“What did you want? Huh? What can you possibly want?” Igor stepped right up to her, looming over her. Olga instinctively backed away toward the wall. “You are nothing. Without me, you are nobody. A pathetic librarian in a shabby blouse. And if it weren’t for me, you’d still be living in some communal apartment, counting pennies until payday.”
“Igor, stop it. Don’t you dare order me around.”
“This is my house!” he barked, and Olga saw the veins swell on his neck. “My rules. If you don’t like it — get out.”
A heavy, ringing silence hung in the air. Somewhere outside a car drove by, a dog barked. The kettle hissed quietly on the stove: Olga had put it on to heat when she entered the apartment, and now the water was boiling.
“Why are you silent?” Igor sneered. “Nowhere to go, huh? That’s exactly it. So sit quietly, don’t act up, and be grateful that you have a roof over your head.”
He turned and walked back into the room, but stopped at the threshold and turned around:
“And return that blouse to the store. Tomorrow. I don’t need a wife who can’t count money.”
Olga stood by the wall, feeling tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. She didn’t even immediately realize she was crying, she just suddenly felt the salty taste on her lips. The kettle on the stove began to whistle louder, demanding, hysterical. She slowly walked over and turned off the gas. Steam enveloped her face, moist and hot.
How tired she was. Tired of these endless reproaches, of this contempt in his voice, of the feeling of her own worthlessness that Igor pounded into her day after day. For three months she endured, hoped it would pass, that he would come to his senses, that her former husband would return. But he didn’t return.
Olga wiped her tears with the back of her hand and began silently putting groceries on the refrigerator shelves. Her hands moved automatically, while one thought spun in her head: “Is he right? Am I really worth nothing?”
In the evening, they ate dinner in silence. Igor sat buried in his phone, occasionally throwing out remarks about what idiots his subordinates were and how hard it was to work with incompetent people. Olga nodded without listening. She cut a tomato for the salad and thought about how they used to talk at dinner. Shared news, plans, dreams. Now there was an abyss between them, and Olga didn’t know how to bridge it.
“I’ll be late tomorrow,” Igor said, not looking up from the screen. “Meeting with clients. Might be back late.”
“Okay,” Olga replied quietly.
“And yes, the bonus is delayed this week. So tighten your belt. No blouses, cheese, or other nonsense.”
Olga put down the knife and wiped her hands with a towel.
“Igor, I really needed that blouse. The old one was completely gone.”
“God,” he leaned back in his chair and looked at her with an expression as if she had just said something incredibly stupid. “Well, wash it better. Or buy something at the market for three hundred. Why do you need expensive things? Who needs you there in your library?”
Something inside Olga trembled and snapped. Maybe it was patience. Maybe remnants of love. Or maybe just a sense of self-dignity she had been trying to preserve all these months.
“I am not some beggar who needs to wear hand-me-down rags,” she said, her voice shaking with suppressed emotions. “I work, I earn money, and I have the right to buy myself normal clothes.”
Igor slowly lowered his phone to the table. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.
“You have the right?” he asked quietly, too quietly. “You have the right?”
“Yes.” Olga stood up from the table, feeling something hot and uncontrollable boiling up inside. “I have the right not to listen to your reproaches every single day. I have the right not to feel like a freeloader in my own home.”
“In my home?” Igor barked, jumping up too. “This is my home. And if you don’t like it here, if you’re so proud and independent, get out of here. Right now.”
Olga was stunned. She had imagined many times how another argument would end, but like this…
“You… You’re serious?” she whispered.
“Absolutely.” Igor stepped toward her, a malicious sneer playing on his face. “Pack your rags and get out. Let’s see how you sing without my money, without my apartment. You won’t last a week; you’ll come crawling back on your knees.”
“Igor, it’s late, it’s past nine.”
“So what? I don’t care. Get out. Immediately.”
He was serious. Olga saw it in his face, in his tensed jaw muscles, in the cold glint in his eyes. Three months ago, she wouldn’t have believed he was capable of this. But now a stranger stood before her, and this stranger was kicking her out of the house late in the evening.
Olga walked into the bedroom on legs that felt like cotton. She took an old gym bag out of the closet and began mechanically folding things: jeans, sweaters, underwear. Her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t zip up her toiletry bag.
Igor stood in the doorway watching, arms crossed over his chest.
“And leave the card,” he tossed out. “The joint one.”
Olga took the bank card out of her wallet and put it on the dresser. She had another one, her salary card, but there was very little left on it until the next paycheck — two more weeks, and she had spent almost all of her last one on groceries and that blouse.
“Leave the phone too,” Igor added. “I pay for it…”
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