I sat in the kitchen, absentmindedly stirring a cup of tea that had gone cold long ago. The clock on the wall ticked with steady indifference, each sound a quiet reminder—it had been a month since I’d been alone. A month since Viktor packed his bags and left. Not just me, but us. Left for Larisa, the younger woman from the third floor.
“Galya, you have to understand, it’s better for everyone this way,” he said while stuffing shirts into a faded suitcase. “We haven’t really been a couple for years.”
That was how he summed up thirty years of life together. Three decades during which I cooked for him, ironed his clothes, endured his temper, and filled the silences he refused to break. I used to believe that love meant enduring things, forgiving endlessly, staying when it was hard.
“Don’t you see how absurd this is?” I asked, trying to preserve a shred of dignity. “Running off with someone younger, at your age…”
“Larisa gets me,” he interrupted. “With her, I feel alive.”
Alive. And with me? Apparently not. To him, thirty years was nothing but a slow death. I watched him walk out the door, and something inside me gave way. Not my heart—it was deeper than that. It felt like a thread that had tethered me to who I used to be had finally snapped.
The first few weeks passed in a blur. I went to work at the library, came home, slept. The apartment was cold, and so was I. Neighbors whispered, some offered sympathy. But I didn’t want anyone’s pity.
“Galina Petrovna, hang in there,” Nina Stepanovna said one morning. “Men—they’re all the same. Gray beard, foolish heart.”
I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself. When had I faded so completely? When had I stopped being me?
But slowly, something began to shift.
First, I joined a local swimming group. Then I signed up for English classes. The kids called regularly, but I didn’t burden them with my heartbreak. They had their own lives to live.
“Mom, why don’t you come stay with us for a while?” my daughter asked one day. “You’d love St. Petersburg.”
“No, Lenochka,” I told her. “This is my home. Everything I’ve built is here.”
Seven months passed. One evening, I caught my reflection in the window and realized something. I no longer cried myself to sleep. I didn’t listen for the elevator, hoping he’d return. I wasn’t waiting for apologies that would never come.
I drained the cold tea and headed for bed, not knowing that the next day would throw everything into motion again.
The knock came as I was making my morning tea. It was sharp and insistent. When I opened the door, Larisa stood there—flawlessly made up, wearing a tight dress, clutching a folder.
“We need to talk,” she said without so much as a greeting, walking into the kitchen like she owned the place.
“About what?” I asked, tightening my robe.
“The apartment,” she said, settling into a chair. “Viktor thinks it’s time to divide things properly. He’s entitled to half.”
Something inside me bristled. But this time, it wasn’t sorrow. It was fire.
“Entitled?” My voice didn’t waver.
“Yes. Joint property. Thirty years of marriage. He’s divorcing you, and we plan to marry. Viktor wants to give me his share.”
I looked at her, trying to absorb what I’d just heard. This woman—years younger, smug—was sitting in my kitchen discussing my home as if she already owned it.
“Did Viktor ever tell you where this apartment came from?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Does it matter? What’s his is mine. That’s the law.”
“This apartment belonged to my parents,” I said, my voice low but steady. “They gave it to me before I married him. He knows that.”
Larisa stood up, her voice tightening. “Viktor says if you don’t cooperate, we’ll go to court. You really want that kind of trouble?”
Something clicked in me. The last remnants of fear, of habit, snapped.
“Get out of my home,” I said.
“What?”
“You heard me. Leave. And tell Viktor he’s welcome to try court. I’m not the woman he used to push around.”
She gathered her papers with a sneer. “You’ll regret this. We’ll make sure of it.”
When the door slammed, I collapsed into a chair and cried. But not from defeat. These tears were different—born of fury and strength.
That afternoon, I called Tamara, my friend who worked at a legal consultancy.
“You did the right thing,” she said after going through my documents. “The deed from your parents is solid. The apartment is legally yours.”
I looked around her office, feeling like a stranger in my own life. She typed swiftly, then paused.
“What amazes me,” she said, “is that Viktor knows this. He’s counting on you folding out of habit.”
Her words struck me harder than I expected. I thought about all the times I gave in—to avoid a fight, to keep the peace. When he pressured me to give up my graduate studies. When he sold my mother’s piano because it took up too much space. When he took full control of our finances, as if I didn’t exist.
Tamara handed me a plan of action. “First step, file for divorce. Second, we’ll prepare proof of ownership. Third—”
She was interrupted by a knock. Her secretary appeared.
“There’s a man outside. Says it’s urgent.”
“Let him wait,” Tamara said, but Viktor barged in anyway. Larisa followed close behind.
“So this is where you’re hiding,” he snapped.
I instinctively recoiled, then remembered—I wasn’t that woman anymore.
“Please leave,” Tamara said coldly. “Or I’ll call security.”
“Galka,” he said, lowering his voice, “you really think you can beat me at this? You think I won’t find a way to win?”
“No, Vitya,” I said, standing tall. “You don’t get to win. This apartment is mine. And I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
He flailed, sputtering, but Tamara had already summoned security.
As they were being escorted out, Larisa looked back and hissed, “See you in court.”
“I look forward to it,” I replied. “And this time, I won’t be silent.”
The next weeks were a mess. Viktor sent messages that veered between pleading and threatening. Larisa tried to intimidate me with legal paperwork, waiting for me outside.
“Maybe it’s time you left all this behind,” Lenochka urged again. “Come live with us. You don’t need this stress.”
“But I do,” I told her, looking at the family photos on the wall. “This isn’t just about a home. It’s about not being erased.”
One evening, I found an old folder in a drawer. My father’s will. I could still hear his voice.
“This apartment is your fortress,” he told me back then. “You’ll always be safe here.”
He had insisted on the deed before the wedding. Viktor was irritated, said my father didn’t trust him. Maybe he’d seen what I hadn’t.
I called Tamara.
“Remember you said we might need more documents?” I asked.
“I was just thinking about that,” she said. “And by the way, I dug into Viktor’s finances. He’s drowning in debt. That’s why he wants the apartment so badly.”
It made sense now. I remembered the loans, the hidden bills, the quiet desperation in his eyes.
“Galina Petrovna,” my neighbor Anna called out one morning. “I saw everything back then, how he treated you. If you need a witness, I’ll speak up.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling with warmth I hadn’t felt in a long time. “I used to be ashamed to ask for help. But I’ve learned that strength often comes with asking.”
That night, Viktor knocked on my door. He looked worn, desperate.
“Galya, can we talk?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “There’s nothing left to say.”
“You don’t understand. I’m in trouble. The loans…”
“Oh, now you admit the loans?” I raised an eyebrow. “You know what’s surprising? I don’t even hate you. I just don’t care.”
“Galya,” he said, trying to soften. “Maybe I could stay here for a while? Just until things settle. Larisa left me.”
I laughed. Genuinely, freely. The sound echoed in the hallway.
“No, Vitya. Not a room. Not a chair. Not even a corner. Take your papers and go.”
“You’ll regret this,” he warned weakly.
“No,” I said, looking him in the eye. “What I regret is spending thirty years being afraid to live for myself. But that’s over now.”
I closed the door. Silence returned to my home, peaceful and mine.
A month later, the court confirmed the divorce and ruled the apartment solely mine. Viktor didn’t even show up. Word is, he left the city. Larisa avoids eye contact when we pass in the hallway.
As for me—I bought a new piano, just like my mother’s. In the evenings, I play. The music fills the apartment and, slowly, my heart. Next week, I’ll visit my grandchildren in St. Petersburg. Maybe I’ll travel to Europe afterward. I didn’t take those English classes for nothing.
This apartment is my fortress. But more than that—my life is mine again. And I finally know how to protect it.