Nika always tried to be the perfect wife for Lev.
Like a polished display, she cooked, cleaned, and kept everything in order. What she didn’t realize was that her constant effort to please others was slowly eroding her own identity.
One Sunday morning, while preparing breakfast, Nika heard Lev enter the kitchen, his voice drowsy but expectant.
“Morning,” he mumbled sleepily. “Is breakfast ready?”
Nika smiled and reached for mushrooms and tomatoes from the fridge to make an omelet. She also started brewing fresh coffee.
Lev walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“You’re the lady of the house, right?” he said with a tone that made Nika uneasy—he usually used that tone before delivering unpleasant news.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, turning to face him, eyes narrowing.
“Nothing big,” Lev replied, looking away. “Just… Mom and Kristina are coming over for lunch.”
Nika sighed. In Lev’s family, “just for a little while” often turned into several hours. She clenched her hands, hiding her tension.
“What time are they coming?” she asked, her voice tight.
“Around one or two,” Lev said, then added, “And Kristina’s bringing the kids.”
Nika counted silently to ten. Kristina’s six-year-old twins weren’t just naughty—they were a force of nature. After their visits, the apartment often looked like a disaster zone.
“Fine,” Nika murmured, pulling out a frying pan and turning on the stove, trying not to show her frustration. “I might need to run to the store. We don’t have enough food.”
“You know how much Mom loves your cooking,” Lev said, trying to hug her. Nika subtly pulled away. She didn’t need his flattery now.
In truth, Varvara Dmitrievna always found something to criticize: too salty, undercooked, too plain.
By two o’clock, the apartment sparkled. A meat and potato roast filled the kitchen with a savory aroma, and Varvara’s favorite cake chilled in the fridge.
The doorbell rang at 2:15 sharp. Nika adjusted her apron and answered the door.
“Niku-sha!” Varvara stormed in, her coat flying. “How are you, dear?”
Kristina followed with the twins, who immediately dashed into the living room—shoes still on.
“Kids! Shoes!” Nika said firmly.
“Let them be,” Varvara dismissed with a wave. “They can’t sit still anyway.”
Nika winced at the muddy footprints now decorating the bright carpet. She often wondered why no one made the kids remove their shoes, but no one ever listened.
“What’s for lunch?” Kristina asked as she stepped into the kitchen. “Oh, casserole? I made one like that last week with mushrooms. It was amazing!”
Varvara smiled from the table. “Kristina should teach Niku-sha a few tricks. Cooking is her talent.”
Nika stayed silent as she set the table. A loud crash echoed from the living room.
“Lev, can you check what your nephews just broke?” Nika asked quietly.
“Come on,” Lev waved her off. “They’re just playing.”
“Yes, Nika, you can be so rigid,” Varvara added. “Everything doesn’t have to be perfect.”
“I just like order,” Nika said softly.
“A home should be lively!” Varvara countered. “You stress too much about cleanliness. If you had kids, you’d be chasing messes all day.”
Nika’s face burned. The topic of children was sensitive—doctors had told her to wait after two miscarriages. She held back the storm in her chest.
Lunch continued in the same vein. Varvara offered endless advice, Kristina bragged about her meals, and the twins rampaged through the house. Lev sat calmly, enjoying the moment, completely unaware of Nika’s discomfort.
After finishing a second slice of cake, Varvara said, “Kristina and I thought we could come here every Sunday. Your kitchen’s spacious, and your cooking is wonderful.”
Nika froze mid-sip and stared.
“Every Sunday?” she repeated, trying to stay calm.
“Of course!” Kristina chimed in. “It’ll be great! Mom can share recipes, I’ll bring special dishes, and the kids love it here.”
Another crash rang out—likely the ceramic figurine Nika brought from Italy.
“What do you think, Lev?” Varvara turned to her son.
“Great idea!” he replied cheerfully, ignoring Nika’s stunned expression. “Right, honey?”
Nika placed her cup down with quiet control, feeling invisible.
She started to speak, but Varvara was already making plans. “I’ll bring my pie next Sunday. Niku-sha, you can cook meat. The kids love your Olivier salad—make more of those!”
That was the final straw. Nika stood.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice low but firm, “but next Sunday, I want to rest.”
Fork in hand, Varvara froze. “What do you mean, rest? What about our family lunch?”
“I just need a day off,” Nika said softly, though her exhaustion showed in every word.
“Tired from what?” Kristina scoffed. “From pacing around the house?”
Lev frowned, saying nothing. The tension thickened.
“Honey, let’s talk later,” Lev tried to hush the growing storm.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Varvara snapped. “Family must stay united. Niku-sha, you’re spoiled. In my day—”
“Mom, please,” Lev cut in.
That evening, after the guests left, Nika was sweeping up the shards of the broken figurine. Lev stood behind her, trying to speak but at a loss.
“Why did you make a scene?” he finally asked, his voice tired. “Mom’s upset.”
“A scene?” Nika didn’t look up. “I just wanted rest.”
“From family?” Lev’s voice rose. “Family dinners are important!”
“And my needs mean nothing?” She stood and faced him, eyes full of pain. “I’m exhausted, Lev. I’m a person—not just your family’s servant.”
“Don’t forget you’re a wife, not a guest!” he snapped. “You have responsibilities.”
Nika recoiled, stunned. Her eyes welled.
“Is that how you see me? Just your family’s help?” Her voice was shaking with rage.
“I didn’t mean that—” Lev began.
“No,” Nika interrupted, steel in her voice. “I won’t do this anymore. No more Sunday meals. I need rest.”
Saturday came. The house was quiet but tense. Lev made an attempt to soften her.
“Mom called. They’re coming at two,” he said quietly. “Just so you know.”
“Fine,” Nika replied calmly. “But I’m not cooking.”
“What do you mean?” Lev tensed, slamming his fist on the table. “They’re expecting a feast!”
“And I’m expecting consideration,” Nika said. “We don’t always get what we want.”
On Sunday, the usual prep sounds echoed through the house—but not from Nika. She stayed in the bedroom, engrossed in a book. Lev was in the kitchen, fumbling through the pans.
At two, the doorbell rang. Varvara arrived first, her voice booming.
“She’s in the bedroom,” Lev called from the kitchen. “She said she’s tired.”
“What?” Varvara yelled. “Lying in bed while we’re all hungry? Niku-sha, get out here!”
Nika turned a page, unfazed.
“This is outrageous!” Varvara fumed. “How can you let this happen, Lev? She’s completely unhinged!”
Kristina joined the chorus. “I’d never disrespect my in-laws like this.”
An hour later, they left—no feast, no celebration. On her way out, Varvara declared Lev deserved a better wife.
Once the door shut, Nika emerged from the bedroom. The failed gathering was still evident in the kitchen.
“Happy now?” Lev asked, bitterness in his voice. “You embarrassed me in front of my family.”
Nika looked at him, and the truth struck hard. Five years of marriage, of sacrifices, and endless people-pleasing—wasted.
“You know, Lev,” she whispered. “I finally understand something.”
“What?” he snapped.
“That I mean less to you than your mother and sister. And that will never change.”
She turned and went to the bedroom. Her hands trembled, but her mind was clear. She began packing slowly, like she was closing a chapter of her life.
“What are you doing?” Lev’s voice rang from the doorway.
“I’m leaving,” Nika said, not turning around. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“But where?”
“To Alina’s. She’s offered before.”
“You can’t just leave!” he pleaded. “Let’s talk.”
“I’ve talked for five years.” She zipped the suitcase. “All I got in return was being your family’s unpaid cook and maid.”
She called Alina. “Is your offer still good?”
An hour later, a cab took her away. In the rearview mirror, Lev stood frozen at the entrance. Nika felt no guilt.
Alina welcomed her warmly.
“Finally,” she said. “I told you this couldn’t go on.”
For the first time in years, Nika felt light. No one was there to criticize, command, or dismiss her.
Messages flooded her phone. Lev missed her. Varvara sent angry texts, Kristina guilted her. Nika silenced the notifications and slept peacefully.
The next morning, heading to work, she noticed her reflection. Something was different—stronger.
“You look different,” her boss remarked. “Like a burden’s been lifted.”
Nika smiled. “That’s because I finally live for myself.”
A week later, Lev showed up at her office, desperate.
“Please come back. I understand now. It will be different.”
“Really?” Nika asked, cautious. “What will change?”
“I’ll talk to Mom. They’ll visit less often.”
Nika shook her head. “Everything will go back to how it was. Nothing’s really changed.”
She left him standing at the door and got into Alina’s car.
At home, she opened a folder: divorce papers. The decision was hard but right. Five years were enough.
“Are you sure?” Alina asked gently.
“Yes,” Nika nodded. “I should’ve done this long ago.”
Varvara was furious. She called, screamed, tried everything.
“You can’t do this to my son—he loves you!”
“No,” Nika said calmly. “He loves the comfort I provided. I don’t want to be convenient anymore.”
The divorce went smoothly. Lev didn’t fight. The apartment was sold.
Three months later, Nika moved into her own small place. It was modest, but it was hers. As she unpacked, peace filled her heart.
That evening, sipping tea by the window, she reflected on all she’d endured—how she lost herself trying to be perfect and feared letting others down.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Lev: “I miss you. Can we try again?”
Nika glanced at the screen, then at the quiet television. No sadness. No regrets. She deleted the message.
The past was over. This new life was hers, and she was finally in control.
The moon bathed the room in silver. Nika felt light. She was beginning a new day, on her own terms. And that was beautiful.