“If you don’t give me money for a vacation, I’ll divorce you!”
The words rang out loud and almost ceremonial. Boris stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at me like a man who had just played his trump card.
I silently put aside the rag I was using to wipe the dishes. I finished drying the wet plate, placed it carefully on the rack, and turned to face my husband.
“Alright,” I replied calmly. “But just clarify: Are you planning to go to the seaside now or get a divorce? I need to know which bag to get you—your sports duffel or should I go straight for the big checkered sack?”
Boris blinked. Clearly, the trump card hadn’t worked. He expected anything—tears, reproaches, panic, long pleas for him to think it over. But definitely not a practical question about packing his bags.
“I’m serious, Lida!” he tried to say in a deep voice, but coughed from nerves. He quickly straightened his windbreaker and tried to look stern. “My nerves are shot!”
“Mine too, Boris. So, let’s settle the bag situation.”
Not finding anything to say, my husband spun around abruptly, his slippers slapping against the linoleum, and disappeared into the bedroom. From there I heard the clatter of drawers being pulled out. He was packing. Loudly, demonstratively, with heavy sighs.
I poured myself some cold tea and sat down by the window.
Our family crisis didn’t start this morning. It had been brewing for exactly three months—ever since the auto company, where Boris had worked for fifteen years, got new management. There were layoffs. My husband, a driver with years of experience, suddenly found himself out of a job.
The first week, we treated it like an unscheduled vacation. Boris caught up on sleep, fixed electrical outlets that had been waiting for years, and made coffee for us in the mornings. I worked as a cook at a school cafeteria, and coming home to the smell of freshly brewed espresso—rather than just my own fatigue—was actually nice.
But the outlets ran out. And with them, so did Boris’s enthusiasm.
Boris settled onto the couch. The job listings he occasionally checked on his phone didn’t suit him at all. One was across the city, another offered 5,000 less than what he was used to, and another had a head dispatcher who, on the phone, seemed ‘a bit sketchy.’
A man on the sofa rusts faster than old plumbing. Speaking of our plumbing—our bathtub had been rusting for ages. The enamel was worn down to a rough gray, and water constantly dripped from the tap. I took extra shifts at the school to save up for a renovation. I would come home with my legs aching as if I’d spent two shifts not at the stove, but on a parade ground.
And then yesterday, Boris got a call from his friends—San Sanych and the guys. Every September, their group took a guys’ trip to the seaside for a week—renting a cheap house, fishing, drinking beer, and taking a break from family life.
“Lida, the guys are heading to the coast,” Boris started in the evening, keeping his eyes trained on the TV. “I need to take my mind off things. I’ve been looking for work for three months—it’s been nothing but stress. Could you spare some cash from your savings?”
At that moment, I was peeling carrots over the sink and I nearly dropped one in shock, missing the trash can completely.
“Borya, I’ve been watching you choose a job for three months. It’s always too early or too late for you. You’re not going to the seaside on my money. Our bathtub is leaking.”
He was terribly offended. How could he possibly tell his friends that he can’t come because his wife didn’t give him money? That’s such a disgrace for a grown man.
And so, this morning, that disgrace turned into a divorce ultimatum.
Boris came out of the bedroom, looking every bit the wounded gentleman. He was holding his old duffel bag. His jacket was buttoned up all the way, even though it was a warm September day. His face was a mix of deep sorrow and injured pride.
“I’m leaving,” he announced, stopping in the kitchen doorway.
I nodded silently.
Boris hesitated a bit. He obviously couldn’t think of a dramatic parting line. Adjusting the strap on his bag, he sighed heavily one more time and left for the hallway. The front door lock clicked shut.
I went to the peephole. Boris was standing by the elevator. His bag was on the floor next to him.
At that moment, the elevator doors opened and our neighbor Fedor stepped out. He’s fifty-six, a driver at the local bakery, always calm and quick with a joke.
“Oh, hey neighbors,” Fedor said in his deep bass, eyeing Boris. “Off on vacation?”
“To my mother’s,” my husband grumbled.
Fedor scratched his stubble.
“Ah. So you found an all-inclusive tour after all. Well, enjoy your break.”
Boris looked away awkwardly, yanked his bag’s strap, and hurried into the elevator.
A couple of minutes later, Fedor rang my doorbell. I opened it. The neighbor handed me a hot, heavenly-smelling city roll—he always brought fresh bread after his shift.
“Lida, I don’t get it—why did our count take off with his suitcases?” Fedor asked as he walked into the kitchen.
I sighed, put the kettle on, and told him everything, just as it happened. About the ultimatum, and the seaside trip, and the bathtub.
Fedor listened silently, breaking off a piece of his own bread.
“I see,” he said at last. “Listen, I offered him a job at the bakery just last week. One guy retired, we have a good truck, a fresh GAZ model. The pay is solid.”
“And what did he say?” I asked.
“He asked what time the shift starts. I told him: leaving at half past five, so fresh bread gets delivered on time.”
But your Boris started waving his hands. He said, ‘Get up at five? I won’t even be human by lunchtime.’ I told him, ‘Borya, you’re already tired of this job just reading the schedule.’ He laughed, but he didn’t take the job.
I shook my head.
“Fedya, what am I supposed to do with him? He’s a grown man, but acting like a teenager denied movie money.”
“He’ll cool off,” the neighbor said confidently. “Tamara Ivanovna runs a strict regime over there. No one gets spoiled for long.”
I smiled. I always loved my mother-in-law. Tamara Ivanovna was old-school—straight as a ruler and just as uncompromising. She adored her son, but she knew how to knock the nonsense right out of him!
I spent the entire next day at work. The cafeteria was filled with the smells of stewed cabbage and sweet vanilla buns. As I stirred a huge kettle of compote with a giant ladle, my thoughts kept drifting back to Boris. Can three months of idleness really change a person that much? He used to be such a hard worker. Sure, he loved to grumble, but he always brought home the money. Now, it feels like he’s just given up.
That evening, I had just kicked off my work shoes and stretched out my aching legs in pure bliss when the phone rang. The screen lit up: “Tamara Ivanovna.”
I tensed up. Mothers-in-law usually call in these situations to blame their daughter-in-laws for being heartless.
“Hello, Lidochka,” my mother-in-law said, her voice lively and loud. “Are you home?”
“I’m home, Tamara Ivanovna. Good evening.”
“Good, good. Put the kettle on. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She hung up. I hurried to the kitchen.
My mother-in-law arrived, carrying a three-liter jar of raspberry jam. She slammed it on the table with a bang, as if it were a cannonball. She took off her light coat, neatly hung it up, washed her hands, and sat down at the table.
“Here’s the deal,” she began before the tea was even ready. “Your poor husband is sitting at my kitchen table, finishing a second batch of dumplings.”
“Is he complaining?” I asked cautiously.
“Of course! He says, ‘I gave her my whole youth, and now she won’t even let me go to a resort.'”
I smirked as I poured hot water into the cups.
“Tamara Ivanovna, you have to understand…”
“Lida, don’t fuss,” my mother-in-law raised her hand authoritatively. “You’re working, paying for that cursed bathtub, feeding him for three months, and now you’re supposed to send him to the seaside too? I’m perfectly sane, Lida. I told him straight: ‘Borenka, don’t lose your sense of proportion.'”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“And how did he react?”
My mother-in-law suddenly stopped smiling. She picked up her cup, warmed her thin, age-spotted hands against it, and looked at me very seriously.
“And this, Lida, is where it gets interesting. At first, he lost his temper. Then, all of a sudden, he just slumped over and looked defeated. Shoulders down, poking at the tablecloth. I cornered him. I said, ‘Why are you acting like a fool? What seaside vacation, when the family’s in a financial hole?'”
She took a small sip of tea.
“You know what he told me? He didn’t want to go relax. He just wanted to keep up appearances in front of San Sanych and the others. He’s embarrassed to admit to the guys that he’s out of work. That nobody needs him anymore.”
I froze. The cup in my hand trembled just a bit.
“What do you mean, nobody needs him?”
“Exactly that, Lida. Fifteen years at the same job. He was even up on the honor board. Then the new, younger guys came in and kicked him out like an old shoe. He’s scared, you see?”
“Scared of what? Work?”
“He’s afraid of being rejected,” Tamara Ivanovna said firmly. “He’s afraid to go look for a new job and be told, ‘You’re too old for us,’ or ‘We don’t need you.’ So he’s looking for flaws in every job opening. Too far, too early. Just any excuse not to go, so he doesn’t have to get slapped in the face by rejection again.”
We fell silent, and all I could hear was the old refrigerator buzzing. In the bathroom, as usual, water dripped with a hollow echo. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Something inside me shifted. Suddenly, I remembered how Boris, in the first weeks after he lost his job, would sit on the edge of the bed for hours, staring off into space. How he nervously flipped channels whenever there were economics news on TV. How he stopped calling his former colleagues.
It wasn’t just laziness. It was a paralyzing, sticky fear of a man who had lost all sense of stability.
“Tamara Ivanovna…” I started softly. “I honestly didn’t realize. I thought he was just taking advantage and sitting back while I did everything.”
“One doesn’t rule out the other,” my mother-in-law snorted, instantly snapping back to her usual tone. “Being scared is one thing. Living off you and threatening you with divorce is another. I’m not making excuses for him. I’m telling you this so you understand: you’re not battling a tyrant, just a frightened fool.”
“So what should I do?” I asked, feeling lost.
“Nothing!” she said decisively, pushing her empty cup away. “Let him sit. My supply of dumplings will run out the day after tomorrow. My pension isn’t coming soon. He’ll get moving soon enough. And you just do what you planned—get that new bathtub installed.”
After my mother-in-law left, I sat alone in the kitchen for a long time.
Everything seemed so clear now. I did feel sorry for my husband. I thought about calling, saying something kind, inviting him home. But my mother-in-law’s words echoed in my head: “It’s okay to be scared. It’s not okay to live off someone else.”
If I call him now, he’ll come back. He’ll go straight back to that couch. And we’ll keep playing the game where I’m the workhorse and he’s the unrecognized genius in depression. No. This cycle has to be broken.
In the morning, I took out my savings. I called the hardware store and ordered a new bathtub. Just a standard steel one, but new, white, and shiny. Made arrangements with the workers to come on Saturday.
Saturday turned out to be a day of local apocalypse. Two grumpy plumbers noisily tore out the old cast-iron monster. Dust filled the air. Half the hallway was blocked with boxes of sealant, pipes, and tools.
I was making coffee for the workers in the kitchen when I heard the door lock click.
Boris was standing in the doorway. With the same sports bag. But he didn’t look nearly as proud as he did three days ago.
He blinked as he took in the mess in the hallway. A hefty plumber shuffled by, dragging a rusty pipe down the stairs.
“What’s this?” Boris asked, pressing himself against the wall.
“Renovations,” I replied briefly, stepping out with a tray. “You here for your stuff? I haven’t packed anything yet, sorry—just haven’t had the time.”
Boris hesitated. He set the bag down. Then he reached into a plastic bag with his other hand and pulled out a round, golden loaf of bread.
“What’s this?” Now it was my turn to be surprised.
“A bribe,” my husband said quietly.
“Not a very good one,” I replied, folding my arms.
Boris sighed heavily. He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook.
“Then I’ll add a confession. I was an idiot.”
A shriek from the grinder in the bathroom forced us to step closer so we could hear each other.
“Fedor called yesterday,” Boris shouted over the noise. “He said one of their guys went on a bender and they needed a replacement right away. So… I went.”
I set the tray down on the counter. My heart was pounding faster, but I tried not to show it.
“And?”
“I start on Monday. It’s a probation period. My shift begins at five thirty.”
He looked at me with a guilty expression, a bit from under his brow. Like a boy who broke a window and then came to confess on his own.
“What about the divorce?” I asked, doing my best to keep my tone strict.
Boris smirked—tired, but genuinely.
“The divorce is off. No one wants to pay for it. My mother gave me a very thorough lesson in financial policy.”
“Now that’s what I call smart saving,” I nodded.
Boris stepped closer and took me by the shoulders.
“Lida, I really was scared back then. That they’d turn me down for the job. That I was too old. And about the sea… I was embarrassed in front of the guys. Like some little kid, honestly. I’m sorry. I still don’t really know how I got myself into that mess.”
He said it simply, without any drama. And in that moment, I realized it was over. The tension that had hung between us for three months popped and drained away, like water into a brand new sewage pipe.
“I forgive you,” I said, placing my hands on his chest. “But just so we’re clear: things won’t go back to how they were. As long as we’re both working, we solve problems together. And if either of us gets tired or scared, we sit down in the kitchen and say, ‘Lida, I’m scared.’ And we don’t use checked bags to frighten each other. Deal?”
“Deal,” he exhaled, relieved, like he’d just dropped a hundred-pound sack. Then he glanced toward the bathroom, where we could hear the plumber loudly complaining about the old pipes. “Hey, are they joining the pipes up right in there? Let me go check…”
And with that, he decisively stepped into the cloud of dust.
Three weeks went by.
Our lives settled into a new rhythm—strange at first, but something about it felt so right. Now the alarm went off at four in the morning. Boris loathed this hour with his entire being. Every morning, he’d groan as he swung his legs off the mattress, making noises as if he was being sent to hard labor.
But he came back a different man. He’d smell of gasoline, fresh bread, and that special confidence men only have when they’re working. He’d share stories about the factory workers, laugh at Fyodor’s jokes, and never once mentioned the sea again.
Our new bathtub gleamed white. I couldn’t get enough of it. Every morning, I’d step in just to enjoy the absolute silence—no more leaks, no dripping, nothing to irritate me.
That Friday, Boris came home from work a little later than usual. I was just taking the pan of cutlets off the stove.
He silently washed his hands, sat down at the table, and placed a thick white envelope in front of me.
I looked at my husband, questioning him with my eyes.
“What’s this?”
“First paycheck,” he said with undisguised pride. “And the advance is in there too.”
I wiped my hands on my apron.
“For the sea?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Boris shook his head.
“No. For the bathtub. You paid for it by yourself, working your school shifts. Now it’s my turn to contribute. Take it, stash it in your savings.”
I wanted to joke. To say something about how my husband was a wealthy man now, or that I’d have to spend this money on a caffeine subscription just to get his eyes open in the morning.
But then I looked at his face. The dark circles under his eyes from waking up early. The callus on his thumb from gripping the stiff steering wheel of the GAZ truck. He was completely serious. It really mattered to him to pay back this debt—to reclaim his place in our family as someone we could depend on.
I smiled and took the envelope. It was fat and heavy.
“Borya, this is too much for just a part of the bathtub,” I said as I opened the flap.
I peeked inside. There were banknotes inside. And wedged in between them was a worn piece of paper, folded in four.
I pulled it out and unfolded it.
It was my work schedule for October—the same one I had printed out a month ago and pinned to the fridge. I had circled all my extra weekend shifts with a red marker, and at the bottom, I had added up how much more I needed to buy the cast-iron pipe and the faucet. The sheet had vanished the day before our argument, and I thought I’d accidentally thrown it away.
The paper was worn along the folds, as if it had been opened and closed dozens of times. There were faint smudges of engine oil on it.
I looked up at my husband.
Boris coughed awkwardly and glanced out the window.
“I took it from the fridge that day,” he said quietly. “Put it in my passport. When I went to the interview, to the factory… Fedor was waiting for me by the gate, and I just sat in the car, afraid to go in. I kept thinking, ‘Who am I kidding? I’m pushing fifty, who would want me with these bread trays?’ I almost started the car and drove off.”
He fell silent, rubbing his knee.
“And then?” I clenched my fingers so he wouldn’t see how nervous I was.
“Then I took out that piece of paper. I looked at your red circles. Three weekends in a row at the stove. And those numbers at the bottom—how carefully you counted every kopeck for pipes.” Boris grinned crookedly. “And I thought, what kind of man am I if my wife is selling her weekends and I’m scared I won’t impress some guy in HR? So I shoved it in my pocket, slammed the car door, and went to apply for the job.”
I gazed at the oily stain on the paper.
Just an ordinary work schedule. Simple numbers written with a red marker. But behind them—our fear, our exhaustion, our silly grudges. And the fact that somehow, we managed to work through it all.
A hot lump suddenly sprang up in my throat. I blinked rapidly, not wanting a tear to slip down my cheek—Boris didn’t like to see me cry.
I carefully folded the paper and tucked it into my apron pocket.
“Thank you,” was all I managed to say.
I walked up behind him, put my arms around his shoulders, pressing my cheek to his warm, stubbly neck. He smelled like bread and home. The safest home in the world.
We never did make it to the sea. But the following summer, when Boris got a few days off, we packed up our old tent, bought some meat, and spent two days camping by a lake in the next region. This time, we paid together.
When Fedor found out, running into us in the hallway with our backpacks, he nodded respectfully:
“See, first you get a job, then you buy a bathtub, and only after that do you take a vacation. That’s a rare order of things these days. I respect that.”
Boris grumbled something good-naturedly in response, I laughed, and we headed toward the elevator.
No one in our family says the word ‘divorce’ anymore. We’ve learned that sometimes, when words are loud or hurtful, it’s not anger behind them—it’s a person who just needs to hear, ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m here. And together, we’ll get through this.’
Even if it means waking up at five in the morning.