Larisa stood near the stove, stirring the once promising omelet which had now transformed into a limp, soggy mess as if left to drown in a downpour. The kitchen was permeated by the harsh aroma of burnt milk, coffee, and something far more unsettling—a faint trace of deceit lingering in the air. A frown crept across her face. Boris’s behavior was unusual today. He shuffled about their apartment like a stranger caught in a transit terminal: mismatched socks, a newspaper abandoned on the windowsill, and—a strikingly odd detail—his phone lodged inside the refrigerator.
“Borya, what is happening?” Larisa asked, tilting her head with a touch of sarcastic skepticism, as if expecting an explanation that wouldn’t come.
Boris met her gaze with an expression that seemed on the verge of delivering a shocking revelation, then sighed deeply.
“Lara… I’ve been contemplating…” he started, his tone resembling that of someone trying to sell a phone missing its charger.
“What now?” she interrupted sharply, eyes narrowing.
“We have to sell the apartment,” he blurted out as though discussing the weather.
“Our apartment?” Larisa replied with deliberate composure, setting down her spoon and pivoting sharply as if preparing for battle.
Boris shrugged, treating the proposal as if it concerned swapping phone cases.
“Yeah… we don’t really need all this space. You always complained it was hard to keep clean.”
Inside, Larisa’s scream was silent, yet her jaw clenched tightly. The urge to snap, “Then clean it yourself, Borya,” burned within, but she restrained herself. There is a limit to her patience.
“And when exactly did you plan to share this news with me, Boris Anatolyevich? Before signing the papers or after?”
Boris feigned thoughtful consideration, as if deciding something so significant was merely casual small talk over morning coffee and croissants.
“I thought… later. Didn’t want to stress you out,” he mumbled.
Her laughter broke out loud and bitter—an eruption from someone who just realized she’d been mocked.
“Of course, why cause stress? Here I am, moving furniture, sorting belongings, while you’ve already packed me alongside the apartment and handed me off like a package to new owners.”
Boris shifted uneasily. Larisa recognized this discomfort—it always surfaced when he lied or tried to mask betrayal with the flimsy excuse: “I’ll handle everything.”
“Lara, why are you upset? It’ll all be fine. We can buy a smaller place in a decent neighborhood, and we’d still have money left,” he tried to reassure.
“For what, Boris? To pay your debts?” she interrupted, crossing her arms in defiance.
For a brief moment, panic flashed in Boris’s eyes before he quickly restored his composed facade. But by then, Larisa had uncovered the entire truth.
That morning’s breakfast—the soggy omelet and bitter coffee—had been the overture to their unraveling.
Instead of going to work, Larisa remained seated on the kitchen floor, gazing blankly through the window, her mind piecing together the painful fragments of their once “happy” family life.
A Son’s Unwavering Support
At lunchtime, Anton, her son, arrived. With his tall frame and tousled hair, he wore a jacket over a t-shirt—a typical emblem of the indifferent generation.
“Mom, why did you send me like two hundred messages this morning?” he mumbled, tossing his sneakers aside carelessly.
Larisa met his eyes, feeling the sting of sudden tears. She inhaled sharply, like someone on the brink of submersion.
“Anton, your father… he wants to sell the apartment.”
Without hesitation, Anton replied, “With the furniture? Or are they going separate ways?”
Larisa smiled faintly. Humor, it seemed, ran deep in the family.
“Separately… for now.”
They sipped coffee in silence, trading terse remarks like chess players executing their final moves in a game already lost.
“Mom, don’t worry. I’ll stand by you,” Anton declared unexpectedly, the maturity in his voice unmistakable.
At that moment, Larisa realized she had found an ally. Sometimes, a single ally suffices to turn the tide of a battle.
The Unveiling of Hidden Truths
The following day, Larisa took a walk in an attempt to clear her mind. As fate would have it, she met Nina Semyonovna, a longtime neighbor and an expert in every local secret.
“Larisochka, have you caught wind of the news?” Nina whispered urgently, sipping from her thermos as if sharing classified information.
“What news?” Larisa asked suspiciously, noting Nina’s unusually bright expression.
“Your Boris… he’s been carrying debts for quite some time. Thought he was working? Ha! He’s been running between banks, desperately trying to manage his loans.”
Larisa froze, feeling her world crack like a fragile mirror shattered by a hammer.
“What?!” she gasped, cheeks flushing with indignation.
Nina was eager to continue.
“It’s more than loans. Rumor has it he acted as a guarantor for someone. That person fled abroad, leaving Boris alone in the spotlight—a lone jester wearing a helmet.”
Each revelation stirred something potent within Larisa—not pain, for that had withered away long ago—but fierce, unadulterated anger, as sharp and raw as a first cigarette at dawn.
That evening, she sought out Elena Sergeevna, a lawyer acquaintance from her previous workplace. Elena’s demeanor was stern and taciturn, her gaze piercing straight through pretenses.
“Larisa, listen carefully,” Elena advised, tapping her pen thoughtfully on the desk. “Is the apartment registered under your name?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Without your approval, he can only fantasize about selling it. The best he can do is list it online with the disclaimer ‘preferably without owner present.’”
Larisa smirked, sensing a glimmer of hope.
“However,” Elena continued, “if he pushes, he might try to claim the property is jointly owned in court. That kind of battle drags on forever and will drain your sanity.”
“What’s the best course of action?” Larisa inquired.
Elena nodded decisively.
- Obtain a prenuptial agreement immediately.
- Consider filing for division of property without delay.
- Urge Boris to live elsewhere—preferably far away—with no contact.
For the first time in years, Larisa no longer felt like the victim but the strategist. A player who strikes first doesn’t shed tears.
Breaking Free
Evening had fallen. Larisa sat quietly at the kitchen table. Before her rested a cup of tea, now cold and resembling tap water more than anything invigorating. In her mind, she rehearsed what she planned to say, though inside a storm was building, far stronger than any practice could prepare her for.
Boris arrived late, carrying the faint scent of foreign perfume and wearing the expression of a man who lost something but hoped it would go unnoticed.
“Oh, you’re home,” he said casually, hanging up his coat. “Why are you sitting here in the dark like a witch at a boring meeting?”
“I was waiting for you, Borya,” Larisa replied serenely, though her voice quivered as if stretched too thin.
Boris froze, realizing that tonight might turn either entertaining or terrifying—or perhaps both.
“Let’s talk tomorrow, okay? I’m exhausted, like a dog without a tail,” he pleaded.
Slowly rising, Larisa answered firmly, “No, Boris. Tonight. Right now.”
He sat down dramatically, sighing as though his soul was about to be wrung out.
“What now, Lara?” he asked wearily, almost lazily.
Larisa crossed her arms, resolute.
“You plotted to sell our apartment behind my back. You planned to drive me onto the street to cover your debts. You’ve deceived me every day.” She paused before continuing. “I know everything, Boris. Every single thing.”
His eyes shifted from shock to fury and then disdain.
“What did you expect?” he snapped abruptly. “To live in your golden cage without noticing everything crumbling?”
She exhaled sharply.
“So, you thought pulling us out of the mess was worth sacrificing my apartment?”
Leaning forward, Boris’s eyes gleamed with a dark fire.
“I was saving you, actually! And you just sat at home filing your nails and making cabbage soup!”
Larisa’s laughter rang out loud and clear, so intense the neighbor’s dog joined in with a bark.
“Saving me?!” Larisa tilted her head, inspecting him like a specimen under a microscope. “The great savior—were you settling your debts with women?”
Boris flinched; the moment of exposure was undeniable.
“What? What women?” he stammered, but the damage was done.
Grabbing an empty mug from the table, Larisa hurled it against the wall. The crash made Boris’s left eyelid twitch.
“Don’t make a fool of me, Borya!” Larisa screamed, unleashing her bottled emotions. “I know about that… that twenty-year-old girl from your workplace! About her gifts, your bouquets, rented apartments! Did you think I’d never find out?!”
Angrily, Boris stood.
“It’s your fault! You’ve become a dull housewife—always exhausted, always unhappy! I just wanted to live, you know?!”
“You wanted to live?!” Larisa laughed hysterically. “Feeding off me, sleeping around, then telling me about a new apartment? You’re nothing but a treacherous disgrace, Borya!”
He approached, face twisted in anger.
“You’re neither my mother nor my judge!”
“No, Borya,” Larisa replied icily. “My mother has already kicked you out. Now I am the judge. For myself.”
She seized the documents from the table—the prenuptial agreement and property division papers—smashing them down before him.
“Sign them. Or pack up and live with your young ‘freedom.’”
Boris stared at the papers as if condemned. His hands shook and his shoulders slumped.
He appeared aged and pitiful. For the first time in years, Larisa looked at him not with pain but with cold, unyielding detachment.
“Don’t think I can’t live without you,” she said softly. “I can. And in fact, I already have.”
Without another word, Boris threw the pen on the table and began gathering his belongings.
Larisa observed him walk away—no tears, no regrets—just a small, weary smile.
Like at a funeral for a man who had dug his own grave.
New Beginnings
A week later, Larisa found herself in the same kitchen spot, nursing a hot cup of tea, but with a fresh feeling within. She was alone. Free. Clean. And for the first time in years, genuinely happy.
When Anton arrived that evening, he asked, “So, Mom, how are you?”
She smiled warmly.
“Better than ever, son. I even have a life plan now. Want to hear it?”
Curious, Anton sat across from her.
“What is it?”
Raising her cup in a toast, Larisa declared,
“Never mistake a life preserver for a noose around your neck.”
Anton’s laughter, genuine and contagious, filled the room.
For the first time in ages, Larisa felt certain that everything was going to be alright. Indeed, it already was.