“You’ve found someone else… and now your mother wants to throw me out of my own apartment?”
My voice didn’t sound like mine. It cracked, sharp with disbelief.
“The apartment my parents bought?” I repeated, looking at Alexey like I was seeing him for the first time.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be so dramatic,” he replied, frowning like I was overreacting. “Your mom’s right—you need to calm down and think things through.”
That evening I stayed late at the office, sorting through dusty reports no one cared about anymore. Maybe it was fate, maybe not. But something shifted in me that day.
Back home, the silence was unnerving. Alexey’s jacket wasn’t on the coat rack like usual. I went into the kitchen and absentmindedly turned on the kettle. His tablet was there, as always. He never locked it—he used to say we had nothing to hide.
And yet, the moment I picked it up, a message blinked on the screen:
“Dinner at seven? Can’t wait to see you, darling.”
My breath caught in my throat. My fingers trembled as I unlocked the screen. The messages were all there. Dozens of them. “Kitten,” “my sunshine,” “miss you like crazy.” Plans for Paris. Flirty emojis. Photos. Her name was Marina.
The world began to tilt, and then came the sound of the front door.
“Lena? What are you doing home already?” His voice was casual, like nothing had happened.
I turned to face him. “Who’s Marina?”
Alexey’s face went blank for a second, then morphed into irritation. He grabbed a bottle of water like this conversation bored him.
“Really? You’re snooping through my tablet now? Maybe ask yourself why I needed to look elsewhere.”
Fifteen years. That’s how long we’d been married. Fifteen years, and he dismissed me like I was a nagging neighbor.
Before I could say another word, my phone rang. It was his mother—Tamara Petrovna. I answered out of habit.
“Lena, dear,” she said, in that syrupy voice that always made my stomach turn. “I heard you and Lesha are having issues. You know… maybe it’s time you moved out. The apartment—it’s really part of our family, after all…”
I hung up.
I looked at my husband again. The man who once told me our home was a fortress now stood there like a stranger.
“You’re cheating on me and trying to steal the roof over my head?” I asked quietly. “The one my parents bought for us?”
He shrugged. “Don’t turn this into a soap opera.”
I didn’t recognize him anymore. And maybe I never really knew him to begin with.
—
The next morning, I walked up the creaky steps of a legal office tucked inside an old building on Sadovaya Street, clutching a folder filled with faded documents. A brass plaque read Mikhail Stepanovich Voronov, Property Law.
He wasn’t the grizzled, tired man I expected. Instead, he looked composed, maybe fifty-something, with calm gray eyes and a presence that made the world slow down.
“Come in,” he said warmly. “You must be Elena Sergeyevna. Let’s see what we can do.”
My story tumbled out in pieces—about my parents selling their only home to help us buy that apartment, about Alexey’s betrayal, and the silent war I was now caught in.
He flipped through the papers. “Do you have the original purchase agreement?”
I handed him a copy.
“This helps,” he said. “But we’ll need more. Bank records from the time. Witnesses. Anything proving your parents paid.”
“My father passed away. My mother’s in a nursing home, post-stroke,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Then we act fast,” he replied. “Trust me—your mother-in-law’s not waiting around. But we’ll fight this.”
—
For the next few days, I became a woman on a mission. I tracked down old bank statements, receipts, and finally, I found Vera Nikolaevna—my mother’s best friend, who remembered everything.
Alexey avoided me now. Claimed he was “working late.” We both knew it was a lie, but I kept playing the part: the wife who still came home and turned on the lights.
Then came the trial.
The courtroom was smaller than I imagined. I sat with trembling hands while Alexey walked in wearing the jacket I bought him years ago. His mother trailed behind him, hair done up like she was attending an award ceremony, not a lawsuit.
Their lawyer painted me as an opportunist. “She contributed nothing. The apartment was funded by Alexey’s family,” he said.
I nearly laughed. Until their witness appeared—Nina Vasilievna, the old realtor. She claimed she’d seen Tamara hand over the money.
“Objection,” Mikhail Stepanovich stood, calm but firm. “We have contrary evidence.”
He laid out every record. My parents’ sale of their home. The matching deposit. And then, like a closing note in a well-played symphony:
“We also have a witness. Vera Nikolaevna.”
The courtroom went quiet as Vera entered, slow but sure.
“I was there,” she said. “I saw Maria and Sergey sell everything for their daughter. Tamara didn’t pay a ruble. She only complained the place was too small.”
The judge, a stern woman with sharp eyes, nodded slowly.
“I’ve heard enough,” she said. “Court is recessed. The verdict will be delivered in one hour.”
—
An hour later, justice prevailed. The apartment was ruled mine—legally and fully.
Alexey barely looked at me as he left. And Tamara didn’t even wait for the ruling to be read aloud.
—
Back in my apartment—my apartment—I leaned against the wall, letting the silence wash over me. It wasn’t emptiness anymore. It was space. Space to breathe. To begin again.
On the kitchen table were old photos—memories that no longer held me hostage. I put them away, and opened a fresh notebook.
“Plan for a New Life” I wrote, underlining it with a flourish.
Enroll in English classes.
Redecorate the bedroom—green walls, clean start.
Visit the sea.
Get a cat. A ginger one, full of sass and love. I’d name it “Happiness.”
Learn to love myself—fully, quietly, fiercely.
Later that evening, my neighbor stopped by.
“I heard you won,” she said, smiling. “You did it.”
I poured us tea, and we spoke of new beginnings.
When she left, I sat by the window. Outside, the world kept turning, lights flickering like tiny beacons. But inside—inside something new had begun.
Not a chapter. A whole new book.
And this time, I was the author.