A Quiet Click

Lena was standing by the hallway mirror, adjusting her new haircut, when she heard the unmistakable sound behind her—a familiar clearing of the throat, half throatiness, half accusation. Sergey appeared in the doorway, wearing that expression she had grown to recognize over the years: a blend of judgment, mild irritation, and a subtle layer of scorn.

“How much did that cost?” he asked bluntly, nodding toward her head.

“Good morning to you too, dear,” Lena replied dryly, without turning around. “Three thousand.”

Sergey whistled as if she’d confessed to embezzling from a charity fund.

“Three thousand for a haircut? What’s your hair made of, diamonds? I could’ve shaved it for free in the kitchen with my old clippers.”

“You could have,” Lena agreed, finally facing him. “And the result would’ve matched your effort.”

“What’s wrong with that? Hair is just hair. At your age, a fancy cut isn’t going to change much.”

That line landed like a slap. Lena felt a quiet knot tighten in her chest. She was thirty-four. Not a girl anymore, sure—but not someone ready to fade into the wallpaper either. Or at least, she didn’t want to be.

“Got it,” she said, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen.

At breakfast, Sergey launched into one of his favorite monologues: the state of their finances. He had spread her bank statements out on the table like an investigator preparing to interrogate a suspect.

“What’s this?” He jabbed at a line with his index finger. “‘Golden Rose,’ seven thousand. What even is that?”

“A shoe store,” Lena answered, stirring her coffee more aggressively than necessary.

“Seven thousand for shoes? How many shoes do you even own? Twenty pairs?”

“Fourteen. And that’s across all seasons.”

“Fourteen? You’ve got two feet, Lena. Two. You only need two pairs. One for indoors, one for outdoors. Done.”

She looked at him, really looked, and for a moment she had the surreal feeling she was speaking to a stranger. Where was the man who used to bring her coffee in bed on Saturdays, who once booked a surprise weekend trip just because she’d looked tired? How did that person morph into this number-crunching tyrant?

He kept going. “‘L’Etoile,’ four thousand. More cosmetics? Again?”

“I need quality makeup. It’s part of my job.”

“You’re not a model. You give legal advice, not fashion shows. Clients aren’t paying to see your lipstick.”

At that moment, Galina Petrovna floated into the kitchen like an overly dramatic stage actress. She had been living with them for six months now, ever since her husband passed away. Sergey had insisted she move in for company. Since then, Lena felt like a long-term guest in her own home.

“Good morning,” the mother-in-law said sweetly, but her eyes skimmed Lena like a scanner. “What’s with your hair?”

“I got a haircut.”

“Oh, I thought you hadn’t slept. You look… pale.” She sat down beside her son, smoothly slipping into the conversation. “Sergey’s right, dear. Why such spending? I’ve dyed my own hair all my life—and believe me, men still noticed me.”

Lena thought of the black-and-white photo on their hallway shelf: a younger Galina Petrovna in a polka-dot dress, holding a cigarette and a dangerous smile. She said nothing.

“Mom’s right,” Sergey added. “We’re living beyond our means. We have to save.”

“Save on what?” Lena asked, the edge in her voice sharp now. “I don’t buy luxury coats or spend weekends at the spa. A haircut, shoes, makeup—those aren’t luxuries, they’re basics.”

“Basics!” Galina Petrovna echoed with mock offense. “Back in my day, we didn’t need all that to keep our men happy.”

“And back in your day, women made borscht daily and ironed their husbands’ socks,” Lena snapped.

A heavy silence dropped over the kitchen like fog. Sergey raised an eyebrow—a warning. Galina Petrovna expected Lena to behave like a live-in caretaker, despite being healthy, mobile, and plenty vocal when it came to Lena’s perceived shortcomings.

“I don’t get why you’re so defensive,” Sergey said coolly. “We’re just talking about the family budget.”

“My budget,” Lena corrected. “My salary.”

“Our family, our budget,” he cut in.

Later, Lena locked herself in the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and studied her reflection. Not just her haircut, which actually looked great, but her eyes. When they got married, Sergey had earned more. But over the past two years, Lena had risen fast—now a senior legal consultant. Meanwhile, he remained in mid-management. The more she earned, the more he tried to control her spending. As if money meant control. As if this was his way of holding onto power.

Days passed in a blur of tension. Lena worked late, often stayed out longer than necessary, just to avoid coming home to the unspoken resentments and icy dinners.

On Thursday evening, while they sat in front of the TV, she tried again.

“Sergey,” she said gently, “what do you think about taking a vacation? Just us. We haven’t done that in ages.”

He looked up from his phone, barely interested. “Vacation? With what money?”

“I got a bonus. We could go to Turkey. Nice hotel. All inclusive.”

He scoffed. “How much?”

“A hundred to two hundred thousand. For two.”

He whistled. “Too much. But if you’re offering, sure. You pay.”

Lena hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll pay.”

“Deal!” Sergey grinned. “Mom!” he called out. “We’re going to Turkey!”

Galina Petrovna emerged, drying her hands with a towel. “To Turkey? How exciting! I’ve always wanted to see the Mediterranean!”

“We’re going,” Lena clarified. “Sergey and I.”

“Oh,” Galina blinked. “And I’ll be here all alone?”

She played the role of the forgotten widow so well, Lena almost clapped. Of course, the implication hung in the air—Lena couldn’t refuse her outright and not seem heartless.

“Of course, Galina Petrovna,” Lena said. “You’ll come too.”

The next day, Lena visited her friend Irina, who worked at a travel agency.

“There’s a great five-star in Antalya,” Irina said, scrolling. “But it’s pricey—three-fifty for three.”

“Got anything more… affordable?” Lena asked.

Irina gave her a look. “How affordable?”

“As cheap as possible. Noisy. Basic. Like a youth hostel.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious.”

A week later, Sergey and Galina were packing with excitement. They imagined sunbeds, shrimp buffets, evening cocktails.

“Thank you, dear,” Galina said sweetly. “We’ll bring you back some lovely souvenirs!”

Lena waved them off at the airport. As soon as they were through security, she exhaled—and felt, for the first time in six months, like she could breathe.

The first call came the next day.

“LENA!” Sergey shouted, chaos screaming behind him. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU BOOK?!”

“I don’t understand,” she said, calmly sipping coffee in her spotless, silent kitchen.

“This place is a dump! Students everywhere, loud music all night, no air-conditioning, and the taxi overcharged us!”

“But it’s a very popular spot with young people,” she said, flipping through a magazine.

“I’m forty-three!” he yelled. “FIX IT!”

“I can’t. The money’s spent.”

“Then get over here and sort it out!”

“I’m not coming,” she said. “You insisted on saving. Enjoy it.”

She hung up. He called back. She didn’t answer.

Lena spent the week in bliss. She slept in, read novels, met friends for wine, even danced at a jazz bar one evening. For the first time in ages, her apartment felt like hers.

Sergey and Galina returned on schedule. Sunburned. Furious.

“You did this on purpose!” Sergey exploded. “You sabotaged our vacation!”

“Did I?” Lena asked mildly.

“We had to book a new hotel ourselves, hire a translator! We spent more than twice what we would have!”

“Funny. I thought you wanted to save.”

“This is insane!” Galina chimed in. “You humiliated us!”

“Greed often does that,” Lena said, pouring herself a glass of wine.

Sergey stared at her. “You’ve changed.”

“Yes,” Lena said. “I have.”

“I’m filing for divorce.”

“Perfect. The papers are on the bedroom table. Already filled out.”

They both blinked.

“What do you mean ‘already filled out’?” he asked.

“I filed. The apartment’s mine—it was pre-marital. The car’s yours. No kids, no debts. Very clean split.”

“And me?” Galina asked, genuinely alarmed. “Where will I go?”

“You have an apartment. It’s rented, I know. You’ll figure it out.”

Lena grabbed her bag.

“Where are you going?” Sergey asked.

“To a friend’s. You’ll need space to pack.”

At the door, she turned.

“And thank you,” she said. “For the vacation. I finally rested "