Let’s spray your apartment through court! — husband was shaking the papers. But my face turned red when I said: great, we’ll tell you about my son there too
Svetlana was standing in the hallway of her own apartment, but she felt so, as if she had been in rush hour in the placard wagon of the Moscow-Adler train. It smelled of cheap tobacco and someone else’s, harsh perfume, which made it fart in the throat.
There was water buzzing in the bathroom, Regina, wife of the brother-in-law, was splashing there for forty minutes. Behind the thin door, a fake humming of a pop tune was heard.
She looked at her boots
They were thrown and moved to the very corner, and in their place were giant, trampled sneakers of Bones, the younger brother of her husband. There were boxes with some tools, bags with things that there is nowhere else to be put, and a bicycle for which she fought with her hip every morning.
She no longer sighed or complained to her friends on the phone by whispering, lock herself in the toilet. This stage was passed in the first two weeks. Now there is absolute silence inside. This is what happens before an audit check, when you know for sure that the balance won’t work out and you just wait for the moment to submit the documents.
She walked into the kitchen, it used to be her favorite place. Beige facades, perfectly clean stove, the smell of freshly ground coffee, now chaos reigned here.
At the stove, in her apron, stood Regina. She stirred something in the frying pan with redness, shouting with a metal spoon for the teflon coating. That sound cut through my nerves, like a knife through glass, but Svetlana’s face remained impenetrable.
— Oh, Holy Girl! Am I back? — Regina didn’t even turn around, continuing to tear the frying pan. — And we got hungry here. I decided to roast a cutlet, in a homemade way. Only if you had some lean minced meat, I added more bread and mayonnaise.
Svetlana quietly approached the spice cabinet, the door was open, turmeric spilled on the counter.
— Regina, where is the bank of Provane herbs? — Svetlana’s voice sounded exactly, without a single emotion.
— Oh, these ones ? — Regina waved a spoon, dropping drops of fat on the floor. — I threw them out. Light, to be honest, they smelled of bugs! I bought normal suneli hops, on the market, from Azerbaijanis. Now that’s the thing! And then you have something… tasteless.
Svetlana looked at a trash can. Above was a jar brought from France. There’s an empty mayonnaise package nearby.
In another situation, maybe a year ago she would have kept silent or, on the contrary, created a scandal, scream, cry demanding respect, but now she just nodded.
At that moment, her husband, Gennady, collapsed into the kitchen. The person she was going to do life with, have children and grow old with. He looked so pleased with himself. Evaporated, wearing a stretched tank top, scratched his belly and spat on a stool, which squeaked miserably.
The story continues here
Svetlana stood in the hallway of her own apartment, yet felt as if she had somehow ended up in a third-class train carriage on the Moscow–Adler route at rush hour. The air smelled of cheap tobacco and someone else’s harsh perfume that made her throat itch.
Water roared in the bathroom, where Regina, her brother-in-law’s wife, had already been splashing around for forty minutes. Through the thin door came the sound of her falsely humming some cheesy pop tune.
Svetlana looked down at her boots.
They had been crushed together and shoved into the far corner, and in their place lay Kostya’s giant, flattened sneakers—her husband’s younger brother. Nearby towered boxes of tools, bags of вещи that had nowhere else to go, and a bicycle she slammed her hip into every morning.
She no longer sighed or whispered complaints to her friends over the phone, locked in the toilet. That stage had passed in the first two weeks. Now there was absolute silence inside her. It was the kind of silence that comes before an audit, when you already know the balance sheet won’t add up, and you are simply waiting for the moment to present the documents.
She went into the kitchen. It had once been her favorite place. Beige cabinet fronts, a perfectly clean stove, the smell of freshly ground coffee—now chaos reigned there.
At the stove stood Regina, wearing Svetlana’s apron. She was viciously stirring something in a frying pan, clanging a metal spoon against the nonstick coating. The sound scraped at Svetlana’s nerves like a knife against glass, but her face remained unreadable.
“Oh, Svetochka! Back already?” Regina did not even turn around, continuing to torture the frying pan. “We got hungry here. So I decided to fry up some cutlets, nice and homemade. Though your ground meat was kind of lean, so I added more bread and a little mayo.”
Svetlana silently walked over to the spice cabinet. Its door was half-open, and turmeric had spilled across the countertop.
“Regina, where is the jar of herbes de Provence?” Svetlana’s voice was even, without a trace of emotion.
“Oh, those?” Regina waved the spoon, splattering drops of grease onto the floor. “I threw them out. Svet, honestly, they smelled like bedbugs! I bought proper khmeli-suneli at the market, from the Azerbaijanis. Now that’s the real thing! Yours was all kind of… tasteless.”
Svetlana looked at the trash can. On top lay her jar, the one she had brought back from France. Beside it was an empty mayonnaise package.
In another situation, maybe a year ago, she would have kept silent or, on the contrary, made a scene—yelling, crying, demanding respect. But now she simply nodded.
At that moment, her husband Gennady came lumbering into the kitchen. The man she had once planned to spend her life with, have children with, grow old with. He looked indecently pleased with himself. Steamed from the bath, in a stretched-out undershirt, he scratched his belly and plopped down onto a stool that squealed in protest.
“Oh, those smells!” Gena sniffed the air. “Regishka, you’re a miracle! Svetka is always steaming everything, no joy for the stomach.”
He winked at his wife as though inviting her to share in this happiness.
“Sit down, Svetulya, we’re about to have dinner. Family, after all! Everybody’s here. Kostya!” he bellowed toward the hallway. “Come eat!”
From the balcony—which Kostya had occupied as a home office, though he had been out of work for six months now—his younger brother crawled out.
“Coming,” he muttered. “The neighbors’ Wi-Fi cut out, barely finished my match. Svet, when are you going to pay for a decent plan? The speed sucks.”
Svetlana sat down at the table. In front of her they placed a plate with a greasy, burnt cutlet and macaroni swimming in oil.
She looked at Kostya, smacking his lips as he stared into his phone. At Regina, who with her mouth full was telling them how profitably she had bought a blouse at a sale—with money Gena had given her. At her husband, beaming, feeling like the benefactor and patriarch of a large clan.
“Three months,” Svetlana thought. “You’ve been living here for three months, eating through my food supplies. You’ve turned my apartment into a flop house, and you’re sure this is how it’s going to be forever.”
“Thank you, I’m not hungry,” she said quietly, pushing the plate away.
“Oh, come on, what, watching your figure?” Gena chuckled, stuffing his mouth. “Eat while they’re offering, in a big family, as they say…”
The real conversation happened on Friday.
The atmosphere in the apartment had been heating up, though outwardly everything looked like an idyll of parasites. Kostya had completely moved from the folding cot onto the living room sofa, claiming his back hurt less there. Regina had taken over a shelf in the bathroom with her tubes and bottles, pushing Svetlana’s creams onto the washing machine.
Genka came into the kitchen while Svetlana was washing dishes after dinner—the dinner where, once again, she had fed four people. He looked strangely serious, but his eyes kept darting about. That was how he looked when he wanted to ask for something he knew he would certainly be refused, but hoped to wear her down.
“Listen, Svetulya…” he began, sitting down at the table. “I’ve been thinking.”
Svetlana turned off the water and dried her hands on a towel.
“Thinking about what, Gena?”
“About us, about the future.” He spread his hands, pretending generosity of spirit. “We’re family, we’ve been married three years already. But we live… kind of strangely.”
“Strangely?” she repeated, looking straight at the bridge of his nose. “The four of us in a two-room apartment—that’s what you call strange? Or the fact that I’m supporting your brother and his wife?”
“Oh, why do you always start like this?” Gena grimaced. “Things are hard for them right now. Kostik is looking for work, you know the market is dead these days. We can’t just throw them out on the street, can we? Hang on a little longer.”
He was lying.
Svetlana could see it as clearly as the numbers in her annual report. Kostya was not looking for a job; he was looking for new levels in World of Tanks.
“That’s not the point,” Gena continued, clearly hurrying toward the real subject. “I mean the apartment. We should re-register it in both our names, as shared ownership.”
Svetlana did not even raise an eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Well…” Gena shifted in his seat. “I need to feel secure. I’m a man, the head of the family, I contribute to the household. I fixed the faucet last week, I carry groceries. But the apartment is only in your name. What if something happens and I end up on the street? That’s not fair, Svet.”
“What exactly is going to happen?”
“Life is long! Who knows… Maybe we’ll divorce, for example, or… well, things happen. I want to feel sure. It’s normal in a family—everything should be shared.”
Svetlana looked at his round face and shifty little eyes. He genuinely believed he had the right to demand it. And he sincerely thought that fixing a faucet and bringing home a bag of potatoes equaled his contribution to her multimillion-ruble property.
In the past, in that life where she had been patient little Svetochka, she would have started justifying herself. Explaining that she had paid off the mortgage with inheritance money. She would have felt guilty for being stingy. But now a different person stood before him.
“No,” she said shortly.
Gennady choked on air. The smile slid off his face, revealing something petulant underneath.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean exactly that. The apartment is mine from before the marriage. I’m not re-registering anything. End of discussion.”
“Svet, what’s wrong with you?” her husband’s voice rose. “You don’t trust me? Is this because of Kostik? Are you begrudging him a piece of bread?”
“What does Kostya have to do with it? We are talking about my property. I said no.”
She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving him sitting there with his mouth open. Behind her came outraged huffing and the sound of his palm slamming on the table. He was not a tyrant, just an ordinary opportunist who was used to being handed everything if he whined long enough.
On Sunday evening, Sveta sat down at her laptop. Not to investigate or dig up dirt. It was simply time to pay bills—it was the end of the month.
The apartment hummed with noise.
The television in the living room blared with the voice of a talk-show host. Regina laughed loudly on the phone. Kostya cursed at his teammates on the balcony while gaming.
Svetlana shut out the madhouse with headphones.
She opened the Excel file titled “Family Budget.” The numbers were grim. Grocery expenses had tripled, electricity had doubled, water had quadrupled—Regina loved baths. Svetlana sighed and opened the banking app. She and Gena had a shared budget—or at least that was what Gena called it. He had given her access to his card six months earlier, proudly declaring, “Everything’s transparent between us!”
True, there was usually no money on that card. Gena’s entire salary somehow evaporated into small expenses: coffee, gas, lunch. The big purchases always fell on Svetlana’s shoulders.
She glanced over her husband’s statement as usual, to enter the data into the spreadsheet. Pyaterochka—300 rubles. Lukoil—1,500 rubles.
Transfer to a bank client. A. K. — 12,000 rubles.
Her finger froze over the keyboard.
A strange amount, and unfamiliar initials. Kostya? No, he was Konstantin Yuryevich. His mother? Maria Ivanovna. Maybe he had repaid a debt?
Svetlana scrolled down.
Two weeks earlier. A. K. — 10,000 rubles.
A month earlier. A. K. — 15,000 rubles.
Svetlana set a filter by recipient for the past year.
The screen flickered, and before her appeared a neat column.
The transfers had gone out regularly, twice a month, on the fifth and the twentieth. The amounts varied, but they were always substantial.
The total at the bottom of the table made her eyes widen.
One and a half million rubles.
Over fourteen months, her husband had transferred one and a half million rubles to some unknown A. K.
Svetlana leaned back in her chair and removed her headphones. The TV was still shouting. Kostya was still swearing.
While she had been economizing, carrying the utilities on her back, feeding his brother, and enduring the stench of cheap spices in her kitchen, her husband—the one who “contributed to the household” by fixing faucets—had been supporting someone on the side. She felt no pain. Pain is for people who still have hope. Svetlana had no hope left.
Getting hold of her husband’s phone was easy.
Gena was showering—the line had finally reached him—and his phone lay charging in the bedroom. She knew the password.
She opened the banking app and tapped the latest transfer. “Message to recipient: For the little one’s jacket.”
The little one.
Svetlana exited the banking app and opened social media. There was no A. K. among Gena’s friends.
But the transfers had been made to a phone number, so she entered the number into the messenger search.
There was the profile picture.
A flashy blonde with duck lips, posing unnaturally. And beside her, a boy about five years old.
Sveta zoomed in on the photo.
There could be no doubt. The same potato-shaped nose, the same protruding ears, the same stubborn chin—it was a little Gena.
She put the phone back.
And went out onto the balcony.
Kostya jerked in fright, hiding his cigarette—though smoking on the balcony was forbidden—but Svetlana did not even look at him.
She was staring at the night city.
The child was five, and they had been married for three years. Which meant the child had existed before her, or at the same time.
What mattered now was that he had lied every day, looking her in the eyes. Told her there was no money, that they needed to save. Brought his relatives into the house so they could live off his wife, because he was sending his own money to another family. This was not infidelity. This was financial fraud stretched out over three years. And she knew exactly how to close the books on it.
Monday evening.
Sveta came home from work earlier than usual, a folder of documents in her hands.
The apartment smelled of fried fish. The odor had soaked into the curtains and wallpaper.
Gennady sat on the couch watching soccer.
“Oh, there you are!” he said without even turning his head. “Hey, Svet, we’re out of beer in the fridge. Run and get some, will you?”
“Come into the kitchen,” she said, but there was something in her voice that made Gena switch off the TV at once. He entered the kitchen warily.
“What happened? Car break down? Need money? I’m broke right now, you know that…”
“Sit down.”
He sat.
Svetlana placed the first sheet in front of him: a printout of the bank statement. Yellow highlighter marked the lines: A. K. — 15,000. A. K. — 12,000.
Gennady looked at the paper. At first he did not understand. Then he squinted, and suddenly his face flooded deep red, the color spreading from his neck to his ears.
“This… what is this? You were snooping through my accounts?” He tried to go on the attack, but his voice trembled.
Svetlana laid down the second sheet: a color photo of the blonde woman and the boy, a miniature copy of Gena.
Silence hung in the air. You could hear Regina shuffling in slippers in the hallway.
Gennady deflated like a punctured balloon. All his swagger and pretended importance disappeared. Sitting before Svetlana now was a frightened little thief caught red-handed.
“Svet… come on… This is an old story… It was before us…”
“One and a half million, Gena. In a little over a year. Out of our shared budget. While I was paying the utilities and feeding your whole horde of relatives. You were stealing money from me and sending it there.”
“I was helping my child!” he shrieked. “I’m his father, I have to!”
“You should have told me the truth three years ago.”
“You would have left me!” burst out of him.
“Possibly. And maybe I’d have saved myself three years of life and a pile of money.”
Gennady jumped up. Fear gave way to aggression.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?! Counting money, are you? I… I have rights! We’re married!”
He darted into the hallway, rustled through a bag, and came back with some crumpled papers.
“Here! I went to a lawyer! Free consultation!” He shook the papers in front of her face. “The mortgage was paid during the marriage! I’m entitled to a share! If we can’t settle this nicely, we’ll split your little kennel through the courts!”
Svetlana looked at him and felt not fear, but disgust. What a cheap little man he was.
“Go ahead,” she said calmly.
“What?” Gena was stunned. He had expected tears and pleading.
“Go ahead and sue, Gena. I’m a chief accountant. I’ve got every move documented. The apartment was bought with premarital funds. The remaining mortgage was paid off with money from the sale of my Aunt Vera’s apartment. The court won’t award you a single centimeter.”
Gennady opened his mouth, grasping for air.
“But that’s not all,” she said with a smile, and that smile made Gena go cold. “You want court? Excellent. Your son and all those gray-market transfers will come out there too. I’ll personally make sure the tax authorities and the bailiffs find out about your income. Alina will be thrilled—official child support is 25% of your full salary. And if she files for a fixed amount retroactively…” She tilted her head. “You’ll be left without your pants, Gena.”
Something creaked in the kitchen doorway. They both turned.
Kostya stood there in nothing but boxers and a T-shirt. He had come for water—and heard all of it.
“Gena…” His voice went hoarse. “Is it true?”
Gennady said nothing.
“You have a son? And you kept quiet?” Kostya took a step forward. “And we… we’ve been living here… off Sveta? While you…”
Kostya turned to look at Svetlana. There was shame in his eyes. He was lazy and brazen, but he had at least some notion of honor. Living off a deceived woman while his brother funneled money elsewhere—that was beyond the pale.
“Get your things together, Regina,” Kostya said dully, without turning around.
“What? Where? It’s night!” squealed his wife, sticking her head out of the room.
“I said pack up!” Kostya roared so loudly the glass rattled. “We’re leaving right now.”
They moved out within an hour.
Kostya did not even say goodbye to his brother. At the door he only muttered to Svetlana, “Sorry. I didn’t know.”
Svetlana closed the door behind them and turned the lock twice.
Gennady remained.
He lasted another three weeks. They were the strangest three weeks of his life.
Svetlana did not throw him out and did not make scenes. She simply stopped noticing him.
She disconnected his number from the family mobile plan.
She changed the Wi-Fi password.
The fridge held only her food: yogurt, vegetables, a piece of cheese. His shelf was empty.
She cooked for one person only. Washed only her own clothes.
Gena would come home from work, wander around the apartment, try to speak, but run into a wall of silence. Svetlana looked right through him.
Living with a person for whom you did not exist turned out to be more terrifying than living with the most hysterical wife. He broke on Saturday morning. He realized the free feeding trough was closed forever, and life like this was impossible.
Silently he packed his bags. Svetlana was drinking coffee on the balcony and did not even turn her head when the front door slammed.
The final full stop was placed not at home.
Gennady came out of the notary’s office staggering like a drunk.
The gray-haired notary in glasses had taken exactly five minutes to explain the situation to him.
“Your wife is absolutely right, young man. Premarital property. Targeted funds. You have no chance whatsoever of dividing the assets. You’ll only waste money on court fees and lawyers.”
Gennady stood outside while the autumn wind cut through him to the bone.
He had no money. He could not afford to rent an apartment in the center—too expensive. He would have to look for a room in some bug-infested dump on the outskirts.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
A notification from the government services portal. Court order: child support collection.
Alina had not waited. As soon as she learned that the plan to squeeze the apartment out of Svetlana had failed—and rumors spread fast—she immediately went to court.
Now a third of his salary would officially fly out every month. Add debts and rent, and he would be left with pennies to live on.
He dialed his mother’s number. He needed support. Somebody had to feel sorry for him.
“Hello, Mom…”
“Don’t call me!” Maria Ivanovna’s voice shook with rage. “Kostya told me everything! Idiot! You let a woman like that slip away! Turns out you have a son! You hid my grandson from me! For five years! Ugh!”
The line went dead. Gennady lowered his hand. People passed by him, no one paying him any attention.
He had built this trap himself and walked right into it.
And Svetlana sat in her kitchen.
It smelled of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon—real cinnamon, not the chemical trash Regina used to like.
The balcony was clean.
Yesterday she had thrown out all the junk. Now there was a wicker chair and a small table there.
She opened the banking app and transferred part of her salary into a savings account. The amount was growing.
Now that she no longer had to feed three adult parasites, money was accumulating with astonishing speed.
The price of experience: three years of life and one and a half million rubles.
“A bit expensive,” Svetlana thought, taking a sip of coffee. “But freedom is worth it.”
She looked out the window. The sky had cleared, and the sun had come out.
At nineteen, she had signed away her claim to an apartment for the sake of family—her parents had pressured her—because she was afraid of being the bad one. At thirty, she had given three years of her life to a man who did not deserve it, for the same reason.
She would never sign anything away again. And she would never endure any of this again.
Life was only beginning, and this time—it would be on her terms.
