My husband yelled that he was supporting me, but now he writes that he was wrong and begs me to give him another chance.
December turned out to be hard. Not festive at all, to be honest.
I worked as an accountant at a small trading company. The pay was decent — thirty-eight thousand a month. Nothing amazing, of course, but stable. And stability matters when you’re paying a mortgage.
On the twentieth, the director called me into his office.
“Marina Sergeevna, have a seat.”
I sat down. He looked tired.
“The company is closing. Problems with partners, debts. I’ll pay your severance according to the law, you’ll work the required period, but the company is finished.”
Just like that. I had worked there for eight years, and it all ended with one conversation.
I walked home as if through a fog. I kept thinking about how to tell Igor. We had been married for seven years. A year ago, we had taken out a mortgage on an apartment — a two-room place in a newly built building. Every month, we paid fifty thousand to the bank. Igor worked as a manager at a construction company and earned about fifty thousand. My salary went toward everything else — food, clothes, utilities.
He met me at the door.
“What happened? You’re pale.”
“I was laid off. The company is going bankrupt.”
For a couple of seconds, he was silent. Then he exploded.
“Laid off?! How did you let that happen?!”
“Igor, it didn’t depend on me…”
“And how are we supposed to live now?!” He paced around the room, waving his arms. “The mortgage! Fifty thousand every month! We miss one payment and they’ll take the apartment!”
I stayed silent.
“I was counting on your salary! New Year is around the corner, my friends invited me to a corporate party! What am I supposed to tell them?”
“I’ll find a job after the holidays…”
“After the holidays?!” He stopped and stared at me. “Today is December twentieth! You’re planning to sit at home for a month and a half? No. You’ll find something by the end of the month. Cleaner, whatever. We need money.”
My throat tightened. I nodded and went into the bedroom.
Four days later, it was my birthday. I turned twenty-eight.
I woke up early that morning. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Igor to say something. At least to wish me a happy birthday.
He got up, went into the bathroom, came out, and got dressed.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I replied.
He went to work.
All day, I kept checking my phone. Maybe he would call. Maybe he would at least write something.
Nothing.
In the evening, he came home around nine. I was sitting in the kitchen, eating candy.
“Igor, do you remember what day it is today?”
“What day?”
“My birthday.”
He winced.
“Oh, right. Well, happy birthday.”
“That’s it?”
“What else?” He hung up his jacket. “Marina, you’re the one sitting here without a job, and you’re making demands of me! You think I have money for presents? I got paid — it went to the mortgage. The rest comes out of our savings. We only have nine thousand for the month. For both of us. Forget about flowers and gifts. Find a job, then we’ll talk.”
I stood up and went into the bedroom. I lay down, burying my face in the pillow. Tears choked me, but I held them back.
I didn’t sleep that night. I thought about us. About what was left between us. Not much. Very little.
In the morning, I called my mother.
“Mom, can you lend me some money?”
“How much do you need?”
“Sixty thousand.”
“Sweetheart, did something happen?”
“Well… how do I put it? I want to take some courses. Web design.”
“Aren’t you an accountant?”
“I want to try something new.”
Silence. Then:
“All right. Come over tomorrow.”
I didn’t tell her about losing my job. I didn’t tell her about my forgotten birthday. Why upset my mother?
I spent the money on an intensive course. Two months of training. Every day, four to five hours. I had always loved drawing; I went to art school as a child. I had learned graphic programs back in college, just for myself.
Igor barely spoke to me. He came home, ate dinner, and went to the bedroom. He celebrated New Year with friends. He didn’t invite me. He said that with a face like mine, I would ruin the whole party.
I wasn’t offended. I didn’t have time to be offended. I was studying. I spent the chime of midnight at my laptop — I only saw the fireworks through the window.
I got my first order in early February. A girl was looking for a designer for a beauty salon website. She offered twelve thousand — I agreed.
I worked on the project for three days. I barely slept. I wanted it to be perfect.
“Marina, this is magnificent!” the client wrote. “May I recommend you to my friends?”
“Of course!”
A week later, three more people contacted me. Then more and more.
By the end of February, I had earned forty thousand. More than at my old job.
Igor didn’t ask what I was doing. He didn’t care.
I didn’t stop. I took another additional course. A more serious one. I registered on an international freelance platform. I did test projects and collected reviews.
Six months later, I was earning one hundred and twenty thousand a month. Sometimes one hundred and fifty.
And that was when Igor changed.
He became affectionate. Attentive. He hugged me, kissed me.
“Marina, I’m proud of you. You’re such a clever girl.”
I wanted to believe he was sincere.
And then the requests began…
Continuation just below in the first comment.
December turned out to be hard. Not festive at all, to be honest.
I worked as an accountant at a small trading company. The pay was decent — thirty-eight thousand a month. Nothing amazing, of course, but stable. And stability matters when you have a mortgage to pay.
On the twentieth, the director called me into his office.
“Marina Sergeevna, have a seat.”
I sat down. He looked tired.
“The company is closing. Problems with partners, debts. I’ll pay your final settlement according to the law, you’ll work the required notice period, but the company is finished.”
Just like that. I had worked there for eight years, and it all ended with one conversation.
I walked home as if through fog. I kept thinking about how to tell Igor. We had been married for seven years. A year ago, we’d taken out a mortgage on an apartment — a two-room place in a new building. Every month, we paid the bank fifty thousand. Igor worked as a manager at a construction firm and earned around fifty thousand. My salary went toward everything else — food, clothes, utilities.
He met me at the door.
“What happened? You’re pale.”
“I got fired. The company is going bankrupt.”
For a couple of seconds, he said nothing. Then he exploded.
“How did you get fired?! Why did you let that happen?!”
“Igor, it didn’t depend on me…”
“And how are we supposed to live now?!” He paced around the room, waving his arms. “The mortgage! Fifty thousand every month! If we miss one payment, they’ll take the apartment!”
I said nothing.
“I was counting on your salary! New Year’s is coming, our friends invited us to a corporate party! What am I supposed to tell them?”
“I’ll find a job after the holidays…”
“After the holidays?!” He stopped and stared at me. “It’s December twentieth today! Were you planning to sit at home for a month and a half? No. You’ll find something by the end of the month. As a cleaner, as anything. We need money.”
My throat tightened. I nodded and went into the bedroom.
Four days later was my birthday. I turned twenty-eight.
I woke up early that morning. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Igor to say something. At least to congratulate me.
He got up, went into the bathroom, came out, and got dressed.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I replied.
He left for work.
All day I checked my phone. Maybe he would call. Maybe he would at least write something.
Nothing.
In the evening, he came home around nine. I was sitting in the kitchen, eating candy.
“Igor, do you remember what day it is today?”
“What day?”
“My birthday.”
He grimaced.
“Oh, right. Well, happy birthday.”
“That’s it?”
“What else?” He hung up his jacket. “Marina, you’re the one sitting around without a job, and now you’re making demands of me! You think I have money for gifts? I got paid — it went to the mortgage. The rest is coming out of our savings. We have nine thousand for the whole month. For the two of us. Forget about flowers and gifts. Find a job, then we’ll talk.”
I got up and went into the bedroom. I lay down and buried my face in the pillow. Tears choked me, but I held them back.
I didn’t sleep that night. I thought about us. About what was left between us. Not much. Very little.
In the morning, I called my mother.
“Mom, can you lend me some money?”
“How much do you need?”
“Sixty thousand.”
“Sweetheart, did something happen?”
“Well… how do I put it? I want to take a course. Web design.”
“Aren’t you an accountant?”
“I want to try something new.”
Silence. Then:
“All right. Come over tomorrow.”
I didn’t tell her about losing my job. I didn’t mention the forgotten birthday. Why upset my mother?
I spent the money on an intensive course. Two months of training. Four to five hours every day. I had always loved drawing; I had gone to art school when I was younger. I had learned graphic programs back in college, just for myself.
Igor barely spoke to me. He would come home, eat dinner, and go to the bedroom. He celebrated New Year’s with friends. He didn’t invite me. He said I would ruin the whole holiday with that face of mine.
I didn’t take offense. I had no time for offense. I was studying. I spent the chimes of midnight over my laptop — I only saw the fireworks through the window.
I got my first order in early February. A woman was looking for a designer for a beauty salon website. She offered twelve thousand, and I agreed.
I worked on the project for three days. I barely slept. I wanted it to be perfect.
“Marina, this is amazing!” the client wrote. “Can I recommend you to some acquaintances?”
“Of course!”
A week later, three more people contacted me. Then more, and more.
By the end of February, I had earned forty thousand. More than at my old job.
Igor didn’t ask what I was doing. He didn’t care.
I didn’t stop. I took another course. A more serious one. I registered on an international freelance platform. I completed test assignments and gathered reviews.
Six months later, I was earning one hundred and twenty thousand a month. Sometimes one hundred and fifty.
And that was when Igor changed.
He became affectionate. Attentive. He hugged me, kissed me.
“Marin, I’m proud of you. You’re such a clever girl.”
I wanted to believe he was sincere.
Then the requests began.
“Marish, my car broke down.”
This was in July. He came home from work in the evening and sat down beside me on the couch.
“I was driving in the morning, and it stalled. Right in the middle of the road. I called a tow truck, they took it to the service station. The engine needs replacing. I need thirty-five thousand.”
“That much?”
“Yeah. I’d fix it myself, but my entire salary goes to the mortgage. Will you help?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Take my card. Just leave ten thousand on it, I need to pay for my programs.”
“Thank you, darling!”
He kissed me on the cheek.
That evening, he returned the card. Before bed, I decided to check the balance.
I opened the app.
Four rubles and twenty kopecks.
My heart dropped. There had been eighty thousand on the card. I had been saving that money for two months.
“Igor!”
I shook him awake.
“What?” he mumbled sleepily.
“Where is the money? There were eighty thousand there!”
He sat up.
“You see, the repair ended up being more expensive. They had to replace the whole engine, with some parts. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid.”
“I asked you to leave ten thousand!”
“There wasn’t enough. Sorry. You’ll earn more next time.”
I lay back down. I couldn’t fall asleep.
After that, it began.
Two weeks later — the car again. Twenty thousand.
Then a tooth. He needed an implant. Thirty-eight thousand.
His back. MRI, chiropractor. Fifty thousand.
Every week, it was something.
I worked twelve hours a day. Fourteen. I slept five hours. My eyes were red, my back hurt, my head was splitting.
I wanted to save for an early mortgage repayment. To reduce the monthly payment. To make it easier to breathe.
But there was no money. I was earning one hundred and twenty to one hundred and fifty thousand. And yet my account was always empty.
Igor didn’t bring his salary home. He said it all went to the mortgage and utilities.
I believed him. He was my husband. Why would he lie?
In October, I found out about a course. A European school of design. Advanced level. International certificate.
With something like that, I could work with large foreign companies. Earn in dollars. Make three hundred or four hundred thousand a month.
It cost seventy thousand. Expensive. But a colleague offered me a discount for two people — fifty-five thousand. A spot had opened up, and the group was already full.
I thought about it for three days. It was an investment. In my future. In the chance to live normally.
I agreed.
I was so happy. Igor was sitting on the couch, watching TV.
“Igor, I signed up for a course! A European school, international certificate! I’ll be able to work with foreign companies, my income will grow several times over!”
He slowly turned toward me.
“How much does it cost?”
“Fifty-five thousand. But it’s an investment…”
“Have you lost your mind?!”
He jumped up.
“Fifty-five thousand for courses?!” His face turned red, the veins in his neck bulged. “We’re paying a mortgage! I drive a wreck that breaks down every month! We can’t afford clothes, we dress from the market! And you’re spending money on that nonsense?!”
“It’s not nonsense! After the course, I’ll be earning in dollars!”
“Shut up already!”
He went over to my bag. Took out my wallet. Put it in his pocket.
I froze.
“From today on, you give all the money to me,” he said in a cold, hard voice. “I’ll decide what to spend it on. You can’t be trusted. You don’t know how to handle money. From now on, every purchase goes through me. I’ll even go to the store with you so you don’t buy anything unnecessary.”
My heart was pounding.
“By what right?!” My voice broke into a scream. “I’m the one earning it! I work twelve hours a day! My eyes are practically popping out of my head! I give you the lion’s share of my income, I solve your problems! And you haven’t brought your own salary home for three months!”
“I support you!” he said, looking outraged. “I pay for this apartment! You have a roof over your head because of me! Internet, electricity, water — all me! And you throw money away on nonsense!”
“Igor, it’s an investment…”
“Silence!” he roared. “It will be the way I said!”
He grabbed his jacket and left. I heard the lock click.
He had locked me in.
Like an animal in a cage.
I cried all night. My pillow was soaked with tears. Igor came back in the morning. Without a word, he went into the bedroom and lay down to sleep.
When he left for work, I packed my things. My hands were trembling.
Documents, laptop, chargers, clothes. The essentials.
I went to the bank and blocked all my cards.
Then I called my brother.
“Please come. Pick up my things from the apartment.”
By evening, I was at my mother’s place.
Igor kept calling. At first, he apologized, even cried. Then he threatened me. Then he apologized again.
I didn’t answer.
In the end, I filed for divorce.
For a month, he wore down my nerves. He wrote messages, came to my mother’s place, stood under the windows. He shouted that I had ruined his life, that I was selfish.
I held firm. I knew that if I went back, everything would happen again.
The divorce was finalized. I felt relief. A weight had fallen from my shoulders.
For many years, I had lived with an illusion. With the image of the guy I had once fallen in love with. But the real Igor turned out to be completely different.
I realized I should never have had to prove my worth to him. I was already worthy.
Two years have passed.
I live alone in a rented apartment. I work with clients from Europe and the United States. I earn more than two hundred thousand a month. I bought a car. I’m saving for a down payment — for my own apartment. We sold that old apartment; in one year, we hadn’t paid off much at all, so after the sale, there wasn’t much left for the two of us.
Igor tried to come back. He wrote that he had understood everything, that he was ready to change. That he had gone too far and was ready to change professions too.
I don’t believe him. I’m no longer that girl.
I learned to value myself.
And that lesson was worth every tear.
