Raisa stood in the middle of the living room and looked at Yura as if she were seeing him for the first time. Her husband—the man she had lived with for twelve years—sat on the couch with the expression of someone who’d just told her he’d bought a loaf of bread, not that he intended to take EVERYTHING for himself.
“I have the RIGHT to half the property,” Yura said, straightening the collar of his new shirt. “And besides, this apartment is registered in my mother’s name, so technically…”
“Technically?” Raisa smirked. “Technically your mother gave us this apartment as a wedding gift. There’s a deed of gift. In BOTH our names.”
“Well, Mom changed her mind,” Yura shrugged. “She thinks you don’t deserve a gift like that.”
Raisa sank into the armchair across from him. Memories from the past few months raced through her mind: how Yura had started staying late at work. How he’d stopped meeting her eyes. How his phone had begun living its own life—endless messages, calls he’d answer only after stepping out onto the balcony.
“Don’t deserve it?” She leaned back. “After I paid off the loan on your car? After I covered your professional courses? After I supported both of us when you spent a WHOLE YEAR ‘finding yourself’?”
“You’re exaggerat—” Yura started, but he cut himself off under her stare. “Anyway, I thought it over and decided it’s better if we split up. And the apartment should stay with me. I have plans.”
“Plans?” Raisa leaned forward. “And what plans would those be, dear Yurочка?”
He shifted on the couch, clearly uncomfortable under her fixed gaze.
“Well… I met someone. Someone who REALLY understands me. She doesn’t nag all the time, doesn’t demand attention. Alina—she’s different. She’s young, beautiful, and most importantly, not a bore like you.”
Raisa nodded slowly. Alina. So that was her name—the girl from the neighboring department Yura had brought to the company party three months ago. Twenty-two years old, long legs, empty eyes.
“And Alina will be living in OUR apartment?” Raisa clarified.
“In MY apartment,” Yura corrected. “I’ve already consulted a lawyer. Mom’s ready to challenge the gift deed. Say you deceived me, that you… anyway, doesn’t matter. The important thing is, we have a plan.”
“You have a plan,” Raisa repeated. “Wonderful. And what, in your opinion, am I supposed to do? Pack my things and GET OUT onto the street?”
“Well, you have a job,” Yura waved a hand. “You’ll rent something. Or go to your parents. They live in the village—plenty of space.”
Raisa stood and went to the window. Outside, the spring sun shone brightly; children played in the courtyard. Ordinary life, ordinary people. And inside her, everything boiled with anger and hurt.
“You know, Yura,” she turned to him, “I forgave you a lot. Your laziness. Your inability to earn. Your endless ‘projects’ that led nowhere. But THIS—I won’t forgive.”
“And what can you do?” Yura got up from the couch, his voice turning harder. “Mom already hired a lawyer. A good, expensive one. And what do you have? A music teacher’s salary?”
“A conservatory instructor,” Raisa corrected. “And yes, I have a salary. The one I fed you on all these years, by the way.”
“DON’T poke me with your pennies!” Yura suddenly exploded. “You think I don’t know how you whispered with your friends behind my back? What a loser I am, how worthless I am? And now you’re surprised I found someone who VALUES me?”
“Values you?” Raisa laughed. “She values an apartment in the city center, Yura. She values the chance not to pay for housing. Are you really that blind?”
“Shut up!” he shouted. “You’re just jealous! You’re thirty-five—you’ve gotten fat, gotten older! And Alina—she’s twenty-two! She’s gorgeous! And she LOVES me!”
Raisa silently studied her husband: his flushed face, his trembling hands, his eyes brimming with rage mixed with fear.
“Fine,” she said calmly. “File for divorce. And try to take the apartment. We’ll see how that goes for you.”
“It will!” Yura yelled. “Mom will fix everything! She has connections, money! And you’ll be left with NOTHING! ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!”
He stormed out of the room. Raisa was alone.
Slowly, she let her gaze sweep across the living room. She had chosen every single thing here: the curtains she’d had sewn to order. The paintings she’d bought with her last money from young artists. The grand piano in the corner—her pride, the one she’d paid off on credit for three years.
Raisa walked to the instrument and lifted the lid. Her fingers found the keys on their own, and a melody poured out—sad, but beautiful. Like her life.
A week later, Yura brought Alina “to look at the future home.” Raisa had just come back from work and found them in the hallway.
“Oh,” Alina drawled, looking Raisa up and down, “you’re still here? Yurik said you’d already moved out.”
“Yurik is celebrating too early,” Raisa replied calmly, taking off her coat.
“Oh, come on,” Alina walked into the living room as if she owned the place. “Why cling to the past? Yura doesn’t love you anymore. Accept it.”
“Alinochka,” Raisa followed her in, “are you sure Yura is even capable of loving anyone… besides himself?”
“Don’t you dare talk like that!” Yura jumped in. “Alina, don’t listen to her. She’s just hysterical.”
“Hysterical?” Raisa sat down in the armchair. “Me—hysterical? The one who stayed silent for twelve years while you spent MY money on your ridiculous ideas? While you lay on the couch for months, complaining about how unfair the world is?”
“Enough!” Yura grabbed Alina’s hand. “Let’s go. Soon all of this will be ours, and we’ll renovate. We’ll throw out all this old junk.”
“And the piano too?” Raisa asked.
“First thing!” Alina blurted. “It takes up so much space! Better to put in a big TV.”
Raisa only shook her head. After they left, she took out her phone and dialed.
“Marina? Hi. Remember you mentioned your brother—the lawyer? I need his help.”
The next few weeks turned into a real war. Yura’s mother, Galina Petrovna, really did hire an expensive attorney and filed a claim to revoke the gift deed. The grounds: Raisa allegedly exerted psychological pressure on her mother-in-law.
“This is NONSENSE!” Raisa told her lawyer, Igor Sergeyevich. “She pushed for that deed herself! She said she wanted everything to be good for us!”
“I understand,” Igor Sergeyevich nodded. “But we need evidence. Witnesses, documents, messages.”
Raisa began gathering anything that might help: receipts showing she paid the utilities. Bank statements confirming her spending on the family. Messages from Galina Petrovna thanking her for taking care of her son.
Meanwhile, Yura grew bolder. He came to the apartment when Raisa wasn’t home and took things. First small stuff—his books, his clothes. Then he started carrying out electronics.
“It’s MINE!” he screamed when Raisa tried to stop him. “I have a right!”
“I bought the TV!” she shot back. “I have the receipt!”
“Prove it in court!”
Alina, meanwhile, behaved like the mistress of the house. She came by when Raisa was at work and rearranged the furniture. She threw out Raisa’s flowers and replaced them with her own. One day, Raisa caught her trying on her dresses.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” Raisa asked.
“In OUR future bedroom,” Alina corrected. “I’m just checking what we’ll need to toss. Ugh—your taste is so old-fashioned!”
“GET OUT of my home!” Raisa pointed to the door.
“It won’t be your home for long,” Alina said carelessly, tossing the dress onto the bed. “Yura’s mom promised to settle it in a month. She has a judge she knows.”
Raisa went pale. Could they really take the apartment from her? Could everything she had poured into this family end up meaning nothing?
That evening she called Marina.
“They’re talking about a judge they know,” her voice shook. “Marina, I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t panic,” her friend soothed. “Igor Sergeyevich is a pro. He hasn’t lost a single case. Trust him.”
But Raisa couldn’t calm down. She saw how confidently Yura and his mother acted. She saw the contempt in Alina’s eyes. And she understood—they were sure they’d win.
The first court hearing was set for a month later. Raisa prepared carefully: gathered all documents, found witnesses. A neighbor, Valentina Ivanovna, agreed to confirm that Galina Petrovna had spoken about the gift deed voluntarily, without pressure. Raisa’s colleague Olga was ready to explain how Raisa took extra hours to support the family.
On the morning of the hearing, Raisa woke to a call from Igor Sergeyevich.
“Raisa, I have an interesting piece of news for you. Remember you said Yura had been traveling a lot for business lately?”
“Yes—why?”
“My assistant checked. There were NO business trips. His company confirmed that Yuri Alexandrovich was taking unpaid leave.”
“But why would he lie?”
“And here’s something else. Alina Dmitriyevna—his current… friend. Before Yura, she dated three men. And every time it ended the same way: the man left her an apartment or a large sum of money.”
Raisa sat up on the bed. So Yura had fallen into the trap of a professional apartment hunter?
“Can we use that in court?”
“We’ll see,” Igor Sergeyevich replied evasively. “The main thing is, don’t let them know you’re aware. Let them think everything is going according to their plan.”
In the courtroom, Yura sat with the look of a victor. Beside him were Galina Petrovna in an expensive suit and Alina in a provocatively short dress. Their attorney—a well-groomed middle-aged man—confidently arranged his papers.
“Your Honor,” he began, “my client, Galina Petrovna, signed the gift deed while under psychological pressure from her daughter-in-law. Raisa Mikhailovna manipulated the elderly woman, threatened to cut off her contact with her son.”
“That’s a LIE!” Raisa couldn’t hold back.
“Order,” the judge said sternly.
Igor Sergeyevich stood up.
“Your Honor, we have evidence to the contrary. Here is correspondence between Galina Petrovna and Raisa Mikhailovna. I quote: ‘Rayečka, thank you for everything. You made my son happy. The apartment is the least I can do for you.’”
“That’s forged!” Galina Petrovna shouted.
“We have an expert report,” Igor Sergeyevich continued calmly. “The messages are authentic. And also—here are bank statements. Over twelve years of marriage, Raisa Mikhailovna spent more than three million rubles on the family. Whereas Yuri Alexandrovich…” He paused. “Over the same period earned less than five hundred thousand.”
A whisper rippled through the room. Yura’s face reddened.
“This is irrelevant!” the opposing counsel protested.
“It’s relevant,” Igor Sergeyevich countered. “It shows who truly invested in this family. And who has a moral right to the jointly acquired property.”
The judge nodded.
“Accepted. What else?”
“Your Honor, we would like to call a witness. Alina Dmitriyevna, please.”
Alina glanced at Yura in surprise, but stood. The opposing attorney tensed.
“Alina Dmitriyevna,” Igor Sergeyevich began, “how long have you known Yuri Alexandrovich?”
“Six months,” she replied.
“And before that, were you dating a certain Pavel Sergeyevich?”
Alina went pale.
“I don’t remember.”
“And Dmitry Vladimirovich? And Konstantin Igorevich?”
“That’s my private life!”
“Of course. But an interesting coincidence—after breaking up with you, each of these men left you real estate. Pavel Sergeyevich— a one-room apartment. Dmitry Vladimirovich—a share in a country house. Konstantin Igorevich—a car and a cash settlement. Isn’t that a bit too many coincidences?”
“I object!” the opposing lawyer jumped up. “This has nothing to do with the case!”
“It does,” Igor Sergeyevich said evenly. “It shows motive. Yuri Alexandrovich wants to divorce and take the apartment not because his wife is bad, but because his new girlfriend is a professional property hunter.”
“How dare you!” Alina screamed. “Yura, tell them!”
But Yura was silent, staring at her with a strange look.
“I have one more question,” Igor Sergeyevich continued. “Alina Dmitriyevna, do you know a certain Vladimir Petrovich?”
Alina flinched.
“No.”
“Strange. He claims otherwise. Moreover, he claims you are still married to him. Here is a copy of the marriage certificate—three years ago, Central District registry office.”
A dead silence fell over the room. Yura slowly turned toward Alina.
“You… you’re married?”
“Yura, I can explain! It’s a formality! We haven’t lived together for ages!”
“But there was no divorce,” Igor Sergeyevich added. “What’s interesting is that Vladimir Petrovich has also filed for divorce—and is demanding the return of the apartment Alina Dmitriyevna received from Pavel Sergeyevich. Because she obtained it while married, and it’s joint marital property.”
Galina Petrovna clutched her chest.
“Yura—what is going on?”
“Your Honor,” Igor Sergeyevich turned to the judge, “given these new circumstances, I request an adjournment and an additional investigation.”
The judge nodded.
“The hearing is adjourned for two weeks.”
Outside the courtroom, Raisa saw Yura standing by a window—alone. Galina Petrovna had left without saying a word to him. Alina had bolted as soon as the hearing ended.
“Yura,” Raisa called.
He turned. His face was gray.
“Are you happy?” he asked dully. “You ruined everything.”
“Me?” Raisa shook her head. “I was defending what’s mine—what I earned with honest work. You ruined everything yourself, with your greed and your ego.”
“I just wanted to be happy,” Yura lowered his head.
“And me?” Raisa asked. “My happiness? Did you ever, in twelve years, think about me? About what I feel when you lie on the couch for months? When you waste money on another scam? When you cheat on me with a girl thirteen years younger than me?”
“I thought she loved me,” Yura whispered.
“No,” Raisa said sharply. “She loved the apartment. She loved the prospect of an easy life. And you were just a tool—like Pavel, Dmitry, and Konstantin before you.”
Yura raised his eyes to her.
“And you? Did you love me?”
Raisa was silent for a long time.
“I did. Once. A long time ago. The boy who read me poems. Who dreamed of changing the world. Who promised we’d be happy. But that boy died. And in his place appeared you—a greedy, lazy, selfish man who thinks everyone owes him.”
“Raya… maybe we could try starting over?”
Raisa laughed.
“Over? After everything you’ve done? After you brought your mistress into OUR home? After you tried to throw me out onto the street? No, Yura. There will be no ‘over.’”
She turned and walked toward the exit.
“Raya!” he shouted after her. “What about the apartment?”
“The apartment will stay with me,” she answered without turning around. “Your mother will withdraw the claim—she won’t want to shame herself any further. And you… you can go back to Mommy. Or look for a new fool who’ll believe your fairy tales.”
Two weeks later, the court ruled in Raisa’s favor. Galina Petrovna did indeed withdraw the claim. Yura didn’t show up for the hearing.
Raisa returned to her apartment—now only hers. She sat at the piano, lifted the lid, and began to play. Not the sad melody from a month ago, but something bright, full of hope.
The doorbell rang. Raisa opened the door. A stranger stood there holding a bouquet of flowers.
“Raisa Mikhailovna? I’m from Igor Sergeyevich. He asked me to give you these and tell you—you did great.”
Raisa took the bouquet. White roses—her favorite.
“Thank you.”
“And one more thing,” the man said, handing her an envelope. “This is from Alina Dmitriyevna.”
Surprised, Raisa opened it. Inside was a note: “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how much you did for him. He didn’t deserve it. Good luck to you.”
Raisa smirked. Even the apartment hunter turned out to be more honest than Yura.
That evening, Marina called.
“So, winner—are we celebrating?”
“Definitely,” Raisa smiled. “Just not today. Today I want to be alone—in MY apartment. And play everything I haven’t been able to play these past years. Yura hated classical music.”
“Play, my friend. You earned it.”
Raisa hung up and returned to the piano.
She began playing Chopin—Etude No. 12, the “Revolutionary.” A very fitting title for her new life.
And somewhere across the city, Yura sat in his childhood room, staring at a photograph. It showed the two of them—young and happy—back when he still believed in himself, and she still believed in him.
His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: “Yurik, it’s Sveta. Remember me? We met at the club last week. I’ve got a business proposal for you. You’re free now, right?”
Yura looked at the message, then at the photo—and deleted the number.
Maybe he’d learned at least something.
And Raisa played and played. With every note, she became freer and happier—because she’d understood the most important thing: happiness isn’t about someone loving you. Happiness is about loving and respecting yourself.
And at last, she began to respect herself