My boots finally started falling apart in November. First, the sole came loose on the right boot. I bought some superglue and stuck it back on.
The repair lasted exactly until the first deep puddle.
The next morning, I arrived at work with one foot soaking wet. About a week later, the zipper on the left boot broke.
I tried to fix that with glue too.
But what good did it do?
That evening, I placed both boots on a stool in front of Maxim. As usual, my husband was sitting at the table, scrolling through something on his phone.
“Max, I need new winter shoes,” I said. “There’s no point repairing these boots anymore. They’ve reached the end of their life.”
He finally looked up from the screen, glanced first at the boots and then at me, and frowned in annoyance.
“Olya, where are we supposed to get the money? You can see it yourself: utility bills are going up, and gas is getting more expensive. Glue them again and try to make them last until spring somehow.”
I didn’t answer.
I took out the superglue again and began repairing the boots. I couldn’t exactly walk to work barefoot…
A few days later, Maxim brought home a new fishing rod in a shiny case, complete with a reel.
He immediately took his purchase to the storage room and covered it with an old jacket. But the case was still sticking out from behind the shelf, and I noticed it when I went to get a jar of pickles.
I stood there staring at the new item, unable to believe my eyes.
So that was how things worked. I was expected to keep wearing old boots that I had already glued together several times, while Maxim could calmly buy himself a new fishing rod—beautiful, shiny, and clearly not cheap.
Where was the fairness in that?
“Max,” I called. “When you say we don’t have any money, do you mean we don’t have any money specifically for me? Because somehow there was enough for a fishing rod.”
Maxim came over when he heard my voice. His face turned red, and he muttered that he had been planning this purchase for a long time.
Besides, it belonged to a completely different category of expenses.
A genuinely important and necessary one.
According to him, I simply misunderstood everything.
“Max, I haven’t misunderstood anything,” I replied. “I remember perfectly well what you told me.”
My husband had no desire to continue the conversation and quickly walked away.
I carried the jar of pickles into the kitchen, took out my notebook, and sat down at the table. I opened it to a blank page and carefully wrote a single word: “Pickles.”
That day at work, our dishwasher, Vika, told us that after every payday, she always set aside a certain amount of money separately—exclusively for herself.
“My husband doesn’t need to know about that money at all,” she said with a laugh, wiping her hands on her apron.
At the time, I thought it was ridiculous.
We were a family, after all.
Our budget was shared.
I thought about it and almost immediately dismissed her words.
Almost.
Vera came to visit us before New Year’s.
Our daughter didn’t come often, so I wanted to prepare a nice family dinner. I managed to set aside enough from my salary to buy chicken and vegetables, bought sour cream for the gravy, and baked a cabbage-and-egg pie that Vera had loved since childhood.
After all, I was a cook. I fed people at the cafeteria every day, and I also knew how to set a beautiful table at home—provided I had something to cook with.
The pie came out golden brown, with a crisp crust. The familiar aroma of pastry and cabbage filled the kitchen—the same smell that used to make little Vera run barefoot out of her room.
We sat down to dinner.
Our daughter praised the pie, asked about my job, told us stories about her boss, and laughed.
It was a lovely evening.
Just a warm, ordinary family dinner.
Maxim ate in silence for a while. Then he pushed his plate away and suddenly said:
“You can’t do much with your salary, Olya. It’s a good thing I earn a decent income, or we’d be living on nothing but porridge.”
Vera stopped chewing and looked at her father.
I pressed my lips together but said nothing.
Maxim apparently liked the topic he had chosen and decided to continue.
“You sit there every evening with your little notebook, counting pennies. What’s the point? You might save a little on dishwashing liquid, but we still won’t have enough for a decent vacation. And what did you make this pie from anyway? Leftovers?”
Vera slowly placed her fork on the edge of her plate.
Suddenly, the back of my neck felt hot. I adjusted a loose strand of my dark hair, where the first silver threads had already begun to appear.
My hands started trembling slightly, so I hid them under the table.
Then I silently stood up, went into the other room, and soon returned with my notebook.
I opened it to the most recent entries and placed it in front of Maxim.
“I’ve been buying the groceries for the past several months. I bought the dishwashing liquid too. When your back hurt, I paid for your medication. And the utility bills you kept ‘forgetting’ to pay? I covered those as well. So take a good look and think about which one of us is actually living on the other’s salary.”
Maxim stared at the entries.
He remained silent for several seconds, then looked away, abruptly slammed the notebook shut, stood up from the table, and went into the other room.
Naturally, it never even occurred to him to clear away his own dishes.
Then again, Maxim had never done that.
Vera stayed with me in the kitchen. She helped me wash the plates and then quietly asked:
“Mom, why do you put up with all of this? Why don’t you say anything?”
I told her I didn’t know what could be done about it.
“Sweetheart, almost everyone lives more or less like this. Vika’s husband doesn’t bring any of his salary home at all. And they still manage somehow.”
But after Vera left, I began changing the bed linen in the guest room, and her question echoed in my mind again:
“Why do you put up with it?”
I tried to find an answer.
But I couldn’t.
The thought was uncomfortable and sharp, like a splinter. It seemed to have lodged somewhere between my ribs, constantly reminding me of its presence.
I tried to push it away.
But it wouldn’t leave…
I could no longer remember the last time I had bought myself something simply because I wanted it rather than because I needed it. It had probably been before I started keeping the notebook where I recorded all our expenses.
Every evening, after returning from my shift at the cafeteria, I would sit at the kitchen table and carefully write down everything I had spent money on that day: bread, milk, grains sold by weight, dishwashing liquid. Meanwhile, Maxim would usually be lying on the sofa, absorbed in his phone.
“Counting your expenses again? Why do you even bother?” he would ask.
I usually didn’t answer. I silently added up the figures, wrote down the total, closed the notebook, and went to wash the dishes.
Maxim refused on principle to deal with any of that. He was a man, after all.
Although, of course, he explained it differently:
“You’re better at it than I am, Olya.”
Our daughter, Vera, had moved to the regional capital long ago and now mostly called us on weekends. My husband and I lived in our own apartment, we both worked, and we took care of the household. From the outside, we looked like an ordinary family.
But we were constantly short of money. At least, that was what Maxim had been telling me for years, and I believed him.
Or rather, I believed him until a certain moment…
My boots finally began to fall apart in November. First, the sole came away from the right boot. I bought some superglue and stuck it back on.
The repair lasted until the first deep puddle. The next morning, I arrived at work with one foot soaking wet. About a week later, the zipper on the left boot broke.
I tried to repair that with glue as well.
But what good did it do?
That evening, I placed both boots on a stool in front of Maxim. As usual, my husband was sitting at the table, scrolling through something on his phone.
“Max, I need new winter shoes,” I said. “There’s no point repairing these boots anymore. They’re finished.”
He finally looked away from the screen, glanced first at the boots and then at me, and frowned irritably.
“Olya, where are we supposed to get the money? You can see for yourself that utility bills are going up and petrol is getting more expensive. Glue them again and try to make them last until spring somehow.”
I didn’t answer.
I took out the superglue again and began repairing the boots. I couldn’t exactly go to work barefoot.
A few days later, Maxim brought home a brand-new fishing rod in a shiny case, complete with a reel.
He immediately carried his purchase into the storage room and covered it with an old jacket. But the case was still sticking out from behind a shelf, and I noticed it when I went to get a jar of pickles.
I stood there staring at the new item, unable to believe my eyes.
So that was how things worked. I was supposed to keep wearing old boots that I had already glued back together several times, while Maxim could calmly buy himself a new fishing rod—beautiful, shiny, and obviously far from cheap.
Where was the fairness in that?
“Max,” I called. “When you say we don’t have any money, do you mean there’s no money specifically for me? Because somehow you managed to find enough for a fishing rod.”
Maxim came over when he heard me. He turned red and muttered that he had been planning the purchase for a long time.
Besides, it belonged to a completely different category of expenses.
It was genuinely important and necessary. According to him, I had simply misunderstood everything.
“Max, I haven’t misunderstood anything,” I replied. “I remember perfectly well what you told me.”
My husband didn’t want to continue the conversation and quickly walked away.
I took the jar of pickles into the kitchen, got out my notebook, and sat down at the table. I opened it to a blank page and carefully wrote down one word:
“Pickles.”
That day at work, our dishwasher, Vika, told us that after every payday, she always set aside a certain amount of money separately, exclusively for herself.
“My husband doesn’t need to know anything about that money,” she said with a laugh, wiping her hands on her apron.
At the time, I thought it was foolish.
We were a family, after all.
Our budget was shared.
I thought about it and almost immediately dismissed her words.
Almost.
Vera came to visit us before New Year’s. Our daughter didn’t come home often, so I wanted to prepare a nice family dinner. I managed to set aside enough from my salary to buy chicken and vegetables, sour cream for the sauce, and the ingredients for a cabbage-and-egg pie that Vera had loved since childhood.
I was a cook, after all. I fed people in the cafeteria every day, and I knew how to set a beautiful table at home too—provided I had something to cook with.
The pie came out golden brown, with a crisp crust. The familiar aroma of pastry and cabbage spread throughout the kitchen—the very scent that used to make little Vera run barefoot from her room.
We sat down for dinner.
Our daughter praised the pie, asked about my work, told us about her boss, and laughed.
It was a lovely evening.
An ordinary, warm family dinner.
Maxim ate silently for a while. Then he pushed his plate away and suddenly said:
“You can’t exactly live well on your salary, Olya. It’s a good thing I earn a decent income, or we’d be living on nothing but porridge.”
Vera stopped chewing and looked at her father.
I pressed my lips together but said nothing.
Maxim apparently liked the subject he had chosen and decided to continue.
“You sit there with your notebook every evening, counting every penny. What’s the point? You might save a little on dishwashing liquid, but you still won’t have enough for a proper holiday. And what did you even make this pie from? Leftovers?”
Vera slowly placed her fork on the edge of her plate.
The back of my neck suddenly felt hot. I adjusted a loose strand of my dark hair, where the first grey threads had already begun to appear.
My hands were trembling slightly, so I hid them under the table.
Then I silently stood up, went into the other room, and returned shortly afterward with my notebook.
I opened it to the latest entries and placed it in front of Maxim.
“I’ve been buying the groceries for the last several months. I buy the dishwashing liquid too. When your back was hurting, I paid for your medication. The utility bills you kept ‘forgetting’ to pay? That was me again. So look carefully and think about which of us is living on the other person’s salary.”
Maxim stared at the entries.
He remained silent for several seconds, then looked away, abruptly slammed the notebook shut, stood up from the table, and went into the other room.
Naturally, it didn’t even occur to him to clear away his dishes.
Then again, Maxim had never done that.
Vera stayed with me in the kitchen. She helped wash the plates and then quietly asked:
“Mom, why do you put up with all of this? Why don’t you say anything?”
I told her I didn’t know what could be done.
“Sweetheart, almost everyone lives more or less like this. Vika’s husband doesn’t bring any of his salary home at all. But they still manage somehow.”
After Vera left, however, I began changing the bed linen in the guest room, and her question echoed in my mind again:
“Why do you put up with it?”
I tried to find an answer.
I couldn’t.
The thought was uncomfortable and sharp, like a splinter. It seemed to be lodged somewhere between my ribs, constantly reminding me of its presence.
I tried to drive it away.
But it refused to leave.
In February, I was about to put one of Maxim’s shirts in the washing machine. While checking the pockets, I felt a sheet of paper folded into quarters inside the breast pocket.
I unfolded it.
It was a bank statement: tiny letters, a table, and a long list of transactions. The card number was completely unfamiliar to me. Below it was the current account balance.
When I saw the amount, my legs turned weak. I had to sit down on the edge of the bathtub, still holding the damp shirt in my other hand.
Water dripped from the fabric directly onto my felt slippers. I ran my finger over the lines of the statement again and again, unable to breathe properly.
That money would have been enough to buy good winter boots.
And a decent coat.
There still would have been plenty left afterward.
It would have paid for the medication I was constantly trying to economize on, choosing the cheapest options because we supposedly “had no money.”
I could have afforded a good winter hand cream for my hands, which cracked every year from the cold and constant work.
I could have bought many of the things I had denied myself for years while Maxim calmly lay on the sofa in his vest, looking at his phone and occasionally reminding me:
“We have to save money, Olya. You understand that.”
On one of the transfer records, I noticed the payment description:
“Emergency stash.”
Maxim had written those words himself.
I remained sitting on the edge of the bathtub for a long time. Eventually, the shirt in my hands stopped dripping.
At last, I carefully folded the bank statement exactly as it had been before, returned it to the breast pocket, and closed the washing machine lid.
My fingers were visibly trembling. I clasped my hands together, trying to stop the shaking.
Vera’s question echoed in my mind again:
“Why do you put up with it?”
I also remembered Vika’s words:
“My husband doesn’t need to know.”
I sat there thinking about how, for all those years, I had denied myself almost everything for the sake of our family. I had saved every penny, recorded every expense, and glued my falling-apart shoes back together.
And all that time, my own husband had been setting money aside for some so-called “emergency.”
Apparently, my winter boots with holes in them didn’t qualify as an emergency.
That evening, I didn’t say anything to Maxim.
I didn’t mention it the next day either.
A week later, I was still silent.
Because when I thought about it, there was nothing left to discuss. I knew perfectly well how the conversation would end. Maxim would interpret everything I said as yet another criticism, wave me away, turn his back, and bury his face in his phone again.
So instead of trying to sort things out with him, I did something else.
I opened a separate bank account in my own name at another bank.
And I began saving money.
Every payday, I transferred into it exactly the same amount I had previously spent on our so-called shared needs.
From then on, I bought groceries only for myself: grains, cottage cheese, butter, and vegetables.
I bought nothing for Maxim.
If I made soup, I used a small saucepan. If I fried cutlets, I cooked only one—for myself.
I also divided the utility bills in half. I paid my share and left the bill on the kitchen table.
Maxim’s half remained unpaid.
My husband noticed the changes one day when he opened the refrigerator in search of food.
On the shelves, he found a small saucepan of soup, a piece of cheese, and my container of cottage cheese.
“What about me?” Maxim asked, still holding the refrigerator door open.
I didn’t even look up from my notebook.
“You have your own card, don’t you? For emergencies.”
Maxim’s face fell.
He closed the refrigerator, stood there for a moment, and then opened it again for some reason, as though food might have magically appeared inside during those few seconds.
Then he turned toward me.
“Were you going through my things?”
“I was about to wash your shirt. The statement was in the pocket.”
Maxim turned around and silently walked into the other room.
He closed the door quietly, almost carefully, without his usual slam.
For some reason, that felt worse than if he had slammed it with all his strength.
Our family budget changed instantly.
Until then, nearly all our everyday expenses had fallen on me: groceries, household cleaning products, small repairs, and medication. Everything passed through my hands and inevitably found its way into my notebook.
Now I provided only for myself.
Maxim was accustomed to opening the refrigerator and seeing full shelves, using household products, and never thinking about whether the bills had been paid. Suddenly, he discovered the true cost of everyday life.
He began buying frozen dumplings and sausages for himself. He fried or reheated them in a pan, leaving greasy splatters all over the stove.
When the dishwashing liquid ran out, Maxim brought home a bar of laundry soap and began washing his plates with it.
I watched all of this in silence.
Sometimes I felt sorry for him. After all, we had lived together for so many years and spent countless evenings sitting at the same table.
But whenever I remembered the bank statement, the neat columns of figures, and the words “emergency stash,” my sympathy disappeared.
After some time, Maxim placed several documents on the kitchen table in front of me.
“I’m filing for divorce,” he announced, sitting opposite me and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s impossible to live with you, Olya.”
First, I looked at the documents.
Then I raised my eyes to my husband.
“Go ahead.”
By spring, we were divorced.
We exchanged the apartment for two smaller properties. I received a small one-bedroom apartment in the neighboring building, while Maxim got a room near the railway station.
My former husband told our mutual acquaintances that I had “lost my mind in my old age” and supposedly destroyed our family over something trivial. Naturally, he never told anyone about his secret bank card.
Maxim spent his savings on moving and furnishing his new home.
Vera stayed in touch with both of us, although she called me more often.
One day, my daughter asked:
“Mom, do you regret it?”
I thought for a moment and answered honestly:
“No.”
And I truly didn’t.
For the first time in many years, I walked into a shoe shop and chose a good pair of winter boots for myself.
Without spending ages calculating the cost.
I simply tried on the pair I liked, paid for them, and left the shop with the box tucked under my arm.
At home, I placed the new boots in the hallway and sat alone in the kitchen.
And no one told me anymore that there was no money.
Incidentally, I never stopped keeping my expense notebook.
Only now, the entries in it were entirely different.
