I made a week’s worth of dumplings, and my husband handed them out to his friends without asking — now he’s offended that I stopped cooking for him.

I made a week’s worth of dumplings, and my husband handed them out to his friends without asking — now he’s offended that I stopped cooking for him.

I woke up that Monday thinking the week would be easy. The dumplings were lined up neatly in the freezer — three shelves, each portion in its own bag. All I’d have to do was come home, boil them, and not think about dinner. Finally.

I had spent all of Sunday in the kitchen. The entire day. I kneaded the dough in the morning, ground the meat myself — Igor likes it when there’s a lot of meat. I folded dumplings until my fingers went numb. My husband popped in occasionally, smiling, rubbing his hands together.

“Anya, you’re amazing!” he’d say, peeking into the pot. “We’ll live like proper people all week.”

He didn’t offer to help. He could have rolled out the dough, but no — he just wandered around admiring me. I stayed quiet, massaging my stiff lower back and thinking: never mind, at least the week will be easier.

I don’t like cooking. I never have. When I lived alone, I didn’t bother at all — yogurt, a sandwich, sometimes scrambled eggs. That was enough for me. But Igor likes to eat. A lot, and well. I’d say — to stuff himself. After the wedding, all the cooking fell on me. He won’t even make himself tea if I’m home.

On Monday evening, walking from the bus stop, I was thinking about hot dumplings with sour cream. Maybe I’d sprinkle some herbs on top. I turned the key in the lock — and immediately sensed something was wrong.

Voices. Male laughter. The smell of fried onions hit my nose.

I pushed the kitchen door open and froze.

Four men were sitting at the table — Igor and his friends. Each had a huge steaming plate in front of them. Dumplings. My dumplings. A big pot sat on the stove, water still bubbling inside.

“Oh, Anya’s here!” Vadik waved a fork without looking up from his plate. “Igor, you’re a real lord! Snagged yourself a wife like this!”

Igor beamed.

“Try these homemade ones, guys!” He clicked his tongue. “My wife worked hard. Bet you’ve never had anything this good.”

I stood in the doorway with my bag on my shoulder. My throat went dry.

“Igor…” I began quietly.

“Don’t worry, Anya, we reheated everything ourselves,” he said, not even glancing at me. “Vadim suggested we stop by, so I pulled out the dumplings. Why let them go to waste?”

Why let them go to waste? I stood the whole day yesterday. The whole day.

I silently walked to the freezer. Opened it. Empty. All three shelves — empty. Only a couple of crumpled bags lying at the bottom.

“Next time make more, Anya,” someone called from behind the table. “There wasn’t enough for everyone.”

Vadik burped and burst out laughing. The others joined in.

I turned around. On the table, in the plates, lay half-eaten dumplings. Half of each portion untouched. Someone took a bite and tossed it aside. Someone smeared sour cream across the plate and left it floating in a greasy puddle.

I’d have to throw them out.

“I’m glad you liked them,” I said through clenched teeth and walked out of the kitchen.

In the bedroom, I sat on the bed and stared at the wall. My hands were shaking. My chest thumped like someone was hitting it with a hammer. The whole Sunday. All the dumplings. Everything.

I heard them laughing, clinking mugs, slapping each other on the back. No one asked whether I had eaten. No one saved me even a plate.

When the door closed behind the last guest, the kitchen fell silent. I went back. Igor was fiddling with his phone, leaning back in his chair.

The table was a mess. Sour cream, oil, bread crumbs everywhere. Dishes piled in the sink. On one plate at the edge lay two cold dumplings. Stuck together, disgusting.

I picked up the sponge. Started gathering the leftovers from the table. Scraped them into the trash with a fork. Every lump of dough, every drop of grease felt like a part of me being thrown away.

“Why are you so grumpy?” Igor finally tore himself from his screen. “The guys praised you, by the way.”

I turned around.

“Igor, I made those dumplings for the whole week. For us.”

He shrugged.

“So what? The guys came over, I fed them. Totally normal.”

“It would’ve been normal to ask.”

“Ask?” He snorted. “You’re my wife. A wife is supposed to feed guests.”

Supposed to. Always supposed to.

I straightened up. Put the sponge on the table.

“I’ve fulfilled my feeding duty,” I said slowly. “I fed your guests. Now let your friends feed you for the rest of the week.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying I won’t cook anymore. Not until you learn to respect my work.”

He jumped up.

“You’ve lost your damn mind!” he shouted. “Throwing a fit over some dumplings!”

“Because you handed out a week of my work without even asking. And I had to throw half of it away.”

He jabbed a finger at me.

“All you do is nag! Well, nag all you want — alone!”

The door slammed. He went to the bedroom.

I was left alone. I sat on the stool and buried my face in my hands. Maybe I was wrong? Maybe I really was being stingy?

But no tears came. Inside there was only a dull, heavy irritation.

I ate the leftovers from the table, washed the dishes, and went to bed. Igor tossed all night on his side, pointedly turning away.

In the morning, he left for work without saying goodbye.

The next few days were strange. I came home from work, and the kitchen was empty. Igor stayed silent. Spoke to me only when necessary — short, cold phrases. Every evening I bought myself a bun at the kiosk near the house. One bun. Small, with jam.

On Wednesday evening I walked through the yard, holding the warm paper bag in my hands. The paper was soaked with filling, leaving greasy marks on my fingers. The streetlights flickered, illuminating the loose snow under my feet. The cold air pleasantly stung my cheeks.

How easy it felt.

I stopped at the entrance. Took a bite of the bun — the crust crackled. The sweet jam almost burned my tongue.

For the first time in years, I was walking home without thinking about what to cook.

No usual heaviness. No fuss. No thoughts about chopping, washing, boiling. No feeling that I owed someone something. I was just walking home. With a bun for myself.

I looked up at the windows. Somewhere up there on the fourth floor, Igor was sitting. Sulking. Probably hungry. Waiting for me to give in.

What if I don’t?

On the landing, I ran into Svetlana Petrovna. The neighbor was sweeping the steps as always. Her broom scraped against the concrete.

“Hello,” I nodded.

“Hello, dear,” she stopped, leaning on the broom. She squinted. “So, is Igor still sulking?”

I stared at her in surprise.

“How do you know?…”

Svetlana Petrovna smirked.

“Everything can be heard through the walls, dear. Don’t argue too much in there. Although…” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “If it were my husband, I’d smack his hands for that. But you sort it out yourselves.”

She winked and went back to sweeping.

I entered the apartment. Sat down on the couch and took out my phone. My fingers instinctively found Olga’s number — my sister.

“Hello?” There was rustling in the receiver, then a click. She was eating sunflower seeds. As always.

“Olya, it’s me.”

“Oh, hey! What’s up?”

I told her. Everything. About the dumplings, about Igor’s friends, about the week of silence. About the bun I bought for myself today.

Olga burst out laughing. So loudly that I pulled the phone away from my ear.

“Anya, you’re awesome!” she said through laughter. “I’ve been living like that myself for ages. I feed the cat — and that’s it. Easy.”

“But I’m a wife,” I said uncertainly. “Maybe I’m misunderstanding something?”

“Oh, stop it!” Another crack of a seed. “A wife isn’t a cook. You’re tired, not stingy. Just wait, he’ll come running to apologize.”

“I don’t know…”

“You do know. You’re finally trying to respect yourself. That’s normal, Anya. That’s right.”

She talked a bit more, joked around, advised me to “send him to the bathhouse with his dumplings.” Then we said goodbye.

I put the phone on my lap. Respect myself. Strange words. As if I were a stranger to myself.

Maybe I was?

By the weekend, Igor was still silent. In the mornings he left, slamming the door. In the evenings he sat in front of the TV, chewing something store-bought. I ate in my room. Buns, yogurts, sometimes an apple.

I felt good.

That thought came suddenly, on Saturday morning. I woke up, stretched — and realized it. I felt good. Calm. I wasn’t thinking about cooking. I wasn’t standing at the stove. I wasn’t wrestling with dough and minced meat.

Maybe this was how I’d always wanted to live?

I got up and walked into the kitchen. Igor was sitting at the table, gloomily stirring a spoon in a mug of instant coffee.

I went to the stove and put on the kettle.

“Igor,” I said quietly.

He didn’t answer. He tapped the spoon against the mug.

“I need to say something.”

“What now?” He didn’t lift his head.

“I am not obligated to devote myself to the kitchen. I work just as much as you do. I come home tired. And if you want me to cook, you need to respect my work. Not hand it out left and right.”

Igor rubbed his forehead. Scratched the bridge of his nose. Stayed silent.

“Do you even understand what I’m talking about?” I asked.

He raised his eyes. Looked at me — long and thoughtfully.

“Maybe I don’t understand everything,” he muttered. “But you… you’re my wife.”

“That’s right — your wife. Not your cook.”

He slumped. Turned toward the window.

I poured myself tea. Took out a fresh bun from the bag — I bought it last night on purpose. Sat at the table across from him.

We sat in silence. I sipped my tea in small gulps, took bites of my bun. Crumbs fell onto the table. Igor stared out the window.

Then he stood up. Silently opened the freezer — inside were the store-bought dumplings he’d purchased himself. He took them out and dumped them into a pot.

“Want some?” he asked without turning around.

“No, thank you,” I smiled. “I bought something I like for myself.”

He nodded. Stirred the water in the pot. He didn’t argue anymore.

I finished my bun and wiped my hands. Ran my palm over the table — clean, empty. No flour. No traces of yesterday’s hassle.

My table. My kitchen. My life.

And I wasn’t ashamed.

I looked out the window. Snow was falling slowly outside, soft and light. Igor sat down across from me, silently eating his dumplings. I finished my tea.

We didn’t make up. But something changed. He didn’t twist his face anymore. And I didn’t feel guilty.

Was it really possible to live like this all along?

Apparently, yes. I just didn’t know.

A few days later Igor asked if I would make dumplings again.

“I will,” I said. “When I feel like it. For myself. If there’s extra — I’ll share.”

He nodded. Didn’t push.

That’s how I live now. I cook when I want to. Not out of duty. Not out of fear of being called a bad homemaker. But because it pleases me.

And every evening, coming home from work, I buy myself a bun. A small one. With jam.

For myself.

I’m not stingy. I’m simply alive.