Divorce: I'll Do This for Myself

“Look at yourself. You’ve completely let yourself go. What is there to even talk to you about—serials?” I know in advance that he will throw me these exact words the moment I cause a scene of jealousy. And formally, he’ll be right.

I really did become a pale copy of myself: extra weight, constant fatigue, dependence on his mood and money. I finish off cold pasta and wait for my husband to return from a trip, while meanwhile he’s hugging someone else by the pool in Dubai. She’s a slim, laughing flight attendant. I’m a convenient piece of interior furniture that’s always in place. He’s sure I’m not going anywhere—that I’m completely in his hands. But he’s wrong.

I’ll stop crying and start acting. I don’t have savings or my own place—yet I have six months to turn my life upside down. I’ll get myself into shape, return to my profession, and one day I’ll look him straight in the eyes and say: “I know about Oksana. And I don’t care about your little affairs. I’m filing for divorce—and go to hell!”