“Marina, we really need to optimize our expenses. Look, I’ve calculated everything in Excel…”Kirill tapped the laptop screen with his index finger, the way people do when they want numbers to look indisputable. “The numbers just don’t add up.”
I slid the frying pan into the sink and turned on the tap. Water roared against metal, partially drowning out his voice, though the essence of it still came through clearly enough.
Kirill sat at the kitchen table with the solemn expression of a chief financial officer of a multinational corporation—despite the fact that he merely headed a logistics department. At home, his main area of expertise was the couch.
“What exactly doesn’t add up?” I asked, drying my hands on a towel.“Your spending.” He turned the laptop toward me. “Look here: household chemicals—three thousand.
Food—twenty-five. Then some vague category called ‘cosmetics.’ Marina, we’re literally eating through my dream. I found an amazing deal—a used Japanese SUV. Absolute beast.
If we tighten our belts now, in six months I can take out a loan and have enough for the down payment.”I sat down across from him, slowly.
“Tightening our belts means what exactly?” I asked. “No detergent? Living on pasta and air?”“Don’t dramatize.” He straightened his back, visibly enjoying the role.
“We just need control. So I’ve made a decision. Enough of you scattering my money. Starting next month, we switch to separate finances. Utilities—fifty-fifty.
Everyone feeds, clothes, and entertains themselves. My salary is the foundation—I’m saving for the car. Yours is… well, for women’s things and your personal upkeep.”
I blinked once. Then again.Had he really just said that out loud?“Wait,” I said carefully. “So you save for a car, and I just… live on my own income? And who cooks? Who cleans the apartment?”
“Well, you do.” He smiled indulgently, almost warmly. “That’s kind of your default setting anyway. And if you only cook for yourself, it won’t take much time.”
Something clicked inside me at that exact moment.There was no anger. No urge to cry. No desire to argue. Just a cold, clear calm, like glass settling into place.
“Perfect,” I said. “Separate finances it is. Starting tomorrow.”Kirill blinked. He had clearly expected resistance—tears, accusations, maybe a dramatic speech. Instead, he got full agreement.
“See?” he nodded with satisfaction. “Good girl.”The very next morning, I divided the refrigerator. Top shelf—his. Bottom shelf—mine. I did the same in the bathroom, drawing an invisible but very real border on the shelf.
Toothpaste. Creams. Razors. Each to their side.Kirill was thrilled with himself. On Saturday, he returned from the discount store carrying two massive plastic bags like trophies.
He laid out the contents on the table: gray pasta of unknown origin, nameless frozen patties, a stick of pink imitation sausage, and a sack of potatoes.
“Look at this!” He waved the receipt in front of my face. “Two thousand. Enough for two weeks. And how much do you spend? Exactly.”That evening, the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt oil and cheap onions.
The patties hissed in the pan, shrinking into sad little ovals as they cooked.I came in later. I grilled turkey steaks, made a fresh salad with avocado and olive oil, and poured myself a glass of water. I sat across from him at the table.
He was chewing his patty slowly, determinedly.“Well?” I asked. “Tasty?”“It’s fine,” he said after a pause. “Manly food. Filling.” His eyes flicked to my plate. “You get a bonus or something?”
“No,” I replied calmly. “This is my budget, Kirill. I’m not saving for a car.”Three days later, he ran out of shampoo. I saw his hand reaching toward my bottle—and intercepted it.
“That’s mine,” I said. “Professional line. Yours is at the store. The ‘three-in-one’ you like.”“You’re serious?” He stared at me. “We’re really going to fight over a drop of shampoo?”
“We’re not fighting,” I said. “We’re following principles.”A week later, his mother arrived.Zinaida Pavlovna considered Sunday visits a sacred ritual. A lavish table.
Homemade cutlets “for her little boy.” Complaints about my generation sprinkled generously on top.This time, I greeted her in a robe, with eye patches under my eyes and a cup of coffee in hand.
“Why is it so quiet?” she asked suspiciously. “Where’s lunch?”“European model,” I replied pleasantly. “Separate finances. I already ate with a friend. Kirill will cook for himself.”
“PELME—WHAT?!” she exclaimed, clutching her chest.The performance was impeccable.After she left, Kirill turned to me, pale and tense.
“Are you happy now? My mother almost fainted.”“Not me,” I said softly. “You.”By the end of the month, he barely resembled himself. Constant stomach pain. Skin rashes. Permanent fatigue. He moved through the apartment like a ghost.
I, on the other hand, was glowing.One night, I woke up to a quiet rustling sound. I walked into the kitchen and found him standing by the refrigerator, knife in hand, cutting a piece from my cheese.
“Enjoy your meal,” I said.He froze. Then slowly sat down at the table.“I was stupid,” he said finally. “I didn’t understand what you were actually doing with the money.”
“You’ve learned,” I replied.We returned to shared finances. With new rules. Clear ones.Now, on Saturdays, Kirill grills steaks. Not always successfully. Sometimes they’re dry, sometimes overdone.
But I know exactly how much they cost.And that, in the end, is their real value.
