"Did you spend the whole salary again?" Ivan paced the room, waving the bills in his hand. "How are we supposed to pay for the gas now?"

Darya looked up, her tired eyes flashing with frustration.

"Spend it? On groceries! And where is your salary? Oh, right, you haven’t had one for over a year," Darya crossed her arms.

"Here we go again!" Ivan threw his hands up in exasperation. "You’re going to start criticizing me. I’m looking for work, but there’s nothing decent available!"

"Nothing decent? They offered you three jobs last month, but none of them were good enough for you!" Darya retorted.

Ivan grabbed his jacket from the hanger.

"I’m done with this! I’m going to my mom’s," he said, heading for the door. "At least she doesn’t nag me all day."

"Of course, go to mommy!" Darya shouted after him. "She’ll pity you, give you money, and I’ll pay the utilities myself, like always!"

The door slammed, making the chandelier shake. Darya collapsed onto the couch and stared at the ceiling. This wasn’t the first time. No, not the first or even the tenth.

Memories of the early days of their marriage surfaced. Back then, everything seemed perfect, so full of hope. Ivan worked as a manager in a large company, earning a good salary. They planned their budget together, dreamed about vacations, and even saved up for a down payment on a car.

But then something changed. Slowly, Ivan started bringing home less money.

"They didn’t give me a bonus," he explained, shrugging. "The boss is stingy."

Darya didn’t argue; she just worked more. Then, Ivan quit his job.

"It’s unbearable there!" he said, frustrated. "They humiliate me, demand the impossible. I’ll find something better."

Weeks passed, then months, but Ivan stayed home. At first, he searched for work, but then he started complaining about burnout and exhaustion.

"You don’t understand how hard it is for me," he said one day while lying on the couch with his phone as Darya returned home from work. "I need to recover mentally."

Then came the requests.

"Can you lend me five for the bar with the guys? I need to unwind," Ivan looked at her with pleading eyes, and Darya reluctantly agreed.

"Dasha, lend me money for a new phone; the old one is too slow," he asked again, and once more, Darya gave in.

Whenever Darya tried to have a serious conversation, Ivan threw a tantrum and ran off to his mother.

Darya shuddered, remembering the first visit from her mother-in-law after one such incident.

"How can you treat him like this?" Tamara Nikolaevna stormed into the apartment. "He’s such a sensitive, creative soul! And you’re pressuring him with money talks!"

"Tamara Nikolaevna, but we have to live somehow," Darya timidly replied.

"Live somehow! You live in your own apartment, and my boy has to slave away supporting you?" her mother-in-law said, her lips pursed.

"Support me? I work, too!" Darya said, her voice rising in indignation.

"But you don’t buy him a new iPhone like normal people!" Tamara Nikolaevna adjusted her hair, clearly displeased. "He’s used to a luxurious life, and now you want him to save!"

After such visits, Darya was left feeling defeated. Maybe she was too demanding? Maybe creative people needed more space?

Her phone vibrated, and she saw a message from Ivan: "Mom says you should learn to respect the man in the family. Money isn’t everything. I’ll come back when you cool down."

Darya threw the phone aside. Money isn’t everything? Of course, but without money, how do you pay the bills? How do you buy food? How do you get to work?

"How long?" she muttered in the empty apartment. "How long will I put up with this?"

Tears welled up, but Darya wiped them away with her sleeve. After all, this was her apartment. Her grandmother’s gift. The only thing she still owned—a roof over her head.

The phone vibrated again, this time with a call. It was her mother-in-law.

Darya took a deep breath, steeling herself for yet another conversation. But she ended the call before it even rang. She didn’t want to deal with her mother-in-law right now.

Darya set the phone down and looked again at the pile of bills. The numbers blurred before her eyes. She picked up the receipts, feeling colder inside.

"Gas, electricity, water, internet…" she muttered as she added up the amount. "Eight thousand. How am I supposed to get it?"

A week until payday, and only three thousand in the bank. Darya turned her wallet upside down, but only a few small coins fell out. She laid her head on the table, groaning. The situation seemed hopeless.

Her fingers instinctively dialed her mother’s number. Darya stared at the screen for several seconds, fighting herself. Asking for money again felt humiliating. At thirty-five—running to her mother for help.

"Hello, Mom?" Darya’s voice trembled when her mother answered.

"Dashenka, what’s wrong?" her mother’s concern only made Darya feel more guilty.

"Mom, I…," Darya choked up, a lump in her throat. "I can’t pay the bills. There’s a week until payday, and the utilities…"

She broke down sobbing.

"Daughter, I’m coming right now," Elena Petrovna’s voice was calm but firm. "Don’t go anywhere."

Darya sat in the kitchen, absently turning an empty cup in her hands. The doorbell made her jump. She opened the door to find her mother—short, with streaked dark hair and eyes so much like her own.

Darya burst into tears, hugging her mother tightly.

"Mom, I’m sorry."

"Oh, stop it," Elena Petrovna stroked her daughter’s back. "Let’s see what you’ve got here."

They sat at the table, and her mother carefully examined all the bills. Then she took out her wallet and silently counted the needed amount.

"Mom, I’ll pay you back," Darya whispered. "As soon as I get my salary."

"I know," Elena Petrovna smiled. "Where’s Ivan?"

Darya looked away.

"At his mother’s," she grimaced. "We had a fight about money."

Elena Petrovna sighed but said nothing. She simply stood up and hugged Darya.

"Go wash up," she kissed Darya on the temple. "I’ll make us some coffee."

They spent two hours together, talking about everything except Ivan and money. When her mother was about to leave, she hugged Darya tightly.

"Everything will get better, Dashenka," she whispered. "Just remember, you deserve better."

After her mother left, Darya felt a wave of emptiness. She mechanically took her jacket to hang it up, and something heavy thumped in her pocket. Darya reached inside and pulled out an envelope. Inside was a neat stack of bills. Twenty thousand rubles.

Tears burst from her eyes. She pressed the envelope to her chest and sank to the floor, shaking with sobs. So many years had passed, and she was still asking her mother for money. A mother who lived on a pension herself. Who would give up everything just to make her daughter’s life easier.

"Lord, how ashamed I am," Darya whispered, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

The front door slammed, interrupting her crying. Ivan stood in the doorway—disheveled but pleased.

"Why are you crying?" he threw his keys on the table irritably. "Drama queen again?"

Darya raised her reddened eyes to him. Something inside her clicked and broke—the last barrier holding back years of pain and resentment.

"Do you think it’s normal that I’m the only one paying, while you live off everything I provide?" she shouted so loudly Ivan stepped back.

"Here you go again," he rolled his eyes. "I told you, I’ll find a job…"

"When?" Darya jumped to her feet. "In a year? Two? Or when I collapse from exhaustion?"

"Don’t dramatize," Ivan snorted. "It’s just temporary difficulties…"

"Temporary?" Darya laughed, a laugh that even startled her. "Over a year without work is ‘temporary difficulties’? And me begging my pensioner mother for money—is that normal?"

Ivan frowned.

"Why do you ask her? You were always proud."

Darya lost her voice for a moment.

"How do you think I’m supposed to pay the bills? Take money from thin air? Or maybe ask your mother? She cares so much about her favorite son. She won’t let him live without electricity!"

"Dashka, watch your language," Ivan frowned. "I’m still a man…"

"A man?" Darya laughed again. "Men don’t live off women! They don’t hide at mommy’s at the first fight! They don’t ask for money to go to bars when there’s nothing to eat at home!"

"You…" Ivan gasped in outrage. "How dare you…"

A hurricane raged inside her.

"I dare! I dare because this is my apartment! My salary! My life that you’ve turned into hell!"

Ivan turned red.

"You always nag about your apartment! Take it then!" he yelled.

"I will!" Darya rushed to the closet and pulled out a sports bag. "Pack your things! Now!"

"What?"

"I said—pack your things!" She threw the bag at him. "I can’t live like this anymore! I don’t want to! Enough!"

"You’re… kicking me out?" Ivan looked genuinely shocked.

"Yes! And I’m divorcing you! I’ve had enough!" Darya felt lighter with every word. "Enough being your caretaker! Enough paying for your whims! Enough humiliating myself in front of your mother!"

Ivan opened his mouth but found no words. He just stood there blinking in confusion as Darya hurried around the apartment, packing his things.

"You’ll regret this," he finally spat out. "It’ll be worse without me."

"Worse?" Darya stopped and looked him in the eyes. "It can’t be worse than this."

The divorce went surprisingly smoothly. Ivan didn’t claim the apartment—it was Darya’s before they married. He didn’t even ask for money. It seemed he knew better than to fight for anything.

At first, Darya kept expecting a trick. She thought Ivan or his mother would show up with new demands. But nothing happened. The phone remained silent.

Gradually, Darya adjusted to her new life. The silence in the apartment. No more worrying about every penny spent. Groceries no longer mysteriously disappeared from the fridge.

For the first time in years, Darya bought herself a new dress without guilt. She started saving bit by bit for the renovation she had always dreamed of.

Most importantly, she stopped fearing the end of the month and the arrival of bills. Now, the utilities were paid calmly and on time, without tears and humiliation.

The next time Darya visited her mother, she quietly left an envelope with money in the kitchen drawer—much more than she had borrowed. Elena Petrovna understood everything but said nothing. She simply hugged her daughter tightly and whispered:

"You’re doing great, Dashenka. I always believed in you."

Her life finally belonged only to her. No one reproached her, demanded anything, or manipulated her. And that feeling of freedom was worth all the suffering she had endured.