“Where on earth are you?! My relatives came to visit, they’re waiting for dinner,” her husband shouted over the phone.
Galina left the hospital at half past six. Her legs were aching, her head was empty. Twelve hours straight. A diabetic patient—coma, resuscitation, the whole shift down the drain.
She reached the bus stop, sat on a bench, and closed her eyes. Just a minute. Just a second of silence.
And then—her phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Where have you been disappearing?!” Viktor yelled so loudly she pulled the phone away from her ear.
“Vitya, I just got out of the hospital.”
“I don’t care! My family came to visit, they’re waiting for dinner! When are you coming home?!”
“What family?” Galina blinked in confusion. “You didn’t mention anything.”
“And why should I tell you? You’re my wife, aren’t you? You need to be here to greet people when they arrive! Aunt Zina from Voronezh with her daughter! And nephew Seryozha! They came here especially to see us!”
“Vitya, I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know! With you it’s always the same—I didn’t know, I didn’t have time, I couldn’t! — He was breathless with anger. — They’ve been sitting here for two hours! Hungry! And the table is empty!”
“Vitya, maybe you could—?”
“Could what?!” he roared. “Do you expect me to start running around the kitchen like some woman? You’re the wife! It’s your job—home, guests, food! Not wandering around hospitals till night!”
“I’m not wandering! I’m working! Our patient almost died.”
“I don’t give a damn about your patients! Family comes first! Get here immediately and make dinner!”
He hung up.
Galina stared at the phone screen. “Call ended.”
Just like that. Twenty-two years of marriage summed up in one sentence.
The bus arrived fifteen minutes later. As she rode home, she kept thinking: what could she cook quickly? There was probably no potatoes at home. She’d have to run to the store again. Carry bags again. Stand at the stove again.
Meanwhile they were sitting in the living room—Viktor, Aunt Zina, her daughter. What was her name? Lena? Ira? Didn’t matter. Sitting, complaining, discussing what a terrible wife she was.
“Can you imagine,” Viktor was surely telling them, “she thinks her job is more important than family!”
And Aunt Zina would shake her head:
“Oh, Vitenka, a wife needs to know her place…”
When Galina entered the apartment, she immediately heard laughter from the living room. Cheerful, satisfied. Meaning Vitya had already entertained them with jokes about the “missing” wife.
“Galya’s home!” he called out. “Finally!”
She walked into the room. Indeed—a full sofa of guests. Aunt Zina—plump, in a bright dress. Next to her a woman of about thirty—the daughter, probably. In the corner a young man on his phone—the nephew.
“Oh, Galochka!” Aunt Zina got up from the couch. “You’ve gotten so thin! Completely worn out, poor thing!”
“Hello,” Galina forced out. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Oh, it’s nothing!” the aunt waved her hand. “We understand. Such a job. But now you’re home! Vitya says you bake wonderful pies!”
Galina looked at her husband. He sat in his armchair, smiling smugly.
“Gal,” he said softly, “maybe you could set the table? People are hungry after the trip.”
“Of course,” she replied.
And she went to the kitchen to make dinner for people she was seeing for the first time in her life.
By half past eleven, Galina placed the last dish on the table—fried potatoes with pork fat. The kind Viktor liked. Or no—nephew Seryozha had asked for it. Or maybe Aunt Zina?
All the faces blended into one hungry, satisfied, expectant mask.
“Galochka, finally!” Aunt Zina clapped her hands. “We thought we’d go to bed hungry!”
“Oh, sorry,” Galina murmured. “It took a long time.”
“Oh, it’s fine!” the aunt’s daughter waved her off. “Now we’ll feast properly!”
Viktor, pleased, poured vodka:
“Well, shall we? To the reunion! To family!”
Galina perched on the edge of a chair. There was only one thing she wanted—to take off those cursed shoes. Her legs buzzed after twelve hours at the hospital and then three more hours in the kitchen.
“Auntie Gal, is there more bread?” the nephew asked without looking up from his plate.
“Yes, of course.” She stood up and went for the bread.
“And bring some pickles!” Aunt Zina shouted. “I saw some in the fridge!”
“And mustard!” Viktor added. “Fat isn’t the same without mustard!”
Galina walked back and forth, bringing whatever they asked for. No one said “thank you.” It was natural—the wife was supposed to serve.
They talked about children, work, food prices. Nobody asked Galina how she was. She was background. Service staff.
“Remember, Vitya,” Aunt Zina laughed, “how we used to visit Grandma as kids? She cooked just as well!”
“Yes, those were the good times,” Viktor agreed. “Not like now.”
“By the way,” the aunt looked at Galina, “you’re still the same, Galya: quiet, invisible. Vitya is lucky! A good housewife is a blessing.”
Galina tried to smile. Something twisted inside her. “Quiet, invisible.”
That was all they thought of her.
At one in the morning the guests finally left. Long goodbyes, hugs, promises to “stay in touch.”
“Thanks for dinner!” the aunt’s daughter called out. “It was delicious!”
“Galochka, you’re wonderful!” Aunt Zina kissed her on the cheek. “Vitya, take good care of your wife!”
The door closed. Viktor stretched with satisfaction:
“Well, that was nice. Haven’t seen the family in ages.”
Galina silently gathered the dirty dishes. Plates, shot glasses, bowls. Mountains of dirty dishes.
“Vitya,” she said quietly, “could you help?”
“What?” He was already undressing. “Oh, the dishes. You’ll manage quickly. I’m exhausted. Early morning tomorrow.”
“I’m tired too. And I also have to wake up early.”
“Gal, don’t start,” he grimaced. “My job is serious. And for you—come on, washing some dishes isn’t a big deal.”
She stood in the kitchen holding a greasy frying pan. Tears streamed down her face.
“Not a big deal.”
Twelve hours at the hospital. Saving someone’s life. Then three hours cooking for strangers. And now—doing the dishes until two in the morning.
“Not a big deal.”
In the morning Viktor left for work without even saying goodbye. Galina went to the hospital as if in a fog. She nodded off on the bus and missed her stop.
“Galina Ivanovna, are you alright?” asked her colleague Lida. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine,” Galina lied. “Just didn’t sleep enough.”
“Guests?”
“Yes. My husband’s relatives came.”
“I see,” Lida nodded sympathetically. “I know those family gatherings. The wife works like a horse, everyone else relaxes.”
All day Galina worked on autopilot. Injections, IVs, blood pressure checks. Mechanical, soulless.
“Galina Ivanovna,” doctor Petrov called to her, “are you going to the seminar? About new methods of stroke rehabilitation?”
“What seminar?”
“Tomorrow at six. Nearby, at the medical center. It’s free. You get a certificate.”
“I’m not sure,” Galina thought of home. Of Viktor, who would expect dinner. “Probably won’t manage.”
“That’s a pity. The lectures are interesting. And it’s good to get out of the routine sometimes.”
At dinner, Viktor was unusually chatty:
“By the way, Aunt Zina called. She thanked us for yesterday. Said you cook wonderfully.”
“Really?” Galina poked at her salad without enthusiasm.
“Yeah. And she also said I’m lucky to have you.” He smirked. “I agreed.”
“Vitya,” she suddenly said, “tomorrow there’s a seminar at the medical center. Can I go?”
“What seminar?”
“About new treatment methods. They give a certificate.”
“And who’s going to cook dinner?” he frowned.
“You can do it once yourself.”
“Gal, stop it. What seminar? Isn’t your job enough? There’s plenty to do at home.”
“But it’s for work! For professional development!”
“What new things are you going to learn?” Viktor snorted. “How to give injections? You’ve been doing that for thirty years. Enough with these seminars. Do something useful at home instead.”
Galina fell silent. Then stood up and began clearing the table.
“Enough with the seminars,” she repeated to herself. Thirty years. Thirty years of giving injections. And he thought there was nothing left to learn.
Once, she had dreamed of becoming a doctor. She enrolled in medical school. But in her second year she met Vitya. Fell in love. Got married. Dropped out.
“Why bother with being a doctor?” her husband had said back then. “Being a nurse is a good job too. You get paid, and you’ll still have time for the house.”
And she listened. She went to nursing school. Became a nurse.
And now: “Enough with the seminars.”
“Gal,” Viktor called out, “the salad was under-salted. Put more salt next time.”
She nodded silently.
“Next time,” she thought.
“Or maybe… there won’t be a next time?”
The thought came suddenly.
And it scared even her…
The next day, Lida did end up going to the seminar.
“Galina Ivanovna!” her colleague called out. “How are you? Going to yoga?”
“Yoga?” Galina stopped.
“Yes, look — there’s a poster. Free classes for women over fifty. At the medical center, every Tuesday. Want to go?”
Galina looked at the bright flyer. “Yoga for body and soul. Find your harmony.”
“I don’t know,” she began.
“Oh, come on!” Lida took her by the arm. “Let’s go! What do we have to lose? One hour. Maybe you’ll like it.”
And Galina went. Simply because she was tired of arguing. Tired of explaining to someone why she couldn’t, why it didn’t work out, why she had no time.
There were about twenty people in the room. Women of different ages spread out their mats. The instructor — a young woman with a calm voice — asked everyone to lie down and close their eyes.
“Feel your body,” she said. “Listen to your breath.”
For the first time in many years, Galina really felt her body. Her tired shoulders. Her tense neck. Her clenched jaw.
And for the first time in many years — silence in her mind.
The class lasted an hour. When the lights came on, Galina didn’t want to open her eyes.
“Did you like it?” Lida asked.
“Yes,” Galina said, surprised by her own answer. “Very much.”
“Then next Tuesday we’ll come again?”
“I will.”
At home, Viktor greeted her with irritation:
“Where were you? I’ve been waiting half an hour for dinner!”
“I was at a class,” Galina replied calmly.
“What class?”
“Yoga. I liked it.”
“Yoga?” he snorted. “At your age? Gal, are you out of your mind?”
For three weeks she went to yoga in secret. Told him she was working late. And every Tuesday she felt alive.
Then came another phone call.
Galina was standing in “tree pose,” keeping her balance, when her phone rang.
“Don’t answer,” the instructor said. “This is your time.”
But the answering machine turned on automatically:
“Where are you?!” Viktor roared. “We have guests! Aunt Zina and her daughter arrived! Where’s dinner?! Get home immediately!”
Everyone in the room turned toward her. Galina stood there, red with shame.
“You can return the call later,” the instructor suggested gently.
Galina looked at her phone. Seven more missed calls.
And suddenly something clicked inside her.
“No,” she said. “I won’t.”
She turned off her phone.
“Let’s continue,” she asked the instructor.
After yoga, Galina walked home slowly. Preparing herself. Her phone, turned back on, rang constantly in her pocket, but she didn’t answer.
At home she was met by a furious Viktor:
“Where were you?! Aunt Zina left before dinner! The whole family is ashamed!”
“I was at a class,” Galina said.
“What class?! Why the hell didn’t you pick up the phone?!”
“Yoga. And I turned the phone off.”
“Yoga?!” he shouted. “I don’t care about your yoga! When I call, my wife must answer!”
“Yes,” Galina nodded. “Your wife. Not your servant.”
“What?”
“I said — not a servant. And not a slave. If guests come to see you, then you make dinner. Or order food.”
“What are you talking about?!” Viktor was stunned. “I don’t know how to cook!”
“And I didn’t know how to give injections. I learned. You’ll learn too.”
“Gal, have you gone crazy?”
“On the contrary,” she smiled. “I’ve finally come to my senses.”
Viktor stared at his wife, unable to recognize her. This calm, smiling woman looked nothing like his obedient Galya.
“You don’t love me anymore?” he asked in confusion.
“I do,” she replied honestly. “But I’m starting to love myself too.”
A month later, Galina submitted a request for paid leave.
“Gal,” Viktor said at breakfast, “maybe you shouldn’t? I’m swamped at work right now, you should stay home.”
“I already bought a vacation package,” she answered calmly.
“A package? Where?”
“To a resort. The Black Sea. Two weeks.”
“Alone?!” His eyes bulged.
“Alone.”
Viktor fell silent, processing this.
“And what if guests come?”
“Order food. Or cook. There are recipes online.”
“But this isn’t right! A wife can’t just do that!”
“She can,” Galina smiled. “I checked.”
At the resort she woke up at nine. Without an alarm. For the first time in thirty years.
The sea murmured outside the window.
Her phone was silent. She had turned it off the night before.
I wonder what Viktor is doing, she thought. And was surprised — she thought it without anxiety. Just out of curiosity.
She turned on the phone. Seven missed calls. Four messages.
“I ordered pizza. Expensive!”
“When are you coming back?”
She turned the phone off again.
Breakfast was a buffet. She took a chocolate croissant. The kind she never bought at home — she rarely bought anything for herself.
At the next table sat a woman her age, reading a book and sipping coffee.
“Is it a good book?” Galina asked.
“Wonderful!” the woman smiled. “About a woman who decided to change her life at fifty.”
“And did she?”
“I’m still reading. But I think — yes.”
Galina poured herself real, strong coffee. At home she always drank instant — quicker, simpler.
After breakfast she went to the beach. Sat on a lounge chair, closed her eyes.
What if I don’t go back? she suddenly thought.
The thought was unexpected. Frightening. Tempting.
Of course she would return. She had a job, an apartment, a life finally. But now she knew — she could choose not to return. If she wanted.
She returned home tanned, rested, with a new haircut.
Viktor met her at the door:
“Finally! I missed you!”
He hugged her, and she didn’t push him away. But she also didn’t lean into him, like before.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Fine. Though I lost some weight. Been eating pizza all the time.”
“And you didn’t try cooking borscht?”
“How am I supposed to cook borscht?!” he objected.
“The same way I did thirty years ago. By following a recipe.”
Galina walked into the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes. Pizza boxes on the table.
“Vitya,” she said calmly, “I’m going back to work tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow I have yoga. Every Tuesday and Thursday.”
“But—”
“No ‘but.’ That’s my time.”
Viktor looked at his wife and understood — something had changed forever. This woman would no longer run at the first call. No longer apologize for existing.
“And dinner?” he asked helplessly.
“We’ll cook together,” Galina smiled. “Or take turns. Like adults.”
She poured herself a cup of tea and looked at him expectantly.
“Well? Are we going to learn how to cook? Or keep living on pizza?”
Viktor sighed:
“Learn, I guess.”
“Good,” she nodded. “Then we’ll start with borscht.”
