– So what’s up, Nóra, at least the borscht is edible today? – Gábor snapped his fingers, then leaned back in his chair. His two good friends were also sitting at the table: László with his wife, Anna, and Péter. It was Saturday night. Guests. Without prior notice, of course.
I’ve been listening to different versions of this sentence for nine years. “What’s wrong, Nora, didn’t you burn it?” “What’s wrong, Nora, the dress is old, but it doesn’t matter to you anyway.” “What’s wrong, Nora, when are you going to learn to cook properly?” Always in front of company. Always with that half-smile, as if it were just an innocent joke. And I stood there with the ladle in my hand, smiling back. Because if I had mentioned it in front of the guests, it would have been like “you’re having a tantrum again.”
László pursed his lips. Anna lowered her eyes as if there was something particularly interesting on her plate. Péter reached for the bread and pretended not to hear anything.
“The soup is perfectly fine,” I replied calmly. “But your salary last month was mediocre at best.”
The spoon stopped in Gábor’s hand. László stopped chewing. It became so quiet that even the hum of the refrigerator seemed loud.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Gábor.
“No way. I was just kidding. You like jokes.”
He didn’t answer. He finished eating without a word. The guests left earlier than usual. At the door, Anna quickly squeezed my hand – for a moment, as if apologizing. But why? Because she heard? Or because she didn’t say anything?
In the evening, Gábor was lying on the couch, scrolling through his phone. I was washing dishes in the kitchen. Four plates, three mugs, a frying pan. His plate, of course, remained on the table. In nine years, he never took it out to the sink. The first two years, I still counted. Then I gave up.
“You have disgraced yourself in front of others today,” he said without looking up from the screen.
“You do the same thing to me every two weeks. Almost on a schedule.”
“I’m just kidding. You’re offended.”
I put the plate on the drip tray. My wet fingers slipped on the edge of the porcelain. A lot of things came out of me. But I kept quiet. Not out of fear. But because I knew: there was no point. He hasn’t really paid attention to me in nine years.
His phone’s screen flashed with a message. With a quick, practiced motion, he turned the device face down.
I noticed.
In March, I received a bonus at work. Thirty-two thousand forints. I worked as an accountant for a construction company, and for that amount I worked overtime for three weeks. In the evenings, I hunched over the statements, while Gábor watched a game or went down to “the boys in the garage.”
Thirty-two thousand forints. I put the envelope on the table, without even taking off my coat.
Gábor opened it and flipped through the banknotes.
– Great. That’s all I needed for the compressor.
– For what kind of compressor?
“To the garage. I told you.”
He didn’t say it. I would have remembered it for sure. But there was no point in arguing – he said he always said it and I always “forgot”.
Thirty-two thousand forints. Three weeks. Fourteen nights at work until nine. And it became a compressor.
The next day I went into a bank branch. Not the one where we had our joint account, but another one, two blocks away. I opened my own bank account. I asked for notifications to only appear in the app, nothing to flash on the screen.
The first transfer was five thousand forints from my salary. Gábor didn’t even notice. He never looked at my spending in detail. It was enough for him to know that “there is money on the card”. He didn’t care how much exactly.
Five thousand. Then seven thousand. Then ten thousand. I started shopping more consciously: I bought chicken instead of beef, I cooked with seasonal vegetables. Gábor didn’t notice anything. He didn’t pay attention to what he ate anyway – only when he wanted to complain.
A month later I called Eszter.
“You’re not just saying that, are you?” he asked.
“I’m serious.”
“Nora, go now. Why are you collecting? Why are you even waiting?” he asked, his voice filled with both concern and impatience.
