“Soon we’ll get to the finishing work. It’s almost done,” my husband said to me that evening as we were getting ready for bed.
“So that means the renovation is next, and that’s it?” I rubbed cream into my hands, working it into my fingers and wrists.
“Yes. Hard to believe, right?” Arkady settled in more comfortably, pulling up the blanket. “Alright, let’s sleep—we’ve got work tomorrow.”
We lay down, but I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time; something vague and troubling kept me awake. Arkady and I had been married three years. We hadn’t rushed to have children, because my husband’s father had passed away, leaving his son an unfinished house with a large plot. We decided to complete it and live there, out of town in the fresh air. The house was only about a half hour’s drive from the city, so commuting would be convenient. At that point the construction was more than half done, but what remained still required huge investment. Building is expensive—both Arkady and I understood that—so we didn’t hurry with children, throwing all our energy into earning the money to get a spacious home as soon as possible.
I grew up in a family where trust and love reigned. Mom often joked that we were like the Rostovs from Tolstoy’s four-volume epic—just not as many of us. There were two of us kids, my brother and me. But Volodya was eleven years older, left the nest early, and I, as the late baby, was adored, spoiled, denied nothing. Dad was always ready to listen; Mom called me nothing but “my joy.” When I got into university, it was a bit sad to have to move to another city. But it had to be done—I knew there would be nothing for me to do in our tiny town. I finished a degree in economics and got a job at a good, large construction company where the pay was above average.
Then I met Arkady. The meeting was accidental. He’d come to apply for a job at the same company where I worked. A guy with gifted hands and a bright mind, he was hired gladly, and for a couple of months we were colleagues. Then Arkady was reassigned to another site, and I stayed put. But by then we were already dating—going to cafés in the evenings, taking walks, Arkady dropping by my place. I earned enough to rent a spacious one-room apartment, furnished to my taste. Arkady still lived with his mother then, and he took me to meet her after proposing. Alevtina Dmitrievna turned out to be a rather pleasant, pretty woman well past fifty. Arkasha was her only son, and she loved him dearly.
When he was little, his father had honestly told his wife he’d met someone else and left my then-young future mother-in-law with a child in her arms. The relatives helped, of course, but even so, Alevtina Dmitrievna had a very hard time. She didn’t break, didn’t give up, didn’t complain—she did everything so her son would be clothed, shod, and educated. Arkady understood how much his mother had done for him and respected her, never refusing to help. That said, she didn’t often ask my husband for help; she usually managed on her own. Nor did she drop by our place too often. We were living in a rental, pouring all our energy and money into the house. My husband often told me I was too gullible, trusting, and naïve. I didn’t understand whom, in our family, I was supposed to distrust. My grandmother used to say being married is like going to church: if you believe, you should go; if you don’t, there’s no point. I believed in Arkady unconditionally, sure that our family was filled with the same respect and love my parents had.
But Arkady wasn’t like my father. Dad was always direct—he didn’t mince words, but he never harbored anything bad in his heart. My husband was flowery with words, and what he said didn’t always match what was behind them. Arkady called it “the art of being pleasant.” For instance, he would compliment our accountant Lenochka, though behind her back he always told me she was unattractive and even ridiculous.
Lately, my husband and I talked more and more about what finishes we’d choose for the house.
“I want a kitchen in yellow tones with big windowsills. I’ll keep plants, we’ll install a good range hood, order a kitchen set—I’m already looking at options,” I said at dinner.
I’d decided to treat us that day—I made turkey I’d marinated all night and day in soy sauce and honey. It came out with a fragrant, crisp golden crust. For a side I did vegetables stewed in sauce. Arkady had always loved to eat a lot and eat well, which didn’t hurt his figure at all given his active lifestyle.
“Look, I’m always looking at things too. I want a really compact entryway in the hall. There’s so much furniture out there now. I’m no cabinetmaker, but I think I could make it myself. Custom work is very expensive,” my husband said, happily keeping the conversation going.
We were planning to start the renovation and buy furniture the next month. The construction was almost entirely complete; something was still being finished in the boiler room, but that was small stuff. The grand part was done, and I was already dreaming about moving from our rental into our own spacious house. It’s so important to have a home that belongs to your family. Yes, of course, technically the house and land were in my husband’s name—he’d inherited them before our marriage—but between husband and wife everything is shared. That’s why, without a second’s doubt, I invested so much in this house. My mother-in-law never tired of praising me to my husband—how helpful I was, how readily I pitched in, how hard I worked and how much I earned.
Lately, every weekend, Alevtina Dmitrievna invited us for tea, baked pies, and asked with genuine interest about our plans.
“Arkasha, have another piece of pie; it turned out well this time,” my mother-in-law cooed.
“You really have a gift for baking, Alevtina Dmitrievna—your pies always turn out,” I said, paying a completely sincere compliment.
“Learn while I’m still alive! It’s not hard—I gave you the recipe,” the elderly woman smiled warmly at me.
“I’ve tried many times—I even weighed out the flour, salt, and sugar. But… it’s just not my talent.”
“You have other talents, Verochka. Don’t worry. My son is happy and at peace with you, and you built a house together. Without you he wouldn’t have managed at all. Building materials cost so much, and you paid for almost all of them.”
“Well, I never kept count of how much I put in. It’s ours—our children will grow up in this house,” I replied.
“Of course, Vera, of course. You’re thinking exactly right. My late husband Pyotr and I once dreamed of this house, but he’s gone, and I don’t need anything. At least you young ones will live there, and I’ll come visit and dote on my granddaughters.”
“Oh, Mom, it’s way too soon for grandkids! We need to finish the interiors now,” Arkady chimed in, polishing off another slice of pie.
The pie was exquisite. The crumbly crust melted in the mouth, and the cod fillet with rosemary inside was baked to perfection. I savored every bite, truly sorry I didn’t have the knack for baking such delicious things.
“I found some really beautiful wallpaper and a sofa. I spent ages on interior sites and sketched what I want,” I said, opening on my phone a picture of our bedroom design.
My mother-in-law kept smiling broadly, a little unnaturally. But my husband’s face suddenly hardened, and he declared:
“For the record, Vera, that house is mine alone. I inherited it from my father. So why are you butting in about the finishing?”
I was stunned.
“But we completed it together, and I’d like the renovation and furnishings to be to my taste…”
“You don’t have any taste. I’ll handle what goes where and how, got it?”
I fell silent, staring at my cup of half-drunk, already cold tea. A sudden chill came over me—hurt and bitterness that my husband had shown such an unseemly side.
“Arkasha, what are you saying? Vera is your wife, son—of course you’ll discuss everything later and choose together,” Alevtina Dmitrievna tried to defuse the tension.
I apologized and got up from the table. My husband, saying nothing more sharp, hurried home. Sitting in the car and buckling my seat belt, I looked out the window. Streetlights flickered across the evening city; a nasty fine autumn rain was falling. The charm of the season had already vanished—the golden leaves torn from the trees had turned to dirty mush underfoot. We drove in silence and went up to the apartment just as silently. I waited for a conversation, an apology, but Arkady, still keeping quiet, went into the shower.
He left his phone, as usual, on the kitchen table, and I couldn’t resist picking it up. No, I had never snooped before—I had never suspected my husband of anything. Trust was paramount. But right then my anxiety had grown so strong that I quickly typed in the passcode. His chat with his mother opened immediately.
“Mom, I can’t stand her anymore. She’s dull, uninteresting; she can’t put two words together, just looks at me with the devotion of a dog,” Arkady wrote to his mother. “I’ve put up with enough; now I want to split up with Vera.”
“Be patient—your little wifey will finish the house for us, and then you can leave,” I read in my mother-in-law’s message.
I nearly dropped the phone at what I saw in their chat. Tears blurred my eyes. I locked the screen, hurriedly texted my father that I was coming to them. My parents lived in a small town four hours away. Luckily, I had money. I ordered a taxi while my husband was still showering, got dressed in a rush, and threw the bare essentials into an overnight bag. I didn’t want to explain anything to him. Everything was perfectly clear as it was—I really had been too trusting. The trip cost a pretty penny, and I tried to doze in the car, but couldn’t—I was too upset.
Mom and Dad were awake, though it was long past midnight. They were waiting, peering anxiously at my face.
“Did he hurt you?” Dad asked right away.
“Let me change, we’ll pour strong tea, and I’ll tell you everything,” I said, shivering.
I was trembling from nerves; I wanted something hot, wanted to wrap myself in Mom’s cozy shawl, which she immediately handed me.
We talked until morning. I told my parents everything honestly, and they listened without interrupting. Dad’s friend was a top-notch lawyer, and Dad called him in the morning.
“Savelievich, hi! It’s Gena. My daughter just came from her husband. You won’t believe it…”
Dad told Ivan Savelievich what had happened between Arkady and me. The next day I filed for divorce and wrote to my husband about it. Arkady didn’t even bother to reply, which, frankly, made me feel better. I didn’t want scenes or fights.
Dad’s friend managed to prove I had invested in the house. By law, my former in-laws were ordered to repay all the sums I had spent on the construction. My husband sent me long, insulting texts, which I ignored. Mom and Dad were by my side and supported me. For a while I settled with them, changing my job, my social circle, and something inside myself. I wasn’t going to be so trusting again. Arkady taught me a very valuable lesson: trust, but verify.
I wasn’t in a hurry to start a new relationship. With the amount my ex paid me, I got an apartment—just enough for the bank’s down payment—and my parents chipped in for furniture and some minimal repairs. I happily furnished my cozy corner. Whatever happens, I now have my own place, which I’ll pay off little by little, and no one but me will have any rights to it. Even if I remarry and meet a good person, I’ll always have a fallback. I didn’t write off all men as unscrupulous, penny-pinching types, but I no longer looked at people with a childlike faith that everyone is good. As it turned out, people are different. You have to keep your guard up.
A couple of months after all the proceedings and repayments, Arkady vanished from my radar completely. My mother-in-law didn’t show up at all. Now I understood how falsely she had smiled at me, feigning sympathy. She needed my money—money her son lived on with me, putting up with me. For a while that shook my self-confidence—could anyone love me simply for who I am? My parents helped me with that, too.
“Do you really need love, daughter, from such a nasty, two-faced person?” my father asked me, and with that he saved me from doubt and self-reproach.
I don’t need it. I see that very clearly now, and I’m moving on, having learned from my previous marriage.
