Anna quietly turned the key in the lock and stepped into the apartment, careful not to wake Sergey. The hallway was dark, and the air was warm with the scent of spices—probably leftover pilaf from a late dinner. His shoes were tossed haphazardly near the door, one lying on its side like it had been kicked off carelessly. Without thinking, she nudged them neatly to the wall, slipped off her coat, and exhaled.
The kitchen greeted her with the clatter of silence and a sink full of dirty dishes. Anna stared at the mess, lips pressed into a tired line. She knew today was his turn. But she also knew that if she didn’t mention it, nothing would change tomorrow.
The kettle boiled behind her, and she instinctively reached for a cup—hot tea had always been her way to reset. But not tonight. Tonight wasn’t about routines.
She walked into the bedroom. Sergey was sound asleep, sprawled across the bed with his phone glowing beside him, flickering notifications. Probably another message from his mother—“Buy bread, don’t forget” or “You didn’t call again, I’m worried.” His face, relaxed in sleep, looked oddly serene. Peaceful.
Anna stood at the doorway and wondered how he could sleep so soundly while her head felt like a spinning storm.
Earlier that day, leaving work, she’d run into a neighbor in the elevator. A petite woman in a dark coat with shiny buttons. They’d seen each other before, but never exchanged more than polite nods.
“Oh, you’re Sergey’s wife, right?” the woman had said, smiling.
“Yes… and you are?”
“Valentina Petrovna, from the flat across the hall. Been living here for years. Funny how we never cross paths.”
Anna smiled and nodded. The elevator jolted to life. The silence felt awkward, but Valentina continued cheerfully.
“It’s so nice that someone finally lives in that apartment again. His mother kept it empty for so long—at least now the place has some life.”
Anna blinked.
“His mother’s apartment?”
“Well, yes,” Valentina chuckled. “Olga V. bought it back in the nineties. Sergey lived here with his ex-wife too. Now it’s you!”
The elevator dinged. Anna nearly forgot to step out.
Valentina kept talking, but the words faded into the background. One thought echoed in Anna’s head, cold and sharp: I’ve been paying rent… to my husband.
That night, she didn’t say a word. She simply took her laptop, curled up on the couch, and opened the tax registry website. Entered the address. Searched the name.
Owner: Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova.
Anna stared at the screen.
It all made sense now.
The rent. The secrecy. The deflections whenever she asked for details about the lease.
She closed the laptop and looked around the living room. The cozy little apartment she thought they’d built together. Her bookshelves, her throw blanket from a clearance sale, the warm-toned lamp by the armchair. All of it, paid for by her. Every last thing.
And he—he’d been sleeping soundly in the next room the whole time.
The next morning, Anna got up early. Sergey was still curled under the blankets, snoring softly. In the kitchen, crumbs from yesterday’s sandwich littered the table. An empty beer bottle sat in the corner like a forgotten guest.
She picked it up, tossed it in the trash, then made a call.
“Good morning,” she said to the woman at the housing office. “I just have a quick question about the ownership of our apartment.”
The response was polite, almost cheerful.
“Yes, it’s registered to Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova. Utilities are paid regularly. Everything’s up to date.”
Anna thanked her and hung up, heart pounding. The lie had been confirmed.
Later, while Sergey still slept, she quietly opened the drawer where he kept important papers. Amid old receipts and yellowing utility bills, she found a folder with bank statements.
She scanned the top sheet. Payment details—monthly transfers from Olga’s card. Utilities.
So she was paying all along.
Anna tucked the paper back and closed the drawer. Everything inside her was still. Not angry. Not crying. Just very, very clear.
Fifteen minutes later, Sergey wandered into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Morning,” he muttered, reaching for a glass of water.
“Morning,” Anna replied sweetly.
She watched him sit down, scroll aimlessly on his phone. He looked up when she sat across from him.
“You know,” she said casually, “maybe we should look into buying a place. We’re paying eighty thousand a month—might as well invest in something of our own.”
Sergey froze for a fraction of a second. Then shrugged.
“Yeah, but… mortgages are complicated. All that paperwork.”
“Sure,” she nodded, “but in the long run it’s better than paying rent to a stranger, right? Unless… we could negotiate with the owner. You know him, don’t you?”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t look at her.
“Let’s just think about it,” she said softly. “Maybe the owner would cut us a deal?”
No answer. Only the subtle tension in his shoulders gave him away.
Anna smiled to herself and stood.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s think about it.”
He didn’t notice the shift in her tone. He rarely noticed much unless it involved himself.
Later that week, Anna met her best friend Maria in a quiet corner of her office.
“You’re telling me you’ve been paying rent… to his mom?” Maria asked, eyes wide.
Anna nodded. “For two years.”
Maria swore under her breath.
“That’s not just dishonest. That’s calculated. You’ve basically been funding his family.”
“I know,” Anna said. “That’s why I need to fix it.”
She reached for a pen and a notepad.
“I want to make sure the last two years weren’t for nothing.”
Maria leaned forward. “Tell me more.”
Anna titled the page: Action Plan.
Because now, she had one.
Over the next two weeks, she said nothing. Still cooked dinner, still laughed at his jokes. But she watched. Closely.
Watched him gloat over new tech toys he bought. Watched him dodge questions about money. Watched him live off her.
Three days in, he came home with a bag from a high-end store.
“New sneakers?” she asked lightly.
“Yeah, big sale,” he said, waving it off.
She smiled.
“Oh, speaking of money—maybe we should ask our landlord for a copy of the lease? Just in case the rent goes up.”
Sergey stiffened.
“Nah,” he muttered. “Doubt it’ll change.”
Anna noted the way he avoided her gaze.
The day before rent was due, she invited him to dinner. A proper one, at a restaurant with candles and a city view. Not their usual takeout joint.
Sergey seemed surprised—but pleased.
“To us,” he said, lifting a glass.
“To family,” Anna smiled.
Then, calmly, she set down her fork.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking. What if we bought the apartment? Or asked the owner to sell it to us?”
Sergey hesitated. Then tried to laugh it off.
“Babe, you’re overthinking. Why now?”
She met his eyes.
“Remind me again—who exactly are we paying rent to?”
He blinked. “Well… you know…”
“Is it your mother?”
Silence.
“Sergey?”
He looked down.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “It’s her place.”
Anna nodded.
“Thanks for the honesty,” she said gently.
Then she pulled a white envelope from her purse and set it on the table.
“My last rent payment,” she said. “You won’t get another.”
She stood and walked away, leaving him stunned.
Anna didn’t move out immediately. She waited. Watched. He barely spoke for days. Avoided her eyes. Tried to act normal.
But she was done.
On Friday, after work, she packed her things. There wasn’t much—just the pieces that belonged to her. She left the rest.
When Sergey got home, her suitcase was by the door.
“You going somewhere?” he asked with a forced smile.
“I’m leaving,” she replied calmly.
“What? Why?”
“I’m not paying to live in your mother’s apartment anymore.”
He looked shocked. Pale.
“I just thought…”
“That I wouldn’t find out?” she finished for him.
He reached for her arm, but let go when she pulled away.
“I gave you nearly a million rubles over two years,” she said. “You could’ve told the truth. Instead, you pretended I had to pay you to live with you.”
“I didn’t mean it like that…”
“You didn’t mean anything. You just didn’t care.”
She opened the door.
“You could’ve just been honest, Sergey.”
But he said nothing.
She walked out.
—
Thirty minutes later, Anna was unpacking in a small studio apartment. No expensive décor, no plush furniture—but it was hers. Quiet. Clean. Free.
Her phone lit up.
“Son, where’s your wife?”
It was from Olga V.
Anna smirked.
Let him explain it.
Not her problem anymore.