The plastic tray landed on the kitchen counter with a dull thud. Denis angrily yanked open the fridge door, almost tearing off the soft tape that held the drawer, and turned to me.
— I don’t understand. Where’s dinner?
I calmly lowered the heat under the pan, where pieces of chicken were crackling in the garlic sauce, then slowly wiped my hands with a damp waffle-textured cloth.
The smell of the food swirled through the kitchen, sweet and salty at once, as if it alone promised a warm meal.
— Your dinner? — I asked, looking at his scowling face. — You probably bought it at the store. Or ordered it through a delivery app.
Denis furrowed his brow, crossing his arms over his chest in his work sweater, and threw it onto the back of the chair with force, making it wobble slightly.
— Olya, don’t start! I’m tired. We spent half a day at the warehouse receiving goods. Is there anything to eat?
— I cooked a portion of rice for myself. The chicken will be for lunch tomorrow. You have nothing. We discussed everything yesterday, Denis, didn’t we? You suggested a separate budget. Everyone is responsible for themselves.
Denis rested both hands on the table, sighing loudly; his entire posture suggested how exhausting these empty conversations were for him.
— But you’ll cook for yourself anyway! — he said firmly. — What’s the difference if you put one portion or three in the pan? Come on, don’t feel sorry? After all, you’re the one at the stove.
I froze, gripping the edge of the cloth. What he said hurt. He spoke so casually and self-assuredly, as if my time, my energy, even the ingredients meant nothing.
As if I were just a free “app” for the kitchen furniture.
— The difference is, — I said evenly, looking him straight in the eye, — ingredients cost money. And my time is valuable after work.
You wanted financial independence? Here you go. Enjoy. But whoever eats pays. If you want home-cooked food — buy the meat and vegetables from my list and pay for the cooking. Or cook dumplings for yourself.
Denis looked at me as if a complete stranger were standing in front of him. He pressed his lips together mockingly.
— How petty you’ve become, impressive. This is family, right?
Suddenly he turned and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. The noise made the glasses in the display cabinet clink.
I was left alone in the kitchen, listening to the urban traffic outside, the tires skimming the wet asphalt, and watching the oil sizzle in the pan.
We had been married for four years. We lived in a two-room apartment that Denis had bought with a mortgage before we met. I moved in immediately after we got married.
I worked from home, formatting websites.
My income was lower than his, but stable. We always had enough money. We chose the light wallpaper for the hallway together, argued about the color of the couch, saved bit by bit for vacations.
About three months ago, Denis was promoted. He became the operations manager and received a significant raise. I was genuinely happy then, set the table, and suggested we save more for the car. But my husband waved it off.
That day everything turned for the worse. He became closed off. He no longer bought fresh eclairs on Fridays from the bakery near the metro — our little tradition ended.
If I asked for weekend groceries, he hesitated, always complaining that his own expenses were high, gas was expensive, and bills had to be paid.
Last night, when I asked him to transfer his share of the online and utility bills, he suddenly said, “Listen, let’s do it separately. You have your card, I have mine. I’m tired of carrying the whole household.”
I transferred the chicken into a glass dish and covered it. Where was his money going? The raise was significant, yet we hadn’t spent that much on food even for the month.
At that moment, the tablet vibrated briefly on the table. Denis had forgotten it when he went to the room. The screen lit up, and a message appeared in the app:
“Nina Vasilievna: My dear, everything arrived, thank you! I’ll go to the living room tomorrow for the Italian curtain.”
I stared at the glowing rectangle. Curtain? Nina Vasilievna,
Denis’s mother, lived across town. A strong-willed, controlling woman who liked to manage everything. She had a good pension and lived in a spacious apartment. Alongside Denis, there were also her older daughter, Rita, and middle son, Pasha.
My fingers automatically reached for the tablet. I knew the banking app password — her favorite author’s birth year, never changed.
The app loaded in seconds. I opened the last month’s transfer history.
“Nina Vasilievna — transfer.”
“Nina Vasilievna — transfer.”
“Nina Vasilievna — transfer.”
Every Friday. The same large amounts. I flipped back a month: same. One more month, and the pattern didn’t change. I quickly calculated: the monthly sums reached the full amount of his new raise, plus a portion of his old salary.
The tablet felt icy. The numbers on the screen glowed, leaving no room for doubt. My husband claimed there wasn’t enough for food, forced me to cook with my own money, while secretly supporting his mother.
I turned off the kitchen light and went to the bedroom. Denis was lying on the bed in jeans, scrolling through his phone quickly.
— Will the curtain look nice? — I asked, stopping at the doorway.
My husband flinched. The phone fell onto the bed. He slowly sat up.
— What are you talking about?
— About your mother’s message on the tablet — I replied calmly, without raising my voice. — And about the transfers. I logged into the bank.
Denis rubbed his face hard, covering his eyes with his hands.
— What the hell are you snooping through my stuff for, Olya?
— What does it mean to run a separate budget, tell stories about expensive gas, and force me to buy groceries for two while giving half your salary to Nina Vasilievna?
— She asked for help! — he snapped, looking at the floor. — I couldn’t say no. She’s my mother.
— That’s not help, Denis. That’s full support. Why does she need so much money?
— For her health — he muttered. — Tests, various treatments, massages. Her back hurts.
I laughed bitterly.
— Seriously? The Italian curtain surely cures her back. Denis, you hid the money from your own family, forced me to save while your mother gets everything at our expense.
He didn’t answer. He just turned toward the window.
The next evening, there was a loud, continuous ringing at the door. Someone kept pressing the bell, as if something had happened.
I unlocked the door. Nina Vasilievna stood on the threshold, in a new sand-colored cashmere coat, hair neatly styled. She pushed past me, entered the hall, took off her leather boots, and went straight into the kitchen, where Denis sat at the table sullenly.
— Hello, Olya — said my mother-in-law, her voice soft but tense. She comfortably pushed the chair back and sat down. — Denis called. He said you’re throwing a fit because his son transfers a little money to his mother.
I leaned against the wall.
— No fit, Nina Vasilievna. Just simple math. She has a good pension, Denis gives her a large amount. And your son wants me to buy her food with my own money.
Her lips pressed together.
— Family is sacred. A wife should be in the background, not counting someone else’s money. Denis works, he has the right to help his mother. I need money to maintain my body. I’m already old!
— Show the receipts — I said calmly.
Nina Vasilievna raised her plucked eyebrows.
— What?!
— Clinical bills, private treatment contracts, pharmacy receipts. If she spends this much every month, there should be a thick folder. Show it now, and I’ll apologize to you.
Uneven patches appeared on her cheekbones.
— I’m not obliged to account to a young woman! How dare you speak to me like that? I raised him!
— This apartment is also mine, we live here together, we run a household — I stepped closer to the table.
— You manipulate Denis. Your son chose you because he’s obedient, afraid to oppose you. Do Rita and Pasha even know how much you’re taking from their brother?
Nina Vasilievna visibly tensed, clutching her bag tightly.
— It doesn’t affect them. They have their own families, loans, kids. It’s hard for them.
I pulled my phone from the pocket of my house pajamas.
— Great. If it doesn’t affect them, let’s ask. At the same time, we’ll find out why it’s hard for them that Denis bears everything.
I opened the family chat, where Nina Vasilievna’s three children were included, and quickly started typing.
— What are you doing? — her voice trembled. Denis also looked up, anxiously watching my hands.
— I’m writing to Rita and Pasha — I answered, without taking my eyes off the screen.
— I’m asking how often they give her this much money each month, and whether they’d like to share Denis’s burden if her expenses are so high.
Nina Vasilievna suddenly jumped from the chair. Her feet scraped the laminate floor.
— Don’t you dare! Take the phone away!
I pressed the send button. The screen flashed.
— Done.
Her eyes widened. Her lips moved silently, as if searching for words, but none came. Then she suddenly spun around, ran down the hall, grabbed her coat, and ran out the stairwell. The front door slammed so hard the plaster shook.
The kitchen fell silent. The old fridge hummed softly, the neighbor’s TV muttered on the other side of the wall. Denis sat with his shoulders slumped, staring at the patterns on the tablecloth.
My phone beeped briefly. Then again. And again. Messages poured in. I opened the chat.
Rita: “Olya, are you kidding? Mom complained on Wednesday that her utilities aren’t enough, I transferred money to her!”
Pasha: “I don’t understand anything. She said Denis counts every penny and asked me to help with the balcony renovation. I transferred money too!”
I placed the phone silently on the table, screen up, and pushed it toward Denis.
— Read it.
Denis ran his eyes over the lines. His face turned pale.
— She said… — he began hoarsely, without looking at me. — She said no one helps her. That Rita forgot, Pasha doesn’t care about their mother.
— And you didn’t even bother to check — I said, putting the phone in my pocket. — You just hid it from me, ate my dinners, and lied every day.
It’s not about the curtain, Denis. The point is, for three months, you looked me in the eye, smiled, slept with me, and openly lied.
He stood heavily. Stepped toward me, raised his hand as if to touch my shoulder, but my empty, distant gaze stopped him, and he lowered his hand.
— Olya, I… I really didn’t know she did this with everyone. I’ll stop the transfers. Tomorrow I’ll put everything into the general account. I swear, I’ll fix everything. Give me a chance.
I took a glass from the cabinet and poured a little dry red wine in it. The outside noise sounded louder than usual.
— Trust isn’t a bank account, Denis — I said, looking into the glass. — You can’t just refill it with apologies. Living in the same apartment, sharing fridge shelves, watching shows together… But I don’t know if I can ever turn my back on you again.
The following weekend, a real storm erupted in his family. Rita and Pasha came, demanding strict explanations.
Nina Vasilievna played the sympathy card, blamed me for everything, then complained that she was alone.
Finally, the siblings set a strict condition: if the mother truly needs money for the clinic, the cost would be shared equally and only on official receipts.
Denis tried very hard. The next day he ended the separate budget. He came home earlier.
He bought ingredients from my long list, tried to cook dinner — awkwardly, peeling potatoes, frying meat slices, often leaving them undercooked, but I quietly ate the side dishes.
One evening, when cold November rain tapped outside, he entered the kitchen with a paper bag from the bakery. Two eclairs filled with cream.
He sat across from me, hands clasped, looking at me as if expecting forgiveness.
— I miss you so much, Olya. How easy it was back then.
I turned on the kettle. The water hissed as it boiled.
— It won’t be like it was, Denis — I said quietly, taking out the mugs.
— I used to think I knew the man I married completely. Now we have to get to know each other again. If we have the strength.
He nodded, accepting the words without speaking.
We sat in the kitchen, drinking hot tea. Outside, the city’s rain-soaked noise reached us. I didn’t know how long our marriage would last.
Maybe in six months I’ll realize I’m tired, pack a suitcase, and rent another apartment. Or maybe this hard lesson will teach us honest, adult communication.
I did not assume the future. I just watched my husband carefully wash, drain the table, and realized: we have to keep living. Without illusions, but with open eyes. And that alone is enough.
