“Either you forgive the affair, or you leave,” Igor said—he didn’t even push his plate away.
“Say that again.”
“You forgive it—we live together. You don’t—you pack up and go to my mom’s. I’m sick of the interrogations.”
“With who?”
“Katya from my department. It was nothing. It happened. You’re always buried in reports anyway.”
“Igor.”
“What?”
“Clean up after yourself. And let’s clarify: either I forgive you and stay, or I don’t forgive you and leave. Right?”
“Right.”
“And the third option?”
“What third option?”
“You leave.”
“What are you talking about? This is my family, my…” He cut himself off.
“Whose apartment is it?”
“Ours… well, yours. But that’s not humane.”
“What’s not humane is cheating,” I said, taking a napkin. “You’ve got coffee on the table.”
“Let’s talk properly tonight. This is all emotions…” He grabbed his keys. “I gave you an ultimatum. Think about it.”
He closed the door carefully. I immediately opened my notes app and typed:
“1) Locksmith—change the cylinder.
2) Boxes.
3) HOA—change the entry code.
4) Call Olya.”
Who’s moving out here?
“He actually said that?” Olya hissed into the phone. “‘Forgive it—we live; don’t forgive it—leave’? What is he thinking with?”
“Calm as if he’d just approved a schedule.”
“How are you?”
“Empty. No tears. Just a to-do list.”
“Perfect. Then practical. Locksmith? Boxes? Documents? Inventory photos? Unlink the Smart TV?”
“Yes. And also: he isn’t registered here. He’s registered at his mom’s in Balashikha. The apartment is mine—gift deed, from before the marriage. Utilities are in my name.”
“Then you’re not the one moving out. Do it fast before evening. I’m coming over.”
“Don’t try to talk me into anything.”
“I’m not. I’m bringing bags.”
I took my laptop and wrote in the work chat: “Working remote today.” I booked a locksmith and boxes, called the HOA about the intercom code.
“Hello, locksmith? Yes, today—if possible by two.”
“Courier? Four boxes. Light ones. Yes, carry-up to the floor.”
“HOA? We can change the code tomorrow, I’ll come with my passport.”
Igor texted: “I’ll be there at six. We’ll talk. Don’t freak out.” I turned on airplane mode.
When words cost less than boxes
The locksmith came around 2:30—tool case, neat movements.
“We putting in a proper cylinder, not cheap Chinese?”
“A proper one.”
Five minutes—done. I signed the receipt and tested the door.
The boxes arrived forty minutes later. I packed sweaters, jeans, “meeting” shirts, sneakers, tech—into a separate bag. I photographed the contents of each box and labeled them with a marker: “Igor. Personal items.”
I called his mother in advance.
“Alla Ivanovna, hello. It’s Dasha. Igor will pick up some things today; we’ll move the rest tomorrow. I can bring them to you if that’s convenient.”
“Dasha, are you fighting? Family is work…”
“I’m not discussing it. Can you receive the boxes before six?”
“Fine. Bring them.”
That’s when Olya showed up—with bags, chocolates, and a roll of trash bags.
“What do I say when he comes?”
“Keep it short. No ‘why’ and ‘how.’ He gets twenty minutes for essentials. The rest—the mover tomorrow.”
“He’ll pressure you.”
“I’m ready.”
At six I turned my phone back on. A few messages from Igor and one missed call from his mom. I didn’t call back.
He came at ten to seven, tugged the handle like usual—it didn’t open.
“Did you change the lock?” he raised his voice. “Open up.”
“I am.”
He walked in and saw the boxes.
“What’s this?”
“Your things.”
“Dasha, seriously. I said: we’ll talk tonight.”
“We are. Here’s the deal: you’re not getting a key to the front door. You’re not sleeping here tonight. You asked for certainty—here it is. You’re leaving.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You are. The apartment is mine. The bills and utilities are on me. I’ve closed access to my transfers. If you need a place—rent a room or go to your mom’s. Or to Katya.”
“Is this blackmail? I admitted it honestly!”
“These are consequences.”
“Dasha, wait,” he raised his hands. “I snapped this morning. The ultimatum was stupid. But you’re not exactly easy either. You’re always busy. And Katya—she’s warm, understanding…”
“Stop. Not interested. You’ve got twenty minutes for necessities. Tomorrow at eleven the mover comes. The rest goes to your mother—I arranged it.”
“That’s cruel.”
“It’s specific.”
“What if I sleep in the living room until tomorrow?”
“No.”
“So you’re throwing me out on the street?”
“You have options. I’m not throwing anyone out. You’re leaving on your own.”
“Olya, why are you silent?” he glanced at her.
“I’m here for Dasha. And for quiet,” Olya said calmly.
Igor silently started filling a box: sneakers, chargers, documents. He didn’t take the keys.
“You’ll give me new ones?”
“No.”
“We’ll see who calls who,” he muttered, lifted the box, and left.
I locked the door.
Weekdays without him
“Breathe,” Olya said. “And eat something.”
“I had a banana.”
“A banana isn’t food, but fine. I’m on call. You okay alone tonight?”
“I’m okay.”
After she left, I unlinked the Smart TV from his account, put all his supplement jars into a separate bag and moved them to the balcony. The apartment was quiet—no running around for “where are my socks?”
Morning: coffee, work chat, reconciling reports. At nine I called the HOA:
“Hello. I want to change the intercom code. I’ll come tomorrow with my passport.”
Igor texted: “I overreacted yesterday. Let’s talk.” I replied: “We said everything.” He called—I didn’t pick up. Then: “I have nowhere to sleep. I can’t go to Katya’s—she has a cat and I’m allergic.” I sent him the address of a cheap hotel and a selection of room listings on Avito. He replied with three question marks. I turned on Do Not Disturb.
The movers came at eleven. I filled out the shipping form: “Recipient—Igor. Address—Mom.” I warned Alla Ivanovna: “Boxes will arrive by six.” She sighed. “Alright.”
At lunch—HOA, code change. At home—mopping floors, canceling autopay on his phone number. Everything by the list.
That evening a message from his mom: “Dashenka, women should be wise, boys are hotheaded.” I replied: “He has no keys. Code has been changed. His things are with you.” That ended the conversation.
“Don’t start” doesn’t work anymore
A week later he was standing by the entrance with a Pyaterochka bag.
“Dasha, come on. Enough. I’m renting a room in Chertanovo for twenty-eight. My neighbor’s a taxi driver—clatters at night. Let’s try again from scratch. I got it. With Katya—it’s over, we broke up.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“And before that—where did you sleep?”
“At friends’. Don’t start…”
“There. I don’t want to live by ‘don’t start,’ ‘I’ll explain later,’ ‘I need support.’ I need respect and normal rules. I want mornings without ultimatums.”
“It was a mistake. I’m an idiot!”
“You’re an adult. A mistake is when you turn the wrong way. This was a choice.”
“It’s hard for me. Car insurance, I sold my console, I’m saving on food. Do you understand how much all this costs?”
“I do. I keep track too. I signed up with a therapist—five thousand per session. A pool membership got more expensive. Utilities—my expense. We’re both adults. But I’m not your wife anymore.”
“Can we do it without courts and all that? Just live separately and see?”
“No. We’ll file through the MFC/registry office. No scandals. In a month we’ll come and finalize it.”
“Okay. Can I take a couple more things?”
“Text Olya. Everything’s with her.”
“Olya wound you up, huh?”
“Igor, you wound yourself up with that morning ultimatum. Did you really think I’d move out of my own apartment?”
“I thought you’d be wise.”
“Wisdom isn’t tolerating things forever. That’s it. I’ve got things to do.”
“I believe you’ll come back.”
“No.”
He stood there, shrugged, and walked away. I took out the trash and went upstairs.
Where normal life begins
A month passed. We went to the MFC/registry office and filed. Another month later—on the scheduled day—we came back and picked up the divorce certificate. No scene.
“Can I hug you?” he asked in the hallway.
“Don’t.”
“You’ve changed.”
“I’m in my place.”
He said “bye” and left.
At work my manager called me in:
“Darya, can you take the budget block for two months? Bonus and flexible schedule.”
“I can.”
I bought a decent vacuum, rearranged the books the way I like, called a handyman for the cabinet through Profi. Set the robot vacuum on a schedule. It got quieter and simpler: nothing extra and no “babe, where are my socks?”
That evening Igor texted: “HBD.” I checked my calendar: my birthday was in two months.
“Whose?” I asked.
“Katya’s, sorry,” he replied. I turned off my phone.
A couple weeks later we ran into each other at Pyaterochka. He was at the instant noodles, arguing with himself about the flavor.
“Hi. How are you?” he asked.
“Fine. Working. You?”
“The room’s so-so, but I’m living. My neighbor turns music on at six a.m. Katya—nothing. I… anyway, I’m sorry.”
“Accepted. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I bought cottage cheese, cucumbers, pasta, and went home.
At home I texted Olya: “I’m doing great.” She replied: “You really are.”
“How is he?” she asked on video chat.
“Like a person who started counting money.”
“There you go. Everyday life is the best feedback.”
“And tomorrow I’ve got an interview for a senior accountant role on a project. And I signed up for the pool near home—promo, six thousand a month in the mornings. I’ll go before work. And I’ll rehang the poster in the living room—it’s crooked. Not a renovation.”
“Just not a renovation,” Olya laughed. “Poster is fine. Go sleep.”
“I’m going.”
A month later we got the certificate. I called my mom:
“Mom, it’s done.”
“Good girl. Come this weekend. I’ll bake a pie.”
“I will.”
By the entrance a guy was arguing with his girlfriend about who carries the bags. Normal scene. I went upstairs. On the wall the poster hung straight, the robot vacuum was running, and in the closet were my clothes—only mine. Igor didn’t text. Sometimes he popped up in group chats about football. And I had a pool, work, and weekends at my mom’s.
He missed one thing: you don’t have to forgive and you don’t have to leave. You can put a period and keep living in your own place. That’s a normal, clear ending. And it suits me.