— You found someone else, and now your mother also wants to take my apartment? — My voice sounded foreign, broken. — My apartment, the one my parents bought?
— So, you have a new love, and your mom wants to kick me out of the house? — I looked at my husband, trying to comprehend what was happening.
— Oh, come on, don’t be so dramatic, — Alexey frowned. — Your mom’s right. You need to calm down, think…
That evening I stayed at work longer than usual — going through old reports I had so laboriously set aside. Perhaps that very moment, everything happened? Who knows, maybe coincidences really aren’t accidental.
At home, it was unusually quiet. By this time, Alexey usually returned from work, and his jacket always hung on the rack. Today, it wasn’t there. I went into the kitchen, set the kettle on, and my hands automatically reached for his tablet — he always left it on the table when he went to the store.
“Darling, shall we meet at seven tonight?” — a message appeared right on the screen. I froze. My heart skipped a beat, then began pounding so fiercely that I nearly dropped the tablet. My fingers trembled, but I still unlocked the screen. Lesha had never set a password; he said we had no secrets.
There had been no secrets for fifteen years. And now… I scrolled through the messages, and every new text hit me like a slap. “Kitten,” “sunshine,” “the most beautiful” — he had been writing all that to some Marina. Photos, hearts, plans for a joint vacation… The world seemed to darken, and suddenly I felt like I wasn’t in my own body.
Suddenly — the door slammed. I jumped, but didn’t turn around.
— Lena? Why are you here so early? — His voice was as ordinary as if nothing had happened. As if he wasn’t about to meet another woman in an hour.
— Who is this Marina? — My voice trembled, but I forced myself to look up.
Alexey froze in the doorway. He changed right before my eyes: from surprise to irritation, from irritation to some kind of misplaced pity.
— Oh, so that’s what it’s about… — he walked over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water. — And didn’t you think that you’re to blame? When was the last time you cared about my life? It’s always work, work…
I couldn’t believe my ears. Fifteen years of marriage, and he just does that? Without any explanation?
The phone shattered the silence again. “Tom’s mom” flashed on the screen. A mother-in-law never calls without reason.
— Lena, — Tamara Petrovna’s voice oozed such syrupy sweetness that I felt sick. — I was thinking… I heard you and Lesha have problems? You know, the apartment is still our family’s. Maybe it’d be better for you to live separately until you… sort it out?
It was as if someone had switched off the light in the room. I glanced at Alexey, and he, as if nothing had happened, turned to the window.
— You found someone else, and now your mother also wants to take my apartment? — My voice sounded alien, shattered. — My apartment, the one my parents bought?
— Oh, come on, don’t be so dramatic, — Alexey grimaced. — Your mom’s right. You need to calm down, think…
I looked at the man with whom I had spent half my life, and I couldn’t recognize him. Where was that Lesha who promised to love me forever? Where was that Lesha who said that our home was our fortress? Now before me stood a stranger, ready to throw me out like an unwanted object.
And on the phone, the oily voice of my mother-in-law continued, outlining how it would be beneficial for me to “take a pause.” I hung up the call and, feeling the ground slipping away beneath my feet, sank into a chair. One thought swirled in my head: “What now? Where to go?”
The legal consultation was in an old mansion on Sadovaya Street. I climbed the creaking staircase, clutching a folder of documents gathered by my parents. My hands trembled — I hadn’t slept in the last three days, sorting through papers and trying to find something that could help me.
The door with the sign “Mikhail Stepanovich Voronov” was ajar. I hesitated in the doorway, carefully smoothing my skirt — an old habit my mother had before important meetings: always to tidy up, as if it could change the outcome of events.
— Come in, come in, — a deep voice greeted. — You must be Elena Sergeyevna?
Mikhail Stepanovich turned out to be nothing like the image I had expected. In my mind, I had pictured a prim old man in glasses, squinting from old age. Instead, seated before me was a fit man of about fifty with clear gray eyes and barely noticeable streaks of gray at his temples. There was no trace of fatigue, no unkempt beard like those who had endured too many unpleasant conversations. He looked as though he didn’t care about the world, yet he was still searching for something in it.
— Have a seat, tell me everything, — he gestured to a chair. — Over the phone, you mentioned something about an apartment issue?
I began to speak, but the words tangled in my head. It all seemed so distant, as if I were telling someone else’s story. About how, fifteen years ago, my parents sold their summer house and one-room apartment to help Alexey and me buy a three-room place. How my mother-in-law had grumbled that her son deserved better, while I could only listen in silence. My voice trembled as I recounted the events of the past few days.
— Now, now, — Mikhail Stepanovich flipped through the documents. — And where is the original purchase contract?
— Here, — I extended a yellowed sheet.
— This is a copy, — he frowned. — And the original?
— It should be here… — I began to panic, frantically rifling through the papers. — I distinctly remember seeing it…
— Elena Sergeyevna, — the lawyer stepped forward. — Let’s not deceive ourselves. Without the original documents, proving your right to the apartment will be exponentially more difficult. But! — he raised a finger, noticing my lips beginning to tremble. — We have other avenues. We need evidence that it was your parents who paid the money.
— What kind of evidence? — I clutched the armrests of the chair as if my life depended on it.
— Bank statements from that time, a receipt for the transfer of money, witnesses. Are your parents still alive?
— My father died three years ago, — I gripped my fists, trying not to break down. — My mother… after a stroke, in a nursing home.
— Then we must act quickly, — Mikhail Stepanovich scribbled something in his notebook. — Your mother-in-law has surely already consulted with lawyers. She will claim that the apartment was bought with her family’s money.
I felt a wave of nausea rise in my throat. Tamara Petrovna always managed to get her way.
— And what if… what if I just leave? — My voice grew quieter, yet I had to ask. I needed to hear the truth.
Mikhail Stepanovich put down his pen and looked me straight in the eyes. His gaze was hard, but honest.
— Elena Sergeyevna, your parents sold everything they had to buy you this apartment. They believed in you, in your family. Now you can either lose everything or fight. It’s up to you.
I turned to the window. Outside, everything was just as it had been the day we moved in. I remembered my father’s joy when we entered our new home. How my mother hung the curtains and said that here grandchildren would grow. And now… now I was looking at a stranger’s face — a face that had become familiar over all these years.
— What must I do? — I finally asked the lawyer.
— First, we’ll get the bank statements. We’ll find the witnesses to the transaction. And most importantly — do not move out. No matter what they tell you or what conditions they offer.
When I left the office, the wind tossed a handful of yellow leaves at me. I stopped, inhaled the cold air. There was fear, still there, but now mixed with a new force — determination, maybe even anger. I took out my phone and dialed my mother’s friend, Vera Nikolaevna. She had helped with the apartment documents back then. It was time to piece together my truth, even if only in fragments.
For three days I mustered the strength for this conversation. During that time, Alexey barely showed up at home. “Working late,” he kept spouting that nonsense, just as I kept pretending to believe him. We both knew it was a lie, yet we continued to play our strange game: him — that everything was fine, me — pretending not to notice the unraveling of what had once seemed unbreakable.
The phone rang close to midnight while I sat in the kitchen, sifting through old photographs. The shadows in those snapshots were just as they had always been — unchanging. I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, and at that moment I realized this conversation would be the one to change everything.
— Lesha, we need to talk, — I tried to make my voice as calm as possible, though I wasn’t sure I succeeded.
He froze in the kitchen doorway, as if he hadn’t expected to see me there. A flicker of guilt passed in his eyes, but it vanished instantly. He knew well: guilt wouldn’t help him.
— About what? — he walked over to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of mineral water, not even giving me a glance.
— About us. About the apartment. About everything, — I straightened my shoulders as if this posture could make him listen even a little. — Let’s settle this like human beings.
Alexey only snorted, sipping his water, as if I had said something so banal that it wasn’t even worth his attention.
— And how do you plan to settle it? There’s nothing to divide; the apartment is registered in my name.
I felt my breath catch. Lesha, as always, saw nothing in my words but his own interests.
— You know very well that it was my parents who bought it, — I felt my voice tremble, yet I couldn’t stop. — They sold everything they had…
— Oh, here we go, — he theatrically rolled his eyes, as if I had assumed the role of a dramatic heroine. — “My parents, my apartment…” And didn’t you think that in fifteen years I’ve also invested quite a bit here? I did the repairs, bought the furniture…
— With our joint money! — I clenched my fists under the table. — And that doesn’t change the fact that the main sum…
— Lena, — he interrupted sharply, — let’s not have a meltdown. Your mom was right: you need to take a break, think. Go stay with a friend for a week. If you persist, we’ll just take this to court.
— Us? — I felt a bitter laugh rising in my throat. — You already say “us” referring to you and your mother? And what about “us,” you and I? Fifteen years of marriage — is that nothing?
He frowned, as if someone had jabbed him with a toothache:
— Don’t be dramatic. These things happen. People drift apart…
— People do drift apart, — I slowly stood up, trying not to let tears cloud my eyes. — But not everyone tries to throw his wife out on the street. Remember what you said when you proposed? “We will always be together, no matter what…” You said that, Lesha.
He exploded like an overfilled vessel:
— Oh, Lena! That was fifteen years ago! We were young, foolish… Face it — we’ve long been strangers.
— Strangers? — I felt a tear of betrayal slip down my cheek. — And Marina, then, is your soulmate?
He clenched his jaw sharply, his eyes narrowing to slits.
— Don’t drag Marina into this, — his voice became harsh, threatening. — She has nothing to do with it.
— Really? — I picked up my phone and tapped on the screen. — Want me to read your messages? “My kitten, I miss you so much…” Or this one: “With you, I feel alive…”
— Enough! — he banged his hand on the table so hard that the salt shaker jumped. — Were you snooping through my phone?
— And you cheated on me! — I could no longer hold back my tears. They flowed like rain, unstoppable. — And now you want to take away the roof over my head!
— You’ll face nothing if you keep acting all clever, — his voice turned insidiously sweet, like poison. — Go rest, calm down. Your mom will find you a nice studio apartment, help with the down payment…
At that moment, something snapped inside me. I looked at the man I had loved for fifteen years and suddenly realized — I didn’t know him at all. A stranger’s face. Cold, calculating. In his eyes — bitter irony, superiority. Strangers. Both of us.
— You know what, — I wiped my tears, though it felt as if I wasn’t wiping them out of my heart, but pulling my heart out of my chest. — Don’t bother. I’m not going anywhere. This is my apartment, and I will fight for it.
— As you wish, — he shrugged, as if I had just said that it wouldn’t rain tomorrow. — Then see you in court.
He turned and left. The door slammed behind him. That was it. I stood there. The life that once seemed as stable as this kitchen table — where we had sipped tea and talked about the weather for years — was gone.
I walked to the window. In the darkness, streetlights flickered, and cars passed by in sparse intervals; their headlights seemed as alien as everything else. People hurried past, dogs barked, and the windows of neighboring houses burned — all just the same. Yet inside me, a void burned. Fifteen years of life, and now it was all at a breaking point. Suddenly, as if by magic, the phone vibrated. A message from my mother-in-law.
— Lena, hope you and Lesha talked? I found a wonderful little apartment for you… — her eyes darkened. I deleted the message without even reading it. Enough. No more being a good girl. Now only through the courts.
The court was smaller than I had imagined. Such halls always felt cramped, uncomfortable, as if hinting that none of this was serious. None of it mattered. A few rows of wooden benches, the dreary gray of the walls, the coat of arms above the judge’s bench — which had probably long ceased to remind anyone of justice and instead of some forgotten authority. I sat straight, trying not to show how much my hands trembled. Mikhail Stepanovich was quietly saying something — I couldn’t hear him. My mind was filled with one thought: There they are, here they come.
And they entered. Precisely at ten. My mother-in-law — in a gray suit, her hair styled as if she were not in court but attending a premiere on the red carpet. Alexey — in the dark blue jacket I had given him. And next to them — a polished lawyer with a leather briefcase. He immediately glanced my way, but something told me there was no sympathy there. They had long forgotten what sympathy meant.
— Stand up, court is in session! — the secretary shouted, brushing away all my thoughts.
The judge — Svetlana Igorevna, a woman of about sixty with a piercing gaze — had already scanned the documents. She was reserved, as is usually the case with someone who has seen many trials and trusts no one’s words.
— We are hearing the case on the recognition of property rights… — she raised her eyes, her stare as sharp and cold as a knife — devoid of emotion. — Representative of the plaintiff, please state your claims.
Tamara Petrovna’s lawyer — that polished fellow — stood up, straightening his jacket, and began:
— Esteemed court, my clients demand the recognition of their right to the apartment at… — he immediately started listing various paragraphs and documents. According to him, I was nothing short of a trespasser who had unlawfully taken someone else’s property.
— So, you have a new love, and your mother now wants to kick me out of the house? — I looked at my husband, trying to understand what was happening.
— And now, may I call the first witness, — he gestured toward the door, and as if by magic, Nina Vasilievna appeared. A realtor with dyed red hair. Fifteen years ago she had helped formalize the deal. But why was she on their side?
— Tell me, Nina Vasilievna, — the lawyer continued in his overly flattering tone, — who made the primary payment for the apartment?
— Of course, Alexey’s family, — she said without even glancing at me. — I clearly remember Tamara Petrovna bringing the money…
— Objection! — Mikhail Stepanovich abruptly stood up. — Your Honor, we have evidence to the contrary.
He pulled out a folder, and his words drowned out the murmurs in the courtroom.
— Here, please, the bank statements from that period. Here is the translation from Elena Sergeyevna’s parents — exactly the amount needed for the purchase. And here is the statement from their account regarding the sale of the summer house and apartment. The amounts match to the last penny.
Whispers swept through the room. I saw Tamara Petrovna’s face blanch, and Alexey too, although he tried to hide it behind a mask of stone.
— Moreover, — continued Mikhail Stepanovich, — we have a witness. Vera Nikolaevna Sokolova, a family friend, was present at the money transfer.
At that moment I realized this wasn’t just a court case. This wasn’t merely a decision. It was a war. A war for what rightfully should be mine.
Vera Nikolaevna entered, leaning on her old cane, as if it weren’t court but just another stroll in the park. At seventy-five, she looked as sturdy and upright as an oak, unyielding to the gusts of wind. She looked at my mother-in-law as one might look at an old, worn-out toy that no longer invites play — without fear, without pity.
— I remember everything as if it were yesterday, — she said, dusting off remnants of long-forgotten times from her nose. — Maria and Sergey, God rest their souls, sold everything they had. They said, “As long as our daughter has a place to live…”
— And can you confirm that Tamara Petrovna did not contribute financially? — the judge asked. The judge was as dull as all judges — faceless, as if she hadn’t seen a living soul in a hundred years.
— Of course, I can! — Vera Nikolaevna smiled, though her face was anything but jovial. — She was yelling then that the apartment was too small for her son, that they could find something better… Well, money wasn’t an issue! Who needs it? And really, why spend it if you could just drag your feet?
I saw Alexey twitch suddenly, as if struck. Tamara Petrovna whispered something to her lawyer, while I tried not to notice my hands clenching nervously in my lap.
— Are there any more questions for the court? — asked Svetlana Igorevna, her gaze sweeping the courtroom like a heavy slab pressing me down. — In that case, the court is recessed for review of the case materials. The decision will be announced in an hour.
That hour passed as if in a fog. Mikhail Stepanovich said something about high chances, about impeccable documents, but I couldn’t catch his words. All I could think was: Here they come.
And then they entered. Exactly at ten. My mother-in-law — in a gray suit, her hair done up as if awaiting a premiere rather than a court session. Alexey — in the dark blue jacket I had given him. And beside them — the sleek lawyer with his leather briefcase. He immediately glanced in my direction, but something told me there was no trace of sympathy there. They had long forgotten what sympathy was.
— Stand up, the court is in session! — the clerk shouted, sweeping away all my thoughts.
The judge, Svetlana Igorevna, a woman of about sixty with a piercing, emotionless gaze, had already scanned the documents.
— We are now hearing the case on the recognition of property rights… — she said, her eyes as sharp and cold as a knife — devoid of emotion. — Representative of the plaintiff, please present your claims.
Tamara Petrovna’s lawyer — that polished fellow — stood, adjusted his jacket, and began:
— Esteemed court, my clients demand that the property rights to the apartment at [address] be recognized… — he immediately started listing paragraphs and documents. According to him, I was nothing short of a trespasser who unlawfully took someone else’s property.
— So, you have a new love, and your mother wants to kick me out of the house? — I looked at my husband, trying to understand what was happening.
— And now, allow me to call the witness, — he indicated the door, and as if by magic, Nina Vasilievna appeared. A realtor with dyed red hair. Fifteen years ago she had helped with the deal. But why was she on their side?
— Tell me, Nina Vasilievna, — the lawyer continued in his syrupy, flattering tone, — who made the main payment for the apartment?
— Of course, Alexey’s family, — she said without even glancing at me. — I clearly remember how Tamara Petrovna brought in the money…
— Objection! — Mikhail Stepanovich abruptly stood up. — Your Honor, we have evidence to the contrary.
He pulled out a folder, and his words drowned out the murmur in the room.
— Here, please, the bank statements from that period. Here is the remittance from Elena Sergeyevna’s parents — exactly the sum required for the purchase. And here is the statement from their account regarding the sale of the summer house and apartment. The amounts match to the last penny.
A murmur passed through the courtroom. I saw Tamara Petrovna’s face go pale, and Alexey too, though he tried to hide it behind his stoic mask.
— Furthermore, — continued Mikhail Stepanovich, — we have a witness. Vera Nikolaevna Sokolova, a family friend, was present during the money transfer.
At that moment I realized this wasn’t just a court case. This wasn’t merely a decision. This was war. A war for what rightfully should be mine.
Vera Nikolaevna entered, leaning on her old cane as if it were not a court but merely another stroll in the park. At seventy-five, she looked as steadfast and upright as an oak, unyielding to the wind. She looked at my mother-in-law as one might look at an old toy that has outlived its usefulness — without fear, without pity.
— I remember everything as if it were yesterday, — she said, dusting off remnants of long-forgotten times. — Maria and Sergey, may they rest in peace, sold everything they had. They said, “As long as our daughter has somewhere to live…”
— And can you confirm that Tamara Petrovna did not contribute financially? — the judge asked. The judge was as dull as all judges — expressionless, as if she hadn’t seen a living soul in a hundred years.
— Of course I can! — Vera Nikolaevna smiled, though her face showed no hint of amusement. — She was yelling then that the apartment was too small for her son, that they could find something better… Really, money wasn’t an issue! Who needed it? And honestly, why spend money if you could just stall?
I saw Alexey jerk suddenly, as if struck by something. Tamara Petrovna whispered something to her lawyer, and I tried not to notice my hands clenching nervously in my lap.
— Are there any further questions for the court? — asked Svetlana Igorevna, her gaze sweeping over the room like a heavy slab pressing down. — In that case, the court is recessed for review of the case materials. The decision will be announced in an hour.
That hour passed in a haze. Mikhail Stepanovich said something about high chances and perfect documents, but I couldn’t catch his words. All I could think was: Here they come.
And then they entered. Precisely at ten. My mother-in-law — in a gray suit, her hair styled as if she were attending a premiere rather than court. Alexey — in the dark blue jacket I had given him. And beside them — the polished lawyer with his leather briefcase. He immediately glanced my way, but something told me there was no trace of sympathy there. They had long forgotten what sympathy meant.
“Stand up, court is in session!” the clerk shouted, dismissing all my thoughts.
The judge, Svetlana Igorevna, a woman of about sixty with a piercing, impassive gaze, had already perused the documents.
— We are now hearing the case on the recognition of property rights… — she stated, her eyes as sharp and cold as a knife — devoid of emotion. — Representative of the plaintiff, please present your claims.
Tamara Petrovna’s lawyer — that polished fellow — rose, adjusted his jacket, and began:
— Esteemed court, my clients demand that the right of ownership of the disputed apartment be recognized in favor of the defendant, Elena Sergeyevna Volkova, as acquired using the funds provided by her parents…
I felt tears start streaming down my cheeks. Not from sorrow. Not because I pitied him. But because inside me there suddenly spread a strange relief. Justice, it seems, does exist. Here it was, in its simplest and most tragic form.
Tamara Petrovna, not even listening to the end, dashed out of the courtroom as if she had nothing more to do there. Alexey followed her, but at the doorway he suddenly looked back. Our eyes met for a second, and I realized there was something more there than mere bewilderment. Something that not even shame could name. I no longer cared.
The key in the lock clicked with its familiar sound. I entered the apartment — now officially mine. I took off my shoes and silently leaned against the wall. Everything that had come before vanished. The tension of the past weeks receded like rain, leaving only freshness in its wake.
Outside, the October evening was fading, its last lights painting the walls in golden hues. That very gold, which had always seemed too close to be real.
On the kitchen table still lay old photographs, ones I had rifled through that very evening when it all began. I gathered them into a neat pile, as if they were a part of me, though no longer important. Tomorrow I’d buy a new album. Let the past remain behind, like dried flowers. Let them no longer burden me.
I sat at the table, took out a new notebook with a beautiful cover. I wrote on the first page: “Plan for a New Life.” I smiled — it sounded like a headline in a women’s magazine. But I wasn’t joking. I needed that specificity. Those simple steps toward the future.
“1. Enroll in English courses,” — I wrote. It had always been a dream, but there were always reasons to postpone it. Either Lesha didn’t like it, or there wasn’t enough time. Now I didn’t have to look back.
“2. Redo the bedroom.” Green wallpaper, new curtains. And a bed — all mine. Without memories. That’s it.
The phone rang. Vera Nikolaevna.
— Lena, how are you? Perhaps you could come over for tea? I baked an apple pie…
— Thank you, dear, — I felt warmth spreading inside. — Or perhaps you should come to me? We can sit and decide which wallpaper to choose…
— Wallpaper? — a smile crept into her voice. — Ah, planning a renovation? Right, dear. New life — new walls.
After the call, I returned to my list. “3. Go to the seaside.” To swim in an ocean of sunsets and walk barefoot on wet sand. Alexey had never loved the sea. It always irritated him. But now… now anything was possible.
There was a knock at the door. Anna Vitalyevna, the neighbor, had delivered the mail I’d collected earlier that day.
— I heard you won the case, — she said, seating herself as if I had just returned from a space expedition. — Well done, dear. When I left my husband, I thought it was the end of the world. And then I realized it was just the beginning.
Just the beginning. Exactly.
I poured tea into cups, took out some cookies — I don’t know why, but at moments like these one craves something sweet to ease the bitterness. We chatted about everything — about her grandchildren, about my futile plans, about how she had traveled alone through countries and continents after her divorce. Now there’s a woman! At sixty-five, she never learned to fear loneliness.
— You know, Lena, when you have yourself, you don’t need anyone else, — she said, raising her cup. — I once decided to tour Italy without a guide. Funny, isn’t it? And you thought it was too late? Nonsense, it’s not too late.
I smiled. Who else but her? At her age, everyone accepted her role as a wise adviser who wasn’t afraid to show how to live. And her words I took not as mere advice, but as a kind of law. She lived as if nothing was impossible in this world.
When she left, the sky outside turned deep navy. I walked to the window and watched as distant lights twinkled. It was a strange thing: a piece of the park where Lesha and I once strolled, and now… strangely, the memories no longer stung. I flipped through an old album, unable to tell whether it was the dusty pages or that I had become dusty myself that affected me so.
I returned to my list. This is what it now looked like — a “new life list.” Maybe to some it was trivial, but for me… Well then, let’s go.
“4. Get a cat.” Why not? A ginger one, bold and cheeky, with character. Let it be Happiness. Yes, just like that. Every morning I’ll look into its wise eyes and say, “Hello, my Happiness!” Why lie? Sometimes even a cat can help you believe in luck.
“5. Learn to love myself.” This, of course, took some thought. It wasn’t that simple. We all know how to love others, but loving oneself — that’s where we falter. I rewrote this line several times, as if my life depended on those words. But in the end, I left it. After all, honestly. Learn to love yourself. It isn’t so hard if you stop hiding behind others’ images.
I set the notebook aside and looked out the window. The streetlights flickered, lit up, and filled the room with a warm glow. Everything had changed somehow, though I wasn’t sure how exactly. Maybe it was me who had changed. Perhaps, in truth, it wasn’t so bad after all. It was definitely a beginning. Ahead of me lay a whole world: English lessons, the sea, a ginger cat, and love — self-love, if nothing else. And then we’ll see. How things turn out.
I closed the notebook and looked at my reflection in the dark glass. Somewhere out there, in a parallel universe, remained the Lena who had been afraid of being alone. But here, in this cozy apartment with a view of the park, a completely different story was beginning. And honestly, I had no doubt it would be an interesting one.
