“I Earned My Money Honestly — That Doesn’t Mean You Get to Treat Me Like a Cash Cow”

Galina’s beauty salon always smelled of lavender—not because she particularly loved the fragrance, but because it was the scent of her success. Everything in the salon carried that pharmacy-clean softness and a sense of feminine well-being. It was a place of stability, of comfort, and of a light, almost imperceptible sadness that lingered beneath the surface.

The salon, by the way, was hers. Not “ours,” not “we leased it,” not “an uncle helped”—hers. Located on the ground floor of an old Stalin-era building, its sign read “La Femme,” accompanied by neon lips glowing in the window. Women didn’t just come to her salon to cut or color their hair. They came to exhale, to escape, to feel like they were stepping into a different life. People often told Galina:
“It feels like a different world in here.”

But at home, Galina lived a very different life—a life that felt worlds away from the peace and independence of her salon. Her husband, Konstantin, worked as a sales manager for construction materials—or was it office furniture? Even he mixed it up sometimes. His salary was meager, and he had a mantra he repeated like clockwork:
“It all goes on transportation.”

Whenever bills piled up, Konstantin would come to her with his usual requests:
“Gal, we’ve got that HOA fee for the ‘Harmony’ complex again—six thousand. And I need to buy some boards. Mom’s back is acting up—her sciatica again…”

And Galina would smile, nod, and transfer the money. Because why? Because family means support. She had lost her parents early—her father left when she was in ninth grade, and her mother passed away during her second year at university. She was desperate for these new people—Konstantin, his mother Maria Ivanovna, his sisters Svetka and Anka—to feel like her own family. Anyone at all.

Maria Ivanovna accepted the money transfers like utility payments: in silence. Occasionally, she’d nod approvingly and say:
“Well, you’re no slouch, Galочка… Clearly you’ve got a head on your shoulders. Good girl.”

It was nice to hear, but something about it always felt off. Something itched beneath the surface.

The Breaking Point

One Thursday evening, Galina was riding home in a taxi after a long day at the salon. She was exhausted—tired to the point of transparency, the way you feel after a shift in intensive care. That day, she’d given a client a pedicure with elements of psychotherapy. The client had sobbed about her husband’s affair with a masseuse and how he blamed her for “growing cold.” After sessions like that, the client pays you, but it feels like your soul has been shaken out.

When Galina walked into the apartment, Konstantin was already sitting at their IKEA table—a table that looked more like it belonged in a prosecutor’s office than a home. It was square, severe, and the site of constant interrogations.

“Gal, could you toss Mom another five thousand? Her blood pressure’s up, and the pills are expensive,” he asked.

Galina sat down, tired but curious. “And where’s your salary?” she asked, not angrily, but with interest.

“I lent it to Svetka and Anka—they took the kids to the sea. Didn’t have a penny,” Konstantin replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Svetka and Anka, as Galina called them, were his sister and sister-in-law. Their middle name might as well have been “perpetually penniless.” They seemed to even sneeze on credit.

Galina took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking… Maybe that’s enough?”

“Enough what?” Konstantin asked, surprised.

“Enough of supporting everyone. Maybe someone else in this family could start earning money besides me?”

Konstantin sighed deeply, like a tractor struggling to start. “Gal… Why are you like this? It’s Mom. And my sister—our own blood. They don’t even have a proper renovation. The kids are growing up… You’re not stingy, are you?”

“No, I’m not stingy,” Galina said quietly. “Apparently, I’m just a fool.”

Konstantin said nothing, and Galina got up to boil buckwheat. A rich life doesn’t mean eating lobsters. It means you can eat buckwheat because you want to, not because there’s nothing else.

The Poisoned Candy

Two days later, they went to Maria Ivanovna’s house for her birthday. The house was small and old, but pretentious. Tapestries hung on the walls, and under the rug—another rug. On the table were aspic, “herring under a fur coat,” and her legendary “flourless cake,” which was always eaten with spoons like porridge.

Galina was heading to the kitchen to help when she overheard familiar voices behind the door. Laughing. Whispering.

“Well, Galka transferred again, as usual,” said Svetka.
“She can’t do without us—without a family. Where else would she go?” added Anka.
“What do you expect? She’s basically an orphanage kid at heart…” Maria Ivanovna tittered.

Orphanage kid.

The word soaked into Galina like a drop of dye into silk—small, nasty, cold. Sweetened with giggles, like a poisoned candy.

She didn’t go into the kitchen. She walked out of the apartment in silence, leaving the door open behind her. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she couldn’t stay. The “home,” it turned out, wasn’t a home. It was a bunker. And she was a hired gun in it.

Reclaiming Her Life

Late that night, lying in the bath, Galina opened her banking app. For the first time in seven years, she didn’t transfer a single ruble to anyone. Then, she wrote a simple message to Konstantin:
“Kostya. I’m tired. Let them support you now. I’m out of this game.”

And she turned off her phone.

Konstantin showed up at the salon two days later, unannounced. No flowers. No apology. Just dirty sneakers and the face of a man who hadn’t slept, eaten, or fully understood why his life had suddenly fallen apart.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.

Galina led him to the back room—the sacred ground of the salon. It was where staff cried, drank cognac, and shared secrets. Today, it was where Galina would draw her final boundary.

“What’s wrong with you, Gal?” Konstantin began, slamming the door. “You insulted Mom, walked out without a word, cut off the money… Why are you putting on a show?”

Galina looked at him calmly. “Kostya, your ears are so dirty you can’t hear how your family talks about me.”

“It was a joke! Women gossip. Everybody gossips. You didn’t take it seriously, did you?”

“So ‘orphanage kid’ is a joke now? Kostya, I supported all of you. The salon is mine. The apartment is mine. You rode me like a route taxi—without paying the fare. And now you’re joking.”

Konstantin couldn’t take it. “To hell with you,” he muttered and stormed out.

Freedom

Two weeks later, Galina stood on her balcony with a mug of tea. Outside, a petty drizzle fell—the kind of rain that doesn’t soak you but irritates you. It reminded her of how she’d felt for years—soaked and unwanted, under someone else’s weather.

The phone stayed quiet. No messages. No reproaches. Only a push notification from the bank:
“Transaction: transfer from K. Lebedev. Amount: 2,500 rubles. Note: ‘Debt for the watermelon, 2021.’”

Well, at least he returned the watermelon, she thought with a smirk.

That weekend, Galina went to her dacha—a shabby old house with a lopsided porch. But it was hers. The daisies were blooming, and the earth smelled real. Her neighbor Lena greeted her:
“Won the war?”

“Not won,” Galina replied. “Stood my ground.”

And for the first time in years, it was quiet.

And silence, it turned out, can be happiness. Especially when it’s your own.