Anastasia pressed herself against Yana, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder. The little girl was four years old, and she had already learned to sense when adults were arguing, even when they weren’t shouting. Yana stroked her daughter’s back, rocked her gently, and hummed a lullaby. Outside the window, darkness was falling—it was already past seven in the evening, time to put the child to bed.
“Mom, will Dad read me a bedtime story tonight?” Anastasia asked sleepily.
“Of course, sweetheart.” Yana kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “I’ll go get him now.”
Makar was sitting in the living room in front of the television, but the sound was turned off. He stared at the screen without blinking, clearly lost in his own thoughts. For the past two weeks, he had seemed strangely absent. Physically, he was at home and nearby, but mentally, he was somewhere far away.
“Makar, Nastya is waiting for you,” Yana said, stopping in the doorway.
“Yes, I’m coming.”
Makar stood up and walked past his wife toward their daughter’s room.
Yana went into the kitchen. The apartment was a two-bedroom place in the city center. She had bought it herself, before she ever met Makar. She had saved for three years for the down payment, then taken out a mortgage and paid it off within five years. It was her greatest accomplishment—her own home, her independence, her security for the future.
She had met Makar at work. He was a programmer, she was an accountant. Things had moved quickly between them, and six months later they were married. Then Nastya was born. The three of them lived together in Yana’s apartment. Makar earned around one hundred and twenty thousand rubles a month, while Yana earned ninety thousand. Together, they did well and had enough for everything.
The problems had started about three months earlier, when Yana’s mother-in-law, Lilia Yevgenyevna, began visiting more often than usual. Before, she had come once every two weeks. Now she appeared every weekend. And every time, she brought up the same subject.
“Yanochka, haven’t you ever thought about buying a house in the countryside?” Lilia Yevgenyevna would ask, sipping her tea. “A child needs fresh air and space. The city is stuffy—cars, exhaust fumes everywhere.”
“We’re not planning anything like that right now, Lilia Yevgenyevna,” Yana would answer politely. “Nastya goes to kindergarten here, and my workplace is close by.”
“Well, we could all move in together as one big family!” her mother-in-law would say enthusiastically. “I could help with the child, and the two of you could work without worrying. It would be more fun together, and we could split the expenses.”
Yana would nod, smile, and change the subject. Live under the same roof as her mother-in-law? No, thank you. Lilia Yevgenyevna was a good woman, but she had her own habits and her own way of doing things. Yana valued her personal space, peace and quiet, and the freedom to live as she pleased.
But her mother-in-law refused to give up.
Two weeks earlier, she had arrived carrying printed real-estate listings.
“Look at this house!” Lilia Yevgenyevna exclaimed, spreading the pages across the table. “It’s in the suburbs, twenty minutes from the city. The lot is a quarter acre. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms. Everyone would have their own room!”
Yana quickly looked through the photographs. The house really was beautiful. Modern renovations, large windows, a terrace.
“How much does it cost?” she asked.
“Twelve million,” Lilia Yevgenyevna said, lowering her voice. “But if we sell your apartment, Yanochka, add my savings, and Makar takes out a loan, it’s entirely possible.”
Yana raised her head.
“Sell my apartment?”
“Well, yes.” Her mother-in-law nodded as though it were obvious. “Your apartment is worth around eight million now. Add my two million in savings, plus a loan from Makar. It’s absolutely realistic.”
Yana slowly set down her cup.
“Lilia Yevgenyevna, I’m not selling my apartment.”
“Why not?” her mother-in-law frowned. “You’ll get a share of the house. A large, spacious room. Nastya will have somewhere to run around and play. It’s for the child!”
“This is my apartment,” Yana replied calmly. “My personal property. I don’t want to sell it.”
“But you’re a family!” Lilia Yevgenyevna exclaimed indignantly. “You have to think about the future together!”
Makar, who had been silently listening to the conversation, finally intervened.
“Mom, let’s not talk about this right now. Yana is right. It’s her decision.”
Lilia Yevgenyevna pursed her lips but said nothing. Half an hour later, she left in a bad mood.
That evening, Makar brought up the same subject.
“Yana, maybe we really should think about it.”
“About what?”
“The house. Mom is right. A child needs fresh air and space. This apartment is cramped, especially once Nastya gets older.”
Yana put down her book.
“Makar, I don’t want to live with your mother.”
“Why? Mom is a good person. She’ll help with the child.”
“Because I need personal space. I’m not prepared to share a house with someone else.”
“But we’re a family.” Makar sat down beside her. “Everything is easier and more enjoyable together. And financially, it makes sense.”
“Makes sense for whom?” Yana turned toward her husband. “I sell my apartment and invest eight million. You take out a loan that we’ll be paying together from our shared budget. Your mother contributes two million. In reality, I’m putting in more than anyone else, yet I’d be living in a house where my opinion isn’t the only one that matters.”
Makar frowned.
“Yana, you’re making everything too complicated. Just think about our child.”
“I am thinking about our child. And about myself. Makar, this apartment is my financial safety net. If something happens, I can rent it out, sell it, or move back into it. It’s my independence.”
“But nothing is going to happen!”
“You don’t know that.” Yana stood up. “I’m not selling the apartment. End of discussion.”
Makar fell silent.
But the subject didn’t disappear. Every evening, her husband brought it up again. He came up with new arguments. He talked about how good the fresh air would be for Nastya, about the garden where the little girl could play, about having a grandmother nearby to watch her while her parents were working. He talked about the comfort of country living, the peace and quiet, the nature.
Yana stood her ground. She didn’t shout or make scenes. She simply repeated the same thing again and again—the apartment was staying.
Lilia Yevgenyevna began calling Makar several times a day. Yana overheard fragments of their conversations.
“Son, you have to insist… You’re the head of the family… You can’t let your wife boss you around…”
After those calls, Makar became gloomy and irritable. He snapped at Yana and slammed doors. The atmosphere in the apartment grew increasingly tense. Nastya sensed it and became moody, sometimes crying at night.
Yana also noticed that her husband had become secretive. He often left the room with his phone and spoke quietly somewhere else. Whenever Yana asked whom he had been talking to, Makar gave vague answers—a colleague, a friend, something related to work.
One evening, after Nastya had gone to bed, Makar tried to pressure his wife emotionally.
“Yana, do you understand that Mom is alone? It’s hard for her. She dreams of living with us and helping us. And you’re denying her that. That’s selfish, don’t you think?”
Yana looked up from her laptop.
“Makar, your mother lives in her own two-bedroom apartment. She has friends and hobbies. She isn’t alone. We see her every weekend. That’s enough.”
“Enough for whom? For you?” Makar raised his voice. “Because it isn’t enough for her! A family should be together!”
“A family is you, me, and Nastya,” Yana replied calmly. “Your mother is a relative whom we love and respect. But I don’t want to live with her.”
“You don’t care about our child!”
“I care about our child more than anything. Nastya is growing up in a peaceful environment where her parents aren’t constantly arguing with her grandmother over everyday household matters.”
Makar turned around and left the living room.
Yana heard the front door slam. Her husband had gone out. He returned two hours later, silent and gloomy.
Another week passed like that.
They hardly spoke to one another anymore. They communicated only when necessary—what groceries to buy, where to take Nastya, who would pick her up from kindergarten. Polite, cold, distant.
On Friday evening, Yana was preparing dinner. Makar sat at the table scrolling through his phone. Nastya was already asleep in her room, exhausted after a full day at kindergarten. Yana placed plates of pasta and chicken on the table and sat down across from her husband.
“Shall we eat?” she suggested.
Makar nodded and put his phone on the table with the screen facing upward. He began eating silently. Yana was silent too, thinking.
Maybe she should try talking to her husband calmly, without emotion. Explain once again why the apartment was so important to her. Maybe Makar would finally understand.
“Makar, I want you to understand something,” Yana began quietly. “To me, this apartment isn’t just a number of square meters. It’s the result of my hard work. I saved money and paid the mortgage—”
Makar raised his hand.
“Yana, enough. I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
He stood up and went to the bathroom.
Yana remained sitting alone at the table. She finished her now-cold pasta, feeling a heaviness in her chest.
How had they ended up like this? Everything used to be good. They had loved each other, laughed together, made plans for the future. And now they were fighting a cold war over an apartment.
Suddenly, Makar’s phone screen lit up on the table.
Yana glanced at it automatically. A notification for a new message had appeared. It was from Anton Sergeyevich. Beneath the name, a preview of the message was visible:
“Good evening, Makar Andreyevich! Great news—I found a buyer for your apartment at 47 Lenin Street. They are ready to pay…”
Yana froze.
47 Lenin Street was her address.
Her apartment.
Her heart started pounding. Her hands began to tremble.
Yana looked toward the bathroom. She could hear running water. Apparently, Makar was washing his face.
She picked up her husband’s phone.
The screen unlocked with a simple swipe—Makar didn’t use a password.
She opened the conversation with Anton Sergeyevich and scrolled upward.
There were many messages.
The conversation had been going on for two weeks.
“Good afternoon, Makar Andreyevich! You asked about the valuation of the apartment at 47 Lenin Street. I came by and inspected it. Similar apartments currently sell for 8 to 8.5 million. I recommend listing it for 8.2.”
“Thank you, Anton Sergeyevich. List it.”
“All right. I’ll prepare the documents. Are you the owner?”
“No, my wife is. But I’ll convince her.”
“I see. Then we’ll need a power of attorney from your wife authorizing the sale.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
Yana continued scrolling.
Anton Sergeyevich had sent photographs of the apartment—apparently, he had come to inspect it while Yana wasn’t home. He and Makar had discussed every detail: how best to present the property, which advantages to mention in the listing, and when to schedule viewings.
The most recent message had arrived five minutes earlier.
“Good evening, Makar Andreyevich! Great news—I found a buyer for your apartment at 47 Lenin Street. Serious people. They’re prepared to pay a deposit next week. Three hundred thousand as earnest money, with the remainder to be paid one month after the documents are finalized. When can you come by to discuss the details?”
Yana read the message, and everything inside her turned cold.
Makar hadn’t simply been talking to a real-estate agent.
For two weeks, he had been actively preparing to sell her apartment.
He had listed it for sale.
He had brought potential buyers in for viewings.
He had discussed the terms of the deal.
And he had done all of it behind her back.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Yana raised her head.
Makar came out of the bathroom, drying his face with a towel. The moment he saw his wife holding his phone, he stopped in the doorway.
His face went pale.
“Yana…”
Yana slowly stood up.
She put the phone on the table and looked her husband directly in the eyes.
“You’ve already found a buyer for MY apartment?!” she screamed.
Her hands clenched into fists.
Makar stepped forward and held out his hands.
“Yana, wait. It’s not what you think—”
“Not what I think?!” Yana grabbed the phone and jabbed her finger at the screen. “Two weeks of messages with a real-estate agent! Viewings! A buyer! A deposit next week! WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK?!”
“I was only asking for advice!” Makar began speaking quickly, stumbling over his words. “I wanted to know the market value, just for information. I wasn’t going to sell it without your permission!”
“Liar!” Yana threw the phone onto the sofa. “You listed the apartment for sale! You brought buyers here! You discussed the deposit!”
“Yana, I was just exploring the options, don’t you understand? I wanted to show you that we could get a good price, and then maybe you’d agree—”
“You decided to sell MY apartment?!” Yana stepped closer, stopping half a meter away from him. “MY property, behind my back, and then you planned to present me with a done deal?!”
Makar looked away.
“No. I would never have sold it without you. I swear…”
“You already sold it!” Yana jabbed a finger into her husband’s chest. “In your head, you’d already decided everything! You found a buyer and arranged a deposit! All that remained was to force me to sign the papers!”
“Yana, please calm down—”
“DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!”
Yana turned away and paced across the kitchen.
“You betrayed me! The person closest to me, the person I trusted, went behind my back and tried to sell my property!”
“I didn’t betray you.” Makar followed her. “I was thinking about our family, about our child—”
“WHAT FAMILY?!” Yana spun around. “What kind of family is this if you don’t respect my opinion? If you lie to my face? If you secretly negotiate with real-estate agents?”
“Mom said—”
“YOUR MOTHER!”
Yana burst into hysterical laughter.
“Of course! Your mommy told you what to do, and you ran off to obey her! To hell with your wife, her rights, and her property!”
Makar clenched his teeth.
“Don’t insult my mother.”
“I’m insulting YOU!” Yana stepped right up to him. “You’re a spineless doormat who can’t say no to his mother. You’re a traitor who’s willing to sell his wife’s apartment for Mommy’s plans. You’re a coward who can’t have an honest conversation and has to sneak around behind people’s backs!”
Makar became even paler.
“Yana, enough. You’ve gone too far.”
“No, YOU’VE gone too far!” Yana pointed toward the door. “Pack your things. Immediately. Get out of MY apartment.”
“What?”
“I said get out! Leave! I will not allow you to control my property! And I will not live with a traitor!”
“Yana, you can’t throw me out. We’re husband and wife—”
“Yes, I can!”
Yana opened the door to the hallway.
“This is MY apartment! MY premarital property! You have no rights to it! So pack your things and go back to your mommy!”
Makar stood there, staring at his wife in confusion.
Then he slowly walked into the bedroom.
Yana heard him opening the wardrobe, pulling out a bag, and packing clothes.
Twenty minutes later, Makar emerged carrying a stuffed duffel bag and a backpack.
“Yana, let’s talk—”
“No.”
“At least tomorrow, when we’ve both had time to calm down—”
“No.”
“Yana…”
“Leave.”
Yana opened the front door.
“Right now.”
Makar looked at his wife one last time, sighed, and walked out.
Yana slammed the door behind him and turned the key.
The tears came on their own.
Quietly, without sobbing.
Yana stood in the hallway, crying uncontrollably.
Not because of pain.
Not because she felt sorry for herself.
Because of betrayal.
Because the person she had trusted had proven himself capable of something like this.
She didn’t sleep that night.
Yana lay on the sofa staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the past few months in her head.
How insistently Lilia Yevgenyevna had pushed the idea of buying a house.
How Makar had gradually given in to his mother’s influence.
How her husband had become increasingly secretive, cold, and unfamiliar.
By morning, Yana had made a decision.
Final and irreversible.
Divorce.
There was no other way.
It was impossible to continue living with a person capable of such betrayal.
At eight in the morning, her friend Sveta called.
“Yana, hi! How are you? We haven’t seen each other in ages.”
“Sveta, I need a good family-law attorney,” Yana said calmly, almost indifferently.
“What?! Yana, what happened?!”
“I’ll tell you later. Just give me the lawyer’s number.”
Sveta dictated the contact information.
Yana wrote it down, thanked her, and ended the call.
At nine in the morning, she called the number and scheduled a consultation.
At lunchtime, she arrived at the lawyer’s office.
Olga Viktorovna, a woman of around fifty with an attentive gaze, listened to the entire story in silence.
“I see,” the lawyer said, nodding. “Is the apartment registered solely in your name?”
“Yes. I bought it before the marriage.”
“Then it is not marital property. Your husband cannot claim it during the divorce.”
“What if he tries to challenge that?”
“He won’t succeed. The law is on your side. Property acquired before marriage remains with the person who acquired it.”
Yana exhaled with relief.
“What do I need to do?”
“File for divorce. Do you have any minor children together?”
“A daughter. She’s four.”
“Then the divorce will have to go through the court. Prepare the documents—your marriage certificate, your daughter’s birth certificate, and the ownership papers for the apartment. I’ll prepare the claim. Will you be requesting child support?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The standard amount for one child is one quarter of the parent’s income. Bring me the documents, and we’ll begin the process.”
Three days later, Yana filed for divorce.
Makar called every day. He sent messages and begged her to meet him and talk.
Yana didn’t respond.
Once, he came to the apartment building, stood beneath her windows, and rang the intercom.
Yana didn’t let him in.
Lilia Yevgenyevna also tried to reach her. She came over, called repeatedly, and left voice messages.
“Yanochka, what are you doing? You’re destroying your family! You’re leaving your child without a father! My poor Makar is beside himself—he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep! Just talk to him and give him a chance to explain!”
Yana deleted the messages without listening to them.
There was nothing to explain.
Everything was already clear.
The court hearing was scheduled for a month later.
The process was quick.
Makar didn’t resist and agreed to all the terms: child support, visitation with their daughter by mutual arrangement, and no claims on the apartment.
The judge issued the decision.
Their marriage was dissolved.
Yana walked out of the courtroom.
Inside, she felt a strange emptiness.
No pain.
No joy.
Just emptiness and exhaustion.
Three months passed.
Yana returned to her old life.
Work, home, Nastya.
Makar picked up his daughter every weekend, took her for walks, to the park, and to the zoo. He paid child support without ever being a day late.
Yana and Makar communicated politely and professionally.
Only about their daughter.
Only when necessary.
One day, Nastya came home from her father’s house carrying a new toy—a large teddy bear.
“Mom, look at the teddy bear Dad bought me!” the little girl announced happily.
“It’s beautiful.” Yana smiled. “What are you going to name him?”
“Makar! Like Daddy!”
Yana stroked her daughter’s hair.
Nastya ran off to her room to play.
Yana went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
She looked out of the window.
Below, in the courtyard, children were playing, mothers were pushing strollers, and elderly people were sitting on benches.
Ordinary life, moving forward as always.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from Sveta.
“Yana, how are you? Maybe we could meet up? We haven’t seen each other in ages.”
Yana typed a reply.
“Yes, let’s do it. I’m free on Saturday. Where should we go?”
“There’s a new café on the riverfront. People say the food is good.”
“It’s a deal.”
Yana put away her phone.
She took a mug from the cupboard, added tea, poured in boiling water, and stirred it with a spoon.
Then she sat down by the window and took a sip of the hot drink.
Life went on.
Without Makar.
Without arguments.
Without pressure.
Yana worked, raised her daughter, and met with her friends.
In the evenings, she read books, watched movies, and practiced yoga.
The apartment remained her fortress, her refuge, her independence.
Sometimes Yana wondered what would have happened if she had agreed.
What if she had sold the apartment and moved into the house with Lilia Yevgenyevna?
She might now be living in a large, spacious cottage with a garden and a veranda.
But she would also be living under her mother-in-law’s constant control, under Makar’s pressure, without a voice of her own and without personal space.
No.
Yana didn’t regret her decision.
She had lost a husband, but she had preserved herself.
And that was worth a great deal.
Nastya ran out of her room.
“Mom, are we going to read a story tonight?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Yana hugged her daughter. “Which one do you want?”
“Cinderella!”
“All right. Go wash up and put on your pajamas. I’ll be there in a moment.”
The little girl ran to the bathroom.
Yana finished her tea, washed the mug, and walked into the bedroom.
She settled onto the bed beside her daughter and opened the book of fairy tales.
“Once upon a time, there lived a girl who was very beautiful and kind…”
Nastya snuggled up against her mother and listened attentively.
Yana read to her, gently stroking her daughter’s hair and feeling the warmth of the small body beside her.
This was happiness.
Simple.
Quiet.
Reliable.
Without lies, betrayal, or someone else’s ambitions.
The story ended.
Nastya yawned and closed her eyes.
Yana kissed her daughter’s forehead, tucked the blanket around her, and turned off the light.
She left the room, gently pulling the door almost closed behind her.
Then she walked into the living room and lay down on the sofa.
Tomorrow would be a new day.
Work.
Kindergarten.
An evening with her daughter.
An ordinary life that Yana had built herself.
On her own terms.
In her own apartment.
By her own rules.
And it was the right choice.
