Misha slammed the cold cup of coffee down on the table and clicked the coffee machine button. Five minutes until he had to leave. Their old apartment had become a cramped box to him, every corner a reminder of twenty years of marriage—a marriage he’d decided to end three months ago.
“Did you remember the papers?” Ira’s voice came from the hallway.
Not “his wife.” Now she was just Ira.
“I remembered. I’m not a child,” Misha muttered, sipping the fresh coffee.
Ira walked into the kitchen. Thinner, dark circles under her eyes—over these three months she looked like she’d aged ten years. Misha turned to the window. It felt awkward to look at her.
“You didn’t have to come. I would’ve brought your things myself,” she said, opening the fridge and nervously rearranging jars.
“It was on my way. And I need to pick up the keys.”
“Can’t wait to get rid of me?”
Misha jerked a shoulder.
“Ira, don’t start. We agreed.”
“We agreed,” she slammed the fridge door. “Of course. You’ve always decided everything. For twenty years.”
Misha checked the time. He couldn’t be late.
“Listen, maybe we should go now? The lawyer asked us to be early.”
“Your lawyer,” Ira gave a tense little laugh. “I don’t have money for a lawyer. You know that.”
Misha winced. Here we go.
“You could’ve taken it from our joint funds.”
“Joint?” Ira laughed, and the sound was new, unfamiliar. “And do we have anything ‘joint’? You never let me use the card.”
“Ira, enough!” Misha stood up sharply. “You know what, I’m even glad I left. This is unbearable.”
“Unbearable,” she repeated quietly. “And my life now is just nonstop fun. A room in a communal apartment. At fifty-two.”
“I offered to pay for a rental.”
“And then what? When your little Sveta asks you to stop?”
Misha was about to answer when his phone chimed with a reminder.
“It’s time to go,” he cut her off.
They were silent on the way to court. Misha drove—their family Volkswagen which, of course, would stay with him. He had bought it with his money, after all.
“Is Dimka coming?” Misha asked, unable to stand the silence.
“No. He says it’s disgusting to watch us divorce.”
“He could at least support us.”
“Support whom?”
Misha didn’t answer. Since the announcement of the divorce, his son had barely spoken to him. He’d promised to come to the hearing, but changed his mind at the last moment.
The courthouse greeted them with echoing corridors and the smell of government offices. By the courtroom doors, Misha’s lawyer was waiting—a gaunt man in glasses with a folder of documents.
“Mikhail Valeryevich! Everything’s ready,” the lawyer shook his hand firmly. “And this is…?”
“Irina Nikolaevna, my… wife,” Misha stumbled.
“No lawyer?” a flicker of surprise crossed the attorney’s voice.
“No,” Ira said firmly.
The lawyer shrugged. “Well, all the better for us…”
Misha saw Ira flinch.
“Let’s go in,” he tugged the lawyer by the sleeve. “We’ll go over the details.”
While they whispered in a corner, Ira sat on a bench. Misha watched her out of the corner of his eye—hunched, small, fiddling with her bag strap. A strange feeling pricked somewhere inside. Guilt? No, just nerves.
“So, property is straightforward,” the lawyer murmured. “The apartment was purchased during the marriage, but with your funds. The car is yours too. Savings we’ll split fifty–fifty, that’s the law. No hard feelings.”
“Fine,” Misha nodded. “She isn’t really contesting anything.”
“Excellent. We’ll be done quickly.”
But when they were called in, Misha noticed something odd. People were crowding at the entrance. He recognized his father-in-law—a heavyset man with a cane—his mother-in-law, and… Ira’s brother with his wife. They nodded to him coldly, without greetings.
“Ira, what’s this?” he tugged her sleeve. “Why did you bring your parents?”
“They came on their own. I do have a family that cares about me, you know,” she snapped and went into the courtroom.
Misha felt things slipping off script. Way off.
The judge—a woman with a short haircut and a stern look—opened the hearing in a dry tone. Misha sat up straight, shoulders squared. Everything was going to plan until they got to the division of property.
“So, according to the plaintiff’s claim, he seeks the apartment and the Volkswagen,” the judge looked up from the papers. “Your position, Mr. Sokolov?”
Misha’s lawyer stood. “Your Honor, the apartment and vehicle were purchased with my client’s funds. His spouse did not contribute financially; she worked as a nurse on a minimal salary.”
Misha snuck a glance at Ira. She sat with her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Irina Nikolaevna, do you agree?” the judge asked.
Ira straightened. Something had changed in her gaze.
“No, I do not,” she said it quietly, but firmly.
Misha tensed.
“Explain your position to the court,” the judge set down her pen.
“We bought the apartment with my parents’ money. They sold their house in the village and gave us most of the amount. And the car is registered to our son, Dmitry.”
Misha jumped up. “That’s not true! I paid for everything!”
“Sit down,” the judge said sternly. “Do you have evidence, Irina Nikolaevna?”
“My parents are here. And the documents…”
A bucket of cold water seemed to hit Misha. His mother-in-law stood from the back row.
“My husband and I provided three quarters of the amount for the apartment. We’ve kept the papers and bank statements.”
“This is nonsense!” Misha turned to his lawyer. “Tell them!”
The lawyer rifled through the folder, confused.
“I… was not informed of this.”
The judge frowned. “Are there documents confirming the transfer of funds?”
“Yes, here,” Ira pulled a folder from her bag. “A deed of gift and my parents’ account statements.”
Misha couldn’t believe his ears.
“Ira, what are you doing? We had an agreement…”
“About what, Misha? That you’d take everything?” Her eyes flashed. “I kept quiet for twenty years. Enough.”
Ira’s brother, Sergei, stepped forward. “And the car belongs to Dima on paper. Three years ago Mikhail registered it to his son to avoid paying taxes as a sole proprietor.”
“Is that true?” the judge looked hard at Misha.
“It’s… a formality,” Misha felt his plan collapsing. “I’m the one who uses the car!”
“Your son is the owner,” the judge examined the documents.
Misha looked helplessly at his lawyer.
“You said this would be simple!”
“You didn’t mention these details,” the lawyer hissed.
“We’ll take a recess to review the new circumstances,” the judge announced. “The hearing will resume in a week. Please provide all documents related to the property.”
In the corridor Misha grabbed Ira by the elbow.
“Did you set this up on purpose? Humiliated me!”
“Me?” she gave a bitter smile. “You humiliated yourself. Did you think I’d quietly slip off to my little room?”
“You never cared about money!”
“I trusted you, Misha. And you…”
Her father approached, leaning heavily on his cane. “Let her go,” he said sternly. “Enough of ordering her around.”
“You were always against me!” Misha backed away.
“Because we could see right through you,” his mother-in-law said quietly.
At that moment Misha’s phone buzzed. A text from Sveta: “How’s it going? Will you be done soon?”
Misha clenched his jaw. Nothing was going right. Nothing at all.
The week dragged on endlessly. Misha ricocheted between work, the rented apartment where Sveta waited, and meetings with the lawyer. Each time, the lawyer’s frown deepened.
“Our chances are… uncertain,” he said, leafing through the documents. “If the deed of gift is genuine—and with the car it’s clear as day…”
“How could she!” Misha slammed his fist on the table. “She kept quiet about her parents’ money for twenty years!”
“Did you yourself know about it?”
“Well… I knew,” Misha turned to the window. “But that was a long time ago. And anyway, I earned ten times more than she did!”
“That won’t impress the court,” the lawyer took off his glasses. “Jointly acquired property is divided equally regardless of spouses’ incomes. And if part of it is a gift from her parents…”
“Find a way!” Misha raised his voice. “I’m paying you!”
On the day of the hearing he woke with a headache. Sveta made coffee, but he barely touched it.
“It’ll be fine,” she patted his shoulder. “You said your ex is quiet and won’t make a scene.”
“She used to be quiet,” Misha grumbled. “She kept silent for twenty years and suddenly found her voice.”
Court brought him a surprise. In the corridor stood Dima—their son. Tall, with his father’s features but a cold gaze.
“Dim?” Misha moved toward him. “You came!”
“Yes,” his son said curtly. “For my car.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. It’s mine; I’m taking it. Mom said you’re claiming it.”
“Dima, you understand…” Misha trailed off. His son was looking at him like he was a stranger.
“I understand. You decided to screw Mom over and take everything. Including my car.”
“It’s not yours! I mean, formally yes, but…”
“And in practice—whose?” Dima folded his arms.
Misha fell silent. Ira approached with her parents.
“Dimochka!” she hugged her son. “You came after all!”
“Couldn’t miss it,” he hugged her back. “Hi, Grandpa, Grandma.”
He didn’t so much as glance at Misha.
Inside, the atmosphere was tense. The judge reviewed all the documents and finally looked up.
“After analyzing the papers submitted, the court finds as follows. The apartment was purchased with substantial financial assistance from the parents of Irina Nikolaevna. This is confirmed by bank statements and a deed of gift. The Volkswagen is registered to Sokolov Dmitry Mikhailovich, as evidenced by the title and a gift agreement from father to son.”
Misha clenched his fists. The lawyer beside him looked sour.
“In light of these circumstances, the court deems the plaintiff’s claims to sole ownership of the apartment and vehicle unfounded.”
“That’s not fair!” Misha jumped up. “I supported the family all these years! I paid for the apartment!”
“Sit down, Mr. Sokolov,” the judge said sharply. “Do not interrupt.”
“My parents’ money should count too,” Ira said quietly. “And I worked all these years as well.”
“As a nurse!” Misha snorted. “Your salary wouldn’t even cover the utilities!”
“And who watched Dima while you were building your business?” Ira raised her voice for the first time. “Who pulled night shifts and still did everything at home in the morning?”
“Order in the court!” the judge rapped her gavel. “The court rules: the apartment is recognized as jointly acquired property, taking into account the contribution of the defendant’s parents. The vehicle is the property of Sokolov Dmitry Mikhailovich.”
“I object!” Misha flushed. “This is a conspiracy! They arranged all of this!”
“One more outburst and you will be removed,” the judge warned.
Dima stood. “Dad, enough. You’ve done plenty already. You left for another woman, kicked Mom out of the house. Now you want to take my car too?”
“I didn’t kick her out! She left on her own!”
“After you brought your new woman into our home! While Mom was on a night shift!” Ira’s eyes filled with tears. “In front of me!”
A murmur rippled through the room. The judge banged the gavel again.
“This hearing is now closed to the public. Everyone except the parties will leave.”
When the extras had left, the judge removed her glasses and looked at the spouses wearily.
“Listen, we can drag this out forever, or we can settle it like civilized people. The documents speak for themselves. The apartment is joint property, with the parents’ contribution taken into account. The car belongs to the son. That leaves bank accounts and other assets.”
Misha sat red-faced, his jaw muscles jumping. Ira stared at the floor.
“Your Honor,” the lawyer began, “my client is prepared to reconsider his position regarding the car. But the apartment…”
“I’ll be living in the apartment,” Ira said suddenly, firmly. “I have nowhere else to go. Mikhail has a new family and income. All I have is this apartment.”
“All my money is in the business!” Misha hit the table. “I can’t just give up the place!”
“Not ‘just give it up,’” the judge looked at him sternly. “In accordance with the law. You can be paid compensation for your share if she remains living there.”
Misha opened his mouth, but Dima cut in.
“You know, Dad, I always thought you were fair. Remember you used to say, ‘A man answers for his family’? What happened to that man?”
Silence fell. Misha slowly sat back down.
“I propose a compromise,” the judge went on. “The apartment remains with Irina Nikolaevna. The car remains the son’s property. Mikhail Valeryevich receives compensation from jointly acquired funds. Do all agree?”
Misha was silent for a long time, then nodded reluctantly.
“Fine. I agree.”
After the ruling they stepped into the corridor. Ira’s parents hurried to their daughter, and Dima pulled his father aside.
“Hand over the car keys.”
Misha silently took out the fob.
“Dima, let’s talk…”
“About what? How you humiliated Mom for twenty years? Or how you brought your new woman home while Mom was on shift?”
“How did you…?”
“The neighbor called. And Mom kept quiet and endured it. Her whole life.”
Misha lowered his eyes.
“I didn’t want it to turn out like this.”
“But this is exactly how it turned out,” Dima took the keys. “You know, I used to be proud of you. And now…”
He didn’t finish, and walked back to his mother. Misha was left standing alone in the hallway.
It was drizzling outside. Misha stood under the canopy, not knowing where to go. He dialed Sveta.
“Hey, where are you? Can you pick me up?”
Ira was the last to come out, arm in arm with her son. Her parents were waiting in the car.
“Dima, can you drive me to the apartment? I need to pick up my things.”
“Of course, Mom.”
Misha stepped toward them.
“Ira, listen…”
She stopped. There was no anger in her eyes, only fatigue.
“Misha, everything’s already been said. Twenty years and three months’ worth has been said.”
“I didn’t think it would end up like this.”
“How did you think it would end?” she gave a sad smile. “That I’d keep quiet forever? That my parents wouldn’t stand up for me? That Dima wouldn’t find out?”
“Mom, let’s go,” Dima tugged her hand. “The rain’s getting heavier.”
“I just wanted to say… I’m sorry.”
Ira shook her head.
“You know, I should thank you. If not for this divorce, I’d never have learned how strong I am.”
She turned and walked to the car. Dima followed without so much as a glance at his father.
A month later Ira moved back into the apartment for good. Dima helped with the renovation—they repainted the walls, replaced the furniture. Her parents gifted her new appliances. For the first time in twenty years she decided for herself what color curtains to hang and where to put the sofa.
At work Ira took extra shifts. Her colleagues noticed the change—she seemed younger, stood straighter, started smiling.
And Misha… Misha moved out from Sveta two months later. Without the apartment, without the car, and with a damaged reputation, he wasn’t so attractive anymore. He rented a small studio and sometimes called Dima, but his son answered rarely and briefly.
Once he ran into Ira at the supermarket. She looked fresh, well-groomed—and maybe even happy. A man stood beside her.
“Hi, Ira,” Misha nodded awkwardly.
“Hello,” she nodded back. “How are you?”
“Fine… working.”
“That’s good,” she smiled softly. “Dima asked me to tell you he’ll stop by this weekend. If you’re not busy.”
“Of course I’m not busy,” Misha felt his eyes sting. “Thanks for telling me.”
They went their separate ways—each down their own path. And Ira didn’t look back anymore