“— And what did you think you were counting on? I’m a man! I have every right to live the way I want. Who sent you the money?”
My husband—already almost ex—hangs over me, and I get lost in his last words.
“— What money did you send me? What right do you have to it?” I repeat, and I realize how foolish the questions sound.
“Don’t play the fool, Masha,” he snaps, spreading his arms. “Everything in this apartment was bought with my money.”
I can barely breathe from that lie and his audacity, but inside a wave of anger rises too.
“Listen here, Voronov,” I boil over. “I haven’t received a single kopeck from you for the last five years. Everything here—” I point my finger at the floor. “—was bought with my money. And our kids get dressed at my expense. So go on to your second family, and don’t dare show up here again! I already filed for divorce!”
Eighteen years of marriage. Two children. A full cup of a home and horns up to the ceiling. Great, Masha! You managed to build a decent family (sarcasm)!”