For years, my husband made fun of me. I decided it was enough one day

The smell of cinnamon and vanilla fills the room as I nervously take the cheesecake out of the oven. My hands shake a little when I check the recipe again, even though I know it by heart. It must be perfect this time, I tell myself.

“Andrei, the guests are looking forward to dessert!” His voice, impatient and condescending, emerges from the living room as usual. I carefully cut the cheesecake and topped it with fresh raspberries. Every move is prearranged, and his comment from the most recent family dinner—”As usual, clumsy hands”—keeps repeating in my mind, increasing my level of anxiety.

Not even able to cut a cake correctly. I enter the living room and am greeted with polite smiles by his parents, sister, and her husband. The only person who gives me her usual squint of disdain is his mother. “Look, our little chef is there!” Andrei proclaims with a smile sharper than any insult. “Hopefully, this time she didn’t disappoint us with another disaster.”

I avoided their gaze and silently put the plates down. Andrei is the first to try it. As time passes, I hold my breath. He begins with a dramatic grimace, “Hmm.” “This? Is this referred to as a cheesecake? Bony dry! You’ve heard me say it a hundred times: avoid temperatures above 160 degrees. It’s not that hard, even for you.

I begin to apologise, but he cuts me off. How hard is it to follow a recipe, honestly? There are moments when I think it would have been better for me to marry a chef. It occurs despite the uneasy, muffled outburst of laughter. I stand motionless, my grasp tightening on the tray as heat rises in my cheeks.

That night, when the house is quiet, I stand in front of the mirror in our bedroom. The woman staring back at me is someone I don’t recognise. She had a pallid face, slumped shoulders, and dead eyes. Where was the bright, content girl who had once dreamed of love and happiness? From the living room comes Andrei’s haughty, disdainful voice: “Isn’t that absurd? Then she ruined the cheesecake again. I don’t know how to deal with her. Inside, something snaps. Irrevocably, yet silently. That night, I barely slept at all. For the first time in ten years, my ideas are clear. A straightforward yet horrifying scheme begins to take shape.

The next morning, Andrei wakes up chained to the bed. His voice is sharp and disbelieving. “Masha, have you lost your mind? Untie me up! Standing over him, for the first time in years, I feel comfortable. I rub a finger down his cheek and remark, “Ten years is a long time to put up with your cruelty, Andrei.” But there’s still time to learn some new talents.

Like how to make the perfect cheesecake. He tries to give me instructions, but his tone falters as panic sets in. This is not funny. Give me a break!

“Oh, I’m not kidding. Don’t you like doing that? Make fun of me, make me feel unimportant, and denigrate me. I pace the room and speak steadily. I spoke about how he broke me at family meals, at our wedding, and even after my miscarriages.

His face turns white as I speak. He’s paying attention this time. “Andrei, you ruined everything that made me feel alive. That is no longer the case, though. As soon as I start packing, he freaks out. “You can’t leave! And what will people say? What about me? I look up at him, holding my suitcase. “That is your problem now. Let your mum teach you how to make cheesecake.

Before I go, I send his sister a message that reads, “Come by the house in a few hours.” The key is under the mat. As I close the door behind me, his screams and threats become quiet. I gaze at myself in the hallway mirror—bright eyes, a determined smile. For the first time in a decade, I feel liberated.

A week later, I’m in a charming café on the outskirts of Barcelona, sipping hot chocolate. The scent of freedom is pleasant, like the sweets on the counter. Messages from neighbours, mutual friends, and even Andrei’s relatives are continuously ringing through my phone. I ignore them all.

An email has caught my attention: We are interested in your tale and would love to discuss publishing it. I smile when I look at The Story of a Marriage, the draft that I’ve been working so hard on. It’s a straightforward, healing, and honest story that I hope will inspire other women to take control of their lives. I eventually launch my own bakery after several months. José, the kind old baker who taught me everything I know, left the business to me.

These days, I bake cheesecakes, croissants, and tarts every morning; they are all flawless, but they are created for those who appreciate them.

On a table by the window is a Russian magazine featuring an image of Andrei and his new girlfriend. A Businessman Reflects on His Mistakes in a Redemptive Story. I laugh and toss it in the trash. My phone rings. There’s a woman from a support centre. “Maria, your book has influenced a lot of ladies. At one of our meetings, would you speak? “Obviously,” I reply, grinning.

That evening, I watched the sun set over the ocean from my balcony. The air is warm and the future is bright. For years, I thought that my life’s purpose was to please other people and get Andrei’s favour. I’ve learnt better. Freedom tastes sweeter than any dessert I’ve ever baked. Which aspect is the best? This dish will always be in my memory.