“Dima, look, my hands are trembling with excitement,” Anya said, placing a sheet of calculations in front of him. “I got my first big order. An entire collection of hand-painted plates for one house. This is my money—my first real money.”
“Uh-huh.” He did not look up from his dinner. “And how much of this ‘real money’ are we talking about?”
“Enough to finally buy a proper kiln. And I’ll still have some left to save.”
“Save,” he repeated with a smirk, poking at his cutlet with a fork. “Anya, are you serious? A kiln? You play around with those little pots of yours like a child in a sandbox.”
“They’re not little pots,” she said gently. “They’re things I make with my own hands. People pay for them, do you understand? They pay for my work.”
“They pay because they’re bored and have nowhere else to spend their money.” Dima pushed his plate aside. “Listen, let’s not start talking about how you ‘earn money.’ You bring home a few pennies once every six months.”
“This time it isn’t pennies. And there will be more orders. Two more people have already contacted me.”
“Two,” he repeated with that expression that always made her want to fall silent. “Meanwhile, I bring home money every month. Regularly. And somehow, I don’t see you appreciating it.”
“I do appreciate it, Dima. I just want you to appreciate me too.”
“Appreciate yourself with your little plates,” he said, standing up to pour himself some water. “Do you know what your problem is? You’ve decided you’re an adult. Adults are the ones who pay for the apartment, electricity, and food. That’s me.”
“I want to contribute too. Let me take care of the utility bills now that I have—”
“Don’t make me laugh,” he interrupted. “Your salary? Forget it. As long as I’m the one earning the money, I’m the one who makes the decisions.”
Anya stared at him, unable to find the words. Not because she was hurt, but because she was astonished. It was as though the man she had known for two years had suddenly turned and shown her the face of a stranger.
“So as long as you’re earning money, I don’t get a voice,” she clarified quietly.
“Now you finally understand.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I’m not throwing you out. Make your plates, play around. Just stay out of serious matters. Money is my business.”
“And what happens if I start earning more than you?”
“You?” He burst out laughing. “Anya, stop fantasizing. That will never happen. Ever.”
She nodded, calmly gathered up her calculations, and went into the other room.
The following day, Anya sat across from her friend Kira in a small café. Two cups were growing cold on the table, but neither woman touched them.
“He really said that? ‘As long as I’m earning the money, I make the decisions’?” Kira planted her elbows on the table. “Anya, that’s medieval.”
“He said it. And do you know what’s frightening? He sincerely believed he was doing me a favor.”
“What did you do?”
“I stayed silent. I’ve been silent for two years, Kira. I thought it was his way of caring. I thought he was simply tired.”
“A person who cares about you doesn’t wipe his feet on you,” Kira said sharply. “He feels proud of you. This man humiliates you and thinks it’s normal.”
“I want to try one more time. I want to have a proper conversation with him.”
“Anya, you’re a saint. How many more times are you going to try?”
“Just once. The last time. I’ll tell him everything directly, and what happens next will depend on what he decides.”
“Then let’s agree on something.” Kira took her hand. “If he starts talking about ‘pennies’ and ‘playing around’ again, you don’t swallow it. All right?”
“I won’t swallow it,” Anya promised. “I’m tired of swallowing everything.”
“That’s more like it. You treat him like a crystal vase—you’re afraid even to breathe around him.”
“I simply believed that deep down, he was kind.”
“Kindness isn’t proven with words,” Kira said, finally taking a sip from her cup. “It’s proven by whether someone is happy about your success. Is he happy?”
“No,” Anya admitted honestly. “My success made him feel worse. I’ve only just realized that.”
“Then you already know the answer.”
“I do.” Anya straightened. “I simply want to give him a chance either to ruin everything himself or to save it.”
“You’re stronger than I thought,” Kira said with a smile. “The old you would be crying by now.”
“The old me would be apologizing for bringing up the subject at all.”
“What changed?”
“I stopped believing that my worth was measured by his permission.”
A week later, Dima came to the studio Anya rented—a tiny room with shelves crowded with plain white and hand-painted dishes. He looked around as though he had entered a ridiculous place.
“You’re spending money on this? On this closet?” He ran a finger along one of the shelves. “Anya, there isn’t even anywhere to sit.”
“This is where I work, Dima. And for your information, this ‘closet’ pays for itself.”
“Pays for itself,” he scoffed. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. Shut this little operation down.”
“What?” She put down her brush.
“You heard me.” He sat on the only chair. “I found an opportunity for us. We borrow a large amount of money and invest it in Oleg’s business. A year from now, we’ll be living completely differently. And I’m not going to pay your rent anymore.”
“I never asked you to pay it. I pay it myself.”
“With what? Your little plates?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m being serious. We need the money for Oleg’s business.”
“What kind of business is it?”
“Why do you need to know?” He frowned. “I already told you—I make the decisions. Your job is to support me.”
“Dima,” she said slowly and very calmly, “I want to know what we’re getting involved in. That’s perfectly normal.”
“What’s normal is for a wife not to ask unnecessary questions,” he said, raising his voice. “Oleg knows what he’s doing. He’s a smart man. Meanwhile, you’re interfering with your ceramic toys.”
“They aren’t toys. And if you’re borrowing money that belongs to both of us, then it isn’t only your decision.”
“Both of us?” His eyes narrowed angrily. “The money I earn belongs to both of us. Your money is just part of your hobby.”
“So when it suits you, my money is mine, but when it suits you, it belongs to both of us.” Anya met his gaze and did not look away. “That’s some convenient arithmetic.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” he snapped. “I’m working hard and thinking about our future, while you argue with me over a few pots.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m refusing to hand over money without knowing where it’s going.”
“Nobody is asking you.” He stood up. “I’ve almost finalized everything with Oleg. Tomorrow, you’ll come over, meet him, and behave yourself.”
“And what happens if I say no?” Anya asked quietly.
“Then I’ll say yes for you.” He smirked. “You’re nobody here, Anya. Remember that. Without me, you wouldn’t have an apartment, money, or this little closet of yours.”
“Interesting.” She nodded. “Very interesting. I’m learning a great deal from the way you’re speaking.”
“Tomorrow at seven, at Oleg’s place. Don’t be late.”
He left, slamming the flimsy door behind him. Anya remained standing among her white plates and, for the first time during their long conversation, allowed herself to feel truly angry.
Oleg’s house was large and empty, like an exhibition hall. Dima led Anya inside by the arm as though he were displaying a successful purchase. Oleg greeted them with a broad smile and a glass in his hand.
“And here’s our artist!” Oleg looked her up and down. “Dima told me you’re the creative one in the family.”
“So he’s been talking about me.” Anya pulled her arm free. “What else did he tell you?”
“That you agreed to invest.” Oleg spread his hands. “It’s a sure thing, believe me. In a year, you’ll get twice as much back.”
“What kind of business is it?” she asked directly.
“We’ll discuss the details later,” Dima interrupted. “Anya, stop embarrassing me. Oleg is a serious man.”
“I’m not embarrassing anyone. I’m asking a question. If the business is such a sure thing, the question should be easy to answer.”
“Well, you see…” Oleg hesitated and exchanged a glance with Dima. “It’s a specialized field. We invest now, and then… well, we’ll see how it goes.”
“So there are no guarantees,” Anya concluded. “Yet the money you want to hand over is mine.”
“Ours,” Dima corrected through clenched teeth. “Enough with this ‘mine’ nonsense.”
“Dima,” Oleg said with a chuckle, “your wife has quite a personality. You told me she was quiet.”
“She is quiet.” Dima gave her a heavy look. “She’s simply showing off today.”
“I’m not showing off,” Anya said evenly. “I’m listening to two grown men discuss my money as though I’m not even here.”
“Because you have no place in conversations like this!” Dima turned sharply toward her. “Sit down, drink your tea, and smile. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Tell me something, Oleg.” Anya turned toward their host. “Has Dima already given you any money? Some kind of advance?”
Oleg suddenly became nervous and looked at Dima.
“Well… he paid something, yes. To reserve our place.”
“How much?” Anya asked her husband.
“None of your business,” Dima snapped.
“Dima.” Anya stood up. “Did you take money from our card without telling me?”
“It’s my money!” he almost shouted. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
“That card also contained the money from my first order. The same ‘pennies’ you despised so much.”
Dima fell silent for a second. That single second was enough for Anya to understand everything.
“You took my money,” she said slowly. “The payment for the collection. You gave it to a stranger for a ‘business’ you can’t even explain.”
“I’ll pay it back,” he muttered. “I’ll pay it back with a profit. You’ll be thanking me.”
“And what happens if there is no profit?”
“There will be!” he roared. “Stop inviting disaster!”
“Listen, artist,” Oleg said, attempting to calm the situation, “let’s not make a scene. Dima decided for you because he’s the man of the family. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“What’s supposed to happen,” Anya said calmly, looking at him, “is that adults respect one another. The two of you have decided I’m a piece of furniture.”
“Anya.” Dima stepped close to her and lowered his voice. “One more word and you’ll be going home alone. Then you’ll sit quietly until I give you permission to speak.”
“Permission,” she repeated. “What a wonderful word you’ve learned today.”
She took out her phone, opened the banking app, and within a minute transferred the remainder of her money to a separate account that Dima could not access. It was simple and quick, and her hands did not tremble.
“What are you doing?” Dima asked suspiciously.
“Saving what still belongs to me,” Anya replied, putting away her phone. “You’ve apparently already given the rest to Oleg.”
“You had no right—” he began.
“I had every right,” she interrupted. “It was my money. You said so yourself, remember? Back when it was convenient for you.”
“You little—” Dima choked with anger. “I’ll throw you out onto the street.”
“You won’t.” She put on her coat. “I’ll leave on my own. It’ll be faster.”
“Where are you going to go?” He laughed nervously. “You have nothing!”
“I have my hands, my mind, and my orders,” she said, heading for the door. “That will be enough. But what exactly do you have?”
Oleg looked from one of them to the other in confusion.
“Dima, she’s bluffing, right? She’ll come back?”
“She’ll come back,” Dima said through clenched teeth, although there was no longer any confidence in his voice. “Where else would she go?”
Anya stopped in the doorway and turned around.
“Oleg, one last piece of advice. Make sure you get written confirmation of the money he gave you. You know how these things happen—today it’s ‘a sure thing,’ and tomorrow it’s ‘I never promised anything.’”
Then she walked out.
A month passed.
Anya was sitting in her new studio. It was bright and twice the size of the previous one. Painted cups were drying on the shelves, and in the corner hummed the kiln she had dreamed about. Kira arrived carrying coffee in paper cups.
“Well?” Kira looked around the room. “I can’t believe you managed all this on your own.”
“I managed.” Anya smiled. “I already have six orders and two regular customers. The kiln paid for itself in three weeks.”
“Has he tried to contact you?”
“He called. I didn’t answer.”
“Did he send you any messages?” Kira asked, sitting down on a stool.
“He did.” Anya poured water into a jar containing her brushes. “First it was, ‘Come back and we’ll talk.’ Then, ‘You’ll regret this.’ Then, ‘You’ll never survive without me.’ Not an ounce of imagination. Boring.”
“What did you do?”
“I deleted them. You know, it was a strange feeling. I looked at his messages and didn’t recognize either the name or the words. It was as though they had been written by someone I once knew and then forgot.”
“What about the money he gave Oleg?” Kira asked.
“It’s gone.” Anya shrugged. “The ‘sure thing’ turned out to be nothing. Oleg disappeared, and Dima was left with nothing. He chose for himself whom he wanted to trust.”
“Don’t you feel sorry?”
“I feel a little sorry about the money. But I don’t feel sorry for the woman I used to be. Not at all.”
At that moment, Anya’s phone chimed. She glanced at the screen. It was an unfamiliar number, but the message was painfully familiar.
“Anya, it’s Dima. I have a new number. Oleg cheated me. The money is gone. Let’s start over. You still remember me, don’t you?”
Kira looked over her shoulder and whistled.
“Wow. Are you going to answer?”
Anya read the message once. She brought her finger to the screen without the slightest tremble.
“No,” she said aloud. “I don’t remember him.”
“What do you mean?” Kira asked with a smile.
“Exactly what I said.” Anya blocked the number. “His name, his address, his number. Everything. Erased.”
“What if he comes here?” Kira asked cautiously.
“He doesn’t know where ‘here’ is.” Anya gestured around the studio. “This place belongs only to me. I don’t owe it to anyone. I didn’t ask for anyone’s permission or anyone’s money.”
“So it turns out he was right after all,” Kira said with a smirk. “‘As long as I’m the one earning the money, I make the decisions.’”
“He was right.” Anya nodded. “But there was one thing he failed to consider.”
“What was that?”
“That I would become the one earning the money.” Anya picked up her brush and dipped it into the paint. “And now the decisions are mine.”
“Powerful.” Kira raised her paper cup. “To you.”
“To us,” Anya corrected her. “To everyone who has stopped swallowing their words.”
They tapped their paper cups together, and the soft little clink was far more pleasant than all the loud promises Anya had heard over the past eight years.
That evening, after Kira left, Anya remained alone among her cups and plates. She painted a thin golden line around the edge of a plate—straight, confident, without a single trembling stroke.
Her phone lay faceup and silent. The blocked number no longer existed. Neither did the person behind it.
Anya finished the line, set the plate aside to dry, and looked around her small universe. There was no contempt here, no permission, and none of someone else’s “convenient arithmetic.” There was only Anya and everything she had created with her own hands.
When she turned off the light and left, she did not remember a single word she had once heard in that kitchen.
She simply closed the door.
And never looked back.
