The couch had sagged under Maksim so much that it formed a perfect hollow shaped like his body. Three months was plenty of time for furniture to memorize its owner. The monitor pulsed with a bluish-green light, reflected in his tired eyes. Somewhere in the background, music from the game droned on, and his fingers moved over the keyboard automatically.
“Max, are you even listening to me?” Anya’s voice sliced through his focus like a knife through butter.
“Mm-hm,” he mumbled without looking away from the screen. Five more minutes and he’d beat the level. Just five minutes.
“I’m serious. We need to talk. Now.”
Something in his wife’s tone made Maksim hit pause. He turned and saw Anya standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. A bad sign. A very bad sign.
“What’s wrong?” he tried to sound concerned, though inside he was already regretting being pulled away from the game.
“What’s wrong?” She gave a bitter half-smile. “What’s wrong is my parents just sent us another twenty thousand. For the third time in two months, Max. The third time.”
Maksim shrugged.
“So what? They offered to help until I find something suitable. Your dad said himself he was willing to support us.”
“Suitable!” Anya threw her hands up. “You’ve already been offered three jobs! Three normal positions with decent pay!”
“Anya, come on. That place out in the industrial district—it’s an hour and a half each way. I’d spend three hours a day in traffic!”
“And the second job?”
“The salary was fifteen percent lower than what I used to make,” Maksim grimaced as if she’d suggested something insulting. “I’m an experienced specialist. I can’t devalue myself in the job market.”
“Devalue,” Anya repeated, and there was steel in her voice. “And what about the third option? Good pay, and the office was twenty minutes from home.”
Maksim looked away. Yes, the third one was decent. But the interview had been painfully dull, the HR manager seemed smug, and the would-be boss was too young. He didn’t want to work in that kind of atmosphere. He had the right to choose where he worked, didn’t he?
“The team was weird,” he muttered. “Not for me.”
“Not for you,” Anya echoed. She walked to the window and stared at the evening city. “So what is for you, Max? The couch? Your games? Living off my parents’ money—that suits you?”
“I’m looking for work!” he snapped. “The market’s terrible right now, okay? Crisis, layoffs… you can’t just grab the first thing you see!”
“You’re looking for work,” Anya said slowly, still facing the window. “Tell me—when was the last time you sent out a résumé?”
Maksim hesitated. When was it? A week ago? Two? Or more? He’d meant to do it—he really had—but first he needed to finish one hard quest, then an update came out, then…
“Last week,” he lied. “Sent five or so.”
“You’re lying,” Anya said calmly, turning to him. “I checked your browser history. The last time you visited a job site was three weeks ago. Three weeks, Max. And the rest of the time—games, streams, forums.”
His cheeks burned with outrage. How dare she check his browser? That was a violation of privacy.
“You went through my computer?” his voice rose. “Is that supposed to be normal?”
“Normal?” Anya stepped toward him, and he saw her eyes glistening with tears she was holding back. “You want to talk about normal? Is it normal for a grown man to sit at home all day playing games while his wife works two jobs? Is it normal for my parents—who saved their whole lives for retirement—to be supporting a healthy freeloader?”
“I’m not a freeloader!” Maksim shouted, springing off the couch. “I’m waiting for a decent offer! I’m a professional, I’m not selling myself for pennies!”
“My parents are not obligated to support you, my dear—whether they have money or not!” Anya yelled, her voice cracking at the end. “Get off that couch and find a job. Any job. I can’t live like this anymore!”
Silence dropped over the room—heavy, ringing, full of unsaid blame and hurt. Maksim felt adrenaline boiling in his veins, the urge to keep shouting, to justify himself, to accuse her of not understanding. But when he looked at his wife’s face, he saw something that made him stop.
Exhaustion. Vast, bottomless exhaustion.
“I’m giving you a week,” Anya said quietly. “Seven days. You find a job—any job—or you move out. I can’t do this anymore.”
“You’re joking,” Maksim whispered, thrown off balance. “Anya, this is our home.”
“No,” she shook her head. “It’s my home. My parents gave me this apartment as a wedding present, remember? It’s in my name. And I have every right to decide who lives here.”
“But we’re married!”
“Then act like a husband,” she said, turning toward the door. “A week, Max. Seven days.”
The bedroom door slammed behind her with terrifying finality.
For the first two days, Maksim told himself Anya had just snapped—that it was an empty threat, that everything would settle down. She flared up sometimes, but she always cooled off. He just had to wait out the storm.
He kept playing, though now he turned the volume down when he heard her footsteps and tried, at least, to look busy. He’d open a couple of job sites in another tab—just in case she walked in to check.
Anya barely spoke to him. She came home late, ate dinner in silence, shut herself in the bedroom. At night Maksim heard her crying, but he didn’t know what to say. It felt unfair. He hadn’t lost his job on purpose—the company collapsed, the whole department got cut. That wasn’t his fault. Why should he grab the first offer? He’d earned the right to wait for something worthwhile.
On the third morning, his phone rang. An unknown number.
“Maksim Igorevich? This is Olga from Career Recruiting Agency. I’d like to discuss a sales manager position at—”
He didn’t even let her finish. Sales? He’d never worked in sales and never planned to. That wasn’t his field. He refused politely and hung up.
An hour later, another call. This time it was a technical specialist role with travel to client sites. The pay was even a bit higher than his old job, but Maksim immediately pictured himself hauling heavy equipment around offices, sitting in traffic, dealing with irritated customers. No. Not for him. He was a technical expert, not a courier with a toolbox.
By the evening of the fourth day, Anya silently placed a sheet of paper in front of him. An address and a time—two interviews scheduled for tomorrow.
“I found these openings myself,” she said in a flat voice. “I set up the meetings. You’re going.”
It didn’t sound like a request. It sounded like an order.
“Anya, but I don’t even know what these companies are—”
“You have three days left,” she cut him off. “Three days, Max. I’m not joking.”
On the morning of the fifth day, Maksim reluctantly pulled on the suit he hadn’t worn since his last day at work and went to the first interview. The firm was small, the office cramped and noisy, and his would-be coworkers watched him with poorly hidden skepticism. The position demanded irregular hours and a willingness to “grow with the company,” which usually meant working for an intern’s pay while being fed promises of a bright future.
“We’re a young startup,” the manager said with contagious enthusiasm—a twenty-five-year-old with fanatic fire in his eyes. “We’re changing the market! Yes, at first you’ll have to grind, but later, when we take off—”
Maksim listened with half an ear, thinking only about how to leave as fast as possible.
The second interview was a little better. A normal company, a reasonable director, a sensible salary. Only they needed him to start the day after tomorrow, and Maksim wasn’t mentally ready. He needed time to think it over, weigh the pros and cons, maybe negotiate improved terms…
“We’ll make a decision within two days,” the director said as they said goodbye. “If we approve you, we’ll call.”
That evening Anya asked how it went. Maksim muttered something vague about prospects and opportunities, not mentioning that the first job was a joke to him, and that at the second he hadn’t exactly tried to impress.
The sixth day slipped by in anxious emptiness. No calls. Maksim sat at his computer, but even games no longer felt good. He sensed the pressure closing in, but he still hoped Anya would back down, forgive him, give him more time.
The seventh day began with a call. The second company offered him the position. He could start as soon as tomorrow. Maksim asked for a day to think—this was an important decision; you couldn’t make it in a rush.
“Alright,” they said. “We’ll wait for your answer until this evening.”
He ended the call and went still. There it was—a real offer. Normal work, decent money, close to home. He just had to say yes. One word.
But something inside him dug in its heels. What if something better showed up tomorrow? What if he rushed and missed a truly great chance? Maybe he should wait just a little longer.
That evening Anya came home and quietly started packing his things into a bag.
“What are you doing?” he sprang up from the couch.
“Seven days are up,” she said evenly, though her hands were shaking. “Did you find a job?”
“I got an offer!” he blurted. “They called this morning! I start tomorrow!”
She froze with his shirt in her hands, then slowly turned to him.
“Really?”
“Yes. I swear. Want me to show you the call on my phone?”
Anya sank onto the edge of the bed. For a moment, hope flickered on her face—small, cautious, but real.
“And you accepted? You gave them a definite answer?”
Maksim hesitated. Just a second—but it was enough.
“I… I said I’d give them my answer tonight. But I’ll take it, of course! I just wanted to think it through…”
The hope went out. Anya stood up again and kept folding his clothes.
“Anya, wait! I’m telling you I’ll say yes! I’ll call right now and confirm!”
“No,” she said softly. “Don’t. I understand now. You were hoping until the very last moment that I’d back down, weren’t you? That I’d give you more time—another week, another month. And then more. You would’ve sat on that couch while my parents spent their last savings.”
“That’s not true!” His voice sounded desperate even to himself. “I really was looking! I went to interviews!”
“You went because I forced you to,” she said, zipping the bag and holding it out to him. “You don’t want to work, Max. You want to be comfortable. You want everything to be perfect—prestigious job, high salary, short commute, pleasant team. But life doesn’t work like that. Sometimes you do things you don’t like because you have responsibilities. Because you’re an adult.”
“I am an adult!” he almost shouted.
“No,” she shook her head. “Adults take responsibility for their choices. Adults don’t live off other people. Adults don’t lie to their wives and hide from reality in computer games.”
Maksim wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. Because somewhere deep down, he knew she was right. He’d watched her work two jobs, come home drained, look anxiously at the bills. He’d heard her father joke that he had to postpone repairs at the country house because “the young ones need help.” Maksim had seen all of it—and he’d refused to feel guilty. Because admitting guilt meant admitting he’d failed, that he’d messed up, that he couldn’t handle it.
“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered. “I really didn’t.”
“I know,” sadness crept into her voice. “But what we mean isn’t enough. What matters is what we do. And you did nothing.”
She opened the door, and Maksim understood this was the end. Real. Final.
“Anya…”
“Go stay with your parents,” she said without looking at him. “Pull yourself together. Find a job—any job. Maybe when you’re yourself again, we’ll be able to talk. Or maybe we won’t.”
He took the bag and stepped into the hallway. He turned back—she stood in the doorway, pale, eyes red, but determined to go through with it.
“I love you,” Anya said. “But that’s not enough. I’m sorry.”
The door closed.
His parents received him in silence. His mother lifted her hands in alarm, his father frowned, but no one asked questions. They made a bed for him in his old room, where student-year posters still hung and textbooks gathered dust on the shelf.
That first night, Maksim didn’t sleep. He lay staring at the ceiling, replaying the last few months. How it had started with a simple, “I’ll take a short break,” how the break turned into weeks, the weeks into months. How every day he pushed unpleasant decisions to “tomorrow,” hoping tomorrow would somehow solve itself.
In the morning, he called the company that had offered him the job. He apologized for being late with his answer and said he accepted. He’d start the very next day.
“I’m sorry,” the secretary replied. “But last night we hired another candidate. We waited for your call until six p.m., like we agreed. After that, we offered the position to the next person on the list.”
Maksim lowered his phone. So this was what it felt like—missing a chance. Not an abstract idea, but something real and concrete.
The days that followed blurred into a haze of searches, calls, interviews. He sent out résumés by the dozen, went to meetings without even properly learning what the companies did. He just went—because sitting still had become unbearable.
Two weeks later, he got an offer. Not the most prestigious job, not the best salary. An ordinary specialist position at a mid-sized company. But it was work. Maksim accepted on the spot.
On his first day, walking home—to his parents’ place, because he had no other home now—he texted Anya: “Started work today. I’m sorry for everything.”
Her reply came a few hours later: “I’m glad for you. But I filed for divorce this morning. I’m sorry.”
Maksim sat down on a bench by the entrance and stared at the phone for a long time. He had finally done what was expected of him—but it turned out he’d done it too late.
Some mistakes can be fixed. Others can’t. No matter how correct your next steps are, they don’t erase the consequences of earlier choices—or, more precisely, earlier inaction.
He stood up and went inside—to a house that would never truly be his. Because his home, his life, his future were still back there, behind a closed door, in the apartment he’d essentially lost by refusing to change until it was too late. Not his wife’s cruelty, not spite, not injustice—just the simple unwillingness to grow up before the deadline hit.
And that was the bitterest truth he’d ever had to admit.