— Lenula, where are the snacks? Sergey Sergeyevich doesn’t like waiting! — her husband’s voice came from the living room, slightly higher than usual.
My phone screen flashed, showing 7:15 p.m. The kitchen timer ticked silently while the orange duck slowly reached a golden hue.
I only heard this tone from him when he was anxious, or when he wanted to seem more important than reality allowed.
I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel. In this house, everything had to be perfect. Nikolai had been preparing this evening for three months.
— You see, Lena, there are some shifts at the company — he repeated every morning. — If I secure the deputy position, we’ll get a new car, renovate the summer house roof. Just don’t make a mistake; the table must look regal.
I didn’t make mistakes. At forty-nine, I could cook in a way that mediocre restaurants would blush. Cold appetizers, translucent as a teardrop.
Pancakes thin, almost floating, my salad with lightly smoked chicken breast was my signature. I even took unpaid leave to make sure everything would be ready.
I did not yet know that this evening would become the most expensive dinner of my husband’s career. And the bill would not be paid with money.
In the mirror, I saw a woman in a refined dark blue dress, wearing a ridiculous apron decorated with geese. Hair neatly pinned, makeup fresh, but the eyes… the eyes were tired, the kind of weariness people often mistake for wisdom.
I lifted the platter of cold appetizers. My fingers ached, as they always did in the evenings — joints reacting to the weather — but I suppressed the pain with the usual sense of “must.”
We were a team. Twenty-four years. Sleeping in the same bed at the dormitory, surviving the ’90s, paying off the loan on this three-room apartment.
The living room door was ajar. Expensive perfume and male laughter drifted out. I was about to enter with the customary hostess smile when I heard:
— Stop it, Sergey, what cleaning service? — Nikolai’s voice suddenly softened, intimate. — Waste of money. The right woman should be in the house. Look at mine.
Time seemed to freeze. The platter in my hands turned to stone; I couldn’t lift it.
— Not star material, she’s lost her girlish figure long ago. But in household chores, she’s a goldmine — my husband continued, clearly trying to impress his boss.
— Brings, carries, doesn’t disturb — he added. — Cheaper than any employee, and she can cook.
A glass clinked, someone poured water or juice.
— And the most important, she listens — Nikolai snapped.
— Doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. Comfortable like old, worn slippers — he added.
My husband thought I would tolerate it for the guests. But the “comfortable” wife removed her apron and left.
I stood in the hallway, afraid to breathe.
— Incredible cost-saving — my husband laughed. — Minimal household budget, and yet she sets the table and dresses nicely.
So, Sergey, my advice: don’t marry young. Look for someone like this… simple. Someone you can treat as household staff, officially.
My heart didn’t race. My hands stayed calm.
Strangely, instead of anger, crystal-clear serenity washed over me, as if someone had muted all noise, leaving only the captions on the screen:
“Comfortable.” “Household staff.” “Old slippers.”
Twenty-four years.
I remembered selling my mother’s earrings to buy him his first proper suit for a job interview.
Writing reports at night while he lay feverish, so he wouldn’t be fired.
Saving for myself so he could fish with “important people.”
It wasn’t love. It was waste. Life wasted.
— You, Nikolai, are cynical — said a deep, calm baritone from the boss.
No approval, only cold curiosity, like observing a strange phenomenon.
— Are you certain Elena Vladimirovna agrees with this… plan?
— Where could she go! — my husband snorted. — What could she do now?
That was enough.
Slowly, very carefully, I set the platter on the hallway dresser. I returned to the kitchen.
The timer on my phone read 12:00 a.m.
The duck was golden, juicy, with crisp skin — a true masterpiece, fit for the finest table.
I turned off the oven. Let it cool. The fat would solidify, the skin soften, the meat turn gray and flavorless. Just like my marriage.
With one motion, I removed the apron. The cheerful goose fabric fell to the floor. I stepped over it without a glance.
In the bathroom, I washed away the kitchen smell in two minutes, wiped my face, and applied slightly bolder lipstick, a deep red, character color.
I pulled the coat from the wardrobe.
Not the old “comfortable shopping” one, but the new, beige cashmere. I had saved for it for five years, hiding it from my husband.
I slipped on my boots, packed my documents and bank cards — bookkeeping routine, honed over years.
I was ready. Only one thing remained: to take the main dish into the living room.
I stepped in.
My husband sat back, relaxed in the armchair. Sergey Sergeyevich — standing opposite, upright. He saw me first.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, his gaze scanned my coat and bag. Understanding flickered in his eyes.
— Behold the housekeeper! — Nikolai smiled. — Lena, where’s the duck? We’re starving! Show your talent!
I stood in the middle of the room. The coat was warm, but that only strengthened my resolve.
— There will be no duck — I said softly, but my voice was steady, like an airport announcement.
My husband’s smile fell like peeling wallpaper.
— What? Overcooked? Burned? — he flushed. — Lena, don’t embarrass me! And why the coat? Are you shopping? Forgot the bread?
— No, Nikolai. The bread is there — I met his gaze.
In those eyes, which I had loved for half a lifetime, there was only fear now, fear for his career.
— The “assistant” has finished her shift — I said. — And you’re not paying overtime.
— What are you saying? — he tried to rise, but his legs didn’t obey. — Overcooked something in the kitchen?
I looked at the boss. Sergey Sergeyevich didn’t move, only watched with interest. He didn’t try to smooth things over. He just waited.
— Excuse me, Sergey Sergeyevich — I said, bowing slightly. — Dinner is canceled. The “assistant” has left. Nikolai, arrange the empty table. Optimize; you’re a great manager.
— Lena! — my husband shouted, his face purplish, his eyes darting between me and the boss. — Take off the coat! Back to the kitchen immediately! What are you doing in front of the boss?
— Don’t shout, it only harms you — I said calmly. — It’s not proper in front of a guest. He came to discuss your career, not your household.
I watched his fingers whiten on the armrest. He was used to me fearing his voice. Used to me rushing for water after his first outburst. Today, the system failed.
— I’m leaving, Nikolai. The key is on the dresser. Find the duck if you know how to use the oven. If not, pizza is available twenty-four-seven.
I paused at the doorway, looking at them like two strangers.
— Lena Vladimirovna — the boss stood at the threshold. — Should I call a taxi? It’s muddy outside and…
— Not needed — I smiled. — I’ll handle it myself. The “assistant” is free now. I go, and I’ll manage everything. Goodbye.
The door closed with a heavy, expensive click, marking twenty-four years of my life ending in a single moment.
