“And where is my breakfast in bed?” the man I was living with asked as soon as I returned from my night shift: and at that very moment I decided to give him a “breakfast in bed” he would remember for a long time 

We met in the most ordinary way — through friends at a birthday party. He was forty-five, I was forty-three. Each of us carried our own past. I was divorced, with an adult son who had long been living on his own. He had two failed marriages, children, and constant complaints about how life had underestimated him.

At first, everything was beautiful. Michael brought flowers, took me to cafés, said I was his chance at a peaceful life. He repeated that he was tired of arguments and wanted simplicity and warmth.

At our age, you believe such words more quickly. Not because you’re naïve, but because loneliness at forty weighs heavier than it does at twenty.

When he asked to stay “for a couple of weeks,” I agreed. He said he had argued with his son and needed time to find a place to live. Only he wasn’t looking for a place. And he wasn’t looking for a job either.

At first, there were explanations: “a crisis,” “the market is frozen,” “I’m not going to grab the first thing that comes along.” Then the explanations stopped.

I worked as a nurse in a city hospital. Tough shifts — day, night, sometimes twenty-four hours straight. The salary wasn’t high, but it was stable. It covered the apartment, groceries, and my mother’s medication.

When Michael moved in, expenses increased. He ordered things online, saying they were “just little things.” Packages arrived almost every day. I was the one paying.

One day, I finally said:

— Michael, maybe you could at least find some kind of job? It’s hard for me alone.

He looked at me as if I had insulted him.

— Are you serious? At my age, go work as a loader? I’m used to working with my head, not carrying boxes.

I went silent. Because I was tired of arguing. Because I was afraid that if I pushed him, he would leave. And the empty apartment after a night shift seemed more frightening than anything else.

The fear of being alone makes you tolerate what once seemed impossible.

That night at the hospital was exhausting. An elderly man with a stroke, a little girl with a high fever, a fight in the emergency room. I ran around the ward without stopping. When my shift ended, my hands were shaking from fatigue.

I wanted only one thing — to lie down and sleep.

I opened the front door, and from the bedroom I heard:

— Oh, you’re already back? Make me breakfast. And strong coffee.

He was lying in bed with his phone. The bed was unmade, a dirty cup on the nightstand, an unpleasant smell in the room. He didn’t even look at me.

— And make a proper omelet, — he added. — Last time it was dry.

I went to the kitchen. Cracked the eggs, turned on the stove, made the coffee, arranged everything nicely on a tray. As if nothing were happening inside me. I carried it into the bedroom.

He sat up, took the fork, and said:

— That’s how a woman should behave. A man needs care, not your endless talk about work.

And in that moment, I suddenly realized I couldn’t live like this anymore and did something my partner deeply regretted  I shared the continuation of my story in the first comment 

Silently, I lifted the cup of hot coffee and poured it over his head. Then the omelet. Everything I had just prepared.

He jumped up and shouted:

— Have you lost your mind?! Who would even want you without me?!

I looked at him and thought about how I hadn’t noticed before that he was talking about himself. He was the one afraid of being alone. He was the one who couldn’t do anything without me.

I went into the hallway, grabbed his bag, his jacket, his shoes. I opened the window and threw everything into the yard.

— What are you doing?! — he screamed.

I opened the front door and calmly said:

— You’re forty-six. It’s time you learned to live on your own.

He kept shouting, threatening, saying I would regret it. I stood there and waited for him to leave.

When the stairwell finally fell silent, I locked the door with every lock.

For the first time in a long while, the apartment was truly peaceful. And I realized that emptiness is not the scariest thing. The scariest thing is living with someone who slowly makes you empty inside.