Galina stood by the window and looked at the wet November courtyard. Raindrops ran down the glass, merging into uneven streaks, and it seemed as if the sky itself was crying with her.
But no, she wasn’t crying. She just stood there, trying to understand what had happened an hour earlier in this same kitchen.
— I’m tired, Galya. Do you understand? I’m tired of all this — Viktor waved his hand as if brushing aside thirty-seven years of life together like crumbs from a table. — I want to live separately. For myself.
For myself. Those two words got stuck in her throat like a fishbone. She had turned from the stove then, a ladle in her hand, and stared at her husband.
He was sitting at the table, slouched in his chair, looking somewhere off to the side, avoiding her gaze. His gray hair stuck out messily, stubble covered his cheeks, and he wore an old stretched-out T-shirt.
He was sixty-two years old, and for the last fifteen of those years he had barely worked. Sometimes his health failed him, sometimes the bosses weren’t right, sometimes the coworkers.
— Separately? — she asked, and her voice sounded strange, as if it belonged to someone else. — You want a divorce?
— No, no! — Viktor waved his hands. — Why divorce? I just want to live separately. I need my own space, you understand? I’m a man, I need freedom.
Freedom. What kind of freedom did a man close to retirement need, one who had spent the last years sitting at home while she worked as an accountant at a construction company? Galina put the ladle back into the soup and turned off the gas. Her appetite disappeared instantly.
— And how do you imagine this? — she asked quietly.
— I’ve looked at options — he perked up, his eyes even lit up. — A one-room apartment in the Northern district, cheap. Twenty-five thousand a month. Quite reasonable.
— Twenty-five thousand — Galina repeated. — You don’t have a job.
— But you work! — he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. — You earn seventy thousand. You’ll help with the rent, and some money for living. I’m not a stranger to you, I’m your husband.
And at that moment Galina felt something inside her snap. Not loudly, not dramatically — quietly, almost imperceptibly. Like a thread that had been pulled for too long.
— So you want to live separately from me, but on my money? — she asked.
— Don’t talk like that! — Viktor took offense. — We’re a family. I’m just tired, I need some peace. You’ll come visit, cook sometimes. It’ll be better for both of us, you’ll see.
He went into the room, leaving her standing in the middle of the kitchen. Galina heard him turn on the TV, settle onto the couch. As always. As for the last twenty years.
She turned back to the window. The rain grew heavier. She felt a strange emptiness — not pain, not resentment, just nothing. She remembered Svetka, her friend who had divorced a year ago:
“The worst thing isn’t cheating. It’s when you realize you’re being used, and they don’t even hide it.”
Back then she hadn’t understood. Now she did.
The next day Viktor acted. He looked at apartments, called the landlord, even went to see one. He came back happy.
— Great apartment! Clean, everything’s there. The landlady is normal. Fifty thousand to start: deposit and first month in advance.
— Fifty thousand — Galina repeated. — That’s half my salary.
— Just once! Then only twenty-five. And ten to fifteen for food. What, you feel sorry?
Feel sorry. The word hung between them, heavy and sticky. Did she really feel sorry? Did she really have to refuse the man she had lived with for so many years? Raised a child with, survived crises?
— Vitya, we still have a loan — she tried to explain. — For Dima’s car. Utilities, everything.
— Dima is grown up, let him pay himself — Viktor waved it off. — Utilities will be less without me. So it’s fair.
Fair. Such a strange word coming from him.
That evening Dima called, their thirty-five-year-old son. He worked in logistics and lived separately.
— Mom, Dad is writing something weird. He’s moving… new apartment… what’s going on?
— We’re not divorcing. He just wants to live separately.
— And money?
There was silence, then the son’s voice hardened:
— Mom, are you seriously saying he’s moving out and you’re supporting him?
— Not like that…
— Yes, exactly like that. This is madness.
She hung up.
Galina looked at Viktor. He was lying on the couch, scrolling his phone, smiling. As if nothing had happened.
And that was the worst part: he was completely уверенный.
Three days later Galina gave him the fifty thousand rubles.
He didn’t really thank her. Just nodded.
— I knew I could count on you.
And then Galina thought for the first time: when did I become an ATM?
The move happened on Saturday. Viktor left with two suitcases and took the armchair too. Galina helped him pack. It felt surreal: the husband leaves, but the wife finances his departure.
— Well, I’m going — he said at the door.
— Go — she replied.
The door closed.
Silence.
Emptiness.
She didn’t cry. She felt nothing.
Her phone: “Arrived. Nice place. Thanks, dear.”
Dear. After thirty-seven years, when money is needed.
The first week: daily calls. Repairs, medicine, food. Galina paid.
At work, Oksana, the young colleague, said:
— This is classic manipulation.
— This is family — Galina answered automatically.
— No, this is exploitation.
Svetka that evening:
— Have you lost your mind? He’s living off you!
Galina couldn’t sleep.
The next day Dima:
— Mom, don’t do this.
And something began to crack inside her.
After three weeks Viktor took the blanket and pillows.
— That’s mine!
— It’s cold there.
— It was my mother’s gift!
— Don’t be hysterical.
Hysterical.
That’s when the anger came.
— I won’t send any more money.
— What?!
She hung up.
And didn’t answer again.
The phone kept ringing. Messages: pleading, accusations, threats.
“You’ll regret this.”
Galina turned it off.
Silence.
At work she felt lighter.
— I want to see a psychologist — she said.
And she began to talk.
Thirty-seven years.
And slowly she understood: it wasn’t a family. It was a one-sided burden.
One evening Viktor appeared at the door.
— I need to move back.
— No.
— I have no money!
— Work.
Silence.
— You ruined my life!
— No. You chose this.
He left.
And this time for good.
Three months later Galina started dancing, learning English, bought a new coat.
Life returned.
Viktor declined. Dima said he was working, but struggling.
— Dad was always like this — the son said.
In April, a message:
“Forgive me. Let’s start again.”
“No.”
Blocked.
May: sea with Svetka and Dima.
Laughter.
— I’m okay — she said for the first time.
And it was true.
In summer: promotion.
In autumn: ticket to the sea.
Another message came:
“Let’s start again.”
“No.”
Blocked.
The train moved south.
Galina was no longer running away.
She was going.
Toward herself.
