My husband got angry because I worked and didn’t serve dinner on time; he suggested we separate to think things over. Without him, I felt so good — I got a divorce…
I had been staring at my phone for a while. Lukas had called for the third time that night, but I didn’t answer. The screen showed the time—half past ten. Before, at this hour, I would have already washed the dishes, cleared the table, and hung the laundry. Now, I was sitting on the sofa with a cold cup of tea, thinking about how everything had changed in just three weeks.
And it all started that night.
I got home around eight, exhausted from work. I dropped my bag on a chair and took the meatballs I had prepared that morning out of the fridge. Lukas walked into the kitchen just as I put the pan on the stove.
—“And dinner, Lena?” he asked calmly, though I felt the tension instantly.
—“I’m heating it now, it’ll be ready in five minutes,” I replied.
He walked over to the table and ran his finger over the surface.
—“Dust. Dust everywhere again. Do you even clean?”
I stayed silent, turning the meatballs in the pan. My hands were trembling—whether from exhaustion or sadness, I didn’t know.
—“I’m tired, Lukas. I work too, you know.”
—“You work?” His voice became harder. “That’s not your job! Why do you need a job if the house is a mess, there’s no dinner, and I’m left waiting like an idiot? How long is this going to go on?”
I took a deep breath.
—“We need the money,” I said quietly. “Your salary isn’t enough for even decent groceries.”
—“You need to save more! Other women manage, and you…”
He stopped and looked out the window.
I turned off the stove, placed the plate in front of him, and sat down. My chest felt tight, knotted.
—“Listen,” Lukas said, looking at me. “I think we should live separately for a while. I need to rethink everything.”
—“What?” I didn’t understand at first.
—“Let’s take some distance. A friend told me he and his wife did the same, and things got better. I’ll stay with my mother for a while, and you think about how you want to live from now on.”
He left without touching the food and walked out of the kitchen.
I stared at the plate of meatballs, feeling as if I couldn’t breathe.
He’s leaving. He’s just leaving.
An hour later, Lukas had packed his things and gone. The apartment was mine—it had been inherited from my grandmother—so it was his turn to leave. I accompanied him to the door, trying to say something, but he only waved his hand:
—“We’ll talk.”
The door slammed. I stood in the hallway, listening to the silence. A silence that hadn’t existed in our home for years. No snoring, no complaints, no reproaches.
The first two days I cried nonstop. I cried in the office bathroom, in the kitchen, before going to bed.
“How am I going to manage on my own? What am I going to do?”
My mother came over and stroked my hair like she used to when I was a child.
—“Darling, maybe this is for the best,” she said softly. “Look at you. You’re exhausted.”
She pulled some cash from her bag and placed it in my hand.
—“For a haircut or something for yourself. Don’t skimp on yourself, Lena.”
I looked at the bills and felt something stir inside me. Anger? Pain? Or the beginning of awakening?
On the third day, my school friend Hanna called. Her voice was energetic, lively:
—“Lena, enough! Get ready, I’ll pick you up in an hour. We’re going dancing!”
—“Dancing? Hanna, I don’t feel up to it…”
—“Exactly for that reason. I won’t let you turn into a plant. Come on, get up!”
I tried to refuse, but it was useless.
I looked at myself in the mirror: messy hair, an old sweater, a swollen face.
I put on jeans, a light blouse, tried to apply makeup—my mascara smudged, my hands shook. I wiped it and started over.
The dance studio was in the neighboring district, in the basement of an old colonial-style building. Hanna practically dragged me inside.
—“Hanna, I don’t know how to dance…”
—“You’ll learn here. Trust me.”
The room was small, with large mirrors on the walls and a creaky wooden floor. About fifteen women were there, of different ages, smiling, chatting.
The music started.
The instructor demonstrated the moves, everyone followed.
I stood at the back, stiff, my body refusing to obey, my legs tangled.
“What am I doing here?”
But when I looked in the mirror, I saw something else.
Not a tired housewife, not a defeated wife, but a woman trying to move, breathe, live again. And on my face was a smile. Shy, uncertain—but a real smile.
—“Look!” Hanna exclaimed, coming over. “Look how beautiful you are!”
I laughed. Truly laughed—for the first time in days.
And I felt something inside me loosen, like a rope that had been tight for years finally letting go.
I felt good. Simply good.
The next day, Lukas called. I was at work and picked up.
—“How are you?” he said coldly, distantly.
—“Fine.”
—“The utilities bill arrived. Send me half.”
—“Okay.”
There was a pause. I could hear his breathing on the other end.
—“Have you at least cleaned?”
At that moment I realized: nothing had changed.
—“Lukas, why do you even care?”
—“What do you mean, why?” It’s our apartment.”
—“My apartment,” I said more firmly than I expected.
He snorted, annoyed.
—“That’s exactly the problem, Lena. You’re completely slipping out of control.”
When I hung up the phone, I stayed still for a few seconds, listening to the silence around me. For the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t scare me. It wasn’t heavy or sad: it was liberating. I looked out the window at the city lights, and a bold thought crossed my mind: my life is starting now.
That night, after work, I went back to the dance class. Hanna nearly jumped for joy when she saw me walk in alone.
—“Finally!” she exclaimed, making room in the front row.
The music started, and this time I didn’t hide in the corner. My movements were clumsy at first, a little stiff, but with each step I felt my body regain something it had lost long ago: confidence. At one point, I laughed—a spontaneous, clean laugh—and the instructor stopped, pointed at me, and said:
—“That’s it. That’s freedom. Hold onto that feeling.”
And I did.
After class, Hanna took me to a nearby café. It was cozy, with warm lights, soft music, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. We sat by the window, and for the first time in weeks I felt I could breathe without my chest hurting.
—“Lena, you’ve always been strong,” Hanna said as she stirred her cappuccino. “You just forgot for a while.”
—“Maybe…” I replied with a shy smile. “I lost myself in the on-time dinners and spotless floors.”
—“Then it’s time to find yourself again.”
On the way home, my phone buzzed. A message from Lukas:
Can we talk tomorrow? We have things to clarify.
For a moment, old reflexes tried to return—the anxiety, the need to please him, the fear of conflict. But immediately after, I felt something completely new: calm.
I didn’t owe him anything anymore.
I replied: We’ll talk, but not about what you think. I also have things to say.
The next day, we met at a café near the apartment. Lukas arrived with that critical look I knew too well, as if already seeking a flaw in me. But I was no longer the same woman.
—“Lena, I think we can still save our relationship. If…” he began.
—“No, Lukas,” I interrupted calmly. “It’s not our relationship that needs saving. It’s me. And you know what? I’ve already started doing it on my own.”
He blinked, surprised, as if he didn’t understand my words.
—“Aren’t you exaggerating?”
—“For years you told me I wasn’t enough. That I never did enough. But you never truly saw me. You only saw what you wanted me to be. And I… am tired of that.”
My words weren’t harsh, nor did I raise my voice. They were simply true.
And that quiet honesty disarmed him completely.
—“So… you want a divorce?” he finally asked.
—“Yes. And I want my life back.”
I left the café with my back straight, breathing deeply the cold air. Every step felt lighter, as if invisible chains I had dragged for years were finally broken.
And at that moment I knew with absolute certainty:
I hadn’t just found myself again. I had been reborn.