“What if I just get up and leave?” Marina’s voice sounded calm, but strangely out of place against the clink of a spoon against a plate.
Vladimir lifted his eyes from his soup and frowned.
“Where are you off to this time?” he muttered. “Your shift isn’t till the day after tomorrow. Or is this the standard evening hysterics?”
Marina didn’t answer right away. She sat opposite him, slightly hunched, holding a cup of warm tea in her hands. The kitchen smelled of onions and damp. Behind the closed door came the children’s voices—her daughter was asking her brother to give back the tablet, he, as usual, was snapping back. Everything was as always.
“I’m not talking about hysterics, Volodya. I’m serious. What if I just disappear one day? Say I’m going to the store… and never come back.”
He snorted, burying himself in his smartphone.
“Then don’t bother giving me a heads-up—no need. I won’t be looking for you.”
She didn’t reply. She only turned her gaze to the window, where the slow blue of evening was stretching out. And in that moment she knew for sure. There would be no more.
He didn’t even lift his head.
Later, when she was putting Liza to bed, Marina thought that she could have screamed, dropped the cup, slammed the door. But why? He had already left. He’d just forgotten to close the door behind him.
Vladimir had become different. Not all at once, not with a snap of the fingers. He changed like an old coat, with the lining spilling out—seam by seam, little by little. And one day he was a complete stranger.
Back then, in that old apartment out in Peskí, he used to wake her in the mornings with the smell of fried bread. He’d make coffee in a little pot, grumble softly at the boiling kettle, and she, lying under the blanket, would laugh and think that this was what happiness was.
Then came the mortgage, the kids, working double shifts. He laughed less, stayed out more, said “not now” and “later” more and more often. And one day he started turning off his screen whenever she walked into the room. The smell of his clothes stopped being hers. Even his breathing became hurried, as if he were suffocating just by being next to her.
She noticed. Everything. But she pretended not to.
Until that evening when Kostya, playing on Vladimir’s phone in the living room where the Wi-Fi reception was better, handed it to her to charge. She plugged in the cable, the screen blinked, and a notification popped up before her eyes: “You smell like my dreams.”
Marina froze.
She didn’t go through the phone right away. She put it aside—Vladimir was at work, and that day he had forgotten it at home. She made dinner. Put the kids to bed. Washed the dishes. Everything—as usual. Only then, in the kids’ room, sitting down on the carpet, she took the phone, unlocked it—the password was Liza’s birth date. The very one he’d labeled “Al.Tue.”
The messages were… explicit. No game. No hesitation.
“Won’t work out today. Marina’s suspicious, I’ll say I’ve got a meeting. As always.”
“You can’t imagine how badly I want to see you. These days with her are just like prison. I only live when I’m with you.”
She read it as if from a textbook, where every line is a formula. Only instead of answers there was a mute, glassy, deaf silence.
A glass of water stood beside her, and she held it like it was her only anchor.
No tears, no hysterics. Just a decision: no more being a grey little mouse, no more living in the shadows. I can still live—and I will. Not driving myself into a rut of routine and endless family problems. Not losing myself in a role that was forced on me.
The next day, after an almost sleepless night, Marina, as if in answer to the emptiness inside, absent-mindedly did her hair, took out from the closet that very scarf that had been gathering dust on the shelf for ages. She just wanted not to look the way she felt. She wanted to hold herself together. At work, a colleague glanced at her—surprised.
“You look like you’ve gotten younger,” she said.
Marina just smiled.
That day Vladimir looked at her differently. Squinted a little. Asked, “What did you get all dressed up for?”
“I just remembered that I’m a woman,” she answered.
He shrugged. And left. Said he had a meeting. She only noted the time—7:40 p.m.
Later, in the kitchen, she opened the notes app in her phone and wrote: “Tue, 19:40—goes out again. Doesn’t answer calls. Back at 22:18. Smells like ‘Si’.”
She kept notes every day. Screenshots, bank statements, receipts—everything went into a folder. Calmly. Methodically. Like a person who no longer hopes, but knows that they have to see it through.
And yet the worst thing turned out not to be the cheating. It was the silence between them. You couldn’t photograph it, print it out, or present it to the court. But it lived in every glance, in every dinner when he ate without looking up.
Only the children sometimes asked:
“Mom, did you and Dad have a fight?”
She would smile:
“We’re just a little tired. It happens.”
At night, when she couldn’t sleep, Marina flipped through the photos on her phone. Old ones: the sea, laughter, Liza on Vladimir’s shoulders. It had all seemed real. But now it looked like scenes from someone else’s movie. Where the actors look the same, but the plot isn’t.
One of those evenings she called Rita—an old friend from school, now a nurse at the local clinic, who always knew how to listen without unnecessary questions.
“You feel everything, don’t you?” her friend asked right away. “I can hear it in your voice.”
Marina stayed silent.
“Come over. We’ll just talk. I’m off shift. I’ve got raspberry tea. Or… something stronger.”
She went. They sat in the kitchen for a long time, barely speaking. Then Rita said:
“We’ve got a lawyer at the clinic who comes in on Saturdays. He’s good. Helped my sister with her divorce. If you need, I can put you in touch.”
Marina nodded silently.
The first visit to the lawyer was oddly calm. Anton—a man in his fifties, with a tired face and a polite voice—listened without interrupting.
“I need everything to be calm. No fights. No dirt. Just… fair,” she said.
“That’s what we’ll aim for,” he nodded. “Everything you’ve collected will come in handy. And there are a few more things we can check. Accounts. Investments.”
He handed her a business card. On it was written: “Family law. No unnecessary noise.”
At home, Marina carried on with life as if nothing had happened. She made breakfast, walked Liza to school, checked Kostya’s homework.
And at the same time—she gathered. Wrote. Laid out her path to the exit.
Vladimir snapped at her more and more often. Didn’t answer questions. Went out “to meetings” even more. Sometimes he’d bring her coffee, set it on the table without looking at her.
One morning, after an especially tense night, she said:
“I’ve got vacation time. I’ll take a week. Just to rest.”
He shrugged:
“Do whatever you want.”
She smiled. And went to take care of herself.
She got up early, ran in the park, bought a fitness club membership. Even went for a massage. Then to the market for fresh vegetables. The house smelled of salad, citrus, and soft music. The neighbors were surprised—before, you only heard cartoons and the washing machine from there.
When Rita came over again in the evening, Marina opened the door wearing a dress she hadn’t put on in five years.
“You’re glowing,” Rita said, hugging her.
“I’m just remembering who I am. Not for him. For myself.”
And that very night, for the first time in many years, she fell asleep not with anxiety, but with quiet inside.
In the morning Marina woke before the alarm. The room was still dim, but outside the window birds were already singing here and there—that sound of spring that seems to creep under your skin. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling, and for the first time in a long while she wasn’t thinking about Vladimir. Only one phrase kept turning in her head: “I don’t have to carry everything alone.” And there was something freeing in that.
In the kitchen the kettle was beginning to boil softly. She poured oats into a saucepan and set them over a low flame. Liza shuffled in, sleepy, in rabbit pajamas, yawned, and laid her head on Marina’s stomach.
“Mom, can you walk me today? I feel calmer when I’m with you.”
Marina stroked her daughter’s hair. She didn’t answer, just nodded.
Vladimir came closer to noon. He didn’t apologize for being out all night, didn’t explain where he’d been. He acted like he’d just come back from an important meeting or stayed late at work, as if it went without saying. He threw his jacket on a chair and went to the bathroom. He smelled of women’s perfume—sharp, sweet, unfamiliar. Marina didn’t say a word. She simply wiped the table and went to put laundry away in the closet.
With each passing day, a strange kind of certainty grew in her. As if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, but the wind no longer scared her. It was like it was whispering: jump. What’s down there is not death. It’s freedom.
A week later she met with Anton again. The lawyer was restrained, attentive. In the folder were printouts of bank transfers, receipts with Vladimir’s last name, data on the mortgage they had paid off together. He carefully laid everything out, making notes.
“Here are the joint investments. Here’s confirmation that the renovation was paid from the shared account.” He put down a sheet titled: “Payment details: contractors, finishing, appliances.”
“You understand,” he said, “we’re not going in looking for a fight. We’re just presenting facts. This isn’t revenge, it’s your protection.”
Marina nodded.
“And also… this is unofficial,” he took out several screenshots. “We can’t base our case on moral damages, but the judge is human, too. If we need to strengthen our position, we’ll show what was going on. No shouting, no accusations. Just so they understand why you left.”
That evening Marina sat on the windowsill for a long time. She looked at the wet asphalt. Her phone lay by her feet. Only one thought kept circling in her head: “He never even realized how he’d lost everything.”
Three days later she said out loud:
“I’m filing for divorce.”
Vladimir was at his laptop, typing something. He didn’t turn around.
“Big deal,” he snorted. “More of your dramatic blackmail? I’m not falling for it.”
“I’m not blackmailing you. I’m just informing you. It’s already been filed.”
He turned only then. First with disbelief, then with irritation.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No. I just don’t want to live like this anymore. You’re on your own. And I’m going back to myself.”
He snapped his laptop shut, stood up, paced the kitchen. Then he stepped right up to her.
“Listen, Marina, you’re making a big mistake right now. I’m warning you. I’m not the only one who’s going to lose here.”
“I’m not losing anything. I’m taking back what’s mine.”
After that he fell silent. Started coming home even later, hardly spoke. But the air hung heavy with tension, like before a thunderstorm. Sometimes she caught his gaze—wary, prickly, unfamiliar. As if he were looking not at his wife, but at an opponent.
One day he came home in the middle of the day. He took a stack of papers from the shelf, leafed through them without hiding it. There were copies of the mortgage contracts, bills for the furniture, printouts of transfers.
“So you really want to leave me without a cent?”
Marina silently took the documents and put them back in the cabinet.
“I just want fairness.”
Everything happened quickly. The summons came a week later. The court date was set for mid-March.
On the day of the hearing, Marina dressed simply but smartly. A dark blue dress, hair pulled back, neutral makeup. Anton met her at the courthouse doors. He nodded, as if to say: “I’m here, it’s under control.”
Vladimir arrived later. In a wrinkled shirt, nervous. He didn’t say hello.
The hearing was brief. The judge—a woman around forty with a tired face—asked precise, dry questions.
“The apartment was purchased during the marriage?”
“Yes,” Marina answered.
“Who paid the mortgage?”
Anton handed over the documents.
“Jointly. Here is the account activity. These are the payments for appliances and renovations. All from the joint budget. In addition, here are printouts confirming transfers to third parties unrelated to household needs.”
“That has nothing to do with this,” Vladimir cut in sharply.
“It’s indirectly relevant,” the lawyer replied calmly. “It gives the court an overall picture of the relationship between the parties.”
The judge flipped through the papers. Her face showed no surprise, no judgment. Just work.
“Are the parties willing to settle the dispute voluntarily?”
“No,” said Marina. “I want everything done according to the law.”
When she said that, Vladimir gave a slight shake of his head. As if he still couldn’t believe things had gone this far.
The ruling was handed down that same day: the apartment remained with Marina, as the person who had confirmed her contributions, payments, and permanent residence with the children. The decision also stated that the children would live with their mother on a permanent basis. The divorce was granted.
After the hearing Vladimir didn’t come over. He only threw over his shoulder:
“You’ll pay for this. Everything comes back around.”
Watching him go, Anton sighed.
“It doesn’t come back. Not like that.”
Marina said nothing. But inside she felt a strange warmth. As if, for the first time in a long while, no one was blaming her, manipulating her, or belittling her.
That evening she sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, looking out the window. Liza was playing in her room, Kostya was doing his homework.
Her phone lit up: a message from Rita.
“You did great. If you want—come by tomorrow. We’ll just sit.”
Marina smiled. For the first time she felt that she hadn’t stepped into nowhere, but into herself.
The next morning, when the house still breathed with the freshness of a weekend, Marina pulled off the duvet cover and folded it neatly into the laundry basket. The cotton fabric still held a trace of cleanliness—the smell of detergent, a bit of sunlight, a bit of childhood. Liza was laughing in the next room—telling Kostya about some cartoon. In that simplicity there was a strange sense of stability. As if at last the floor under her feet had become solid.
On the bedside table, her phone screen lit up. A message from the teacher: “Liza has started participating more in class. You can tell it’s peaceful at home.” Marina smiled. She wiped the screen with her sleeve and went back to the laundry.
Three weeks had passed since the court hearing. Vladimir had vanished—no calls, no messages. Through his lawyer he sent word that he would “appeal everything,” but he filed neither an appeal nor a countersuit. He moved in with Nina Andreyevna, his mother. The children sometimes stayed with them for the weekend, then came back a day later. But gradually they themselves began to say:
“Mom, can we stay with you a bit longer?”
“Can we not go at all?”
Marina didn’t pry. Didn’t ask who he was with now. Didn’t dig. She had enough to do.
Rita called on Friday.
“They’ve opened a support group at our center. Women who’ve been through different things. If you want—just come. You don’t have to say anything. Just listen.”
“I’m not a psychologist,” Marina brushed it off.
“You don’t have to be. You’ve just already gone through what some of them still have ahead. Your quiet—sometimes that’s the most important thing. Come.”
Marina came. The room smelled of coffee and something citrusy. The women sat in a circle—some were silent, some talked about loans, some about a kind of emptiness no one noticed. At the end of the meeting one of them said:
“Can I just ask Marina a question?”
Marina was taken aback.
“When did it get easier?” asked a woman with short hair.
Marina thought for a moment.
“When I realized I had the right. The right to exist. Not as strong, not as convenient, not as ‘right.’ Just as myself. Even if not everyone likes it.”
After that they invited her more often. She didn’t lecture, didn’t give advice. She just was there. Attentive. Real. A woman who hadn’t broken, but rebuilt herself.
One evening Kostya came up to her and said:
“Mom, are you mad that it’s just us now?”
“Why should I be mad?”
“Well, you do everything by yourself, and Dad…”
Marina hugged her son.
“I’m not by myself. I’ve got you. And I’ve got myself. And that’s a lot.”
In spring, in mid-April, first there was a knock at the door. Then the doorbell rang.
Marina opened the door—and froze. Vladimir was standing on the landing. He looked worn out, his face gaunt, his jacket unzipped.
“Hi,” he said quietly. “Can we talk?”
Marina narrowed her eyes slightly.
“About what?”
“About us. I… I don’t want it to end like this. I was wrong. I got confused. That… that wasn’t real. I get that now. My life is falling apart, Marina. They kicked me out of work like some kid. I’m having a hard time.”
She didn’t step back, didn’t invite him in. She just stood there, leaning against the doorframe.
“Vova, for many years you didn’t understand what it was like with me. Now you understand what it’s like without me. That’s not the same thing.”
He pressed his lips together.
“I’ll change.”
“I don’t need you to change. Just live. Only not next to me.”
He stood there for a long time. Then nodded, dropping his eyes. And left.
She closed the door and exhaled. Not with anger, not with triumph—but with lightness. As if someone had carried out a heavy wardrobe and the room had become spacious.
Two months later the kitchen smelled of apple pie. Liza sat at the table drawing. Kostya was putting together a construction set. On the wall hung a schedule of activities: Marina was leading meetings with women at the local center. Not as a psychologist—as a person who knew how to listen.
Geranium bloomed on the windowsill. From the mail she had taken an envelope from the lawyer: the decision in her case had come into legal force, and no further property claims had been filed. The agreement stated that the children lived with her on a permanent basis.
She put the kettle on and laid the cups out on the table. Everything was simple now. No tension. No foreign breath at her back. No need to guess what was wrong.
Marina no longer waited for approval. Didn’t look for excuses. Didn’t live by someone else’s rules.
One day she walked up to the mirror and saw: her eyes no longer darted about. Her back was straight. Her neck relaxed. She wasn’t smiling—she simply was.
In the evening Liza asked:
“Mom, are you happy now?”
Marina sat down beside her and hugged her.
“I’m real now. And that’s even better.”
Sometimes, to live for real, you don’t need to destroy someone else—you need to restore yourself. Not to take revenge, not to prove anything, not to drag everyone into an endless battle—but simply to remember that part inside you that was neglected, forgotten, broken. And give it light. Because revenge is short-lived. Life is when you come back to yourself and stay. Without fear. Without guilt. With warmth.