Reverse Cinderella

Tell my success story? I’m not sure it qualifies as a success story. From the outside, it might look like the opposite. People could say I was this married woman, living the dream as a housewife with a perfect home, not even needing to work—basically a princess. I know how people see it because I used to think the same way. And honestly, I took pride in that life of mine.

I wasn’t happy, objectively speaking. But the only time I really enjoyed life was when I could show off how great everything was. That I had it all together—a husband, a house, a car, a beautiful home—not like them. And to be completely honest, I looked down on women who did regular jobs. I thought, “Ugh, losers.” Of course, I’d never say it to their face, but I definitely thought it. I’ve always been kind to people, but deep down, I comforted myself with the idea that I was better than them.

I remember a high school reunion we had. We met at a bar, and then I said, “Let’s go to my place!” They came over and saw the bar counter my husband, Valera, had built. A mirrored countertop with lights and a cocktail set—it was stunning. Everything sparkled and gleamed, and I saw the way they looked at it. That was my real joy. That’s what made me feel good.

But in reality, things were very different. They didn’t see how I spent hours at that same bar counter, chopping and grating vegetables into perfect cubes. Valera, my “golden hands Valera,” couldn’t stand it if carrots were cut too big for his soup. I suggested getting a food processor. He said, “Why do you need a food processor? You already don’t do anything. What, you want to do even less now?”

When I asked my mom and sister to pool their money for my birthday and get me a food processor, they did. And you know what? Valera refused to eat anything made with it. He ate the peeled potatoes, the meat, but the soup or salad? Straight to the trash, just because it wasn’t hand-cut. It was like a scene from Girls (Devchata), where the main character is trained to perfection. That’s what life was like for me.

And it wasn’t just the kitchen. Valera wouldn’t even serve himself soup. He’d pour it out to criticize it, calling it “poison,” but he’d never ladle it into his own bowl. He’d sit at the table and wait for me to serve everything, only then starting to eat. Every day was the same. I’d wake up, cook, chop everything fresh “just for Valera,” clean the house until it shined, water the flowers, trim the garden, take care of the kids, and make sure everything looked perfect. Like something out of a magazine. And then, the day would end. The week would pass. My life slipped away like that.

Then one day, Valera announced that I was a bad wife and a bad mother, and he was leaving. But, being such a great man, he’d leave me the house. “You won’t name names, right? Everyone knows anyway—what’s there to hide?” Yes, Valera worked unofficially, flipping cars. And he made it clear: if I filed for alimony, I wouldn’t see a penny. The deal was this: take $150 a month or nothing at all. So I agreed. But what’s $150 a month?

I was in a state I can’t even describe. Everything was turned upside down. My youngest was just a year and a half old. What could I do? The only option was moving back in with my parents into their two-room apartment. And it seemed inevitable.

Then I ran into Tanya, a former classmate. She supported me. Turns out, Tanya and Sveta were working together—one stayed home with their kids, while the other went to the city to do finishing work. They invited me to join them as a third. Before, they’d watch their three kids together, and now, with mine, it was five. So I went with them to the city, and we started working together.

At first, I just helped out—passed things, did small tasks. Then they showed me how to hold a trowel, how to apply paint evenly, how to line up wallpaper. Three weeks later, I was practically a partner. Sure, I didn’t know everything, but they were always there to catch and correct me.

That’s how it’s been for two years now. All our kids are in kindergarten, but we’re still working together. And now, I’ve gone from being a “luxury woman” to a simple decorator who owes nothing to anyone. I know that no matter what, I can provide for my kids. And I’ve found this energy within me, energy I no longer have to waste on meaningless things.

I’m not artistically chopping carrots anymore; I’m studying to become a psychologist. The courses aren’t university-level, but it’s something I want to pursue in the future. Decorating work is physically tough, but it clears your mind beautifully.

When we work in the city, we always bring packed lunches. Even now, at home, I eat my lunch at that fancy bar counter—with its mirrored surface and lights. Potatoes and herring never tasted better. Sometimes I think about tearing it down, but I leave it as a memory. Besides, why waste time on it? I don’t want to spend time on anything that doesn’t matter anymore. And that’s what I’m teaching my kids: the most important thing is what they think of themselves.