As the scent of vanilla and cinnamon filled the kitchen, I carefully removed the cheesecake from the oven. Despite having memorized the recipe, my hands trembled slightly as I double-checked each step. I was determined to make it perfect this time.
“The guests are waiting for dessert, Andrei!” His impatient and condescending voice echoed from the living room, a familiar sting to my ears.
Meticulously slicing the cheesecake, I adorned it with fresh raspberries. Each movement was deliberate, haunted by his previous criticism during our last family gathering: “As usual, clumsy hands. Can’t even cut a cake properly.”
Entering the living room, I was met with polite smiles from his parents, sister, and her husband. Only his mother maintained her customary look of disapproval.
“Look, there’s our little chef!” Andrei announced, his grin sharp with underlying mockery. “Hopefully, she hasn’t presented us with another disaster this time.”
I placed the plates down silently, avoiding their gazes. Andrei took the first bite. I held my breath, the moment stretching endlessly.
With an exaggerated grimace, he began, “Hmm. Is this what you call a cheesecake? Bone dry! I’ve told you countless times: don’t exceed 160 degrees. It’s not that hard, even for you.”
I started to apologize, but he cut me off. “Honestly, how difficult is it to follow a recipe? Sometimes I think I should have married someone who knows her way around a kitchen.”
Awkward, muted laughter filled the room. I stood frozen, heat rising to my cheeks, my grip tightening on the tray.
That evening, as the house grew silent, I stood before our bedroom mirror. The woman staring back was unrecognizable—dull eyes, hunched shoulders, a pale complexion. Where had the vibrant, hopeful girl gone who once dreamed of love and happiness?
Andrei’s arrogant voice drifted from the living room: “Unbelievable, isn’t it? She ruined the cheesecake again. I don’t know what to do with her.”
Something inside me snapped—quietly, but irreversibly.
I barely slept that night. For the first time in a decade, my thoughts were clear. A simple yet daunting plan began to form.
The next morning, Andrei awoke to find himself bound to the bed. His voice was sharp with disbelief. “Have you lost your mind, Masha? Untie me!”
Standing over him, I felt a calmness I hadn’t experienced in years. “Ten years is a long time to endure your cruelty, Andrei,” I said, tracing a finger down his cheek. “But it’s also enough time to learn new skills—like how to bake the perfect cheesecake.”
His bravado faltered, fear creeping into his eyes. “This isn’t funny. Let me go!”
“Oh, I’m quite serious. You enjoy belittling me, don’t you? Making me feel insignificant.” My voice was steady as I paced the room.
I recounted every instance he had broken me—our wedding, family dinners, even after my miscarriages. As I spoke, his face paled. This time, he was listening.
“Andrei, you’ve extinguished every part of me that once felt alive. But no more.”
He panicked as I began packing. “You can’t leave! What will people say? What about me?”
With my suitcase in hand, I faced him. “That’s your problem now. Maybe your mother can teach you how to bake a cheesecake.”
Before leaving, I messaged his sister: “Come by the house in a few hours. The key is under the mat.”
His protests and threats faded as I closed the door behind me. I glanced at the hallway mirror—bright eyes, a determined smile. For the first time in ten years, I felt free.
A week later, I sat in a quaint café on the outskirts of Barcelona, savoring a hot chocolate. The aroma of freedom was as sweet as the pastries on display. My phone buzzed incessantly with messages from neighbors, mutual friends, even Andrei’s family. I ignored them all.
