Ive stopped ironing Sergeys shirts ever since he called my work just staying at home.
How could you be so tired, Marina? From bingewatching series? From chatting with girlfriends on the phone? I come home exhausted like a squeezed lemon, and you tell me your back hurts because youve been carrying the whole family on it while some people just sit around and enjoy life!
Sergey flings his fork onto the table; it clatters, bounces, and lands on the floor. The cutlery Marina was trying to crisp up for Sergeys favorite dish lies untouched on the plate.
Marina freezes at the kitchen sink. Water keeps rushing, rinsing foam off the dish, but she doesnt hear it. The only sound in her head is the phrase: Just stay at home.
Sergey, she says, slowly turning off the tap and facing him. Her hands shake; she tucks them into the pockets of her apron.
Are you serious? You think I spend all day watching series?
And what are you doing?
Sergey leans back in his chair, his expression smug, the same condescending tone that has been showing up more often lately.
We dont have kids. Artem is at university, living in a dorm. Our flat isnt a palace, just a regular rented place. Whats there to clean? The robot vacuum runs itself, the dishwasher does the washing, the multicooker cooks. You have a resort, not a life. And me? I earn the money so we can afford your resort. I have every right to come home and find a content, relaxed wife instead of hearing you whine about fatigue.
Marina looks at the man shes spent twentyfive years with. She sees his perfectly ironed lightblue shirt, the one he wore while she spent forty minutes at the ironing board the night before, smoothing every crease so it looked as crisp as newpaper. She remembers how this morning, barely awake, she ran to the market for fresh curd because Sergey only eats homemade cheese pancakes. She recalls scrubbing the bathtub, pulling winter coats from the closet, lugging bags from the shop
He never sees any of that. To him, clean floors are a given, a hot dinner a function of the multicooker, fresh shirts apparently grow on trees in his wardrobe.
Fine, Marina says quietly. I heard you. I have a resort. I just sit at home.
Great, now we understand each other, Sergey grunts, lifting his fork from the floor and flinging it into the sink. Give me a clean shirt, and Ill pour a strong teaonly the good kind, not the one we used last time.
Marina silently hands him the fork, then the tea. Something inside her cracks; the clatter of the argument doesnt turn into a loud scandal, just a cold, empty feeling like a kitchen window suddenly blown open in midwinter.
That evening, Sergey, satisfied and smug, plops onto the couch to watch football. Marina slips into the bedroom, where her second shift normally begins. Sergey works as a department head at a large firmstrict dress code, daily shirt changes.
She pulls out the ironing board, places the iron, then glances at the laundry basket piled with his shirts, fresh from the wash, stiff and twisted after the spin cycle. The robot washes, she mutters, remembering his remark. The machine cant iron.
Marina yanks the irons cord from the outlet, folds the board, and tucks it away. She neatly slides the crumpled shirts into a corner of the closet.
Take a break, Marina, she says to her reflection. Youve got a resort.
Morning starts as usual. Sergey wakes to the alarm, stretches, showers. Marina is already in the kitchen, sipping coffee. No breakfast is prepared; on the counter sit a pack of granola and a milk carton.
Wheres the omelet? Sergey asks, wiping his hair with a towel.
I didnt have time, Marina replies, scrolling through the news feed on her phone. Im just resting. I decided to lie in a bit longer before my daily bingewatch session.
Sergey grumbles, thinking his wife is just wasting time after yesterdays argument.
Alright, forget it. I looked in the closet for a white shirt for my meeting with the boss, but its not there. I need to look sharp.
Its in the basket, Marina says without looking up.
What do you mean, in the basket? Dirty?
Clean. The machine washed it.
Sergey splashes milk on the counter, slips a spoon into his mouth.
Marina, youre not going to iron a shirt for me?
Im not going to iron anything. Thats my job. I stay at home, which doesnt mean Im just a lazy housewife. The machine cleanslet the machine do the cleaning.
Sergey sighs, his face turning a shade of pink.
Fine, just one shirt. Please.
Marina looks at him, eyes empty of fear or resentment, only indifference.
No, Sergey. I wont iron. Ironing is my work, not yours. Im home, but that doesnt mean I have to do the ironing for you. The technology does it. You can dress yourself.
Youre mocking me? Sergey shouts. I have a meeting in twenty minutes! Wheres the ironed shirt?
Its where the other shirts areclean, fresh, not ironed.
Sergey slumps into the sofa, muttering about the cost of hiring a housekeeper. He calculates: Ironing one shirt costs about $5. Thats threehundred rubles, which is roughly ten percent of my salary each month.
Marina watches him rant, the fork clanging against the countertop, the sound echoing like a gunshot. She hears his voice rise, Ill hire someone to wash, clean, and iron my shirts. My work is nothing compared to yours, staying at home.
She feels the weight of his words, the fatigue of carrying an invisible load for years.
A week passes. The apartment slowly sinks into chaos. Marina cleans dishes, wipes dust, but the magic of a tidy home evaporates. Fresh towels vanish, the scent of baked pies disappears, and the oncebright shirts turn yellowed from neglect.
Sergey struggles to keep up. He tries to wear the leftover shirts from the deep closet, but theyre stiff, faded, and the iron cant bring them back. One day he burns a hole in his favorite shirt while trying to set the temperature himself. He blames Marina for sabotage.
Marina finally realizes how much free time she actually has. She starts reading books, walking in the park, getting a new haircut, standing tall without the weight of the familys burdens on her shoulders.
Friday night, Sergey returns with a colleague, Igor Petrovich, for drinks. Sergey had warned Igor a week earlier about this homestay issue, but Marina had forgotten the warning.
Marina! Igor booms as he enters. Good evening, dear wife of Sergey!
She steps out in a modest dress, makeup subtle.
What a lovely wife you have, Sergey, Igor says, admiring her.
Sergey, trying to regain his composure, offers pizza.
We can order a pizza, or rolls, whatevers quick.
Marina smiles politely, still hearing the echo of Sergeys earlier complaints.
Igor, sensing tension, tries to smooth things over: Lets not overthink it. A pizza will do.
The evening ends with Sergey storming out, shouting about his ruined shirt, his bosss meeting, and Marinas lazy attitude. He threatens to tell everyone he lives in a homestay and eats boxed pizza.
The next morning, Marina wakes to the smell of fresh coffee, a quiet kitchen, and a note on the fridge: I bought a dishwasher. No more handwashing. Sergey.
She sips her coffee, looks at the laundry basket, now filled with clean, fresh shirtsstill unironed, but the machine has taken care of them.
Months later, Sergey keeps his word: a dishwasher sits in the kitchen, a cleaning service comes once a month, and he actually helps with chores. When he puts on a freshly laundered shirt, he leans over Marina, kisses her cheek and says, Thank you, love. Youre my wizard.
That small rebellionrefusing to iron every shirtcost a few hundred dollars in imagined hiring fees, but it reminded both of them that love isnt about who serves whom. Its about seeing each others work, valuing it, and sharing the load.
