When my husband pushed his plate away during dinner with an expression as if I hadn’t served him chicken Kiev but a tax office summons, I already knew: the “big financial reform” was coming. Sergey adjusted his napkin, cleared his throat, and looked past me with the kind of gaze as if he could already see his bright future business on the other side of the wall.
— Lara, I’ve done the math — he said ceremoniously. — Our budget is falling apart because of your financial irresponsibility. Starting tomorrow, we’re switching to separate finances.
The air hadn’t even really tightened yet, but you could already smell the heavy scent of self-deception in it, like fish that had been overcooked for too long. I put down my fork.
— What a brilliant idea, Serzha — I said calmly, with a smile the way one might politely greet their own executioner. — Then I’ll keep my own share as well.
That caught him off guard for a moment. Sergey hadn’t written this version of the script. He expected resistance, argument, drama. Not… cooperation.
— Correct — he nodded self-importantly at last. — I’m saving for status. A man needs status, Lara. And you… well, you’ll get tights, I suppose.
Sergey Anatolyevich had always had a special talent: he could imagine himself as a business lion while actually just surviving as a mid-level manager at a company with plastic windows. For him, “status” usually meant buying expensive notebooks he never used and sharing motivational quotes as if they could increase his bank account.
— Agreed — I said. — Are you going to eat the meat, or does that no longer fit into your strategic vision?
He ate it. Back then, it was still “together.”
The first week of the new world order was a celebration of masculine pride. Sergey walked around the apartment like a self-appointed financial guru who had just discovered the concept of saving. He bought a “premium” planner with a faux-leather cover and carefully logged every expense as if it were the key to Wall Street.
On Wednesday he came home with a bag: two cans of the cheapest beer and a suspicious-looking pack of pelmeni.
Meanwhile, I unpacked my own groceries: trout, avocados, cheeses, fresh vegetables, a bottle of chilled Riesling.
Sergey leaned against the doorframe and watched.
— Living it up? — he asked mockingly. — That’s why we have no savings.
— Not “we,” Serzha — I corrected calmly. — Me. And you’re saving for your status.
He dug into the pelmeni as if that were the taste of victory.
— That’s trash — I remarked.
— What? — he looked up.
— Gas, water, depreciation of the pot, plus dishwashing liquid. If we’re separating everything, let’s be precise.
He froze for a moment.
— Don’t joke, Lara…
— This isn’t a joke. It’s a market relationship.
The phrase “market relationship” sat especially badly with him. As if he suddenly realized romance wasn’t listed in Excel.
On Saturday Anna Leonidovna, my mother-in-law, arrived. She was the kind of woman who could both love you and execute you with a single look.
Sergey immediately started complaining:
— Mom, Lara is even charging for toilet paper!
His mother slowly put down her cup.
— Seryozha… when you wanted “separate finances,” did you think at all, or just make noises?
— I’m optimizing!
— You’re not optimizing, you’re playing adult with monopoly money.
My husband jumped up and stormed out of the kitchen.
— Hysterical — his mother remarked calmly. — Just like his father.
Within two weeks, the “new system” began to fall apart. Sergey lost weight, became nervous, and in the name of saving money started to look more and more like someone running from his own decisions.
Then on Friday evening I came home: on the table were wilted carnations and a bottle of “Soviet Champagne.”
— Lara, sit down — he said solemnly. — I propose a compromise. I’ll contribute five thousand rubles to the joint budget.
I opened an Excel spreadsheet.
— And this is reality.
His eyes ran over the rows: rent, utilities, cleaning, depreciation, “lifestyle expenses.”
— You’re asking me for money in your own wife’s apartment?! — he exploded.
— In the apartment of the woman with whom you’ve chosen separate finances — I corrected calmly.
Silence stretched long. Then he jumped up.
— I’m leaving!
— Good luck, Serzha. Take the pelmeni with you. That’s your investment.
The door slammed.
The apartment’s silence was soft and clean, like after a well-made decision.
My phone pinged: a message from Anna Leonidovna.
“He arrived. Angry. I told him truth is always expensive — just not everyone can afford it.”
I smiled.
“I’m fine. Looking at curtains. From my own budget.”
