The October evening crept slowly into the windows like a shadow. The kitchen smelled of apple pie. Their daughter had fallen asleep in Zhenya’s arms, and Zhenya carefully carried her to the crib. A moment later, the front door slammed in the hallway. Artem had arrived — Igor’s old friend — uninvited, as usual.
Igor was not home yet. Artem sat down at the table, accepted a cup of tea, and looked at Zhenya the way he always did, with poorly hidden resentment. Zhenya had long since grown used to it.
“Would you like some pie?” she asked.
“I would,” he said. “You’re always baking something. So domestic. So warm. Igor must appreciate it.”
“I hope so,” Zhenya replied, placing a plate in front of him.
Artem chewed in silence for a while. Then he suddenly gave a bitter smirk. Something inside him had apparently snapped, and he finally decided to say what he had wanted to say for a long time.
“You know, Zhenya, you’re a good woman. Truly good. But your Igor isn’t at Maxim’s right now. He’s with Kristina. He’s been going to her for three months already.”
Zhenya placed the kettle back on the stove. Her hand did not tremble. She did not turn around.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know. But you deserve to know. Once, I wanted you to choose me. You didn’t. Fine. But I can’t keep watching him treat you like a fool.”
“You can,” Zhenya said quietly. “You managed for three months.”
Artem fell silent. He finished his tea, stood up, and left without saying goodbye. Zhenya heard the front door slam shut behind him. Then the apartment became quiet. So quiet she could hear her daughter breathing in the next room.
She sat down at the table, brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth, and began to think. Quickly. Clearly. Like a person who had already lost everything once and knew that tears were poor advisers.
The next day, she called Dmitry. Dima was the only person she trusted completely. They had been friends since school, and two years earlier he had gone through a divorce himself — a harsh, public one, where even every fork had been argued over.
“Dima, I need to talk. Not over the phone.”
“Tomorrow at noon. By the fountain in the park. Can you come?”
“I’ll be there.”
They met under the old chestnut tree. Dima listened in silence and did not interrupt. When she finished, he rubbed his palms together for a long moment.
“Zhenya, I’ll tell you one thing. When my ex started acting, I was still hoping for conversations. For understanding. For ‘let’s try again.’ Do you know how that ended? I was left in a rented room with one suitcase.”
“I don’t want that.”
“Then don’t wait until he is the first to arrange everything. Whose apartment is it?”
“His mother’s. It’s registered in her name. We just live there.”
Dima looked at her carefully. Something like respect flickered in his eyes.
“Then you shouldn’t be talking to him. You should be talking to his mother.”
Nina Vasilyevna lived two courtyards away, in a one-room apartment with geraniums on the windowsill and photographs of her grandchildren on the walls. Three years earlier, when Zhenya had given birth — a difficult birth, with complications — it was her mother-in-law who had waited outside the hospital room. Not Igor. Nina Vasilyevna.
Zhenya came to see her that evening without warning. Nina Vasilyevna opened the door, looked at her daughter-in-law’s face, and understood everything at once.
“Come in. The kettle is still hot.”
“I don’t know how to say it.”
“Say it as it is. I’m an old woman. Words won’t kill me.”
“Igor is cheating on me. He has been for several months. Her name is Kristina.”
Her mother-in-law set down the cup. Slowly. Carefully. As if afraid it might break. Then she exhaled.
“I knew something was wrong. He stopped coming by. Stopped calling. Before, he would at least drop in once a week. Now it’s as if someone cut the thread.”
“I don’t want a scandal. I want to handle this so the children don’t suffer.”
“Children are sacred,” Nina Vasilyevna said. “And you are not just my daughter-in-law. You are like a daughter to me. Closer than my own daughter, even.”
She fell silent. Zhenya knew what she was thinking about. Larisa, Nina Vasilyevna’s real daughter, had been married twice, divorced twice, had abortions, and now could no longer have children. Larisa was alone again, living through casual affairs and resentment toward the whole world. And Zhenya — Zhenya baked pies, washed clothes, kept the home, raised the children, and had never once raised her voice.
“Nina Vasilyevna, the apartment we live in is registered in your name.”
“Yes. And I know what you’re getting at. Don’t be afraid. I love my son, but I’m not going to admire his stupidity.”
“I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted you to know the truth.”
“I know the truth now. And now you listen to me. I have my own apartment, and I have the one where you live. And I still have a head on my shoulders. So let’s sit down and think this through calmly.”
They sat together until midnight. Zhenya told her about the conversation with Dima. Nina Vasilyevna listened, nodded, and sometimes asked short questions. By morning, the plan was ready.
“Zhenya, I’ll tell you this,” Nina Vasilyevna said. “My son grew up, but he never grew wise. I failed to teach him that. But I won’t let anyone hurt you or my grandchildren. Even if he never forgives me for it.”
“Are you sure?”
“When I was thirty-five, my husband did the same thing. He left. I stayed behind with two children and not a coin to my name. I won’t stand by and watch that happen a second time.”
Six months. For exactly six months, Zhenya lived as though nothing had changed. She cooked dinners. Washed shirts. Put the children to bed. Smiled when Igor came home late, smelling of another woman’s perfume. She waited. But she was not sitting idle.
Dima helped with the documents. Nina Vasilyevna visited the notary. Everything was done quietly, carefully, without one unnecessary word.
Igor came home on a Saturday morning. Clean-shaven, wearing a new jacket, with that expression Zhenya had already learned by heart — the face of a man who had made a decision and was certain of his own righteousness.
The children were playing in their room. Zhenya was washing dishes.
“Zhenya, sit down. We need to talk.”
“Talk.”
“I’m leaving. For another woman. You and I have been strangers for a long time. You know that yourself.”
Zhenya dried her hands on a towel. Then she sat across from him and said nothing.
“I’m not giving up the apartment. This is my home. I grew up here. You can go to your parents. You have somewhere to go.”
“My parents have three rooms. They live there with my brother, my sister, her husband, and their child. You know that.”
“That isn’t my problem, Zhenya. I’m telling you honestly: live wherever you want. But the apartment is mine.”
“The apartment is registered in your mother’s name.”
Igor flinched. Only slightly, but Zhenya noticed.
“My mother will transfer it to me. I’m her son.”
“You are her child. And I am raising her grandchildren.”
“Don’t start. I’ve decided everything. Kristina will move in here in two weeks. You have time to pack.”
Zhenya stood up and walked to the window. Outside, children were chasing pigeons in the courtyard, and the old maple was dropping its last leaves.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll leave.”
Igor had not expected that. He had prepared himself for shouting. For tears. For threats. But she had simply said, “All right.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’ll take the children and leave in a week.”
“Well… fine. Good. I thought you would…”
“What? Beg? Cling to you? No, Igor. I won’t.”
He left the kitchen and took out his phone. Zhenya heard him speaking quietly to someone — probably Maxim, his former classmate, or perhaps Kristina herself.
Through the wall came his laughter. Relieved. Satisfied. The laugh of a man who had expected war and received surrender.
That evening, Maxim called. Zhenya accidentally overheard the conversation. Igor was speaking loudly, making no effort to hide.
“Max, that’s it. The issue is closed. She’s leaving. No hysterics. I told you — the main thing is to be firm right away. Women respect strength.”
“Nice one,” Maxim’s voice replied. “I’ve always said marriage is a chain. Break it, and you’re free.”
“Kristina is already looking at furniture.”
“That’s the way. And what about your mother?”
“She’ll understand.”
Zhenya closed the door to the children’s room. She stroked her daughter’s hair. Then she took out her phone and called Dmitry.
“Dima, he said it. Everything exactly as we expected. Word for word.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m all right. We begin.”
A week later, Zhenya packed her things. Two suitcases, the children’s clothes, the documents. Nothing extra. Igor stood in the hallway, watching her carry out the bags. There was a strange expression on his face — not guilt, not pity, but impatience. He was waiting for her to leave so he could call Kristina.
“The keys are on the nightstand,” Zhenya said.
“Mhm.”
“Will you say anything to the children?”
“I will. Later. When they’re older, they’ll understand.”
Zhenya looked at him for a long moment, with that cold calm that comes when a decision has already been made and there is no road back.
“Goodbye, Igor.”
“Yeah. Good luck.”
He did not even come downstairs to help carry the suitcases to the car.
Dima was waiting below. He loaded the bags, helped the children into the car, and they drove away. Zhenya did not look back.
Three days later, Nina Vasilyevna sold her one-room apartment. Quietly. Quickly. Through a realtor she knew. Then she packed two suitcases, locked the empty apartment, and left.
Igor found out by accident. He had stopped by his mother’s place to pick up an old vacuum cleaner, but a stranger opened the door.
“Who are you?”
“I live here. I bought the apartment.”
“What apartment? This is my mother’s apartment!”
“It was your mother’s apartment. Now it’s mine.”
Igor stood on the stair landing and felt the ground slipping away beneath his feet. But that was only the beginning.
Exactly one month after Zhenya left, the doorbell rang in the apartment where Igor was already living with Kristina. Igor opened the door. A man in a business suit stood on the threshold, holding a briefcase.
“Good afternoon. My name is Yershov. I represent the interests of the owner of this apartment. Here is the power of attorney from Nina Vasilyevna Gorchakova. The apartment has been sold. The new owner takes possession in seven days. I ask you to vacate the property.”
Igor snatched the papers from the man’s hands. He read them once. Then again. Then a third time. The letters blurred before his eyes.
“This is nonsense. This is my mother’s apartment. She couldn’t have…”
“She could. She was the owner. Now someone else is. You have seven days.”
Kristina came out of the room in a robe, holding a cup of coffee, with the expression of a woman convinced of her own security.
“What happened?”
“My mother sold the apartment.”
“What?! What do you mean, sold it? You told me the apartment was practically yours!”
“It was registered in my mother’s name!”
“And you didn’t tell me that?”
“I thought it was just a formality! I thought my mother would never…”
Kristina placed the cup down. Slowly. The metallic sound it made made Igor uneasy.
“Igor, I left my ex-husband because he couldn’t provide stability. You promised me stability. An apartment. A normal life. And now it turns out we have nowhere to live?”
“I’ll sort it out. I’ll call my mother. She can’t do this to me.”
He called. Ten times. Twenty. Nina Vasilyevna did not answer. On the twenty-first call, a message came through:
“I’m by the sea. I bought a house. When you’re ready to speak like an adult, come. I’ll send the address.”
Igor threw the phone onto the sofa. Kristina was silently packing her things.
“Where are you going?”
“To a friend’s place. Until you sort this out. I have no intention of ending up on the street in a month.”
“Kris, wait…”
“No. First deal with your mother, the apartment, and your life. Then we’ll talk.”
The door slammed. Igor was left alone.
He called Artem. Artem listened and gave a bitter chuckle.
“Well, what did you expect? You threw your wife and children out. Your mother isn’t stupid.”
“You were the one who told me Zhenya was simple, that she’d swallow it.”
“Did I say she was simple? I said she was too good for you. Those are different things.”
“Artem, are you my friend or what?”
“I’m your friend. But I’m an honest friend. You messed up, Igor.”
Then he called Maxim. Maxim was energetic and optimistic.
“Go to your mother! Put pressure on her! She’s your mother, she’ll forgive you. Cry, apologize, tell her you understand everything now. Women fall for emotions. Especially mothers.”
“You think it’ll work?”
“One hundred percent. Take Kristina with you. Show your mother it’s serious, that you’re a family. She’ll see it and soften.”
Igor grabbed onto that thought like a drowning man clutching a rope.
The house stood near the shore. White walls, a tiled roof, grapevines along the fence. The gate was open. Children’s laundry was drying on a line in the yard, and a ginger cat was sleeping on the porch.
Igor came with Kristina. She had agreed after all — but only on the condition that this was his last chance. They entered the yard, and Igor immediately saw his mother. Nina Vasilyevna was sitting at a table under the awning, peeling peaches.
“Hello,” Igor said.
“Hello, son. Will you introduce us?”
“This is Kristina. My… wife.”
“Wife,” Nina Vasilyevna repeated without emotion. “Sit down. There’s compote in the fridge.”
Kristina looked around. The house was good. Large. Bright. With a view of the sea. Her eyes shone.
“It’s a beautiful house, Nina Vasilyevna. You’ve settled in well.”
“Thank you. I have.”
Igor sat across from his mother. He had prepared his speech the entire way there. For three hours in the car, he had rehearsed the words, the tone, the pauses.
“Mother, why did you do it? Why did you sell the apartment? That was my home. I grew up there.”
“You grew up there. And then you threw a woman with two children out of it. My grandchildren.”
“I didn’t throw her out. I asked her to leave.”
‘Live wherever you want.’ That is not a request, Igor. That is an order.”
“You had no right to sell it without my permission!”
“I had every right. The apartment was mine. My name was on the documents. I could do with it whatever I wished.”
Kristina coughed softly and moved closer to the table.
“Nina Vasilyevna, we didn’t come here to argue. We came to talk. Maybe we could find some solution? Your house is big. Perhaps we could…”
“Could what?”
“Stay here for a while. Until things settle down. There is enough room for everyone.”
Nina Vasilyevna put down the knife. She looked at Kristina with the kind of gaze that makes a person’s hands go numb.
“My dear, do you know that Igor has two children?”
“I know.”
“Do you know that his former wife spent three years getting up at five in the morning to cook, wash, clean, and never once asked for a single ruble more than he gave her?”
“That is their business. Their relationship.”
“No. It is my business. Because for three years, I watched it and saw myself in her. I was just like her. And my husband did to me exactly what Igor did to her.”
Igor stood up.
“Mother, enough. We came here to solve the problem. The house is yours. I am asking only for fairness. I have nowhere to live.”
“Did Zhenya have somewhere to live?”
“She has parents!”
“Parents who have three rooms for six people, where her disabled brother also lives. You know that perfectly well.”
“That isn’t my problem!”
“Now it is.”
Silence fell. Kristina turned the glass in her hands. Igor breathed heavily. Nina Vasilyevna looked at him without anger — with the calm of a person who had long since stopped trying to change someone.
“Mother, I’m asking you. For the last time. Divide the house. Or give me part of the money from the sale.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because the house is not mine.”
Igor blinked. Kristina froze.
“What do you mean it isn’t yours? You said you bought a house!”
“I said, ‘I bought a house.’ I never said in whose name.”
Zhenya came out of the house. She wore a light dress, her skin touched by the sun, their daughter in her arms. Behind her walked the second child — a three-year-old boy, Nina Vasilyevna’s grandson, who looked so much like Igor that Igor involuntarily took a step back.
“Hello, Igor,” Zhenya said.
He was silent. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“The house is registered in my name. Nina Vasilyevna sold both apartments — hers and the one you lived in. The money from both sales went toward buying this house. In my name. Everything is legal. Everything is official.”
“You…” Igor choked on the word. “You planned this for six months?”
“For six months, I washed your shirts while you were visiting your mistress. For six months, I smiled while you lied to my face. Yes, I planned it. Because you left me no choice.”
Kristina rose from the table. Her face had gone pale. She looked at Igor the way people look at someone who has suddenly turned out not to be who he claimed to be.
“You told me the apartment was yours. That your mother would support you. That everything was under control.”
“Kris, I didn’t know…”
“You didn’t know the apartment was in your mother’s name? Or you didn’t know your mother was a decent human being?”
She turned and walked toward the car. Igor rushed after her.
“Kris, wait! We’ll figure this out! I’ll speak to a lawyer!”
Kristina turned back. There was neither love nor pity in her eyes.
“No, Igor. You figure it out. Alone. You promised stability. But you are nothing but an empty shell.”
The car started and drove away. A cloud of dust hung over the road, then slowly settled.
Igor stood in the yard. Alone. Without an apartment, without his new woman, without his old wife. His mother continued peeling peaches. Zhenya went back into the house. Somewhere inside, the children were laughing.
The ginger cat stretched on the porch and went back to sleep.
Nina Vasilyevna did not raise her head.
“There is compote in the fridge, Igor. If you want some, drink it and leave. If you want to talk, sit down and listen. But I will be the one speaking. And I will say it only once.”
He sat down.
For the first time in many years, he sat in silence. For the first time, he had no plan. No certainty. No way out.
Zhenya stood by the window and watched the autumn sun sink behind the sea. Her daughter tugged at the hem of her dress. Zhenya lifted her into her arms and held her close.
She did not look back.