“You found someone else, and now your mother wants to kick me out of my own apartment?” My voice didn’t sound like my own. It was fractured, hollow. “The apartment my parents bought for us? So that’s how it is now—you found a new love, and your mother’s following suit?”
Alexey didn’t even flinch. “Oh, come on. Stop being dramatic,” he muttered, barely glancing at me. “My mom’s right. You should calm down, give yourself time to think…”
That evening, I stayed late at work, buried in reports I’d long put off. Maybe that’s when everything happened. Or maybe it had already happened a long time ago, and I’d simply refused to see it. Either way, by the time I got home, the air in our apartment was unnaturally still. His jacket wasn’t hanging on the rack, like it usually was. He wasn’t home.
I set the kettle on and, almost without thinking, reached for his tablet—he always left it on the kitchen table when he ran errands. And just then, a message popped up on the screen. “Sweetheart, meet you at seven?” My heart dropped. I stared at the message, not moving. Then, with trembling fingers, I unlocked the screen. There had never been a password. “We don’t keep secrets,” he used to say.
Apparently, we did now. Or at least, he did.
I read every message. Every heart emoji. Every sickeningly sweet nickname. “Kitten.” “My light.” “Can’t wait to be with you.” Her name was Marina. There were photos, vacation plans, and declarations of affection. Fifteen years of marriage, and suddenly, I was just a shadow in someone else’s romance.
Then the door slammed. I didn’t turn around.
“Lena? You’re home already?” His voice was calm, as if nothing had happened. As if he wasn’t planning to be with another woman that very evening.
“Who is Marina?” My voice shook, but I made myself look at him.
He paused in the doorway. Surprise flashed across his face, then irritation, and finally, a strange, almost patronizing pity.
“Oh. So you saw that…” He moved to the fridge, took out a bottle of water, and avoided my eyes. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe this is your fault? You’re always at work. You don’t even look at me anymore.”
I stared at him, disbelieving. After everything, this was what he had to say?
The phone buzzed on the counter again. “Tom’s mom” flashed on the screen. His mother never called without a purpose.
“Lena, dear,” came her syrupy voice when I answered. “I heard about the trouble between you and Lesha. I’ve been thinking… since the apartment technically belongs to our family, perhaps it’s best if you move out for a while. Just until things calm down.”
It was as though someone flipped the light off inside me. I looked over at Alexey. He didn’t even react. Just stared out the window.
“You found someone else, and now your mother wants me out of the home my parents bought for us?” I repeated, slower this time. As if I needed him to feel the weight of it.
“Oh, stop it,” he scoffed. “You’re overreacting. You need time to think.”
I looked at the man I’d loved for half my life and felt like I was seeing a stranger. The man who once told me our home was our sanctuary had turned into someone who could watch me drown and not lift a finger.
The call was still ongoing. Tamara continued, suggesting “temporary” living arrangements. I hung up.
I sank into a chair, cold washing over me. One thought repeated: What now?
The next morning, I made my way to a legal consultation office tucked inside an old building on Sadovaya Street. The wooden stairs creaked under my feet as I clutched a folder filled with yellowing documents my parents had left me. My hands trembled. I hadn’t slept in days.
The door bearing the name “Mikhail Stepanovich Voronov” was ajar. I straightened my skirt—my mother always told me to tidy up before something important, as if neatness could sway fate.
“Come in,” a calm voice called. “You must be Elena.”
He wasn’t what I expected. No tired old man in glasses. He was in his fifties, clean-shaven, clear-eyed, with a few strands of gray at the temples. There was a steadiness about him, something quiet but solid.
“Tell me everything,” he said, gesturing toward the chair.
I began slowly, stumbling through the words. About how my parents had sold their house and small apartment to help us buy the place. About the tension with Tamara. About the past few days. He listened without interrupting, flipping through the documents carefully.
“Where’s the original purchase agreement?” he asked.
“Here,” I said, pulling out a paper.
“This is a copy,” he said, frowning. “Do you have the original?”
I rifled through the folder, panic rising. “It was here… I know I saw it…”
He leaned forward. “Elena, without the original, this becomes more complicated. But not impossible. We need to prove your parents paid for it. Bank records. Receipts. Witnesses. Are your parents alive?”
“My father passed away. My mother’s in a nursing home after a stroke.”
“Then we need to move quickly. Tamara probably already has legal counsel. She’ll say the apartment was bought with their money.”
I swallowed hard. Of course she would. She always got what she wanted.
“What if I just… leave?” I whispered.
He looked me in the eye, firm and steady.
“Your parents gave up everything so you could have that home. You can walk away. Or you can stand your ground. The choice is yours.”
I remembered the day we moved in. My father, proudly holding the keys. My mother hanging curtains, dreaming of grandchildren. And now… this.
“What do I need to do?” I asked.
“Get the bank statements. Track down witnesses. And whatever you do—do not move out.”
When I stepped outside, the wind blew yellow leaves around my feet. For the first time in days, I felt something solid in my chest. Not hope, exactly—but resolve.
I called Vera Nikolaevna, my mother’s old friend. She had helped with the apartment paperwork years ago. If anyone remembered the truth, it was her.
Three days passed before I could bring myself to talk to Alexey again. During that time, he barely came home. “Working late.” We both knew it was a lie.
He walked in around midnight, just as I was going through a box of old photos. I didn’t even look up.
“We need to talk,” I said, my voice steady.
He hesitated in the doorway, surprised to see me. Then, with a sigh, he walked to the fridge, avoiding my eyes again.
“About what?” he said flatly.
“About the apartment. About us.”
He scoffed. “There’s nothing to talk about. The place is in my name.”
“You know damn well it was my parents who paid for it,” I said, my voice cracking.
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go. Always ‘my parents, my money.’ What about everything I contributed?”
“With our shared income!” I snapped. “But the down payment? That was all them.”
“Let’s not make this ugly,” he muttered. “Take a break. Stay with someone else for a bit. My mom found a nice studio you can rent.”
“So now it’s ‘we’—you and your mother?”
He gave a cold laugh. “Lena, we’ve been strangers for years.”
“And Marina—is she your soulmate now?”
His eyes darkened. “Don’t drag her into this.”
I pulled out my phone. “Should I read your messages? ‘Kitten,’ ‘can’t wait to hold you,’ ‘I’m finally alive’?”
He slammed his hand on the table. “You went through my phone?”
“You slept with someone else!”
We both stood there, shaking.
Then he leaned in, speaking with venom. “Keep pushing, and you’ll get nothing.”
That was it. I looked at him, this stranger who once made promises over candlelight. And I realized—I didn’t love him anymore. I didn’t even know him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said quietly. “And I will fight.”
He shrugged, already turning away. “See you in court.”
The courtroom was small and lifeless. I sat stiffly on the bench, hands trembling. Alexey entered with his mother and their well-dressed lawyer. They didn’t look at me.
The judge, a stern woman with a voice like cold metal, read through the case.
Alexey’s lawyer painted me as an intruder, someone trying to steal a home I had no right to.
But then it was our turn.
Mikhail stood, calm and sharp.
“We have proof,” he said, handing over documents. “Bank transfers from Elena’s parents. Sale records of their previous properties. Every cent accounted for.”
Tamara paled. Alexey’s lips thinned.
Then Vera took the stand. Her voice was strong, unwavering.
“I was there,” she said. “Maria and Sergey sold everything. They said, ‘We want our daughter to have a home.’ Tamara didn’t contribute a thing. She said it was too small for her precious boy.”
When the judge finally returned with her verdict, the air in the courtroom stilled.
“The court recognizes Elena Sergeyevna as the legal owner of the property.”
Tears filled my eyes. Not from pain—but from vindication.
Alexey and Tamara left without a word. He looked back once, but I didn’t flinch.
Back home, I unlocked the door—my door—and stepped inside. I stood still, letting the silence wash over me.
I opened a new notebook. On the first page, I wrote: “Plan for a New Life.”
Step one: English lessons.
Step two: redecorate the bedroom.
Step three: go to the sea.
Step four: get a ginger cat.
Step five: learn to love myself.
Not for anyone else. For me.
I looked out the window. Somewhere out there, a version of me had once been afraid of being alone. But here, in this apartment with fresh walls and clean beginnings, another version had just begun. And she wasn’t afraid anymore. Not even a little.