The first thing Oleg did when he got out of the car wasn’t to greet me—instead, he paused at the open gate and glanced past my shoulder into the yard. Then he looked over at the house, at the extension with the wide window, and only after all that did he finally ask me:
«So, all this is yours?»
Seven years ago, he used almost the same tone to tell me that my job would barely earn me enough for thread and groceries. But now he arrived himself—after a brief message on messenger: “I’ll be in your area. Can I stop by and see how you’re doing?”
I agreed. Maybe because I’d long stopped mentally arguing with him every time I remembered our past.
When my money somehow didn’t count as real money
We lived together for fourteen years. The apartment had belonged to Oleg even before we got married, and I never considered it mine. I worked at a tailor shop as a seamstress, fixing dresses, replacing zippers, shortening pants, altering curtains. Oleg was a supervisor at a warehouse, making noticeably more than me.
At first, it didn’t bother anyone. But then he started commenting on my salary more and more often, as if I was just bringing home pocket change.
One day, a regular client asked me to fit a dress after work. The shop was already closed, and she had to leave early the next morning. I let her come by for twenty minutes. We stood in the hallway by the mirror, I pinned the side of the dress, marked the length, folded it into a garment bag, and saw her out.
Oleg waited until the door closed.
«So, are we running a branch of your tailor shop at home now?»
«It was just one time. She really needed it.»
He set his keys down on the table and looked at my sewing machine.
«I don’t like strangers coming into the apartment.»
That I could understand. A few days later, I showed him a listing for a small room near the market. There was enough space for a work table, sewing machine, mirror, and clothing rack. I had already done the math and knew how many orders I’d need to cover the rent.
Oleg scrolled through the ad on my phone.
«Forget it. Rent, utilities, taxes. What for?»
«So I don’t have to bring clients home and can take my own orders.»
«Sveta, your orders are fine—as long as you don’t start thinking you’re an entrepreneur.»
He didn’t raise his voice. That almost made it worse.
For several months, I didn’t rent anything. That was my mistake: I kept waiting for my husband to finally say, “go ahead and try.” In the evenings, I took on private orders and put money aside for a new sewing machine. When I’d saved up nearly half the amount, Oleg suggested we use the money for a vacation.
I refused, and he said, clearly unhappy:
«That’s why it’s so difficult with you. I’m thinking about us, and you’re thinking about your sewing machine.»
By then, the argument was about more than just sewing
That fall, a curtain shop offered me regular alterations for their sets. There were enough promises of orders to make it worth taking a chance. I registered as self-employed and once again brought up the idea of getting my own space.
In the kitchen, I laid out my calculations in front of Oleg: rent, expenses, and my average monthly income. He didn’t even take the paper.
«You really think people are going to go out of their way to bring their pants to you?»
«They already go to tailor shops. The only difference is who gets the money.»
Oleg set his phone aside.
«And what if, in three months, I have no clients? Am I supposed to handle everything by myself?»
I reminded him that we’ve been sharing grocery and utility bills for a while now. He just smirked:
«Buying groceries isn’t the same as providing for a family.»
A few days later, we were at his sister’s birthday party. She asked if it was true that I was planning to leave the studio. Oleg answered before I could:
«Yeah, she’s just bored. Wants to start a grand enterprise in a twelve-square-meter space.»
Things got awkward at the table. His sister quickly changed the subject, and I stayed silent, not wanting to create a scene in front of the family.
At home, I told him how uncomfortable it made me feel.
«What did I even say? You’ll end up laughing about it yourself when you realize what real business costs.»
«Do you even believe I can do something without needing your permission?»
He stayed quiet for a moment, then just shrugged.
«Go ahead. Just don’t come complaining to me later if you get into debt—it’s not my job to bail you out.»
After that, I finally rented the room and covered the rent with the money from my own orders. For the first two months, I barely broke even, but in the third, I earned more than the rent. That’s when Oleg started getting irritated, not because it was risky anymore. If a fitting session ran late, he’d call to ask why I wasn’t home yet. If I mentioned landing a good order, he’d reply, «We’ll see how long that lasts.»
I made mistakes too. I took on too much work at once, missed a deadline, and had to redo an order over two evenings, almost for free. Oleg wasn’t wrong when he said I was burning myself out. Still, he treated every mistake I made as proof that my whole idea was pointless.
Our last talk was pretty ordinary. I told him I wanted to buy a better sewing machine and that I would use my own savings to cover what I was missing.
«Go ahead,» he said. «But remember: if we ever divorce, with your kind of job, you won’t even be able to rent a decent apartment.»
That was the first time I heard more than a warning in his words—it was a certainty. He was convinced that, without his apartment, I had nowhere to go.
Two months later, we filed for divorce.
The first winter was all about counting every single thousand I had.
After the divorce, I rented a small one-bedroom apartment, just twenty minutes from my workshop. The apartment Oleg and I shared stayed with him—it had been his even before our marriage. We split our things without going to court: I took my equipment, some of the furniture and dishes, and left the rest to him.
When I was moving my last boxes, Oleg helped me carry the sewing machine to my friend’s car. He put it in the trunk, tucked a blanket around it, and as he closed the lid, he said:
«If you get tired of trying to do everything on your own, just call. I’m not a monster.»
That first winter, I often felt like I wanted to call someone—not him, but anyone who could tell me I wasn’t making a mistake. Between rent, the workshop, and supplies, money vanished fast. I was still working at the studio four days a week, fitting in my own orders during evenings and weekends.
In January, clients became scarce, then my main machine broke down, and the landlord announced a rent hike. I was ready to close up shop, but the very next day, I struck a deal with a curtain store for more alteration work. I decided to give myself three more months.
That’s how I managed to get by. There wasn’t a single day when life suddenly turned rich. There were just more and more small, regular orders: curtains, zippers, school uniforms, coats, dresses. After a year, I left the tailor shop, keeping only my own business.
All that time, Oleg only wished me happy birthday twice and once sent a message: «How are you?» I replied briefly. He never once asked if I was still sewing.
At first, even I found the house a little scary
Three years after the divorce, I was tired of paying for both the apartment and the workshop. I started looking at small houses on the outskirts of town, somewhere I could live and work all in one place.
My friend Natasha came with me to check out houses. One was damp, the second was way too far from the bus stop. The third was small, but it was dry, had decent heating, and an old porch that I could eventually renovate.
«Are you sure you can handle it?» Natasha asked by the gate.
«No, I’m not.»
We both laughed, but that evening I went over my finances again. By then, I had enough for a down payment, steady income, and consistent orders. I took out a mortgage for the rest of the house. The monthly payment was significant, but in a few years, I’d stop paying for two places at once.
The first two years, the house didn’t feel like a win at all. I replaced the windows one by one, fixed the roof over the porch, saved up for electrical and heating repairs. In one room, the old wallpaper stayed up for nearly a year—there was just never time to get to it.
I built a small workshop later, with a separate entrance from the yard, good lighting, and space for two machines and a worktable. I worked alone, scheduled clients by appointment, and never held fittings late in the evening.
There were plenty of mistakes. One client refused to pick up her altered coat, another delayed her payment, and once I mixed up the dates of two fittings and got thoroughly deserved criticism. After that, I got myself a proper calendar and stopped promising turnaround times I didn’t believe in myself.
In the spring of the seventh year, I made my last mortgage payment. I checked my banking app—no more debt—and later received the confirmation that the lien was lifted. I put the documents away in the drawer and went back to finish my latest order.
A few months later, Oleg sent me a message.
For the first twenty minutes, I thought he had changed
He asked for my address, said he had business in the next neighborhood, and could drop by for half an hour. I sent him my location. I had nothing to hide.
At the gate, Oleg looked almost the same as before, just with some gray at his temples. After his first question about the house, he seemed to catch himself, smiled, and held out his hand to me.
«Hi. Sorry to jump right in like this.»
I led him into the kitchen, put the kettle on, took out two cups and set them on the table. Oleg started telling me about work: management had changed, a few longtime employees had left, and he’d been moved to a different department. The usual updates from someone you haven’t seen for ages.
Then he suddenly said:
«I sometimes remember how I pressured you about the workshop. Maybe I went too far.»
After seven years, it was the first time he’d admitted that maybe I wasn’t the only one at fault. We chatted a bit longer, and I almost believed he’d come without any hidden agenda—just to visit and let bygones be bygones.
At that moment, a courier stopped by the workshop and dropped off a box of hardware. I went out to pick it up, and Oleg followed me.
«Is this your workshop?» he asked.
I opened the door. Inside, there were two machines, a workbench, and an ironing board. Along the wall, client garments in covers hung up. Nothing fancy, just a workspace I’d pieced together over several years.
Oleg walked along the workbench.
«So you work here alone?»
«Alone.»
He glanced out the window at the yard and then asked:
«Did you build the extension yourself?»
«The builders did it. I paid for it.»
«That’s not what I mean. Did someone help you with the money?»
That’s when I realized the calm twenty minutes were over.
He hadn’t just come over for tea.
I closed the box of hardware and slid it under the table.
«The bank helped. For interest.»
Oleg smirked.
«I’m serious. The house, renovations, the extension. You can’t have earned this much just from zippers.»
Before, I would’ve tried to prove my case—showed numbers, explained about my regular customers and the curtain shop. Now, I didn’t feel like justifying my income to my ex-husband.
«So you made money from more than just zippers.»
He went back to the kitchen, picked up his cup, took a sip, and set it down. Then he pulled out his phone.
«How many sotkas is the plot?»
I told him.
«Is land expensive here now?»
«I don’t know. I’m not planning to sell.»
Oleg opened a map, then scrolled through several listings for houses nearby. He compared lot sizes, flipped through photos, and kept glancing out the window, as if he’d come not to visit but to appraise real estate.
«Not bad,» he said. «Really not bad at all.»
«Why do you want to know?»
He put his phone down.
«Just curious. Back then, you left with practically nothing.»
«Not practically nothing. I had a job.»
«Come on, Svet. Don’t start. I didn’t mean to upset you.»
He looked around the kitchen again and asked:
«Is the whole house in your name?»
«Yes.»
«Big loan left?»
«None. I paid it off in the spring.»
After that, he stopped smiling. His face turned noticeably paler, and for a few seconds he just stared out the window at the workshop in silence.
«Well, looks like everything worked out for you,» he finally said.
That was the full extent of his almost-apology. For the next ten minutes, Oleg went on about how houses used to cost less a few years ago, loans were more favorable, and that I’d basically been «lucky with the timing.» In his version, over seven years, everything in the world had helped me succeed—except my work.
I didn’t argue.
At the gate, he glanced back at the house one more time.
«Still, you got lucky.»
In the past, I would have listed off the rented apartment, the broken washing machine, a client-less January, bills, and the never-ending repairs. That’s probably the kind of conversation he was expecting.
I just nodded.
«Yes. Seven years in a row.»
Oleg got into his car and drove off. Five minutes later, I returned to my workshop: there were two pairs of trousers on the table that needed to be shortened by the evening, and a dress in a garment bag waiting for a fitting. I switched on my work lamp, marked the length on the first pair, and tucked my phone away in my desk drawer.
His message came in the evening: «The house really is nice. If you ever decide to sell, now’s a great time.»
I read it between two orders and didn’t reply. I hung the finished trousers by the door and opened the next request.
