I Accidentally Found Out That the Apartment I’m the Only One Paying For Belongs to My Husband and His Mother. I Did Something That Made My Husband Turn Green.

I had always considered myself a grown woman. At twenty-eight, I was the chief accountant at a small but stable company that dealt in wholesale supplies of building materials. I had a husband, a two-room apartment with a mortgage, and a clear plan for how we would get out of debt in exactly five years. I had even made an Excel spreadsheet and, every month, ticked off another payment.
Or rather, it was my plan.
Seryozha, my husband, worked in the same field. He was a purchasing manager at another company. His salary, according to him, was always “unstable” and went toward pocket money, gifts for me, and gasoline. That was what we had agreed on at the very beginning of our married life: I paid for the apartment, utilities, loans, and groceries. He paid for his own wants, the internet, and gas whenever we went somewhere by car. For the first two years, that arrangement did not bother me. Well, almost.
Something else bothered me.
Galina Pavlovna, my mother-in-law, appeared in our lives as soon as we signed the mortgage agreement. At first, she “helped with the renovation.” That meant she personally chose the wallpaper for the living room because “young people have no taste.” I kept quiet so as not to quarrel. Then her washing machine “suddenly” broke in her one-room Khrushchev-era apartment, and she moved in with us “for a week.” Two years passed. She was still living with us.
Every time I cautiously began a conversation about how it was time for his mother to go back to her own place, Seryozha would make a guilty face and say, “But she’s my mom. It’s hard for her to be alone. We’re not monsters.”
I paid the utilities for three people. She sat in my kitchen, moved my pots around, checked what I bought at the store, and criticized the way I ironed his shirts. Meanwhile, she spent her pension on some needs of her own and never once offered to chip in even for groceries. When I tried to hint that it would be good to split expenses equally, she clutched her heart and said I was throwing her out onto the street. Seryozha stared at the floor and said nothing.
I got used to it. Or rather, I convinced myself that many people lived this way: a mother-in-law in the house, resentment, small humiliations — all of it temporary. I was waiting for us to pay off the mortgage. Then I would be able to issue a firm ultimatum.
But today something happened that made my patience finally overflow. And it did not happen because of borscht, or a dirty mug in the sink, or even because Galina Pavlovna once again called me “useless.”
I came home from work earlier than usual. I had had a hellish day. Our company was submitting quarterly reports, and suddenly errors appeared in the tax records — entries I had supposedly made. The director called me in and said that if it happened again, he would start questioning whether I was fit for my position. I went back to my office, opened the accounting log — and went cold.
Someone had edited my entries in the program when I had stepped out for lunch for a couple of minutes. The system showed that the changes had been made from my computer. But at that time, I had not been at my desk. Then I remembered: last week, I had asked Galina Pavlovna to sit in my office while I ran to the bank. She had agreed so eagerly, saying that she “had once worked as an accountant too and remembered everything.”
I had trusted her with my computer.
Now, sitting behind the wheel and parking by the house, I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. She had almost cost me my job. And at the same time, she thought she was doing me a favor.
I went up to the third floor, opened the door with my key, and immediately heard voices coming from the kitchen. They were speaking in low voices, but excitedly. I slipped off my shoes and quietly walked into the hallway so the floorboards would not creak.
“…Seryozhenka, she won’t even notice. The main thing is that you stay calm. You know I do everything for the best.”
“Mom, what if she asks why we did it?”
“What is there to ask? The apartment is our family property. And she… well, anything can happen. You can see how nervous she has become. Let the documents stay with me.”
I froze. My heart started pounding somewhere in my throat. I quietly took out my phone, turned on the voice recorder, and put it in the pocket of my coat. Then I coughed loudly, shuffled into the kitchen, and pretended I had just walked in.
They were sitting at the table. Galina Pavlovna, neat and polished, wearing her favorite turquoise cardigan, with a glass of wine. Seryozha was beside her, disheveled, with some strange gleam in his eyes.
“Anechka!” my mother-in-law feigned delight. “We were waiting for you. Come in, we’re having a family council.”
I sat down on the empty chair. She never called me “Anechka” unless she wanted to get something out of me. Usually I was “Anya,” or, when she was in a bad mood, “girl.”
Seryozha handed me a thick cardboard folder. Red, new.
“Darling,” he began in a voice he had clearly rehearsed, “Mom and I decided to surprise you. You have put so much effort into this apartment… We reissued the documents so you would feel calmer. Now you know for sure that you have a home.”
I opened the folder. Inside were extracts from the Unified State Register of Real Estate and some agreements. My eyes ran over the text, searching for familiar terms.
In the “Right Holders” column, there were two names: Sergey Viktorovich Smirnov and Galina Pavlovna Smirnova. My name was not there.
I turned the page. Then another. I searched for at least one line where my name was mentioned as a spouse, a co-borrower, anyone at all.
Nothing.
“I don’t understand,” I said, looking at my husband. “Where am I in this?”
Seryozha looked away. Suddenly, he became very interested in the pattern on the tablecloth.
Galina Pavlovna adjusted the curlers at the back of her head and answered in a calm, even affectionate tone, as if explaining to a child that two plus two equals four:
“Well, dear, the apartment was bought with my motherly money. I put in everything I had saved for Seryozha. It was simply registered in his name back then so the mortgage would be approved. And now I decided to protect myself. You are just registered here. This is family, what difference does it make? You live here, you use it — be grateful.”

“Wait,” I placed my hands on the folder so they would not see my fingers trembling. “I have been paying the mortgage for three years. Every month, money leaves my card. I am paying for an apartment that you are now claiming belongs to you?”
“Well, not exactly,” Seryozha spoke up. He still was not looking at me. “You support our family. It’s a shared responsibility. We’re together. And the documents are just a formality.”
“A formality?” I repeated quietly. “Seryozh, do you hear yourself? The two of you transferred the apartment to yourselves, and I find out by accident when you decide to make me a ‘surprise’?”
“Don’t shout,” my mother-in-law grimaced. “The neighbors will hear. The main thing is, don’t get worked up. The money you paid — we’ll return it to you later, when we sell this apartment. Or when the mortgage is paid off. But for now, let everything stay as it is.”
“You’ll return it?” I heard my own voice as if from the outside — it had become unfamiliar and cold. “Galina Pavlovna, are you serious right now? Are you saying I invested money into someone else’s apartment for three years, and you’ll ‘return it later’?”
“Well, what do you want?” she suddenly snapped. “Seryozha is my son! My own blood! And you are a stranger, who knows what will happen between you in a year. You’re already throwing such scandals! I didn’t save all that money so that some…”
“Mom!” Seryozha tried to stop her, but it was too late.
I slowly stood up. I was not shaking. Inside me, an icy emptiness suddenly formed, and within that emptiness, everything became crystal clear.
I took the folder with the documents and put it in my bag.
“Where are you dragging that?” my mother-in-law protested.
“To the safe,” I replied. “So they don’t get lost. Precious documents. Since we’re such close relatives now.”
“Anya, why are you doing this?” Seryozha also stood up and reached out toward me. “Let’s talk calmly. We’ll sort everything out.”
I looked at his hand, then into his eyes. There was no anger in them. There was relief. As though he had finally thrown off a burden and now everything was “legal” — the apartment was theirs, and there was no need to pretend anymore.
“Talk calmly?” I smirked. “Seryozh, we have lived together for three years. For three years, I have worked like a horse, supported your mother, paid the mortgage. And you calmly sat there and watched her prepare this ‘surprise.’”
“I didn’t…”
“Did you know?” I interrupted. “Did you know she was reissuing the apartment?”
He was silent. He lowered his head.
“You knew,” I said for him. “And you kept quiet. You are always silent when it comes to setting me up.”
I left the kitchen, locked myself in the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were trembling after all. I fumbled for my phone and dialed Andrey, our corporate lawyer, with whom I sometimes had lunch in the same cafeteria. He was not from my company; he worked independently, but I knew him as a competent specialist.
“Hello, Andrey, sorry for calling so late,” I said as calmly as I could. “I have a question, just a consultation. If a person has been paying a mortgage for three years but is not listed as an owner in the documents, can anything be done?”
“Well, it depends on how they paid,” professional curiosity appeared in his voice. “If there are payment records from their card, if they are a co-borrower… What’s the issue?”
“The issue is,” I squeezed the phone so hard my knuckles turned white, “that I am that person. And today I found out that the apartment I am paying for is registered to my husband and his mother.”
“I see,” Andrey drawled. “That’s unpleasant. But not hopeless. Let’s meet tomorrow. Bring your bank statements and the loan agreement. We’ll see what can be done.”
“All right,” I exhaled. “Thank you.”
I hung up and looked at myself in the mirror above the dresser. The woman looking back at me was not the Anya who had tolerated her mother-in-law, justified her husband, and hoped that “everything would get better.” The woman looking back at me had just understood that she had been used for three years.
There was a quiet knock on the bedroom door.
“Anya, open up,” Seryozha’s voice was insinuating, guilty. “Let’s talk. You misunderstood everything.”
I did not answer. I took my bag, checked whether the folder was still inside, and turned off the voice recorder that had been recording in the kitchen all this time. I pressed “stop” and saved the file.
I did not yet understand the whole plan, but I knew one thing for certain: I would no longer pretend that this did not concern me.
I did not sleep that night. I lay on my half of the bed, stared at the ceiling, and listened as the springs sometimes creaked behind the wall, in the living room, where Galina Pavlovna had arranged a full bedroom for herself with a fold-out sofa and a nightstand. She was not sleeping either. Or perhaps she was tossing and turning from an excess of righteous indignation.
Seryozha came into the bedroom an hour after I had locked myself in. He did not knock; he simply opened the door with his key. I had forgotten that he had a second set of keys to the bedroom. Once, after all, we had been husband and wife.
He stood in the doorway for a long time, then sighed heavily and lay down on his side. He tried to hug me.
“Anya, what are you doing?” His voice was conciliatory, as if nothing special had happened. “You understand, it’s just a formality. The apartment is ours. Mom isn’t going to kick us out.”
“Ours?” I did not turn around; I kept looking at the wall. “Yours and your mother’s. And who am I here?”
“Why are you saying it like that?” He removed his hand and spoke in an offended tone. “I love you. We’re family. Why are you dividing everything? Mom is an elderly person. She needs peace of mind. She worries that if something happens to you… well, you know, some accident, then the apartment will stay in the family. It’s reasonable.”
I slowly turned toward him. In the darkness, I could only see his silhouette, but his voice was so even, as though he were explaining the basics of family law to me.
“Seryozh, are you seriously saying right now that I might get into an accident, so it’s better to transfer the apartment to you and your mother?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he faltered. “You’re twisting my words.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“That we should trust each other. I trust you, you trust me.”
I sat up in bed and turned on the table lamp. Seryozha squeezed his eyes shut from the light.
“You trust me?” I looked him in the face. “Then why did you and your mother arrange the redistribution of shares without me? Why am I finding out about it when everything has already been signed and notarized? Where was my trust when you decided I would have no relation to the apartment I’m paying for?”
He was silent for a while. Then he said quietly:
“Mom asked me not to tell anyone. She wanted to make a surprise.”
“A surprise,” I smirked. “A wonderful surprise. I was deprived of property, and I’m supposed to rejoice.”
“You weren’t deprived,” he sat up too, his voice becoming harder. “You didn’t have anything. You just paid. That doesn’t make you an owner. Mom invested her maternity capital and her savings when we bought the apartment. That was her money.”
At that moment I understood very clearly that he truly thought that way. To him, three years of my payments were simply my contribution to a “shared cause,” while her one-time investment during the purchase was grounds for full ownership.
“How much did she invest?” I asked.
“Well… about three hundred thousand, probably. Plus the maternity capital.”
“And I, Seryozha, have paid more than a million in three years. Just on the mortgage. Not counting utilities and groceries, which she eats.”
“Why are you counting?” he was genuinely surprised. “We’re family. What, do you want me to write you a receipt?”
I looked at him, and something inside me snapped. I suddenly realized that we were speaking different languages. For him, family meant the wife carried everything while the mother benefited. For him, justice meant blood relatives owned the property while a stranger of a wife paid the bills.
“Get out,” I said calmly.
“Anya…”
“Please get out. I want to be alone.”
He stood there, sighed, put on his house pants, and went out into the hallway. I heard him walk to the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and whisper something to his mother. I did not listen. Instead, I took my phone, opened the banking app, and started scrolling through the transaction history.
Mortgage payments. Every month, on the fifteenth, exactly 28,700 rubles. Sometimes a little more, when I paid interest early. Three years. Thirty-six months. I opened the calculator and multiplied.
1,033,200 rubles. Only toward the principal and interest. Not counting the groceries I bought, the utilities for three people, the medicine I bought for Galina Pavlovna when her back hurt. I put the phone on the nightstand and closed my eyes.
In the morning, I woke up earlier than everyone. Seryozha was still asleep, curled up on the sofa in the living room — apparently, after our conversation, he had not returned to the bedroom. Galina Pavlovna was snoring in her room, which she called “the living room,” though in reality it was the common room where no one except her appeared anymore.
I quietly went to the kitchen, made myself coffee, and sat at the table with my laptop. I needed to find the mortgage agreement we had signed three years earlier. I remembered that an electronic copy was in my email.
I found the message from the bank. Opened the file and reread it ten times.
I was a co-borrower. Seryozha was the title holder. The agreement stated in black and white that both co-borrowers bore joint and several responsibility for the loan. In other words, the bank did not care who paid — the main thing was that the money arrived. And we had agreed that I would pay. And I had paid. All three years.
But in the column “ownership right to the purchased apartment,” there was only one name: Sergey Viktorovich Smirnov. Why had I not noticed it then? Why had I not insisted that a share be registered in my name? I covered my face with my hands.
Because I trusted him. Because he said, “This is how the bank requires it,” “we’ll transfer it later,” “we’re family.” The same words he was saying now.
I turned off the laptop and realized that I had to meet Andrey.
We met at a café near my office during lunch break. Andrey arrived with a notebook and asked me to tell him everything in order.
I told him. About the contract, the payments, yesterday’s “surprise,” and the folder that was now lying in my backpack.
Andrey listened, occasionally writing something down. When I finished, he put down his pen and looked at me seriously.
“Anya, the situation is unpleasant, but not hopeless. Let’s sort it out.”
He opened his laptop and began explaining.
“By law, if you prove that you paid for the apartment from your own funds, and that you paid regularly and in a significant amount, you can demand recognition of your right to a share. But that means court. And it could drag on for a year, maybe two.”
“And what can they do?” I asked.
“They can claim that you did it as a gift to your husband. Or that you paid for the use of the housing. If they have proof that they invested in the purchase — receipts, statements — they can prove that the main funds were contributed by your husband and his mother. Then the court could refuse you.”
“But I paid for three years! A million!”
“I understand,” he paused. “There is another way. You can submit an application to the bank to withdraw from the list of co-borrowers. If the bank agrees, then the entire loan burden will fall on Sergey. And if he cannot pay, the bank will begin foreclosure proceedings. It’s an extreme method, but psychologically it puts pressure on them.”
“And if the bank doesn’t agree?”
“Banks rarely agree without refinancing. But you have leverage: you can suspend payments by filing a claim to invalidate the share redistribution transaction. The court may impose interim measures. And while the case is underway, no one pays. The apartment falls into arrears.”

I looked at him.
“You’re suggesting I go all-in?”
“I’m suggesting you think about whether you’re ready to lose the apartment in order not to lose yourself. Because if you continue paying for someone else’s property, you will never stop. You understand they won’t give you that money back, don’t you?”
I nodded. I understood.
“There’s one more option,” Andrey added. “Offer them a settlement. Let them buy out your share, or transfer the apartment to reflect your contributions. But for that, they need to be afraid of court.”
“They won’t be afraid,” I said. “Galina Pavlovna is a former accountant. She has been preparing. I’m sure she has some papers.”
“Exactly,” Andrey nodded. “That’s why I suggest gathering all evidence. Statements from your cards for the last three years. Copies of payment orders. The mortgage agreement. And the document you took yesterday.”
I took the folder out of my backpack and placed it on the table.
“Everything is here. They thought I would be happy.”
Andrey opened the folder, quickly reviewed the papers, and whistled.
“Anya, this is an agreement on redistribution of shares. It’s notarized. Your signature is not here. By law, if an apartment was acquired during marriage, such transactions require the notarized consent of the spouse. There isn’t one.”
“So it’s illegal?”
“More than that. If you did not give consent, the transaction can be challenged. This is a strong argument.”
I felt something warm rise inside me, something like hope.
“What should I do?”
“First, photograph all the documents. And hide the originals in a safe place. Better yet, take them out of the house completely. Then collect your account statements. And one more thing — don’t pay the mortgage anymore. Not a single kopeck.”
“And if they say I’m violating my obligations?”
“You’re not violating anything. A co-borrower is not obligated to pay alone. If they consider the apartment theirs, let them pay for it themselves.”
I closed the folder and put it back in my backpack.
“Andrey, thank you. I’ll do everything.”
He handed me his business card.
“Call me if anything happens. And one more thing, Anya. Are you sure you want to go all the way? This is war. And war with relatives is the dirtiest kind.”
I looked at the card, then at him.
“They started it first, Andrey. I am simply going to defend what I earned.”
We said goodbye. I left the café and got into my car. A plan was already forming in my head.
I stopped by the bank and got account statements for three years. They printed them out for me on twenty sheets. Then I drove home, but did not go upstairs — I simply took a flash drive from the glove compartment and copied onto it photos of all the documents from the folder.
That evening, I returned home. Galina Pavlovna met me at the door with a stone face.
“Where are the documents?” she asked without greeting me.
“In a safe place,” I replied, taking off my coat.
“You have no right to take them. They are my documents.”
“Galina Pavlovna, they are documents for an apartment where I live and which I pay for. I have the right to know what is in them.”
“Did you go to a lawyer?” she narrowed her eyes.
I did not answer. I went into the kitchen and poured myself some water.
Seryozha was sitting at the table, looking at his phone. When he saw me, he put it aside and asked:
“Anya, where were you?”
“Running errands.”
“What errands do you have?” my mother-in-law cut in. “You didn’t quit your job, did you?”
“No,” I turned to her. “I intend to keep working. To support myself.”
“Yourself?” she smirked. “And who will pay the mortgage?”
“The person the apartment is registered to,” I answered calmly. “Starting this month, you will pay.”
Seryozha went pale.
“Anya, I don’t have that kind of money.”
“And I, Seryozha, no longer have the desire to pay for someone else’s property.”
I put the glass in the sink and left the kitchen. I went into the bedroom, took a large bag out of the closet, and began packing my things.
Five minutes later, Seryozha appeared in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where?”
“I’m renting an apartment. While I’m here, you will pressure me. I need to think everything over calmly.”
“Anya, don’t be stupid,” he stepped toward me and tried to take my hand. “We can come to an agreement.”
“About what?” I pulled my hand away. “About how much I owe you for the right to live in your apartment?”
“No one is talking about payment…”
“Then what are you talking about? You said the apartment is yours. That means you don’t need me. And you don’t need my money either. So pay for it yourselves.”
I zipped up the bag and took my backpack.
In the hallway, Galina Pavlovna stood with her arms crossed over her chest.
“And where are you going at this hour? To your lover?”
“Galina Pavlovna,” I looked straight at her, “I don’t have a lover. I have a lawyer. And he said the transaction you carried out without my consent is illegal. So enjoy your apartment while you can.”
I walked out into the stairwell without looking back. The door slammed behind me, and I heard my mother-in-law’s voice:
“Seryozha, did you see that? Did you see what she’s like? I told you!”
I went down to the car, threw the bag onto the back seat, and got behind the wheel. Only then did I feel how badly my hands were trembling. I took out my phone and dialed the realtor who rented out an apartment in the neighboring building — we had spoken six months earlier when I had jokingly asked how much rent would cost “just in case.”
“Hello, good evening,” I said. “Is that studio on Sovetskaya still available? I’m ready to move in today.”
The studio on Sovetskaya turned out to be small, but it was mine. A tiny room on the sixth floor of an old five-story building, with a narrow balcony that barely fit one chair, and a tiny kitchen where the stove stood next to the washing machine. I paid a month in advance and a deposit, received the keys, and was finally alone.
I unpacked my bag. There were not many things: a change of underwear, a few T-shirts, jeans, my laptop, and the folder with the documents, which was now lying at the very bottom of my backpack, locked away. I looked around at the empty walls and suddenly felt a strange relief. There was no Galina Pavlovna here, forever turning the TV up to full volume. There was no Seryozha pretending nothing was happening. There was only me and silence.
I lay down on the narrow sofa and stared at the ceiling. The phone lay beside me, silent. Strange that they were not calling. Maybe they thought I would cool down and come back. Maybe they were glad to finally get rid of me.
I fell asleep toward morning.
The doorbell woke me up. I looked at the clock — half past ten. I threw on a robe, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. Seryozha was standing on the landing. Alone. Without his mother.
I opened the door.
“How did you find me?” I asked, not inviting him in.
“You left the old location sharing on in the family account,” he looked tired, unshaven, with shadows under his eyes. “Anya, can I come in?”
I stepped aside, letting him pass. He entered, looked around the studio, and something like confusion appeared on his face.
“You live here?”
“Yes.”
“In this dump?”
“I like it here.”
He sat down on the sofa and placed his hands on his knees. I remained standing by the window, arms crossed over my chest.
“Anya, come back,” he said dully. “Mom is worried. She thought you would cool down overnight.”
“I haven’t cooled down.”
“What are you trying to achieve?” he raised his eyes to me. “We can’t transfer the apartment back now. It’s already been registered. But we can come to an agreement. You’ll live in your room and pay only for yourself. Mom agrees that you won’t contribute to the mortgage.”
“I won’t?” I smirked. “And who will pay?”
“I’ll find extra work,” he said as if promising something incredible. “We’ll manage.”
“Seryozh, you couldn’t find extra work for three years. And now suddenly you can?”
“What else am I supposed to do? You left, and the mortgage stayed. Mom says that if you don’t come back, we’ll lose the apartment.”
“You’ll lose it?” I repeated slowly. “So now the apartment is yours, and you will be the ones losing it?”
“Anya, don’t be cruel.”
“I’m not cruel, Seryozha. I simply don’t want to be a cash cow anymore.”
He fell silent. He sat there, staring at the floor, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket. I looked at him and saw not my husband, but a stranger. Once, I had loved him for his softness, for his ability to smooth over conflicts. Now I understood that this softness was simply cowardice.
“You have to understand,” he finally said. “Mom is afraid that if we divorce, you’ll sue for half. She saved her whole life.”
“So I can work and pay for something that belongs to her?”
“You were paying for our shared home. That’s normal.”
“Normal,” I nodded. “For you, it’s normal. For me, it isn’t. Listen, Seryozh, I’ve already spoken to a lawyer. The transaction you carried out without my consent is illegal. I will file a lawsuit.”
He went pale.
“You won’t do that.”
“I will.”
“Anya, come to your senses!” he stood up and stepped toward me. “Do you want to destroy our family?”
“Yours and your mother’s?” I looked him in the eyes. “It has already been destroyed. You destroyed it yourself when you decided I could be nothing but a wallet.”
He stood in front of me, and in his eyes I saw fear. Not for me. Not for us. For himself. For the apartment. For the life in which everything had been decided behind his back by his mother and paid for by me.
“You’ll regret this,” he said quietly.
“Maybe,” I opened the door. “But right now I need to prepare for court. Leave.”
He left. I closed the door, leaned against the frame, and exhaled. My hands were trembling, but inside I was calm.
An hour later, Galina Pavlovna called. I rejected the call. She called again. I rejected it again. On the third call, I answered.
“Listen to me, you trash,” she hissed into the phone. “You think you’re smarter than everyone? I thought everything through. If you say even one word in court, I’ll produce the receipts. I have receipts saying you borrowed money from me for the mortgage. Every month. You’re in debt to me up to your ears.”
I was silent. Receipts. She had prepared herself. I felt the ground slip from under my feet, but I forced myself to speak calmly.
“Galina Pavlovna, are you threatening me?”
“I’m not threatening you, I’m warning you. You are nobody. You are a stranger. And you will not get this apartment. And if you keep making noise, I’ll report to the police that you stole my documents. Return the folder.”
“The folder is in a safe place,” I said. “And those documents are proof of your fraud.”
“Fraud?” she laughed. “Who will believe you? You’re a hysterical woman who abandoned her husband. And I am an elderly woman whose daughter-in-law threw her out onto the street.”
“You will leave on your own,” I said. “Soon.”
I hung up and blocked her number.
My heart was pounding. Receipts. She had said it with such confidence, as if she were already holding them in her hands. I remembered the evenings when she sat at the kitchen table writing something in her notebook. I thought they were personal notes, maybe recipes or shopping lists. But she had been preparing forgeries.
I dialed Andrey.
“Andrey, I have a problem. My mother-in-law says she has receipts where I allegedly borrowed money from her for the mortgage. Notarized.”
“Notarized?” Andrey’s voice became tense. “Anya, that’s serious. If she has notarized receipts, the court may accept them as evidence.”
“But it’s a lie! I never took money from her! On the contrary, I gave her money for groceries and medicine!”
“I understand. But can you prove it? Do you have account statements showing that the money came from your card and did not come from her? If the receipts are dated close to the payment dates, the court may decide that she gave you cash and you made the payments.”
“I have statements for three years. There are no incoming transfers from her.”
“That’s not enough,” Andrey said. “She can say she gave you cash and you put it on your card. Or that you had an agreement and you were paying the mortgage with her money. We need something stronger.”
“What?”
“A witness. Someone who heard her talk about her intentions. Or someone who saw whether you exchanged money. Do you remember anyone being present when she wrote these receipts? Maybe she bragged to someone?”
I thought. She had never said anything in front of me. But she loved complaining to the neighbors. And once, I had heard her talking to Aunt Zina downstairs. I had not paid attention at the time.
“There is one neighbor,” I said. “She often spoke with her. But I don’t know whether she’ll agree.”
“Try to talk to her. And one more thing — do not pay the mortgage. At all. Let them pay. If the apartment is theirs, let them bear the burden of maintaining it.”
“And if they don’t pay?”
“The bank will charge penalties. Then it will send a notice. And then you can offer them either to negotiate or lose the apartment.”
I hung up and sat on the sofa. Aunt Zina, the neighbor. I knew her only casually — we greeted each other in the elevator and sometimes exchanged a few words. She was not the type to interfere in other people’s business, but Galina Pavlovna constantly complained about her, called her a gossip, and said she stuck her nose everywhere. Maybe now that would work in my favor.
I decided to go to the old apartment for the rest of my things. Not because I needed them, but because it was an excuse to enter the building and meet Aunt Zina.
When I drove up to the house, it was already around three in the afternoon. I went up to the third floor, stood in front of the door, and listened. Galina Pavlovna’s voice could be heard from inside — judging by her tone, she was talking on the phone with another friend. I decided not to knock. I went down one floor and rang Aunt Zina’s doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately. Aunt Zina — a plump woman of about sixty, in a house robe, with curlers in her hair — peeked out onto the landing and recognized me.
“Oh, Anechka!” she threw up her hands. “I heard you left. The neighbors said you abandoned Seryozha.”
“Not exactly,” I smiled. “Aunt Zina, may I come in for a couple of minutes?”
“Of course, come in, come in.”
She led me into a small kitchen just like mine in the studio, only cluttered with jars and pots. She seated me at the table and put the kettle on.
“I heard what happened with you,” she began, pouring tea. “Our building is small; everyone knows everything. Galina Pavlovna told everyone yesterday that you stole her documents and ran away.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” I said. “I took the folder with the apartment documents. It turned out they transferred it to themselves, while I paid the mortgage for three years.”
Aunt Zina shook her head.
“I know. Back when they started all this, I thought it wouldn’t end well. She came to me and bragged that she had ‘protected her son.’ She said you no longer had any claim to anything, but you would still pay the mortgage because you had nowhere else to go.”
Everything inside me went cold.
“When was that?”
“Oh, about two months ago. She came over so pleased with herself and said, ‘Zina, I did it. Now the apartment is ours, and let her pay if she wants to live decently.’ I told her, ‘Galina Pavlovna, that’s not right, it’s dishonest.’ And she said, ‘Don’t meddle in what’s not your business.’”
I gripped the mug so my trembling would not show.
“Aunt Zina, do you remember whether she said anything about receipts? That I was supposedly taking money from her?”
Aunt Zina thought for a moment, then slapped her knee.
“She did! She did indeed. She said then, ‘I write everything down. I have every kopeck under control. If anything happens, I’ll produce the receipts, and she’ll end up owing me.’ I remember thinking: what receipts, if you never even bought her bread? She was bringing you groceries, not the other way around.”
Hope rose inside me.
“Aunt Zina, could you repeat that in court?”
She looked at me in surprise.
“In court? So you’re going to sue?”
“Yes. She is threatening me with those receipts. But it’s a lie. I never took money from her. If you confirm that she said she was preparing the receipts on purpose, that will help me.”
Aunt Zina was silent for a while. Then she nodded.
“Anechka, I have lived long enough. I have seen all kinds of things. I know Galina Pavlovna is a mean and cunning woman. And I know that you carried both of them on your back for three years. I’ll say in court how it was. And I’ll say something else too.”
She got up, went into the room, and returned with a phone in her hands.
“Sometimes, when she came to me and started complaining, I turned on the voice recorder. Not out of malice, just for myself. My granddaughter lives in another city, and I tell her afterward what’s going on here. And this recording happened to be saved.”
She tapped the screen, and I heard Galina Pavlovna’s voice, so familiar and shrill:
“…She borrows from me constantly! Drains my whole pension! I don’t know where she puts all that money! Seryozha, look into it, maybe she’s gambling in a casino? And I write everything down. I have it all on paper. If anything happens, I’ll squeeze her.”
Seryozha’s voice in the background, muffled: “Mom, why are you doing that? She’s not gambling.”
Galina Pavlovna: “What, do you think I’m blind? Money disappears, and where it goes — nobody knows. I’m recording everything. Let her not say later that I didn’t help her.”
The recording ended.
I sat there, unable to move. She had exposed herself. She had recorded her own intentions.
“Aunt Zina,” I said in a hoarse voice. “Will you give me this recording?”
“Of course,” she nodded. “I’ll copy it onto a flash drive for you. And I’ll come to court. Let her not think everyone around her is as shameless as she is.”
I hugged her. She patted me on the shoulder.
“Hold on, daughter. Everything will be fine. People like her outsmart themselves. Too cunning, and in the end they get tangled in their own nets.”
I thanked her, copied the recording onto a flash drive, and went out onto the landing. I did not want to go up to my old apartment. But I needed to pick up a few more things — documents, photographs, a couple of books.
I went up to the third floor, opened the door with my key, and entered.
The hallway was dark. Voices came from the kitchen. Galina Pavlovna was apparently talking to her friend on the phone.
“…Can you imagine, she dared take the documents! But that’s all right, I have a trump card. I’ll show her who the mistress is here. I have receipts; she owes me up to her ears. If she so much as squeaks in court, I’ll present them, and she not only won’t get the apartment, she’ll also pay me money.”
I quietly went into the bedroom and packed my personal belongings into a bag — my laptop, chargers, an album with photographs. When I came back out into the hallway, Galina Pavlovna was already standing in the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked venomously. “Stealing things?”
“Taking what’s mine,” I replied. “And the documents you call yours are with me too. They’re going to court.”
“To court?” she smirked. “Go ahead, go to court. Just know: I have receipts where you confirm that you borrowed money from me. Notarized. The judge will believe me, not some upstart.”
“Galina Pavlovna,” I looked straight at her. “I have recordings too. Your own words, which you said to the neighbor. About how you prepared those receipts to ‘squeeze’ me. So your receipts are fake.”
She turned white.
“What? What recordings?”
“The very same. You love to complain. Sometimes it backfires.”
I walked out, slamming the door, and heard her scream:
“Seryozha! Seryozha, get up! She was eavesdropping on us! She was recording!”
I went downstairs, got into my car, and sat for a long time looking at the entrance. My heart was pounding, but for the first time in several days, I felt not fear but calm certainty.
I took out my phone, opened the family chat, where there were three of us — me, Seryozha, and Galina Pavlovna. I typed:
“On Monday morning, I am filing a lawsuit to invalidate the agreement on redistribution of shares. I have evidence that you prepared fictitious receipts. I am also notifying the bank that I am suspending payments. You have 48 hours to offer me an option that satisfies me. Otherwise, we lose the apartment. All of us.”
I sent the message and put the phone away. A minute later, Seryozha replied: “Have you lost your mind?!”
I did not answer.
Five minutes later, Galina Pavlovna called. I rejected the call. She called again. I rejected it again.
Then I started the car and drove away. I needed to prepare for Monday. A war was ahead, but now I had weapons.
The message I had sent to the family chat hung in silence. No one answered after a minute or after ten. Only the check marks beside the message turned green: read. First by Seryozha, then by Galina Pavlovna.
I put the phone away and began packing my things. I would have to live in this studio for possibly more than one week, but I decided not to unpack completely. Too much was at stake for me to feel at home here.
An hour later, Seryozha called. I rejected it. He called again. I answered on the third call, but my speech was short and dry.
“Anya, where are you?” he asked, confusion audible in his voice.
“Where I won’t be lied to.”
“We didn’t lie to you.”
“Seryozha, don’t. You saw the message. You have 48 hours. I am not joking.”
“Anya, let’s meet. Let’s talk. Without Mom. Just you and me.”
I was silent for a moment. There was something in his voice I had not heard before — not guilt, not remorse, but rather exhaustion and fear. Fear of losing the apartment. Or maybe fear of his mother, who was surely demanding that he do something.
“Why?” I asked. “So you can tell me again that I misunderstood everything?”
“So you can hear me. I don’t want us to part as enemies.”
“We are already enemies, Seryozha. From the moment you transferred the apartment.”
He was silent for a few seconds, then said quietly:
“Tomorrow at twelve. At the café on Lenin Street, where we used to sit. Come. Please.”
I wanted to refuse, but something stopped me. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the desire to look him in the eyes and understand how he could have done this to me. Or maybe the hope that he would still offer something that would allow us to end this without court. I did not want to sue. I wanted them simply to return what they had stolen from me.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll come. But if you drag your mother along, I’ll get up and leave.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
He hung up.
I sat on the sofa for another hour, staring at one spot. Then I took out my laptop and reread the account statements. Then I opened the mortgage agreement again, once more confirming that my signature was on every page, and that my payments were the only ones for three years.
The night passed uneasily. I woke up every hour, listening to the sounds in the stairwell, but it was quiet around me. The neighbors were not making noise; cars occasionally passed outside the window. I thought about what I would say to Seryozha tomorrow. About the fact that I had Aunt Zina’s recording, but I did not want to show all my cards. Let him think I was weak and defenseless. It would be easier that way.
In the morning, I drank coffee and dressed in jeans and a sweater — deliberately simple, without provocation. I wanted Seryozha to see the old Anya in front of him, the one who had trusted him and never expected a trap. Only that way could I hear the truth.
The café on Lenin Street was almost empty at noon. Two waiters behind the counter, a pair of pensioners at a far table, and Seryozha sitting by the window. He had ordered coffee and had apparently been there for a while — the cup was half empty.
I sat across from him.
“Hi,” he said. His eyes were red, sleep-deprived. He looked as though he had been wrung out.
“Hi.”
We were silent. A waiter came over; I asked for green tea. When he left, Seryozha began to speak.
“Anya, you have to understand. Mom is old-fashioned. She’s afraid that if something happens between us, you’ll take the apartment. It’s her only housing besides that Khrushchev apartment. She invested all her savings there.”
“I invested more than a million there,” I said calmly. “And that money was mine.”
“I know. And Mom knows. She doesn’t want to hurt you. She just… wants to be sure that in old age, she will have a roof over her head.”
“Seryozha, she lives in that apartment. She has lived there for free for two years. I fed her, gave her everything, bought her medicine. What other roof does she need?”
He lowered his eyes.
“She agrees to a settlement. She proposes…”
“I’m listening.”
“She proposes that everything stay as it is. You come home. We live together. You don’t pay the mortgage — I will pay it. I’ll find work, I’ll handle it. And you will live there for free. And when the mortgage is paid off, we’ll figure something out.”
I stared at him, unable to believe my ears.
“So,” I slowly searched for words, “I paid for three years, and now, after you pushed me out of ownership, I’m supposed to return and live there on sufferance? Like a tenant who should also be grateful?”
“Not a tenant,” he winced. “A wife.”
“A wife who has nothing. Seryozha, do you hear what you’re saying? Your mother wants me to come back and keep working — but not for the family anymore, for her. Because if I have no share, then everything I earn is hers, right?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what is it? Tell me what it will look like. I come back. Do I pay for groceries? Utilities? Or will I be allowed simply to live there while you, so kind and generous, support me?”
He was silent.
“You understand that this is a trap,” I said. “Your mother will never let me live there for free. Every day she will remind me that I live on her territory, that I owe her. And in a month you will say again, ‘Anya, help us, we have no money, pay the mortgage.’ And I will pay, because I won’t be able to watch us lose the apartment. And I’ll end up in the same pit again.”
“No, Anya. I promise I won’t let that happen.”
“You always promise. But when it comes to your mother, you stay silent.”
He raised his head, and in his eyes I saw something new — not guilt, but resentment.
“Do you think it’s easy to be between two women?” he said dully. “Mom gave birth to me, raised me. She says I must protect her. And you say I must protect you. Who will protect me?”
“From what, Seryozha?” I was surprised by his words. “From living on your wife’s money? From your mother commanding your life? You chose this position yourself. You could have said no to her the moment she suggested transferring the apartment. You could have said it was unfair. But you didn’t. You kept silent again.”
“Because she’s right!” he suddenly raised his voice. “The apartment was bought with her money! With maternity capital and her savings! You came into an apartment that was already ready, and we allowed you to live in it!”
I froze.
“Allowed?” I repeated quietly. “You said ‘allowed’?”
He realized he had said too much. He looked away.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, that’s exactly what you meant. You just said what you really think. You allowed me to live there. You did me a favor. And I, like a fool, paid for that favor for three years.”
“Anya, don’t twist my words.”
“I hear them, Seryozha. I hear them clearly. You never considered us equals. Your mother is the owner, you are her son, and I am a hanger-on who should be grateful.”
I picked up my bag and stood.
“Wait, don’t go,” he grabbed my hand. “I didn’t ask you here to fight. I wanted to offer peace.”
“Peace on your terms? No, thank you.”
“Anya, Mom said that if you don’t agree, she will file a counterclaim. She has the receipts. You know that.”
I stopped.
“Receipts?” I looked at him. “What receipts?”
He lowered his eyes and said quietly:
“Every month, she wrote receipts saying she was giving you money for the mortgage. Notarized. She says that if you go to court, she’ll present them, and you won’t be able to prove you paid yourself.”
My breath caught.
“That’s a lie,” I whispered.
“I know,” he raised his eyes to me. “I know it’s a lie. But she has papers. And she is ready to use them. Anya, I don’t want us to reach court. You will lose more than I will. Let’s come to an agreement.”
I sat back down. Everything inside me was trembling, but I forced myself to remain calm.
“Did you know about these receipts?” I asked. “Did you know she was preparing them?”
He was silent. His silence was more eloquent than words.
“You knew,” I nodded. “And you didn’t tell me. You watched her write these fakes and kept quiet.”
“I didn’t think she would use them,” he said quietly. “I thought it was just for her own peace of mind.”
“You’re lying, Seryozha. You always lie when it concerns her. You knew she was setting a trap for me and did nothing. Because it benefited you.”
“It didn’t benefit me!”
“It did! If I believed she had receipts, I would get scared and agree to any conditions. I would come back, continue paying, and quietly rejoice that I hadn’t been thrown out. Isn’t that right?”
He did not answer.
I looked at him, and for the first time, I felt not pain but disgust. Disgust at his cowardice, at his lies, at the way he hid behind his mother’s back, letting her do the dirty work.
“Do you even understand that she is setting up not only me, but you too?” I said. “If she presents those receipts in court and I prove they are fake, she faces criminal liability.”
“She won’t present them if you agree.”
“And if I don’t agree? Are you ready to risk your mother?”
He fell silent. I saw fear of his mother and fear for his mother fighting inside him. And, as always, the first fear won.
“Anya, I’m asking you,” he said. “Come back. Everything will be the way it used to be. I’ll smooth everything over.”
“It won’t be the way it used to be, Seryozha. It will never be that way again.”
I stood, this time for good.
“Tell your mother I will file the lawsuit. And let her prepare her receipts. I’ve prepared something too.”
“What?” he looked at me in fear.
“You’ll see,” I said and headed toward the exit.
Outside, I took out my phone and called Andrey.
“Andrey, I need to meet urgently. They say they have notarized receipts claiming they gave me money.”
“That’s serious,” Andrey’s voice became tense. “If the receipts are truly notarized, they are a weighty argument. But if they are fake, we can prove it through handwriting analysis. And we need witnesses.”
“I have a witness. A neighbor who heard my mother-in-law say she was preparing receipts.”
“Excellent. We’ll meet in an hour at my office. Bring everything you have. And the recording you mentioned.”
“I have not only a recording,” I said. “The neighbor keeps a diary. There are entries with dates.”
“Even better. Anya, well done. We’ll meet and discuss everything.”
I hung up and got into the car. My hands were shaking, but now it was not panic — it was anger. They thought I would break. They thought I would be frightened by the receipts and agree to their humiliating conditions. They did not know I had already found an ally.
I started the engine and headed to the house. I needed to stop by Aunt Zina’s place. I had to warn her that she might be summoned to court. And I had to take the very notebook she had mentioned.
When I drove up to the house, I went up to the second floor and rang her doorbell. She opened almost immediately, as if she had been waiting.
“Anechka, come in,” she said. “I heard you moved out. How are you?”
“Thank you, Aunt Zina, I’m holding on. I need to talk to you.”
I went into the kitchen and sat at the table. She put the kettle on.
“I met with Seryozha,” I began. “They said Galina Pavlovna has receipts claiming I supposedly borrowed money from her for the mortgage. Notarized.”
Aunt Zina gasped.
“What on earth is she doing? What receipts? You gave her money yourself, not the other way around!”
“I know. And I’m going to file a lawsuit. I need witnesses. You said you heard her bragging that she had prepared receipts. Can you confirm that?”
“Of course I can,” she nodded decisively. “I even told her then, ‘Galina Pavlovna, that’s wrong.’ And she said, ‘Don’t meddle in what’s not your business.’ I wrote it down in my notebook.”
She got up, went into the room, and returned with a thick notebook in a checkered cover. She opened it, flipped through it, and found the right page.
“Here, look. April third. ‘Galina Pavlovna bragged that she had transferred the apartment to herself and her son. She said she had prepared receipts so her daughter-in-law would not claim anything. I told her it was dishonest. She took offense.’”
I read the entry. Aunt Zina’s handwriting was neat, the dates clearly marked.
“Aunt Zina, will you give me this notebook? Or at least let me photograph it?”
“Take it,” she handed me the notebook. “I don’t need it for my granddaughter anymore; I tell her everything over the phone. And you need it more.”
I took the notebook, feeling gratitude rising inside me.
“Thank you. You have no idea how much you’re helping me.”
“What do you mean, I have no idea?” she stroked my hand. “I was young once too, and my mother-in-law didn’t consider me human either. Only my husband stood up for me back then. Yours, it seems, is not like that. Well, never mind. Stand up for yourself.”
I hugged her.
“I definitely will.”
I left Aunt Zina’s place with the notebook and got back into the car. My phone beeped. A message from Seryozha: “Anya, Mom found out you were at the neighbor’s. She says that if you involve Zinaida Petrovna, she will report her for slander.”
I smirked and typed back: “Let her. We’ll sort everything out in court.”
I put the phone away and drove to Andrey. I had weapons. And now I knew how to use them.
Andrey’s office was in an old three-story building in the city center. The office was small, cluttered with folders and legal journals, but clean and cozy. A map of the region hung on the wall, and a dried ficus in a pot stood on the windowsill — Andrey was clearly not a lover of houseplants.
I arrived earlier than the appointed time. Andrey met me in the hallway, led me into his office, and offered tea. I declined, put my folder, Aunt Zina’s notebook, and the flash drive with the recording on the table.
“Tell me everything in order,” he said, sitting opposite me.
I told him everything. About the meeting with Seryozha at the café, about his words regarding the receipts, about the fact that he had known about them and kept silent. About Aunt Zina, her notebook, and the recording she had made. Andrey listened carefully, occasionally asking clarifying questions.
“The receipts are notarized,” he repeated thoughtfully. “That’s bad. But not catastrophic. If we prove they were made retroactively or that the signature on them is not yours, the court will reject them.”
“But they claim I signed them myself.”
“And we will request a handwriting examination. If the receipts are fake, the examination will show it. But it takes time and money. There is another way.”
“What way?”
“Witness testimony. Your neighbor is gold. Her notebook and audio recording are serious evidence that Galina Pavlovna planned to use the receipts as a tool of pressure. The judge will see that something is wrong.”
“What if the judge decides the recording was obtained illegally?”
“The recording was made in the presence of the witness; she participated in the conversation. That is not wiretapping, but a record of facts she personally perceived. Such recordings are admissible in civil proceedings. I’ll prepare a motion to include it.”
Andrey took Aunt Zina’s notebook and began flipping through it. He found the entry from April third and read it aloud.
“Everything is clear here. Date, circumstances, direct speech. This is a strong argument. Your mother-in-law dug her own grave.”
“She thought I would get scared,” I said. “She thought that if she threatened me with receipts, I would back down.”
“And you were right not to back down,” Andrey looked at me seriously. “People like your mother-in-law count on weakness. As soon as they see that the victim is ready to fight, they start panicking.”
“She is already panicking,” I remembered Seryozha’s message about Galina Pavlovna threatening to report Aunt Zina for slander. “Seryozha wrote that she intends to file a complaint against the neighbor.”
“Let her try,” Andrey smirked. “A slander complaint before the case even reaches court is ridiculous. It’s just an attempt to intimidate a witness. But we can warn Zinaida Petrovna not to be afraid.”
“I’ve already spoken to her. She isn’t afraid.”
“A good woman,” Andrey nodded. “There aren’t many like that now.”
He put the notebook on the table and took the flash drive.
“I’ll listen to the recording later at home, with good headphones. If there are direct threats or admissions there, it will form the basis of our claim.”
“She says there that she is preparing receipts to ‘squeeze’ me,” I said. “And that I ‘borrow’ money from her, though that is not true.”
“Excellent. Then we have everything. Tomorrow I’ll prepare the statement of claim. We will need to state all the circumstances, attach the bank statements, the mortgage agreement, a copy of the share redistribution agreement, a printout of the correspondence, the witness’s notebook, and a motion to attach the audio recording.”
“What about the bank?”
“Have you suspended payments?”
“Yes. On Monday, I submitted a statement to the bank saying I am suspending payments until the circumstances are clarified.”
“Correct. Let them feel that the mortgage is hanging over them. That’s additional leverage.”
I exhaled. For the first time in several days, I felt that I was standing on solid ground.
“Andrey, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. It’s my job. But tell me honestly,” he looked at me attentively, “are you ready for this to become loud and dirty? Your husband, his mother — they will say vile things about you, accuse you of everything imaginable. Court is not only documents; it is also public humiliation.”
“I have already been humiliated,” I said calmly. “For three years they used me, deceived me, and then pretended I owed them. It won’t get worse.”
“It will,” he shook his head. “In court, they will say things that will make your blood run cold. Be prepared.”
“I am ready.”
I left Andrey’s office closer to evening. It was dark outside; the streetlights had come on. I got into the car and drove to my studio. I needed to rest before the next day.
On the way, Aunt Zina called.
“Anechka, Galina Pavlovna came to my place,” she said anxiously. “She knocked and shouted at the door. I didn’t open it. She threatened that if I testified against her, she would sue me.”
“Don’t be afraid, Aunt Zina,” I said. “She won’t succeed. You are simply telling the truth, and truth is protection.”
“I’m not afraid,” her voice was firm. “I’m old already; no one can intimidate me. Just tell me when and where to come.”
“I’ll call you when the date is set. Thank you.”
I hung up and thought. Galina Pavlovna was not sitting idle. She felt she was losing control and was trying to pressure the only witness. That meant she understood the receipts might not work.
The next morning, I woke up to the doorbell. It was half past eight. I threw on a robe, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. Seryozha was standing on the landing. Alone.
I opened.
“Why are you here so early?” I asked, not inviting him in.
“We need to talk,” he looked even worse than yesterday. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble, wrinkled shirt. “Will you let me in?”
I stepped aside. He entered, sat on the sofa, and placed his hands on his knees.
“Anya, Mom went to the neighbor yesterday,” he began. “Do you know?”
“I know. Aunt Zina called me.”
“She said that if Zinaida Petrovna testifies, she will make sure she is held accountable for false testimony. Mom has acquaintances in the police.”
I smirked.
“Seryozha, stop it. Your mother has no acquaintances in the police. And even if she did, people are held accountable for false testimony when they lie. Aunt Zina is telling the truth.”
“How do you know she’s telling the truth?” he looked at me with some kind of anguish. “Maybe she just wants to hurt Mom. They never got along.”
“Aunt Zina has been writing down everything your mother said in a notebook for three years. There are dates, there are details. And there is a recording of a conversation where Galina Pavlovna admits with her own mouth that she is preparing receipts to ‘squeeze’ me.”
He went pale.
“What recording?”
“The very one. Your mother loves complaining to neighbors so much that she forgets who is listening.”
Seryozha lowered his head and fell silent. I looked at him and waited. Finally, he raised his eyes.
“Anya, I’m asking you one last time. Withdraw it. We’ll solve everything peacefully. I’ll persuade Mom to give you a share. Not half, but a part. We’ll sign an agreement, you’ll come home. Everything will be like before.”
“Like before?” I sat across from him. “Seryozha, look at me. I am no longer the Anya I used to be. That Anya trusted you. That Anya thought that if she loved, she was loved too. That Anya worked herself to exhaustion to support a family that used her.”
“We didn’t use you,” he said quietly.
“You did. You knew about the receipts and kept silent. You knew about the transfer of the apartment and kept silent. You are always silent when it comes to deceiving me. And you want me to come back? To wait again until your mother invents a new trap?”
He did not answer.
“Go, Seryozha,” I stood. “I need to prepare for court.”
He got up but did not leave. He stood in the middle of the room, looking at me.
“Anya, I love you,” he suddenly said. “Truly. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You already lost me,” I replied. “The moment you decided I could be a wallet for you and your mother.”
He stood for another minute, then turned and left. The door closed behind him. I went to the window and saw him leave the entrance, get into his old car, and sit for a long time without starting the engine. Then the car moved and disappeared around the corner.
I stepped away from the window. My hands were trembling, but I knew I had done the right thing.
An hour later, a message came from Andrey: “The claim has been filed. The hearing is scheduled for Friday at ten in the morning. I prepared the motion to summon the witness. I’ll wait for you at court.”
I replied: “Thank you. I’ll be there.”
There were three days left until Friday.
During that time, I almost did not leave the studio. I prepared, reread the documents, listened to Aunt Zina’s recording, and rehearsed in my head what I would say to the judge. I wanted to be calm, collected, convincing. No tears, no hysterics. Only facts.
On Thursday evening, my mother called. She lived in another city, and I had not told her the details so as not to worry her. But apparently, the rumors had reached her too.
“Anya, Galina Pavlovna called me,” my mother said anxiously. “She said you are suing them, that you want to take their apartment away. Is that true?”
“It’s true, Mom. But I’m not taking their apartment away. I am demanding recognition of my right to a share because I paid the mortgage for three years.”
“Anya, maybe you shouldn’t?” My mother sounded frightened. “Courts are so scary. Maybe you can come to an agreement? Seryozha is a good boy.”
“Mom, Seryozha knew they were transferring the apartment. He knew his mother was preparing fake receipts. And he kept silent. For three years he watched me work for their family and kept silent. What kind of good boy is that?”
My mother was silent.
“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “You didn’t tell me anything.”
“Because I didn’t want to worry you. But now it has gone too far. I can’t back down.”
“What should I say if she calls again?”
“Say that you are not interfering. And that you trust your daughter.”
My mother sighed.
“All right, daughter. Hold on.”
We said goodbye. I put down the phone and felt the tension rising inside me. Tomorrow was court.
That night I barely slept. I lay with my eyes open, stared at the ceiling, and thought about how everything had changed over the past few days. A week ago, I had been a wife who tolerated, hoped, believed. Now I was a plaintiff preparing to destroy everything I had built for three years.
I was not afraid. I was angry. Angry at myself for being so trusting. Angry at Seryozha for his cowardice. Angry at Galina Pavlovna for her greed and cruelty. And that anger gave me strength.
On Friday morning, I put on a dark blue suit, gathered my hair in a bun, and wore minimal makeup. I wanted to look serious and professional. In the mirror, a woman I almost did not recognize looked back at me — calm, collected, ready for battle.
I took the folder with documents, the backpack with the originals, and left the apartment.
Andrey was waiting for me at the entrance to the court. He wore a formal suit and carried a briefcase.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
We entered the building. I did not know what awaited me in the courtroom, but I knew one thing: I would not retreat.
Seryozha, Galina Pavlovna, and their lawyer were already in the hall. My mother-in-law sat with a stone face, her hands resting on the folder with the receipts as though it were a sacred relic. Seryozha stared at the floor. When I entered, he raised his head, and I saw something in his eyes I had not seen before. Not anger, not guilt. Fear.
I sat in my place, put the folder in front of me, and waited.
The judge entered exactly at ten. Everyone stood. It began.
Monday came sooner than I expected. I spent all of Saturday and Sunday in my studio, going through documents, listening to Aunt Zina’s recording, and mentally replaying the upcoming hearing. Andrey sent me a list of what I needed to bring: passport, bank statements, mortgage agreement, copy of the share redistribution agreement, flash drive with the audio recording, and a written motion to summon the witness.
I put everything into a new folder — blue, so I would not confuse it with the red one I had taken from them. The red one was now lying at the bottom of my backpack, wrapped in a plastic bag, in case the originals needed to be presented.
On Sunday evening, Seryozha called. I rejected the call. He wrote a message: “Mom says that if you don’t change your mind, she will file a counterclaim. She has everything ready.” I read it and deleted the chat. I no longer wanted to see his name on the screen.
On Monday morning, I put on a strict dark blue suit, the one I usually wore to important meetings with the tax office, gathered my hair in a bun, and took the bag with documents. In the mirror, a stranger looked back at me — calm, collected, with cold eyes. I did not recognize myself. Or maybe I was seeing the real me for the first time.
Andrey was waiting for me at the entrance to the courthouse. He wore a black suit and carried a briefcase full of papers. We greeted each other briefly, without unnecessary words.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Ready for battle,” I replied.
“Remember: don’t interrupt the judge, speak only to the facts, no emotion. If they try to provoke you, stay silent. I will speak.”
I nodded.
We entered the building, passed through the metal detector, and went up to the third floor, into the courtroom. It was a small room with high ceilings, heavy wooden doors, and a portrait of the president on the wall. Benches for the parties stood opposite the judge’s desk. There were not many people: me, Andrey, the secretary, the judge, and a guard by the entrance.
Seryozha and Galina Pavlovna arrived five minutes later. With them was a lawyer — a man of about fifty, wearing glasses, with a plump briefcase from which the corners of papers stuck out. Galina Pavlovna looked solemn: she had put on her favorite turquoise cardigan, styled her hair in large curls, and wore a heavy gold chain around her neck. Seryozha was pale, unshaven, in a wrinkled shirt — clearly he had not slept all night.
He looked at me and wanted to say something, but the lawyer placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered something. Seryozha lowered his eyes and sat on the bench beside his mother.
The judge — a woman of about forty-five, with a sharp gaze and dark hair pulled into a bun — entered exactly at the appointed time. Everyone stood.
“Sit down,” she said dryly, opening the case file.
The secretary read the case number and the parties’ names. I listened as if through a fog. Then the judge looked at me.
“Plaintiff, your claims.”
Andrey stood and clearly, without a single stumble, presented the essence: to invalidate the agreement on redistribution of shares in the common ownership of the apartment concluded between Sergey Viktorovich Smirnov and Galina Pavlovna Smirnova, because the transaction had been made without the notarized consent of the spouse and in violation of the rights of the plaintiff, who for three years had solely fulfilled the obligations under the mortgage loan. He also requested recognition of my right to a share in the apartment proportional to the funds I had contributed.
The defendants’ lawyer rose.
“Your Honor, the plaintiff’s claims are unfounded. The apartment was acquired with the funds of the defendant’s mother, Galina Pavlovna Smirnova. The plaintiff, being a co-borrower on the loan, voluntarily made payments toward repayment of the debt, as confirmed by her account statements. However, this does not give her the right to a share in the ownership, since there was an oral agreement between the spouses regarding the distribution of family expenses. The defendants, in turn, are prepared to present receipts confirming that Galina Pavlovna regularly transferred money to the plaintiff for repayment of the mortgage, as well as for current needs.”
The lawyer took a folder of papers out of his briefcase and placed it before the judge.
The judge took the folder, opened it, and quickly reviewed it.
“Plaintiff, what can you say regarding these receipts?”
Andrey stood.
“Your Honor, I ask that the plaintiff’s bank statements for three years be attached to the case. As can be seen from the statements, all mortgage payments were made from Anna Sergeyevna’s personal card. On the dates indicated in the receipts, there were no incoming funds from Galina Pavlovna Smirnova to the plaintiff’s account. On the contrary, on those same dates, the plaintiff withdrew cash to pay for groceries, medicines, and household needs of the family, including the defendant Galina Pavlovna.”
The judge took the statements and began comparing them with the receipts. Her face showed no emotion.
“Defendants, what do you say?”
The lawyer stood.
“Your Honor, the transfer of money was made in cash. The receipts were handwritten by the plaintiff and notarized. The fact of the transfer of money is documented. The fact that the plaintiff did not deposit the money into her account, but immediately put it toward repayment of the loan, does not refute the fact that she received the funds.”
“That’s a lie,” I said, unable to restrain myself.
The judge looked at me sternly.
“Plaintiff, you will speak when I ask you to. For now, your evidence.”
Andrey placed a hand on my shoulder, signaling for me to stay silent.
“Your Honor,” he continued, “I ask that an audio recording be attached to the case, and that a witness be summoned — Zinaida Petrovna Kuzmina, who can confirm that the defendant Galina Pavlovna Smirnova, long before the dispute arose, planned to create fictitious receipts for the purpose of restricting the plaintiff’s rights.”
The judge raised an eyebrow.
“An audio recording? Made by whom?”
“By the defendants’ neighbor, who recorded conversations for personal purposes. In the recording, Galina Pavlovna, in the presence of her son, discusses how she will ‘squeeze’ the plaintiff with the receipts and states that the plaintiff ‘borrows’ money from her, although in fact that does not correspond to reality.”
The defendants’ lawyer jumped up.
“Your Honor! This recording was obtained illegally! The neighbor had no right to record conversations without the consent of the parties!”
Andrey answered calmly:
“Your Honor, under the law, a recording may be recognized as admissible evidence if it was not obtained in violation of the law. A citizen has the right to record conversations in which they participate, or which take place in their presence, provided this does not violate the privacy of personal life. In this case, the recording was made in the witness’s own apartment, with her personal participation in the conversation. It is not covert wiretapping, but a fixation of facts she perceived.”
The judge was silent for a moment, then nodded.
“The recording will be attached to the case. As for the witness, summon her.”
The secretary left and returned a minute later with Aunt Zina. She wore a strict dark dress, her hair smoothly combed back, and in her hands she held a plastic bag from which the very notebook she had shown me that evening was visible.
She sat in the witness chair, and the judge asked for her name, surname, and address.
“Zinaida Petrovna Kuzmina,” she answered firmly.
“Witness, what do you know about the dispute between the parties?”
Aunt Zina looked at Galina Pavlovna, who sat with a stone face, and began to speak. Her voice was calm and unhurried.
“I have known Anna Sergeyevna for three years, since she and Sergey moved into the apartment. All this time, I saw how she worked, paid for the apartment, bought groceries. Galina Pavlovna often came to me to complain. She said her daughter-in-law did not respect her, did not give her money, although I myself saw that Anna Sergeyevna brought home both groceries and medicines for her. And about two months ago, Galina Pavlovna came to me very pleased and said that she and her son had transferred the apartment to themselves, and now Anna Sergeyevna ‘had no claim to anything.’ She said: ‘I wrote everything down. I have receipts saying she took money from me. If anything happens, I’ll squeeze her.’”
“Were you present when these receipts were made?” Andrey asked.
“No, I was not. But I heard her say on the phone that she wrote them herself, and that Anya supposedly signed them. I do not believe Anya signed them, because she always said that Galina Pavlovna did not give her money, but on the contrary — she herself gave money to Galina Pavlovna.”
The judge made a note in her notebook.
“Do you have any records confirming your words?”
Aunt Zina took the notebook out of the bag.
“Here are my notes. I keep a diary for my granddaughter. Here it is written that on March 15, 2021, Galina Pavlovna complained that Anna would not give her the key to the safe and said she was afraid Anna would register her relatives there. And on April 3, 2023, she came to me and said that she had transferred the apartment, and that she now had receipts to ‘protect her son.’ Here is the date.”
The secretary took the notebook and handed it to the judge. Galina Pavlovna sat motionless; only her fingers, resting on her knees, trembled slightly.
“Witness,” the judge said, “why did you make these notes?”
“For my granddaughter, Your Honor. She lives in another city, and I tell her what happens in our building. And so I don’t forget, I write it down.”
“Understood. Are there any further questions for the witness?”
The defendants’ lawyer stood.
“Tell me, witness, do you have personal hostility toward Galina Pavlovna Smirnova?”
Aunt Zina smirked.
“I treat her the way she deserves. She called me a gossip for three years, and now let the court decide who is right.”
“I am asking a specific question: do you feel personal hostility?”
“I feel pity for her,” Aunt Zina said firmly. “Because she drove herself into a corner with her own greed.”
The lawyer sat down, pressing his lips together in displeasure.
The judge dismissed Aunt Zina, thanking her for her testimony. Then she announced a one-hour recess — she needed to study the documents and listen to the audio recording.
We went out into the corridor. I sat on a wooden bench by the window and exhaled. My hands were trembling, not from fear, but from tension.
Andrey sat beside me.
“Everything is going well,” he said quietly. “The receipts are serious, but the recording and the neighbor’s testimony outweigh them. The judge is experienced; she sees something is wrong here.”
“And if she believes the receipts?”
“Then we will appeal. But I don’t think it will come to that.”
Half an hour later, Galina Pavlovna and Seryozha came out of the courtroom. My mother-in-law walked with her head held high, but her face was ash-gray. Seryozha trailed behind her like a beaten dog.
Seeing me, Galina Pavlovna stopped.
“You think you won?” she hissed. “I have more documents. I will file a counterclaim. I will prove you robbed us for years.”
I looked at her calmly.
“Galina Pavlovna, all you have are receipts you made up yourself. The judge has already seen them. And she has seen my statements. If you file a counterclaim, I will file a statement about falsification of evidence. That is already a criminal offense.”
She grew even paler.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would,” I said. “Just as you dared steal three years of my life from me.”
Seryozha grabbed his mother by the arm.
“Mom, enough. Let’s go.”
She pulled her hand away, wanted to say something, but changed her mind and quickly walked toward the exit. Seryozha lingered for a second and looked at me with some kind of longing.
“Anya,” he said quietly, “you could have solved everything peacefully.”
“Peace ended when you transferred the apartment,” I replied. “Go.”
He left.
An hour later, we were invited back into the courtroom. The judge entered, sat down, and opened the case file. Everyone stood, then sat down.
“The court has retired to render a decision,” she announced. “The decision will be read.”
I clenched my hands, feeling my heart pounding somewhere in my throat.
The judge began reading the text. I heard the words “the court has established,” “the court recognizes,” “guided by the articles.” Then she said the most important thing:
“To recognize as invalid the agreement on redistribution of shares in the right of common ownership of the apartment located at: city of Ivanov, Stroiteley Street, building 15, apartment 34, concluded between Smirnov Sergey Viktorovich and Smirnova Galina Pavlovna. To restore the right of common joint ownership of spouses Smirnov Sergey Viktorovich and Smirnova Anna Sergeyevna to the said apartment. To recognize Smirnova Anna Sergeyevna’s right to a ? share in the right of common shared ownership of the apartment, proportional to the funds contributed by her toward repayment of the mortgage loan. To deny the counterclaims of Smirnova Galina Pavlovna for recovery of funds under the receipts due to lack of proof of the transfer of money.”
Galina Pavlovna jumped up.
“This is wrong! I will appeal!”
The judge looked at her sternly.
“The decision may be appealed within one month through the appellate procedure. The hearing is closed.”
The secretary announced the end. I sat there, unable to believe my ears. Andrey touched my shoulder.
“Let’s go out.”
I stood and picked up my folder. My legs felt like cotton. In the corridor, I leaned against the wall and finally exhaled.
“Is this the end?” I asked.
“This is the beginning,” Andrey said. “Now we will need to register the ownership right and come to an agreement with the bank. But the apartment is yours.”
“Not all of it.”
“Enough that they can’t do anything without you. And your share is your money.”
I nodded.
We left the courthouse and went outside. The sun was shining brightly, but it was cold. I put on my coat, buttoned it, and walked toward my car.
Footsteps sounded behind me. I turned around.
Seryozha was running after me. His face was not just pale — it had a strange greenish tint, as if he were nauseous.
“Anya, wait!” he grabbed my sleeve. “Anya, let’s talk.”
I stopped.
“About what?”
“You… you understand what happens now? Mom says she’ll file an appeal. That this isn’t over.”
“Let her,” I freed my sleeve. “She has no chance.”
“Anya, why are you doing this?” His voice trembled. “We could have reached an agreement. You would have lived in the apartment, we would have divided everything…”
“Seryozha,” I looked into his eyes. “Do you understand what you did? For three years, you watched your mother humiliate me and stayed silent. You knew she was transferring the apartment and didn’t say a word to me. You knew she was preparing fake receipts and did not even try to stop her. You are not a husband. You are not even a friend. You are simply a person who used me because it was convenient.”
He lowered his head.
“I love you.”
“No,” I shook my head. “You love yourself and your mother. I was never there.”
“What will happen now?” he asked quietly.
“Now I will live in my apartment. Or sell it. Or rent it out. That is none of your business.”
“And me?”
“And you, Seryozha, will finally grow up. Find a job. Pay for the apartment. Or live with your mother in her Khrushchev apartment. But I will no longer be part of your life.”
I turned and walked to the car. He called after me once more, but I did not turn around.
Sitting in the car, I looked at the courthouse. Galina Pavlovna was coming out of the doors arm in arm with the lawyer. She was red-faced, saying something heatedly, waving her hands. The lawyer nodded, but his face showed that he no longer believed in success.
I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.
My phone vibrated. A message from Seryozha: “You are cruel. I hate you.”
I typed back: “I know. And I do too. But now I am free.”
I put the phone away, drove onto the main road, and headed toward my studio. I still had many things ahead of me: going to the bank, filing documents, deciding what to do with the apartment. But for the first time in a long time, I felt not emptiness, but calm, solid certainty.
I would never again allow anyone to control my life.