That morning, Irina noticed something was off.
“Why are you so quiet?” she asked her husband, Sergey, watching him stir his coffee absentmindedly.
“Nothing,” he replied flatly.
“Come on, I know you. What’s going on?”
“I got fired,” he finally admitted, rubbing his temples as he leaned over the table.
It didn’t come as a complete shock. Sergey had struggled at work for months—often late to client meetings, sometimes forgetting important calendar events. Despite Irina pulling strings to get him a sales job at her friend’s company, things hadn’t worked out.
“Sergei, you’re an adult,” she sighed. “You can’t be so careless. I vouched for you.”
Irina, meanwhile, was thriving. Over the past year, she had doubled her salary and received multiple awards at work. She was known as sharp, capable, and highly motivated. Their roles in the relationship had shifted more than either of them had expected when they married two years ago.
They were living with Sergey’s mother, Alexandra Petrovna, in her spacious apartment. It was a temporary arrangement to save for their own home. Irina paid for groceries, utilities, and even Sergey’s work wardrobe. Alexandra adored her daughter-in-law and was proud of her success—at least, on the surface.
“My son is an artist,” she’d often say. “He has a creative soul. Not everyone is meant for office life.”
“I understand,” Irina would reply, “but until his art brings in income, we both need to contribute.”
When Sergey lost his job, Alexandra was distraught—but not at her son. Instead, she blamed the company, the management, and even the nature of corporate work.
“Ira, he had exhibitions!” she insisted.
“That’s great,” Irina replied calmly. “But for now, he needs a job that pays the bills.”
“Well,” Alexandra shrugged, “you have a good income. You could give him some time to explore his art again.”
“That would mean postponing our own apartment. It’s a difficult choice.”
“Then let’s trust life to sort it out,” the older woman said vaguely.
—
Irina had met Sergey at a friend’s party. He had just come from an unsuccessful art show and was feeling down. She was there to unwind after a long day. The two connected instantly—she was drawn to his sensitivity, and he was captivated by her confidence. He brought her flowers, wrote poems, and even painted her portraits. For a while, their whirlwind romance felt like something out of a movie.
But as time passed, Irina’s career took off while Sergey’s art brought more frustration than success. Still, they married, pooling funds with help from Irina’s family. She believed in him—or at least, in the version of him he showed in the beginning.
Now, each morning she left for work while Sergey lingered at home.
“Can you grab groceries and cover the internet bill?” he called from the kitchen one morning.
“Sure. Have you checked for job offers?”
“I’m going to the studio today,” he replied. “I’ve had a burst of inspiration.”
“I’m glad,” Irina said, adjusting her coat. “But we still need a plan for the future.”
“Don’t worry—we’ll get there. Artists who succeed can earn a fortune. It’ll be worth the wait.”
She didn’t argue. She just left.
That evening, as she came in carrying heavy grocery bags, Alexandra was at the stove.
“Oh, Ira. The fridge keeps rattling again. We might need a new one.”
“Okay,” Irina replied. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, dear. Let me help you with those.”
Since Sergey lost his job, Irina had handled nearly everything. And yet, she tried to keep the peace—for Sergey, and for the life they were building.
—
One day, Irina came home earlier than usual. She was slipping off her shoes when she heard her name from the kitchen. Alexandra was on the phone.
“… Ira got him that job, and he lost it again. But she keeps pushing him to work! What can you do?” the older woman said with a sigh.
Irina paused.
“What do you mean, ‘on whose money’? We’ll live off her—she has a good salary,” Alexandra continued. “Let her take care of us. I won’t make my Sergeychka do something he doesn’t love.”
Irina’s heart sank.
“She chose an artist. Let her support his genius,” Alexandra said firmly.
Irina stepped silently into the hallway and went to her room. Sergey wasn’t home, which made it easier to hear the rest of the conversation.
“Good thing she has a good income. At least I don’t have to dip into my pension,” Alexandra finished before ending the call.
Soon after, Sergey came in.
“Mom! I painted Yana again today. She really gets my work. She said I’m a true artist!”
“Oh, my boy, that’s wonderful!” Alexandra beamed. “Irina never understood your creativity. But Yana—she sees your soul.”
Sergey laughed. “Finally, someone who believes in me. This could be the start of something big.”
Irina had heard enough.
—
She stepped out of the room, calm but firm.
“So, you’re both happy living off me?” she asked quietly.
“Ira! You’re home early,” Sergey said, reaching for her.
She stepped back. “Don’t.”
“What’s going on?” Alexandra asked.
“I’m done. I’m not your provider anymore.”
She packed her things in silence. As she zipped up her last suitcase, Sergey stood in the hallway, confused.
“Ira… don’t go. We didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know exactly what you meant,” she said. “And one more thing: I hope someday you find success in whatever you do. But it won’t be at my expense.”
Then she looked at Alexandra.
“And for the record—I’ve always known your borscht wasn’t homemade.”
With that, she wheeled her suitcases out the door and didn’t look back.
Irina never saw Sergey again. Whether he became the great artist he dreamed of—or simply continued to dream—remained unknown.
But as for Irina, she finally stepped into a life where she could flourish on her own terms. And that, perhaps, was her greatest masterpiece.
