“Nothing serious,” my husband said when he transferred our money to his mother as a gift in front of everyone. He got scared the very next day.
When your own husband ceremoniously transfers your shared savings to his mother’s account right at the праздничный table, the main thing is not to blink.
“Nothing serious, Lenusik, we’ll earn more,” Borya cheerfully declared, shoveling a generous portion of salad into his mouth.
He was fatally mistaken. What truly scared him came exactly twenty-four hours later, when the banking app on his phone chimed with a notification that the same amount had been withdrawn — this time on my initiative.
My name is Lena. I’m thirty-four, and I curate exhibition projects. My job is to take scattered, sometimes absurd objects and arrange them into a coherent, finished display.
I know how to organize chaos without raising my voice. My husband Boris, thirty-eight years old, works as a technician servicing industrial furnaces. He sincerely sees himself as an industrial alpha male with the right to make harsh, manly decisions.
Borya’s problem was that his harsh decisions always seemed to be paid for out of my pocket.
And Borya also has a mother. Galina Yuryevna, sixty-one, retired, a former manager of a notions shop. A woman who, during the era of shortages, could get imported lurex thread, and who has forever kept the confidence of someone who decides people’s fates.
She adores symbolic gifts. The truth is, behind her symbolism usually hide expenses that would make accountants go gray.
It all started at Aunt Zina’s anniversary party. The family had gathered around a large table, crystal glasses clinked, and the air smelled of garlic and mayonnaise. As always, Galina Yuryevna was the star of the show.
“Oh, my back, my back,” my mother-in-law moaned pitifully, adjusting the gold chain around her neck.
“Yesterday I saw a Japanese massage chair on a shopping channel. It costs 350,000 rubles! A miracle of technology. But what would a simple pensioner like me do with such luxury? I suppose I’ll spend the rest of my life all hunched over…”
Boris straightened his shoulders. He desperately wanted to look like an oligarch in front of the large family audience.
He pulled out his smartphone and opened our joint savings account. The very account where we had been putting money away for six months to replace the car and pay for my vacation. The very account that was made up, seventy percent, of my fees from organizing a biennale.
“Mom, pick any chair you want!” Boris declared in a lordly tone and pressed the transfer button.
The family gasped in admiration. Calmly, I set my fork on the edge of my plate. Boris caught my eye and waved it off carelessly. “Nothing serious, Lenusik.”
Galina Yuryevna grandly proclaimed, “A real man never pinches pennies when it comes to his mother’s comfort. A good son would give his last penny!”
I replied calmly, “That’s absolutely true, Galina Yuryevna. It looks especially noble when that ‘last penny’ consists of my exhibition-season bonus.”
On the drive home in my car, Boris lectured me about family values. He went on about how I was too attached to material things, that money was just dust, and that family should share joy.
I didn’t argue. I watched the streetlights flashing by and began arranging a new exhibition of my own life. If money is just dust, then it’s time for a deep cleaning.
The next morning Boris went off to his furnaces, and I took a taxi downtown.
For a long time, I had dreamed of owning a Swiss watch from a limited collection. Severe, perfect, with sapphire glass. Borya always said it was a stupid whim — after all, you could check the time on the microwave display.
But today the rules of the game had changed. The boutique welcomed me with the scent of sandalwood and soft jazz. I tried on the watch. It cost exactly 350,000 rubles.
“I’ll take it,” I told the consultant.
After paying with the card linked to our rapidly emptying joint account, I stepped back onto the street. I hadn’t just bought myself a mechanism. I had purchased personal freedom and restored the balance of the universe.
That evening, the door of my apartment nearly came off its hinges. Boris stormed into the hallway, waving his phone around as if he were trying to swat away a swarm of invisible bees.
Furiously shoving the screen in front of my face, Boris shouted, “A family is a single mechanism! In a marriage, all major expenses have to be discussed. You broke our rules!”
“Three hundred thousand thrown away for nothing!”
I looked at his crimson face with interest. “How curious. And your mother’s Japanese chair — I suppose we approved that telepathically?”
“Sorry, was your connection to the cosmos acting up yesterday?”
Borya spun around sharply, caught his foot on the edge of the rug, and flailed awkwardly, trying not to crash onto the coffee table. Like a defective wind-up soldier whose main spring had suddenly snapped.
“That’s different!” my husband roared, regaining his balance. “That was for my mother! And you blew our money on your selfishness!”
An hour later, Galina Yuryevna materialized on the doorstep, having come to defend her investment. From the very threshold she began hurling accusations, demanding that I return the watch to the store immediately and put the money back into the account.
My mother-in-law advanced on me menacingly in the hallway. “You’re an empty woman! My son breaks his back at those furnaces, and you waste his sweat and blood on trinkets!”
I adjusted the strap of my new watch and answered gently, “His sweat and blood, Galina Yuryevna, barely cover the utility bills for my apartment.”
“And my ‘trinket’ was bought with the very half of the savings that he so generously didn’t manage to transfer to you yet for your massage rollers.”
Galina Yuryevna tried to fold her arms proudly across her chest…
To be continued just below in the first comment.
“When your own husband ceremoniously transfers your joint savings to his mother’s account right at the holiday table, the main thing is not to blink.
‘It’s nothing serious, Lenusik, we’ll earn more,’ Borya cheerfully declared, shoveling a generous portion of salad into his mouth.
He was fatally mistaken. What truly scared him came exactly a day later, when the banking app on his phone chimed with a notification that an identical amount had been withdrawn—this time on my initiative.
My name is Lena, I’m thirty-four years old, and I curate exhibition projects. My job is to take scattered, sometimes absurd objects and arrange them into a logical, complete display.
I know how to organize chaos without raising my voice. My husband Boris, thirty-eight years old, works as a technician servicing industrial furnaces. He sincerely considers himself an industrial alpha male with the right to make stern, manly decisions.
The problem with Borya was that his stern decisions always seemed to be paid for out of my pocket.
And Borya also has a mother. Galina Yuryevna, sixty-one, a retiree and former manager of a notions shop. A woman who, during the era of shortages, could somehow get imported lurex will forever retain the confidence of someone who decides other people’s fates.
She adores symbolic gifts. True, behind her symbolism usually lurk expenses that would make accountants go gray.
It all began at Aunt Zina’s anniversary celebration. The relatives had gathered around a large table, crystal glasses clinked, and the air smelled of garlic and mayonnaise. As always, Galina Yuryevna was the star of the show.
‘Oh, my back, my back,’ my mother-in-law moaned pitifully, adjusting the gold chain around her neck.
‘Yesterday I saw a Japanese massage chair on a TV shopping channel. It costs three hundred and fifty thousand! A miracle of technology. But what use is such luxury to a simple pensioner like me? I suppose I’ll spend the rest of my days all hunched over…’
Boris straightened his shoulders. He very much wanted to look like an oligarch in the eyes of the many relatives.
He pulled out his smartphone and opened our shared savings account. The very account where we had been putting money away for six months for a car upgrade and my vacation. The very account that was made up, by seventy percent, of my fees for organizing a biennale.
‘Mom, pick any chair you want!’ Boris declared in a lordly tone and pressed the transfer button.
The relatives gasped in admiration. I calmly laid my fork on the edge of my plate. Boris caught my взгляд and casually waved me off: ‘It’s nothing serious, Lenusik.’
Galina Yuryevna proclaimed pompously, ‘A real man never pinches pennies when it comes to his mother’s comfort. A good son will give his last dime!’
I calmly remarked, ‘Absolutely true, Galina Yuryevna. Especially noble when that “last dime” consists of my exhibition-season bonus.’
On the way home in my car, Boris lectured me about family values. He went on about how I was too attached to material things, that money was just dust, and that family should share joy.
I didn’t argue. I watched the streetlights flashing by and arranged a new exhibition of my life in my head. If money is dust, then it was time for a thorough cleaning.
The next morning Boris drove off to his furnaces, and I took a taxi to the city center.
I had long dreamed of a Swiss watch from a limited collection. строгий, perfect, with sapphire glass. Borya always said it was a stupid whim, since you could just check the time on the microwave display.
But today the rules of the game had changed. The boutique greeted me with the scent of sandalwood and muted jazz. I tried on the watch. It cost exactly three hundred and fifty thousand rubles.
‘I’ll take it,’ I told the consultant.
After paying with the card linked to our rapidly emptying joint account, I walked out onto the street. I had bought myself more than just a mechanism. I had acquired personal freedom and restored the balance of the universe.
That evening, the door to my apartment nearly flew off its hinges. Boris stormed into the entryway, waving his phone around as though he were trying to drive off a swarm of invisible bees. He furiously shoved the screen in front of my face.
‘A family is a single mechanism! In a marriage, all major expenses have to be agreed on—you broke our rules!
Three hundred thousand gone for nothing!’ I looked at his crimson face with interest. ‘How curious. And the Japanese chair for your mother—we must have approved that telepathically, I suppose?’
‘Sorry, was your connection to outer space acting up yesterday?’
Borya spun around sharply, caught his foot on the edge of the rug, and flailed absurdly, trying not to crash into the coffee table. Like a defective wind-up soldier whose main spring had suddenly snapped.
‘That’s different!’ my husband roared after regaining his balance. ‘That was for my mother! And you blew our money on your selfishness!’
An hour later, Galina Yuryevna materialized on the doorstep—she had come to defend the investment. Right from the threshold she began hurling accusations, demanding that I immediately return the watch to the store and put the money back into the account.
My mother-in-law advanced on me menacingly in the hallway. ‘You’re an empty woman! My son slaves away at those furnaces, and you waste his sweat and blood on trinkets!’
I adjusted the strap of my new watch and replied gently, ‘His sweat and blood, Galina Yuryevna, barely cover the utility bills in my apartment.
And my “trinket” was bought with exactly that half of the savings he so generously didn’t manage to transfer to you for massage rollers.’ Galina Yuryevna tried to fold her arms proudly across her chest.
Boris realized words weren’t working and decided to use his favorite secret weapon. An ultimatum.
‘So here’s how it is, Elena!’ he barked.
‘Either you return this trash to the store tomorrow and we forget this incident, or we get divorced! I will not tolerate such disrespect in my house!’
I slowly let my eyes sweep across the spacious living room with its panoramic windows. The apartment that had come to me from my grandmother long before I ever met Boris.
‘An excellent decision, Borya,’ I said with a sincere, bright smile.
‘Only let’s clarify the terminology. In my house.’
I went into the storage room, took out three heavy-duty black construction bags, each one a hundred and twenty liters, and carefully spread them out in front of my stunned husband.
‘Your sweaters are on the second shelf. Your tools are on the balcony. I’ll bring your fishing rods myself—they’re dusty. Start packing.’ Boris’s face began changing colors like a broken traffic light. His confidence crumbled like cheap shortbread.
He suddenly realized the full depth of his سقوط. Divorce meant he wasn’t sharing this beautiful apartment. He was leaving with what he had come with: an old foreign car and a sports bag.
He looked to his mother for support. But Galina Yuryevna no longer resembled a formidable shop manager. Primitive horror sloshed in her eyes.
She lived in a modest two-room Khrushchev-era apartment. Half of that space was now supposed to be taken up by the Japanese massage chair. The other half was meant for her suddenly homeless son, whom she would have to feed on her pension, because his salary barely covered gas and business lunches.
‘Lenochka…’ Boris bleated, taking a step back from the black bags.
‘Why are you being like this… We just got carried away… Nothing terrible happened.’
‘It did happen, Borya,’ I said, glancing at the dial of my new, flawlessly accurate watch. ‘Your time is up.’
Three weeks later, we were divorced. Boris moved in with his mother. According to rumors from mutual acquaintances, the massage chair had to be sold on a classifieds website for half the price to pay for repairs to Borya’s car, which broke down at a very inconvenient moment.
Galina Yuryevna now drinks Corvalol not for show, but for real, because her son eats half the contents of her refrigerator every day and complains about life.
And me? I enjoy myself and check the time on my beautiful Swiss watch, and I know exactly this: getting rid of toxic exhibits in your life really is nothing страшного.”
