When Andrey adjusted the napkins on the table for the third time that evening, I realized my patience was almost gone. Not his—mine. He hovered over the place settings like a general studying a battle map, lips twisted in disapproval.

“Len, why did you set the glasses like that? Can’t you see they’re crooked?”

I looked. The glasses were perfectly aligned—I’d even checked with a ruler. Still, I stayed quiet, picked up two of them, and moved them a millimeter to the left. Andrey nodded, satisfied, like a professional critic.

“That’s better. Listen—are you sure you made the Olivier salad using my mother’s recipe? The guys are used to real food, you know?”

Real food. I’d spent three days cooking this damn dinner. Three days choosing ingredients, marinating meat, chopping and prepping, baking a pie. My back hurt from standing in the kitchen, and my fingers still smelled like onions no matter how hard I scrubbed.

“Exactly by the recipe,” I said in an even tone.

“Great.” Andrey checked his watch. “They’ll be here in half an hour. Put on something decent, okay? Not those… house rags of yours.”

“House rags” meant jeans and a sweater. Normal clothes. But I swallowed it again and went to the bedroom. I chose a black dress—the one Andrey once called sexy. That was four years ago, early in our marriage, when he still looked at me with interest instead of like a live-in maid.

In front of the mirror I paused and studied myself. Thirty-two, with the exhaustion of forty etched into my face. When did it happen? When did I stop being Lena—the designer who worked, who went to exhibitions—and become “Elena Sergeyevna,” the wife of a successful project manager?

It started five years ago, when Andrey got promoted. His salary doubled, and we decided I could quit my job.

“Just for a while,” he’d said. “Until we settle in, until you rest.”

I’d been “resting” for five years. Resting so thoroughly I didn’t have a single free hour in a day.

At first, it was actually good. We moved into a new apartment, and I threw myself into the renovation—choosing furniture, making the space ours. Andrey came home tired, and I met him with dinner, massages, care. He was grateful. He called me his lifesaver.

Then came another promotion. And another. His paycheck grew with his ambitions. He worked twelve-hour days, came home and talked about projects, dumb coworkers, an idiotic boss. I listened, nodded, reheated dinner. And then he started finding fault.

At first, it was little things. The soup was too salty. His shirts weren’t pressed right. The fridge was messy. I tried harder, did everything better—but the criticism didn’t shrink. It multiplied. And it got sharper.

And then the “jokes” appeared.

“Lena’s got absolutely no sense,” Andrey would tell his mother on the phone. “Yesterday she managed to hang a picture crooked. Spent an hour digging around with the drill, and I still had to redo it. Her hands are growing out of the wrong place—what can you do?”

Or:

“You should see how my wife drives! Yesterday she spent half an hour trying to park. I almost got out and parked the car myself, honestly. Women behind the wheel—it’s a medical condition.”

Or:

“Lena mixed up a store sale again. Dragged home ten packs of pasta because ‘it was cheap.’ And it’s cheap because it’s about to expire! Expired! What do you even do with a woman like that?”

Every time, he laughed—light, carefree—as if it were genuinely hilarious that his wife was stupid and helpless. And I stood beside him and forced a smile too, because “it’s just a joke, Len, why are you so sensitive?”

But the worst evenings were when Andrey came home completely drained. Then he’d sit down and launch into his monologue: what an idiot his boss, Vadim Petrovich, was; how Masha spent a week making a presentation and still did everything wrong; how Seryoga from the neighboring department was dumb as a cork but somehow earned more; how Director Kovalyov only landed his role by accident—connections, no brains.

I listened and stayed silent. Because that was my job: listen. Feed him. Clean. Listen. That was the entire “function” of the successful man’s wife.

And then the “Horizon” project happened.

Andrey worked on it for four months. A huge contract, million-dollar figures, important clients. He came home after midnight, got up at six, lived on nerves and coffee. And three days ago the project closed—successfully, above plan, with bonuses for the whole team.

“Len,” Andrey said, shining like a Christmas tree, “we did it! The director even praised us personally. Listen—let’s celebrate. We’ll invite the team, do it properly. You don’t mind, right?”

Of course I minded. Because “celebrate” meant I’d spend three days cooking, cleaning, setting the table. Smiling at strangers. Carrying plates. Being the hired help in my own home.

But I said, “Of course, honey. How many people?”

“Eight to ten. The closest ones from the project. You understand how important this is for my career, right?”

I understood. I always understood.

And there I was again in the mirror, in my black dress, putting on lipstick and thinking how tired I was—tired of understanding everything.

The guests started arriving at eight. The first was Seryoga—the same one Andrey liked to call dumb as a cork. A cheerful guy in his thirties, with flowers for me and a bottle of good whiskey for the host.

“Elena, thank you so much for having us!” He shook my hand so sincerely it almost made me uncomfortable. “Andrey talks about you all the time.”

I wondered what, exactly, he said—but I smiled.

“Come in. Make yourselves at home.”

After Seryoga came the others. Masha—the one who supposedly made a “crooked” presentation for a whole week—turned out to be a pretty girl with smart eyes. Kolya, Dima, Oleg—everyone polite, everyone thanking me for the invitation. And then Vadim Petrovich arrived, the department head Andrey loved to tear apart over dinner.

“Andrey Viktorovich!” Vadim Petrovich shook my husband’s hand. “Excellent work. I’m glad you organized this evening.”

Andrey was glowing. He loved praise, admiration. As a child he’d been an average student, the unnoticed boy—now he was making up for it.

I carried appetizers, poured drinks, smiled. The classic role. Everyone was polite, thanked me for every dish, praised the salads. Andrey accepted their compliments as if he’d been standing at the stove for three days himself.

“Yes, Lena and I really worked hard,” he’d say, and I would silently set the hot dishes on the table.

When everyone sat down and started eating, the conversation moved to the project, work, plans. I sat at the end of the table and tried not to take up space. Andrey was in his element—talking, joking, soaking in congratulations. And then he shifted into storytelling.

“You know, guys, this is actually the second celebration at our place this week,” he announced, turning to me with that patronizing smile. “Lena had a big accomplishment of her own the other day.”

Everyone looked at me. I went tense.

“She managed to spend an hour parking at the mall. An hour, Seryoga! I was about to call a tow truck to put the car in the right spot.”

Laughter. Not loud—more polite than real. I gripped my fork.

“Andryusha, why are you doing this?” I tried.

“Oh, come on, it’s funny!” He was already warmed up. “And remember when you tried to hang that picture? Guys, you should’ve seen it! She fought with the screwdriver for an hour, holes in the wall like after shelling, and the picture still ended up crooked. I had to redo it myself. Such golden hands, what can I say!”

Seryoga laughed louder than everyone—clearly deciding that was the correct tone. Masha exchanged a look with Oleg but said nothing. Vadim Petrovich pretended to focus on his salad.

“And I still don’t get it,” Andrey continued, “how you can mess up a sale in the store. It’s written in plain Russian! But no—Lena managed to buy ten packs of expired pasta. I’m like, ‘Len, check the date!’ And she goes, ‘But it was cheap!’ An economist, damn it.”

Now the laughter grew. Especially Seryoga, who really got going—apparently thinking this was how you keep the mood. Andrey was pleased with himself. He told one story after another, and with each one I felt irritation rising like a tide.

He told them how I mixed up salt and sugar in a pie. How I couldn’t figure out the new washing machine and called a technician—because “you just had to read the manual.” How I bought him a shirt in the wrong size even though he’d “said a hundred times—size forty-two.”

“But I still love her,” he concluded generously. “Even if she’s a total mess.”

And he patted my shoulder. My shoulder—like I was a dog.

I stared at Andrey. At his pleased face, his smug grin. At the way he collected applause for my three days of work. At the way he laughed at my “mistakes”—most of which never even happened. Parking took five minutes, not an hour. The picture is straight. I never bought any pasta at all—he did, then forgot.

But he needed a story. Needed roles: the successful husband and the foolish wife. It played well for an audience, made him the star of the evening. What I felt didn’t matter.

“You know,” I said suddenly, and my voice surprised even me with how calm it sounded, “Andrey really is good at telling funny stories. Especially the work ones.”

Andrey turned to me, still smiling.

“Oh, come on, Len, what work stories…”

“No, really—hilarious,” I continued, smiling just as brightly. “For example, the ones about Vadim Petrovich. Andrey often tells me how you fall asleep in meetings. How you forgot three times in a row what project you were even discussing. That you bought your diploma, and got your position through connections.”

Silence dropped over the table—heavy as a cast-iron lid. Vadim Petrovich stopped chewing. Andrey went pale.

“Lena, what are you—”

“And about Seryoga,” I added, turning to Seryoga, who was staring at me with his mouth open. “Andrey says he’s dumb as a cork. And that you make more money even though you can’t do anything. Lucky, basically.”

“Shut up, Elena!” Andrey jumped up from his chair.

“And Masha,” I looked at her, “Masha made a crooked presentation for a week, right? Andrey told me every evening how incompetent you are. And that the only reason they keep you is because you’re pretty.”

Masha flushed red. Oleg pushed his plate away.

“And there are even better stories about Director Kovalyov—how he’s a complete zero, got the job by accident, has no brains, only connections. Andrey even wanted to write a petition to get him removed.”

“Enough!” Andrey grabbed my wrist. “What the hell are you saying? Are you out of your mind?”

I pulled my hand free and stood up. Everyone stared at me like I’d lost it. Maybe I had. Maybe I was insane from five years of humiliation, mockery, from being turned into a servant and a joke.

“I’m just sharing funny stories,” I said evenly. “Isn’t that what we do to entertain guests? We tell amusing stories about the people close to us.”

“Elena Sergeyevna,” Vadim Petrovich said slowly as he rose, “I think it’s time for us to go.”

“Vadim Petrovich, I can explain,” Andrey darted between his boss and me. “She’s joking, it’s all not true, I never—”

“Joking?” Masha stood up too. “So you didn’t say I’m only here because of my looks?”

“Masha, that’s not what I meant—you know—”

“Dumb as a cork,” Seryoga repeated, and there was no laughter left in his voice. “Interesting. And I thought we were friends.”

People began gathering their things. Andrey tried to stop them, tried to explain it was a misunderstanding, that his wife was acting strange, that he never said those things, that I made it up. No one listened. They quietly took their coats, said stiff goodbyes, and left.

Vadim Petrovich was the last one out. At the door he turned back to Andrey.

“Come to my office on Monday. We’ll talk about your future at the company.”

The door closed. We were alone.

Andrey stood in the middle of the living room, pale, his hands shaking. Then he slowly turned to me.

“Do you… do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I do.”

“You destroyed my career! They’ll fire me! Because of your stupid revenge!”

“Not because of my revenge.” I started clearing the plates, avoiding his eyes. “Because for years you’ve been trashing your coworkers, humiliating them, laughing at them. I just repeated what you yourself have been saying.”

“That was between us! At home! I was blowing off steam, do you get it? I had the right!”

“And I didn’t?” I snapped, spinning toward him. “I didn’t have the right to tell you it hurt? That it was humiliating? That I didn’t want to be the punchline at your work parties?”

“I was joking, Lena! They were jokes!”

“No.” I shook my head. “They weren’t jokes. It was humiliation. Systematic humiliation. You turned me into a servant, and then into a court jester. And tonight you decided to put that on display in public.”

“It was an important night for me! I needed to—”

“You needed to feel big at my expense,” I finished for him. “To show everyone what a great guy you are next to your ‘stupid’ wife. Well, I helped you out. I showed them what a great guy you are next to your ‘dumb’ colleagues and your ‘incompetent’ boss.”

Andrey collapsed onto the couch and grabbed his head.

“What am I supposed to do now? They’ll fire me, Lena. We’ll be broke.”

“I’ll find a job,” I said calmly. “I haven’t worked in five years, but I’m a designer. A good one. I’ll find something.”

“You?” He laughed, but it came out hysterical. “You—the one who can’t hang a picture? Who can’t read price tags?”

“Me—the one who’s been running your household for five years,” I answered. “Budgeting, shopping, managing repairs, handling every daily problem. While you came home and complained about your life. I’ll manage.”

He stared at me like I was a stranger.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely. And I’m filing for divorce.”

A long silence settled between us. Andrey sat motionless, then asked quietly:

“Why?”

I looked at him—this man I’d lived with for seven years. Who used to be my love, my support, my future. Who turned into a tyrant without even noticing it.

“Because in five years you never once said thank you,” I said. “Not once—for dinner, for a clean apartment, for ironed shirts. But you criticized me hundreds of times. Humiliated me thousands. And tonight, when I worked myself to the bone for three days so your celebration would be perfect, you didn’t even think to say ‘thank you.’ You only thought about how to make the guests laugh at what a screw-up I am.”

“Lena…”

“I’m tired, Andryush.” My voice softened. “I’m so tired of being your maid and your clown. I want to be a person. A whole person. A wife who’s respected, not merely tolerated.”

“I respect you.”

“No. You respect your career. Your projects. Your ambitions. You treat me like furniture—useful, familiar, but not worth noticing.”

Andrey said nothing. What was there to say? It was true, and he knew it. Maybe for the first time in years, he finally understood.

I went into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. I sat on the bed and cried—not from self-pity, not from anger. From relief. Because I finally said everything that had been piling up for years. Because I did the thing I’d been afraid to do for so long.

It was quiet on the other side of the door. Andrey was probably still sitting in the living room among dirty plates and the scraps of a celebration that was supposed to be his triumph—and became his collapse.

On Monday, he really was fired. Vadim Petrovich said toxicity in the team was unacceptable, and the company didn’t need employees who undermined corporate ethics. Andrey tried to defend himself, insisted it was all a misunderstanding, but it was too late. Far too late.

I found work three weeks later. A small design studio, a young team, modest pay. But I felt alive again. I was Lena again—not “Andrey’s wife.” I mattered again, not as a servant, but as a professional.

The divorce went through quietly, without drama. Andrey found a new job—his salary was lower, and it taught him to value what he’d had. Or at least, I hope it did.

Sometimes I think about that evening—how I “joked” so hard my husband lost his job. Some people judge me, say it was petty, that I shouldn’t have taken revenge like that. Others understand and say he brought it on himself.

And I think we were both at fault. Him—for forgetting I was a person, not a function. Me—for staying silent too long, enduring too much. I should’ve spoken earlier, gentler, calmer.

But sometimes people don’t hear words. They only hear actions. And what I did that night was a scream—a desperate, destructive scream from someone who could no longer stay quiet.

I don’t regret it. Because after that evening, I got my life back. I got myself back. And that is worth more than any career, any status, any comfortable but dead marriage.

My husband mocked me in front of guests—and in the end I “joked” so hard he lost his job. But I found myself again. And that was a fair price.