beauty

Life stories 04/08/2025 13:30

— Oh, is that how it is? What I earn is OURS, but what you earn is YOURS? Darling, haven’t you gotten a bit too cheeky?

“Oksana, we need to talk. Seriously.” His voice, stripped of its usual evening ease, halted her mid-motion. The knife froze halfway through a crisp celery stalk. Oksana glanced over her shoulder. Vadim stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his stance more suited to a corporate boardroom than their warm kitchen. He looked composed, rehearsed — solemn in a way that made her stomach tighten. “If it’s about the car rims again, Vadim, we’ve been over this. Next month.” She resumed chopping vegetables, her motions quick and practiced. The smell of frying meat, fresh herbs, and sliced onions filled the kitchen, creating a domestic cocoon — one that Vadim, apparently, was about to rip open. “It’s not about the rims.” His voice lowered, dramatic. “It’s about our future. Our strategy.” He said the word strategy like it had just been handed to him in a golden envelope. He walked in and sat down at the kitchen table, fingers steepled as though preparing to announce a five-year development plan. “I’ve been thinking a lot. We have a good life — I’m not denying that. But I feel stuck. Routine is a trap. Every day is the same. You wake up, go to work, eat, sleep, repeat. It wears a man down. A man needs purpose. Growth. Investment.” Oksana paused, set the knife down, and wiped her hands on a towel. There was a glimmer of a tired smile — the kind you give when you know what’s coming and wish you didn’t. “Alright,” she said, folding her arms. “What’s the plan this time? Become a crypto millionaire? Start a podcast for ‘ambitious men’?” There was no edge in her voice yet — just mild sarcasm. Vadim took her tone as interest. He sat straighter, lifted his chin. “I’ve made a strategic decision,” he declared. “Starting this month, I’m changing how we manage our finances. My salary — it’s going to be my personal investment fund. I’ll use it to elevate myself: improve the car, invest in my hobbies, take courses. Develop as a man. That’s how you avoid stagnation.” He leaned back slightly, watching her reaction as if expecting applause. Oksana blinked, the corners of her mouth slowly falling. Her brows furrowed. “Hold on,” she said, carefully. “Your salary’s now for... self-investment? So what happens to everything else? The mortgage? Bills?” “That’s the second part of the plan,” he said, warming up like a speaker on stage. “You’re smart, capable — you make more than me. And that’s amazing. I’m proud of you! So, starting now, all shared expenses — rent, utilities, groceries, whatever — that’s on you. I’ll focus on the big picture, long-term growth. You provide the rear. That’s what a true partnership looks like.” Silence fell — thick, stunned silence. The only sound was oil crackling in the pan. Oksana stared at him. Her husband, who once cried at their wedding because “he couldn’t believe someone like her would choose him,” was now suggesting she bankroll his personal journey to greatness. Her disbelief gave way to something colder, sharper. “You’re joking,” she said finally, her voice flat. “Why would I joke?” Vadim frowned. “This is a modern model. Efficient. Division of roles. I grow, you support. It’s logical.” Logical. He said it like this was a tech startup pitch, not their marriage. He really believed it. Oksana stood motionless, letting the weight of it settle over her. He wasn’t being ironic or experimental. He was proposing — no, declaring — that she become his sponsor, secretary, and sustainer while he indulged in identity-building. In that moment, something inside her started to shift. Three days passed. Three heavy, dragging days of eerie silence. They moved around the apartment like shadows. The air between them had become thick and slow, like walking through water. They spoke only when necessary, in clipped, mechanical sentences. Oksana waited. She gave him a chance — to take it back, admit it was a terrible misjudgment, even a failed provocation. But he didn’t. Vadim, in fact, became more confident. Every day, he embraced the role of visionary more deeply. By Friday evening, he was lounging on the couch with his tablet, browsing a car tuning website. He muttered to himself with deliberate volume, tossing out comments like breadcrumbs meant to provoke. “Oh, here’s an exhaust system. Sound on this would be wild. Seventy thousand. Worth it. It’s image. It’s status.” Oksana, standing by the window and watching the city lights flicker, turned slowly. Her last thread of patience frayed to nothing. She approached and stopped in front of the couch, blocking his view of the TV. “I ran the numbers,” she said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were glacial. “I took my salary. Subtracted the mortgage, bills, food. You know what’s left? Practically nothing. I’ll be bringing sandwiches from home.” He looked up, irritated, like she was disturbing a sacred ritual. “Temporary hardships,” he said. “Investments require short-term sacrifices. You’re being small-minded.” “Really?” she said, her tone now clipped. “So my salary is for both of us, but yours is only for you? You don’t see the problem?” He opened his mouth, but she didn’t stop. “We’ve built this life together. Chose this apartment, signed that mortgage, bought this furniture. We were a team. But now you’re declaring independence? On my dime?” “You’re being petty.” “No,” she snapped. “You’re being absurd. You want to develop yourself? Fine. But don’t you dare do it at my expense.” The next morning, the twentieth, she moved through the apartment with robotic precision. Every motion was clean, purposeful — mascara, blazer, coffee, keys. Armor. Vadim sat in the living room, not gaming this time but scrolling his phone with exaggerated seriousness, a notebook open beside him. Playing pretend with conviction. She stopped a few steps away. “Today’s the twentieth. Mortgage day.” He didn’t even look up. Just waved a dismissive hand. “I told you. You’re handling that now. Rearguard support. I need to focus on the mission.” The phrase landed with a thud. She stared at him for a long moment, then turned, walked to her desk, and sat down. Vadim side-eyed her, smug. He assumed she was about to transfer the full amount and grumble quietly. He believed he was winning. Oksana opened her laptop. Her fingers moved with clinical confidence. She checked the mortgage amount. Divided it neatly in two. Entered her half. Her finger hovered above “Confirm” for a second — the threshold between before and after — and then she pressed it. Transfer complete. Then she opened her phone, created a shopping list. “Ribeye. Arugula. Cherry tomatoes. Avocado. Red wine.” No extras. No consideration for a second person. She stood up and looked at Vadim. “You’re right,” she said. “Everyone should invest in themselves. I paid my half. The bank will be glad to hear from you about the other half. Call it your first official investment.” He looked up, confused. “What?” “I’ll be buying groceries only for myself. Dinner, too. Like you said — personal development.” And with that, she walked out the door. That evening, the apartment was silent. Vadim spent the day in a spiral of disbelief and annoyance. Surely she was being dramatic. She’d come back to her senses. She always did. But the second half of the mortgage never came. A polite but firm call from the bank pushed a wave of cold sweat down his back. The fridge was nearly empty. A lone lemon and a sad piece of cheese greeted him. When he heard the lock turn, he sat up, ready with a lecture. Oksana entered with one grocery bag — expensive brand, not their usual store. No eye contact. No explanation. She unpacked deliberately: steak, arugula, tomatoes, a fine bottle of wine. Set a single place setting. Vadim watched, his anger bubbling with confusion. Was this real? She cooked in silence. Patted the steak dry, seasoned it with care. The sizzle in the pan was deafening. She opened the wine, poured herself a glass, and took a sip with closed eyes. The table was set for one. He couldn’t take it. “And what’s this supposed to mean?” he demanded. She flipped the steak, never looking at him. A perfect crust crackled. “It means I’m making dinner,” she said, flatly. When the meat was ready, she plated it with elegance, drizzled salad with olive oil, sat down, and ate — slowly, savoring. Like he didn’t exist. “And me?” he blurted out. The words sounded small. Still not looking at him, she spoke between bites. “Darling, dinner is your personal project. Start investing in yourself. That goes for everything now.” She cut another bite. He stood there, watching her in silence, realizing the truth: The game was over. And he had lost.

News in the same category

News Post