Ten Years of Tolerance: A Call to the Police
Perhaps I should have anticipated this moment. All the signs were evident—his frequent late nights at work, sudden mood swings, and those continuous criticisms about my cooking and appearance. Yet, when his lifeless voice on the phone said, “Your belongings are outside,” something inside me shattered.
— Vitya, are you joking? — My voice trembled, even though I tried to remain composed.
— No, Sveta. I’ve had enough. Come and get your things, — there was a chilling tone in his voice.
Standing by the subway station, holding my phone, I watched hurried strangers pass by while the noise of vehicles filled the air. The November wind crept under my coat, and I clutched a box of chocolates—a silly gesture of reconciliation after yesterday’s argument.
The taxi ride to our five-story building took about twenty minutes. In that time, I replayed every recent conflict in my mind and recalled all the grievances accumulated over ten long years of marriage. Ten. Years.
Upon stepping out of the car, the first thing I noticed was a pile of my belongings by the entrance. My suitcase, boxes of books, and bags of clothes were all there. Nina Petrovna, my neighbor, sat on a bench, openly watching with interest. Two teenagers from a nearby building recorded the event on their phones.
— Look who’s here! — Viktor stood at the entrance, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets. His face was pale yet resolute. — Take your stuff and leave.
— Have you lost your mind? Put my things back inside immediately, — I tried to keep my voice low, but my effort was in vain.
— And what if I don’t? — he sneered. — It’s my apartment. I have the documentation. Besides, I’ve tolerated you for too long. That’s enough.
Suddenly, an unexpected calm washed over me. After a decade of humiliation, concessions, and attempts to keep our family intact at any cost, I quietly took out my phone.
— Who are you calling? Your mother to complain? — he scoffed.
— No, I’m calling the police, — I replied, surprised by my own tranquility.
— Go ahead! How would the police help you? I have the documents for the apartment.
— Police? Hello. My name is Svetlana Sokova. My husband threw all of my belongings out of the apartment and is refusing to let me back in.
Viktor’s expression suddenly shifted: — What police? Are you completely out of your mind?
— Yes, yes, Lesnaya Street, house 17, — I continued into the phone, watching his face transform. — Yes, my things have been thrown right onto the street. No, there have been no threats so far.
I hung up and turned to my husband. Over the past decade, I had learned every nuance of his irritation—from mild displeasure to explosive anger. Now, he was somewhere in the middle, with narrowed eyes and a twitching vein on his neck.
— You know, you’ve always been hysterical, — he said with a false calmness. — But now you’ve truly outdone yourself. Police? Seriously?
I approached the pile of my belongings in silence. My favorite reindeer sweater lay in a puddle. A box of photographs was flipped over, scattering pictures across the asphalt. My old laptop, which I used for freelance writing, had been carelessly tossed into a bag.
— You didn’t even bother to pack my things properly, — I remarked, picking up a photo from our wedding off the wet pavement.
— Should I have? — Viktor crossed his arms. — You should be thankful I even packed them. I could have just thrown them away.
Nina Petrovna leaned forward from her bench, her interest unabated: — Sveta, what happened? Did you two have a fight?
— Nina Petrovna, this is a private matter, — Viktor cut in.
— Nothing private about it, — I retorted. — Viktor is throwing me out of our home, that’s all.
— I have every right to! — he suddenly shouted. — It’s my apartment; I decide who lives here!
A white police car arrived, and two officers stepped out—a young man and a middle-aged woman. Following them was a short man in a gray suit with a leather briefcase.
— Sir, do you live here? — the officer directed his question at Viktor.
— Yes, this is my apartment, — he replied defiantly. — And this woman doesn’t live here anymore.
— Sergey Pavlovich Kravtsov, court bailiff, — the man in gray introduced himself. — Mr. Sokolov, I have a court order preventing the eviction of Mrs. Sokolova until the divorce and property division are concluded.
Viktor’s face drained of color: — What process? What order?
— Your spouse filed a claim two weeks ago, — the bailiff opened his briefcase. — There is also a complaint of bodily harm and a medical examination report.
— What nonsense? — Viktor turned to me. — You’ve filed for divorce behind my back?
I remained silent and looked at him. The bruise under my ribs had yet to heal from his “accidental” shove last Thursday, when I didn’t have dinner ready in time for his arrival.
— Svetlana Andreyevna indeed filed a claim, — confirmed the female officer. — According to the law, until the court makes a decision, you have no right to prevent her from residing in her registered place of residence.
Viktor paled and then turned red: — She’s lying! There were no injuries!
— That will be determined in court, — the bailiff replied calmly. — For now, you need to return Mrs. Sokolova’s belongings to the apartment. Otherwise, a report will be made for non-compliance with the court order.
We ascended the stairs—I, two police officers, the bailiff, and Viktor. Every step, every scratch on the walls felt agonizingly familiar. How many times had I climbed these stairs with heavy bags while my husband sat in front of the television? How many times had I secretly wiped away tears before inserting my key into the lock?
The silence was interrupted only by the sound of our footsteps and Viktor’s heavy breathing. He trailed behind us all, and I could feel his glare—sharp and filled with hatred.
— Sveta, you orchestrated all this, — he hissed as we reached our apartment door. — You set me up.
— Mr. Sokolov, please refrain from making comments, — the young officer warned.
Viktor grimaced but fell silent. He opened the door with a swift motion—the key scraping against the lock. An all-too-familiar stench hit my nostrils: a mix of his cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and something acrid. I would have rushed to air the place out and clean it once, but now I felt indifferent.
The apartment was in disarray: belongings scattered everywhere, dirty dishes in the sink, an ashtray overflowing with butts. On the coffee table lay an empty bottle of cognac and two glasses.
— Having fun? — I blurted out.
— None of your business, — Viktor snapped back.
— Let’s bring the things inside first, — the female officer interjected.
For the next twenty minutes, we silently dragged my belongings back into the apartment. Some of the items were wet, while others were irreparably damaged. My laptop appeared to have suffered too—the lid cracked from the impact.
— I want to take inventory of the damaged property, — I told the bailiff once the last box was brought into the hallway.
— You have that right, — he nodded. — Photograph all the damaged items and compile a list. This can be attached to your claim.
— What claim? — Viktor exploded. — You’re going to sue me after everything I’ve done for you?
I looked at him—really looked at him, for the first time in a long time. A red face, inflamed eyes, stubble, a beer belly peeking out from under a crumpled t-shirt. This was the man with whom I had spent a decade of my life. A man I once loved.
— What exactly have you done for me, Vitya? — I asked softly. — Remind me.
— I provided a roof over your head! I fed you! I clothed you! — he counted off on his fingers.
— I work just as hard as you do, — I replied. — I cook, I clean, I do the laundry, even for your stinking socks. And you… you can’t even take out the trash without being reminded.
— You ungrateful…
— Sokolov, one more word and we will draft a report on verbal threats, — the bailiff warned.
Viktor fell silent, fists clenched. I could see the fury boiling inside him—the same rage that had been directed at me for years.
— I need to document the damage, — I said to the police officers. — And I want to file a report for property damage.
— Alright, — the female officer nodded. — We can do that right now.
— What will happen to him? — I gestured towards Viktor.
— Given the circumstances, — the bailiff intervened, — Mr. Sokolov is advised to temporarily vacate the apartment until the court’s decision. Especially after today’s incident.
— What?! — Viktor jumped up. — This is MY apartment! I’m not going anywhere!
— Mr. Sokolov, — the officer straightened up, — if you refuse to leave voluntarily, we will have to draft a report for non-compliance with the court order and obstructing the execution of a court decision. This may lead to administrative responsibility.
Viktor looked around nervously, as if searching for support. I saw something in his eyes that I had never noticed before—fear. Not anger, not disdain, but genuine fear.
— I’ll pack my things, — he finally muttered. — Give me half an hour.
As Viktor shoved his shirts and jeans into a sports bag, the bailiff explained the next steps to me: a court for property division, a temporary ban on selling the apartment, and possibly alimony if I chose to pursue that. My head was spinning.
— I have packed my things, — Viktor emerged from the bedroom with two bags. — I’ll leave the keys on the nightstand.
— Mr. Sokolov, you need to provide your temporary address, — the bailiff said, handing him a form.
— I’ll go to my mother’s, — Viktor grumbled, hurriedly jotting down the address. — I hope you’re happy, Sveta? You’ve driven me out of my own home!
I remained silent. What could I say to a person I had spent ten years with but never truly got to know? To a man who thought it normal to humiliate me, control every step, and now had tossed my belongings into the street?
— Everything will be said in court, — the female officer stated. — For now, it’s best for you to leave, Mr. Sokolov.
As the door closed behind Viktor and the bailiff, silence descended upon the apartment. The police aided me in creating an inventory of the damaged property, took testimonies, and completed all necessary paperwork.
— Are you alright? — the female officer asked me before leaving. — Do you want us to call someone to ensure you’re not alone?
— No, thank you, — I shook my head. — I can manage.
After they left, I walked around the apartment—our apartment—now feeling utterly alien. Every corner bore traces of his presence: a pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, dirty sneakers in the corner, beer cans beneath the sofa.
I opened the window. The chilly November air rushed in, dispelling the scent of tobacco and stale alcohol. Suddenly, I was reminded of our first apartment—a rented studio on the outskirts. We were so happy back then… When did everything change? At what point did our love morph into this grotesque parody?
My phone vibrated—Mom was calling. — Sveta, how are you? — her voice sounded concerned. — The lawyer said everything went as planned.
— Yes, Mom, — I sighed. — Everything’s fine. Viktor has left.
— You did great, dear, — pride radiated from her voice. — I always knew you were strong.
Strong? I never considered myself strong. Instead, I thought I had to endure, forgive, and shut my eyes to humiliation—for the sake of the family, for the sake of a “love” that had long disappeared.
After my call with Mom, I sat in the kitchen and, for the first time in ages, brewed myself tea the way I liked it—with jasmine and a spoonful of honey. Not the strong black tea that Viktor preferred.
Somewhere in the neighboring apartment, music was playing. Cars roared outside. Life continued. And mine was starting anew. A different life, one free from humiliation, fear, and the need to constantly accommodate another’s desires. A life in which I could simply be myself.
I took a sip of the tea. The flavor was surprisingly vibrant, as if I were tasting it for the first time.
Ahead lay divorce proceedings, property division, and possibly more clashes with Viktor. Yet, for the first time in many years, I felt a flicker of hope. And a strange, fragile sensation of freedom.