Elena placed two cups on the table and poured fresh tea. Roman sat opposite her, turning his phone over in his hands without even looking up. She sat down, folded her hands in front of her, and sighed—quietly and patiently, just as she had done hundreds of times over the past three years.
“Roma, I wanted to talk,” she began gently. “We’ve barely spoken for the past month. Maybe we could discuss what’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” He shrugged without taking his eyes off the screen. “Everything’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t. You come home late, you don’t talk, you snap at me when I ask questions. I try to get through to you, and you just go into another room.”
Roman finally looked up. There was neither irritation nor anger in his eyes—only a dull indifference that hurt more than any shouting ever could. He took a sip of tea and set the cup back down with a soft clink.
“Lena, why are you starting this again? I’m tired, okay? Every day it’s the same thing. You come home and there are more conversations, more complaints.”
“They’re not complaints, Roma. I just want to understand what’s happening to us.”
“Nothing is happening to us.”
Elena looked at him for a long moment. She knew he was lying. She could feel it with every fiber of her being—the way people sense a change in the weather long before the first gust of wind. But she decided not to push him.
“All right,” she nodded. “Maybe we could go somewhere together this weekend? To the park, the riverfront. Just spend some time alone together, like we used to.”
“We’ll see,” he muttered, immediately turning back to his phone.
The next morning, Elena called her sister. Daria answered on the first ring, almost as though she had been expecting the call. There had always been that special bond between them, where one could sense that something was wrong with the other before a single word had been spoken.
“Dash, hi. Can you talk?”
“Of course. What happened?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. Roman has changed. He’s become like a stranger. He looks right through me, as if I were a piece of furniture.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“About three months, I guess. At first I thought he was tired. Then I thought maybe he was having problems with something. I asked him, but he kept brushing me off. And a week ago, I accidentally saw a conversation between him and his friend Artyom. There was something like, ‘It’ll all be settled soon, bro. Just hang in there a little longer.’”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. But I’m scared, Dash.”
Daria was silent for several seconds. Then she spoke calmly and evenly, but with the firmness of someone accustomed to standing on her own two feet.
“Lena, listen to me. Don’t work yourself up before you know anything for certain, but be ready for anything. If you feel the situation getting worse, call me immediately. Me or Kirill. We’re here.”
“Thank you.”
“And one more thing. Check the documents for the apartment. Just in case.”
Elena wanted to object that it was unnecessary, that despite all his faults Roman was incapable of doing anything truly despicable. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Somewhere deep inside, she already knew the truth—she simply didn’t want to face it.
A week later, Roman came home earlier than usual. That alone was strange. Recently, he hadn’t returned before ten in the evening, but now it was only half past six and he was already standing in the hallway. There was a smile on his face. Not a warm or happy one. It was predatory and smug, the corners of his lips tightly drawn.
He walked into the kitchen, sat at the table, and clasped his hands together. Elena, who was chopping vegetables for a salad, turned around and felt an invisible string tighten inside her.
“Lena, sit down. We need to talk.”
She put down the knife, wiped her hands on a towel, and sat opposite him. She waited.
“I filed the papers,” Roman said, looking straight into her eyes. “We’re getting divorced.”
The silence lasted three seconds. Four. Five.
“Did you just say you’re divorcing me?” Elena asked quietly.
Roman nodded slowly and theatrically, never losing his smile. He looked as though he were announcing a promotion rather than the destruction of their family. He leaned back in his chair and waited for her reaction—for tears, shouting, pleading. He had already mentally prepared himself for the stereotypical despair he expected from her.
“May I ask why?” Elena’s voice remained steady.
“Why?” He smirked. “Well, let’s be honest. I’m bored with you, Lena. You’re monotonous. Every day is the same—home, cooking, pointless conversations. I’m suffocating.”
“Suffocating,” she repeated.
“Yes. And I need freedom. I want to live differently. Artyom has been telling me for ages, ‘Why are you still holding on to her?’ And he’s right.”
“Artyom says so,” Elena repeated again, but this time with a different intonation.
“Don’t mock me. I’m serious. We split the apartment fifty-fifty. I’m taking the car because it’s registered in my name. The country-house plot is mine too—my mother bought it. You get your half and we part ways like civilized people.”
“Like civilized people,” Elena echoed for the third time.
“Could you stop repeating everything I say?”
“I can. I’m just trying to process this. So you’ve already decided everything, divided everything up, and my role is simply to nod along. Am I understanding that correctly?”
Roman rubbed his palms together like a merchant who had just struck a profitable deal.
“Well, you can consider it an offer you’d be stupid to refuse.”
“And what if I don’t agree with your division?”
“Lena,” his voice hardened, “don’t make this complicated. Mom has already spoken to a lawyer. Everything has been checked. You’ll get exactly what you’re entitled to.”
“Valentina?” Elena tilted her head slightly. “So she organized all this?”
“She didn’t organize anything. She supported my decision. Because she’s the only person who genuinely cares about me.”
Elena slowly stood up, went to the kitchen cabinet, and took out a glass. She filled it with water and drank it to the bottom. Her hands were perfectly steady. That calmness was not weakness—it was concentration.
“Roman, answer one question for me. Honestly.”
“Go ahead.”
“In all these six years, did you ever once think about who paid for the renovations in this apartment? Who made the initial payment? Whose money is behind every square meter you’re sitting on right now?”
His smile faltered. Only for a moment.
“The apartment is registered in both our names.”
“I didn’t ask whose names are on it. I asked who paid.”
“That doesn’t matter. Legally, it’s fifty-fifty.”
“We’ll see about that,” Elena said and walked out of the kitchen.
The next day, Elena was sitting in Daria and Kirill’s apartment. Kirill was a large, composed man, one of those who spoke little but whose every word carried the weight of an iron block. He listened silently without interrupting. Daria paced around the room, every step clicking against the parquet like a metronome.
“Repeat what he said about the country-house plot,” Daria asked.
“He said it belongs to him. That his mother bought it.”
“His mother?” Kirill raised an eyebrow. “Valentina Sergeyevna has never planted so much as a row of onions in her life, and suddenly she bought a country plot?”
“Kirill, I have all the payment records. Receipts, bank transfers. I made the down payment on the apartment. The renovations were paid for with my money. We bought the country plot together, but I contributed most of the money, and I have bank statements proving it.”
“You kept them?”
“Every single one. I always keep everything.”
Daria stopped and looked at her sister.
“Lena, I know you. You’re patient, gentle, always trying to find a compromise. But this isn’t the time to be gentle. He’s robbing you. Shamelessly, cynically, with that smug little smile on his face. And his mother is standing behind him with a calculator.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
Elena raised her head. There were no tears in her eyes. There was something else instead—the cold, crystal-clear resolve of someone who had made a decision and no longer doubted it.
“Tomorrow I’m going to a notary. I have the deed of gift from my grandmother—for the apartment we live in. Roman has forgotten about it. Or rather, he never bothered to understand the details because he didn’t care.”
“Wait.” Kirill leaned forward. “The apartment was gifted to you?”
“Yes. My grandmother transferred it to me before I was married. Later, Roman and I renovated it and registered his residence there, but the property itself belongs to me. Completely.”
“He doesn’t know?”
“He signed the documents without reading them. Like always. He just nodded and signed wherever he was told. He didn’t care. He’s never cared about anything except his own comfort.”
Kirill leaned back against the sofa and crossed his legs.
“Then his ‘civilized divorce’ is worthless. He won’t get the apartment. And the country plot—if you have proof of your contributions—that’s disputed too.”
“I have proof. Down to the last kopeck.”
“Lena,” Daria sat beside her sister and took her hand. “Are you sure you want to go all the way with this?”
“Dash, he sat across from me, smirking arrogantly, telling me I was monotonous. That I bored him. That his friend Artyom was the one who had ‘opened his eyes.’ For six years, I put everything I had into this marriage—money, time, patience. And he looked at me like a servant who had overstayed her usefulness.”
“Then do it.”
“I already am.”
At that moment Elena’s phone rang. The name “Valentina” appeared on the screen. Elena looked at her sister, then at Kirill, pressed Answer, and switched on the speakerphone.
“Elena, this is Valentina Sergeyevna.” The voice was sweet and syrupy, like spoiled jam. “I’m calling about your conversation with Roma. I hope you’re not going to make a scene. The boy has made his decision, and I support him completely. You have to understand—he deserves better.”
“Better,” Elena repeated.
“Yes. And I would like you to vacate the apartment within two weeks. Romochka needs to get settled.”
Kirill covered his face with his hand and snorted. Daria let out a squeak.
“Valentina Sergeyevna,” Elena said slowly and distinctly, “the apartment belongs to me. It was transferred to me under a deed of gift before I was married. Roman is registered as living there, but he is not an owner. So ‘Romochka’ will have to get settled somewhere else.”
Silence hung on the other end of the line. Then came a strangled cough.
“What nonsense are you talking about?”
“It isn’t nonsense. It’s documentation. Goodbye.”
Elena ended the call and placed the phone on the table.
“It’s begun,” Daria said.
“No,” Elena replied. “It’s ending.”
Two days later, Roman showed up at home with someone else. It was Artyom—a short, restless man whose eyes constantly darted around and who had a habit of licking his lips before every sentence. They barged into the apartment loudly and confidently, like owners coming to collect what belonged to them.
Elena stood in the hallway. She had just returned from seeing a lawyer. A folder of documents was in her hands.
“Lena, we need to talk,” Roman announced. His voice was different now. There was no smile, no condescension. Only anger.
“Talk.”
“Mom told me about your phone call. What the hell do you think you’re doing? What deed of gift? Have you lost your mind?”
“No. Here are the documents. Take a look.”
She held out the papers. Roman snatched them from her hands, opened them, and began flipping through the pages. Artyom peered over his shoulder like a jackal searching for scraps of someone else’s prey.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Roman spat. “I’ve lived here for six years. I’m registered here.”
“Residence registration isn’t ownership, Roman. You know that. I’ve already filed a court application to have your registration terminated. Wait for the decision.”
“Artyom, tell her!”
Artyom licked his lips and stepped forward.
“Elena, let’s settle this peacefully. Roma is entitled to a share. He invested in the renovations and maintenance.”
“Who exactly are you? He invested?” Elena opened a second folder lying on the cabinet. “Here are statements from my account covering six years. Every payment, every receipt. Renovations—my money. Utilities—mine. The country plot—here are the payment records. Seventy percent came from my transfers. During six years, Roman contributed to our household about enough money to cover two months’ rent on a one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts. Excuse me—in a residential district.”
Artyom took a step backward. Roman’s face turned crimson.
“You set all this up,” he hissed.
“I didn’t set anything up. I simply kept the documents. You know, one of those boring, monotonous habits—but useful.”
“You think you’re smarter than everyone else?” Roman stepped toward her. “You think you’ve outplayed me?”
“I’m not playing, Roma. You were the one who decided life was a game and that I was the loser. You were wrong.”
“You’re nobody without me!” He jabbed a finger toward her face. “My mother was right—you’re clinging to my money, my status!”
Elena caught his finger.
“Don’t point your finger at me.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
That was when Roman made his mistake. He placed a hand on her shoulder and shoved her—not hard, but deliberately, with the disgusting expression of someone saying, Know your place.
Elena didn’t step back. She turned and slapped him across the face—short, sharp, hard. The sound cracked through the hallway like a whip. Roman stumbled back, grabbed his cheek, and stared at her wide-eyed. Artyom pressed himself against the wall.
“That’s for ‘boring’ and ‘monotonous,’” Elena said, without a tremor or hysteria in her voice. “Now listen carefully. You have five days to pack your things and remove your residence registration. If you’re still here after five days, I’ll deal with it through the proper authorities. I have the documents. I have witnesses. And I also kept your messages with Artyom where the two of you discussed how to ‘work me over.’ The screenshots have been officially certified.”
“What screenshots?” Roman’s voice suddenly became thin and pathetic.
“Those screenshots. You forgot to log out of the messenger on the tablet a month ago. I read everything—from the first message to the last. How Artyom suggested you ‘write off the wife,’ how you discussed with your mother how much the apartment was worth and who would get what. Every word. It’s enough to potentially make this a criminal matter.”
Artyom jerked toward the door.
“Stay right there, you little creep,” Elena said without turning around. “You need to hear this too. I know you owe Roman money. One hundred and twenty thousand, right? And I know you offered him ‘help with the divorce’ instead of paying him back. That’s in the messages too. Roman, your best friend wasn’t helping you because he cared about you. He was helping because he didn’t want to repay his debt.”
Artyom went pale.
“That’s not true,” he muttered.
“Fourth message from March twelfth. I quote: ‘Bro, if I help you with the divorce and you get the apartment, we forget about the debt, deal?’ End quote. But now half of that debt is owed to me. Understand, you little creep?”
Roman slowly turned toward Artyom.
“Is that true?”
“Roma, she’s lying! She’s twisting everything!”
“I just emailed the screenshots to you, Roman,” Elena said. “Check.”
Roman took out his phone and opened his email. He read for a long time. Then he raised his eyes to Artyom, and they contained everything—anger, humiliation, and the realization of his own stupidity.
“Get out,” he told Artyom.
“Rom, let me explain…”
“Get out!”
Artyom rushed through the door without looking back. Roman stood in the middle of the hallway like a post frozen into the ground.
“Lena…”
“No. Don’t start. You said divorce. I agree. Just not on your terms—on mine. The apartment is mine. The country-house plot will be divided according to our respective contributions. Take the car. I don’t need it; its repairs cost me more than taking taxis would. Five days, Roman.”
She opened the front door and stood beside it, making it clear that the conversation was over.
A week passed. Roman removed his belongings on the fourth day—silently, hurriedly, avoiding Elena’s eyes. Her mother-in-law called three times, raising her voice more each time. The first time she pleaded. The second time she threatened. The third time she cried. Elena simply remained silent.
Daria and Kirill helped put the apartment back in order. Kirill changed the locks, while Daria brought new curtains—bright and light, like the beginning of a new day.
“How are you?” Daria asked as they sat in the kitchen.
“Strange. Light and heavy at the same time. Six years, Dash. For six years I believed I could change him. That if I were patient enough, caring enough, he would appreciate it.”
“But he didn’t.”
“He didn’t even notice. To him, I was a function. Cook, clean, stay quiet, don’t get in the way.”
“You’re not the Lena who stayed silent anymore. You’re a different person now.”
“No, Dash. I’m the same person. I’ve just stopped pretending that I’m not hurt.”
Kirill entered the kitchen with his phone in his hand. His expression was strange—a mixture of surprise and grim satisfaction.
“Lena, you’re not going to believe this.”
“What happened?”
“Petrovich just called me—Roman’s neighbor at his new rented apartment. You know, the guy we met when Roman was moving his things. Well, Roman moved into a one-bedroom place on Severnaya Street and paid three months in advance. Yesterday his mother arrived with suitcases. She announced that she was going to live with him because two months ago she transferred ownership of her apartment…”
“To whom?” Elena asked.
“To Artyom.”
The kitchen fell silent. Daria froze with her cup halfway to her mouth.
“Say that again,” Elena said.
“Valentina Sergeyevna transferred her three-bedroom apartment to Artyom under a lifetime-support agreement. She expected Roman to get your apartment after the divorce, so she figured she wouldn’t need her own anymore. And Artyom promised to pay her an allowance and ‘look after her.’”
“And now?”
“Now Artyom has transferred the apartment to his common-law wife and disappeared. Valentina has been left without a home, without the documents, without the payments. Roman is in a one-bedroom apartment with his mother dependent on him, without an apartment of his own, without the country property, and without his friend. Artyom is in another city with someone else’s three-bedroom apartment.”
Elena placed her cup on the table. She looked at her sister, then at Kirill.
“She gave her apartment to Artyom? A man she only knew through her son? A man who couldn’t repay one hundred and twenty thousand? But that’s criminal!”
“Exactly. Apparently, Artyom knew how to persuade people. Valentina Sergeyevna was so absorbed in her plans to ‘save Romochka’ that she failed to notice she was the one being cleaned out.”
“That’s…” Daria couldn’t find the words.
“That’s what happens,” Elena said. “When you build your plans on someone else’s misery, eventually someone else will build theirs on yours.”
An hour later, Roman called. Elena answered—for the first time in a week.
“Lena.” His voice was hoarse, strained, almost unrecognizable. “Lena, did you know?”
“Know what?”
“About Artyom. About Mom’s apartment.”
“No, Roman. I didn’t know. I was busy with something else—protecting my property from you.”
“Lena, I have nowhere to go. Mom is staying with me, I can’t afford the rent, Artyom has disappeared…”
“And what do you want from me?”
“Maybe we could…”
“No.”
“Lena!”
“Roman, a week ago you sat across from me smiling and told me I was monotonous and boring. That you were suffocating. That Artyom had opened your eyes. That your mother was the only person who cared about you. Well, breathe. Your eyes are open. Your mother is beside you. Live your life.”
“You can’t do this to me!”
“Me?” Elena laughed briefly. “I haven’t done anything to you. You did all of this yourself. You decided to divorce me—I agreed. You brought your friend into it—your friend betrayed you. Your mother decided what to do with her apartment—she got deceived. Where exactly am I in any of that, Roman? Show me.”
He remained silent. For a long, agonizing moment.
“Goodbye,” Elena said and hung up.
She walked over to the kitchen table where Roman had sat a week earlier, smiling as he announced their divorce. She ran her palm over the tabletop. Then she opened the window, let the evening air inside, and smiled.
“Dash, why don’t we go to the country house tomorrow? The apple trees will be blooming soon.”
“Let’s go,” Daria said, embracing her sister.
Behind another wall, in a one-bedroom apartment on Severnaya Street, Roman sat on a sagging sofa while his mother, Valentina Sergeyevna, dialed Artyom’s number for the twentieth time.
The subscriber was unavailable.
Forever.
