— And you think that while you spend your entire salary on your son from another marriage, I’m going to support you? Yeah, right! Dream on!
— Lida, I’ve made a decision, — Pavel said from behind her, his voice filled with that particular heavy sense of importance that comes over a person who believes he has made a great and unquestionably correct decision. — Basically, for the next six months, I’m going to transfer my entire salary to Lenka. For Sasha.
Lida did not turn around. Her hand, gripping the handle of a heavy kitchen knife, froze for a moment above the cutting board, where chopped carrots lay scattered in a bright orange pile. The rhythmic, soothing sound of the knife striking the wood stopped. Oil and onions continued to sizzle in the frying pan beside her, filling the kitchen with a warm, homely aroma that suddenly seemed inappropriate, almost fake.
He came closer, tossed his briefcase onto a chair, and loosened his tie as though he had just accomplished some exhausting feat.
— He needs a new computer. A proper gaming one. You know everything revolves around that for kids these days. He needs new clothes too—he’s growing like a weed. Plus tutors, English, math… Basically, he deserves only the very best. And as you understand, that costs a lot of money.
He spoke proudly and deliberately, savoring every word, every nuance of his own nobility. In his version of reality, he probably looked almost heroic—a responsible father prepared to make any sacrifice for his child. He walked around the table and peered into Lida’s face, expecting approval, admiration, perhaps even a touch of feminine envy toward his ex-wife for having once had such a wonderful man.
Lida slowly raised her head. Her face, which only a minute earlier had been relaxed and focused on cooking, became motionless and unreadable. She looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. There was neither surprise nor outrage in her expression, only cold, intense attention that made Pavel uncomfortable. His smug smile faltered and disappeared.
— And what are we supposed to live on, Pasha? — she asked quietly.
The question was so simple and logical that Pavel was momentarily confused. He had expected anything—reproaches, arguments over the amount—but not this basic everyday question that demolished the entire magnificent structure of his grand gesture. He brushed it aside like an annoying fly.
— Well, you work too, — he said casually, as though that explained everything. As though her salary were not her personal contribution to their shared life but some sort of public fund created specifically for occasions like this.
And that was it. That sentence, spoken so lightly and with such complete failure to understand its weight, became the stone that triggered the avalanche. Silently, Lida placed the knife on the cutting board, perfectly straight and parallel to the edge. Then, just as slowly and carefully, she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. There was no haste in any of her movements. There was none of the kind of anger that bursts outward in shouting. Something else was being born inside her—something solid, cold, and sharp, like the blade of the knife she had just set aside.
She straightened, and Pavel suddenly had the strange impression that she had become taller. She looked directly into his eyes, and in her gaze he no longer saw a wife or a partner. He saw a stranger.
— And you think that while you spend your entire salary on your son from another marriage, I’m going to support you? Yeah, right! Dream on! From now on, we have separate budgets, my dear!
She squeezed out the final two words with such poisonous, icy politeness that Pavel flinched. He stared at her, blinking, as if trying to focus and understand who exactly was standing in front of him. His noble impulse, his beautiful pose of self-sacrifice—all of it crumbled to dust under a single look from her.
— Lida, what’s gotten into you? What separate budgets? Are you out of your mind? — He tried to seize the initiative again, going on the offensive with his usual condescending tone. — We’re a family. How can there be any keeping score between us?
He stepped toward her, perhaps intending to hug her and reduce the whole thing to some feminine tantrum that could be cured with affection. But Lida took a step backward and raised her palm in a stopping gesture. It was not a pleading gesture. It was a command.
— The family ended five minutes ago, Pavel. At the exact moment you decided that I’m your free domestic staff with an ATM function. So spare me the cheap manipulation. From this moment on, everything will be very simple and clear. You like simple solutions, don’t you? Well, here’s one.
She turned and pointed with the knife she had just put down toward the frying pan, where the onions were beginning to turn golden.
— By the way, this dinner is the last one from our shared pot. You can consider it a farewell gesture. Starting tomorrow, I buy food for myself. You buy food for yourself. The apartment, as you know, is rented. I expect exactly half of next month’s rent transferred to my card. And the same goes for everything else. Fifty-fifty. Clear, fair, no hard feelings.
Pavel looked first at her, then at the knife in her hand, which she was now holding not like a kitchen utensil but like a pointer drawing new, rigid boundaries in the air. His face turned crimson. His carefree attitude gave way to wounded fury.
— What the hell are you talking about?! — he finally exploded, raising his voice. — You’re doing this because you hate my son! Just admit it! You can’t stand the fact that I want to give him the very best! You’re jealous because the money will go to a child instead of your new dresses!
He was striking at what he believed were her weakest points, trying to make her feel guilty, force her to defend herself, drag her into their usual emotional argument where he always managed to come out on top. But he was shooting into empty space. Lida did not even raise an eyebrow.
— This has absolutely nothing to do with your son, Pavel, — her voice became even quieter, which somehow made it more frightening. — Nothing at all. You can spend every penny in the world on him if you want. That’s your right as his father. But this has everything to do with you. And with me.
You decided that your salary is your personal money, which you’re free to spend however you see fit. I completely agree with you. It’s a brilliant idea. So my salary is my personal money too. And everything we used to consider “ours”—she gestured around the kitchen, at their cozy little world they had built piece by piece—will now be divided in two. We’ll see how much you enjoy that. Earn money for your “very best” after you’ve finished paying your half of everyday life.
Three days passed.
Three days of thick, oppressive silence, broken only by ordinary household sounds: the click of the electric kettle, the hum of the washing machine, the rustle of pages from the book Lida read in the evenings while curled up in an armchair.
Pavel decided it was simply a prolonged feminine tantrum, a strategy designed to wear him down and force him to back off. He held firm. He demonstratively ignored her coldness and behaved as though nothing had happened, certain that sooner or later she would get tired of this ridiculous game and everything would return to normal.
Hunger was the best argument in any dispute, and he knew the refrigerator was full. On the evening of the fourth day, after returning from work, Pavel threw off his jacket and marched purposefully toward the kitchen.
Enough.
It was time to put an end to this farce.
He would behave the way he always did, prepare dinner for both of them, and through that silent gesture show her just how petty and foolish her ultimatums were.
He opened the refrigerator door—and his familiar world collapsed.
The interior, which only recently had been a chaotic but unified kingdom of food, had now been divided with surgical precision.
The middle shelf was completely empty.
It served as a demarcation line.
On the upper shelves—her territory—there was a paradise of groceries: a neatly wrapped piece of Parmesan, a cluster of fresh cherry tomatoes, a package of chilled turkey, a bunch of arugula, a jar of olives, and cream.
On his lower shelves sat three lonely sausages wrapped in plastic, a cheap processed cheese he had bought on sale the day before, half a loaf of stale dark bread, and one shriveled lemon.
It wasn’t simply food.
It was a visual demonstration of his new financial situation.
— What is this? — escaped his mouth before he had time to think.
Lida appeared in the doorway so quietly that he had not heard her approach. She was not dressed in her usual clothes for lounging around the house. She wore jeans and a crisp shirt, as though she too had just returned from work rather than emerged from their shared bedroom.
— It’s a refrigerator, — she replied calmly. — The top two shelves are mine. The bottom shelves are yours. Please use only your own. I don’t want to have to search for my food later.
She did not block his path or strike a dramatic pose. She simply stood there and watched him move his gaze from her plentiful, prosperous selection of food to his miserable provisions.
It was more humiliating than any shouting could have been.
It was methodical, cold mockery.
— You… you’re serious? You divided the food? — fury and confusion mingled in his voice. — You’ve turned our home into some kind of communal apartment! You’re mocking me!
He slammed the refrigerator door so hard that the jars inside rattled.
He expected her to become frightened, to retreat in the face of his anger.
But Lida did not even blink.
— No, Pasha. I didn’t turn it into anything. You did. You were the first to divide our money into “mine” and “yours.” You decided you needed your own personal fund for providing “the very best.” I simply took your idea to its logical conclusion.
Now you don’t just have a personal fund. You also have your own personal shelf in the refrigerator.
Isn’t that fair?
She spoke to him as though he were an unreasonable child who needed the simple rules of a game he himself had invented explained to him.
Pavel felt blood rush to his face.
He wanted to yell at her, grab her, shake her, but he stood there as if paralyzed, defeated by the merciless logic of her argument.
— So make yourself some dinner, — Lida concluded, turning and walking back toward the room. — Enjoy your meal.
He remained alone in the kitchen.
The refrigerator’s hum seemed deafening.
He opened the door again and stared at his three sausages.
And for the first time in four days, he realized with chilling horror that this was not a game.
It was a war.
And he was losing it.
The week turned into a long, humiliating ordeal.
Pavel ate whatever he could, choking down dry sandwiches and those same sausages while the aroma of fried meat or freshly baked pastries drifted from the kitchen—food Lida prepared exclusively for herself.
He lost weight. His face grew gaunt, and an angry, cornered gleam appeared in his eyes.
His pride, his masculine ego, had been trampled and smeared across the linoleum floor of their kitchen.
He had transferred his entire salary, down to the last penny, to his ex-wife and received an enthusiastic message in response that now felt like mockery.
Nobility, it turned out, had a bitter taste.
He realized there was no breaking through this wall of ice with logic or persuasion.
He needed to strike back.
Not with shouting.
Not with a scandal.
With action.
He needed to show her that this home was still his territory, that he was not some powerless tenant but the master of the house.
On Saturday, he spent the last money he had left on a new gaming console—the latest model, sleek and shiny, practically screaming how expensive it was.
It was his declaration of independence.
That evening, he silently entered the living room, where Lida was reading on the sofa.
He ignored her.
He walked toward the large television—the center of their shared universe, the place where they had always watched movies together—and began methodically unplugging cables.
He moved their old media player aside and swept a stack of her magazines off the cabinet.
He did all of it with exaggerated businesslike efficiency, like a colonizer planting his flag on conquered territory.
— What are you doing? — Her voice was calm and unsurprised, almost as if she had been expecting this.
— Setting up my relaxation zone, — Pavel replied without turning around as he unpacked the glossy black console. — I bought this with my own money. I’m going to use it in my own free time. You don’t have any objections, do you? I’m simply using your own logic.
He was triumphant.
He had found her weak point.
He had turned her own weapon against her.
Now she would explode. She would start shouting that the television belonged to both of them, that he had no right to take over the living room.
And then her precious “separate budget” system would crack, and he would win.
He connected the console, and the screen lit up with the bright, aggressive opening graphics of a new game.
Lida silently watched him for several seconds.
Then she put her book aside, stood up, and walked not toward him but toward the large comfortable armchair by the window.
It was her favorite chair, bought with her first work bonus.
Pavel smirked, assuming she was simply retreating to her corner.
But Lida did not sit down.
She grabbed the armrests and, with a little effort, pushed the chair out of its place.
Its legs scraped unpleasantly across the parquet floor.
She dragged it out of the living room and into the hallway.
— What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?! — he shouted, stunned by her actions.
She did not answer.
Leaving the chair in the hallway, she returned.
She walked over to the coffee table, the one they had chosen together while laughing in a furniture store.
Without saying a word, she removed the vase from it, grabbed the edge, and methodically dragged the table after the armchair.
Then came the floor lamp, the one that had always filled the room with warm, cozy light.
She simply unplugged it and carried it away.
The living room was emptying before his eyes.
She did not touch the sofa she had been sitting on or the television he had just occupied.
She was taking everything that made the room feel like theirs.
She was removing the comfort, the warmth, the shared memories.
She was leaving him with bare walls, a sofa, and his victorious glowing screen.
When the final item—a stack of their shared photo albums from the table—had disappeared from the room, she stopped in the doorway and looked at him.
There was no anger in her eyes.
No hurt.
Only a cold, withering emptiness.
— I’m simply clearing my half of everything that was bought with my money or paid for equally, — she said calmly. — You were absolutely right. This is your relaxation zone.
So relax.
Only now it really is your zone and yours alone.
Enjoy your game.
There’s nothing “ours” left here anymore…
