“Mom said you’re paying your own bills now,” her husband blurted out.

Sveta stood in front of the bedroom mirror, gently working face cream into her skin. The summer day had only just begun, yet the air already felt thick. Outside, the July sun scorched the pavement, but inside the apartment stayed cool thanks to the AC.

“Another new cream?” Igor asked, peering at her over his newspaper.

“Not new,” Sveta replied evenly. “Same one as last month.”

He nodded and went back to reading. Exchanges like that were normal for them. Igor always took an interest in what Sveta spent, but he didn’t forbid anything. Their money was shared, and each of them spent as needed.

Sveta was an accountant at a major construction company—good pay, steady income. Igor worked as a mechanic at a plant. He earned a bit less, but still decent. Together they lived comfortably: a vacation once a year, small treats whenever they wanted.

From the start of their marriage, Sveta had gotten used to covering her personal expenses herself. Not because Igor demanded it—she simply thought it was fair. Shampoo, conditioner, cosmetics, clothes—she paid for those things. Igor never argued; it seemed natural to him.

“I’m going to my manicure appointment today,” Sveta said at breakfast.

“Fine,” Igor answered, spreading butter on bread. “I’m going to the garage after work with Tolik. We’ll listen to the engine.”

A normal couple’s conversation. Sveta had been seeing her nail technician every week for three years. Her hands had to look neat—especially at work, where she dealt with clients.

Igor never commented on those visits. If anything, he was proud of his attractive wife. Sveta genuinely took care of herself: gym twice a week, regular skincare appointments, good-quality clothes. At thirty-five, she looked younger than her age.

The first warning signs

The first uneasy shift came after a weekend visit from Igor’s mother. Valentina Petrovna arrived as usual—authoritative, outspoken, convinced her opinion belonged in every room.

“Sveta’s running off to the salon again?” she asked when her daughter-in-law went to shower.

“Yeah, manicure,” Igor replied.

“Every week?” Valentina Petrovna shook her head. “Isn’t that excessive?”

“Mom, what’s the big deal? Sveta works. She can afford it.”

“Of course she can,” his mother said. “But why so often? I’ve lived my whole life painting my nails myself. And I look fine.”

Igor shrugged. He’d never once thought about it before.

“And her cosmetics are pricey too,” Valentina Petrovna continued. “I saw them in the bathroom—little jars for three thousand rubles.”

“Mom, so what?” Igor snapped, slightly irritated.

“So what is this: your money is shared. You work hard, you get tired, and then it gets burned on nonsense.”

The conversation ended, but the doubt stayed behind like dust in a corner. Igor began to notice Sveta’s spending—not deliberately, just because his mother’s words kept echoing.

Yes, Sveta bought expensive skincare: creams, serums, masks. Not cheap. Her clothes weren’t designer, but they were quality—and that cost money too.

“Why do you need three pairs of summer boots?” Igor asked one day when he saw a new purchase.

“Why?” Sveta looked surprised. “Different colors. Different outfits.”

“You could’ve bought one pair that goes with everything.”

“I could,” she agreed. “But I like these.”

Igor didn’t argue, but a strange irritation settled in his chest. He’d never cared about “women’s shopping” before, yet now it started to feel like Sveta was spending too much.

The next visit from his mother made things worse. Valentina Petrovna arrived in the middle of a brutal heat wave.

“You’ve completely spoiled her,” she told Igor at dinner while Sveta cooked in the kitchen. “Every week it’s nails, then the cosmetologist. And the house is full of things to do.”

“Mom, what things?” Igor objected. “The apartment is clean. Sveta cooks well.”

“There’s always work,” Valentina Petrovna waved him off. “But she throws money away. Do the math—how much do salons cost you each month?”

Igor finally did. Manicure: about 1,500 a week, so 6,000 a month. Cosmetologist: every two weeks, 3,000 per visit—another 6,000. Twelve thousand rubles a month on “beauty.”

“That’s a lot,” he admitted.

“Exactly,” his mother said, pleased. “And you say nothing. A wife needs direction, not endless indulgence.”

The conflict escalates

That night Igor took a hard look at their finances for the first time. Sveta really did spend a fair amount on herself. But she also earned well—almost as much as he did.

“Sveta, can we talk?” he asked after his mother left.

“Sure,” Sveta replied, putting clean dishes away.

“Don’t you think you go to salons too often?”

Sveta stopped and looked at him.

“Too often how?”

“Every week for nails, then the cosmetologist… maybe you could go less?”

“Why?” she asked honestly. “I like looking good. And we have the money.”

“We do, but we could be more careful,” Igor said cautiously.

“More careful?” Sveta’s eyebrows lifted. “And what exactly are you careful about? Beer with your friends? Fishing trips? New tools for the garage?”

Igor felt his cheeks burn. He’d never considered his own spending “too much.”

“That’s different,” he muttered.

“How is it different?” she pressed.

“It’s… men’s needs.”

“So mine aren’t needs?” Sveta’s voice cooled.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” Igor stalled, not knowing how to explain.

“Understood,” Sveta said, and walked out.

After that, Igor’s comments became frequent. He’d notice a new lipstick, complain when she got ready for another appointment.

“Going to the salon again?” he asked one day.

“Yes,” Sveta answered shortly.

“And our utilities bill isn’t paid.”

“Then pay it,” she said, surprised.

“With what money? You spent everything on ‘beauty.’”

Sveta froze with her bag in her hand.

“What beauty? Manicure is 1,500. Utilities are 8,000. What does one have to do with the other?”

“It has to do with you spending on nonsense,” Igor grumbled.

“Nonsense?” Sveta repeated quietly.

“Well… not nonsense, but… you could live without it.”

Sveta left without another word. Igor stayed behind feeling oddly victorious, as if he’d finally put his wife in her place.

But the victory was hollow. Sveta became closed off, answering in short phrases. And the biggest change—she stopped asking for money for salons. At first Igor felt relieved. Then he got uneasy.

“Are you still going somewhere?” he asked, noticing her nails looked freshly done.

“I am,” Sveta confirmed.

“With what money?”

“Mine.”

“What do you mean yours? Our budget is shared.”

“Apparently not completely,” she said calmly.

Igor didn’t understand what she meant, but he didn’t argue. The main thing, he thought, was that she wasn’t spending “family money” on foolishness anymore.

Then it turned out Sveta had started refusing to pay for much more than beauty appointments. When Igor asked her to transfer money for a treatment, she shook her head.

“I’m not sending money for nonsense,” Sveta said.

“What nonsense?” Igor blinked.

“The kind you said was nonsense,” she replied. “Your logic.”

“I meant your salon trips!”

“And I mean your little extras,” Sveta said, perfectly calm.

“I don’t even have a cosmetologist!” Igor snapped.

“No,” Sveta agreed. “But you do have a massage therapist. Every two weeks. Three thousand a session.”

Igor faltered. It was true—he’d been going for six months. His back hurt from work, and a doctor recommended therapeutic massage.

“That’s treatment!” he protested.

“And my cosmetologist is treatment too,” Sveta shot back. “Problem skin needs professional care.”

“It’s not the same!”

“Why not?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “You treat your back; I treat my skin. What’s the difference?”

Igor felt the argument slipping away, but he didn’t want to back down.

“It’s just different,” he insisted.

“Fine,” Sveta said. “Then pay for your massage yourself.”

From then on, she refused to pay for anything she considered nonessential. New headphones for Igor? He could buy them himself. Dinner out with friends? Also on his own.

“What is going on with you?” Igor demanded after yet another refusal.

“Nothing special,” Sveta said. “I just don’t want to waste money on nonsense.”

“What nonsense? Seeing friends is normal!”

“And taking care of myself isn’t?”

Igor went quiet. Slowly it started to dawn on him: Sveta was simply applying his rules to him.

The breaking point

The peak came at dinner near the end of July. Igor sat at the table setting up a brand-new phone he’d bought the day before. The old one still worked, but he wanted something newer.

“How much was it?” Sveta asked.

“Thirty-five thousand,” Igor answered without looking up.

“Expensive,” she said. “Why replace it?”

“The old one was lagging. This one’s faster.”

“Got it,” Sveta nodded and kept eating her salad.

Igor sensed something in her calm, but he brushed it off.

The next day he discovered his card was being declined at the store. There wasn’t enough money in the account.

“Sveta, where did the money go?” he asked at home.

“What money?” she said, pretending innocence.

“From our shared account. There should’ve been forty thousand.”

“There should’ve been,” Sveta agreed. “But Mom said you’ll pay your own bills now. I’m not responsible.”

Igor froze, mouth open. It hit him like an echo—his own words from months earlier, thrown back at him.

“What did you just say?” he asked, not believing it.

“The same thing you told me,” Sveta replied, still calm. “Mom said you’ll pay your own bills now. I’m not responsible.”

“What mom?” Igor asked, confused.

“Mine,” Sveta said smoothly. “Just like your mom decided I should pay for myself.”

The floor seemed to tilt under Igor’s feet. He’d never imagined his words could return like this.

“But that’s different!” he tried.

“Why?” Sveta lifted her eyes from her plate. “A phone for thirty-five thousand is a necessity, but my manicure for fifteen hundred is ‘nonsense’?”

“The phone is for work!”

“And my manicure is for work,” Sveta replied. “I deal with people. I sign documents.”

Igor understood the logic wasn’t on his side, but he still tried to take control.

“Sveta, let’s not fight over nothing.”

“Nothing?” she repeated and set her fork down. “So when you limit my spending, it’s a principle. But when I apply the same rules to you, it’s ‘nothing’?”

Igor had no answer. Sveta finished her salad in silence, cleared the dishes, and went to the bedroom.

The receipts don’t lie

The next day Sveta took a day off work. Igor assumed she wanted to rest at home. Instead, she sat down at the computer and began pulling up documents.

First, the apartment contract. The place was registered in Igor’s name, but the down payment—1.2 million rubles—had been made by Sveta. They paid the mortgage together, yet Sveta covered most of it because her salary was higher.

Then she gathered receipts for furniture and appliances: refrigerator, washing machine, sofa, kitchen set—nearly everything had been bought with Sveta’s money. Igor contributed symbolic amounts or didn’t participate at all.

Renovation paperwork told the same story. Materials, labor, new windows—Sveta paid for it all. Igor helped physically, but not financially.

“Interesting picture,” Sveta murmured, sliding the papers into a folder.

That evening Igor tried to talk, but Sveta answered in single words and went to bed early.

The next day she called a lawyer she knew. Viktor Mikhailovich had worked in family law for fifteen years and specialized in dividing marital property.

“Sveta? It’s been a while!” he said warmly. “How are you?”

“I need a consultation,” she answered. “Family law.”

“Of course. Come tomorrow at ten.”

The meeting clarified everything. Viktor Mikhailovich studied the documents carefully and gave clear advice.

“This is in your favor,” he said. “Even though the apartment is in your husband’s name, it was effectively purchased with your money. Furniture, appliances, renovation—everything can be proven with receipts and transfers.”

“And what does that mean?” Sveta asked.

“In division of assets, the court will consider your contribution. Most likely you’ll receive a larger share or monetary compensation.”

“And if I want to live separately for a while?”

“Given how much was acquired with your funds, the court can require your spouse to provide alternative housing or compensate you for use of the apartment.”

Sveta nodded. A plan had been forming in her mind for days—now it clicked into place.

“Prepare the documents,” she said. “A claim for property division and a request for temporary separate living arrangements.”

“Are you sure?” the lawyer asked carefully. “Maybe try to settle peacefully first?”

“The peaceful phase is over,” Sveta said firmly.

Two days later the papers were ready. Sveta filed the claim and sent copies to Igor.

Igor found the court notice that evening after work. At first he thought it had to be a mistake. But when he read it properly, he understood: Sveta was serious.

“Sveta!” he shouted, bursting into the bedroom. “What is this?”

Sveta was calmly packing a suitcase.

“Documents for division of property,” she said without emotion.

“Why? Over what?” Igor waved the papers. “We can talk this out!”

“Talk it out?” Sveta turned to him. “Like we ‘talked out’ my spending? You made decisions without me. Now it’s my turn.”

“But it’s different! I just adjusted the family budget!”

“And I’m adjusting the family life,” Sveta replied, unshaken.

Panic surged through Igor. He never believed it could reach divorce.

“Sveta, you ruined everything!” he blurted in desperation.

Sveta stopped and looked at him carefully.

“I just stopped paying for humiliation,” she said quietly.

“Humiliation?” Igor didn’t understand.

“When you can spend on whatever you want, but I’m not allowed even what I need. When my needs are called ‘nonsense’ and yours are ‘important.’ When I’m told to save money while no one limits you.”

Igor opened his mouth to argue—then realized he had nothing.

“We can fix this!” he pleaded. “We’ll go back to how it was!”

“How it was?” Sveta clicked the suitcase shut. “When I carried the family financially and you decided how I should spend my own money?”

“I didn’t carry you! We lived together!”

“Read the numbers in court,” Sveta said. “They show who invested what into this ‘together.’”

She lifted the suitcase and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Igor asked, stunned.

“To rent a place. Until the court decides what belongs to whom.”

“With what money?” Igor tried to jab. “You don’t have money!”

“I do,” Sveta smiled. “The same money I’m not wasting on ‘nonsense’ like manicures.”

The door shut. Igor remained alone in an apartment that suddenly felt чужая—like it belonged to someone else.

Aftermath

The case lasted three months. Viktor Mikhailovich was right: the documents spoke for themselves. Sveta was awarded two-thirds of the apartment or a cash payout. She chose the money.

Igor protested, hired his own lawyer, but the facts were undeniable. Receipts, bank transfers, statements—everything confirmed Sveta’s contribution.

“But we were a family!” Igor snapped in court.

“Exactly,” Sveta agreed. “And family means equality—not one person ruling the other.”

After the divorce, Igor stayed in the apartment, now forced to support it alone. Without Sveta’s salary, life turned out to be much harder. He cancelled the massage appointments, cut back on nights out, and eventually sold the new phone.

Sveta rented a small place downtown. The settlement money made life comfortable. She returned to regular salon visits, enrolled in professional development courses, bought new clothes.

One day they ran into each other by chance at a shopping mall. Sveta looked rested and happy. Igor looked tired and older.

“How are you?” he asked awkwardly.

“Good,” Sveta answered simply.

“Can we talk? I understand my mistakes now.”

Sveta paused for a moment.

“You know, Igor,” she said, “now everyone pays their own way. The difference is—I’m paying for freedom, and you’re paying for the consequences.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Igor to sit with the truth: it’s frighteningly easy to lose someone you never learned to value.