Larisa absolutely hated Saturday dinners at the Kostins’ place. It wasn’t the food—Sveta cooked delicious, simple, homemade meals. It was the conversation that bothered her. The talk always went one way: the men discussed business, politics, and their latest accomplishments, while the women washed dishes and nodded along. For twelve years, Larisa had been washing and nodding. She was used to it now. It had become her routine.
That Saturday was no different. Kostya and Sveta were there, Dimon showed up with his new wife—a plastic-looking blonde named Alisa—and another couple from their neighborhood joined in. Larisa wore a blue dress that Roma liked to call her ‘bad luck stripes’ and tied her hair back in a bun. Roma glanced at her quickly and said, “Ready?” without even waiting for her answer. She grabbed her bag and checked to make sure her wallet was inside. It was.
At the table, the talk was all about gas prices. Someone remembered that Larisa had recently gotten her driver’s license. Roma smirked and cut his meat:
“She got her license, but so what? She can’t even pay for gas herself. I’ve been feeding her for twelve years and she still spends her tiny salary on clothes.”
The table burst out laughing. Not maliciously, more out of habit—when the head of the family makes a joke, everyone’s supposed to laugh. Larisa smiled—that same smile she’d perfected over the years: corners of her mouth up, eyes empty. She set down her fork. Reached for a napkin. Dabbed her lips.
“Come on, Roma, that’s not fair,” Kostya said, trying to ease the tension. “You’ve got a gem in Larisa.”
“A gem?” Roma arched his brow. “People pawn gems. And this one can’t even cook a decent meal at home, it’s always some kind of diet grass.”
Another round of laughter. Larisa got up, gathered the plates, and carried them to the kitchen. Sveta followed her, turned on the water, and whispered:
“Don’t pay attention, he doesn’t mean anything by it. Men just don’t realize how it sounds.”
“Of course,” Larisa nodded and started scrubbing the frying pan. She scrubbed for a long time, thoroughly, even though it was already sparkling clean.
After that came tea. Then talk turned to loans. Roma boasted about how skillfully he got their mortgage, about his great credit history, about his card limit. Larisa listened and realized she didn’t even know how much money they had. He never told her. He just gave her money for groceries and the kids—that was it. Big purchases were always, “I decided.” She never argued. It was convenient to have decisions made for you. You lose your voice, but at least you have less responsibility.
Between serving cake and saying goodbye, the subject of summer vacations came up. Kostya suggested they all rent a house by the sea together. Everyone would chip in. Roma nodded:
“We’re in. Lariska, you’ll pitch in your share?”
And he winked at the guests.
Larisa felt something tighten inside her—not in her chest, but deep in her stomach, where instinct lives. She looked up. Everyone was looking at her. Some people were smiling, some looked away. Alisa, the blonde, looked at her with pity—the worst, most condescending kind. Larisa opened her mouth, wanting to crack a joke, but Roma cut her off:
“I’m just kidding! What share would she have? Pay for yourself, I didn’t invite you!”
And he roared with laughter. Loud, with his head thrown back—just like he laughed twelve years ago when they first met. Back then, she found it contagious. Now, it was just loud.
Everyone at the table picked up the mood, laughter rippling from person to person. Larisa sat there with her practiced smile—the one she always used. But this time, the corners of her mouth faltered and dropped. She grabbed her purse and stood up.
“I’m going to the car. I’m tired.”
Roma waved his hand—go ahead. She walked out to the hallway, put on her coat, and paused by the mirror. The reflection showed a woman with a gray face and the bun she despised. Larisa let down her hair, shook her head, and walked out to the car. She took the passenger seat and closed the door. Silence. All she could hear was her own heartbeat.
They drove home in silence. Roma was content—as always after these kinds of evenings, when he’d soaked up attention. Larisa stared out the window, counting street lamps. One hundred forty-three. One hundred forty-four. When she was a child, she used to count lights on trips with her father. He’d tell her: “Whoever counts more than one hundred gets to make a wish.” She always wished for one thing—for her dad not to leave for work trips. But he always left anyway.
At home, she warmed up some milk and fed the youngest, who had woken up, and put him back to bed. Roma was already lying in bed, scrolling through his feed. Larisa lay down next to him, turned her back. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Years of swallowing insults had a side effect—she’d forgotten how to cry. Now she could only lie there in silence, repeating to herself: “Pay for it yourself, I didn’t invite you.” Of course, tomorrow he’d say it was a joke. That she took everything too seriously. That she had no sense of humor. She’d heard it a hundred times. And a hundred times she’d agreed.
But something broke inside. Maybe it was Alisa’s smile. Maybe it was the words “didn’t invite you”—as if she’d forced herself into this life, this marriage, this house, where every cup was bought with his money. She used to have a job. Before maternity leave, she worked in insurance, had a decent position. Then she quit because Roma said: “Why tire yourself out, stay home with the kids, I’ll take care of everything.” And she did. He handled it. But along with the money, he quietly and invisibly took her self-respect too—like a thief who steals not things, but meaning.
The next morning, Larisa woke up early. Made porridge. Walked the kids to school. Opened her laptop. Found a job search website. Updated her resume—the last time she’d opened it was three years ago. She applied to three jobs. The pay was laughable, sure. But the money would be hers.
Roma came home late from work. Had dinner, praised the mashed potatoes. Larisa stayed quiet. He didn’t notice. He started talking about a new client. She nodded, but in her mind, she thought: “If I get this job, I’ll have enough for gas. Maybe not enough for a vacation, but for gas—definitely.”
A week later, she got the job. A small company, handling paperwork, five days a week from nine to six. The salary was a third of Roma’s, but the schedule let her pick up the kids from school. Larisa shared the news at dinner. Roma shrugged:
“Well, okay. Just don’t complain later about being tired.”
She had no plans to complain. She was going to save. Quietly, discreetly, setting aside a thousand each paycheck. Maybe two. Maybe three. She opened a separate account—in a different bank, so it wouldn’t show up in their shared accounts. She called it “My Money.” It sounded funny at forty years old—”my money.” Like she was twelve again, saving up for a Walkman.
The first two months followed the same routine: work, home, homework, dinner, and then bed. Sometimes Roma would grumble that the soup was too salty, or that she didn’t smile as much these days. Larisa listened quietly and kept saving. The amount in her account was growing slowly, but it was moving up. And along with it, something inside her was changing—not pride, but a sense of solid ground beneath her feet. Previously, it felt like she walked over swamps. Now, she could finally feel a firm little island under her toes.
One evening, Roma showed up with some friends. No warning—he just opened the door and shouted from the hallway:
“Larisa, set the table! The guys dropped by.”
She headed to the entryway. Dimon, Kostya, and someone she didn’t recognize—everyone was already a bit tipsy. Larisa smiled, walked into the kitchen, sliced some cheese, salami, and bread, opened a jar of pickles, and pulled out a bottle of cognac—one of those Roma kept in the bar for special occasions.
Everyone sat down. Drinks were poured. The conversation got loud and manly. Larisa sat at the edge of the table, sipping tea. Roma bragged about how he scored a supplier discount. Dimon chimed in. Kostya nodded along. The stranger—his name was Vlad—just watched Larisa. Not arrogantly, not judging. Just watching her, the way you look at a real person, not just someone doing a job.
“So, what do you do?” he asked quietly, while the others debated football.
“Document management,” Larisa replied. “Nothing exciting.”
“Well, without document management, any business would grind to a halt.”
Roma overheard, turned around, and interrupted:
“Oh, Vlad, don’t make me laugh. She just shuffles papers for peanuts. I keep telling her: don’t embarrass yourself, stay home. We live off my money anyway. Her salary’s basically just for pins and needles.”
An awkward pause fell over the table. Dimon started to laugh, but stopped when he looked at Larisa. Unaware, Roma went on:
“I told her yesterday: ‘Maybe it’s time to quit going to the office? It’s pointless, and the house is a mess.'”
Larisa set her teacup onto the saucer. The sound was sharp—thin porcelain striking ceramic. Everyone turned. She stood up, walked to the bar, opened a cabinet, and took out a folder—the very one she’d prepared a week ago but hadn’t had the courage to show. She placed it in front of Roma.
“What’s this?” he asked without opening it.
“Open it.”
He opened it, glanced over the pages. His face changed slowly, as if someone was wiping off his smugness, layer by layer.
“What is this…”
“A purchase agreement,” Larisa replied calmly. “I bought an apartment. With my own money. You always said I didn’t have any. I saved up for the down payment. Got a mortgage in my name. No co-signers.”
The room fell silent. So quiet they could hear the kitchen faucet dripping. Roma stared at the papers, then at his wife, then back at the papers. His friends froze. Kostya fiddled with the edge of a napkin. Dimon looked away. Vlad, the unfamiliar one, gave the smallest hint of a smile.
“Are you serious?” Roma managed to say.
“I am. And you know what else? The apartment isn’t ours. It’s mine. My own, personally. You don’t have any claim to it. I bought it after you announced in front of everyone that I couldn’t even pay for gas. Remember? ‘Pay for yourself, I didn’t invite you.’ Well, I paid. For an apartment. Myself.”
Roma stood up. His face was red, his breathing heavy.
“Are you out of your mind? What down payment? Where did you get the money?”
— My salary. I saved. Plus, I took on extra work—brought reports home in the evenings while you thought I was watching TV shows. And I sold mom’s earrings, too. Remember how you laughed and called them old-fashioned? Turns out those ‘old-fashioned’ earrings brought in eighty thousand when I pawned them. At the exact same pawnshop you joked about dropping me off at.
He sat down. Slowly, like a balloon losing air. Dimon grunted. Kostya said:
— Larisa, that’s intense.
— It is, she agreed. — And that’s not even all.
She walked back to the bar and pulled out a second document.
— Separation agreement. Drafted by a lawyer. I’m filing for divorce. The kids stay with me. Alimony as required by law. I bought this apartment before the divorce and with my own money, so it’s solely mine. The house—that’s yours. I don’t want it. Live there and pay the mortgage, since you have such a stellar credit history.
Roma was silent. He stared at the papers as if they were written in Sanskrit. The friends shifted awkwardly, started saying goodbye—hurried and avoiding eye contact. Vlad lingered in the doorway. He turned around:
— If you need help moving, give me a call. I mean it.
And he left. Larisa stayed standing in the middle of the living room. Roma sat at the table, head in his hands.
— Why? he asked in a low voice. — Why are you doing this to me?
— Because you never called me, Larisa replied. For twelve years you never called me. But I kept living. Now, I’m calling myself.
She gathered up the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, set it to ‘intensive.’ Then she went into the bedroom and took out her suitcase. She packed her things—just hers. She left the kids’ stuff; they’d move tomorrow, after school, calmly and without drama. For now, they’d just spend the night at their grandma’s.
Roma didn’t come into the bedroom. She could hear him in the living room, pacing, maybe shouting or crying—Larisa didn’t bother to listen. She didn’t feel hot or cold. She just felt okay. Like she had finally taken off a pair of tight shoes she’d worn for years and could finally wiggle her toes.
A month later, she was invited to the class reunion. She went—in a new suit, with a fresh haircut, no bun. Her classmates gasped, asking for her secret. Larisa just joked: ‘Document management.’ Nobody got it. She didn’t explain. Vlad was in the corner—that same Vlad from that night. He came over, offered her a coffee. She accepted. They sat till the café closed, talking about work, about the kids, about the strange ways people meet. No promises. Just a conversation. Just two grownups genuinely interested in each other.
Larisa returned home—to her own apartment, still empty, smelling of fresh paint. She turned on the lights. Walked through the rooms. Stopped by the window. The streetlights glowed outside. She started counting. One hundred and forty-five. One hundred and forty-six. She stopped. Made a wish.