“Son, I’m closer family to you than that little nobody, aren’t I? We’ll saddle her with loans and throw her out of the apartment!” the mother-in-law declared.
“Get out of here before I throw your rags onto the stairwell!” Valentina Pavlovna’s voice rang through the entire apartment so loudly that the neighbors must have heard. “Do you think I don’t see how you’re deceiving him? All you know how to do is spend my money!”
Anna stood in the bedroom doorway, holding a bag of groceries. Tomatoes and cucumbers for the salad she had planned to make for dinner. An ordinary Tuesday evening. She had come home from work, stopped by the store—and now this.
“Valentina Pavlovna, I don’t understand…” she began, but her mother-in-law did not let her finish.
“You don’t understand?!” The woman stepped closer, and Anna involuntarily backed toward the wall. “You stole my whole life! You took my Sergey away from me, and now you’re giving orders in my apartment too!”
Something tightened in Anna’s stomach. Again. These accusations again, that look full of hatred again. Five years—five years she had endured it, tried to build a relationship, but every time it was the same thing. The soup was under-salted, the floors were badly washed, she was talking too loudly on the phone.
“I’ll make dinner now,” Anna said quietly, walking past her mother-in-law into the kitchen. The bag trembled in her hands.
“Cook, cook!” Valentina Pavlovna snorted, following her. “You’ll make food for the whole family, but who paid for it? I did! My pension!”
Anna silently began placing the groceries on the table. Sergey would come home in an hour—he was staying late at a meeting today. She just had to wait. He would smooth everything over, as usual. Calm his mother down, say something to her… although lately he had been keeping silent more and more often, shrugging and saying, “Well, that’s just how Mom is, you know.”
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Her mother-in-law’s hand landed on Anna’s shoulder, turning her around. Valentina Pavlovna was a short but sturdy woman. In her youth, judging by the photos on the wall, she had been beautiful—dark-haired, with regular features. Now her face was twisted with anger, the fine wrinkles had deepened, her eyes narrowed.
“I’m listening to you,” Anna replied, trying to remain calm.
“My son said yesterday that he needs to take out a loan. For a car. And I said to him, ‘Seryozhenka, why do you need a loan? I have money, I saved some.’ And he said, ‘No, Mom, I don’t need your money.’ You turned him against me!” Her mother-in-law’s finger jabbed Anna in the chest. “You want him drowning in debt, don’t you?”
Anna felt something inside her begin to boil. Yesterday Sergey really had talked about a car. Their old Lada was barely alive, and they needed a new vehicle. But what did his mother have to do with it? She and Sergey had discussed everything themselves and decided to take out a loan because his salary would cover the payments.
“We decided that ourselves,” she forced out. “Valentina Pavlovna, we’re adults…”
“Adults!” her mother-in-law burst out laughing. “Adults, you say? You live in my apartment, on my territory, and yet here you are—adults!”
That was true, and Anna knew it. The apartment really did belong to Valentina Pavlovna. A three-room apartment on the outskirts of the city, in an old panel building. When she and Sergey got married, he had immediately said, “We’ll live with Mom for now, save up, then move out.” Five years had passed. No savings. First the wedding, then renovations in this very apartment, then Sergey’s bonuses at work were cut…
“I’ll go to Seryozha’s work,” Anna said, putting the tomatoes back into the bag. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Stop!” The shout was sharp. “You’re not going anywhere! You’ll make dinner, I said!”
But Anna had already thrown on her jacket and stepped into the hallway. She needed to leave. Right now. Otherwise she would not hold back; she would snap and say things that could never be taken back.
Outside, the air was fresh—early October, not cold yet, but already carrying the breath of autumn. Anna walked quickly, almost running through the familiar courtyards. Past the playground where she and Sergey sometimes sat on a bench in the summer. Past the grocery store where she had just bought those wretched tomatoes. Past the bus stop. Where should she go? To Seryozha’s work? No, that was stupid. He was at a meeting, and anyway, what would it look like—his wife running to complain about his mother? To her parents? They lived on the other side of town, and what would she tell them? Her mother would start lamenting, her father would frown and say, “You chose him yourself, so deal with it yourself.”
Anna stopped near a small public garden. It was quiet there and smelled of damp fallen leaves. A few benches, old maple trees, swings no one was using now. She sat down and took out her phone. Three missed calls from Valentina Pavlovna. She did not listen to what had been said.
How tired she was. Tired of waking up every morning with the thought, “What will my mother-in-law come up with today?” Tired of explaining herself, keeping silent, swallowing insults. Tired of feeling like a stranger in the place that was supposed to have become her home.
Her phone vibrated—a call from Sergey.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Anya, where are you?” Her husband’s voice sounded worried. “Mom called. She said you ran away, that she accidentally hurt your feelings…”
Accidentally.
“Seryozh, I need to talk to you,” Anna said. “Seriously.”
“Let’s do it at home. I’m already leaving. Twenty minutes and I’ll be there.”
“No. Not at home. Let’s meet at the café on Central Street, remember? Where we used to meet?”
A pause.
“All right,” he finally agreed. “Wait for me there.”
Anna caught a taxi—she did not have the strength to walk across the whole city. The driver was silent, and she was grateful to him for it. She looked out the window at the streets, houses, and people drifting past. How many were there like her? Women who endured, stayed silent, and hoped everything would somehow fix itself?
The café was half-empty—not the season for the summer terrace, and inside there were only a few tables occupied. Anna ordered tea and sat by the window. Seryozha appeared fifteen minutes later—tall, slightly overweight, in his eternal black jacket. His face looked tired, with shadows under his eyes.
“What happened?” He sat down opposite her without even taking off his coat. “Mom says you yelled at her.”
“I didn’t yell,” Anna replied calmly. “I didn’t say anything at all. I left because I can’t do this anymore.”
“Anya, come on, Mom didn’t mean anything bad…”
“Seryozh,” she looked him in the eyes, “your mother just accused me of turning you against her. Because of the car loan. The one we decided together to take.”
He looked away.
“Well, she’s worried. She thinks we’re wasting money…”
“What money, Seryozh?” Anna’s voice became firmer. “We both work. We both bring money into the home. We pay the utilities, buy groceries. What am I wasting?”
“That’s not what she meant…”
“Then what did she mean when she called me a little nobody?” The question hung in the air. “Or when she said I stole her life from her? Or when…”
“Anna,” he took her hand, “let’s not. Mom is old and lonely. It’s hard for her.”
Old. Lonely. It was hard for her. But wasn’t it hard for Anna too?
“Seryozh, I can’t live like this anymore,” she said quietly. “Do you understand? I simply can’t.”
Something flashed in his eyes—fear? anxiety?—but he quickly composed himself.
“What are you suggesting?”
“That we move out. Rent an apartment. At least a one-room place. Somewhere.”
He was silent. Silent for a long time. Then he shook his head.
“Now isn’t the time. We’re planning to take out a car loan, there’s no extra money. Let’s endure a little longer, all right?”
Endure. A little longer.
At that exact moment, Anna understood: he would not change. Never. His mother would always come first.
Everything changed a week later. On Saturday morning, Nikolai Stepanovich called—Valentina Pavlovna’s younger brother, with whom she had not spoken for about ten years. Anna overheard the conversation by accident because her mother-in-law had put it on speakerphone.
“Valya, Tamara Fyodorovna has died,” the man’s voice sounded muffled. “Our aunt. They already buried her on Thursday.”
“And what do I care?” Valentina Pavlovna snapped, but Anna noticed her fingers tremble around the phone.
“She left a will. To the two of us—you and me. An apartment in the center. Come to the notary on Monday. I’ll send you the address.”
After that call, her mother-in-law wandered around all day as if lost. She would go to the window, then grab her phone again. In the evening, when Sergey came back from a friend’s dacha, she rushed to him.
“Seryozhenka, son! Can you imagine, Aunt Toma died! She left an apartment to me and Kolya!”
“What aunt?” Sergey did not even lift his head from his phone.
“Tamara Fyodorovna! Mom’s sister! The one who lived in the center, on Pushkinskaya Street! Remember, I showed you that beautiful building?”
Anna stood at the stove, stirring soup, and listened. Pushkinskaya Street. That was the most prestigious district. Apartments there cost a fortune.
“Mom, so what?” Sergey finally put his phone down. “Uncle Kolya is also an heir, right?”
“Well, yes, half and half. But still! This is…” Valentina Pavlovna stopped short, her gaze sliding toward Anna. “Seryozh, come on, let’s talk.”
They shut themselves in her mother-in-law’s room. Anna turned off the stove and remained standing in the kitchen, looking out the window. Down below, a young mother was walking with a stroller. She was rocking it back and forth, singing something softly. How much Anna wanted to be in her place—with a child, with a normal family, without this constant tension.
The bedroom door opened.
“Anya, come here,” Sergey called.
She entered. Valentina Pavlovna was sitting on the bed, her face pleased, even sly. Sergey stood by the window.
“Listen, we discussed it,” he began. “Mom will receive the inheritance, the apartment. But there’s Uncle Kolya too, and in general… Basically, Mom will need to take out loans.”
“What loans?” Anna did not understand.
“Well, to pay Uncle Kolya for his half. He’s willing to sell his share, but we don’t have that kind of money. So Mom says we can take out a loan in your name.”
Anna felt her back go cold.
“In my name? Why?… To be continued below in the first comment.”
“Get out of here before I throw your rags onto the stairwell!” Valentina Pavlovna’s voice rang through the entire apartment so loudly that the neighbors must have heard. “Do you think I don’t see how you’re deceiving him? All you know how to do is spend my money!”
Anna stood in the bedroom doorway, holding a grocery bag. Tomatoes and cucumbers for the salad she had planned to make for dinner. An ordinary Tuesday evening. She had come home from work, stopped by the store—and now this.
“Valentina Pavlovna, I don’t understand…” she began, but her mother-in-law did not let her finish.
“You don’t understand?!” The woman stepped closer, and Anna involuntarily backed up against the wall. “You stole my whole life! You took my Sergey away from me, and now you’re trying to rule in my apartment too!”
Something tightened in Anna’s stomach. Again. Again these accusations, this look full of hatred. Five years—five years she had endured it, tried to build a relationship, but every time it was the same. Either the soup was not salty enough, or the floors were badly washed, or she was speaking too loudly on the phone.
“I’ll make dinner now,” Anna said quietly, slipping past her mother-in-law toward the kitchen. The bag trembled in her hands.
“Go on, cook!” Valentina Pavlovna snorted, following her. “You’ll cook food for the whole family, but who paid for it? I did! My pension!”
Anna silently began taking the groceries out onto the table. Sergey would be home in an hour—he was staying late at a meeting today. She just had to wait. He would settle everything, as usual. Calm his mother down, say something to her… although lately he had more and more often stayed silent, shrugging: “Well, that’s just how Mom is, you know.”
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” Her mother-in-law’s hand landed on Anna’s shoulder, turning her around. Valentina Pavlovna was a short but sturdy woman. In her youth, judging by the photographs on the wall, she had been beautiful—dark-haired, with regular features. Now her face was twisted with anger, the fine wrinkles deepened, her eyes narrowed.
“I’m listening to you,” Anna replied, trying to stay calm.
“My son told me yesterday that he needs to take out a loan. For a car. And I told him, ‘Seryozhenka, why do you need a loan? I have money. I saved it.’ And he said, ‘No, Mom, I don’t need your money.’ You turned him against me!” Her mother-in-law jabbed a finger into Anna’s chest. “You want him buried in debt, don’t you?”
Anna felt something inside her begin to boil. Yesterday Sergey really had talked about a car. Their old “nine” was barely running, and they needed a new vehicle. But what did his mother have to do with it? She and Sergey had discussed everything themselves and decided to take out a loan because his salary would cover the payments.
“We decided it ourselves,” she forced out. “Valentina Pavlovna, we are adults…”
“Adults!” her mother-in-law burst out laughing. “Adults, you say? You live in my apartment, on my territory, and still you call yourselves adults!”
It was true, and Anna knew it. The apartment really did belong to Valentina Pavlovna. A three-room apartment on the outskirts of the city, in an old panel building. When she and Sergey got married, he had immediately said, “We’ll live with Mom for now, save up, then move out.” Five years had passed. No savings. First the wedding, then renovations in this very apartment, then Sergey’s bonuses at work were cut…
“I’ll go to Seryozha’s workplace,” Anna said, putting the tomatoes back into the bag. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Stop!” The shout was sharp. “You’re not going anywhere! You’ll make dinner, I said!”
But Anna had already thrown on her jacket and stepped into the hallway. She needed to leave. Right now. Otherwise she would not hold back, would snap, would say things that could never be fixed later.
Outside, the air was fresh—early October, not cold yet, but autumn’s breath could already be felt. Anna walked quickly, almost running through the familiar courtyards. Past the playground where she and Sergey sometimes sat on a bench in the summer. Past the grocery store where she had just bought those unfortunate tomatoes. Past the bus stop.
Where should she go? To Seryozha’s work? No, that was stupid. He was in a meeting, and besides, how would that look—a wife running in to complain about her mother-in-law? To her parents? They lived on the other side of town, and what would she tell them? Her mother would start lamenting, her father would frown and say, “You chose him yourself, so deal with it yourself.”
Anna stopped near a small square. It was quiet there and smelled of damp fallen leaves. A few benches, old maple trees, swings that no one was using now. She sat down and took out her phone. Three missed calls from Valentina Pavlovna. She did not listen to whatever had been said.
She was so tired. Tired of waking up every morning with the thought: “What will my mother-in-law come up with today?” Tired of justifying herself, staying silent, swallowing insults. Tired of feeling like a stranger in the place that was supposed to become her home.
The phone vibrated—a call from Sergey.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Anya, where are you?” her husband’s voice sounded worried. “Mom called. She said you ran away, that she accidentally offended you…”
Accidentally.
“Seryozh, I need to talk to you,” Anna said. “Seriously.”
“Let’s do it at home. I’m already leaving. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“No. Not at home. Let’s meet at the café on Central Street, remember, where we used to meet?”
A pause.
“All right,” he finally agreed. “Wait for me there.”
Anna caught a taxi—she did not have the strength to walk across the whole city. The driver was silent, and she was grateful for that. She looked out the window at the streets, houses, and people drifting past. How many women were there like her? Women who endured, stayed silent, hoped everything would somehow fix itself?
The café was half-empty—not the season for the summer terrace, and only a few tables were occupied inside. Anna ordered tea and sat by the window. Seryozha appeared fifteen minutes later—tall, slightly overweight, in his ever-present black jacket. His face was tired, with shadows under his eyes.
“What happened?” He sat down across from her without even taking off his jacket. “Mom says you shouted at her.”
“I didn’t shout,” Anna answered calmly. “I said almost nothing at all. I left because I can’t take it anymore.”
“Anya, Mom didn’t mean it maliciously…”
“Seryozh,” she looked him in the eyes, “your mother just accused me of turning you against her. Because of the car loan. The one we decided to take out together.”
He looked away.
“Well, she’s worried. She thinks we’re wasting money…”
“What money, Seryozh?” Anna’s voice grew firmer. “We both work. We both bring money into the house. We pay utilities, buy groceries. What exactly am I wasting?”
“That’s not what she meant…”
“And what did she mean when she called me a shabby nobody?” The question hung in the air. “Or when she said I stole her life from her? Or when…”
“Anna,” he took her hand, “let’s not. Mom is old and lonely. It’s hard for her.”
Old. Lonely. It was hard for her. But what about Anna—wasn’t it hard for her too?
“Seryozh, I can’t live like this anymore,” she said quietly. “Do you understand? I simply can’t.”
Something flickered in his eyes—fear? concern?—but he quickly pulled himself together.
“What are you suggesting?”
“That we move out. Rent an apartment. Even a one-room place. Somewhere.”
He said nothing. He was silent for a long time. Then he shook his head.
“This isn’t the right time. We’re about to take out a car loan, and there’s no spare money. Let’s endure a little longer?”
Endure. A little longer.
At that exact moment, Anna understood: he would not change. Never. His mother would always matter more.
Everything changed a week later. On Saturday morning, Nikolai Stepanovich called—Valentina Pavlovna’s younger brother, with whom she had not spoken for about ten years. Anna accidentally heard the conversation because her mother-in-law had turned on speakerphone.
“Valya, Tamara Fyodorovna died,” the man’s voice sounded hollow. “Our aunt. She was buried on Thursday.”
“And what is that to me?” Valentina Pavlovna snapped, but Anna noticed how her fingers trembled on the phone.
“She left a will. To the two of us—you and me. An apartment downtown. Come to the notary on Monday. I’ll send you the address.”
After that call, her mother-in-law spent the whole day wandering around like a lost soul. She went to the window, then grabbed her phone again. In the evening, when Sergey returned from a friend’s dacha, she rushed to him.
“Seryozhenka, son! Can you imagine, Aunt Toma died! She left us an apartment with Kolya!”
“What aunt?” Sergey did not even raise his head from his phone.
“Tamara Fyodorovna! Mom’s sister! The one who lived downtown, on Pushkinskaya Street! Remember, I showed you that beautiful building?”
Anna stood at the stove, stirring soup, and listened. Pushkinskaya. That was the most prestigious district. Apartments there cost a fortune.
“Mom, so what?” Sergey finally put his phone aside. “Uncle Kolya is an heir too, isn’t he?”
“Well, yes, half and half. But still! It’s…” Valentina Pavlovna faltered, her gaze sliding toward Anna. “Seryozh, come on, let’s talk.”
They shut themselves in her mother-in-law’s room. Anna turned off the stove and remained standing in the kitchen, looking out the window. Down below, a young mother was walking with a stroller. She rocked it back and forth, humming something. How badly Anna wanted to be in her place—with a child, with a normal family, without this constant tension.
The room door swung open.
“Anya, come here,” Sergey called.
She entered. Valentina Pavlovna sat on the bed, her face pleased, even sly. Sergey stood by the window.
“Listen, we discussed it,” he began. “Mom is going to receive an inheritance, the apartment. But there’s also Uncle Kolya, and in general… Basically, Mom will need to take out loans.”
“What loans?” Anna did not understand.
“Well, to pay Uncle Kolya for his half. He’s willing to sell his share, but we don’t have that kind of money. So Mom says we can take out a loan in your name.”
Anna felt her back go cold.
“In my name? Why?”
“Because Mom is already old; they won’t approve her,” Valentina Pavlovna stood and came closer. Her voice was almost affectionate—for the first time in five years. “Annushka, you understand, it’s for the family. The apartment will be ours. Later it will go to Seryozhenka.”
“But I… I can’t take out a loan for that amount,” Anna muttered.
“You can, you can!” Her mother-in-law took her hands. “You work, your salary is official. The bank will approve it. And we’ll all pay together. Seryozha will help, and I’ll add from my pension.”
Sergey was silent. He simply stood there and looked out the window.
“Seryozh?” Anna called to him. “What do you say?”
He turned, shrugged.
“Well, it’s not a bad option. An apartment downtown is a completely different thing. Later we’ll sell it and buy something better.”
“Son, I’m closer to you than this…” Valentina Pavlovna stopped herself, but Anna understood what she had wanted to say. “Than some outsider. We’ll load… I mean, we’ll arrange the loan, and we’ll start living a new life!”
Anna pulled her hands away.
“No,” she said firmly. “I will not take out a loan.”
“What do you mean, you won’t?!” her mother-in-law’s voice immediately hardened. “Don’t you value your family? We took you in, feed you, and you…”
“Mom, don’t,” Sergey tried to intervene, but Valentina Pavlovna was already in full swing.
“You’ve been living off me for five years! For five years I’ve endured your presence! And now, when we finally have a chance to live properly, you refuse to help?!”
“This isn’t help,” Anna felt something hot and uncontrollable rising inside her. “This is a trap. You want to hang debts around my neck, and then what? Then you’ll say thank you and throw me out?”
“Oh, who is going to throw you out?” her mother-in-law said indignantly. “What do you take us for?”
“I think what I see,” Anna’s voice trembled. “You hate me. Every day. Every minute. You call me a shabby nobody, accuse me of every sin, and now you want to put loans in my name too. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Anna!” Sergey barked. “What are you talking about? What hatred?”
“Ask your dear mommy,” she turned toward the door. “Ask her what she calls me when you’re not home.”
Valentina Pavlovna turned pale.
“Seryozha, I never… She’s lying! She’s making it all up!”
But Anna had already left. She grabbed her bag, her jacket, and rushed out onto the stairwell. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt as if it would leap out of her chest.
Her phone was exploding with calls—first Sergey, then Valentina Pavlovna again. Anna muted it and walked without direction. Anywhere, as long as she did not have to go back there.
She reached the metro station and went down. She boarded the first train that came. She rode in silence, looking at her reflection in the dark glass. A tired woman with extinguished eyes. When had she become like that?
At the last station, she got out and kept walking—through unfamiliar streets, past unfamiliar buildings. It was a different district, a residential one, with high-rises and a shopping center. She went into a café and ordered coffee. She sat in the far corner.
Her phone vibrated—a message from an unknown number. She opened it.
“Hello, this is Nikolai Stepanovich, Valentina’s brother. Seryozha gave me your number. Can we meet? I need to tell you something. About the inheritance and about my sister.”
Anna stared at the screen for a long time. Then she typed back:
“All right. Where and when?”
Nikolai Stepanovich turned out to be the complete opposite of his sister. A short, thin man with kind wrinkles around his eyes. They met in the same shopping center where Anna had been drinking coffee—he had suggested the place himself.
“Thank you for agreeing,” he said, sitting across from her and placing a worn folder on the table. “You know, I haven’t spoken to Valentina for ten years. Since that incident.”
“What incident?” Anna asked cautiously.
Nikolai Stepanovich opened the folder and took out an old photograph. In it was a young Valentina Pavlovna—beautiful, laughing, in a white dress. Beside her stood a tall man in a military uniform.
“This is her first husband. Igor. Seryozha’s father died when the boy was three.” He paused. “And this is his sister. My wife. She was my wife.”
He showed another photograph. A fair-haired woman with an open face.
“Katya died eight years ago. Cancer.” His voice trembled. “Before her death, she told me everything. About Valentina. About how my sister drove Igor to drink. How she poisoned him with words, saying he earned too little, that she deserved better. He died drunk behind the wheel. And Valya told everyone what an unfortunate widow she was.”
Anna listened, unable to say a word.
“Katya asked me not to let Valentina ruin Seryozha’s life. But I didn’t know how. The boy grew up under her wing and worshipped his mother.” Nikolai Stepanovich looked Anna in the eyes. “And then he married you. Before she died, Katya told me, ‘Kolya, if Valya finds a way to hurt his wife, she’ll do it. She cannot share. She never could.’”
“Why are you telling me this?” Anna whispered.
“Because Aunt Tamara did not leave that will by accident.” He took a document from the folder. “She knew what Valentina was like. And she wrote this: the apartment is divided between me and her, but with a condition. Valentina receives her share only if, within one month, she provides proof that she has normal relations with her son’s family. If not, her share goes entirely to me.”
“What do you mean—proof?”
“A joint statement from her son and daughter-in-law. That they live in harmony, that his mother supports them. The notary must speak with both of you personally.” Nikolai Stepanovich gave a faint smile. “Aunt Toma was a wise woman. She kept in touch with Valya until the end and knew everything about you. She decided to give you a chance.”
Anna was silent. Thoughts raced through her head, one faster than the next.
“So if I tell the notary the truth…”
“Valentina gets nothing. And I get the entire apartment.” He put the documents back into the folder. “But do you know the most interesting part? I’m going to offer you a loan too.”
Anna’s heart dropped.
“Only not on her terms.” Nikolai Stepanovich smiled. “I’ll sell the apartment once I receive it. And I’ll give half the money to you. As a gift. So you can start a new life. Buy your own place. Leave Valentina. You didn’t deserve what she put you through.”
“But why… why would you do that?”
“Because I couldn’t help Igor. I couldn’t save him from my sister.” Tears shone in his eyes. “But I can help you. And maybe Seryozha too. When he’s left without his mommy’s wing over him, maybe he’ll finally open his eyes.”
Anna sat there, unable to move. It all felt like a dream. Could it really be true? Could there really be a way out?
“I need to think,” she forced out.
“Of course. You have a week. Then the meeting with the notary.” He stood and handed her a business card. “Call me when you decide.”
Anna returned home late that evening. Sergey was sitting in the kitchen with red eyes. Valentina Pavlovna was not there—she had gone to a friend’s, he said.
“Anya, forgive me,” he stood and tried to hug her, but she stepped away. “I didn’t know Mom treated you like that… I really didn’t know.”
“You knew,” Anna said quietly. “You just didn’t want to see it.”
He lowered his head.
“What do we do now?”
Anna looked at him—at this man she had once loved. Perhaps still loved. But love was not enough. Love did not keep you warm when you were alone against the whole world.
“I’m going to the notary in a week,” she said. “And I will tell the truth. The whole truth about how your mother tormented me for five years. She won’t receive the inheritance. And you and I are getting divorced.”
“Anna, no!” He grabbed her hands. “Please! I’ll change! We’ll move out, I’ll talk to Mom…”
“It’s too late, Seryozh.” She freed her hands. “You know, your uncle offered me money. Just like that. So I can start my life over. And I’m going to accept. Because I deserve to be happy.”
She went into the bedroom, took out a suitcase, and began packing her things. Sergey stood in the doorway and watched. Silently. He did not even try to stop her. And that was the scariest part—he simply watched her leave his life.
“Mom will be furious,” he muttered.
“Let her be,” Anna closed the suitcase. “I’m not afraid of her fury anymore.”
She left the apartment and, for the first time in five years, felt relief. The stairwell smelled fresh—someone had washed the floors. Outside, a light rain was falling, but Anna did not care.
She took out her phone and dialed Nikolai Stepanovich’s number.
“I agree. When is the meeting with the notary?”
And in that very second, she understood: sometimes justice comes from where you least expect it. Not with thunder and lightning, not as great revenge. But as a quiet phone call on a rainy evening from a person who simply decided to do the right thing.
