“Your children from your first marriage will not live in my apartment,” Igor declared, methodically chewing his pork chop.
He said it in a casual, even tone, as though he were giving her tomorrow’s weather forecast or asking her to pass the salt. Anya, who had been about to load the dirty frying pans into the dishwasher, slowly closed its door. The extractor fan hummed steadily, while the noise of the evening traffic drifted through the half-open window.
“What did you say?” Anya turned around.
Igor put down his fork and leaned back in the velvet chair that Anya had personally assembled from IKEA instructions just two weeks earlier, while her husband had been “terribly busy” watching a football match.
“Anya, let’s not be dramatic, all right? We’re adults. I’ve thought about it for a long time, and I’ve realized that this arrangement doesn’t work for us. I work in sales. I’m under a lot of stress, and my targets are putting pressure on me. I come home to relax. But two teenagers mean noise, commotion, slamming doors, and dirty shoes in the hallway. My home is my castle. I have a right to peace and quiet.”
Anya stared at her husband, searching his face for even the slightest trace of embarrassment or a sign that he might be joking. There was nothing. Igor looked exceptionally pleased with himself, like a man who had made a wise and carefully considered decision.
They had married eight months earlier. Anya had a stable remote job as an accountant for a large company and two children—thirteen-year-old twins, Max and Polina. After the wedding, they had needed to decide where to live. They agreed to give up Anya’s rented one-bedroom apartment and move into Igor’s “family home”—a two-room Khrushchev-era apartment he had inherited from his grandfather.
Igor’s apartment had been a sorry sight: yellowed ceilings, linoleum worn as smooth as cardboard, and plumbing old enough to remember Brezhnev.
“We’ll renovate it, freshen it up, and start living as a real family,” Igor had promised.
The children were sent to stay with Anya’s mother in the suburbs for the school year and while the major renovation was underway. Anya poured all her savings and her annual bonus into “freshening up” the apartment.
She hired construction crews, argued with the tilers, chose the laminate flooring, and ordered a fitted kitchen. Igor’s entire participation in the renovation consisted of saying, “You know best, darling,” and, “You’re the one with good taste, so you decide.”
Over eight months, the miserable old apartment was transformed into a stylish, bright home filled with the scent of new wooden furniture and equipped with smart appliances.
And now, with August already more than halfway over and the renovation finally complete, Igor had decided to announce his new conditions.
“Igor, we had an agreement.” Anya rested her lower back against the cool countertop. “The children are coming back in a week. They need to go to school. Some of their things are already packed.”
“Then we’ll make a new agreement.” Igor shrugged carelessly and reached for a toothpick. “They can stay with your mother.”
“My mother lives in a one-room apartment! There isn’t enough space for them, and they need to attend a proper school instead of spending two hours every day traveling by train.”
“Listen, plenty of people live that way,” her husband said with a grimace. “They’ll be fine. They’ll get used to it. Anya, you need to understand me. I’ve only just started living comfortably. We have a brand-new renovation and expensive laminate flooring. Do you know how children treat other people’s property? And your daughter will occupy the bathroom for hours. I pay the utility bills for this apartment, by the way. I have the right to make the rules.”
Anya did not shout. She did not smash any plates. She looked at the brand-new refrigerator that had been purchased on an installment plan in her name. She looked at the fitted stove that she had paid for out of her salary. Then she glanced at the custom-made curtains Igor had insisted on because he “wanted blackout curtains so he could sleep on weekends.”
“So, you pay the utility bills?” she asked quietly.
“Yes, I do! And I pay for the internet too!” Igor confirmed with dignity. “I’m not neglecting my responsibilities as the head of the family. But you need to respect my rules as well. The apartment is mine. I’ve made my decision.”
He stood up, approached her, and tried to put an arm around her shoulders. Anya subtly moved away, pretending that she needed to wipe the table.
“Let’s not argue over something so trivial,” her husband said in a conciliatory tone, failing to notice her maneuver. “I’m not saying we’ll never see them. They can come and visit us on Sundays—for a couple of hours. We’ll buy a cake, and then they can go back. You’re a smart woman, my dear Anya. You understand everything.”
Anya really did understand everything.
Igor did not want a family. What Igor wanted was a free construction manager, interior designer, creditor, and cook all rolled into one—someone who would transform his bachelor’s den for him. Now that the den was suitable for a beautiful, comfortable life, the “unnecessary elements”—her children—could simply be erased from the picture.
“All right, Igor.” Anya threw the damp cloth into the sink. “I understand. Your apartment, your rules.”
Igor visibly relaxed. A condescending, triumphant smile appeared on his face.
“That’s my clever girl! I knew you were a wise woman. By the way, I’m going fishing with Sergey tomorrow for the weekend. We arranged it a month ago, remember? I’ll be back on Sunday evening. Could you make your signature cutlets and mashed potatoes for when I get home?”
“Of course,” Anya said with a nod. “I’ll make them.”
On Saturday morning, as soon as the door closed behind Igor, Anya took a thick folder of documents from a desk drawer. Inside, she had carefully preserved every receipt, contractor agreement, and invoice from the previous eight months. She called a moving crew recommended by a friend, then contacted some furniture installers.
“Hello. I urgently need a fitted kitchen dismantled and all the furniture removed from a two-room apartment. Yes, today. I’ll pay double your normal rate.”
For the next thirty-six hours, the apartment resembled a disturbed anthill. Anya worked with the methodical precision of a machine. She did not leave behind a single item purchased with her money.
Sweating heavily, the movers carried out the sofa, the bed with its orthopedic mattress, the washing machine, the television, and the refrigerator. The installers carefully unscrewed the cabinets of the expensive fitted kitchen, removed the cooktop, and pulled out the oven.
“Ma’am, should we take down the chandeliers too?” one of the workers asked, wiping his forehead with his cap.
“Take them down,” Anya replied without a trace of hesitation. “The wall lights in the hallway too. And those roller blinds.”
By Sunday evening, the apartment had returned to its original, miserable condition. Anya left behind only the things that had belonged to Igor before she arrived: a sagging sofa that smelled of dust, an old, bulky Biryusa refrigerator that rattled like a tractor, and a gas stove with one broken burner, which she had wisely asked the building’s caretaker to bring back from the garage.
A single bare lightbulb hung forlornly from an exposed wire in the hallway. In the kitchen, where the Italian countertop had once stood, there was now an empty wall with pipes sticking out of it.
Anya stood in the middle of the empty room and surveyed the results of her work. Her belongings had been taken to a temporary storage facility, and she had already rented an excellent, spacious apartment in the neighboring district, close to her children’s school. Her salary was more than enough to cover the rent, especially now that she no longer had to feed the self-proclaimed “breadwinner” or buy velvet chairs for him.
She tossed Igor’s keys onto the kitchen windowsill, left the apartment, and locked the door behind her with two turns of her own key.
The phone rang at eight o’clock that evening. Anya was drinking tea in her new kitchen, listening to Max and Polina argue in the next room about who would get the top shelf in the wardrobe.
She leisurely finished her tea, placed the mug on the table, and answered only after the fifth call.
“Anya! Anya, what the hell is going on?!” Igor’s voice rose to an almost ultrasonic pitch. “We’ve been robbed! The apartment is empty! I’m calling the police!”
In the background, she could hear his voice echoing off the bare walls.
“There’s no need to call the police, Igor. I took everything.”
A heavy silence hung on the line. All she could hear was her husband’s ragged, wheezing breath.
“You… What have you done?” he finally managed to force out, all his confidence gone. “What the hell? Where’s the kitchen? Where’s my bed?”
“Your bed is standing in the corner, Igor, exactly where it used to be. It’s that wonderful sofa you slept on before you met me,” Anya replied calmly. “I bought everything else. I have all the receipts. The loans and installment plans are all in my name. I simply took my own property.”
“You’re insane!” Igor shrieked. “We’re a family! That’s marital property! I’ll take you to court!”
“Go ahead.” Anya smiled, though he could not see it. “Just don’t forget to tell the judge that the renovation was paid for with my premarital savings and my salary, while all you paid were the utility bills. Oh, and I left the internet bills for you on the windowsill. You can wrap yourself in them to keep warm tonight.”
“Anya… Anya, wait.” Igor’s tone suddenly changed. His arrogance fell away like cheap plaster. Now his voice was pathetic and pleading. “Why did you have to do this? We could have discussed everything. I admit I lost my temper when I talked about the children. I was wrong. It’s the stress at work—you understand. Let them come back! There’s enough room for everyone! Do you hear me? Anya, come back. I really understand now.”
Anya walked over to the window. The streetlights were coming on outside, and the warm August evening promised a calm, peaceful life in which there was no longer any room for selfishness or betrayal.
“You were absolutely right, Igor. My children have no place in your apartment. Neither do my belongings, my money, or I. Enjoy the silence.”
She ended the call, blocked his number, and went to help her children unpack their suitcases.
