The Cottage Princess

I’m from Brest, and he’s from Minsk. Vova and I met through mutual friends—they invited him to a birthday party here, and after that, he started visiting me regularly. At the time, I worked as a seamstress. We had a small production workshop in a cottage in Kovalyovka. I was good at it and was about to be promoted to team leader. I’d already arranged with my supervisor to start in March, but then, on Valentine’s Day, Vova proposed. I said yes, and we got married in Minsk.

Things didn’t work out for me work-wise in Minsk. I went to several sewing workshops, but the pay for knitwear was too low, and the conditions were awful—no changing rooms, no ventilation. It just didn’t make sense for me to work there. Honestly, I didn’t like Minsk at all. Maybe it was because his family wasn’t particularly welcoming, or maybe it was because I’d left all my friends behind—I didn’t know anyone there. Plus, I often thought that if I had stayed in Brest and taken the team leader position, I might have progressed further and had more opportunities.

So, when Vova was offered a position as the head of the Brest branch of his company, I was overjoyed. We moved back and immediately started thinking about getting our own place. Housing in Minsk was prohibitively expensive, and even in Brest, it was still out of reach for us. That’s when we found an option in Znamyenka. It was about one and a half times cheaper than in Brest.

We realized that since the pandemic, Vova had been working from home most of the time and rarely needed to go to the office. So, moving to Znamyenka seemed like the right choice for us.

We also chose Znamyenka because it’s near a nature reserve. We wanted our children to breathe clean air. My twin sister’s son, my nephew, has severe asthma, and since my sister and I share the same genes, I’ve always been cautious about ensuring my kids have a clean environment. I regularly dust, use a wet vacuum cleaner, and have an air purification system at home.

When I first arrived here, the air was so fresh that I actually felt a little light-headed. We decided it was the perfect combination: clean air, a reasonable commute, and affordable housing. We moved here in May, and at first, it was amazing. White Lake was nearby, and we spent almost every day there with the kids—swimming, boating, playing soccer. Everything was great.

But when the rainy season started, things changed. The kids and I grew restless. Driving to the city for activities became too much. We’d been doing robotics with our eldest, but the distance made it hard to keep up. We switched from a monthly subscription to occasional classes, but now he only attends sporadically.

I started feeling down again. My husband wanted to help with household chores, but he works so much. Especially now, with remote work, I see it every day—either he’s talking non-stop in meetings or glued to his computer. I don’t even insist on regular meals anymore; I just put hot food nearby so the smell distracts him, and he eats right there. If I tried setting the table and calling him to the kitchen, it would end in an argument. I’d say, “Honey, it’s cold now! Should I heat it for the third time?” And he’d reply, “I’m coming, just a minute.” And so it would go, louder and louder.

He’s organized in his own way. In the garage, all the shelves, boxes, and tools are perfectly arranged. And he’s great with the kids, though I often get frustrated when I see how he handles things. For example, I once sent him out with our eldest, and the child came back soaking wet, sweaty, with snow down his back. Fathers don’t supervise like mothers do. My eldest, Vasya, is very active, always running around and sweating. Then, a draft catches him, and next thing you know, we’re at the ENT specialist, using hormonal drops because his adenoids are at the final stage.

I’ve learned to control myself better now, but when Vasya was a baby, I once even hit my husband. It just happened—I know it was wrong. He gave our five-month-old sausage. He said, “The baby reached for it, how could I not give it to him?”

Now I understand that part of my frustration comes from a lack of personal fulfillment. Back in Minsk, Vova’s company often organized corporate events and celebrations. I loved preparing for them. I remember buying an antique-style dress in a deep red, matching sandals with laces, and wide metallic bracelets. Everyone noticed, and Vova was so proud. He’d say, “Honey, you’re the most beautiful one here.” That made me happy—not just the attention, but the preparation and excitement.

He was very proud of me. We had a sandwich maker that could make stuffed toast like little pies. When Vova went on business trips with his colleagues, they’d ignore their own lunches and eat the sandwiches I made. They even had a nickname for them: “Yulia’s sandwiches.”

I realized that living in Minsk gave me some social interaction—those corporate events, meeting his friends. But now in Brest, my friends are all busy with their families, and here in Znamyenka, I’ve grown lonely. I started yelling more—at the kids and at my husband.

Recently, I came up with an idea to open a playroom, and my husband supported me. In winter and fall, when it’s wet and dreary, there’s nowhere for kids to go, and moms need a break too. He promised to help. But when I started researching, I found out that all the toys in the playroom must be certified. Now I’m looking into other business ideas that I can start. My husband supports me, saying it’s important to have something of my own.

So now I’m exploring different options, and I hope I’ll succeed.