The conversation about divorce had been slowly ripening in their home, like a crack in the ceiling that you fail to notice at first—until pieces of plaster begin falling. Every now and then, Viktor would toss out a hint, as though testing how it would land. Yulia silently collected those hints, stacking them one on top of another and waiting until there were enough of them to justify a serious conversation.
“Vitya, let’s behave like adults,” she said one evening over dinner, pushing her plate aside. “Do you want a divorce? Just say it directly. I’m not made of crystal. I won’t shatter.”
“Well, since you brought it up yourself…” He suddenly became animated, as though he had been waiting for exactly this. “Yes, I do. And you know what? I’m actually glad I didn’t have to be the first one to blurt it out.”
“That’s an astonishing thing to be happy about. Most normal people would at least look upset.”
“Why should I?” He shrugged. “I filled out the application a long time ago. It’s lying there, waiting for you.”
Yulia nodded, studying her husband as though comparing him with a photograph taken three years earlier. The man in that photograph had been smiling and holding her hand. This man sat sprawled in his chair, already smiling at something entirely different.
“All right,” she said quietly. “A divorce it is. But let’s handle it decently. We paid for the apartment together. We both worked for it.”
“Stop right there.” He raised a finger. “The apartment is mine. I carried the whole burden.”
“We carried it together, Vitya. The amounts may have gone into the same account separately, but there were two pairs of hands earning them.”
“Oh, don’t start playing accountant,” he said with a grimace. “A room in a communal apartment will be enough for you. I’m keeping this apartment.”
Yulia stood up and gathered the plates. There was no haste in a single one of her movements. She had learned that long ago: the louder he became, the calmer she remained. It kept her afloat whenever everything around her began to tilt.
“Let’s do this,” she suggested evenly. “You buy out my share. Fairly, at market value. Then we go our separate ways without making a scene.”
“My share?” Viktor gave a short laugh and made a fig sign with his fingers, holding it almost directly in front of her face. “Here’s your share. That’s exactly how much you’re getting. You can lick it if you like.”
“Viktor.” She moved his hand aside as casually as one might push away a branch in the forest. “You don’t even realize how ridiculous you look. Greed is when someone is so afraid of losing something that the first thing he loses is his mind.”
“You’re the one who’s lost her mind.” He stood abruptly, and the chair scraped across the floor. “Do you think I can’t see what you’re planning? She wants a share! You’ll survive without it.”
Yulia said nothing. She had noticed long ago that when people shouted about someone else’s plans, they were usually revealing their own. She carefully added that thought to the stack as well.
The next morning, Yulia went to see Viktor’s mother—not to complain, but simply to look into the eyes of the woman who had raised all of this. Her mother-in-law greeted her cautiously and put the kettle on, but neither of them touched the tea.
“Yulia, I’ll tell you honestly,” Tamara began, nervously fingering the fringe of the tablecloth. “I’ve noticed that something has been wrong with Vitya this past year. He’s become jumpy and angry. I’m his mother. I can see things more clearly from the outside.”
“And I live beside him, so I see them from the inside,” Yulia replied with a bitter smile. “Believe me, the picture isn’t any better.”
“You’re not the first people to get divorced, and you won’t be the last.” Tamara looked away. “It happens. But I’m not getting involved in the division of your property. That is between the two of you. You must sort it out yourselves. I’m not a judge.”
“I’m not asking you to judge.” Yulia leaned forward slightly. “I’m asking you to do one thing: tell him that waving a fig sign in someone’s face is not an argument. Just speak to him as one adult to another. You know how.”
“I do.” Her mother-in-law pursed her lips. “But he doesn’t listen to me. He’s a big boy now.”
“A big boy who wants to deprive me of half of what I honestly invested.” Yulia rose. “Thank you for the tea we didn’t drink. You’re a good person. But in this story, you’ve chosen to stand on the sidelines. You have that right. Just remember that sometimes the sidelines turn out to be one of the sides.”
Her mother-in-law said nothing. The door closed softly behind Yulia.
That evening, Tamara’s old friend Zoya came to visit. Something in Zoya’s life was always burning, sinking, or falling apart. She had one particular talent: she could extract some benefit from any disaster, even if it was someone else’s benefit and only a small one.
“Toma, you’d be a fool to leave anything to them,” Zoya blurted out as soon as she sat down. “Who is a daughter-in-law? A passerby. She’s here today and gone tomorrow. But your son is your own blood.”
“Zoya, how can you say that?” Tamara frowned. “Yulia isn’t a bad girl. And they really did pay for the apartment together…”
“Together, the three of them—what difference does it make?” her friend waved dismissively. “Daughters-in-law come and go, but your son remains. Remember this: if he ends up alone and without a roof over his head, who will be blamed? You. And once she disappears, you’ll forget what her name was.”
“She won’t disappear that easily,” Tamara muttered. “She’s not that kind of girl.”
“That’s exactly the problem!” Zoya slapped her palm against the table. “That means you have to act first. While she’s trying to be kind, you need to be smart.”
Tamara remained silent. Somewhere deep inside her, her friend’s words settled neatly into place, like tiles laid onto prepared mortar. Their neatness made Tamara uneasy, but for some reason, she stopped arguing.
Two days later, Tamara had the conversation with her son that revealed a great deal about both of them. Viktor initially brushed her off, but his mother knew how to approach him from the direction where he had no defenses—from the direction of money.
“Vitya, do you want to keep the apartment for yourself?” she asked directly.
“Stay out of it, Mom. It’s none of your business,” he grumbled. “We’ll sort it out ourselves.”
“But I want to help you.” She lowered her voice. “If you want to secure the apartment for yourself, don’t drag your feet. While she’s at work, pack up her things and put them outside. You haven’t lived together for that long, so she can’t have accumulated much. Change the lock. What can she do about it?”
Viktor stared at his mother as though she had removed a mask and revealed a second face underneath.
“Do you even hear yourself?” he breathed. “You’re a terrifying woman, Mom.”
“Thank you.” She smiled almost proudly. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The seed had fallen into well-prepared soil. At first, his mother’s idea—simple, brazen, and entirely shameless—seemed outrageous to Viktor. By evening, however, it already felt like his own. He turned it over in his mind from every angle and liked himself more and more with each passing minute.
“Yulia,” he began over dinner. “When exactly are you planning to move out? I’d like a specific date.”
“A specific date?” She raised an eyebrow. “We aren’t even divorced yet, Vitya. You’re running as though someone is chasing you.”
“No one is chasing me.” His voice grew louder. “Just stop making a fool out of me! Pack your stuff and get out! Why are you still living here? What are you waiting for?”
“I’m not waiting for anything,” she answered calmly. “I’m simply drinking tea. I have the right to do that while I’m still officially registered here.”
“Registered!” His voice nearly broke into a scream, jerking and jumping with every word. “I’ll remove you from the registration faster than you can pack a bag! That’s it! I’ve had enough! I don’t want so much as a trace of you left in here!”
He shouted so loudly that the words lost their meaning and became nothing but sound—heavy, oppressive, and arrogant. Yulia put down her cup, pulled on her coat, and left.
She did not slam the door. Slamming the door would have meant allowing him the final word, and she had never liked doing that.
Stories for the Soul by Elena Strizh
June 22
Dasha’s home was cramped and cheerful, and it smelled of freshly baked bread. Her friend had grown up in a large family with five children, all squeezed into one and a half rooms. But they had known how to laugh in situations where other people cried, and Dasha had carried that ability with her throughout her life.
“All right, tell me everything,” Dasha said, sitting Yulia down on the sofa and pressing a mug into her hands. “What has Vitya done now? He’s my little idiot’s godfather. I always thought he was a decent man.”
“The decent man is gone.” Yulia warmed her hands around the mug. “Now he wants the entire apartment and is offering me a fig in return. Literally. He showed it to me.”
“How disgusting—and not even original.” Dasha snorted. “He could at least have tied a ribbon around it. But listen, why are you so calm? I would have worried myself to death three times over by now.”
“I’m not worried.” The corner of Yulia’s mouth lifted in a smile. “I have one quiet harbor, Dash. A small one. It will wait for me. It isn’t going anywhere.”
“What kind of harbor?” Dasha asked suspiciously. “Come on, tell me.”
“I’m not telling.” Yulia winked. “Sometimes the person who stays silent is simply finishing the game. Let me finish mine.”
“Oh, you schemer.” Dasha laughed. “All right. The important thing is that you have a roof over your head. We’ll survive everything else. Six of us used to fit into twenty square meters, and look at us now—still alive and ready to bite.”
“Ready to bite certainly describes your family.” Yulia finally laughed as well. “Thank you, Dash. When I’m with you, everything somehow becomes smaller and easier.”
“It’s a talent,” Dasha declared proudly. “And I charge very little. One mug of tea.”
Meanwhile, Viktor had not been sitting idle. He dragged home about a dozen empty cardboard boxes, still smelling of a warehouse, and began sweeping Yulia’s belongings into them. He did not pack them carefully—he simply shoved them inside, rushing as though someone were counting down the seconds.
Dresses, books, mugs, and photographs all tumbled into the boxes together. He muttered under his breath, urging himself on.
“This goes in there… this too… why did she collect so much junk?” He stuffed things in, pressed them down, and sealed the boxes. “I’ll put everything outside before the divorce is final. Better yet, I’ll send it all to her mother. That would be the noble thing to do. She should be grateful I didn’t throw it in the rubbish.”
His telephone rang while he was sealing the third box.
“Vitya, come over,” his mother said anxiously. “Alina is here with the twins. She’s in trouble. She filed for divorce and is sitting here crying.”
“Mom, I don’t have time for Alina right now.” He held the phone between his shoulder and ear. “I’m busy.”
“Just listen,” Tamara interrupted. “What if Alina and the children moved in with you? They need more space with two little ones. You could move back in with me. What do you think?”
Viktor froze with a strip of packing tape in his hand. The image of his sister and two screaming twins taking over his apartment while he slept at his mother’s place was worse than any fig sign Yulia could have shown him.
“I’m coming,” he said sharply. “Don’t take her anywhere. I’m on my way.”
He abandoned the boxes in the middle of the room and rushed out of the apartment. He knew his sister. She was perfectly capable of arriving that very moment with suitcases and prams, and then Yulia would no longer be the person he had to evict.
The conversation at his mother’s house was long and difficult. Alina sat with red, swollen eyes while the twins rolled toy cars across the floor. Tamara tried to bring everyone together around a single table of family agreement.
“Vitya, you’re my brother,” Alina pleaded. “Where am I supposed to go with the children? To Mom’s two-room apartment? You have plenty of space.”
“What space, Alina? I have a one-bedroom apartment!” Viktor protested. “Where exactly did you see all this space?”
“It may only have one bedroom, but it’s your own place,” Tamara interjected. “You could give it to your sister. It would be the proper thing to do for family. She has children.”
“For family?” He nearly choked. “So first I throw my wife out, and then I end up sleeping in your hallway? Have the two of you planned this together? What a family!”
“Don’t shout at Mom,” his sister snapped. “We’re trying to help you.”
“I know all about your kind of help.” He grabbed his coat. “It always comes out of my pocket. That’s it. I’m going home. Deal with your children yourselves.”
He returned late, angry and exhausted, with only one thought in his mind: finish packing the boxes and feel like the master of the situation in at least one respect.
He pushed the door open, stepped into the room, and stopped dead.
The boxes were gone.
Every single one of them.
Yulia’s belongings were gone too—her dresses, books, and photographs. Even the kitchenware had disappeared: pots, cups, and everything else she had once brought into their home.
“We’ve been robbed,” was the first thought that flashed through his mind. “Someone cleaned the place out while I was…”
He rushed to the window, the door, and the cupboards. The locks were intact, and there were no signs of forced entry. Then, slowly and drop by drop, he began to understand that this had not been the work of thieves.
With trembling fingers, he dialed his wife’s number.
“Yulia! Yulia, did you take the boxes?” he blurted out the moment she answered.
“Oh, Vitya, thank you so much,” his wife replied. Her voice was warm, almost tender, and its warmth made him feel cold. “You packed everything so thoughtfully. I was just preparing to move it all myself, but you beat me to it. You’ve taken a real weight off my shoulders.”
“Move?” He faltered. “Move where?”
“My grandfather left me an apartment,” she said casually. “Do you remember it? Four rooms in that old building where important people used to live. It has been mine for six months already. I’m gradually settling in.”
Viktor remembered the apartment. It had high ceilings, thick walls, and four rooms in which an echo could lose itself. He and Yulia had a one-bedroom flat in a residential district. She now had the kind of space he had never even dared to dream about.
“So… does that mean the issue with our apartment is settled?” he asked cautiously, testing the ground. His voice suddenly became much warmer. “You’ve moved out, I’m staying here… so everything is settled peacefully?”
“Of course it’s settled,” Yulia agreed softly.
After the smallest pause, she added:
“Settled in the sense that I’m no longer going to persuade you. I’m not giving away my share, Vitya. You’ll pay me for it, willingly or otherwise. And now I have somewhere to live, so I have all the time in the world.”
“What share?” His voice rose to a shriek. “You moved out! You took your things—or rather, I packed your things—but you… You have four rooms! Why do you need half of my one-bedroom apartment too?”
“I don’t need a one-bedroom apartment,” she answered calmly. “I need things to be fair. Voluntarily or through the courts—the choice is yours. Decide by morning. Good night, Vitya. Sleep well. Although I doubt you will.”
The call ended.
Viktor stood in the middle of the empty room, slowly and terrifyingly realizing what he had done with his own hands.
He had packed her belongings himself. He had pushed her toward the freedom she had already been dreaming about. She had not abandoned her share. On the contrary, she would now continue applying pressure—and she would do so calmly because she had no reason to hurry.
“Wait, wait,” he muttered, pacing around the room. “Pay her for her share… But where am I supposed to get the money? And if we sell the apartment, where will I live?”
His sister would not be moving into the apartment. He had fought that possibility with everything he had. That also meant he could not use her children as an excuse to protect himself from Yulia’s demands.
He could not return to his mother’s place either. Alina and the twins were already there. They would not even find room for a folding bed for him.
“To Mom’s… with Alina… sleeping in the hallway…” he muttered as he sank onto the bare floor in the middle of the empty room. “Why is this happening to me? I only wanted to keep what was mine…”
No one answered him.
The empty room no longer contained Yulia’s cups, Yulia’s books, or Yulia herself—the woman who had once searched for compromises and carefully stacked up all his hints.
All that remained was a one-bedroom apartment that would now have to be divided in half, along with the fear that he could not afford to buy out her half and would no longer be able to keep the whole.
Somewhere on the other side of the city, in an apartment with high ceilings, Yulia was unpacking the boxes her husband had so thoughtfully prepared for her.
One by one, she took out her cups, arranged them along the wide windowsill, and smiled quietly.
The game was over.
And the final word, just as she liked it, had gone to the person who had never shouted.
