As I nervously take the cheesecake out of the oven, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon fills the air. Even though I know this recipe by heart, my hands shake slightly as I check it again. I tell myself that this time it has to be flawless.
‘The guests are already waiting for dessert, Andrei!’ – his voice comes from the living room, impatient and patronising as usual.
I decorate the cheesecake with fresh raspberries, carefully slicing it. Every action is thought out, and the words from the last family dinner are still echoing in my head, making me nervous, ‘Clumsy hands as always. Can’t even cut a cake properly.’
His parents, his sister, and her husband greet me with courteous smiles as soon as I enter the living room. Only his mother expresses her disapproval with a familiar squint.
‘Look, there’s our little cook!’ – Andrew declares with a smirk that is sharper than any insult. ‘I hope she doesn’t disappoint us with another disaster this time.’
I set the plates down without saying a word, avoiding their gazes. Andrew is the first to taste the cake. I hold my breath, and the moment feels like an eternity.
With a dramatic grimace, he begins, ‘Hmm. This? This is what you call cheesecake? Bony, dry! I’ve told you a hundred times: don’t exceed 160 degrees. Even for you, it’s not that hard.’
I start to apologise, but he interrupts.
‘Honestly, how hard is it to follow a recipe? Sometimes I think I’d rather marry someone who can cook.’
An awkward, muffled laugh is heard, but it’s still audible. I stand frozen, my cheeks flaming with shame and my hands clenching tighter on the tray.
This evening, I’m standing in front of the mirror in our bedroom when the house gets quiet. I don’t recognise the woman looking back at me. Her eyes are dead, her shoulders slumped, and her face pale. Where has that happy, intelligent girl who once dreamed of happiness and love gone?
Andrei’s voice, full of arrogance and contempt, comes from the living room:
‘Isn’t it unbelievable? Once again she ruined the cheesecake. I don’t know how to deal with her.’
Something breaks inside. Without words, but inescapable.
I hardly slept at all this night. My thoughts are clear for the first time in a decade. A simple but frightening decision begins to take shape into a plan.
The next morning, Andrei wakes up chained to the bed. His voice is sharp and perplexed.
‘Are you crazy, Masha? Untie me!’
For the first time in years, I feel calm standing over him.
‘Ten years is a long time to put up with your cruelty, Andrei,’ I say, running my finger along his cheek. ‘But it’s also enough time to learn new skills. Like how to make the perfect cheesecake.’
His tone shakes with fear as he tries to give me orders. ‘This isn’t funny. Let me go!’
‘Oh, I’m serious. You like doing this, don’t you? Taunting me, humiliating me, making me feel insignificant,’ I say, striding confidently across the room.
I describe all the times he broke me down, including our wedding, family dinners, and even after my miscarriages. When I speak, his face pales. Now he listens intently.
‘Andrei, you destroyed every part of me that was once alive. But it’s not anymore.’
He panics as I start to gather myself. ‘You can’t leave! What will people think? What about me?’
With suitcase in hand, I turn to him. ‘That’s your problem now. Have your mother teach you how to make cheesecake.’
Before I leave, I text his sister: ‘Drop by in a couple of hours. The key is under the mat.’
His shouts and threats subside as I close the door. I look in the mirror in the corridor – bright eyes, a determined smile. I feel free for the first time in ten years.
A week later, I’m enjoying a hot chocolate in a cosy café on the outskirts of Barcelona. Like the pastries on the counter, the flavour of freedom is sweet. My phone is constantly pulsing with messages from neighbours, mutual friends and even Andrei’s family. I ignore all of them.
My attention is caught by one email:
‘We’d like to talk about publishing your story because we’re interested in it.’
I look at The Marriage Story, the draft I’ve put my all into, and smile. It’s an honest, therapeutic, and relatable story that I hope will inspire other women to reclaim their lives.
A few months later I open my own bakery. I inherited the business from José, a kind old baker who taught me everything I know. Now every morning I make cheesecakes, croissants and tarts; they are all perfect, but for people who appreciate them.
On the table by the window is a Russian magazine with a picture of Andrei and his new girlfriend. ‘A story of redemption: a businessman admits his mistakes.’ I laugh and toss it in the trash.
My phone rings. A woman from the support centre is on the line.
‘Maria, so many women have been inspired by your book. Would you be willing to speak at one of our meetings?’
‘Sure,’ I reply with a smile.
I sit on my balcony this night and watch the sun set over the ocean. The future is bright and the air is warm. For years, I thought that gaining Andrew’s approval and pleasing other people were the main goals of my life. Now I know better.
No dessert I’ve ever made was as sweet as freedom. And the best moment? I’ll never forget this recipe.
