“No, Oleg. Listen carefully—I’m not selling the apartment.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’!” I felt rage rising within me, making it difficult even to breathe. “This apartment belongs to ME! My only inheritance. And you want me to sell it to pay YOUR debts? Debts you hid from me?”
I froze, fork suspended in midair, the potato falling dramatically back onto the plate, leaving a greasy mark on our IKEA tablecloth—the one we’d bought to symbolize our new beginning. Symbol. What a joke.
“What did you just say?” My voice came out strangled, almost unrecognizable, trembling with a feeling deeper than simple anger.
Oleg leaned back, deliberately avoiding eye contact, a clear sign he was hiding something. How had I never noticed that before?
“Anya, you heard me perfectly,” he said, sounding suspiciously calm. “I lost my job. We’ll sell your apartment, clear my debts, and move on. It’s simple—we have no choice.”
A heavy weight settled in my chest, making the tiny kitchen suddenly feel suffocating. This room, which moments ago felt like home, now seemed foreign, sterile, lifeless. I felt trapped.
“But why?” I managed to choke out. “You always said everything was great, that you were doing well at work… What the hell is really going on?”
He dismissed my questions with an impatient wave of his hand, as if explaining was a waste of his time.
“What difference does it make? It’s done! Now we need solutions.”
“Solutions?” Anger surged through me again, this time sharper, bitter. “And your solution is selling MY apartment?”
“And what else would you suggest?” Oleg erupted, face twisted in an unfamiliar expression. “I owe three million! Do you want me to end up in jail?”
I stared at him, speechless. Three million? How could he possibly have accumulated such a debt? We’d always lived simply, modestly—or so I thought. Had I been blind, or had I chosen not to see the truth?
“Oleg,” I said, trying to control my shaking voice. “Explain. Right now. Exactly how you ended up in debt.”
He turned away, nervously drumming his fingers on the table. The repetitive tapping echoed in my head, a death knell for our marriage, for trust, for my illusions.
“It started with one loan,” he began hurriedly, almost stammering, as though desperate to believe his own explanation. “I made a small miscalculation, then I tried to fix it by taking another loan… It all just spiraled.”
“Spiraled?” I spat the word out bitterly, dizziness making the room sway. I gripped the table edge for support. “Oleg, were you gambling?”
He jumped up abruptly, pacing like a trapped animal, panic clear in his eyes.
“What does it matter now? The important thing is fixing this mess!”
“No.” I blocked his path, forcing myself to stand firm despite trembling knees. “You’ll tell me everything. Every single detail.”
An hour later, I sat motionless in the kitchen, head buried in my hands. For three years—three entire years—he had gambled away his salary, borrowed money, and taken loans without my knowledge. All that time, I blamed myself, thinking I was bad at budgeting or simply unlucky.
Memories flooded my mind: Oleg postponing having a child, saying we couldn’t afford it; canceling vacations to save money; my countless evenings spent carefully calculating grocery bills, never realizing he was gambling away everything behind my back.
“Anya…” Oleg knelt beside me, his scent unfamiliar, his voice pleading. “Forgive me. I’ll fix it all. We’ll sell the apartment, clear the debts, and start fresh. I’ll get another job, work harder—”
I looked into his face, so familiar yet suddenly alien. How could I have missed the emptiness behind his eyes?
“Sell the apartment?” I whispered. “My grandmother’s apartment?”
Immediately, my grandmother’s gentle face appeared clearly in my mind, her comforting words echoing: “Anya, this apartment is your safe haven. No matter what, you’ll always have a home.”
Oleg’s voice turned desperate, panicked.
“Anya, we’re family! Family supports each other through tough times!”
I stepped back, suddenly chilled. Beside him, I felt vulnerable, cornered.
“Family?” I repeated bitterly. “Family doesn’t hide debts or keep secrets. You gambled away our future and lied to my face every day.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this!” he cried out, frantic. “I thought I could win it all back—”
“No.” My voice steadied with newfound resolve. “Enough. I can’t live like this anymore.”
His face drained of color.
“What do you mean?”
Taking a deep breath, heart pounding, I spoke clearly:
“I want a divorce.”
He grabbed me roughly, hands gripping my shoulders painfully.
“Have you lost your mind? You can’t leave me now—I need you!”
I pushed him away firmly, disgusted by his sudden aggression.
“I’ve had enough of your manipulation,” I said coldly. “This is your mess. You fix it.”
Turning away, I headed to the bedroom, hearing him knock something over angrily behind me. I shut the door, collapsing onto the bed, sobbing uncontrollably, finally letting out years of suppressed pain.
Time passed strangely, minutes blending into hours. Eventually, silence filled the apartment. Oleg had left, slamming the door behind him. Gambling again? Borrowing more money? It didn’t matter anymore.
Forcing myself to stand, I splashed cold water on my face, barely recognizing my reflection. With shaking hands, I packed essentials—clothes, documents, some cash—in case Oleg became even more unpredictable.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang, startling me. Through the peephole, I saw Marina standing there with her two children, Misha and Katya, looking tired and scared. I opened the door immediately.
“I’m sorry,” Marina said nervously. “We had nowhere else to go.”
I stepped aside, welcoming them in. Who knows? Perhaps soon I’d find myself in the same position, needing someone’s help.
“You did right coming here,” I assured her. “Let’s have tea, then you can tell me what happened.”
Marina explained briefly: Oleg had shown up, demanding money aggressively. Frightened, she’d fled with the kids.
“I didn’t know who else to ask,” she admitted, embarrassed.
“You did exactly the right thing,” I reassured her gently.
That night, lying awake, I reflected on the unpredictable turns life had taken. Six months ago, I believed myself happy. Now, betrayed yet strangely resilient, I felt stronger than ever.
In the morning, Marina and I sat quietly in the kitchen drinking coffee, the kids still asleep. She suddenly spoke up, hesitant but determined:
“You know, I’ve always dreamed of opening my own café. A cozy place, serving homemade pastries…”
I looked at her carefully, noticing the spark in her tired eyes.
“Then let’s do it,” I said calmly. “Together.”
Marina’s eyes widened in shock.
“You think I can actually do it?”
“Why not?” I smiled, feeling genuinely hopeful. “We’ll figure it out step by step.”
Marina stared thoughtfully into her cup, taking a deep breath as though readying herself for a great leap.
“I’ve thought about it endlessly,” she admitted softly, “but always dismissed it as impossible.”
I leaned toward her confidently.
“It’s time we stopped doubting ourselves. We deserve a fresh start. Together.”
She nodded, smiling slightly, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. And in that small moment, despite everything, I knew things would be okay—not just okay, but truly right.