As I anxiously pull the cheesecake from the oven, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon fills the room. Despite knowing the recipe by heart, my hands tremble slightly as I check it once more. I reassure myself that this time it has to be perfect.
“The guests are waiting for dessert, Andrei!” His voice, as usual, calls from the living room, impatient and condescending.
I carefully cut the cheesecake and garnish it with fresh raspberries. Each movement is deliberate, and his words from the last family gathering echo in my mind, heightening my anxiety: “As always, clumsy hands. Can’t even cut a cake properly.”
His parents, sister, and her husband greet me with polite smiles when I enter the living room. Only his mother gives me her usual look of disapproval.
“Look, there’s our little chef!” Andrei announces with a smile that cuts deeper than any insult. “Let’s hope she hasn’t ruined the cheesecake again.”
I place the plates down without a word, avoiding their gaze. Andrei is the first to try it. I hold my breath as the silence stretches.
With a dramatic grimace, he begins, “Hmm.” “This? This is what you call a cheesecake? Dry and tasteless! I’ve told you a hundred times: don’t go over 160 degrees. Even for you, that’s not too hard.”
I begin to apologize, but he cuts me off.
“Honestly, how hard is it to follow a recipe? Sometimes, I wonder if I should have married someone who actually knows their way around a kitchen.”
An awkward, restrained laugh echoes around the room, but it still stings. I freeze, my cheeks burning, my grip tightening on the tray.
That evening, I stand in front of the bedroom mirror as the house grows quiet. I don’t recognize the woman staring back. Her eyes are lifeless, her shoulders slumped, and her face pale. Where had the happy, confident woman gone—the one who once dreamed of love and happiness?
Andrei’s mocking voice drifts in from the living room:
“Unbelievable! Once again, she ruined the cheesecake. I don’t know how to deal with her anymore.”
Something inside me snaps. Silently, but decisively.
I barely sleep that night. For the first time in years, my thoughts are clear. A simple but chilling plan begins to take shape.
The next morning, Andrei wakes up strapped to the bed, his voice sharp and incredulous.
“Masha, have you lost your mind? Untie me now!”
For the first time in years, I feel calm as I stand above him.
“Ten years is a long time to endure your cruelty, Andrei,” I say, tracing a finger down his cheek. “But it’s also long enough to learn a few new tricks. Like how to make the perfect cheesecake.”
His voice falters, fear creeping in as he tries to issue commands. “This isn’t funny. Let me go!”
“Oh, I’m serious. You enjoy doing this, don’t you? Making fun of me, belittling me, making me feel insignificant. I speak calmly as I pace the room.
I recount every time he tore me down—during our wedding, at family dinners, even after my miscarriages. As I speak, his face pales. This time, he listens.
“Andrei, you destroyed every part of me that used to feel alive. But that’s no longer the case.”
He panics as I start packing. “You can’t leave! What will people think? What about me?”
With my suitcase in hand, I face him. “That’s your problem now. Let your mother teach you how to bake cheesecake.”
Before I leave, I send a message to his sister: “Come by 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 at the hallway mirror—my eyes are bright, my smile firm. For the first time in ten years, I feel free.
A week later, I’m sipping hot chocolate in a cozy café on the outskirts of Barcelona. The smell of pastries and freedom fills the air. My phone buzzes constantly with messages from neighbors, mutual friends, and even Andrei’s family. I ignore them all.
Then, an email catches my attention:
“We’d love to discuss publishing your story. We’re interested.”
I look at the draft of The Story of a Marriage, the one I’ve poured my heart into, and I smile. It’s raw, honest, and therapeutic—a story that I hope will inspire other women to reclaim their lives.
Months later, I open my own bakery. I inherit it from José, the kind old baker who taught me everything. Each morning, I make cheesecakes, croissants, and tarts—perfected for those who appreciate them.
A Russian magazine with a picture of Andrei and his new girlfriend rests on the table by the window. A Redemptive Story: A Businessman Reflects on His Mistakes. I chuckle and toss it into the trash.
My phone rings. It’s a woman from a support center.
“Maria, so many women have been moved by your book. 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 feels warm. For years, I thought my purpose was to gain Andrei’s approval and please others. Now, I know better.
No dessert I’ve ever made tastes as sweet as freedom. And the best part? I’ll never forget this recipe.