“Katya, are we supposed to eat mice or something?”
The question echoed from the dark kitchen as Ekaterina slipped off her shoes. Her left foot was throbbing after her shift. The yellow shopping bag was weighing down her fingers.
“Did you check the fridge?” she asked.
“I did. There’s just light and half a jar of mustard in there.”
Sergey walked out into the hallway. His house pants were stretched at the knees. He had his phone in hand, a game flickering on the screen.
“I work until eight, Sergey.”
“I work too.”
Katya set her bag down on the counter and untied the handles. Inside: a piece of cheese, a dozen eggs, and a pack of cottage cheese. No meat. No dumplings.
“Where’s the real food?” her husband grimaced.
“At the store.”
She headed for the bathroom, turned on the water. Sergey trailed after her.
“I don’t get the joke. Are you my wife or what?”
“I’m your wife. And you’re my husband.”
“So feed your husband, then.”
Katya dried her hands on a towel and looked at him in the mirror.
“Yesterday was the 10th. Payday.”
Sergey looked away.
“So what?”
“Where’s your eighty-five thousand?”
A heavy pause. The sound of dripping water from the faucet filled the air.
“I sent it to my mom,” Sergey muttered. “She needs to get her balcony glazed.”
Katya turned to face him.
“All eighty-five?”
“The crew wants an advance.”
She nodded, stepped out of the bathroom, and went to the kitchen.
“Then you can have dinner on the balcony. At Tamara Pavlovna’s place.”
Sergey’s face flushed with red blotches. He tossed his phone onto the table.
“Are you serious, Katyusha? Starting a fight over a bit of sausage?”
“I’m not starting a fight. I’m stating the facts.”
Katya took the eggs out of the bag, turned on the stove, and set a pan down.
“My salary goes to the mortgage. And the utilities.”
“We’re a family!” Sergey raised his voice.
“Families pitch in for food. You pitched in for your mom’s balcony.”
Sergey folded his arms across his chest.
“Her pension is peanuts. I’m her only son.”
“Fine. And I’m my parents’ only daughter.”
She cracked three eggs into the pan. The oil sizzled.
“I’m not glazing their balcony. We’re saving for the bathroom renovation.”
“The bathroom can wait. My mother has drafts in hers.”
“Then let your mom feed you.”
Katya moved the fried eggs onto a plate, sat at the table, and picked up a fork. Sergey glared down at her.
“You’re really going to eat alone?”
“I am.”
“There’s nothing sacred in you, Katya.”
He turned and left for the bedroom, slamming the door. Katya ate her dinner in silence, washed her plate. There was no anger left in her, only a dull, sticky fatigue.
The next morning started in silence. Sergey made a show of getting ready without a word—clanging his keys, slamming the wardrobe doors. Katya drank her coffee. In the sink, her husband’s dirty mug. On the table, bread crumbs. He’d eaten half a loaf plain.
“I’m going to my mother’s tonight,” he called from the doorway. “I’ll have a decent dinner.”
“Give my regards to Tamara Pavlovna.”
The door slammed shut. Katya finished her coffee, got ready for work. Outside, it was the end of January, the start of 2026. The mortgage would hang over them for nine more years—forty-three thousand a month, paid by Katya. The apartment was bought during their marriage. Legally, it was joint property. In reality, only she was pulling the weight.
That evening, Katya came home late. There were men’s shoes in the hallway. The kitchen light was on. The smell of fried onions and cheap sausage filled the air.
At the kitchen table sat Tamara Pavlovna.
“Good evening, Katya,” her mother-in-law said.
Her voice was sweet, but her eyes were sharp.
“Good evening. What brings you here?”
“Just came to check on my son. He’s hungry.”
Her mother-in-law nodded towards the stove, where a huge pot stood. Macaroni stuck out from under the lid. Next to it were peels from red sausages.
“Thank you for your concern.”
Katya took off her coat, walked to the sink, and washed her hands.
“Seryozha said you refuse to feed him.”
“Did Seryozha tell you the whole truth?”
Tamara Pavlovna pressed her lips together.
“The truth is, a wife should cook for her husband.”
“And a husband should bring money into the house.”
“He helped his mother!” Her mother-in-law’s voice trembled. “My balcony was rotten.”
Katya grabbed a towel.
“Did your balcony cost eighty-five thousand?”
“Repairs are expensive these days. Materials aren’t cheap either.”
“I’m happy for you. You’ll have a warm balcony.”
Katya opened the fridge and took out her cheese.
“And what does that have to do with me?”
Tamara Pavlovna stood up. The yellow lamp light highlighted the wrinkles on her face.
“You’ve lived in our family for three years. You could at least respect your husband’s mother.”
“I respect you—from a distance.”
“I brought him food for three days. Macaroni, canned meat.”
“Wonderful. Just don’t forget to wash the pot afterward. And my stove.”
Her mother-in-law gasped in outrage.
“I’m trying to talk to you nicely, Ekaterina!”
“You don’t have to try anything with me.”
Katya made herself a sandwich and poured some tea.
“If your son thinks it’s normal to give his whole paycheck to you, maybe he should live with you.”
“The apartment was bought fifty-fifty!” her mother-in-law spat.
“I’m the one paying the mortgage. It comes right out of my paycheck.”
“He did the renovations here!”
Katya smirked.
“He put up wallpaper in the hallway. Two rolls. Truly legendary.”
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Sergey came into the kitchen, glanced at his mother, then at Katya.
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, Seryozhenka,” Tamara Pavlovna said through clenched teeth. “I’ll be going. Eat your macaroni. Otherwise, she’ll starve you to death.”
She marched past Katya, brushing her shoulder, and slammed the front door.
Sergey sat at the table, pulled the pot over, and scooped himself some macaroni.
“Happy now? You ruined my mother’s mood.”
“Your mother’s in a great mood. She’s got new windows on her balcony. Courtesy of me.”
“That was my money!” Sergey slammed his fist on the table.
The fork clattered against the plate.
“None of your money is here. Everything in this place was bought with mine.”
“You’re a greedy witch, Katka. All you care about is cash.”
“I need a partner, not a leech.”
She finished her tea, got up, and left for the bedroom. She turned on a show on her laptop. They lived like strangers—short phrases, exhaustion. The air was heavy with the sense that the end was near.
Thursday was uneventful. Sergey had pasta for dinner while Katya made herself salads. On Friday evening, Katya received a notification on her phone.
“Debit. 1250 rubles. Yandex.Eda.”
She stopped in the middle of the street and stared at her screen. The balance had changed—her card was linked to their shared account in the app. Katya quickly checked the transaction history.
Pizza delivery. Address: their apartment. Ordered by: Sergey Andreevich.
Katya smirked and hit “Block card.”
She got home an hour later. Sergey was on the couch with an empty pizza box beside him. Scenes from a movie flickered on the TV.
“Bon appétit.”
Sergey jerked, turning around.
“Oh, hey.”
Katya dropped her keys on the table.
“Was the pizza good?”
“It was fine. I’m tired of pasta.”
“For fifteen hundred rubles, it better be delicious. Especially since it came out of my fifteen hundred.”
Sergey frowned.
“Here you go again. I’ll get my advance on the 25th and pay you back.”
“You won’t.”
Katya walked to the bedroom, pulled out an old shoebox from the closet—the one where they kept their cash. Their emergency stash and vacation fund. They’d been saving little by little. There should have been one hundred twenty thousand rubles inside.
Katya lifted the lid. The box was suspiciously light.
Inside was just dust—and two five-hundred-ruble bills.
Katya froze. A dull ache spread in her stomach.
She grabbed the box and walked back to the living room, tossing it on the couch next to her husband. The box landed with a thud.
“Where’s the money, Sergey?”
He glanced at the box, his face turning gray.
“What money?”
“One hundred twenty thousand. Our Turkey vacation money. The savings from the whole year.”
Sergey swallowed and pushed the box aside.
“Katya, let me explain.”
“Go ahead. Your time starts now.”
He ran his hand through his hair, his eyes darting around.
“The crew asked for more. Material costs went up. Turns out we had to reinforce the slab.”
Katya looked at him. Inside, something locked shut—finally and completely. She could almost hear the click.
“So you took our vacation money for your mother’s balcony.”
“I’ll pay it all back!”
“When? With your advance?”
“I’ll get a loan. Tomorrow.”
Katya let out a short, hollow laugh—not from amusement, but disbelief at such stupidity.
“So you’re taking out a loan to pay me back my own money—the money you stole? And who’s going to pay off the loan? Our joint budget?”
“I’ll pay it myself!”
“With the money you give your mother?”
Sergey jumped up. The box fell to the floor.
“Why are you always on my case about my mother? She’s struggling! She’s an old woman.”
“And I’m a pack mule, right? I don’t get tired.”
Katya bent down, picked up the box, and set it on the table.
“Pack your things.”
— What?
— Start packing your things. You’re going to live on the new, warm balcony.
Sergey gave a crooked, nervous smirk.
— The apartment is shared. Half is mine. By law. You can’t kick me out.
Katya nodded.
— By law, half of the mortgage payments are yours too. Tomorrow, we’re going to the notary. We’ll arrange the division. I’ll pay you your share, including your utility debts. And we’re getting divorced.
Sergey turned pale.
— Are you crazy? Divorcing over a balcony?
— It’s because of the rat. You’re the rat, Sergey. You’re stealing from your own family.
— I’m not going anywhere.
He sat back down on the sofa, crossing his arms like a sulky boy.
— Fine.
Katya turned away. She went to the kitchen, grabbed a trash bag, swept the pizza box into it. Then she headed to the bedroom, locked the door, and lay on the bed.
That night, they slept in separate rooms. He was on the living room sofa. She was in the bedroom.
On Saturday morning, Katya got up early. Sergey was still snoring on the sofa. The TV was on, but muted.
Katya walked into the living room. In the corner, on top of a small cabinet, sat Sergey Andreevich’s most prized possession: a gaming console. The latest model. White, glossy. He bought it six months ago for seventy-five thousand, with his bonus.
Katya walked over to the cabinet and yanked the cords out of the socket.
She rolled up the cables, grabbed the controllers, and packed everything into a sturdy sports backpack. The backpack was heavy.
She got dressed, took her keys, and left the apartment.
It was nine in the morning. The air outside was icy and sharp. Snow crunched under her boots.
Katya walked to the nearest pawn shop. It opened at ten. She spent forty minutes strolling through the courtyards. Then she went inside.
Behind the glass sat a bored-looking guy in glasses.
— Will you take a console? — Katya asked.
The guy nodded.
— Do you have paperwork?
— The box is at home. I’ve got my passport.
He checked the serial number, turned on the device, clicked the controllers.
— In perfect condition. I’ll give you forty thousand.
— Sixty.
The guy smirked.
— You’ll get sixty on Avito. We’re a pawn shop. Forty-five, tops.
Katya thought for a moment. Forty-five thousand. Less than what he stole from the stash. Less than he spent on the balcony.
But it wasn’t about the numbers.
It was about fairness.
— Write it up.
She signed the paper. Took the cash. Five red bills. Tucked them into her wallet.
The guy wrote out the pawn ticket.
— Are you going to reclaim it?
— No.
Katya stepped outside. Went to the grocery store. Bought a good piece of beef. Fresh vegetables. Cheese. A jar of expensive face cream. She spent four thousand.
She got home by noon.
Sergey was already awake, nervously pacing the living room.
When he saw Katya, he rushed over to her.
— Where is it?!
— What? — Katya asked calmly, taking off her boots.
— The console! Katya, are you completely nuts? Where did you hide it?
Katya walked to the kitchen, set down the bags, put the meat on the table, took out a knife.
— I didn’t hide it.
— So where is it? I wanted to play. It’s my day off.
She washed her hands, pulled the pawn ticket from her jacket pocket, and handed the gray slip to her husband.
Sergey took it, looked down, and read. His face went slack. His jaw dropped.
— You… You pawned it?
— I sold it.
— For forty-five thousand?! It’s worth seventy-five!
— I was just short on money for meat.
Sergey clenched the slip of paper in his fist and stepped toward Katya, his eyes blazing.
— You worthless creature. That’s my property! You had no right to touch it!
— And you had no right to touch my vacation savings, Katya snapped. — That’s my work, my savings. You stole a hundred and twenty. I took forty-five. You’re actually getting off easy.
— I’ll go to the police! I’ll file a report on you!
Katya looked at him like he was nothing, just an obstacle in her way.
— Go ahead. Call them. And tell the officer how you’ve been stealing cash from your wife. Let’s see you make a clown out of yourself for the whole neighborhood.
Sergey was breathing hard.
— Give me my money back! I’ll buy it back myself!
— What money?
Katya patted the bag of meat.
— Here’s your money. In steaks. And I’ll use some to pay the bills this month. The rest I’ll save for the divorce. There are court fees to pay.
— I’m not living with you anymore.
He spat the words in her face.
— I asked you to leave yesterday, Katya replied calmly.
She walked past him, opened the hall closet, and took out a big checkered bag, the kind people used to carry in the nineties.
She tossed it at his feet.
— Your clothes are on the right shelf. Shoes at the bottom. Don’t forget your jacket.
— You can’t kick me out! Half of this apartment is mine!
— Go to court. Split it. But until then — you’re not staying here overnight.
Sergey kicked the bag.
— To hell with you! I’m calling my mother.
— Go ahead.
He pulled out his phone, dialed the number with trembling fingers, and put it on speaker.
The ringing lasted a long time. Finally, someone answered.
— Yes, Seryozhenka, my son.
— Mom, she’s kicking me out. She sold my game console too.
The other end went silent.
— Sold it? Kicking you out? I’ll call the police right now! I’m coming over myself! Let me talk to her!
Sergey handed the phone to Katya, victory in his eyes.
Katya didn’t take the phone. She leaned closer to the microphone.
— Tamara Pavlovna. If you come here right now, I’ll put his things out in the hallway. And if you shout at my door, I’ll call the police for disturbing the peace.
— You’re crazy! — his mother screeched. — My son paid half the money for this apartment!
— Your son sent you eighty-five thousand. And he stole a hundred and twenty from me. Go to the bank, get a loan. Pay back your dear boy’s debts.
Katya straightened up.
— Keys to the apartment. On the table. Right now.
Sergey faltered. His mother’s voice continued to scream through the phone, threatening lawsuits, divine wrath, and the police. But her voice sounded weak and distant.
— Sergey, the keys, Katya repeated.
He looked at the checkered bag, then at Katya. Her eyes were stone-cold — no panic, no tears, just solid concrete.
He pulled out a set of keys from his jeans pocket, detached the metal key for the building entrance, and tossed it on the console. It landed with a loud, ringing clatter.
— I’m not letting this go. You’ll regret this.
“I have no doubt. Pack your things.”
Forty minutes later, Sergey was standing in the doorway. He held a checkered bag in his hands, wearing winter boots and a jacket. He looked pitiful, hunched over.
“Katya, maybe we can talk?” he asked suddenly. There was no more anger—just fear.
She looked at him, remembering three years of marriage. She thought about how he’d promised to renovate the apartment, how he’d hide behind his mother whenever there was a fight.
She picked up the key from the nightstand, turning the cold metal in her hand.
“We’ve said everything we needed. Goodbye.”
Katya closed the door and turned the lock twice. The apartment fell silent.
She went to the kitchen, set rice to boil, and heated up a skillet. She placed a piece of meat on it; it sizzled, letting out clear juice. The smell was delicious, the smell of home.
That evening, she called a locksmith. On Sunday morning, the old lock was removed, replaced with a new, heavy, sturdy one.
The locksmith handed her five new keys in a sealed packet.
“All done, miss. No strangers will get in now.”
“Thank you.”
She paid him three thousand, closed the door, and brewed tea in her favorite cat mug.
Sitting by the window, she watched snow falling outside—white and pure.
Her phone lay on the table: ten missed calls from Tamara Pavlovna, five from Sergey, and a couple of long, angry messages about lawyers and dividing property. Katya swiped the notifications away into the trash.
She didn’t have an IOU for the hundred and twenty thousand. There was no way to prove the cash was stolen. But the pawn shop receipt warmed her heart better than any apology. At least she got some of it back—and her peace of mind.
She took a sip of hot tea.
She finally liked the silence.