“Where’s the multicooker?” I asked, opening the kitchen cabinet.
Empty. Just a clean square where the box used to be.
I’d bought it a month ago. Saved for it slowly — skipped a new bag, took extra shifts. I just wanted to make life a bit easier: oatmeal in the morning, dinner ready when I came home tired. A small thing. But for me — a little dream.
“Dima, where’s the multicooker?” I repeated, keeping my voice steady.
He peeked from the room, phone in one hand, sandwich in the other.
“Oh, the multicooker… I took it to Mom’s. Her old one burned out. You don’t mind, right?”
Said it casually, like I’d asked where he put his mug.
I blinked. Didn’t understand right away.
“You… took it? Mine?”
“Yeah. What’s the big deal?” He shrugged. “You barely use it anyway. Mom needs it more — she’s home all day.”
I just stared at him.
Smiling. Calm. Convinced he’d done something noble.
“You didn’t even ask,” I whispered.
“Oh come on, Lena. Don’t be petty. Everything’s ours. I helped my mom, not myself.”
Everything “ours.”
Except “ours” was always mine.
My things. My time. My energy.
“I saved for it,” I said quietly. “For months. I wanted to make life a little easier. You know how late I get home.”
He yawned.
“We’ll buy a new one when I get paid. Stop making a mountain out of nothing.”
I didn’t argue.
Just went to the bathroom, turned on cold water, and splashed my face until my skin went numb.
In the mirror — a tired woman who’s afraid to start a fight over a multicooker.
Silly, right? Just an appliance.
But somehow that “little thing” left an icy emptiness inside.
The next morning I woke earlier. Made myself coffee and toast, put on soft music.
A quiet morning — truly quiet — something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Dima came out, messy hair, stretching.
“And me?” he asked, looking at the empty pan.
“And you what?” I flipped a magazine page.
“Well… breakfast. You always make it.”
“Made,” I corrected calmly. “And since you make decisions for both of us, you can also cook for yourself.”
He laughed, relieved.
“Lena, don’t sulk. We’ll get a new one. Not now, but in a month or two.”
“A month…” I repeated. “Funny you never noticed I bought it not for cooking — but for myself.”
He frowned.
“So now helping a parent is a crime?”
I looked at him for a long moment.
And realized — I wasn’t hurt because he helped his mother.
I was hurt because I was always last in their hierarchy.
That evening he returned cheerful, smelling of cigarettes and his mother’s cutlets.
“Mom says the multicooker’s amazing! She made borscht. Asked me to thank you — you’re her treasure!”
I smiled faintly.
“Tell her this treasure doesn’t give gifts without being asked.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You’re impossible, Lena. All over some gadget?”
“Not a gadget,” I said. “Respect.”
He walked off. I sat alone and typed into the search bar:
“how to stop being an overly accommodating wife.”
Stared at the screen.
Closed the laptop.
Not how to stop.
When.
Days passed. I cooked only for myself, washed only my clothes, lived quietly.
And the apartment suddenly felt… lighter.
Then Dima texted:
“Mom’s multicooker broke. Can you take it back for warranty?”
I stared at the message and replied:
“She can return it herself. I don’t fix other people’s messes anymore.”
Small victory. But sweet.
His mother showed up with a pie soon after, stepped inside like she owned the place.
“Lena, dear, it’s so messy here! A woman must create comfort. My son needs warmth at home.”
I calmly poured tea.
“Your son needs to learn boundaries.”
She choked on her sip.
“You want to ruin the family over some nonsense?!”
“No,” I said. “Families break when one person keeps taking and the other keeps giving. That’s not love — that’s service.”
She left offended.
Dima stormed home demanding explanations.
“You’re blowing everything up! Over a multicooker!”
“Not over it,” I said. “Because I’ve been invisible for years.”
He slammed the door and didn’t come back for three days.
I didn’t cry.
Didn’t chase him.
For the first time, I simply lived — calmly, freely.
A week later he appeared with the multicooker in a bag.
“Mom said she’ll manage without it. Here. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Maybe we can start over? Like before.”
I shook my head gently.
“I don’t want ‘like before’.”
He looked lost.
“So… divorce?”
“I just want to live without asking permission to exist.”
He swallowed.
“I thought you couldn’t live without me.”
“I thought so too,” I said softly. “But then I tried — and I can.”
He left quietly this time.
I set the multicooker on the counter.
My hands trembled — not from fear, but from clarity.
So many years I’d lived trying to be “comfortable.”
Turns out, I only needed one yes — my own.
Later that night, I brewed tea, listened to the quiet hum of the kitchen, and felt something warm settle in my chest.
Freedom.
A few days later he texted:
“Fine. You win. Hope you’re happy.”
I smiled.
“I wasn’t trying to win. I just stopped losing.”
Spring came. I enrolled in a course I’d been postponing for years.
In the evenings, I came home, turned on the multicooker, and let it simmer calmly in the background.
Not as a reminder of him.
But as a reminder of myself.
One evening, sunlight poured through the window as the multicooker beeped softly.
“Thank you, life,” I whispered. “My turn now.”
And the multicooker answered with a quiet click —
as if agreeing.
