“Where did you get that money from?” he exploded. “And why do you think you can ask me, when you’ve been lying on the couch for three months yourself?”

Artyom found out about his dismissal on a Friday, right before the weekend. His boss called him into the office, talked about “staff optimization” and the crisis in the industry, handed him the notice and severance pay. The 30-year-old software engineer returned home with a heavy chest, but tried to stay optimistic.

“Lera, don’t worry,” he told his wife when he came back from work. “It’s temporary. In a month or two, I’ll find something better. Maybe they’ll even pay more.”

Valeria, a 28-year-old journalist at a local newspaper, hugged her husband and tried to support him. She knew losing a job was a major stress. They lived in a one-room apartment on the outskirts, rented for the past three years. They had just enough to get by, with no savings. Artyom’s salary had been the foundation of the family budget.

“It’s all right, we’ll manage,” Lera reassured him. “I earn something too, we’ll get through this.”

In the first days after being fired, her husband really did throw himself into job hunting. He rewrote his résumé, sent it to dozens of vacancies, called former colleagues and acquaintances. Every morning, he sat in front of the computer, checked listings, and answered ads. Lera saw his effort and supported him as best she could.

But after two weeks, his enthusiasm began to fade. Replies were scarce, interview invitations even rarer. And the companies that did consider him offered very low pay or poor conditions. Artyom grew frustrated, complaining about employers and the job market.

“They’re insane,” he grumbled at night. “They want five years of experience in a technology that’s only been around for a year and a half. And they pay as if it were an internship.”

“Maybe you should look into other fields?” Lera suggested. “Or search for something remote?”

“That’s not serious. And in other fields… I’m a top-level specialist, I won’t lower myself.”

Gradually, the time spent on job searching shrank, while his breaks grew longer. More and more often, Artyom visited gaming forums, read news, watched reviews. He said he needed to distract himself from stress and recharge.

By the end of the first month of unemployment, job hunting had become a formality. Artyom still sat down at the computer every morning, but instead of opening his résumé, he opened an online game. He could play six to eight hours straight, pausing only briefly to skim through new vacancies.

“Tomorrow I’ll get serious,” he promised his wife. “Today my brain isn’t working, I need to relax.”

At first, Lera didn’t pressure him. She knew constant failures can shake anyone, and everyone needs time to recover. She kept working, earning her modest salary and cutting expenses wherever possible. But her income wasn’t enough to maintain their usual standard of living.

So she started looking for extra income. In the evenings after work, she took on freelance jobs: writing texts for websites, helping colleagues, advising on PR. At first, they were small, one-off tasks.

Artyom didn’t show much interest in how his wife managed to find the time and energy for the extra work. He was absorbed in his own worries and his virtual battles.

Two months after his dismissal, the family situation changed dramatically. Lera’s freelance work took off. Clients recommended her, projects grew, and money started coming in regularly. In one week of extra work, Lera earned as much as in a month at the newspaper.

There was enough money for all the essentials. But now the family budget depended entirely on her. Artyom insisted he was still job hunting, though he was doing less and less.

He argued more and more with his mother on the phone. Galina Petrovna called every week, asked about progress, gave advice, and criticized her son’s passivity. Artyom defended himself, complaining about the unfairness of the market and the employers.

One night, Lera overheard her husband telling a friend:

“Everything’s fine. My wife supports us for now; I can take a break. I’ve worked hard for many years, I deserve some rest.”

Standing there with shopping bags in her hands, Lera couldn’t believe what she was hearing. So her husband not only had trouble with job hunting—he was consciously using his wife as a source of income.

In the following days, she watched him closely. Artyom got up at eleven, had breakfast, sat at the computer, played games, watched videos. Only in the afternoon did he glance at job listings for a few minutes before returning to entertainment. He forgot about household chores. Everything fell on Lera.

“You’re home all day,” she told him one day. “Couldn’t you at least help around the house?”

“I’m not a housewife,” he replied. “I’m looking for work, I have important things on my mind.”

Lera looked at the screen full of tanks from an online game but didn’t argue. She realized her husband was fooling himself and had no intention of changing.

One night in August, Lera landed a big assignment: content for a corporate website. The client paid a good advance, and upon completion, the rest. In a week, Lera earned more than Artyom had made in a month. She decided to celebrate, buying good food and wine. Artyom greeted her with suspicion.

“Where did you get the money for that?” he asked, doubtful.

“I got a good assignment,” Lera replied calmly.

“What assignment? Where does so much money come from?”

“I write texts for websites in my free time.”

Artyom began to suspect. What if that “extra work” was just a cover? What if Lera had a “benefactor”?

“Show me that assignment,” he demanded. “I want to see what kind of job pays that much.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I find it suspicious when the wife earns more than the husband.”

“And how much has the husband earned in the last three months?” she shot back coldly.

Artyom had no answer. Lera showed him all the documents, payments, and client chats. It was all real work.

“Have you contributed anything other than criticism?” she asked, closing the laptop.

Artyom had nothing to say. Lera gathered her things and went to the bedroom, making it clear the situation had reached its limit.

The next day, Artyom discovered he could no longer access the family bank accounts: Lera had changed the passwords.

“What happened to our accounts?” he asked that night.

“Our accounts? What’s ‘ours’ about that money?” she replied.

“We’re a family, everything should be shared.”

“What should be shared is participation. Right now, all you contribute is spending, not earning.”

A week later, Artyom tried to make amends—he cooked and apologized. But Lera made it clear that one gesture didn’t fix anything.

“You had three months. What changed during that time?”

There was no reply. On Friday, Lera took two days off, packed a suitcase, and left a note: “I need a space where no one devalues my effort. I’ll be back Monday.” She went to a cabin by a lake.

When she returned, she found a list of Artyom’s complaints about her “unjustified expenses.” Lera threw it in the trash. All the money had been earned by her.

The next day, she went to see a lawyer to file for divorce. There were no assets to divide.

“A divorce by mutual consent takes one month,” the lawyer explained. “If he doesn’t agree, it can drag on two or three months.”

“He won’t agree,” Lera sighed. “It suits him too well.”

That night, Lera informed Artyom of her decision.

“I’m getting a divorce. I’ve already started the process.”

“Just like that? Over an argument?”

“Not over an argument. Over three months of living off someone else and refusing to change.”

Artyom tried to play on her compassion, but Lera didn’t give in. A week later, realizing he was losing control, he promised to change—but it was already too late.

“You had three months of chances,” Lera said, packing his suitcase. “Every day was an opportunity to change something.”

“Do three years of marriage mean nothing to you?”

“Yes, but the last three months show that things will only get worse.”

Lera called a taxi and Artyom left for his mother’s house. The next day, she changed the lock.

Now, in the small apartment, lived a woman who knew how to value her own work and would not allow anyone to devalue it. The apartment became calmer—and far more promising.

The divorce was finalized a month and a half later. Artyom tried to delay it but eventually gave in. There was nothing to divide.

Six months later, Lera learned that her ex-husband still had no steady job, was living with his mother, and complained about the “cruelty” of his ex-wife. She felt neither anger nor pity. Only indifference toward a man who had chosen to be a loser.

As for Lera, she expanded her freelance work, secured regular clients, increased her income, moved to a better apartment, and began saving for her own place. Life without a dependent turned out not only calmer but much more promising.