As I nervously take the cheesecake out of the oven, the delightful scents of vanilla and cinnamon fill the air. Despite knowing the recipe by heart, my hands tremble slightly as I double-check it. I reassure myself that it has to be perfect this time.
“The guests are waiting for dessert, Andrei!” His voice, as always, comes from the living room, impatient and condescending.
After carefully slicing the cheesecake, I adorn it with fresh raspberries. Each movement is deliberate, and his previous comments from our last family gathering echo in my mind, heightening my anxiety: “As usual, clumsy hands. Can’t even cut a cake properly.”
As I enter the living room, his parents, sister, and her husband greet me with polite smiles, but only his mother gives me her usual disapproving squint.
“Look, our little chef has arrived!” Andrei announces with a grin that cuts deeper than any insult. “Let’s hope she hasn’t disappointed us with another disaster this time.”
I place the plates down in silence, avoiding their gazes. Andrei is the first to take a bite. I hold my breath as the moment stretches on.
With an exaggerated grimace, he begins, “Hmm. Is this what you call cheesecake? It’s dry and lacking! I’ve told you countless times: keep the temperature below 160 degrees. It’s not that hard, even for you.”
I start to apologize, but he cuts me off.
Honestly, how hard can it be to follow a recipe? Sometimes I think I would have been better off marrying someone who knows their way around the kitchen.
A wave of awkward, muted laughter follows, but it still stings. I stand frozen, heat rising in my cheeks, my grip tightening on the tray.
That evening, as the house falls silent, I stand in front of the bedroom mirror. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes are lifeless, her shoulders slumped, and her complexion is pale. Where has the happy, intelligent girl gone who once dreamed of love and joy?
Andrei’s arrogant, scornful voice echoes from the living room:
“Can you believe it? She messed up the cheesecake again. I don’t know how to deal with her.”
Something inside me snaps. Silently, but irrevocably.
I hardly sleep that night. For the first time in a decade, my thoughts are clear. A simple yet terrifying plan begins to form.
The next morning, Andrei wakes up tied to the bed, his voice sharp with disbelief.
“Have you lost your mind, Masha? Untie me!”
For the first time in years, I feel a sense of calm as I stand over him.
“Ten years is a long time to endure your cruelty, Andrei,” I say, tracing a finger down his cheek. “But it’s also enough time to learn a few new skills. Like how to make the perfect cheesecake.”
His voice trembles with fear as he tries to assert control. “This isn’t funny. Let me go!”
“Oh, I’m quite serious. You love to belittle me, don’t you? To mock me and make me feel small?” I say steadily as I pace the room.
I recount all the times he broke me—during our wedding, at family dinners, and even after my miscarriages. As I speak, his face pales. This time, he’s truly listening.
“Andrei, you destroyed every part of me that once felt alive. But that’s no longer the case.”
He panics as I start to pack. “You can’t leave! What will people think? What about me?”
With my suitcase in hand, I turn to him. “That’s now your problem. Let your mother teach you how to bake a cheesecake.”
Before I leave, I text his sister: “Come by the house in a few hours. The key is under the mat.”
As I close the door behind me, his cries and threats fade into silence. I glance in the hallway mirror—my eyes are bright, and a determined smile graces my face. For the first time in ten years, I feel free.
A week later, I’m savoring a hot chocolate in a charming café on the outskirts of Barcelona. The aroma of freedom is as sweet as the pastries on display. My phone buzzes with messages from neighbors, mutual friends, and even Andrei’s family, but I ignore them all.
One email catches my eye:
“We would love to discuss publishing your story. We’re very interested.”
I look at the draft of The Story of a Marriage, the project I’ve poured my heart into, and smile. It’s an honest, therapeutic, and raw narrative that I hope will inspire other women to reclaim their lives.
Months later, I open my own bakery, inheriting the business from José, the kind old baker who taught me everything I know. Each morning, I create perfect cheesecakes, croissants, and tarts for those who truly appreciate them.
A Russian magazine featuring Andrei and his new girlfriend lies on a table by the window, titled A Redemptive Story: A Businessman Reflects on His Mistakes. I chuckle and toss it in the trash.
My phone rings. It’s a woman from a support center.
“Maria, your book has inspired so many women. Would you be willing to speak at one of our events?”
“Of course,” I reply with a smile.
That night, I sit on my balcony, watching the sun set over the ocean. The future looks bright, and the air is warm. For years, I believed that seeking Andrei’s approval and pleasing others was the ultimate goal of my life. Now, I know better.
No dessert I’ve ever made tastes as sweet as freedom. And the best part? I will never forget this recipe.