— Pasi, my boot is ready.
Marina stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, holding a black winter boot in her hand. At the sole, near the toe, a telling gap gaped, revealing the gray, wet interior. Dirty drops of water dripped from her stocking onto the floor.
Outside, it was minus fifteen degrees. That frustrating February cold when under your feet there isn’t snow, but frozen, slippery slush.
Pavel was moving in front of the entrance mirror. He wore a new branded sweater, chest emblazoned with a cool logo. He had bought it three days ago for five thousand rubles because “at work you need to look good, not like a shabby person.”
He didn’t even turn around, just spritzed a little perfume on his neck—the sharp, expensive scent that Marina once liked, now only irritated her.
— Marin, come on, just be merciful for a month, okay? — his voice was pleading-capricious, the same tone he always took when it came to money. — The finances are sad right now.
Your mother called this morning; her blood pressure shot over two hundred again. The doctor prescribed an IV with imported medicines, expensive ones. I promised to send twenty thousand rubles.
Marina slowly put the boot down on the rug. Somewhere around her solar plexus, a knot tightened.
— Twenty thousand? — she asked quietly. — Pasi, this is the third time in a month. First it was the “heart,” then the “joints,” now the “blood pressure.”
— What, should I just ignore my mother’s health? — he finally turned around. His face was hurt, lips pressed together. — Don’t forget, ten years ago she helped us with the residency card, remember?
— I remember, Pasi. Everything. But now I’m standing here in wet stockings. My toes are numb. Tomorrow I have nothing to wear to work.
Pavel looked up at the ceiling, as if Marina were asking the Moon from the sky, not a dry shoe.
— Go to the “Funny Prices” store, buy some lined boots for a thousand. Who cares? You just run around in the metro anyway. My mother’s health is more important, understand, and stop being selfish.
“Selfish.”
The word hung in the air. Marina looked at her feet, at the wet patch on the laminate. Then she lifted her gaze to Pavel. Citrus and sandalwood surrounded him, warm, in new clothes, well-fed from dinner.
— Fine — she said dryly. — I understand.
That evening, she didn’t start an argument. She just put the torn boot on the radiator, stuffed newspaper inside, then went to the kitchen. She had to count.
She sat at the table, opened the banking app on her phone. Numbers never lied, unlike people.
Pavel’s salary – fifty-five thousand.
Hers – eighty-five thousand.
Loan – thirty-five (she pays).
Utilities – eight (she pays).
Dasha’s kindergarten, extracurriculars, winter overalls – also her.
Groceries – ninety percent her.
Pavel paid for his gas, car, and… his mother’s endless expenses. “Medicines,” “tap repair,” “utility bills increased.”
Marina looked at the remaining balance on her card. Two thousand three hundred rubles until payday.
She remembered standing at the cheese section in the store yesterday. She really wanted that little blue mold cheese for three hundred. She picked it up, turned it over in her hand… and put it back—it was too expensive. She bought the discounted “Russian” cheese instead.
She saved on cheese, wore torn boots, hadn’t bought cosmetics for six months. All so her husband could send twenty thousand rubles to his mother for an “IV treatment.”
— Fine — Marina whispered in the dark kitchen. — Fine.
Three days passed.
Wednesday was particularly damp. Marina came home earlier from work. Her feet froze through to the bone in the lined boots within ten minutes.
She went into a large shopping mall by the metro. Just to warm up. To have coffee, if she dared spend two hundred rubles on herself.
From display to display she wandered, rubbing her icy hands, when suddenly she stopped.
Her heart fell to her soles, then popped up to her throat, cutting off her breath.
At the home appliance store, right at the checkout, stood a familiar pair.
Pavel and his sister, Lena.
Her sister-in-law, who always complained about life while changing her phone more often than her gloves.
They laughed, Lena enthusiastically explaining something, hands waving, and Pavel nodded approvingly while pulling out a card from his wallet.
The card he supposedly “didn’t even have money for gas on this morning.”
On the counter in front of them was a huge box. A picture of a robot vacuum on the box. The latest model. The one that maps your home, mops the floor, and talks.
A red sale tag on the shelf: 49,990 rubles.
Marina pressed herself against a plastic mannequin. In her mind, she counted fifty thousand.
— Oh, sis, thank you! — Lena screamed, her voice drowning out the background noise. — Mom said you’d help! I can’t handle my back pain while cleaning myself, this is hell! You’re my savior!
Pavel slid the card into the terminal. Beep, payment processed.
The “savior” smiled, lifted the box.
Marina felt dizzy, circles swam before her eyes.
The torn boots, the forgone cheese, the wet feet. The saved pennies.
All had become a game for a perfectly healthy thirty-year-old woman who was too lazy to clean.
She didn’t approach, didn’t make a scene. She had no strength, felt as if she had been pushed into muddy water. She turned and went back into the cold.
At home, it was quiet that evening. Pavel lounged on the sofa, feet on the armrest, scrolling through the news.
Marina was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. The knife clattered loudly on the cutting board, rhythmically. Only the “tap-tap-tap” could be heard.
— Marin, why buckwheat again for dinner? — he shouted from the living room. — Couldn’t we have meat? Or order in?
— No money, Pasi — she answered dryly. — We’re healing your mother, remember the twenty thousand? We have to tighten our belts.
— Oh, right — his voice went dull. — Fine, buckwheat then.
He went to shower, phone left on the newsstand table, screen up.
Beep.
A short notification sound.
Marina never looked at Pavel’s phone. She considered it beneath her dignity. But now some unknown force drew her to the table. She approached, screen flashing. A message from the contact “Mami,” fully visible:
“Son, Lena’s joy went through the roof! The vacuum is amazing, she already turned it on, it speaks so funnily, she set its voice to Kuzya the house elf, we were so happy!
Sorry for lying to Marina about the IV and the blood pressure, but your sister really needed the gift and the money… You are our treasure!”
Marina stared at the letters.
“They lied to Marina.”
She wasn’t just an automaton now, she was an idiot. Sitting there in the kitchen, drinking tea, and plotting how they had deceived her. Mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and her own husband—that was the “family.”
She put the phone down, went to the kitchen, turned off the gas.
She didn’t cry. Her tears were gone. Instead, a plan was born.
Saturday, Galina Petrovna’s anniversary.
Pavel tried to talk her out of it:
— Marin, you’ve been tense all week. Maybe you stay home? I’ll go, congratulate her.
— No, Pasi — Marina smiled, lips lightly colored. — I’ll go! I really want to congratulate your mother, sincerely.
She put on her best outfit. On her feet, the old, falling-apart boots she had come in on Monday. She didn’t even glue the sole.
At her mother-in-law’s apartment, the table groaned under the salads. Mayonnaise mountains, sliced meats, fogged vodka bottles. At the table sat Galina Petrovna, red-faced, seemingly completely healthy. Beside her shone Lena.
— Oh, Marinka! — began the mother-in-law. — Come, sit! Why are you so pale, tired? Working a lot?
— Yes, Galina Petrovna. The loan doesn’t pay itself.
The evening continued, toasts to health, “our close-knit family,” to “always supporting each other.” Marina just sat, sipped a bit of juice, waited.
And waited.
Lena, after her third glass of wine, could no longer contain herself. She wanted to boast.
— Oh, girls, I’m so happy! — she shouted, glancing at the hesitant neighbors. — I bought myself a robot helper! So smart, it goes on its own, mops, vacuums! I don’t even have to hold the mop now!
— Really? — Aunt Vera shouted. — Expensive?
— Well… not cheap, but I saved for half a year! I denied myself everything! Every penny!
Pavel pressed his lips together, glanced at Marina. Marina sat calmly, a faint smile on her lips.
— Half a year you saved? — Marina asked quietly, but her voice cut clearly through the silence. — Well done, Lena.
Marina picked up her fork, tapped it on the edge of the plate, calling everyone’s attention.
— Show me the receipt!
— What? — Lena faltered on an olive.
— The receipt or the warranty. It has the purchase date and the buyer’s name.
— Why do you need it? — asked Galina Petrovna, eyes wide. — What’s this, an interrogation?
— Just curious — Marina replied, scanning the table. — Very curious how the life-saving IV treatment for Galina Petrovna, for which Pasi took the last of my money from the family budget, turned into a fifty-thousand-ruble robot vacuum.
Everyone fell silent for a moment. Pavel turned pale.
— Marin, not here… we’ll talk at home… — he whispered.
— No, Pasi! You lied at home, we talk here.
Marina pulled a chair, stood up from behind the table to the center of the room.
— Look at me — she said calmly. — Look at my feet.
Everyone stared at her boots. The black leather cracked, the left sole detached, gray lining visible. Pathetic and poor.
— I walk in this rags — she emphasized every word — because we’re “saving.” I don’t buy cheese, don’t go for coffee. And you… Pasi, buy a grown woman a toy for fifty thousand, citing a fake maternal illness?
— How dare you talk to your husband like that! — Galina Petrovna screamed, jumping up. — Ungrateful! I…
— What do you want? — Marina interrupted. — I got the residency card from you ten years ago? I’ve already paid back plenty. With my nerves and my money.
She opened her bag, pulled out a piece of paper folded four times, and placed it on the table, right in front of Pavel’s plate.
— What’s this? — he asked with just his lips.
— Payment plan, Pasi. The unbelievable generosity ends here. From this day, we have a separate budget.
— You can’t… — began Pavel.
— But I can. I’ve submitted a request to the housing association to split the bills. That’s your half of the loan. Seventeen thousand five hundred rubles. Deadline: the 20th of every month. If you don’t pay, the bank fines.
She looked at her mother-in-law.
— And advice for you, Galina Petrovna: if you ask for money again, Lena sells the vacuum.
Marina walked toward the door.
— Oh, and your “Mimosa” salad is spoiled. Just like your conscience.
She left the house, called a taxi, and for the first time in a month, felt warmth. She didn’t care about money. Heading back to her life, where there was no room for parasites.
A month later.
Pavel entered the kitchen, shuffling in slippers. Face tight, exhausted. Marina stood by the sink, calm, decisive movements. Plates clattered in her hands, but her eyes were as cold as ice.
— Good morning — she said crisply. — Here’s your separate budget, look it over.
Pavel hesitated, holding a coffee cup, then lowered his head.
— Fine… — he mumbled. — I understand.
That morning, Pavel felt for the first time that the world was not just about him. Marina accounted for every penny, every minute. The money he previously took for granted was now bound by limits.
— And your boots? — Marina asked. — Are they new now?
— Yes… I bought a cheap pair — he said, silently. — But…
— But I don’t care — Marina interrupted. — It’s no longer my job to make up for your missing money at the family’s expense. You learned your lesson, Pasi.
Silence. The kind of silence born not from tension, but from realization. Pavel didn’t speak again.
Months passed. Marina paid her own bills, her own food, her own pleasures. Pavel learned that family doesn’t mean living off someone else’s pocket. Their relationship changed: more respect, fewer games.
Lena’s robot vacuum came from months of her own savings, not Marina’s. Mother-in-law also learned that financial manipulation doesn’t work forever.
One cold February evening, as snow quietly fell on the window, Marina finally sat comfortably in the armchair, sipping warm tea. The boots were repaired at the entrance. Her feet were calm, her soul at peace.
The phone beeped: a message from Pavel:
“Thank you for teaching me to think, Marina. I’m sorry.”
Marina smiled, warming the cup between her fingers.
The End.
