The morning after filing for divorce isn’t coffee with a croissant, but a call from the housing office reminding you about unpaid major repairs. Svetlana got up not because she slept well, but because there was an empty spot on the pillow beside her. Andrey had gone to his mother’s — predictable, like a “Phlebodia” commercial in an evening movie.
The apartment felt… lighter. Quiet. Clean. Even his stinky slippers were gone. But a cup remained on the shelf: chipped at the rim, a dark ring, and a strange, ingrained smell of resentment. She took it and threw it into the trash can. Loudly. With satisfaction.
There was a knock on the door. Svetlana opened it — Nina Petrovna stood there, dressed all in black. As if going to a funeral. Although maybe she was — to see off the remnants of common sense.
“Where is he?” she asked coldly, like in a morgue.
“On his knees,” Svetlana answered without blinking. “Are you here to inspect, out of habit?”
“I gave him my apartment, by the way!”
“Then take him with the apartment. Hang him right above the TV. Let him bow to you every hour.”
Nina Petrovna came in uninvited — in the best tradition of SMERSH officers. She stood in the center, looking at the walls.
“It’s as cold as a dog’s. Unwomanly.”
“Unwomanly is demanding to sell the car just for show at the wedding.”
“No one forced you! You yourself drove us to divorce!”
Svetlana laughed — nervously, loudly, even a bit hoarsely.
“Yeah. And I invested eight years in him, paid the mortgage, his debts, listened to his whining, wiped your noses when you forgot my mother’s name again!”
“You were never part of our family!” the mother-in-law snapped. “You were like… a guest!”
“Yeah. But a guest who fixed your toilet when the gasket leaked.”
Nina Petrovna stepped closer. Her eyes held a mix of contempt, pity, and eternal superiority.
“You’re just jealous. Vera has a family, a wedding, care. And you? At forty, closer to loneliness than happiness.”
Svetlana looked her in the eyes and suddenly said:
“Do you know what’s worse than loneliness? Being with someone and still feeling alone.”
Nina Petrovna stepped back. Silently. Then suddenly sharply:
“We’ll still sue for the car!”
“Try it. First find a judge who sympathizes with ‘golden boomers.’ Good luck. If anything — my documents are in order. As is my head.”
The mother-in-law left. On the way out, she bumped a vase; it fell and broke. Svetlana didn’t pick it up. Let it lie. Symbolic.
Three weeks passed. Svetlana rented a one-room apartment — small, but hers. Without “mom’s kitchen” and endless reminders of whom she should be grateful to. The move was noisy, with movers, boxes, and shouts of “careful, fragile!” One of the movers, a guy about thirty, smirked:
“Will the ex help with the furniture?”
“The ex only helps with destruction,” she replied. “I’ll manage the furniture myself.”
That first night she fell asleep thinking: Freedom is when no one expects you to burn yourself for someone else’s convenience.
On the weekend, she went grocery shopping. Near the mall was a luxurious golden BMW. With a bow. With a ribbon. And with VERA — in a short white coat and heels, as if she had been raised to model credit weddings.
Svetlana slowed down, got out of her car — old, but hers. Walked by without stopping. But Vera noticed.
“Oh! Svetka! Hi!” she shouted like calling a stray dog.
Svetlana turned, approached slowly. Vera was beaming.
“So, how do you like it? Andrey got it for me!”
“He gave you the car?” Svetlana was surprised. “Well, congratulations. And what does he drive?”
“He’s on foot for now. He’s… going through a difficult period.”
“Yeah. Eight years of ‘difficult period’ — not everyone would survive that.”
“Svet, don’t be offended. You just… don’t suit him. You’re too…”
“Independent? With a character? With a car?” Svetlana smirked.
“Exactly,” Vera brightened. “Too much character.”
Svetlana nodded. Then said:
“Be careful with him. He likes to pressure. Especially when he wants something.”
“He’s just… romantic. He wants everything to be beautiful.”
“He wants everything at other people’s expense.”
With those words, Svetlana went back to her car. Got in. Closed the doors. And — for the first time in a month — turned the music up loud. A 90’s dance track. Silly. Happy. Liberating.
The next week a letter came — from Andrey’s lawyer. “Property claims. The car — a disputed asset acquired during the marriage.”
Svetlana looked at the paper. Took a pen. Signed a counterclaim: “I do not recognize the claims. All documents are in order. I wish you luck in life and court.”
Then added a handwritten note:
“And tell Vera — a BMW won’t save a marriage if the driver is a wimp.”
The next meeting with Andrey was in court. He came with his mother. She was with a lawyer.
“Did you start all this for the car?” he hissed before the hearing.
“You lost everything for the car, Andrey. Even yourself.”
He tried to smile. Pitiful. Woeful. But all that was left was a wrinkled shirt and the look of someone who put himself up for sale but got no discount.
After court, Svetlana felt she was breathing differently. Deeper. Freer.
Then the phone rang. An unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Svetlana? It’s Elena, a university friend. Listen, I went through a divorce. And you know what they say? A woman who managed to leave an idiot is invincible. How about you?”
Svetlana smiled.
“Me? I just started winning.”
“You sold my guitar?!” Andrey shouted hysterically, standing at the door of her new apartment, his hair looking like he fought a hairdryer and lost.
“It’s yours?” Svetlana slowly raised an eyebrow. “You played it three times in eight years. Twice on New Year’s, when you were drunk.”
“That was a memory! It was a GIFT from Uncle Vitya!”
“Well, maybe then Uncle Vitya should come and take you too? I don’t keep unnecessary things now.”
He stood in a jacket, in a wrinkled sweater, eyes full of panic. Did it just dawn on him? That it’s all over. That there’s nowhere to return.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “How could you just cut everything off like that?”
“Not just like that. Slowly. For years. Every time you asked, ‘Why are you angry again?’ — and I was silent.”
Andrey lowered his eyes. There was something pathetic in the way he fiddled with his bag strap, as if waiting for everything to come back.
“What if I… well… hadn’t asked about the car?” he exhaled, as if clutching a last hope.
“Then there would be another reason. You always find a way to break everything we build. You and your ‘mom said so.’”
He stepped forward.
“I miss you.”
“Who? Me? Or the car you no longer have?”
Svetlana looked at him. For a long time. How many years had she believed he was just “lost,” that she could “inspire,” “support,” “wait out the crisis”? It turned out she was just living in someone else’s script, where her role was to serve others’ desires.
He went to the kitchen without invitation. Old habits — like cockroaches — don’t die. He saw the new fridge.
“Who bought this for you?”
“Freedom. You know, a good thing. Pays better than you.”
Andrey exhaled loudly. Turned around, leaned against the wall. Silent for a minute.
“You’re not going to marry again, right?” he asked without looking.
“Are you already afraid there’ll be no one to ask for a fridge for mom’s anniversary?”
He looked at her like she’d stolen his last sandwich. With caviar. Red.
“Svet, what if you regret it?”
“Only those who didn’t try regret. I tried living with you. Thanks, no more.”
And then something strange happened. He smiled. Somehow nasty. Condescending.
“You’ll still be alone. People like you — with character, with ambition — they’re feared.”
“Well, that’s great,” Svetlana took her coffee cup. “So next time, I definitely won’t make a mistake.”
He slammed the door.
She didn’t run after him. Didn’t cry. Didn’t call a friend or rush to complain in a support chat for abandoned wives. She just… finished her coffee.
A month passed. Svetlana changed her last name. Back to her maiden name. Cut her hair. Got a new job — with prospects, even at 47.
Sometimes Vera called her. Asked to “not pressure the brother in court.”
“He’s started drinking, by the way,” she said reproachfully, as if Svetlana sold not a car but a liver.
“Then you know what to give him for his birthday. A breathalyzer and a psychotherapist’s directory.”
And here’s the finale.
Svetlana sat in the car. Hers. In the new office parking lot. Opened the window. Breathed.
On the passenger seat lay an empty court envelope — the divorce was finalized. That’s it. Period.
On the phone — a message:
“Do you really still think you did the right thing?”
She pressed delete. Didn’t reply. Why? She already gave herself the answer.
Someone honked behind. Someone was in a hurry. She moved off.
And in her head, only one phrase kept spinning:
“When you let go of those who don’t appreciate you — you don’t lose. You get yourself back.”
The End.