Yulia stood by the kitchen window, slowly stirring her coffee and looking out at the snow-covered courtyard. In the hallway, Kirill was getting ready for work, muttering something under his breath and rustling papers.
“Listen,” her husband said with deliberate casualness, “you’ll cover the mortgage this month yourself, right? I’ve got a problem with the engine. The mechanic said it needs to be replaced, otherwise the car will completely break down. You understand, I can’t get to work without a car.”
The woman froze.
“Kirill, this is already the fourth month in a row.”
“Oh, here we go again! Why are you always counting everything like an accountant?” her husband laughed tensely, tying his tie. “I’ve just had bad luck lately. First unexpected fines, then the car, then Mom got sick. It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.”
Yulia looked at her husband carefully.
Forty-two years old, athletic build, expensive shirts, confident gestures. And that strained expression of a man who was used to talking his way out of uncomfortable situations.
“Forty-eight thousand, Kirill. Every month.”
“I know!” the man snapped irritably, waving his hand. “Don’t remind me. What’s your salary? Two hundred thousand! It’s not critical for you.”
Yulia felt a burning anger begin to boil inside her. They had already gone through these conversations before. Every time, Kirill found new arguments: her job was more stable, the mortgage was in her name, he was only having “temporary” difficulties.
Temporary had already lasted six months.
“Fine,” she said quietly.
Kirill exhaled with relief and pecked his wife on the cheek.
“You’re the most understanding woman I know! I’ll make it up to you, I swear. As soon as I sort out the engine.”
After her husband left, Yulia remained standing in the kitchen for a long time, holding her cold coffee. Once, this apartment had been their shared dream. Now, somehow, it had turned into her personal headache.
The woman opened her banking app and quickly transferred the money. The mortgage balance decreased by another forty-eight thousand. Seven years and three months remained until it would be fully paid off.
Doing a quick calculation in her head, Yulia realized that over the past four months she had paid almost two hundred thousand rubles toward the mortgage.
And Kirill had paid zero.
The realization made her feel sick and disgusted.
At work, the usual nightmare was waiting for her.
Voronin was already pacing around the office with a face like a storm cloud, while Sveta, the secretary, was whispering anxiously to colleagues about missed deadlines.
“Smelyakova!” the boss barked as soon as Yulia hung up her coat. “My office!”
The woman looked at the clock. Nine in the morning. The workday had barely begun, and her mood was already completely ruined.
Voronin’s office smelled of cheap coffee and cigarettes. The director sat behind a massive desk, shifting papers around and frowning theatrically.
“Explain to me why the client is unhappy with the presentation for the Northern project.”
Yulia blinked in confusion.
“What client? The presentation was approved on Friday. Everyone was satisfied.”
“Exactly!” Voronin jabbed his finger triumphantly against the desk. “They were satisfied on Friday, and today they’re calling with complaints. That means the work was done carelessly!”
“Igor Sergeyevich, may I know what exactly their complaints are?”
“What do you think?” the director leaned back in his chair. “Figure it out yourself! And in general, lately you’ve been nothing but trouble. Reports with mistakes, conflicts with clients. I’m sick of it!”
Yulia felt her cheeks begin to burn. Her reports had always been flawless. And the only conflict with a client had happened because Voronin had forgotten to pass on important changes in the technical brief.
“I’ll fix whatever needs to be fixed,” the woman said with restraint.
“Then fix it! And I want a new version ready by this evening. This isn’t a resort. People are supposed to work here!”
Leaving the office, Yulia felt like a squeezed lemon.
Her colleagues looked at her sympathetically. Everyone knew that over the past six months, Voronin had turned into a real tyrant. First, he had failed two major tenders. Then he had started looking for people to blame among his subordinates.
Returning to her own office, she opened the Northern project and began rereading the presentation. The work had been done perfectly. Yulia had no doubt about that.
So either the client had changed their mind, or Voronin had simply invented an excuse for another dressing-down.
A message from Kirill appeared on her phone screen:
“Thanks for understanding, sunshine! I’ll order pizza tonight.”
Sure, order it. For forty-eight thousand rubles.
By lunchtime, Yulia had managed to find out that no complaints had come from the client at all. A call to the company confirmed her suspicions.
“Igor Sergeyevich lied,” she muttered, sitting in a café and picking at her salad. “He just lied straight to my face.”
Her friend Nastya from the neighboring department shook her head.
“Yul, how long are you going to put up with this? HR has already received three resignation letters from your department in the past month. People are quitting because of him.”
“I can’t yet. The mortgage, you know…”
“I know. But your health matters more. Look at yourself! In six months you’ve aged five years. Is that normal?”
After lunch, Voronin summoned Yulia again. The same presentation was lying on his desk, covered in red pen marks.
“Redo it,” he grumbled without looking up. “This is a mess. Wrong fonts, weak structure.”
Yulia took the pages and ran her eyes over them. He was suggesting changing the corporate font to Comic Sans and rearranging the slides in a chaotic order.
“Igor Sergeyevich, but the client already approved this version…”
“The client approved it? And who’s the department head here? You or me? Who is responsible for the quality of the work?”
“You are, of course, but…”
“No ‘buts’! I said redo it, so redo it! And don’t try to act clever! You’ve never been a good marketer and you never will be!”
That evening, Yulia rode home in a packed metro, clutching her laptop bag to her chest. She had been forced to revise the presentation until seven in the evening, even though every change only made it worse. Tomorrow the client would see this version and would definitely be unhappy. Then Voronin would tear into her again, this time with every right to do so.
Kirill really had ordered pizza. Her husband was sitting on the couch with a beer, watching football and still pretending to be a caring spouse.
“So how was work?” he asked without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Fine,” Yulia answered shortly, walking into the kitchen.
She did not want to talk about Voronin. Kirill usually responded to her complaints with phrases like “don’t take it so personally” or “bosses are the same everywhere.” She would not get sympathy from her husband. Irritation, yes. Sympathy, no.
“Listen, maybe we should go on vacation?” Kirill suddenly suggested. “Turkey, for a week. Packages are cheap now, in winter.”
Yulia smiled bitterly.
“With what money? You just said you were having financial problems.”
“Well… we could use a credit card. Or you’ll get your bonus soon.”
The woman said nothing. Her husband’s logic was astonishingly simple: there was no money for the mortgage, but somehow there would be money for a vacation. What nonsense, and on what grounds? But she had no strength to argue with him, so she turned around and silently went to the bathroom.
The next morning everything followed the usual script. The client called at nine and expressed confusion over the changes in the presentation.
By ten, Voronin was already yelling at Yulia for the “failure of the project.”
“I told you the work was raw!” he waved his arms. “But you insisted on your version!”
“Igor Sergeyevich, you yourself demanded the changes yesterday…”
“I demanded nothing! I merely suggested possible improvements! You should have used your head!”
Colleagues turned away, pretending not to hear the shouting. Yulia stood in the middle of the open office and felt something hot and uncontrollable rising inside her. Yesterday’s conversation with her husband, the sleepless night, months of accumulated exhaustion — everything compressed into one tight spring.
“You know what, Igor Sergeyevich,” the woman’s voice sounded surprisingly calm, “enough.”
Voronin stopped mid-sentence.
“What do you mean, ‘enough’?”
“Enough lying. Yesterday you redid the presentation yourself. You personally insisted on the changes. I have your red pen notes. There were witnesses to our conversation.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Voronin turned crimson with rage.
“I’m allowing myself to tell the truth,” Yulia felt a strange sense of relief. “For six months I’ve tolerated your behavior. You dump your own mistakes on your subordinates, lash out at people for no reason, and create a toxic atmosphere. People are quitting because of you. They don’t want to work with you!”
“Smelyakova, have you completely lost your mind? I’ll show you who’s…”
“You won’t show me anything,” she turned and walked toward her desk. “Because I quit. Right now!”
Her fingers trembled as she opened her laptop and typed her resignation letter. Around her, there was dead silence. The office had not seen a scene like this in a long time.
An hour later, Yulia was sitting in her office, silently staring at one spot. Voronin had disappeared into his office and had not come out again. Colleagues peeked in at her with sympathetic faces: someone brought tea, someone quietly asked whether she had changed her mind.
Yulia had not changed her mind. In fact, with every passing minute, she felt more and more relieved. As if she had thrown off a heavy backpack she had been carrying for far too long.
The woman took out her phone and began typing a message to her husband. At first, she wanted to write the truth: that she had quit impulsively, that she would quickly find a new job, that she had savings and would be able to pay the mortgage.
But at the last moment, her fingers froze above the screen.
She remembered a recent conversation with her husband. His irresponsibility toward the payments. And his suggestion that they go on vacation using her money.
Yulia deleted the text she had typed and wrote a new one:
“I’m sick of my boss and his complaints. I quit. I’m going to restore my health. Now you’ll pay the mortgage!”
She sent it without hesitation.
Three minutes later, her phone was exploding with calls. Yulia rejected the first two, but answered the third.
“Have you lost your mind?” Kirill babbled in panic. “What do you mean, you quit? We have a mortgage!”
“I know. That’s why I warned you right away that now it’s your turn to pay the bills.”
“Yulka, don’t be stupid! Where am I supposed to get forty-eight thousand every month? You know my salary!”
“I don’t know,” his wife answered calmly. “But for six months in a row, you found ways not to pay the mortgage. That means you thought I could handle it alone. Now you handle it.”
Kirill fell silent. Only his heavy breathing could be heard.
“Yul, what is this childish nonsense? Let’s talk seriously at home.”
“Fine. We’ll talk.”
The woman hung up and felt a strange calm.
At home, Yulia turned on some music and began a deep cleaning. She had long wanted to sort through the dresser, throw away unnecessary things, and wash the windows. Before, she had never had the time or energy. Now everything was different.
Kirill came home at seven, anxious and confused.
“So what are we going to do now?” her husband asked from the doorway.
“You’ll work, and I’ll rest,” the woman said, slowly dusting the bookshelves. “It’s simple.”
“Yulka, stop messing with me! You understand that we can’t handle the mortgage on my salary.”
“Then we’ll sell the apartment.”
She said it lightly, but immediately saw Kirill go pale.
“Sell it? Are you serious? Where will we live?”
“We’ll rent. Or move in with your parents.”
“With my parents?” Kirill jumped up from the couch. “You really have gone crazy! We’ve been paying for this apartment for three years. We renovated it!”
“And now I’ll spend three years recovering my nerves. Do you know what what’s happening to me is called? Burnout. From constant stress at work and at home.”
“What stress at home?”
Yulia smirked.
“Kirill, are you serious? For the past six months, I’ve been carrying all the expenses alone, while you’ve only been making promises. Mortgage, utilities, groceries…”
“I explained that I’m having temporary difficulties!”
“Six months is not temporary difficulty.”
Kirill fell silent, then sat back down on the couch.
“Fine, I get it. I’ll post an ad to rent out the room. We’ll find an extra twenty thousand.”
“And the other twenty-eight?”
“Well… I’ll ask accounting for an advance. Or borrow from my parents.”
Yulia nodded and continued cleaning.
Interesting. Why hadn’t those options occurred to him earlier, when she was the one paying?
The following days passed surprisingly peacefully.
Yulia slept well, read, walked in the park, and met with friends. She answered calls from headhunters, but she was in no hurry to accept any offers. She had enough savings to live for six months without working.
Kirill, meanwhile, fussed around, called acquaintances, and searched for ways to get money for the mortgage. In the evenings he came home gloomy and irritated.
“Maybe that’s enough resting?” he said a week later over dinner. “It’s time you got back to work.”
“Why is it time?”
“Well… you’re sitting at home doing nothing. Slowly degrading.”
Yulia lifted her eyes from her book.
“Degrading?”
“Yes! Before, you were so active and goal-oriented. And now you spend whole days at home, watching TV shows. Soon you’ll turn into a housewife.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“What do you mean, what?” Kirill laughed nervously. “You’ll lose your qualifications, get out of the habit of working. Who needs specialists like that?”
“Strange,” Yulia closed her book and looked at her husband carefully. “When I worked for two and brought home two hundred thousand, you weren’t worried about my qualifications.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it. A month ago you suggested going on vacation. With my money. Back then, a week of idleness didn’t frighten you.”
“Vacation is different.”
“Really? What’s the difference?”
Kirill shot his wife an irritated look.
“The difference is that vacation ends, but you plan to sit at home for who knows how long!”
“Two months. I plan to rest for two months.”
“Two months!” he threw up his hands. “And who’s going to work instead of you?”
“You,” his wife answered calmly. “You’re the man, the breadwinner of the family. Isn’t that right?”
Her husband’s face turned brick-red. He clearly had not expected that answer.
“I already work! But my salary isn’t enough for everything!”
“Strange. Mine was.”
“Your salary was higher!”
“So what? Does the responsibility to support the family depend on the size of the salary?”
Kirill was silent, drilling her with an angry stare.
“Or maybe this isn’t about caring for me at all?” the woman continued. “Maybe it was just convenient for you that I carried everything alone? Worked, paid, bought things, while you only found personal expenses for yourself?”
“Yulka, enough! I’m not some gigolo! I’m just going through a difficult period right now! I’m tired of repeating it!”
“A difficult period for six months?” his wife smirked. “And do you remember that last year you also had a difficult period? Back then I paid the mortgage alone for three months while you were ‘looking for a new job.’”
“I was looking!”
“You were, yes. In bars with friends every weekend. But I’m not allowed?”
The spouses began quarreling almost every day. Kirill accused his wife of selfishness and irresponsibility, while she calmly listed the facts.
With each passing day, the man became more and more irritable.
A week later, he could not hold back.
“You know what?” he declared, bursting into the apartment drunk. “I’m sick of your unemployment! You’ve turned into some faded housewife! You sit around like a vegetable, reading books and watching shows. Useless!”
“A vegetable?” Yulia raised her eyes from her tablet.
“Yes, a vegetable! At least before there was something to talk about: work, plans, goals. And now what? TV shows and cleaning!”
“Kirill, I’m resting for the first time in three years.”
“Resting! And losing your professional skills! Who will hire you for a good job afterward? You’ll end up slaving away for pennies!”
Yulia remained silent, watching her husband’s nervous pacing. She saw how he rushed about, trying to find a second part-time job or a side hustle. She heard his phone conversations with friends, where he complained about his wife’s “stubbornness.”
“And in general,” he continued, working himself up, “you’re behaving like the ultimate selfish woman! Family is responsibility, understand? You can’t just run away from problems!”
“Run away from problems?”
“Yes! You threw a tantrum at work, quit, and now I have to clean up the mess from your antics!”
“A tantrum?” Yulia could not believe her ears.
“What else would you call it? Normal people don’t quit their jobs because of a boss’s nitpicking!”
“Normal people don’t shift their responsibilities onto their wives.”
“Don’t make me laugh! I work and bring in money. Like any normal man!”
“Fifty thousand a month. That isn’t even enough to cover your own expenses.”
Kirill’s face twisted with anger.
“Ah! So that’s what this is! You’re reproaching me for my small salary! So I’m just a walking ATM to you?”
“Kirill…”
“Don’t ‘Kirill’ me!” the man waved his hand. “Now it’s clear what you really are! A mercenary old hag with nothing but dollar signs in her eyes!”
“Dollar signs?” Yulia felt something snap inside her. “I have been paying alone for our apartment for six months! For three years I’ve brought more money into this family!”
“Yeah, of course!” her husband laughed sarcastically. “The great philanthropist! And the fact that I maintain the home, keep the car running, solve problems — that doesn’t count?”
“What problems do you solve?”
“All of them!” the man waved his arms. “I talk to the neighbors, go to the management company, do repairs!”
“Repairs? What repairs?”
“Who replaced the kitchen faucet? Who hung the shelves?”
“The faucet twice in three years. One shelf, a year ago.”
“There, you see! And you say I don’t help!”
The absurdity of the conversation was astonishing. Kirill seriously believed that replacing a faucet once every year and a half compensated for his refusal to pay the mortgage.
“And anyway,” the man added, getting worked up, “what kind of wife are you? Sitting at home, not supporting your husband! A normal wife would have rushed out to work by now!”
“A normal wife?”
“Yes! To bring in money, instead of suffering from philosophy here! You’ve turned into some kind of…” he stopped, searching for words.
“Some kind of what?”
“A burden!” Kirill blurted out. “That’s what! You sit on my neck and still make demands! You should shut your mouth and keep quiet if you’re incapable of anything!”
Silence hung in the room, ringing like a stretched string.
“A burden,” Yulia repeated quietly. “Interesting.”
Her husband seemed to realize only now what he had said. His face went slightly pale.
“That’s not what I meant…”
“No, that is exactly what you meant. But it’s strange. For three years I was the breadwinner, and now I’ve become a burden. Just like that, in a couple of weeks.”
“Yul, don’t exaggerate…”
“You know, Kirill, thank you for your honesty. Finally, you said what you really think.”
There was no anger or hurt in her voice. Only calm determination.
“I’m leaving.”
“Leaving where?” her husband blinked in confusion.
“Leaving you. I’ll stay with a friend for now, and then we’ll see.”
Kirill sank onto the couch as if his legs had given out.
“Yulka, let’s not do anything in the heat of the moment… I didn’t say it out of malice. I’m just on edge because of money…”
“You’re the only one on edge because of money. I have money, Kirill. Enough to live for six months. And three job offers.”
He lifted his head.
“You do? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to see how you would behave in a difficult situation. Now I’ve seen.”
Yulia calmly packed her things. She did not take much, only the essentials.
“So all of this was a performance?” Kirill asked, offended.
“Not a performance. An experiment. And it showed who was who.”
“And now what?”
“Now I’m filing for divorce. The apartment will stay with you. The mortgage is in my name, but I’ll transfer it. Consider it my farewell gift.”
Her husband jumped up.
“Wait! Let’s discuss everything again! I’ve understood my mistakes. I’ll change!”
“Too late,” Yulia zipped up her bag. “You called me a burden, remember? Now that burden will disappear from your life.”
“Yul, be reasonable…”
“I am being reasonable. For the first time in three years. By the way, tomorrow I start a new job. The salary is the same — two hundred thousand. Only now I’ll spend it on myself.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
A month later, Yulia was sitting in a cozy café across from Nastya, who was shaking her head in admiration.
“I can’t believe you actually did it! And how are things at the agency?”
“Excellent,” the woman smiled, stirring her cappuccino. “Remember about a year ago you suggested I become your business partner? Is that offer still open?”
“Seriously?” Nastya’s eyes lit up. “Of course it is! I was just looking for a partner for expansion.”
“Then consider that you’ve found one.”
Snow was falling outside the window, but Yulia felt warm and comfortable. She felt truly happy.
The divorce process was going smoothly. Kirill did not resist.
She really did leave him the apartment, but she freed herself from the credit obligations.
She liked her new job. Her new plans inspired her. Most importantly, she no longer had to prove her worth to someone who fundamentally refused to see it.
“To a new life?” Nastya suggested, raising her cup.
“To justice,” Yulia replied, clinking cups with her friend.
Outside the window, the snow continued to fall, covering the city with a white blanket. Her old life remained beneath that snow, and the new one was only just beginning.