“You do realize that even if you file for divorce, the apartment will have to be split, right?”
“Yeah? And why is that?”
“Because you two are husband and wife, that’s why. And anyway, it’s your own fault Igor started looking around on the side. You think I don’t know about his affairs? You’re so stupid and naive. You’d better listen. No one else will tell you this. Naive girl!”
Anna put her phone down on the desk and stared at the blank screen for a long time, as if hoping her mother-in-law would call back any second and dispel all doubts. But the screen stayed dark, and her head was full of heavy, gloomy thoughts.
She mechanically opened the spreadsheet on her monitor, but the numbers jumped in front of her eyes, turning into meaningless symbols.
“Anyuta, have you checked that document I sent an hour ago?” a colleague at the next desk asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it now,” she answered quickly, forcing a strained smile.
In reality, Anna wanted only one thing—to understand what was going on. Her husband Igor had always been a reliable, calm and predictable man. He worked as an engineer, often went on business trips—but Anna had never thought there might be anything suspicious about that. He’d call, text, send photos of hotel rooms, even send a couple of selfies with colleagues.
But now… everything was different. There hadn’t been any photos for a long time. His calls had become short and formal. Igor answered in monosyllables and got irritated if his wife asked where exactly he was and how the hotel check-in had gone.
“Anna, how many times are we going to go over this? I’m an adult, I have a job, for God’s sake!”
Anna hated conflicts, so she usually backed down. But yesterday, when he mentioned another business trip, she couldn’t hold it in:
“Again? You just got back a week ago.”
“Well, we didn’t manage to sort everything out, I have to go again.”
“Back to Tver?”
“Yes. What’s your problem now?”
That was the first time she noticed how he averted his eyes. Now, remembering that moment, Anna felt a knot of anxiety tighten inside. And the call from her mother-in-law had been the last straw.
If Valentina Ivanovna didn’t know about this trip, it meant Igor had lied. He had always told his mother about his comings and goings first of all. And now even she was out of the loop.
Anna got up, picked up her mug and went to the break room. She made herself some coffee but didn’t even taste it. She just sat there, the cup in her hands, staring into space.
After work, Anna stopped by the supermarket—on autopilot, just so she wouldn’t have to go home too early. She bought groceries, but stood at the checkout with an empty look, not understanding what she needed that carton of milk and cheese for.
When she finally came home, the apartment was quiet. Her husband’s jacket wasn’t hanging on the rack. Anna walked into the kitchen and set the bags on the table. She wandered through the rooms slowly, as if afraid to disturb the silence. Every movement echoed inside her with a faint sadness.
Then Anna stopped at the window and looked out at the evening city—cars passing somewhere below, lights glowing in the building across the street, shadows flitting past the windows. And she remembered how three years earlier she and Igor had first stepped into this apartment together. The keys had jingled pleasantly in the lock, and Anna, smiling, had thrown the door wide open:
“Here it is—my apartment!”
Igor had stood on the threshold then, looking around with almost childlike delight.
“I thought you were exaggerating about the square meters. But no. It’s actually even bigger!”
She smiled. Her grandfather had bought this apartment when Anna was just born. After he passed away, she inherited it. For a while Anna lived here alone, enjoying the quiet and cozy atmosphere, and then Igor came into her life.
At first they dated for six months—everything was as beautiful as in the movies. He brought her flowers, took her to the theater and the cinema, helped whenever something broke in the apartment; once they even washed the windows together. And then came the wedding—simple, modest, without unnecessary pomp.
Igor had been happy, and she had felt it.
“Finally I’ll live away from my mom,” Igor had said as he unpacked his boxes. “Now real independent life begins!”
He often repeated those words back then—“our walls,” “our home.” And Anna believed that’s how it would always be.
She went into the bedroom. On the dresser stood a photo of the two of them on a lakeshore. Igor was smiling, his arm around her waist. A summer day, the sun, their hair wet after swimming. Anna ran a finger along the frame.
It felt like all that belonged to another life.
The first months of their marriage were wonderful. They had romantic dinners together, cooked side by side, watched movies and TV shows, bickered over silly things. And then suddenly the endless “business trips” started. At first rare—once a month, then more and more often.
“Well, you understand, it’s the job,” Igor would say dismissively.
And Anna believed him, because she wanted to trust her husband.
She sat a while longer on the edge of the bed, holding the photo in her hands. Her heart ached, but that hollow, panicky feeling that had squeezed her chest in the morning was gone. Suddenly Anna thought: if Igor really is on a business trip, maybe she shouldn’t spend the weekend waiting for his call… maybe she should spend it on herself?
The thought felt almost rebellious, but pleasant. Anna stood up, put the photo back and resolutely headed to the bathroom. She would let herself relax a little—for once without extra thoughts, without suspicions, without that constant “what if…”
She turned on the tap, and warm water began to rush into the tub. On the shelf sat a bottle of lavender-scented bubble bath. While the tub filled, Anna sliced the cheese she’d bought the day before and opened a bottle of wine. She had been saving it specifically for a romantic Friday dinner with her husband—she imagined they’d cook together and laugh at some comedy show.
But now there was a new scenario. Anna turned on her favorite series, set the tablet on a stand by the tub and sank into the water. The hot water wrapped around her skin, the lavender scent filled the air, and Anna felt the tension slowly leave her body.
“See?” she said quietly to herself. “Maybe things aren’t so bad after all.”
Later, before bed, Anna texted her friend Sveta:
“Sveta, hey! It’s the weekend tomorrow. I want to go to a spa—to relax, reset. Will you come with me?”
The reply came almost instantly:
“Of course! I’m all for it! Let’s do noon?”
Anna smiled, set her phone aside and turned off the light. Her heart felt noticeably lighter.
The next day the friends met at the spa. Soft sunlight reflected in the shop windows, the street was damp, and autumn leaves lay everywhere. Anna looked refreshed—a bit of makeup, neat hair, a smile.
Inside the salon it smelled of eucalyptus, and soft music played. The women went through all the treatments—massage, sauna, facial masks, body wraps. Anna lay there, feeling as if with every breath all the anxiety that had piled up over the month was leaving her.
“See?” said Sveta after the massage. “I told you, you just needed to exhale.”
“Yeah,” Anna smiled. “And remember that I have a life too.”
After the spa they decided to stop by a nearby café for cappuccino and pastries. But as soon as they stepped out of the salon, a woman walked in past them—young, stunningly beautiful, with long chestnut hair and a gorgeous smile. She wore a light coat and very high heels.
Anna suddenly froze. Something about her was painfully familiar—her face, her gaze, the way she held herself… But where could she have seen her before?
“Anya, what is it?” Sveta snapped her fingers in front of her friend’s face, surprised.
“I…” Anna glanced back at the woman. “I think I’ve seen her somewhere. I just can’t remember where…”
She stepped outside, squinting—and suddenly her eyes caught on a car parked a little way off. Her heart skipped a beat. The plate was hard to read at that distance, but she recognized three of the digits exactly. Igor’s car.
“Sveta…” Anna whispered. “I think… that’s our car.”
Her friend snorted:
“Anya, seriously? You’re just tired. Come on, enough already. This is getting like paranoia. You should be happy your man has a job. And you just won’t leave him alone with your suspicions.”
Anna nodded, but something inside twisted painfully. She looked again toward where the car had been, but it had already pulled out and disappeared down the street.
The friends settled at a window table in a cozy café directly opposite the spa. Through the big pane of glass, the entrance was perfectly visible—a white door with gold handles that people passed in and out of. Anna sat there, hands wrapped around her cup, but didn’t take a single sip. Her eyes were fixed on the door, her thoughts far away.
“Anya, at least try the cheesecake,” Sveta said, pushing a plate toward her. “It’s absolutely divine!”
“Mm-hmm,” Anna replied absentmindedly, not looking away from the window.
The minutes stretched like melted wax. Sveta talked about her new job, her perfectionist boss, but Anna only half listened. She watched every silhouette, every shadow that crossed the spa’s doorway.
Finally Sveta gave up:
“That’s it, I’m done. We’re just sitting here in silence! You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”
And then Anna suddenly blurted out—so loudly that a few people turned from nearby tables:
“I remember!”
Sveta jumped and almost spilled coffee on her new blouse.
“God, what do you remember?”
But Anna was already digging through her purse, hurriedly pulling out her phone.
“That woman we bumped into at the entrance. I have seen her before! I told you!”
Her fingers flew over the screen, scrolling through photos. A few seconds later Anna froze, holding her breath. Then she turned the phone toward her friend.
“Here. Look.” Her voice trembled.
In the photo was Igor at some corporate event: a casual atmosphere, glasses of wine, smiles. Next to him stood a colleague—and the same woman from the spa, beautiful, confident, in that same dazzling style.
Sveta frowned.
“Well, maybe she’s just a coworker?”
“Let’s see…” Anna whispered. “What if they’re lovers?”
For the first time, the usually outspoken Sveta was at a loss for words. She looked out the window—the wind had picked up, tearing yellow leaves from the trees. Clouds were gathering slowly, promising rain.
And suddenly a car pulled up to the spa entrance. Silver, with a slightly scratched bumper—Anna recognized it instantly. Igor’s car. She jumped up so abruptly that Sveta flinched.
“That’s him.”
“Wait, Anya, don’t run!” Sveta called after her, but Anna was already darting out of the café, pulling on the sleeves of her coat as she went.
Anna barely heard the noise of the street—only the frantic pounding of her own heart. The car was parked across two lanes of traffic, and, ignoring the blaring horns, she rushed forward, dodging clusters of pedestrians and cars.
Just as she reached it, the same woman came out of the spa. She adjusted the strap of her handbag and headed toward the car. At that very moment Igor got out. Keys in hand, his face wearing its usual calm. He was clearly about to open the door for his companion.
But when he turned, he froze. His gaze collided with Anna’s—filled with pain, confusion, and a silent question. The world seemed to stop. The street noise vanished. Only the wind lashed her face and sent dry leaves skittering across the pavement.
“Anya? What are you doing here?” was all he managed to say, as if he couldn’t believe his wife was really standing in front of him.
Anna stayed silent. She just looked at her husband—the same man she had stood beside in the registry office three years earlier, convinced they had a happy long life ahead of them.
“Igor! Will you finally explain who this woman is? And what she’s doing here?” the stranger shrieked.
“Don’t bother,” Anna said. “I’m his wife… ex-wife.”
Anna left as swiftly as she had appeared. Igor sat his lady love down in the car in silence and pulled away. Anna turned aside and burst into tears. The wind blew the tears all over her face. Between the two roads, Sveta was already waiting for her. She wrapped her arms around her friend without a word and called a taxi.
Sveta walked Anna up to the apartment, helped her take off her coat and settled her on the couch. Anna was still trembling—whether from cold or shock, it was hard to tell. Her eyes were full of tears, and now she no longer tried to hold them back. Sveta silently took a pack of pills from her bag, poured a glass of water and said gently:
“Drink. It’s a sedative. You need to calm down at least a little.”
Anna obediently took the glass, sipped and closed her eyes. Sveta sat down next to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and they just sat there in silence. No “he’s not worth you,” no “it will all be fine”—just quiet and presence. Sometimes that meant more than any words.
Maybe twenty minutes passed. Anna lay down on the couch, curling up into a ball. Tears ran down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow. She sobbed softly until exhaustion finally took over. Sveta covered her with a blanket, sat for a bit watching her friend’s extinguished gaze, then quietly left, placing a note on the table:
“I’m always here. Call me if you need anything.”
Anna fell asleep still fully dressed. In her shoes, with mascara streaked down her face, clutching the corner of the blanket in her hand. She dreamed of something gray and endlessly bleak—like a drizzling autumn rain that goes on all day without stopping.
In the morning she woke with a heavy head and swollen eyes. The room felt alien, as if she herself had become a guest in her own apartment. Her phone was switched off. She went to the kitchen, poured herself some water, took a couple of sips, then suddenly strode into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe.
She grabbed the first plastic grocery bag and began stuffing Igor’s things into it. Shirts, T-shirts, the jacket she had so carefully ironed for his friend’s wedding. Trousers, tracksuit, his phone charger. Everything went into the bags without a hint of sentimentality.
With every movement her anger grew—not just at Igor. At herself, for believing, waiting, forgiving, brushing off her intuition. At her mother-in-law, for covering for her son and always taking his side, even when he was clearly in the wrong.
By evening, five bulging bags were piled in the corner. Anna stopped, exhaled and looked at them—and suddenly felt a strange relief. As if along with these things, she was finally removing from the house all the pain that had been building up over the past months.
The weekend passed like that. Her phone lay switched off on the nightstand the whole time. Anna didn’t want to hear his voice, his excuses or anyone’s pity. She turned it on only once to call work and ask for a couple of unpaid days off.
On Monday evening, after sunset, when a fine drizzle began outside, she finally turned her phone back on. The screen lit up—and notifications immediately flooded in.
Messages from Igor. Calls.
“Anya, let’s talk.” “You got it all wrong.” “Please, answer me.”
Then dozens of messages from Sveta:
“How are you?” “I’m worried. Please answer.”
And a few from her mother-in-law.
“Anya, call me.” “What have you done?!” “I know everything. Igor isn’t to blame for anything.”
She hadn’t finished reading them when the phone rang again. It was her mother-in-law. Anna stared at the screen for a long time, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Her heart pounded dully. She took a deep breath and finally slid her finger across the screen.
“Yes, Valentina Ivanovna,” she said, bracing for a fight.
There was a short pause on the other end, then a cold, confident voice:
“Anya, I know everything. But before you put on the crown of the offended wife, let’s talk. You have no idea what really happened.”
Anna gripped the phone tighter. Somewhere inside, a new wave of pain and anger rose up.
“I think I do,” she replied evenly. “I saw everything with my own eyes.”
“You do realize that even if you file for divorce, the apartment will have to be split?”
“Yeah?” Anna let out a bitter little laugh, realizing that this was the only thing her mother-in-law was worried about. “And why would that be?”
“Because you’re husband and wife. And all jointly acquired property is divided in half. And anyway, it’s your own fault Igor started looking around on the side. You think I don’t know about his affairs? You’re so stupid and naive. You’d better listen. No one else will tell you this. Naive girl!”
Anna listened and couldn’t understand how such a sweet-looking woman could hold so much venom and hatred.
“The apartment came to me by inheritance and it was all registered before the marriage. So expect your Igor to come back to you,” Anna snapped, surprised herself at how firm she sounded.
“You little snake. You had no right to throw my son out! You’ll pay for this, just you wait. Acting like such a victim… What are you now, huh? Turning off your phone because you’re ‘hurt.’ Ha! Think too much of yourself, don’t you. If you’d been more modest, we’d have gotten along better. I never liked you. The apartment saved you, otherwise there wouldn’t have been any wedding with Igor at all.”
“I’d have been better off without the apartment, then I wouldn’t have wasted three years on a man like that. And you’re not far from him, judging by the son you raised. There’s no trace of decency in your family.”
Anna ended the call and blocked her mother-in-law’s number, then her husband’s… ex-husband’s.
A few days later she filed for divorce. It felt like she was putting a period not only at the end of her marriage, but at the end of some old, worn-out version of herself.
Igor tried to reach her. He called, texted, stood outside her door, but Anna wouldn’t open it. She had changed the locks the same evening she packed his things. All his belongings—neatly bagged—stood by the entrance to the building.
“Anya, can we at least talk!” his voice came through the door.
“There’s nothing left to talk about,” she replied calmly. “Everything you need is by the exit.”
Footsteps. A long pause. Then a short:
“So that’s how it is…”
“Exactly,” Anna said.
A couple of days later, Igor filed a countersuit: he demanded that part of the apartment be recognized as jointly acquired property. Anna smirked—it was predictable. The hearing was set for Wednesday. A small courtroom, the smell of dust and paper. Igor didn’t come alone—as expected, Valentina Ivanovna sat beside him, back straight, as if she were at her own anniversary celebration.
The judge, a stern woman of about fifty, peered over her glasses:
“Valentina Borisovna, what is your relation to the plaintiff?”
“I’m his mother!” she answered defiantly. “And I have every right to be here and defend my son!”
The judge sighed patiently.
“You have the right to be present, but not to interfere.”
But “not interfering” clearly wasn’t in the mother-in-law’s plans. She kept interrupting, commenting, protesting, muttering things like:
“You see? A typical gold-digging flat hunter!”
At last the judge lost patience:
“One more word and you’ll be removed from the courtroom. Sit quietly and stay silent.”
After that, the room fell quiet. Only the click of pens and rustle of papers. Anna sat straight, calm, almost emotionless. Igor tried not to look at her, nervously twisting his pen.
The divorce was finalized quickly. The apartment remained with Anna—it had indeed belonged to her before the marriage. Their joint savings were split equally. The irony was that Igor had saved more—he’d been hiding part of his income, but now he had to give up half, as the law required.
When the judge finally said:
“The marriage between citizens Igor Sergeyevich Kravchenko and Anna Viktorovna Kravchenko is hereby dissolved,” Anna felt as if someone had opened a window in a stuffy room and fresh air had rushed in.
After court, she stepped outside, inhaled the cold air and looked up at the sky. It was clear and bright, almost springlike—even though the calendar said November.
Sveta was waiting for her at the exit, holding a thermal mug of coffee.
“Well?” she asked.
“That’s it. It’s over. I’ll soon be Samoilova again.”
“Congrats on getting rid of that…” her friend paused, “that awful man with so little fuss.”
They walked down the avenue, unhurriedly, under the sound of cars and the light patter of drizzle. Anna felt a strange, quiet lightness. She was twenty-seven. No longer a girl. But not a woman who’d lost her future, either. She understood that ahead of her lay a blank page, and only she could decide what would appear on it.
Anna pulled up her coat collar, took a deep breath and said:
“Sveta, I think I want to go somewhere. Just… leave.”
“On vacation?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Anna smiled.
And they walked on—past the shop windows where their reflections flickered, past the bustle of people, past the past. Toward where something new was just beginning.