymore, Roma. I don’t want to.»
«Are you serious? Over money? You’re going to destroy a family over some scraps of paper?»
Ekaterina gave a grim half-smile.
«What family? The one where I work double shifts while you stay home and hand my paycheck to your mother? The one where your interests come first, hers come second, and mine are somewhere at the bottom of the list?»
«That’s not true!»
«It is true. You just don’t see it. Or you don’t want to.»
Roman took a step toward her. «Katya, let’s just talk normally. Without all the drama. You’re exhausted, I get it…»
«Don’t touch me.»
She pulled away, putting her hand up. The gesture was sharp, almost defensive—as if she expected a blow.
«Are you afraid of me?» her husband’s voice wavered. «Seriously?»
«I’m afraid of what I’m looking at. A man who took my money without asking. Who thinks that’s okay. Who is standing here right now trying to convince me that I’m the one in the wrong.»
«Because you are!»
«No, Roma. You are. And your mother is wrong, too. This whole system of yours—where the younger generation is supposed to bankroll the older one—is wrong. Polina Mikhailovna has a pension. She has an apartment. If that’s not enough, there’s social services, there are subsidies, there are a thousand ways to solve the problem. But she chooses the easiest way: calling and crying. And you choose the easiest way: reaching into my purse.»
Her husband backed up a step. Then another. His back hit the refrigerator—their own fridge, old, but still humming.
«Your mother’s got it all figured out, hasn’t she?» The words were low, almost a whisper, but in the silence of the kitchen, they sounded like a thunderclap. «Every time there’s a ‘crisis,’ she heads straight for my wallet.»
Roman flinched as if he’d been electrocuted.
«What did you just say?»
«You heard me.»
«How dare you talk about my mother like that?!»
«I’m telling the truth. This is a woman who hasn’t invited us over for dinner once in two years. Who only shows up when she needs something. Who looks at me like I’m just the help for her son.»
Roman’s face contorted. Ekaterina had never seen this expression on him before—a cocktail of rage, resentment, and something else that looked a lot like hate.
«You…» he choked out, breathless with indignation. «Do you realize what you just said?»
«I do.»
«And you’re not going to apologize?»
«No.»
Roman snapped. He brushed past her, nearly clipping her shoulder, and stormed into the hallway. The closet doors banged open; the sound of rustling fabric followed.
«What are you doing?» Ekaterina followed him out.
«Packing my things. Since I’m so terrible, since my mother is just ‘mommy’ to you, since you don’t need us—I’m leaving. I’m going to her place. At least there, I’m loved.»
She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. She watched him shove sweaters and jeans into a duffel bag, grabbing his razor and toothbrush from the shelf.
«Roma.»
«What?!»
«Leave the keys.»
He froze.
«What do you mean, ‘leave them’?»
«I mean exactly that. If you’re leaving, leave for good. I don’t want you coming back later for clothes, or books, or anything else. Take everything you want now. But give me the keys.»
«You’re kicking me out?»
«No. You’re choosing to leave. I’m just clarifying the terms.»
Roman slowly straightened up. A single sock dangled from his hand—black, with a hole in the heel. Ekaterina used to laugh at this habit of his—wearing things into the ground until they literally fell apart. It wasn’t funny anymore.
«Is this really what you want?» Her husband’s voice had shifted. It was quieter. Scared.
«I want a normal life. One where I’m respected. Where my opinion actually carries weight. Where my money is my money, not a slush fund for your relatives.»
«I can change…»
«Maybe. But not with me. I have nothing left to give you, Roma. No money, no patience, and no love. You’ve spent it all. In two years—you’ve drained the account.»
Her husband stood in the hallway—lost, holding a duffel bag in one hand and a sock in the other. Ekaterina had never seen him look so pathetic. In the past, it probably would have moved her. She would have felt sorry for him. It would have made her back down, forgive him, and take him back.
But today, she felt hollow inside. Just like that envelope.
«The keys,» she repeated.
Roman’s shoulder twitched. He reached into his pocket and flung the keychain onto the entryway table. Metal clattered against wood.
«Fine. Stay here alone in this dump with your overtime. See if anyone helps you then.»
«Nobody helps me now, Roma. Certainly not for the last six months.»
«I was looking for work!»
«You were sitting on the couch scrolling through your phone. Those are two different things.»
He ripped the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. Plaster flaked off—old, yellowed, and long overdue for a repair.
«Goodbye,» Roman tossed over his shoulder. «And don’t call me. Ever.»
«I won’t.»
The door slammed shut. Footsteps thundered down the stairs—down, down, down. Then the heavy thud of the building’s main entrance door, followed by total silence.
Ekaterina stood in the hallway for another minute. She looked at the keys lying lonely on the table. At the coat rack where only her things remained. At the shelf where his razor used to be.
Then she went back to the kitchen and sat down.
The envelope was still there—crumpled, empty. She smoothed it out with her palm, pressing out the creases. The paper was warm from her touch.
Eighty thousand. Three months of penny-pinching. Overtime. Three night shifts. All of it—for Polina Mikhailovna’s refrigerator.
Ekaterina started to laugh. It was low and grim—a hysterical edge to it. She got up, cracked the window, and let in the biting November air. She stood there, staring out at the dark courtyard and the scattered glows of lit windows.
The strange thing was, she didn’t feel pain or resentment. Just exhaustion. And something else, something unfamiliar. Lightness, maybe? As if a backpack she’d been lugging for so long she’d forgotten its weight had finally been lifted off her shoulders.
The next morning, Ekaterina woke up to silence. No snoring beside her. No one rustling their phone. No one hogging the bathroom for an hour while she waited her turn before work.
She brewed coffee—strong and black, the way she liked it. She drank it standing by the window, watching the sky brighten over the rooftops. Then she pulled out a notebook and started over with the math.
The eighty thousand was gone. But payday was a week away. Plus the bonus for the night shifts. And the vacation pay she hadn’t touched in two years. If she calculated it out…
By noon, the plan was ready. Strict, clear, and broken down by the month. No «help for husband’s relatives» line item. No «unforeseen mother-in-law expenses» column. Just her income and her expenses.
Ekaterina looked at the numbers and smiled. The down payment for a one-bedroom in a new development—two years. Not five, like they’d once planned. Two years.
It turns out, going solo is faster.
The phone rang late that afternoon. An unknown number. Ekaterina declined it—she didn’t have time for telemarketers. It rang again. She declined it again.
The third time, a text message arrived: «Katenka, it’s Polina Mikhailovna. Roma told me you two had a fight. Please call me. We need to talk.»
She stared at the screen for a long time. Then she opened the settings and hit «Block Number.»
The next day, a message came from a different number—likely a neighbor or a friend of her mother-in-law. «Katya, Polina Mikhailovna is very upset. Call her.»
She blocked that one, too.
A week later, one more: «Katya, shame on you. Leaving your husband over money. Polina Mikhailovna cries every day. You are a heartless woman.»
Ekaterina read it, gave a dry laugh, and blocked it. «Heartless»—that was an interesting one. Saving lives twelve hours a day, only to be called heartless. Right.
The divorce was finalized a month later. Roman didn’t show up for the hearing; he sent a signed consent form instead. There was nothing to split: the apartment was a rental, and they hadn’t acquired any joint property in two years. The judge looked over the file, sighed, and stated clearly: «The marriage is dissolved.»
Ekaterina walked out of the courthouse and stopped on the steps. A light snow was falling, and people were hurrying about their business. An ordinary day. An ordinary city. An ordinary life—except now, it was different.
She pulled out her phone and opened her banking app. She looked at her savings—it had grown by thirty thousand in just one month. Without Roman and his mother, saving had become three times easier.
She tucked the phone into her pocket and headed for the subway. She had an evening ahead of her, free from work. She could stop at a cafe, have a hot chocolate, and sit with a book. She hadn’t allowed herself that in a long time—she’d been too busy saving, putting everything off until «later.»
Well, «later» had arrived. Freedom. Someone else’s people. Someone else’s problems. Not hers anymore.
The coffee shop on the corner was half-empty—a rarity for a Friday night. Ekaterina ordered a latte and a slice of cheesecake and sat by the window. Outside the glass, snow was falling; pedestrians tucked their faces into their collars, and cars crawled along the whitened road.
She pulled out her notebook and opened the page with her plan. She ran her finger down the column of figures, stopping at the final line.
Two years. It was a lot and a little all at once. A lot if you count every single day. Very little if you’re just living.
Ekaterina closed the notebook and took a sip of her coffee. At the next table, a girl was loudly complaining to a friend about a boyfriend who didn’t want to get married. The friend was nodding and advising her to «give him time.»
Time. A funny word. You can give it to someone, you can spend it on someone, or you can waste it. Or you can just live it. For yourself.
Ekaterina smiled and took a bite of her cheesecake. It was sweet with a hint of tartness—exactly how she liked it.
It turned out she still remembered what she liked. She just hadn’t asked herself in a very long time.
