Every year, Yulia changed her winter tires herself. Not because she couldn’t ask for help, but because the tire shop on Shcherbakov always had a line stretching all the way to the tram stop in October. Luckily, her mother-in-law had a personal garage in a co-op, and inside—right behind a metal cabinet filled with tools—were her tires. Four of them, tucked inside black bags labeled in marker: “FL,” “FR,” “RL,” “RR.” She marked them herself last spring, after Kostya said, “I don’t have time to deal with those bags.”
On Saturday, she arrived at eleven. The key to the garage hung on her keychain, right next to the one for her mailbox and a tiny plastic strawberry charm—her daughter’s gift when she was six. The gates creaked open, releasing a whiff of motor oil, damp plywood, and something sour—apparently, Galina Arkadyevna was once again storing jars of last year’s pickles here.
Yulia drove the car inside, set the parking brake, and turned off the engine. A silver Creta, straight from the dealership two years ago. To this day, every time she got behind the wheel, she’d run her palm over the dashboard, just to check if it was still real.
What came next was her usual routine. She moved the old nightstand—covered in empty paint cans—then shifted her late father-in-law’s bike. He’d passed away four years ago, yet the bike still hung on its hook, as if its owner might return any moment. Next, she squeezed behind the cabinet to where the tire bags were stashed in the corner. The cabinet wasn’t tight against the wall; there was a sixty-centimeter gap. Yulia crouched down and squeezed in to reach the first bag.
The bag caught on something. She gave it a tug—nothing. She leaned over and lit up the spot with her phone. The bag had snagged on a protruding nail from an old pallet. Yulia muttered a quiet curse and started carefully freeing it, trying not to rip the bag.
Right then, she heard a car door slam outside, followed by footsteps and a familiar voice:
“It’s open, look at that. Is she here already?”
It was her mother-in-law’s voice. Yulia was about to peek out and shout “I’m here!” but Galina Arkadyevna kept talking—and something in her tone made Yulia freeze in place.
“Well, Yulka won’t be driving that car for much longer.”
A second voice replied—a woman’s, with a bit of a rasp. Alla. Her sister-in-law, Kostya’s younger sister.
“Mom, keep your voice down. What if she’s around here somewhere?”
“Where would she be? The car’s here, but she’s gone. Probably off to the watchman for some water. She always goes to wash her hands there.”
Yulia really did always go to the watchman to wash her hands after dealing with the tires. Turns out, they knew her habits better than she thought.
“Still,” said Alla. “Kostya said not to mention anything to her until he finishes the paperwork.”
“Did I say anything? I’m just telling you. Look at that car! Not a scratch on it. It’s not like your Logan with the busted bumper.”
“Igor crashed my Logan, not me.”
“Exactly. But now you’ll have your own, a good one. You’ll be able to drive Kiryusha to his sport classes, go to the dacha. No more catching buses with transfers like you’re strangers.”
Yulia crouched behind the cabinet, clutching her phone with the flashlight on in one hand and gripping the edge of a sack with the other. She switched off the flashlight without really thinking about it. Her knees were already starting to ache.
«Mom, are you sure he’ll actually get divorced?» Alla asked. «He’s been saying that for two years now.»
«This time he will. He told me yesterday: by New Year’s. He has… well, it doesn’t matter what he has. He’s a grown man, he’ll sort it out himself.»
«Is it because of another woman or something?»
«Alla, don’t get involved. What matters is something else. The car is registered in his name. As long as they’re married, they’ll have to split it in the divorce. But if he sells it before the divorce—say, to me—then there’ll be nothing to split.»
«He’ll sell it to you? For how much?»
«For a hundred thousand. We’ll write up a contract, I’ll ‘give’ him the money—no one’s going to check if I actually did or not. And then the car will be mine. I’ll give you permission to drive it, with a power of attorney. Or I’ll officially transfer it to you once everything settles down.»
«What about Yulka?»
«What about Yulka? Let her ride the tram. She’s young and has working legs.»
Alla giggled, not really meanly, but awkwardly—the kind of laugh you give when you’re uncomfortable but really want to laugh.
«What if she finds out?»
«How would she know? Kostya will sign the contract, we’ll go to the DMV, change the registration—it takes twenty minutes. He’ll just tell her he sold the car because he needed to pay off a loan. She’s never cared about his loans. And besides—the car is in his name. He can do what he wants with it.»
«But Mom, didn’t she pay for it herself? Kostya said she got some money from her grandma.»
«Maybe he said that, maybe not. The money came into the family, which makes it family money. Just make sure you don’t say anything to Igor yet. He’s got a big mouth.»
They stood around a while longer. Galina Arkadyevna walked around the car—Yulia could hear her boots shuffling on the concrete floor, her fingernail tapping on the glass.
«And the floor mats are new,» her mother-in-law said with satisfaction. «She bought them last month. Rubber, with sides. Good housekeeper, no doubt about it.»
«Can we go now?» Alla was clearly nervous. «She’ll be back any minute.»
«Let’s go. I just need to grab the pickles. Get that three-liter jar over there.»
There was the clink of glass. Footsteps. The gate slammed shut. Then, a minute later, Alla’s Logan engine sputtered so loudly on idle you could hear it three garages away.
Yulia stayed behind the cabinet for another five minutes. Not because she was afraid they’d return. Her legs just wouldn’t cooperate.
Eventually, she pulled herself out. Took the sack off the nail—it tore along the seam, of course. She got the other three bags. Rolled out the jack. Took off the first wheel. Her hands moved automatically, but her mind kept replaying the same thing: «Let Yulka ride the tram.»
When she finished and went to the guard to wash her hands, old Palich, a sixty-year-old guy in a striped shirt under a padded jacket, said:
«Oh, your mother-in-law was just here. With her daughter. They took some pickles.»
«I know,» Yulia replied. «I saw them.»
«How come you didn’t say hello?»
«I didn’t have time,» Yulia said, lathering her hands so much that the suds reached her elbows.
***
She drove home slowly. At the traffic light near the South Bus Station, she realized she couldn’t remember passing the last three intersections.
The story with the car was as simple as the times tables, and that’s exactly why Yulia knew it by heart.
Three years ago, Yulia’s grandmother Valya passed away. She used to live in a shared apartment in Uralmash, in an 18-square-meter room that always smelled of Corvalol and geraniums. Grandma left the room to Yulia—not to her daughter (Yulia’s mom), but specifically to her granddaughter. Her mom wasn’t offended and said, “That’s right, you were the one who helped her the most.”
Yulia inherited the room, waited six months, then sold it. She got 1.2 million for it. The money went straight into her personal account—the same one her grandmother used to send her 5,000 rubles for her birthday.
That’s when Kostya spoke up:
“Listen, why don’t we get a proper car? Your Matiz is just embarrassing at this point. We’ll add some of our own money, take out a small loan—and that’s it.”
Yulia agreed. The car cost 1.9 million. She transferred 1.2 million from her account directly to the dealership by bank transfer—Kostya even joked she was acting like an accountant, always through the bank. The remaining 700,000 came from their shared savings and a loan they spent the next year and a half paying off together.
But they registered the car under Kostya’s name. Because he had 15 years’ driving experience with no accidents, while Yulia had only five years and one scratch in a parking lot. The insurance was almost half the price that way. “What difference does it make whose name it’s under?” Kostya said at the time. “We’re family.”
It was those exact words—“We’re family”—that Yulia was now remembering as she stood at the traffic light.
Kostya wasn’t home. On the kitchen sink sat his mug with leftover coffee and a spoon—he always left it that way, even though Yulia had asked him a hundred times to at least rinse it. On the fridge, under a magnet from Anapa, was a note: “At mom’s, be back in the evening. Buy bread.”
At his mom’s. Of course he was.
Their daughter Sonya was with Yulia’s mom until Sunday—they had their own plans with pies and cartoons. Right now, Yulia was more grateful for that than ever.
She made herself some tea, sat at the kitchen table, and opened her banking app. She found a statement from two years ago. The transfer to the dealership. 1.2 million. The payment was labeled: “Payment for car sales contract No…” The sender was her—her account. The same account the money from her grandmother’s room had come to.
She took a screenshot. Then decided to request an official statement with a stamp—it only took two clicks in the app, and the bank would email it by the end of the day.
Next, she found the sale contract for her grandmother’s room and the inheritance certificate in her folder of documents—a blue plastic one with a button. She took a photo of every page.
Of course, Yulia realized she might not need any of this. Maybe her mother-in-law was just talking nonsense. Maybe Kostya wasn’t planning anything suspicious. Maybe she had misunderstood everything, crouched behind that cupboard, hugging the spare tire.
But in her head, she kept hearing her mother-in-law’s satisfied, possessive voice: “And with new floor mats, too.”
***
Kostya came back around nine, carrying a bag from Pyaterochka. Inside were a pack of dumplings, ketchup, and a bottle of beer.
“What about the bread?” Yulia asked.
“You didn’t buy it? I left you a note.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, whatever. We’ll eat without bread.”
He put the pot of water on the stove and tossed in the dumplings, not even waiting for it to boil. Yulia watched his back in that gray T-shirt, her mind swirling with thoughts about how strange it is—that the person you’ve spent twelve years with can stand just two meters away, stirring dumplings with a slotted spoon, and you have no idea what’s going on inside his head.
“How’s your mom?” she asked.
“She’s fine. Says her blood pressure keeps acting up. Oh, she brought us some pickles, by the way. From the garage.”
He nodded toward the jar he’d set on the windowsill. Three liters. That exact jar.
“Did you go to the garage today?” Kostya asked without turning around.
“Yes. I changed the tires.”
“Oh right, I forgot. Good job.”
There was a pause. The dumplings bubbled softly.
“Kostya,” Yulia said. “Did we finish paying off the car loan?”
He turned around. Quickly—faster than he probably needed to.
“Yeah, it’s paid off. Why?”
“Nothing. It just popped into my head. I never checked.”
“It’s paid off, we finished in May. I told you.”
“Oh, right.”
He turned back to the stove. Then, a minute later, he said casually:
“Listen, I’ve been thinking… Maybe we should sell the car?”
Yulia set her mug down on the table very carefully, making sure it didn’t make a sound.
“Why?”
“Well… There are going to be layoffs at work. We’ll have less money coming in. And a car means insurance, taxes, gas. We could take the bus. Or get something smaller.”
“Kostya, I use that car to drive Sonya to school. And to get to work.”
“Well… you could take the tram,” he said, stirring the dumplings again.
Inside Yulia, something clicked off suddenly. Like a switch.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Think it over. I’m not rushing you.”
She walked into the living room and sat on the couch for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen. In the black glass she could see her own reflection—thirty-four years old, hair in a ponytail, a stretched-out sweater with pilling at the elbows. Her reflection looked like it had just learned it was about to be evicted.
***
On Sunday morning, Yulia called Tanya.
She and Tanya had shared a desk from fifth to eleventh grade, and even now Tanya was the only person Yulia could call at eight on a Sunday morning without apologizing. For the past ten years, Tanya had been working as a notary assistant on Belinskogo Street, and she knew more about inheritance, deeds, and dividing property than she did about her own private life.
“Why so early?” Tanya asked sleepily. “Is something on fire?”
“Almost. Tanya, can you go for a walk? I need to talk. Not over the phone.”
An hour later, they were sitting at a cafe near Tanya’s place, the kind with thick brown coffee mugs and checkered napkins on the tables—the kind nobody ever replaced. Tanya listened without interrupting, twirling a packet of sugar between her fingers. When Yulia got to the tram comment, Tanya tore the packet open.
“Your mother-in-law, though… what a character,” she said.
“Tanya, that’s not why I called. Tell me honestly: can they really do that?”
“Sure, they can. Transferring the car is as easy as signing a sheet. Buyer and seller show up, show the paperwork, pretend the money changed hands, and that’s it. Nobody asks the wife’s permission to sell the car—it’s not required by law. If the husband sells it, it’s assumed you know and you’re okay with it.”
“So that’s it?”
«No, it’s not over,» Tanya said, pushing her mug aside. «Look. First off, selling a car to your own mom for a hundred thousand when it’s worth almost two million, and just a month before the divorce—that’s a classic move. A court might rule the sale is fake. Lawyers call it a sham transaction, just done for show to hide assets. In that case, the car gets returned, and it’ll be split up as if the sale never happened.»
«But what if the court doesn’t rule that way?»
«Then the court will decide that your husband used shared property for his own benefit, and they’ll order him to pay you half the market value. But that’s a long process—hearings, experts, a lot of stress. There’s actually a better option.»
«What is it?»
«Don’t let them sell the car at all.»
Yulia looked up.
«How would that work?»
«Like this: you file for division of shared property. You can do this together with your divorce filing, or separately. In the same application, you also ask the court to block any registration activity with the car. This is called interim relief. Courts usually consider these requests quickly—same day or the next. And if the restriction is applied, the traffic authorities will just refuse to process any paperwork. If your husband and his mom show up with a contract, they’ll be told: sorry, the car is under restriction.»
«But what if they manage to do everything before the restriction is in place?»
«Then we’re back to the sham deal scenario. But, Yul,» Tanya looked at her intently, «there’s something even more important.»
«What’s more important?»
«The most important thing is your grandmother’s money. Do you realize that you paid almost two thirds of the car price with your own personal money?»
«Well… it was family money. That’s what my mother-in-law said.»
«Is your mother-in-law a judge?» Tanya snorted. «Listen. Anything someone inherits is their personal property. Not joint, even if you’re married. Your grandmother’s apartment was yours, and the money from it is yours, too. If you bought something with that money, that part of the purchase is also yours. It’s not split in half. It’s yours.»
«Even if the car is registered to Kostya?»
«Even then. Who it’s registered to is one thing. Where the money came from is another. The court looks at the source of the funds. Do you have the bank statement?»
«I do. I ordered it yesterday. With a stamp.»
«The apartment sale contract? Inheritance certificate?»
«I took pictures of them. Originals are in the folder.»
Tanya leaned back in her chair and looked at her almost respectfully.
«When did you manage to do all that?»
«Last night. While he was cooking dumplings.»
«There you go. So, look: the car is one million nine hundred thousand. One million two hundred is yours, inherited, personal. Seven hundred is shared. Of that, half is yours, half is his. So, when you split, Kostya is only entitled to three hundred fifty thousand. Not a million, not the whole car. Just three hundred fifty.»
Yulia stayed silent for a long time. A red, half-empty tram with an ad for a dental center rolled past the window.
«My mother-in-law thinks the car belongs entirely to Kostya,» she finally said.
«Your mother-in-law thinks a lot of things. File the claim. If you want, I can put you in touch with a good lawyer—a notary we know works with her, and she handles cases like this all the time.»
«I do want that,» Yulia replied. «Tanya… what if I’m wrong? What if he’s not planning anything and I’ve already filed in court?»
Tanya paused.
«Yulya. He offered to sell the car himself yesterday. The very next day after his mom talked about it in the garage. Do you really think that’s just a coincidence?»
Yulia shook her head.
«See? You’re not wrong. You just don’t want it to be true. That’s not the same thing.»
***
The lawyer’s name was Irina Valeryevna. She was short, wore a gray jacket with an owl-shaped brooch, and met Yulia on Monday during her lunch break. She flipped through the documents in ten minutes and said:
«Everything’s clean. The inheritance money came into your account, then from your account straight to the dealership. The chain is direct, nothing got mixed up. I see about fifteen of these cases a year, and in half of them the husband is sure that if the car is in his name, everything belongs to him.»
«And in the other half?»
«In the other half, the wife thinks that since the car is in her husband’s name, she gets nothing,» Irina Valeryevna smiled with the corner of her lips. «I see you’re not one of those.»
«I found out by accident,» Yulia said. «I was sitting behind the wardrobe.»
«How you found out doesn’t matter. What matters is that you didn’t wait. We’ll file for divorce and division of property today, through the online system. We’ll also submit a petition to prohibit registration actions. If the court issues a ruling tomorrow or the next day, it will go to the traffic police, and the car can’t be sold, gifted, or re-registered until the case is finished.»
«Will Kostya find out?»
«He’ll find out when he gets the summons. Or when he tries to re-register the car. Whichever happens first.»
Yulia nodded. She realized she wasn’t afraid. Instead, there was a cold focus inside her, like before an exam she had managed to prepare for.
«And one more thing,» Irina Valeryevna said as she stood up. «Keep the car keys and documents with you. Don’t leave them in the shared hallway drawer. The registration certificate, the spare key—keep it all on you. Not because anyone will do something, but because you’ll feel calmer that way.»
***
The spare key was in a box from Kostya’s watch on the top shelf of the hallway closet. That evening, while Kostya was in the shower, Yulia took it and put it in her purse, in the inner zip pocket where she kept her passport and insurance card.
She’d always kept the registration certificate in the car’s glove compartment, inside a clear cover. Now she moved it into her purse as well.
Her mom brought Sonya home on Monday evening, Sonya tanned from the October sun—they’d spent two days at the dacha with grandma digging up potatoes they’d forgotten to harvest in September. Sonya burst into the apartment, flung her backpack, hugged Yulia around the neck, and announced:
«Mom, grandma said you’ve lost weight.»
«Grandma just thinks so.»
«She said you lost weight from nerves. Why are you nervous?»
«From work, Sony. Go wash your hands, we have your potatoes to peel.»
Kostya was especially kind and attentive all evening. He helped Sonya with her math, did the dishes himself—even rinsed the mug—and before bed, while lying in the dark, he said:
«So, have you thought about the car?»
«I have,» Yulia replied.
«And?»
«I don’t want to sell it.»
Pause.
«Yulya, we talked about this. We’ll have less money…»
«You said layoffs. Are there layoffs?»
«Well… they’re expected.»
«Alright. We’ll talk when they actually happen.»
He didn’t answer. After a while, his breathing evened out, but Yulia knew he wasn’t asleep. Twelve years together—she could always tell when he was faking it.
***
On Tuesday evening, as Yulia was leaving Magnit with two bags—milk, buckwheat, chicken, and Sonya’s strawberry yogurts—someone called out to her.
«Yul!»
Alla was standing by the door, wearing her puffer jacket over loungewear, keys to the Logan in her hand. She looked like she’d run out of the house for a minute and already regretted it.
«Hi,» Yulia said cautiously.
«Hey. Listen… Can I talk to you? Just five minutes.»
They sat in the Logan. Inside, it smelled like kids’ juice and a pine air freshener—the little tree hanging from the mirror was nearly spent. On the back seat lay Kirusha’s backpack with a dinosaur on it.
Alla stayed silent for a long time, fidgeting with her seatbelt. Then she said:
«You were at the garage on Saturday.»
Yulia didn’t respond.
«Palych told Mom. That you were there. When we came by. Mom thinks you were in the bathroom with the caretaker and didn’t hear anything. But I…» Alla hesitated. «I wondered—what if you heard.»
«I heard,» Yulia said.
Alla closed her eyes.
«Damn.»
«Yeah.»
«Yul… That’s not why I’m here. I’m not trying to justify myself. I… Look, I don’t even want the car. Seriously. That was Mom’s idea. She gets started on ‘Kirusha on the bus, Kirusha on the bus’—and what am I supposed to do? I never argue with her. You know how it is.»
Yulia knew. Alla had lived in her mother’s shadow since she was little, like a bush growing under a big birch: living, but never seeing the sun.
«Why are you telling me this?»
Alla turned to her. Her eyes were red.
«Because Kostya’s a jerk,» she said quietly. «He’s got a woman. Vika. From his department. She’s twenty-eight, has her own one-bedroom on Botanika, and she told him she’d only let him move in if he comes ‘without baggage.’ That’s what she said. Mom knows—she’s even seen her. Says, ‘Respectable girl, owns her place.’ And you—they decided… Well, you get it. They want you gone with just a suitcase.»
Yulia stared at the windshield. Raindrops crept down the glass—fine, October rain, the kind that lasts for three days.
«When were they planning to go to the DMV?» she asked.
«Thursday. Mom’s got a digital ticket for it. Ten in the morning.»
«Thanks, Alla.»
«So… what are you going to do?»
«Already did it,» Yulia replied.
Alla blinked.
«What do you mean?»
«Exactly what I said. Go home, Alla. Kirusha’s waiting. And don’t tell Mom we met. It’ll only make things worse for you.»
Alla nodded. Then, awkwardly and almost like a child, she reached over and hugged her—tight and brief, smelling of her pine air freshener.
«I’m sorry,» she said into Yulia’s shoulder.
«It’s not your fault,» Yulia replied.
And only as she was walking back to her building with the bags in hand did it occur to her: These were the first honest words she’d heard from anyone in Kostya’s family in twelve years.
***
The court order arrived Wednesday afternoon. Irina Valeryevna forwarded it to Yulia’s email with a brief note: «Restraining order granted. Sent to the DMV. You can sleep easy now.»
Yulia couldn’t sleep peacefully. She printed out the court order at work—two pages, dry text, the case number, her last name, Kostya’s last name, the car model, the VIN number (which she realized she knew by heart)—folded it in quarters, and put it in the same bag with the key and the registration certificate.
On Thursday, Kostya left for work earlier than usual. At eight fifteen. He said he had a meeting.
«Are you taking the car?» Yulia asked as she poured cocoa for Sonya.
«No, I’ll take the minibus. You’re taking Sonya, right?»
«I am.»
«There you go.»
He kissed Sonya on the top of her head, kissed Yulia somewhere near her ear without looking, and left. Yulia heard him running down the stairs, not waiting for the elevator.
No car. That’s right. You don’t need the car for re-registration at the police—just the documents and the people. And the documents, as Kostya thought, were in the glovebox, which Galina Arkadyevna had a spare key for: long ago, she’d asked for a duplicate key fob “just in case you leave, and the car needs to be moved.”
Yulia dropped Sonya off at school, then went to work and sat at her desk. She worked as an accountant at a property management company, and Thursday was report filing day for capital repairs. The numbers danced before her eyes. At 10:05, she realized she was adding up the same column for the third time.
At 10:40, her phone rang. It was Kostya.
She stared at the screen until the call ended. A minute later—the phone rang again. Then—a text: “Call me back, it’s urgent.” Then another: “Where is the car registration certificate????” — four question marks.
Yulia typed back: “I have it. Why do you need it during work hours?”
Three dots. Pause. Three dots. Pause. Then the phone rang.
«Yes,» said Yulia.
«Where are you?» Kostya’s voice was strained, as if he was speaking into his hand.
«At work. I’m filing reports.»
«Yul… Here’s the thing. I need the certificate. Urgently. I wanted to renew the insurance, but it’s…»
«The insurance is good until March, Kostya. I handled it myself.»
Silence.
«Are you at the police?» Yulia asked.
The silence changed—becoming dense, ringing.
«With your mom?» she added.
«Yul, what are you talking about…»
«Don’t bother looking for the certificate. They won’t let you re-register the car anyway. There’s a restriction on it. By court order. They’ve probably already shown you in their system.»
Somewhere in the background, Yulia heard her mother-in-law’s voice—sharp, loud, demanding: «What is she saying? What is she saying, Kostya?»
«What court?» managed Kostya.
«Ordinary district court. Oktyabrsky. I filed for divorce and property division on Monday. You’ll get the summons in a few days. Everything’s written there.»
«You… you filed for divorce?»
«I did. Vika’s waiting for you, without any strings attached. I’m letting you go.»
She ended the call, put her phone face down, and got back to her column. This time, she added it all up on the first try. Down to the last penny.
***
That evening, Kostya came home at seven. No shopping bags in his hands. He stood in the kitchen doorway where Yulia was chopping carrots for soup and Sonya was at the table, drawing a fall forest with markers for her school project.
«Sonya,» Yulia said without turning around. «Go draw in your room for a while. Your dad and I need to talk.»
Sonya glanced at her dad, then her mom, gathered up her markers and left the room. The door to the kids’ room didn’t close all the way—Yulia could see a thin strip of light.
Kostya sat down on the stool. He looked like someone who’d just been shaken around for hours on a bumpy bus ride.
«How did you find out?» he asked.
«It doesn’t matter.»
«Did Alka blab?»
«No,» Yulia answered. «Your mom. On Saturday. In the garage. She was very loud. I was behind the wardrobe getting the tires.»
Kostya covered his face with his hands.
«Damn,» he said through his fingers. «Mom…»
«Yes. Mom.»
«Yulya, listen… It’s not what you think. This was Mom’s idea. I didn’t even…»
«Kostya,» Yulia set the knife down. «You were the one who suggested selling the car on Saturday night. You. This morning you went to the DMV. You. You looked for the title without me. And your Vika is twenty-eight, and she has a studio on Botanika. Let’s not blame your mom.»
He uncovered his face and looked at her—and for the first time in many years, Yulia didn’t see irritation or exhaustion in his eyes, but something like fear.
«So what now?» he asked.
«Now there’ll be a trial. The car will be split according to the law. The one million two hundred—that’s my money from Grandma’s room. That’s separate. That’s mine. The remaining seven hundred, we split in half. You get three hundred and fifty thousand.»
«Three hundred and fifty?!» He almost stood up. «It’s worth two million!»
«One million nine hundred when we bought it. Now, less. But you can get an appraisal if you want. I don’t mind.»
«That’s not fair, Yulia!»
«Unfair, Kostya,» Yulia said very calmly, «is selling the car to your mom for a hundred thousand, which she’s never going to give you. That’s unfair. Three hundred and fifty is by the law. I’ll pay you that. I have savings in a separate account that I’ve put away from my bonuses. You’ll get your money and the car stays with me. Sonya will get to ride to school in the car, not take the tram.»
She said that last part a bit louder than the rest. Kostya flinched—he got the message.
«And if I don’t agree?»
«Then the court will decide. It’ll just take longer. And you’ll have to pay the lawyer, not me. Irina Valeryevna says cases like this are a breeze for her.»
He sat for a long time, staring at the cutting board with the half-chopped carrot. Then he stood up.
«I’m going to my mom’s,» he said.
«Go ahead.»
«I’ll pick up my things later.»
«Take them whenever you want.»
He stood in the doorway like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. The front door slammed shut.
Sonya peeked out of her room.
«Mom, did Dad leave?»
«He left, Sonya. He went to Grandma’s.»
«For good?»
Yulia squatted down in front of her—just like she had in the garage behind the wardrobe. Only now, there was no need to hide.
«Looks like for good. But he loves you. And you’ll still see him. We’re just going to be living separately now.»
Sonya thought it over.
«Will the car still be ours?»
«It’s ours,» Yulia said.
«Good,» Sonya nodded, as if that was the most important thing. And maybe, for a nine-year-old, it really was.
***
Galina Arkadyevna called two days later. On Saturday morning, exactly a week after that scene in the garage.
«Yulia,» she said in an icy voice, «how dare you? Are you really going to drag my son into court?»
«Hello, Galina Arkadyevna.»
«Don’t you dare greet me! That’s Kostya’s car! He bought it! He took out a loan for it!»
«We took out that loan together and paid it off together. I paid the biggest part of it from my grandmother’s inheritance. It’s all there in the bank statements. The court will see them.»
«What inheritance? If the money came into the family, it’s family money!»
Yulia nearly laughed. Word for word, just like it was rehearsed.
«That’s what you think,» she replied. «But the law says otherwise. Inheritance is personal property, even in marriage. Ask any lawyer.»
«I’m not asking you anything! You… you…» Her mother-in-law was almost breathless with anger. «You were hiding behind the wardrobe, weren’t you? Eavesdropping!»
«I was getting the tires, Galina Arkadyevna. From your garage. The one where you told me I could keep anything I wanted, like family.»
«Oh, is that so! Fine, then: take your tires! And don’t you dare set foot in my garage again!»
«I will,» Yulia agreed. «The summer tires are there anyway. I’ll come on Monday.»
«And return the key!»
«I will. But please return the duplicate key fob for my car—the one you kept ‘just in case.'»
There was silence on the line. Then came the beeping of a dropped call.
***
On Monday, Yulia arrived at the garage by five o’clock. Palych stepped out of his little booth and nodded at her:
«Your mother-in-law gave me a heads-up. Said you’d come for the tires.»
«Yep, for the tires.»
«She also said you left her son without a car.» Palych chuckled into his mustache. «I told her: Galina, whose money paid for that car? She went quiet. I remember, Yulka, two years ago you were all excited, telling us your grandma’s inheritance was enough to buy one.»
Yulia smiled. She’d forgotten she’d told Palych that story—but he sure remembered.
She opened the storage box and turned on the light. She passed by the metal cabinet—the very same one. Past her father-in-law’s bicycle. Past a shelf with jars—one less cucumber jar now.
Four bags with summer tires lay in the corner. «FL», «FR», «RL», «RR»—her handwriting, her marker.
She loaded them into the trunk, closed up the storage box, and handed the key to Palych.
«Give this to Galina Arkadyevna.»
«I will. Where will you keep your tires now?»
«At the tire shop on Shcherbakov Street. They do storage there.»
«But the line there goes clear to the tram stop.»
«I’ll wait,» said Yulia. «It’s not my first time.»
A month and a half later, the court approved the settlement: the car stays with Yulia, and she pays Konstantin three hundred fifty thousand. Kostya signed without saying a word, eyes down. Irina Valeryevna later said, rumor had it Kostya visited three lawyers before court, and all three told him the same thing.
By the way, things didn’t work out with Vika. Without a car and with child support, things just didn’t click. Alla told Yulia about it—they sometimes met for coffee after picking up their kids from activities. Alla still drove her old Logan with the dented bumper—and for the first time in her life, she seemed genuinely content about it.
And every time Yulia got behind the wheel, she still ran her hand lovingly over the dash. Only now, she knew for sure: the car was real. And it was truly hers.
