«Are you actually serious about the deed?» Tatiana froze mid-chop with her knife over the onion, not looking at the cutting board, but at her husband. «Or is this some kind of anniversary joke? Like, we’ve made it two years, time to settle accounts?»
Anton stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, gazing somewhere near the baseboard. He always did this before saying something unpleasant—avoiding eye contact, as if searching for some emergency instructions on the floor. Tatiana knew this habit all too well. Any second now, he’d start fidgeting with his T-shirt sleeve, then take a deep breath, as if she was demanding a whole apartment from him instead of just squeezing the air from his lungs, and only then would he finally answer.
And sure enough, that’s what he did: fidgeted, sighed, and replied:
«It’s not a joke, Tanya. You have to understand: as long as the apartment is only in your name, I’m just a guest here. Every man should have his own space. Not just a registration, but something official—something that says it’s also mine. Otherwise, how can I call myself the head of the family?»
«Head of the family,» she scoffed, going back to the onion, because if she didn’t keep her hands busy, she’d end up throwing it at his head. «Head of the family who forgot to pay the electricity bill last month because you were ‘busy streaming.’ Your priorities are tanks first, everything else second. Since when exactly did you become the head, remind me?»
He sniffed indignantly, shuffled his bare feet across the linoleum, and sat down at the kitchen table, propping his unshaven cheek on his fist. In his open laptop, his favorite game sat paused, colorful pixels frozen, waiting for his return.
«Tanya, come on, enough. I’m being serious. We’ve been together two years, everything seems fine, but every time we argue you can say, ‘It’s my apartment, if you don’t like it, get out.’ And that… it’s humiliating.»
«Well, then don’t make me say it,» she said, dumping the chopped onion into the skillet, as the oil sizzled and a rich smell filled the kitchen. «Start acting like someone I can trust with anything, not just building models on your stream. Did you take out the trash yesterday?»
«No…»
«What about the day before?»
«Tanya…»
«Well, that says it all. The right to share living space, Anton, is just like earning a paycheck. First you get an advance—for example, by taking out the trash—then we can talk about bonuses like a share in the apartment.»
He jumped up, the chair scraping across the floor with an awful screech. Tatiana winced but didn’t turn around. She knew this performance by heart. Next up: Act Two—’wounded pride.’
«You always turn everything into a joke!» his voice rang out. «I’m coming to you with my heart open, and you throw every little thing in my face. Trash, bills, dishes… that’s all just everyday stuff! I’m talking about the foundation! If our feelings are real, then what does a piece of paper matter? Let’s split it fifty-fifty, so it’s fair. So we can really be together.»
She turned off the stove, spun around, and wiped her hands on a checkered dish towel with embroidered roosters—a gift from his mother, by the way. Every time she used that garishly cross-stitched towel, she recalled Alla Borisovna and her “selfless” advice.
“Antosh, just open any legal forum,” she said calmly, though a bit tired, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Any deal involving housing between spouses is a ticking time bomb. Today, everything’s sunshine and roses, but tomorrow your mom might find you a ‘better’ match who won’t mind signing over an apartment to her precious boy. And what will I do then? Go live with my mom in her tiny two-bedroom and cram myself onto the couch? No, thank you. I had enough of that kind of future before I met you.”
“What does my mom have to do with any of this?!” Anton threw up his hands. “You always drag her into things! She’s always been nothing but kind to you!”
“Oh, she’s so kind she only asks when we’re going to give her a grandchild and when I’ll stop ‘tormenting her little boy with my selfishness.’ Those are her exact words from her monologue yesterday, by the way. So touching, really warms the heart.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the buzzing of the intercom. Tanya went over to pick up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Tanechka, open up, it’s me,” Alla Borisovna’s cheery falsetto burst into the entryway. “Barely made it, my bags are so heavy, but I brought you some treats.”
Tanya pressed the button, shot her husband a meaningful look, and marched over to put on the kettle. That’s it. They’d really done it now. The play was moving to act three—the dirtiest one yet: ‘heavy artillery’.
Anton’s mother glided into the apartment like an icebreaker rolling into port—slow, stately, sweeping everything in her path. In one hand, a bag filled with zucchini and tomatoes; in the other, a three-liter jar of homemade compote glistening with condensation. From the doorway, she surveyed the kitchen, took in their tense faces, and sighed like a martyr who’s been carrying everyone’s family burdens for half a century.
“Well, why are you all just standing around?” she sang out as she unloaded jars onto the table. “On my way up, I met the elevator guy—says you’ve clogged the garbage chute again with potato peels. Antosha, that was you, wasn’t it, darling? Always in a hurry, tossing everything beside the bin. Tanya, maybe you should keep an eye on him since you’re the lady of the house after all.”
“I do keep an eye on him, Alla Borisovna,” Tanya replied as she took out cups. “My teaching methods are just a little different: you don’t take out the trash, you don’t get half the apartment.”
Alla Borisovna froze with the jar in her hand, glancing between her daughter-in-law and a shrinking Anton.
“Ah, so that’s what’s going on. You already came to confess, huh, sonny? Oh, Antosha, who solves problems like this?” She shook her head at him with a note of reproach, then affectionately, almost proprietarily, patted Tanya on the shoulder, making Tanya tense up inside. “Tanechka, my dear, don’t get mad at the fool. He’s just so honest, simple as a log. Says whatever comes to mind. Always wants the best, but things never turn out that way.”
“So ‘the best’ means taking what belongs to someone else?” Tanya brushed Alla’s hand off her shoulder lightly, like slipping off a glove. “Interesting philosophy.”
“But why would you say it belongs to someone else?” Alla Borisovna sat down on a stool, pursing her lips, her hands decked out in gold rings splayed on the table. “You’re a family—everything’s shared. Anton is right, a man should feel like the master of the house. Why are you sitting there like you’re on a powder keg, afraid he’ll kick you out? If you’re scared, it must mean you don’t love him.”
«I’m not afraid of him,» Tanya said as she poured boiling water, her hands trembling more with each movement. «I’m scared of the circumstances that could come up beyond his control. Say, he takes out a loan. Or maybe you convince him to sell the apartment and invest in your brother-in-law’s ‘foolproof business.’ And that’s it—goodbye, Tanya, free as the wind.»
«You’re insulting my son, accusing him of things he’s never done!» his mother fired back. «You’re married to him, but you just sit there clutching your treasure chest. Take a look at yourself—what have you given him? He’s your penniless prince, doesn’t even have his own place. Every time you two have a fight, he has to wonder, ‘Are they going to kick me out now?'»
Anton stood there frozen, listening. Guilt and stubbornness flickered in his eyes. It was clear he’d practiced this script with his mom for hours. All those lines about ‘treasure chests’ and ‘begging’—that wasn’t his vocabulary. What was his? Nose-breathing through two nostrils and staring at the floor.
«Alla Borisovna, let’s be honest,» Tanya stopped pacing around the table and sat down across from her. «The apartment belonged to my grandmother—I got it before Anton was ever in the picture. I put in the renovation, the nerves, and five years of work without a break. I love this place. It’s the only spot where I feel safe. And now you want me to split that security in half, just because someone whispered in your grown-up son’s ear about ‘male pride’?»
«‘Just’?» his mother exploded. «This is marriage, Tanya! Sacrifice! But you’re as stubborn as a rock. You think just because the apartment’s in your name, you’re the queen and he’s dirt under your feet?»
«No, you just think I have to give up everything to prove my love,» Tanya replied quietly, almost whispering. «And what will he give up? His comfortable couch?»
Anton finally snapped out of it. He marched to the table and slammed his fist down so hard the spoons clattered in protest.
«Enough! Both of you, shut up!» he shouted in a cracking falsetto. «Tanya, I’m tired. Do you hear me? Tired of feeling like a freeloader. You hit me with this every day. ‘My stove,’ ‘my washing machine,’ ‘my apartment.’ Where’s the ‘ours’ in all this? Where’s the ‘us’?»
«‘Us’ is you, me, and your mom’s compote,» Tanya nodded toward the jar. «But it looks like that compote is going to spoil while we’re fighting.»
«I want you to transfer the apartment to me,» Anton said softly but clearly. «Not split it. All of it, to me. Just temporarily. So I can believe. So I can feel like this is our home and you’re not afraid. In a month, we’ll put it in both our names, I promise. It’s about trust. Show me you trust me.»
Tanya felt like the floor shifted under her. She hadn’t expected this from any of them. This wasn’t just blackmail; this was open, brazen manipulation that left her breathless. Transfer everything to him. ‘Temporarily.’ What could go wrong? Oh right—nothing, except she’d be thrown out into the street the minute this ‘trust test’ was over.
«So you want me to jump off the roof into your arms, but not before handing you my parachute?» she laughed, a dry, harsh sound. «Great idea. Did your mom come up with that one?»
«What does Mom have to do with this?!» he burst out again, but stopped short when he met her eyes—dark, almost completely black from her dilated pupils.
Tanya stood up. Moving slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, she opened the top drawer of the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a thin blue folder bound with a money band. She tossed it onto the table in front of her husband and mother-in-law.
«What’s that?» Alla Borisovna asked warily.
«Certificate of ownership, sale agreement, technical passport,» Tanya listed off in a matter-of-fact tone. «Everything about the apartment.»
Anton’s face lit up and he reached for the folder, but Tanya slapped her hand over it, pinning it down like it was a fly.
«Don’t rush. There’s one little paper missing in there.»
«Which one?» he breathed.
«The divorce application. But we can fix that right now.»
She picked up her phone, placed her finger on the scanner, and opened the browser. Alla Borisovna started turning red, and Anton froze with his mouth open.
«What are you thinking, you idiot?!» the mother-in-law tried to get up, but her ample hips got stuck between the stool and the table.
«I’m thinking of saving you some time, Alla Borisovna,» Tanya replied without looking up. «You’re right, a man should feel like the master of the house. So now we’ll quickly download the form, Anton will start his independent life as the master in a rented apartment, and I’ll stay here. Alone. In my trunk, as you so elegantly put it.»
«Tanya, you won’t do this!» Anton grabbed her wrist. His grip was strong—his fingers dug into the bone. «You’re just hysterical. Calm down.»
«Anton, let go of my hand,» her voice was icy and metallic. «Or I’ll call the police right now, and you can explain your arrest record to your mom.»
He yanked his hand away like it was on fire. His eyes darted around, landing on his mother for backup. But Alla Borisovna herself was stunned—she never expected such force from her usually quiet, ‘homely’ daughter-in-law. She thought the girl would break down, cry, and sign the papers.
Meanwhile, Tanya, carefully typing each letter, filled out the application right on the government website. She gave herself no time to hesitate, knowing that if she stopped even for a second, she’d start crying and they’d push her into a corner. She was going to see this through.
«You’ll regret this,» Anton rasped. «You’ll be lost without me. Who’s going to want you at thirty-two, with your terrible personality?»
«I want me, Anton,» she answered, pressing the ‘Submit’ button. «I really need myself. And you, sorry, turned out to be an unnecessary piece in this machine—a spare tire that’s somehow decided it’s the steering wheel.»
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips, finally freeing herself from behind the table and straightening her blouse. Her eyes reflected a mix of contempt and shock.
«Well, get lost then,» she snapped. «Anton, get dressed, we’re leaving. But first, let’s make sure we gather everything you bought for this house.»
«What did he buy?» Tanya smirked, opening the Notes app on her phone. «Let’s see. The electric kettle is mine – bought at Eldorado two years ago, I’ve got the receipt. The laptop – that’s his, I won’t fight for it. Slippers – his. Shoelaces from my sneakers – if he wants those, he’s welcome to take them. The hallway wardrobe – we bought it together, but I installed the shelf myself, so we can split it in half if he really needs the boards. The nonstick frying pan – that’s mine, I’m not going to gift him the scratch from his eggs, let that be his souvenir.»
She rattled all this off while looking at her notes, and Anton just stood there, destroyed not so much by the divorce itself, but by her almost accountant-like precision. Turns out, she’d kept track of everything all this time. Not the apartment—no, that was sacred. She kept track of daily life, their shared world, now split up into debits and credits.
«You’re crazy,» he whispered, backing into the hallway.
«Agreed,» she nodded, finally pulling her eyes away from the phone. «It’s crazy to love yourself just a bit more than someone who betrays you. That’s called self-preservation. Time for you to go. Leave the keys on the table.»
Anton hastily shoved his laptop into his backpack, forgetting the charger; it dangled, still plugged into the wall. Alla Borisovna was already at the door, majestically ignoring Tatyana as if she had suddenly turned invisible.
«You’ll remember this day,» his mother-in-law declared from the doorway. «You’ll come crawling back on your knees.»
«Definitely,» Tanya promised. «I’ll crawl back if there’s a flood outside and you’ve got a boat. But by the looks of it, you’ve already overloaded your own lifeboat.»
The door slammed shut. The keys clinked as they were left on the table. Silence filled the hallway, broken only by the hum of the elevator going down. Tanya slowly slid down the wall to a crouch, hugging her knees and squeezing her eyes shut. It sounded like she was surfacing from underwater. Her heart was pounding in her throat. She knew the tears were coming. Yet, alongside the bitterness and sticky fear of being alone, she suddenly felt something light, almost weightless, on her shoulders. It was freedom. Cold, tough, like a new bedsheet she would use to make the bed for the last time. No, not their bed. Her bed.
She stood up, walked to the kitchen, grabbed the heavy three-liter jar of compote they’d never opened, and carried it toward the trash. At the last second, she stopped. Why waste something good? The compote was cherry, thick; her grandma used to make it just like this. Alla Borisovna had nothing to do with it. The compote wasn’t at fault.
She gently placed the jar in the fridge, closed the door, and looked at her own reflection in the glossy black microwave glass—no trace of anyone else left. Happy anniversary, Tanya, she mouthed to herself. You did the right thing.
The end.
