Anna slammed the archive cabinet door shut a little harder than usual. The phone had rung three times in the past hour — the melody drilled into her ears like an annoying buzzsaw.
— Where have you been hiding? — Mikhail’s voice cut through the silence of the repository. — Playing with your papers again?
— I’m at work, — Anna replied without lifting her eyes from the documents.
— At work! — he laughed mockingly. — Digging through dusty folders for pennies. When will you finally realize this isn’t a career, but a pathetic pastime for losers?
— These “papers” preserve the history of our city, — Anna countered calmly. — Perhaps that’s beyond your understanding of values.
— Don’t get smart with me! — Mikhail barked. — Your “history” won’t bring us money. You live in a world of illusions!
Anna silently hung up the phone. Six years in the local history archive, the recognition of colleagues, researchers’ gratitude — all this Mikhail dismissed as “playing with papers.” Her honors degree in history was, to him, just wall decoration, and her dissertation a useless waste of time.
The storage room door opened. A woman around forty, elegant and confident, walked in.
— Excuse me, are you Anna Viktorovna? I’m Ekaterina. Your husband’s ex-wife.
— Oh! — Anna raised her eyebrows. — Unexpected. Come in. I hope this won’t turn into a scene?
— No. — Ekaterina glanced around. — I feel awkward barging in like this, but we have something to discuss. Where can we talk?
— There’s a café nearby. It’s quiet. Just, please, no drama.
Ekaterina sat across from her in the small café next to the archive, gracefully removing her gloves.
— Has Mikhail ever told you about me? — she asked, stirring sugar into her cup.
— Yes, he said you didn’t get along. A version so laconic it was almost insulting.
— Didn’t get along? — Ekaterina smirked bitterly. — That’s a delicate way to put it. I was a literature teacher for six years. When I met Mikhail, he admired my erudition, my quoting of the classics, called me his “muse.”
Anna set her spoon aside, listening attentively.
— And a year later he began calling me a loser who couldn’t earn real money. “What do you need those dead poets for?” he’d say. “Do something useful!”
— Familiar tune, — Anna noted sarcastically. — His repertoire is quite limited.
— He deliberately chooses women like us, — Ekaterina continued. — Educated women in socially important professions. At first he idolizes our intellect, then systematically destroys our self-esteem. Curators, librarians, teachers — we’re all the same to him. Intelligent, but ‘impractical.’
— Why are you telling me this? — Anna asked, though the answer was already forming in her mind.
— Because after the divorce I went back to teaching. Now I head a university department. Turns out I wasn’t a failure at all. I was just living with a man who convinced me otherwise.
— And what changed?
— Everything. When that poisonous voice finally goes silent, you suddenly realize you can breathe freely, — Ekaterina smiled. — My students win grants, my articles are published in top journals. And Mikhail still insists literature is nonsense.
— It seems his opinion of the humanities is unshakable, — Anna shook her head.
— Darling, he’s afraid of educated women. But even more, he fears our independence. That’s why he first tames, then breaks us.
After lunch, Pyotr Alexandrovich, the archive director, entered her office with an envelope in hand and a solemn look on his face.
— Anna Viktorovna, I have a proposal for you. The regional TV company is planning a documentary series on local history. They need a consultant and scriptwriter.
Anna opened the envelope. The fee was three times her monthly salary.
— They want you specifically, — Pyotr Alexandrovich said proudly. — Your ability to turn archival documents into vivid stories impressed the producers. The project is planned for a year, with possible extension.
— Tempting, — Anna admitted. — I need to think about it.
— Anna, this is a chance not only for you, but for the entire archive. Our regional history will reach a wide audience. People will see the treasures we preserve here.
— You’re right. It’s an opportunity to show the value of our work.
— And to dispel the myth that history is boring. In your hands, it comes alive.
At home Anna carefully shared the offer, bracing herself for the storm. Mikhail’s reaction was predictable, yet exceeded expectations.
— Are you out of your mind! — he leapt off the couch, his face twisted with rage. — You want to parade yourself all over the region? People will think I can’t provide for my wife! That my woman works on TV!
— This is my profession, Mikhail. And quite a prestigious one, by the way.
— Profession? You dig through papers for peanuts! And now you want to disgrace me on television, talking about a bunch of dead people?
— Disgrace? — Anna looked at him in astonishment. — I’ll be telling the story of our region’s cultural heritage. Where’s the disgrace in that?
— Where’s the disgrace? — he grabbed his head. — All my colleagues will laugh! “Look, Mikhail’s wife is pretending to be a scholar!” Don’t you understand?
— I understand that you care more about your colleagues’ opinions than about my achievements, — Anna replied calmly.
— I forbid you to disgrace our family!
Anna calmly picked up the phone and dialed the producer’s number.
— I accept your offer, — she said, looking Mikhail straight in the eye.
— You’ll call back immediately and refuse! — he grabbed her hand. — I forbid it! Do you hear me? I forbid it!
— No.
The word came quietly but firmly. Mikhail froze, unable to believe what he had just heard.
— What did you say? Repeat!
— No. I won’t refuse. And take your hands off me.
— Ah, I see how it is! — Mikhail’s eyes narrowed. — Then choose: either this silly television or your family! Either your dead documents or a living husband!
Anna looked at him — handsome, a successful manager, who had spent four years convincing her of her worthlessness. Now she saw not confidence in his eyes, but fear. He feared her independence.
— You know what’s funny? — she said thoughtfully. — You call my work dead, but you’re afraid of a living woman.
— What? What nonsense are you talking about?
— I choose freedom, Mikhail. And it turned out to be easier than I thought.
Within half an hour, Anna packed her things. Surprisingly little had accumulated over four years — Mikhail had considered her purchases unnecessary, her books junk, and her hobbies foolish.
— You’ll regret this! — he shouted after her. — Without me, you’re nothing! You’ll crawl back in a month!
— We’ll see, — Anna tossed over her shoulder. — I have a contract with television. What do you have?
The door slammed. Anna felt no fear, only relief — as if she had shed tight clothing after a long day.
Valentina Petrovna, a veteran of archival work, welcomed Anna with understanding and hot tea.
— Live as long as you need, dear, — the elderly woman said. — I went through a divorce at your age. I know what it’s like to start life over.
— Thank you, Valentina Petrovna. I’ll find a place to live quickly.
— Don’t rush. Solitude after a family hell is a luxury to savor.
The next day, a journalist, Svetlana, called:
— Anna Viktorovna, I have an offer. A cultural center is opening in the regional capital. They’re looking for a head of the history department. Good salary, staff housing, prospects for growth.
— Sounds interesting. I’m intrigued.
— Excellent! Your work on regional history impressed the committee. Especially your article on merchant dynasties. When can you come for an interview?
— Tomorrow, if needed. No more restrictions.
A week later, Mikhail arrived with a bouquet of roses and tears in his eyes — the classic kit of a repentant tyrant.
— Forgive me, Anechka, — he fell to his knees right in the hallway. — I realize my mistakes. I’ll support your career, I promise! Even in this television thing!
— Stand up, — Anna said calmly. — We have nothing to discuss.
— But… I understand I was wrong! You can work anywhere!
— You understand that you lost control. That’s a different matter, dear.
— Anechka, come on! We love each other! Four years together!
— No, Mikhail. You loved a submissive toy in me. And I played the role you imposed for four years. The performance is over.
— Have you lost your mind? You’re destroying a family over some job!
— Over a job? — Anna smirked. — Darling, you still haven’t understood. I’m leaving not for a job, but from you.
In the regional capital, Anna found a new life. The cultural center offered unlimited creative opportunities: exhibitions, conferences, international collaborations. She discovered leadership abilities she hadn’t realized she had.
Financial independence allowed her to rent a good apartment, travel, and meet interesting people. Old friends, whom Mikhail had isolated her from, gladly renewed contact.
— You’ve blossomed, — her friend Marina said at dinner. — I haven’t seen you so alive in years.
— You know, it turns out I’m not a gray mouse, — Anna laughed. — I just lived in a gray world for too long.
— How’s the TV project going?
— Wonderful! The first episodes received excellent reviews. Viewers write to thank me. It turns out people are interested in the history of their native region, if presented vividly.
— And nobody laughs at “digging through papers”?
— On the contrary. I’m invited to conferences, consultations. Last month I spoke at a university — the students listened with open mouths.
Meanwhile, Mikhail, following his usual pattern, began dating Olga — a young art historian from a museum — six months later. As before, he first admired her education and culture, as if trying on a new mask for another act in his one-man theater.
One day, at a conference in the regional capital, Anna met Olga. The young woman looked tired but tried to maintain composure.
— Are you Anna? — she approached during the break, her voice uncertain. — Mikhail told me about you. He said you just didn’t get along, that you had different views on life.
— I see, — Anna smiled with a hint of irony. — I’m curious, how are things going between you two? Still as romantic as at the beginning?
— Honestly? — Olga lowered her voice, glancing around. — He started calling my work a hopeless indulgence. Says art history is an expensive hobby for failures afraid of real life. He also adds that I live in a world of illusions.
— And what about the education he admired so much? — Anna’s voice carried a faint note of mockery.
— Now he calls it showmanship. As if I’m only trying to appear smarter than everyone else.
Anna remembered her conversation with Ekaterina, and her own torment during the last years of her relationship.
— Olga, let me tell you something important. Something that could save you several years of your life.
— I’m listening, — the young woman tensed.
— The most insidious thing about his methods? He starts by admiring exactly what he will methodically destroy. At first, you are an educated, refined person; then you become an arrogant upstart. First your work is your calling; then it’s a worthless waste of time.
— But he says he wants to help me become better…
— Dear, a man who truly loves does not try to reshape a woman to suit himself. He accepts her as she is and helps her flourish, not wither.
Three days later, Olga called.
— Anna, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I broke off my relationship with Mikhail. After our conversation, everything fell into place like a puzzle finally completed.
— How did he react to your decision? That couldn’t have been easy.
— At first, he tried to threaten me, said I’d regret it until the end of my days. Then he moved to pleas, swearing he would change, that I misunderstood everything. In the end, he called me an ungrateful fool, trading a real man for feminist nonsense.
— And you stood your ground?
— Yes. And you know what? It was easier than I thought. When you see the whole picture, his manipulations are laughably primitive.
— You made the right choice. Life is too short to waste on people who don’t value us.
— Anna, how did you deal with the guilt? He was so convincing, saying I was destroying our happiness…
— Dear, the only thing you destroyed was his plan to turn you into a convenient puppet. And that, believe me, deserves applause, not tears.
Deprived of the ability to control a third consecutive woman, Mikhail lost his familiar foundation. He began to flounder between jobs, argue with colleagues, and lose friends one by one. His usual pattern broke down — educated women no longer fell for his elaborate manipulations.
A month later, he tried to contact Anna, leaving several voicemail messages.
— Anna, this is Mikhail. Listen, I understand that it’s over between us, but why are you turning other women against me? — his voice sounded irritated. — Olga told me you spoke with her. What is this, a kindergarten? We’re adults.
Anna didn’t respond to the first message. The second came a week later:
— You know, Anya, maybe I was wrong about some things. Maybe we should meet and talk? I miss our conversations, your mind. You know there’s no one like you.
And the third, openly angry:
— Good riddance we broke up! You’ve become a bitter feminist who can’t manage her own life and ruins others’! Olga was stupid to listen to you. But she’ll see someday what a mistake she made!
The last time she saw Mikhail was in a supermarket six months after the breakup. He looked older, confused, and resigned. Noticing her, he tried to approach, but Anna walked past calmly, without even slowing her pace.
— Anna, wait! — he shouted after her. — Can’t we talk like adults?
She turned, looking at him steadily:
— Mikhail, we have no common ground for conversation. I wish you find yourself and stop blaming others for your own failures.
— You’ve become so cold… — he muttered.
— No, — Anna replied calmly. — I’ve become honest. And that’s a big difference.
The game of destruction was over forever.
