Kirill said it without even lifting his eyes from his phone. He sat at our kitchen table in his underwear and a faded tank top, chewing a sandwich and scrolling through his social media feed as casually as if he were commenting on the weather forecast. “Your career can wait.
My mom is coming, and you’re going to stay home with her. This isn’t up for discussion.”
I froze at the stove, the small Italian coffee pot gripped so tightly in my hands that my knuckles went white. My first impulse was to hurl the scalding coffee directly into my husband’s smug face.
My second was to turn on my heel, walk out the door, and slam it hard enough to shake plaster from the ceiling. Instead, I forced myself to take a slow breath and speak in a voice that sounded remarkably calm given the fury building in my chest. “Say that again, please.”
“Oh, Lena, don’t be such a child,” he said, finally glancing up with irritation flickering across his features.
“My mom’s sick. She can’t be alone right now. And you’re sitting in an office all day playing boss.
She needs you more than some company does.”
Outside our Moscow apartment, October rain smeared the windows gray, turning the city into a watercolor painting of bleakness that matched my mood perfectly. I stared at the man sitting across from me—the man I’d been married to for seven years, the father of my five-year-old son, the person I’d shared a bed with, shared debts with, shared dreams of the future with—and I genuinely didn’t recognize him. “Kirill,” I said slowly, setting the coffee pot down before I did something I’d regret, “I’m the head of marketing at a company with annual revenue of half a billion rubles.
I manage a team of eight people and I’m currently overseeing a twenty-million-ruble campaign that launches in three weeks. This isn’t some hobby. This is my career.”
“And?” He shrugged with maddening indifference.
“They’ll find another marketing manager. Companies always do. But I only have one mother, Lena.
She gave birth to me, raised me, devoted her entire life to making sure I had opportunities. And now when she needs help, you’re going to tell me some advertising campaign is more important?”
The coffee pot began to whistle softly. I turned off the burner with more force than necessary and poured two cups as slowly as I possibly could, needing the time to collect my thoughts before I said something that would escalate this into a screaming match.
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