“You’re not even married yet, and he’s already living off you!” the girl’s mother exclaimed indignantly.
“You’re not even married yet, and he’s already living off you!” Valentina Petrovna slammed a plate of cutlets onto the table. Ksenia flinched and lowered her eyes to her plate, where the pasta had gone cold. Silence hung in the kitchen, broken only by the cat’s purring.
“Mom, come on…” Ksenia awkwardly tucked a stray strand behind her ear. “We’re just living together; it’s normal. Everyone does it these days.”
“Everyone!” her mother snorted, wiping her hands on her apron. “So everyone should be fools too? Three months have passed since he moved in with you. And? Has he found a job?”
Valentina Petrovna sat down opposite her daughter and pushed the bowl of Olivier salad closer to herself. Ksenia silently poked at her pasta with a fork, avoiding her mother’s gaze.
“He’s looking,” she said quietly. “It’s just hard to find something suitable right now…”
“Suitable!” her mother shook her head. “And apparently, paying for the apartment all by yourself is no problem at all.”
After the awkward conversation with her mother, Ksenia had trouble sleeping. Valentina Petrovna’s words stuck like a thorn: “He’s living off you.” In the morning, getting ready for work, she tried not to make a sound—Dima was sleeping, sprawled across half the bed.
At the city clinic’s accounting office, Ksenia mechanically sorted bills by category. She had been in the same position for three years, the salary modest but stable—enough for a rented studio on the outskirts and groceries, if she was careful.
“Lost in thought again?” Lena placed a cup of tea next to her. “Still about yesterday?”
Her colleague and only friend knew everything. Ksenia sighed:
“Mom is overreacting. Dima’s not lazy; he’s figuring himself out. Yesterday he showed me the website he’s making for a client.”
“For a client who doesn’t pay?”
“It’s for his portfolio.”
Lena was silent for a moment, then cautiously said:
“Ksyusha, maybe your mom’s right? You were complaining last week—you came home with a fever, and he didn’t even make tea. And he doesn’t do the dishes, even though he’s home all day.”
“He’s busy with his project…”
“Busy for three months?” Lena shook her head. “Remember how it started? Dima promised it was temporary, until he found a proper job. He said he’d help with cleaning and cooking. And what’s the result?”
Ksenia remained silent. In the end, she paid for everything: the apartment, utilities, groceries, even the internet he claimed he needed to work. In the evenings, she cooked dinner; on weekends, she washed and cleaned. Meanwhile, Dima sat at his laptop, occasionally showing a layout or half-finished code.
“I love him,” Ksenia whispered.
“I know. But love shouldn’t go only one way.”
Lena’s words stayed in her mind all week. On Friday, Ksenia was lugging two heavy bags from the store—Dima had asked her to buy chicken and a bunch of other things for a “special dinner” he planned to cook. The bag handles cut into her hands, her back ached after the workday. She pushed open the fourth-floor door with her shoulder.
Dima sat at the computer wearing headphones, clicking the mouse intently. On the desk were an empty mug and chocolate wrappers.
“I’m hungry,” he said without looking up. “Are you going to make something?”
Ksenia slowly set the bags on the floor. Chicken, salad vegetables, spices—everything he had asked for in the morning, promising to impress her with his cooking skills.
“And the special dinner?”
“Oh, I got distracted. Maybe later.”
She silently unpacked the groceries, putting the chicken in the freezer. Later would never come—she had already realized that.
On Sunday, her parents invited her to the dacha. Her father was digging rows for potatoes; her mother was setting the veranda table for tea. Ksenia helped with the dishes when her father asked directly:
“Daughter, are you happy?”
“Dad, don’t start…”
“We’re not against Dima,” her mother said gently, pouring tea. “But he’s living off you. That’s not normal, Ksyusha. How long can this go on?”
Her father put down his spoon.
“A man should provide for his family. Or at least try.”
“By the way,” Valentina Petrovna pulled out her phone and scrolled through contacts, “Marina Ivanovna is looking for a manager at an advertising agency. Entry-level, but with prospects. Salary is modest, but stable. I can call and put in a good word.”
In the evening, Ksenia passed the offer to Dima. He tore himself away from another game and squinted in displeasure.
“A gopher for errands?” he grimaced, leaning back in his chair. “Seriously? I’m a programmer, not office plankton. Shuffling papers for peanuts?”
Something inside Ksenia finally broke. She looked at him—unshaven, in a stretched, stained T-shirt, with a bag of chips on the desk beside the keyboard—and thought for the first time, “What if Mom is right? What if he’ll never change?”
A week passed after the conversation about the agency job. Dima deliberately didn’t speak for the first two days—he ate alone, buried in his phone, and retreated to his room as soon as Ksenia appeared in the kitchen.
Then he acted as if nothing had happened, asking for seconds at dinner again and talking about new job openings where “they’d soon review his resume.” Ksenia silently cooked, nodded, and left for work earlier so they wouldn’t have breakfast together.
On Saturday morning, there was a persistent knock at the door—three times in a row. Ksenia opened it to find Galina Sergeyevna standing there with a plaid bag that smelled of baked goods.
“Ksyusha, darling, I’ve missed you!” the woman exclaimed, hugging her and stepping into the apartment without waiting to be invited.
Dima came out of the room in his underwear and a T-shirt, rubbing his eyes.
“Mom? What are you doing here? Couldn’t you have warned us?”
Galina Sergeyevna scanned the dirty plates on the coffee table, the son’s scattered socks by the sofa, and the empty beer cans on the windowsill. Her gaze settled on Ksenia’s tired face—dark circles under her eyes, lips pressed tight.
“Son, let’s speak plainly,” she said, moving to the kitchen and pulling a package out of her bag. “You’re burdening Ksyusha. She works from morning till night, and you sit at home.”
Dima froze in the doorway. His mother continued, methodically placing cabbage pies on a large plate:
“Come home already, will you? I’ll cook and do the laundry while you’re looking for work. There’s plenty of room; your room is ready. But the girl is exhausted. Is that fair?”
Ksenia felt her cheeks burn. She was unbearably ashamed—her mother seeing their home life, having to hear this in front of Dima.
“Aunt Galya, it’s fine…”
“Fine?!” the woman threw up her hands. “Look at yourself! Working at your job, working at home.”
“Sometimes it really feels like I’m carrying everything myself,” Ksenia blurted out, surprising even herself.
Dima looked from his mother to Ksenia, clenching his fists. Silence fell in the room, broken only by the hum of the old fridge and the ticking of the wall clock.
“Alright,” he said quietly, looking away. “I’ll go to that interview. Monday. I’ll try.”
Galina Sergeyevna nodded approvingly and reached for the teapot:
“That’s my boy. Now let’s have some tea before the pies get cold. Ksyusha, sit down—I’ll do everything myself. Rest a little.”
After Galina Sergeyevna’s visit, Dima walked around gloomy for three days, but he did go to the interview. He came back angry, throwing his briefcase into a corner.
“They hired me,” he grumbled. “Sales department. I start tomorrow.”
Ksenia couldn’t believe her ears. A whole month of persuading, arguing, and tears—and suddenly, it happened just like that?
The first week was tough. Dima came home after seven, collapsed on the sofa, and complained about the tyrannical boss, stupid clients, and the inconvenient office. But on Friday he brought an envelope.
“Here,” he handed it to Ksenia. “Advance. Fifteen thousand.”
She held the money in her hands, unsure what to say. For the first time in three months, he brought his paycheck home.
“Let’s go shopping for the weekend,” Dima suggested. “I made a list.”
On Saturday, they went to the supermarket together. Dima pushed the cart, picked vegetables, and even remembered to buy laundry detergent that had run out a couple of days earlier. He stopped at the meat section:
“Shall we get pork? I’ll fry it with potatoes on Sunday.”
Ksenia nodded, unable to believe what was happening.
On Sunday morning, she woke to the smell of fried onions. In the kitchen, Dima was wearing her apron, cutting meat while a pan sizzled on the stove.
“Don’t get up,” he called. “It’ll be ready in half an hour!”
She sat at the set table—he even got the napkins—and watched as Dima plated the potatoes with meat. Clumsily, unevenly, but carefully.
“Did it turn out okay?” he asked, sitting across from her.
“Tastes good,” Ksenia replied honestly, though the meat was a bit tough.
Inside her, two feelings battled: relief that he was finally taking responsibility, and fear—what if it was temporary? What if in a week or two, everything went back to the way it was?
A month passed since that Sunday lunch. Dima kept it up—going to work every day, even receiving his first full paycheck. On Friday evening, Ksenia was nervously setting the table—her parents had promised to visit.
“Should we get some wine?” Dima adjusted the tablecloth. “Your dad likes red, right?”
The doorbell rang. Valentina Petrovna entered with a pie, and her father carried a bag of fruit.
“Dima, how’s work?” Ksenia’s mother asked, smiling genuinely, without her usual stiffness.
“Getting into the swing of it, Valentina Petrovna. The boss is strict but fair. They promised to add a commission next week.”
At dinner, Dima asked Ksenia’s father about his factory job, listening carefully to his advice on dealing with clients. He even made a few successful jokes.
“I’ll make coffee,” he offered after they finished the pie. “Ksyusha taught me to make it properly in a cezve.”
While Dima clattered in the kitchen, Ksenia’s father quietly said:
“Well, looks like the boy’s getting his act together. Good job.”
Valentina Petrovna nodded:
“I’m glad everything’s working out. The important thing is not to stop now.”
Ksenia watched as Dima carefully poured coffee into the cups and felt the tension ease from her shoulders. Maybe, just maybe, things could really work out for them.
Her parents left after ten, leaving empty cups and crumbs from the pie on the table. Dima cleared the plates and took them to the kitchen—now it had become his habit after dinner.
Ksenia sat on the sofa, knees pulled up, watching him handle the dishes. It was a strange feeling—seeing him so domestic, so ordinary.
“I’m proud that you finally got your act together,” she said quietly.
Dima turned, drying his hands with a towel.
“Guess I really needed a wake-up call,” he said, coming over and sitting next to her. “Thanks for not kicking me out. Someone else would have sent me packing long ago.”
“I thought about it,” Ksenia admitted honestly.
“I know. And you had every right.”
They sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Outside, cars hummed along the street, and a neighbor turned on the TV in the apartment next door.
“Tomorrow’s payday,” Dima said. “Shall we split the rent fifty-fifty?”
Ksenia nodded, feeling a warm glow spread through her chest. Not euphoria—just a calm certainty that now they could manage it. Together. Truly together.
