Anton ate greedily. The juice from the stuffed cabbage dripped onto his clean shirt, but he didn’t even notice – he was too busy with his phone. These cabbages were brought by my mother,
Polina Ivanovna, yesterday in a box wrapped in an old kitchen towel so they wouldn’t get cold. She had spent the whole night kneading them with the very last homemade minced meat, thinking to herself: “Anton, you’re so pale, a man needs to be fed.”
I just watched his chewing jaw and felt everything in my stomach tighten into a tight knot. In the fridge, aside from this one pot, there was emptiness. Only a pack of baby curd and half a lemon awaited their fate.
– Ol’, – Anton put his phone aside and wiped his mouth with a napkin, – I went over our finances. In short: the store is closed.
– What do you mean by that? – I pulled Miska closer, who was squirming on my lap.
– Literally. You’ve been on maternity leave for too long, you’ve lost track.
Your “wants” are overburdening the budget. From tomorrow we have separate accounts. I’ll pay for the apartment and the electricity. Food is everyone’s own responsibility. We’ll split our son’s expenses fifty-fifty.
– Anton, are you joking? – I whispered, my voice trembling. – Miska is one and a half years old. I barely earn enough to buy oatmeal. Where am I supposed to get money for my “own upkeep”?
– Well, dear, this is a great incentive to remember: you have a degree – he smiled at me like I was a negligent employee. – The internet is full of job opportunities. Write texts, take calls.
It’s enough that you’re living off my neck. Oh, and your mother’s cabbage is a bit too salty now. Tell her to use less salt; it’s unhealthy.
He stood up, casually threw the dirty plate into the sink, then went into the bedroom. A minute later, cheerful music filtered out from the room via social media.
I sat in the dark kitchen, and one word echoed in my head: “separate account.”
I heard this word from the mouth of the man to whom, two years ago, I had given all my savings to close his old loan. Whose word I relied on to be safe during maternity leave.
My mother arrived at seven in the morning. When she saw my swollen, tired eyes, she quietly placed a bottle of milk and a dozen eggs on the table.
– Don’t cry – she said firmly. – Tears won’t close the mortgage. I’ll be here with your little boy as long as needed. Find work. Anything. Dirty, hard work – doesn’t matter. It’s time to show your teeth, Ol’.
I started looking. Not at big companies – they feared women on maternity leave if they didn’t have recent experience. I called small offices, revived old contacts.
By lunch, I got lucky: a university acquaintance who ran a small spare parts shop admitted he was overloaded with material procurement.
– Ol’, I pay little. The work is boring, the accounts are always wrong. But if you can handle it, I’ll give you orders continuously.
I didn’t even look; I agreed.
At night, while Anton slept, I sat down at his laptop. I had to find the login details for our joint bank account, which he had prudently transferred to his own name a month ago.
He hadn’t changed the password in three years – the date of our wedding. Typical of him: he was too lazy to come up with different numbers.
I logged in, and a chill ran down my back.
The account I had thought of as an “emergency reserve” was empty. Instead, in the transaction history, there was a neat line of expenditures: cafés, lingerie shops, flower shops with fancy names.
And the icing on the cake: a hotel room booking for the upcoming weekend, for two people.
I opened the email account saved in the browser. There sat a draft to the realtor: “I’m ready to sell the apartment. My wife knows about it, moving out will be seamless, she plans to go to her mother herself.”
I felt sick. He hadn’t just started an affair. He was consciously preparing to deport me from my own life. The separate account was just a tool to take away the resources I needed to fight.
I behaved quietly all week. I woke at five in the morning and settled supplier invoices while Miska slept. During the day I ran to courts and consultations – my mother heroically protected the apartment from my despair.
Anton behaved superiorly. He bought expensive ham and ate it straight from the package, theatrically not offering me any.
– How’s the job market going, businesswoman? – he teased at dinner. – Just picking up the crumbs?
– I looked, Anton. I earned everything I need myself.
Friday arrived. His “business trip” to a countryside hotel.
Anton stepped out of the shower, wearing the perfume I had gifted him last Christmas. He expected what he always did: my questions, my offenses, my attempts to look into his eyes.
– Breakfast is on the table – I shouted from the kitchen as I drank my empty coffee.
He entered, shining like a polished plate. On the table, instead of scrambled eggs, lay a thick red folder.
– Oh – he raised his eyebrow. – This is your world domination business plan?
– Open it – I sat down across from him, our fingers intertwined.
Slowly, he opened the envelope.
The first page – screenshots of his messages with a certain Kristina, where he promised to “throw the chicken out with the trailer” by the end of the month.
The second page – a printed statement of our joint account expenditures spent on the same Kristina.
The third page – notification that I had filed a lawsuit regarding property division and the child’s residence.
Anton started choking on air. His face went from pink to red, his eyes wide.
– You… you snooped on my computer? – he hissed. – That’s illegal! I’ll sue you!
– “From now on, we have separate accounts. Enough living off your expenses” – I quoted my own words, looking deep into his dilated pupils. – Remember? Well, Anton.
The account is now so separate that you can’t even touch the tap in this apartment. We bought the apartment during our marriage, but the down payment came from the sale of my pre-marriage studio.
I have all my statements. You are a guest here. And your time is up.
– You don’t dare… – he tried to stand, but I pushed the last page toward him.
– This is a report to the police for fraud with joint funds. If you don’t sign the agreement now, giving up your share of the apartment in exchange for future child support, I’ll start the process.
And this email will go to your boss too. He doesn’t like it when his assistants steal company money for their lovers’ hotels, right? I found all these tricks in your correspondence too.
The kitchen was so quiet you could hear a car honking on the street.
Anton collapsed. Literally before my eyes. His shoulders slumped, his groomed face sagged, and he became a mask of a terrified little boy.
– Ol’, well… caught by a bad spirit. We’re human. Let’s make a deal.
– We made a deal. You have forty minutes to pack. My mother is taking Miska to the clinic; I don’t want him to see your face.
He left with a single suitcase. That certain “business trip” bag, in which he packed things for Kristina, now became the refuge for his entire life.
I stood by the window, watching him sadly walk toward the taxis.
– Mom, is there any stuffed cabbage left? – I asked when the door closed behind him forever.
– A whole pot, my dear.
– Let’s eat some. Just us.
Half a year passed. Life didn’t become an easy stroll. Mortgage, endless night accounts, the child’s whims. But there was no more lies in my home.
Sometimes fate hits you so you finally open your eyes. And sometimes a simple pot of mother’s stuffed cabbage can be the final dinner for a marriage that had long rotted from the inside.
I served myself and smiled. This was my own budget. My life. And my first truly honest dinner.
