“So your children from your first marriage are flying to the Maldives, while our son is going to Grandma’s to work in the garden because ‘Dad is going through a difficult period’?”
“Did you buy this expensive cheese again, Zhanna? I asked you to look at the price tags instead of grabbing the first thing you see. We’re not in a position to live extravagantly right now,” Kirill grumbled disapprovingly as he unpacked the groceries onto the kitchen table and compared every item with the long receipt.
“Kirill, it’s ordinary Russian cheese. It costs only fifty rubles more than the one you call ‘budget-friendly,’ which is impossible to eat because it squeaks against your teeth like modeling clay,” Zhanna replied wearily as she stood at the stove. She stirred the soup and tried not to look at her husband, afraid she might lose her temper. “And stop rummaging through the bags like a customs officer.”
“I’m not rummaging through anything. I’m keeping track of the family budget,” her husband said instructively, raising one finger. “I’m going through a difficult period at work right now. I told you. There won’t be a bonus this quarter, the clients are delaying their payments, and the boss has become unbearable. Every kopeck counts. But you behave as though we have a money-printing machine under the bed.”
Zhanna turned off the burner and faced her husband. This conversation had been taking place in their home with remarkable regularity for the past six months. Kirill constantly complained about their lack of money and forced her to account for every expense, whether it was a new pair of tights or school notebooks for their son, Tyoma.
At the same time, Kirill himself looked perfectly well cared for. He never denied himself a good business lunch or expensive perfume, claiming that both were necessary for his “status and work with clients.”
“Since we’re talking about money,” Zhanna began, drying her hands with a towel, “we need to pay for Tyoma’s summer camp. His session begins in two weeks, and they’re running out of places. It costs thirty-five thousand. I’ve put aside part of my salary, but I’m still fifteen thousand short. Please contribute the rest, and I’ll transfer the full amount tomorrow.”
Kirill froze with a packet of buckwheat in his hands. His face assumed the expression of a martyr that Zhanna had already learned to recognize without fail. It meant that he did not want to give her the money and was about to invent a hundred reasons why the expense was completely pointless.
“Zhanna, what summer camp?” he drawled, placing the buckwheat in the cupboard. “Are you serious? Thirty-five thousand for two weeks? That’s daylight robbery. What are we paying for? Pasta and sausages and sleeping in wooden barracks?”
“It’s a sports camp, Kirill. They have a swimming pool, training sessions, and English classes. Tyoma has been waiting for this for six months. He has already made plans with his friends. We promised him.”
“We’ve promised him plenty of things,” her husband said dismissively as he sat at the table and drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “Circumstances have changed. Dad is having a crisis. Tyoma is a big boy. He should understand. Nothing terrible will happen if he spends this summer doing something useful instead of having everything handed to him.”
“What exactly do you mean by useful?” Zhanna asked tensely.
“He can go to your mother’s country house. Why not? There’s fresh air, a forest nearby, and a river. He can help Grandma dig the garden, weed the beds, and pick strawberries. Work builds character, you know. Most importantly, it’s completely free. We won’t have to throw away thirty thousand rubles.”
“You’re suggesting that instead of relaxing with his friends, our son should spend the entire summer breaking his back in my mother’s garden?” Zhanna’s voice hardened. “My mother herself said that Tyoma needed to rest before school, not spend the summer stuck in a village with old people.”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic. ‘Breaking his back.’ He’ll carry a couple of buckets of water. Big deal. At least he’ll learn how money is earned—or rather, how it is saved. I’ve made my decision, Zhanna. I’m not giving you money for the camp because I physically don’t have it. My card is empty, and I still have to survive until payday. Call your mother and arrange everything. Tell her to expect her grandson.”
Kirill stood abruptly, making it clear that the conversation was over. He was entirely convinced that he was right. In his version of reality, he was a rational head of the household saving the family from the financial ruin that would inevitably be caused by his wife’s extravagance.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said as he left the kitchen. “And prepare my shirt for tomorrow. I have an important meeting.”
Zhanna remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, feeling a dull resentment beginning to boil inside her. It was not only about the money, although that was part of it. It was about his attitude.
Kirill had dismissed his son’s plans so easily, without even attempting to find a compromise.
“I physically don’t have the money.”
The phrase rang in her ears. She knew that Kirill earned a decent salary, but lately he had turned into a genuine miser.
Suddenly, Kirill’s smartphone vibrated briefly on the table where he had unpacked the groceries. He had forgotten it when he went to the bathroom, which almost never happened. His phone was usually an extension of his hand.
The screen lit up with a new notification. Zhanna had never had the habit of spying on her husband, but her eyes automatically moved toward it.
The message was from a tour operator. The entire text appeared in the notification panel, and what Zhanna read made her breath catch.
“Dear Kirill! Your reservation has been confirmed. Maldives, Riu Palace Maldivas, five stars, all-inclusive. Departure: June 15. Guests: Kirill V., Elena V., and two children. Payment successful. A receipt for 480,000 rubles has been sent to your email. Have a wonderful vacation!”
Zhanna read the message twice. The figures seemed to jump before her eyes.
Four hundred and eighty thousand rubles.
Almost half a million.
Elena V. was his former wife. The two children were his sons from his first marriage, with whom, according to Kirill, he had only limited contact.
The water began running in the bathroom. Kirill, suspecting nothing, was washing himself in preparation for tomorrow’s “important meeting.”
Zhanna stood staring at the phone’s darkened screen. The pieces of the puzzle came together instantly.
So this was his “difficult period.”
This was where his bonuses had gone.
This was why he could not find a miserable fifteen thousand rubles for his son’s camp.
She did not scream or run into the bathroom. Instead, she slowly sat down, feeling the hot wave of fury inside her transform into icy calm.
So Tyoma was supposed to work in the garden.
So there was no money.
So he was supposed to provide free labor at Grandma’s country house.
Zhanna picked up her husband’s phone. She knew the password: Kirill’s birth year. He had never been particularly original.
She unlocked the screen, opened the banking application, and checked the transaction history. There was no room for doubt. The transfer to the tour operator had been made that morning.
There were also regular transfers to Elena, labeled “for the hairdresser,” “clothes for the children,” and “for the dentist.” Amounts that Zhanna had to beg for over the course of several weeks were sent to Elena with remarkable ease and regularity.
The bathroom door opened. Kirill emerged, drying his hair with a towel, flushed from the steam and clearly pleased with himself.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked, not immediately noticing his phone in his wife’s hands. “Did you iron my shirt?”
Zhanna raised her eyes to him. There were no tears or questions in them. There was only a verdict.
“I ironed something,” she replied quietly. “Just not your shirt. Your ego.”
“What?” Kirill did not understand as he entered the kitchen. “What are you talking about? And—is that my phone?”
“It is,” Zhanna said, placing the smartphone faceup on the table. “Someone is wishing you a pleasant vacation. In the Maldives. For half a million rubles. Would you like to tell me what the weather is like there right now? Or are we still going through a ‘difficult period,’ and this is simply a system error?”
Kirill lunged toward the table as though he had received an electric shock. He snatched the smartphone from his wife’s hands, nearly knocking over the sugar bowl, and stared frantically at the screen.
For a moment, tension hung in the kitchen, thick and viscous like hardening concrete.
Zhanna watched her husband with frightening, unnatural calm, her arms folded across her chest. She saw his eyes darting around, the sweat forming on his forehead, and his desperate attempt to invent an excuse for something that could not possibly be excused.
“This… This must be some kind of mistake,” he finally forced out, locking the screen and hiding the phone in the pocket of his shorts. “Spam. Scammers send all kinds of things these days to make you click on a link. I didn’t pay for anything.”
“Don’t treat me like an idiot, Kirill,” Zhanna said evenly, steel ringing beneath her words. “I didn’t only see the text message. I opened the banking application. The money has been withdrawn. Four hundred and eighty thousand rubles. Five minutes ago, you swore that we didn’t have fifteen thousand for your own son’s summer camp.”
Kirill froze. Realizing that his story about spam and hackers had collapsed before it had even been formed, he abruptly changed tactics.
Instead of making excuses, his face assumed an aggressively defensive expression. He straightened, pulled back his shoulders, and looked at his wife defiantly, as though she were the one who had committed a crime by catching him in the act.
“Fine! Yes! I paid for it!” he shouted, moving toward the window and nervously running a hand through his hair. “So what now? Are you going to shoot me? It’s my money, Zhanna. I earned it. I have the right to spend it however I see fit.”
“Your money?” she repeated, slowly approaching the table. “When we discuss the mortgage or groceries, the budget belongs to both of us. When I need winter tires, those are ‘our expenses.’ But when you pour half a million into your former wife, suddenly it’s ‘your money’? You’ve been feeding me stories about a crisis for six months. We’ve been saving money on food, Kirill! It took us a month to choose sneakers for Tyoma because we were trying to find the cheapest pair!”
“You don’t understand!” her husband interrupted, turning sharply toward her. “Lena is in a difficult situation. She is alone with two children. I’m guilty toward them, do you understand? I left. I destroyed the family. The boys are growing up without their father. I’m obligated to compensate for my absence somehow. They never get to see anything beyond their residential neighborhood. They need the sea, sunshine, and vitamins!”
“Doesn’t Tyoma need vitamins?” Zhanna felt everything boiling inside her. “Doesn’t your son, who lives beneath the same roof as you, need the sea? Is working in the garden and being eaten by mosquitoes at the country house enough for him?”
“Tyoma has me!” Kirill struck the windowsill with his palm. “I come home every day. I see him growing up. He has a complete family and a father beside him. But they… They’ve been deprived of attention. So yes, I’m trying to give them what I can. Financially. I don’t want them to feel inferior. I want my children from my first marriage to have good childhood memories, not only the memory of their father packing his things and leaving them for another woman.”
Zhanna listened to this nonsense and could not believe her ears. Her husband’s logic was so twisted and saturated with hypocrisy that she became physically nauseated.
He was buying peace of mind. He was paying off his guilt toward his past by stealing the future from his present family.
“So that’s how we’re talking now,” she drawled, her lips twisting into an angry smile. “You’re a noble knight saving the unfortunate. And the fact that you’re going with them—is that part of your redemption too? ‘Guest: Kirill V.’ That’s what the message said. You’re flying to a resort with your former wife while I stay here counting kopecks and mending socks?”
“I’m going for the children!” Kirill shouted, his face turning red and blotchy. “They need their father beside them, at least during the vacation! Lena can’t manage two boys alone in a foreign country. I’m simply helping her. There’s nothing personal about it. Why do you always have to make everything sound dirty? You’re materialistic, Zhanna. All you think about is money! Are you upset that I spent money on my own children?”
“I don’t resent money being spent on your children, Kirill. I resent the fact that you treat us like second-class citizens,” Zhanna said, stepping close and looking directly into his eyes. “You lied to my face. You humiliated me with this constant penny-pinching and made me feel guilty over every piece of cheese while you prepared a royal gift for that family.”
She drew a deep breath and finally said what had been on the tip of her tongue, drawing a final line beneath their marriage.
“So your children from your first marriage are flying to the Maldives, while our son is going to Grandma’s to work in the garden because ‘Dad is going through a difficult period’? You paid for luxury accommodations for them while saving every ruble on us? I never agreed to be a second-class wife, Kirill! Pack your suitcase and fly away with them. You’re not welcome here!”
“Why do you keep going on about that garden?” Kirill roared, finally losing control. “It will be good for him! He won’t fall apart! And if you’re so proud, you could have earned enough for the Maldives yourself instead of looking into my wallet! I’m the man, and I decide who gets money and how much. Lena, by the way, didn’t say a single word against me when I offered the trip. She’s grateful! All you ever do is nag and demand things!”
“Grateful?” Zhanna laughed, a short and frightening sound. “Of course she’s grateful. She found an idiot who is taking her on a half-million-ruble vacation. But do you know what, ‘man’? You can make your decisions wherever people respect you. This circus is over here.”
“What do you mean?” Kirill tensed, sensing something ominous in her tone. “What are you planning?”
“Exactly what I said. Pack your suitcase and fly away with them. Right now. You’re not welcome here.”
“You’re throwing me out?” His eyes widened as though he could not believe what was happening. “Because of a vacation package? Are you serious? This is my home too! I’m registered here! You have no right!”
“This is my apartment, Kirill. I bought it before we were married. The only things belonging to you here are your toothbrush and your moral debts,” Zhanna snapped. “And if you think I’ll continue allowing you to deprive my son because of your ‘good weekend father’ complex, you are deeply mistaken.”
She turned and strode quickly toward the bedroom. Kirill blinked in confusion, processing what he had heard, and then stumbled after her.
“Wait! You wouldn’t dare! Zhanna, stop being hysterical! Fine, I lost my temper. Let’s discuss this! I can borrow money and send Tyoma to that damned camp!”
But Zhanna was no longer listening. The mechanism had been activated, and nothing could stop it.
There were no doubts left in her mind, only a clear understanding: the person beside her was a stranger, a sponsor for someone else’s family who used her and their son as a convenient, inexpensive stopping point.
Zhanna yanked open the sliding wardrobe doors so forcefully that they slammed against the stoppers with a crash. There was no hysteria in the sound, only dry, destructive determination.
She had no intention of carefully folding his clothes into neat piles and placing lavender sachets between them. The time for caring had ended the instant she saw the bank statement.
She swept an armful of his shirts off the shelf—the same shirts she had ironed the previous evening, making sure not to leave a single crease—and threw them directly onto the hallway floor. Jeans, expensive sweaters, and shoeboxes followed.
“What the hell are you doing, you lunatic?” Kirill rushed into the bedroom and nearly tripped over a pile of his own underwear. He attempted to grab Zhanna by the arms, but she jerked away and looked at him as though he were contagious.
“I’m helping you pack, darling,” she hissed venomously, pulling his sports bag from the depths of the wardrobe and throwing it onto the pile. “You’re in a hurry, aren’t you? The airplane won’t wait, and your ‘family’ has been waiting long enough. You still need to buy sunscreen. The sun is powerful in the Maldives. It would be a shame if you got burned.”
“Stop this circus!” Kirill yelled as he tried to stuff the fallen T-shirts into the bag. His face twisted with rage. “You have no right to throw me out like a dog! I contributed to this household! I bought groceries! I paid for the internet!”
“The internet? Seriously?” Zhanna stopped for a moment, holding his winter jacket. “You’re reproaching me for the internet after stealing half a million from us? You ‘contributed’? You lived here with everything provided for you, Kirill! You saved money on rent, you saved money on the food I bought, and you saved money on your son! You were simply living like a parasite so that you could build up funds for your former wife!”
She threw the jacket forcefully into his face. The zipper scratched his cheek painfully, and that became the final straw.
Kirill threw the jacket aside and straightened, deciding that the best defense was an attack. Since he had already been expelled from his comfort zone, there was no longer any reason to pretend to be the victim. It was time to show her who was really in charge.
“To hell with you!” he roared, nervously fastening the bag, where socks, chargers, and documents had been tossed together. “Do you think you’ve frightened me? I’ll be delighted to escape this madhouse! You’re never satisfied with anything! Either you don’t get enough attention or you don’t get enough money! But Lena… Lena is a saint compared with you. She never drove me crazy over money. She understands what difficulties are.”
“Of course she’s a saint,” Zhanna said, kicking one of his sneakers toward the exit. “Especially when someone pays for her all-inclusive vacation at another family’s expense. Anyone would become a saint for 480,000 rubles. Go to her, Kirill. Let her wash your clothes and listen to your whining about your cruel boss. Just remember one thing: your sponsorship campaign is over. You have an airplane ticket in your pocket, but you won’t have anything to live on.”
Kirill smirked smugly as he slung the bag over his shoulder. His eyes were filled with superiority.
He genuinely believed that, with the vacation package in hand, he was the king of the mountain, while Zhanna was simply furious with jealousy and helplessness.
“Don’t worry about me, darling,” he drawled mockingly. “I’ll be fine. People are waiting for me there. They appreciate me there. I’m going to people who love me, not my wallet. Lena, by the way, has been hinting for a long time that we could try starting over. Now that I’m taking them to paradise, everything will work out perfectly for us. You can stay here in your miserable Khrushchev-era apartment with your garden beds and petty problems.”
“Get out,” Zhanna said quietly but menacingly, pointing toward the door.
“I’m leaving! Gladly!” Kirill deliberately stomped loudly through the hallway as he gathered the rest of his belongings. “And don’t expect me to come back. By the time you crawl to me and beg for forgiveness, I’ll already be lying on the beach with a cocktail. You’ll regret this, Zhanna, but it will be too late. You’ve lost a man who could have turned your life into a fairy tale if you hadn’t been such a petty bitch.”
He approached the front door, shoved his feet into his shoes without untying the laces, and grabbed his car keys. He contemptuously threw the apartment keys onto the small cabinet as though tossing alms to a beggar.
“Enjoy staying poor!” he called as a final parting shot. “Tell Tyoma that Dad has gone away to rest from your toxic atmosphere. Maybe I’ll bring him a refrigerator magnet when I return. If he deserves one.”
“Stick that magnet to your forehead so you don’t forget what a bastard you are,” Zhanna snapped before slamming the door forcefully behind him.
The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot.
Kirill remained on the landing. Everything around him was quiet, and the air smelled of a neighbor’s fried onions and dust.
But he did not feel defeated. On the contrary, he felt intoxicated by freedom. His phone, containing electronic tickets to paradise, was in his pocket. His favorite clothes were in his bag. Ahead of him was the prospect of becoming a hero to his former wife and children.
He ran down the stairs, whistling a cheerful melody.
Zhanna was simply a fool, he thought. She had failed to understand how fortunate she had been. Let her sit with her son and count kopecks.
Lena was waiting for him. She would appreciate such a gesture. She would understand how generous and caring he was.
He would arrive at her apartment, show her the tickets, and she would naturally throw her arms around his neck. They would reconcile. He would stay with her until their flight, and after that there would be sunshine, the ocean, and a new life.
He climbed into his car, started the engine, and sped away without even glancing back at the apartment windows where he had lived for the past five years.
Only success lay ahead.
How cruelly mistaken he was.
The journey to the familiar concrete apartment building in the residential district took only twenty minutes, but to Kirill it felt like a triumphal procession.
He drove with one hand on the steering wheel while the other tapped against the dashboard in rhythm with the music. The interior smelled of his expensive cologne and the anticipation of a new life.
He imagined Lena’s face when she opened the door. Naturally, she would be surprised at first and might even complain a little for appearances’ sake. Then she would see his determination, notice the bags, and understand.
The father had returned.
And he had not returned empty-handed. He was bringing a royal gift.
He parked directly on the grass. As usual, there were no spaces in the courtyard, but at that moment he did not care about rules.
After pulling his bags from the trunk, Kirill headed toward the entrance. The intercom was broken, and the door was propped open with a brick.
“That’s what life is like without a man’s hand around the house,” he thought smugly as he entered the dim stairwell, which smelled of dampness and cats.
Never mind. He would soon fix everything here. Or perhaps he would not—they were flying to the Maldives, and afterward they might buy something better.
The elevator seemed to crawl upward forever. Kirill adjusted his shirt collar while looking into the cloudy, scratched mirror.
He looked excellent.
A free man in the prime of his life. Generous and financially secure.
He was every former wife’s dream.
He pressed the doorbell and stepped back, assuming a casual pose. Footsteps sounded behind the door. A lock clicked, and the door swung open.
Lena stood on the threshold. She was wearing a velour tracksuit, with a facial mask covering her skin and a phone in her hand.
When she saw her former husband carrying his bags, she did not throw her arms around him. Her eyebrows rose, and her expression showed not adoration but disgusted confusion.
“Kirill? Why have you shown up here so late?” she asked. “I thought we discussed everything over the phone. The flight is in three days. I have the documents in my email.”
“I’ve come to stay, Lenochka!” Kirill smiled broadly and attempted to squeeze past her into the hallway, but his former wife blocked the doorway and braced one hand against the frame. “It’s over between Zhanna and me. I chose my family. My real family. Get the children ready. Dad has returned! We aren’t merely going on vacation. We’re beginning a new life.”
Lena remained silent for a moment, absorbing the information. Then she suddenly laughed.
It was not a joyful laugh but a dry, barking sound that sent a chill down Kirill’s spine. She looked at him as though he were a madman attempting to pay with candy wrappers in an expensive boutique.
“I think you’ve misunderstood something, darling,” she said coldly, folding her arms across her chest. “Which family did you choose? The one you abandoned three years ago for your younger woman? Or the one you only remembered on holidays, sending a few kopecks to my card so the bailiffs wouldn’t bother you?”
“Why are you starting this?” Kirill’s smile faded slightly, but he still attempted to maintain his confident appearance. “I’ve made amends! I paid for the tour! Half a million, Lena! It’s a five-star luxury resort! I did this for us so we could reunite. I left Zhanna because I realized that you were more important to me. Look, I brought my things. I’ve come to live with you.”
“You paid for the tour because you owe us, Kirill,” Lena said sharply, metallic notes ringing in her voice. “For years, you reduced your child-support payments and concealed your income. This vacation is simply compensation for the fact that my children had to wear jackets bought on sale while you pretended to be a businessman. It’s payment toward your debts, not a ticket into my bed.”
“What do you mean?” Kirill stared at her in shock, and the bags in his hands suddenly became unbearably heavy. “We’re flying together! My name is on the reservation! I thought…”
“You thought you could buy me with a vacation?” she interrupted, curling her lips contemptuously. “We need you there as a sponsor, Kirill. As a wallet that will pay for excursions and cocktails. But I have no use for you as a roommate. I have my own life and my own habits. And incidentally, I have a man. Unlike you, he doesn’t shout about his gifts at every opportunity. He simply helps.”
“A man?” Kirill felt the ground disappearing beneath his feet. “What man? You told me you were alone! You accepted my money!”
“And I’ll continue accepting it. The money is for the children. My personal life is my own business. Oleg, by the way, is flying with us. At his own expense, take note. He bought a ticket for the same flight. As for you… You can fly if you wish, but you’ll stay in a separate room. And don’t come into ours.”
“You… You bitch,” Kirill whispered as his face flushed with humiliation. “I came to you with an open heart. I spent my last money. I left my home! I have nowhere to go!”
“That’s your problem,” Lena replied with an indifferent shrug. “You’re a grown man. Rent a hotel room. Or go back to your Zhanna and grovel at her feet. Although, knowing her, she won’t even let you cross the threshold now. You burned every bridge yourself, you idiot.”
Kirill stood paralyzed by shock. His entire plan, which had seemed so orderly and logical inside his head, crumbled into dust.
He had imagined himself as a buyer choosing the best product. Instead, he had turned out to be a resource that had been used and drained.
“But I’m… I’m their father!” he cried pitifully, trying to cling to one final argument.
“A father is someone who raises his children, not someone who pays them off once a year with a vacation package to satisfy his own ego,” Lena said, stepping backward and gripping the door handle. “That’s enough, Kirill. This conversation is over. My face mask is drying. I’ll see you at the airport. And don’t even think about making a scene in front of the children, or I’ll cancel your reservation. I don’t care how much money you lose.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” he screamed, his voice rising into a shriek. “I’ll cancel the entire tour! You won’t receive a kopeck!”
“Try it,” she said with a smirk. “The tour is nonrefundable. I checked. So either fly with us and quietly drink the complimentary whiskey at the bar, or stay here on the stairs. Adios, sponsor.”
The door slammed directly in his face.
One lock clicked, followed by the second.
Kirill remained standing on the dirty landing, trapped between the two closed doors of his life.
On one side was Zhanna’s apartment, where his belongings had been thrown into the hallway.
On the other was Lena’s apartment, where his money had been accepted while he himself had been discarded like unwanted garbage.
In helpless rage, he kicked the door, but the only response was a dull metallic sound and pain shooting through his toe.
The silence of the stairwell pressed against his ears. Somewhere on the floor above, a dog began barking.
Kirill slowly lowered himself onto his bags and buried his head in his hands.
The phone in his pocket beeped.
A banking notification had arrived:
“Card service fee charged. Remaining balance: 150 rubles.”
He sat alone in someone else’s apartment building, without a home, without a family, and without money.
The Maldives were waiting for him, but now that paradise island seemed like the most sophisticated prison in the world.
He had locked himself inside it and thrown away the keys the moment he decided that people could be purchased like souvenirs in a duty-free shop.
