After two exhausting months away from home, spent at my father’s hospital bedside, I finally came back… only to hear someone unlocking my door with a key.
A young woman walked into my apartment as if she owned the place. When I demanded an explanation, her answer made my blood run cold:
“Mikhail gave me a key.”
After weeks in the hospital with my mother, who was caring for my critically ill father, all I had dreamed of was sinking into my own bed and sleeping for hours.
But the moment I stepped into the apartment, something felt off.
There was a strange scent in the air—overly sweet, nothing like the familiar lavender and vanilla air freshener I always used.
I tried to ignore it, assuming I had just grown unaccustomed to my home or that the sterile hospital environment had dulled my senses.
My muscles ached after so many nights spent in a stiff chair beside the hospital bed, watching the slow rise and fall of my father’s chest and the rhythmic beeping of machines. A daily reminder of how fragile life really is.
Mom insisted I return home to rest. “You’ll be no help to anyone if you collapse,” she had said, pushing me toward the door.
I grabbed the first available flight and got home just in time for breakfast.
Mikhail greeted me at the door with a warm hug and a flood of questions about my dad.
“I’ll tell you everything, but first—I need a shower,” I said.
As soon as I entered the bathroom, that sickly sweet scent hit me again.
I made a mental note to ask Mikhail about it later, and stepped under the hot water, letting it wash away the smell of antiseptic, the fatigue from my flight, and the weight of worry.
Wrapped in a fluffy robe, I walked out into the hallway, heading toward the kitchen, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.
My heart dropped.
Mikhail was already in the kitchen, making breakfast. So who was coming in?
I grabbed the first thing I could find—a carved wooden horse, as if that could protect me—and froze, staring at the front door.
A woman walked in like she lived there.
Young, strikingly beautiful, with the kind of perfect hair that would take me hours at a salon to achieve. Her designer handbag probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
She didn’t glance around. She didn’t hesitate. She walked in like she belonged.
When she finally noticed me, she stopped in her tracks.
First, confusion crossed her face. Then suspicion.
“And who are you?” Her voice could have cut glass.
I tightened the robe around me, suddenly painfully aware of how underdressed I was while she looked like she’d stepped off a magazine cover.
“Excuse me? I live here. Who are YOU?”
She tilted her head slightly, examining me as if I were a confusing piece of modern art.
“Never seen you before.”
“I’ve been away for two months,” I replied, my voice shaking with anger. The wooden horse trembled in my grip before I lowered it, feeling ridiculous. “Who gave you a key to MY apartment?”
“Mikhail,” she answered without hesitation. “He said I could come anytime. Make myself at home.”
She waved dismissively, as if to say this place was hers.
The world shifted beneath my feet.
Mikhail. My husband. The man I missed so desperately. The man I trusted. The one I always defended when my mom raised suspicions.
The same man who only visited me twice in two months while I was at the hospital—always blaming work.
I took a deep breath.
“Well, now that I—his WIFE—am back, clearly, you won’t be doing that again.”
“Wife?” Her glossy lips caught the hallway light. “He told me he was single… Well, I guess I should go.”
She turned toward the door, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume.
My mind was spinning.
That sweet scent…
It had been haunting me since I got back.
She had been here. She had lived in my home. Used my things. Slept in my bed. All while I sat beside my dying father.
“Wait!” I called out louder than I expected. “Come with me.”
We walked into the kitchen.
Mikhail was seated at the table, sipping coffee and scrolling through his phone like it was any normal morning.
Steam rose from his favorite mug—the one I had given him on our first anniversary. He looked perfectly at ease.
The woman frowned, her confidence flickering as she glanced between us.
“And who is this?” she asked.
Mikhail looked up and smiled wide.
“Oh, an early visitor! Good morning! I’m Mikhail. And you are?”
He set down his phone and looked at us with curiosity.
I could have strangled him.
“She’s the woman who just used a key to enter our apartment,” I said, eyes locked on him.
Confusion washed over his face.
He froze, coffee halfway to his lips.
“Wait… WHAT?”
The woman stared at him, shaking her head.
“That’s not my Mikhail… I… I don’t understand. My Mikhail gave me a key. I’ve been here before. I can prove it. I dropped my perfume bottle in the bathroom and chipped a tile.”
“That’s what I kept smelling…” I murmured.
Everything suddenly made sense.
Mikhail and I exchanged a look.
“Show us a picture of your ‘Mikhail,’” I said, arms crossed.
She hesitated, then pulled out her phone.
A few swipes, and she turned the screen toward us.
My mouth fell open.
The puzzle pieces locked into place in the worst possible way.
“Yakov?!” I turned to Mikhail. “Your useless little brother?!”
The same brother who had borrowed money from us three times and never paid it back.
Mikhail groaned and rubbed his temples.
“Yeah… I let him stay here while I was away for work. Gave him a key, told him not to touch anything. He… he must’ve brought her here. Lied to her. Lied to you.”
The woman crossed her arms.
“I thought it was weird that such a young guy lived in a place like this…”
My fists clenched.
“So while I was taking care of my dying father, your brother was playing house in my apartment?!”
Mikhail sighed, ashamed.
“You’re right. I should’ve checked on things…”
I pulled out my phone.
“I know everything, Yakov. And I reported the break-in to the police. Want to guess whose name I gave?”
There was a tense silence on the other end of the line.
“W-what?” Yakov’s voice trembled.
I continued calmly.
“And the girl you lied to? She filed a complaint too. Fraud. Pretending to own a property that doesn’t belong to you.”
Mikhail smirked and reached for the phone. I switched to speaker.
“Oh, and one more thing, Yakov,” Mikhail added. “Mom and Dad are going to find out what a ‘stand-up guy’ you’ve turned out to be.”
A panicked groan erupted on the other end.
“No, no, don’t tell them! I just… I wasn’t thinking! I’ll fix everything! Please, don’t—”
I laughed coldly.
“You’ll have plenty of time to fix things. But for now—listen carefully.”
Together, Mikhail and I made it clear: Yakov would never get another key. Never get another loan. Never get another chance.
When the call ended, I turned to Mikhail.
“And now,” I said, “we’re changing the locks.”