At the registry office, Andrey glanced at his phone twice and suddenly asked how much money was left in our joint account. He tossed out the question casually: the clerk had just asked us to double-check some details, someone was chatting in the hallway, and Andrey had a folder of documents resting on his lap.
I told him the amount was the same as in the morning, and didn’t think about it again. After twenty-one years of marriage, we finally had more important things on our minds than mobile banking apps.
That evening, I replayed every word of that brief conversation in my mind.
At first, it seemed like he was just helping his mother out, like always.
We’d opened our joint account about five years ago. Officially, I was the owner, and Andrey was an authorized user with his own card. For us, it was simply a family wallet: each month we both put money in and used it to pay for groceries, household bills, gas, and things for the house.
It was a convenient setup, until Andrey decided that ‘joint’ meant more than I’d intended.
The first big purchase was a washing machine for his mother, Lidia Pavlovna. I was standing at the store checkout when I saw nearly thirty-seven thousand rubles deducted in the app. I called Andrey and asked what we’d bought.
“A machine for Mom. The old one’s finally given up,” he replied. “I ordered a good one—they’ll deliver it tomorrow.”
I stepped out of line, set my basket down next to me, and asked again:
“And you couldn’t talk to me first?”
“Natasha, what’s there to discuss? Should she wash everything by hand?”
That was the problem: no matter what I asked, he always had an answer that made me seem like the one begrudging an elderly woman a little help.
Lidia Pavlovna was sixty-eight then. Andrey really did help her a lot, and I never interfered. But we used to make big decisions together—now, more and more often, it was just Andrey deciding and using our joint funds.
That evening, he was sitting in the kitchen scrolling through the news on his phone. I sat down with a cup of tea and told him that big expenses ought to be discussed in advance.
“Alright,” he said so quickly that I actually felt reassured.
Six months later, I spotted another transfer—fifty-eight thousand for enclosing his mother’s balcony. Andrey just shrugged: the price was good and the contractor might get another job. After we argued, we made a rule: anything over fifteen thousand, apart from regular household bills, would be discussed first. Andrey grumbled that I was turning family life into an accounting exercise, but agreed.
For a few months, it worked.
And I thought we’d reached an understanding.
Then I realized that understanding didn’t apply to everyone.
In the spring, Lidia Pavlovna decided to remodel her bathroom. I checked our joint account in the app and saw two fresh transactions: twenty-four thousand, and another forty-seven.
That evening, I waited until Andrey had finished dinner and showed him the transfers.
“What’s this?”
He didn’t even bother pretending he didn’t understand.
“That’s for Mom’s materials and an advance to the craftsman.”
“Seventy-one thousand.”
“I see that.”
“We agreed on a fifteen-thousand limit.”
Andrey pushed his plate away, stood up, and took it to the sink. He stood there with his back to me for a while, then turned around.
— There was no time to wait. The specialist was done earlier.
— You never want to wait for anything, do you?
— That’s because she actually has real problems every time, it’s never just about buying a new handbag.
He seemed calm when he said it, but it hit right where it hurt. Just a month before, I had bought myself a coat with my bonus money. Andrey hadn’t said a word about it then, but now it turned out he’d been holding onto that memory all this time.
— My coat cost less than just one of your money transfers, and I didn’t touch the family account to buy it.
— You’re always dividing everything into mine and yours.
I couldn’t take it anymore:
— Because you started dividing things long ago. You keep what’s yours, but when your mom needs something, mine suddenly becomes ‘family money.’
He walked into another room, but a week later he transferred thirty-five thousand back into our account and promised there’d be no more big expenses without a conversation first. I believed him: for almost two months, life returned to normal, we visited our daughter Ksenia, and we even managed to avoid arguing about money again.
Then his mother decided it was time to start planning her seventieth birthday celebration.
Suddenly, I was being called ‘petty and not family-minded’ about the birthday plans.
Lidiya Pavlovna didn’t want to host her seventieth birthday at home. The original idea was a small café for about ten people. But then some second cousins got added, a neighbor and her husband, an old work colleague, and a few other relatives. Before we knew it, the guest list had grown to nearly twenty people.
On Sunday, Andrey sat at the kitchen table showing me the restaurant’s menu.
— Mom chose this banquet hall. It’s nice, right?
I looked at the prices and asked:
— Is she paying for it herself?
He smirked:
— Good question.
— Andrey, I’m serious.
He put his phone down, face up.
— My brother and I will split the cost.
Andrey’s brother lived in another city and usually sent only small amounts of money. A few days later, Andrey said his brother would contribute fifteen thousand, and the rest he’d ‘cover himself.’
I asked where the money was coming from.
— Natasha, are we starting this again?
— We’re not starting anything. I’m just asking where you’ll get about fifty thousand from.
— I’ve got it.
That was his short reply. I decided not to push it further.
By then, it wasn’t even about the money anymore. Andrey kept changing our plans to do things for his mother, and in response, I stopped checking in with him about my own plans. Neither of us was behaving well.
I was the first to bring up divorce, after a fight about the delivery of a wardrobe. Andrey had promised to meet the movers, but ended up going to his mother’s to fix her faucet, so I had to leave work. That night, he said again, ‘Mom’s plumbing was leaking. What else was I supposed to do?’ Two weeks later, he moved into an apartment closer to his job.
We told Ksenia everything over a video call. She was twenty-two and had been living on her own for a while.
— Please don’t make me the middleman, — she asked. — I love you both, and I’m not going to get involved in your finances.
We agreed to that.
At the notary, everything finally felt settled.
We handled the divorce surprisingly calmly. The apartment was mine before our marriage, and we decided not to drag the car, savings, or money in our accounts through the courts.
A week before our divorce was finalized, we went to the notary and signed an agreement to divide everything. The car and part of our savings went to Andrey, while I kept the other part of the savings and the balance in our joint account. We made sure the amounts matched so that, after the signing, neither of us owed the other anything.
Andrey received his share of the money. I made a point to show him the transfer on my phone screen.
“Did it go through?” I asked.
He checked the banking app.
“It did,” he replied.
After all the calculations, the money that remained in the joint account was now mine, according to our agreement. I still paid the utility bills from that account. Andrey was technically still listed as a participant on the account, but I decided I’d remove his access only after the official divorce. He knew perfectly well the remaining funds were no longer shared.
So it seemed to me like the banking part of our split was done.
On the morning of the divorce, Andrey arrived in his car. We met outside the registry office, went inside together, sat down, and waited. That’s when he asked how much was left in the family account.
“The same as before,” I answered. “Why?”
“No reason. Just remembered,” he said.
A staff member called us in and checked our documents. A few minutes later, our marriage was officially over.
Outside, Andrey held the door for me, then paused on the steps.
“Well, Natasha. At least we managed this without a fight.”
“I hope so,” I replied.
He even smiled.
As I watched him walk to his car, I realized for the first time in months that we actually managed to part ways peacefully.
An hour later, already at a café, I opened the banking app. Andrey was still showing as a user on our joint account.
I navigated to access management, selected his name, and tapped “Remove access.”
The app asked for confirmation. I confirmed it.
The whole process took less than a minute.
I didn’t feel any sense of triumph—just relief that one more shared loose end was finally tied up. I finished my coffee, set the cup down, and headed home.
That evening, it became clear why he’d asked about the account balance that morning.
At 7:30, my phone vibrated on the kitchen table.
At first, I didn’t want to answer. But then I thought maybe there were questions about documents or the car after the divorce, so I picked up.
Andrey spoke quietly and rapidly. In the background, I could hear voices and dishes clattering.
“Did you close my access to the account?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Andrey, we got divorced today.”
He exhaled loudly, then his voice softened:
“Natasha, can you let me back in for ten minutes?”
I didn’t immediately understand what he was asking.
“Why?”
In the background, someone said, “Andryusha, your mom is calling you.” He replied that he’d be there soon.
“I’m at a restaurant. The bill just arrived.”
That’s when it hit me.
“At the anniversary party?”
“Yeah.”
I leaned against the counter.
“And you wanted to pay with our old joint account card?”
“Don’t start. I didn’t know you’d shut everything off today.”
“You have your own money.”
There was a long pause.
“I need that for next month’s rent.”
I asked again because I thought I misheard:
“And you didn’t need this money?”
“Natasha, I would’ve paid you back. I get paid in a week.”
Now I remembered his morning question about the balance in full.
He wasn’t just making conversation—he’d actually counted on the card still working.
“So you were planning to pay for the anniversary with money that’s technically mine now—as per our agreement—and didn’t even think to tell me?”
“Not with ‘your money,’ but with the family account I’ve been using for twenty years.”
“Five. We opened that account five years ago.”
“What difference does it make?”
I could hear voices in the background again. Andrey stepped away to somewhere quieter.
“Mom’s here, the relatives. They’ve already brought the bill. My card got declined twice. Do you realize what kind of situation you’re putting me in?”
Just this morning, I’d thought we’d parted ways without a fight. Now Andrey was making it clear that the awkwardness from his own decision was suddenly mine to handle again.
“Pay with your own card.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“No, Andrey.”
His tone got harder:
“It’s my mom’s seventieth birthday. Could you at least not make a scene today?”
“You’re the one making a scene, trying to spend my money without asking, even after we split the property.”
He was silent for a few seconds, then just said briefly:
“Got it.”
And hung up.
I thought that was going to be the end of it.
I was wrong.
About fifteen minutes later, Lidia Pavlovna called me.
“Natasha, I don’t understand what happened with the card.”
Even after the divorce, Andrey still managed to put his mother between us.
“Nothing happened. Andrey just tried to pay for the restaurant with an account he no longer has access to.”
“But it’s family money.”
“Not anymore.”
“You could have picked any other day for this. It’s still my anniversary.”
I actually felt a little sorry for her: seventy years old, guests all around, her son standing by the card terminal explaining why his card kept getting declined.
“Lidia Pavlovna, happy birthday. But I’m not going to discuss my money issues with Andrey with you.”
She was silent.
“I see. So that’s how it is.”
“Yes. That’s how it is.”
After the call, I muted my phone.
Later, Ksenia messaged me: ‘Dad asked if I could transfer him twenty thousand until payday. I told him I can’t.’
I replied: ‘Stay out of this.’
She sent a heart and didn’t say anything else.
The next day, he brought back the card
Andrey showed up around lunchtime without warning. I saw his car through the window, and a minute later, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door.
He was standing there with a small bag of the last of his things from the closet, holding that same bank card in his hand.
“Forgot to give this back yesterday,” he said.
I stepped aside. Andrey came into the hallway, set the bag down by the shoe stand, took an old windbreaker off the rack, and spent a few seconds fumbling with the zipper on its pocket.
“Did you pay for the restaurant?” I asked.
“I did.”
“So you had the money.”
He shot me a sharp look.
“I had it. Now I’ll have to borrow money for the apartment.”
I didn’t answer.
Andrey put the card on the shelf by the mirror.
“Happy now?”
“About what?”
“You know… that everything went your way.”
I picked up the card and handed it back to him.
“It’s yours. You can throw it away, it doesn’t work anymore.”
He didn’t take it.
“My mom worried all night.”
“About what? The anniversary happened, the restaurant’s paid for.”
“You know exactly why.”
I did know, but I wasn’t going to argue anymore. Andrey lingered for a moment longer, then finally took the card and slipped it into his wallet.
He turned at the door:
“I would have paid you back.”
“Maybe.”
“Of course, I would’ve given it back.”
“Andrey, that’s not the point—whether you would give it back or not.”
He was ready to argue, but I didn’t continue the conversation.
We’d been over this line so many times: after the washing machine, the balcony, and the bathroom renovation. Every time, we promised to make the next big decision together, and every time something ‘urgent’ would come up.
Andrey opened the front door, stepped out onto the landing, and pulled it shut behind him.
A few minutes later, I got the usual notification from the banking app: the rent had been paid.
I opened our shared account. Under joint access, Andrey’s name was gone.
