Elena had a quiet morning routine: coffee in an oversized mug that said “CEO of Everything,” the espresso machine humming, and exactly four minutes of silence before the day officially began. Not meditation—more like an effort to remember why on earth she’d ever married Viktor. Over the past few months that question had started gnawing at her, the way a fresh filling does after you’ve eaten something sticky-sweet.
Her company was expanding: they’d leased a second warehouse, the staff was already up to twenty people, and last week she’d paid herself a two-hundred-thousand bonus. No approval. No committee. Because she could.
And Viktor…
— Are you up? — she called from the kitchen.
— What for? — his answer drifted out of the bedroom with such theatrical heartbreak, as if someone had just taken away his shares in Gazprom—rather than simply turned off the PlayStation.
Officially, Viktor hadn’t worked for half a year. Unofficially, he’d never really aimed to. At first Elena told herself it was a rough patch. Then she decided he was “searching for himself.” Now she understood he was searching for a fool—more precisely, clinging to the one he’d already found.
When he finally wandered into the kitchen, he looked like he’d spent the entire night saving the world: a bathrobe, saggy track pants, and the face of a man who’d been woken up for something unbearably unimportant—like family.
— You know Nina Petrovna is coming today, right? — he asked between yawns.
— I didn’t schedule a session of spiritual interrogation. And I don’t get why my husband’s mother thinks she can walk into my home like it’s her backyard garden, — Elena replied calmly, almost automatically.
— She’s lonely. She just needs warmth. Understanding.
— Then she can hug the radiator and understand this isn’t her apartment.
Viktor grimaced. This conversation had already happened three times this week.
— Lena, this is my home too, — he said with the kind of emphasis used in melodramatic TV shows right before the husband tosses the wife off a balcony.
— Until we’re divorced, sure. But you’re stress-testing my nerves with alarming enthusiasm.
He was about to argue, but the doorbell chimed—like a theater cue: curtains, lights, and here comes the drama. Or its mother.
Nina Petrovna appeared in the entryway as if she’d been conjured: a bag big enough to haul groceries for three retirees, a tweed coat, and the expression of a woman who believed Elena wasn’t a daughter-in-law but a criminal who’d stolen her life, her son, and her best rug.
— Hellooo… — she stretched it out, like she’d stepped directly onto a memory of her youth.
— Good morning, Nina Petrovna, — Elena nodded politely, pressing an inner button labeled “don’t tell her where to go.”
— Lena, you’re still busy as ever. The whole house feels soulless. Dust everywhere. Viktor’s skinny—like a moth after a vacuum cleaner. He needs real nutrition, vitamins. Not these… smoothies, — and she pointed at Elena’s glass, which, by the way, held half of Elena’s daily magnesium.
— And you’re still incredibly observant, Nina Petrovna, — Elena replied, lips tight. — I can practically feel your presence enriching the air with toxins.
— You’re sharp-tongued right away. I’m speaking as a mother. I’m thinking about the family. We need to talk.
And she sat down. Uninvited. Like on a throne. Or like barging into a delivery room to claim someone else’s baby—bold and fully convinced she belonged there.
— You’re a successful woman, — the mother-in-law continued. — Not without sin, of course. You went back to work too early. Left your son alone. So it’s no surprise—he’s looking for feminine warmth now, and you… you’re basically still at the office, just without a tie.
— He looks. I pay. Sounds fair to me, — Elena snapped.
— He’s a man! He’s going through a hard period. You have to help. For example… Alyona—his sister—she’s in trouble. A loan. She urgently needs three million. You can do that.
At that moment Elena almost swallowed her coffee the wrong way. Three. Million. Rubles. And this was said by the same woman who once complained Elena had bought toilet paper without a discount.
— Nina Petrovna, — Elena said slowly, carefully. — Have you lost your mind? Or do you and Alyona take turns headbutting the television?
— How dare you speak to your husband’s mother like that?! — Nina cried, springing up.
— And you stick your nose into my life like you have keys to everything! — Elena finally snapped.
Viktor, meanwhile, was playing… a throw pillow. As usual, he was sprawled on the couch, pretending none of it concerned him.
— Say something to her! — Nina demanded of her son.
— Lena, don’t get worked up. Maybe you could just give the money? They’ll pay it back somehow… — he muttered, not lifting his eyes.
A pause dropped into the room—so dead silent that if the ceiling had collapsed right then, it would’ve felt like a simple set change.
— Are you serious? — Elena asked. — You’re actually asking me to hand over three million to your sister—who has never once said thank you? And you’re lying there like a sea star with a mortgage, acting like this is normal?
— I’m not asking for myself. It’s for Alyona…
— And the loan you took out in my name—was that “for Alyona” too? — Elena cut him off.
Silence.
— You… knew?
— Believe it or not, my bank sends text alerts. And those little messages that say “Approved: 920,000 rubles” tend to be… noticeable.
— Lenochka… — Nina began, but Elena raised a hand.
— That’s it. The show is over. Money isn’t love. And if you don’t understand that, Viktor, then I guess it’s not my job to explain it—maybe the debt collectors can.
She stood and left the room. Her steps were quick. Strong. In those heels, she felt like she could walk straight across other people’s hopes without tripping.
And in the living room, two people remained—two people with a plan.
Only the owner of the apartment no longer fit into it.
The apartment breathed emptiness. Elena switched off the kitchen light, yet stayed sitting at the table. In front of her: bank papers. The coffee had gone cold, but it was still there. In her head: a ringing silence. Not the kind after a storm—more like the kind after a blow.
That loan for 920,000 that Viktor had taken out in her name wasn’t the only one. There was a second—at another bank. A third—“for consumer needs,” at monstrous interest, taken through an online app during her vacation in Turkey, back when her phone number had suddenly been “out of service.” Now she understood why. Her husband had been at home turning her passport pages like it was his own work record book—except the work record book would’ve been more useful.
Her phone rang. Again.
— Why aren’t you picking up? — Viktor spoke with that tired, performative irritation. — We just talked…
— Talked? You robbed me. Without a mask. Honestly, I’d prefer you wore a bag over your head—at least I wouldn’t have to look at your face.
— Why are you getting like this, Lena? It’s not that bad. I just didn’t know how to tell you… I thought I’d earn it back, pay it off, fix everything…
— You took out loans in my name. Three of them. Nearly two million in total. And you thought I wouldn’t find out? And then you asked for another three million for your little sister who calls me once a year to ask if she can “crash at my place” because she has “issues.” She has so many issues the emergency services should be on standby.
— What, you don’t trust me? — his voice sharpened. — I’m your husband! We’re family!
— Oh, how convenient you remembered that now. When you yelled that I was too busy to have a baby, or when you told your friends you “married for love, but honestly, my wife is the boss”—did you feel like family then too?
He said nothing.
— That’s it, Vitya. I’m done. Tomorrow I’m going to the bank. Then to a lawyer. Then to a notary. Because I’ve decided: if you don’t respect what I’ve built for ten years, we don’t belong on the same road.
— You want a divorce? — he asked, dull.
— I don’t want it. I’m doing it. — And she hung up.
She didn’t sleep that night. Not because of coffee, or adrenaline, or rage—because her mind wouldn’t stop. She stood by the window and stared at the city: millions of lit windows, millions of families. Somewhere out there, another woman with the same tired eyes and the same distrust in her voice was probably asking her husband why he didn’t come home. Or why he sold the car. Or why their summer house was suddenly in his sister’s name.
In the morning, a lawyer arrived.
— I know this is hard, — said Asya, Elena’s friend and attorney. — But it’s all workable. The apartment share is yours. The business is yours. You planned for that in advance. The loans… we’ll have to prove you didn’t take them out yourself. It’s difficult, but possible.
— I’m not afraid, — Elena said. — You know what I’m actually afraid of? That I’ll keep living with him. And one day I’ll wake up in my own apartment—with no kitchen, because he rented it out for bitcoins to some cooking blog.
Asya smirked.
— You’re still joking. That means you’re alive. And that means you’ll make it.
On the third day after that call, Viktor came back. No warning. Like mushrooms after rain—unwanted and stinking.
— Come on, — he said right from the doorway. — You blew this way out of proportion! We’re family, Lena. Families have problems!
— And you’re the kind of problem that makes you want to click “delete account.”
— I told you I’ll pay it back. — He stepped closer, planted his hands on the table, looming over her. — Let’s talk like adults. Without these… lawyers.
— Take your hands off the table, — Elena said evenly. — Or I might have an unpredictable reaction. I’ve got a knife for cutting lemons—it’s dull, but if you keep at it long enough and with feeling, it’ll do the job.
He pulled his hands back.
— You’re serious? You’re really ending it like this?
— Not ending it, Viktor. I ended it the first time you lied to my face and thought I wouldn’t notice. Now I’m just reading the closing credits out loud.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Nina Petrovna.
— What kind of circus are you running again?! — she snapped, sweeping past her son as if he were a coat rack.
— I’m not letting him back in. You don’t need to come anymore, — Elena said immediately. — I don’t need a husband who robbed me. Or a mother who thinks I’m an ATM.
— How dare you talk to an elderly woman like that?!
— Just fine, actually. Nina Petrovna, I even respect you. Want to know why? Your audacity. If you worked with the same energy you use to manipulate people, you’d have bought Gazprom—no change needed.
— You’re really kicking him out?! He’s your husband! My son! You’re not a wife, you’re—
— I’m a person. And you know what, Viktor, — she turned to him, — you betrayed me. Not when you signed those loans. But when you lied day after day and figured I was too busy to notice.
He stayed silent. And then… sat down.
— I’m not leaving.
— This is my apartment, Viktor.
— But I’m registered here. Legally. You can’t throw me out.
A beat of silence.
— Okay. Then we’ll do it differently.
And that’s when she called the local police officer.
Calmly. Clearly. Like a business call. She said her husband was in a conflict situation, showing aggression, refusing to leave her private property, and she wanted the incident documented. The officer replied, “I’m sending a unit.” Then added, “Your husband’s an idiot. But technically he’s right. You’ll need to go through court.”
She nodded. Exhaled. And called a realtor.
— Hello. I need an apartment. I don’t care where. The main thing is—no registered parasites.
Two days later, she was sitting on the floor of a new apartment. No furniture. No demands. No husband. Beside her sat a box of belongings and a bottle of champagne she’d been saving “for a special occasion.”
— Well, — she said to herself, — divorce isn’t a failure. It’s… like wiping an old operating system. Bugs. Viruses. And finally installing an update.
And she hit play on the music.
Zemfira thundered through the empty rooms. Outside, it was night. Inside—silence. The kind that felt like freedom.
Three months passed.
The court process moved like a cork in an old bottle of cognac: everything made sense, yet nothing would open. Viktor, as promised, didn’t go quietly. He filed a countersuit, demanded “his share” of the apartment—an apartment he hadn’t even helped choose when they bought it, because back then he was a “tired engineer with ideas,” and she was the woman carrying everything: the mortgage, the renovation, the design, and even Viktor’s mother, whom they’d had to house for two months “until her room renovation was done.” The renovation took six months and ended in screaming matches and torn curtains—curtains that weren’t even hers, bought new from a store.
Now Viktor wanted it all.
— I supported you morally, Lena! — he shouted in court, arms spread as if he were conducting a symphony of nonsense. — She wouldn’t have achieved anything without my atmosphere!
— Atmosphere? — Elena snapped. — The atmosphere of laziness, toxicity, and holey pajamas? Is that a new management method now?
The judge coughed and asked them to behave.
Alyona—the sister—showed up too, drowning in pity and drama. She put on glasses as if she couldn’t see well, then said in a soft voice:
— We’re such a family. We all… depend on each other. I won’t survive without my brother. And if he’s alone, he’ll break. And if he breaks, he won’t be able to help me. And I… — her voice trembled — …I’ll be at rock bottom.
The judge nodded thoughtfully. Elena thought, That’s her real talent. Not work, not study—pronouncing “rock bottom” like she’s accepting an Oscar.
After court, Viktor tried again to “talk.” He waited for Elena outside the building, wearing the jacket she’d once bought him—the one that cost about half of his loan.
— Lena, what are you doing? Is this really what we lived for? I’m not a stranger to you.
— No, Vitya. You are a stranger. I just didn’t want to admit it before.
— You’ve changed. You’ve gotten cold. Business ruined you.
— No. Business saved me. From you.
He tried to grab her hand. She stepped back.
— Don’t touch me. We’re done.
— But we had feelings! Love!
— No. We had a mortgage agreement, shared dinners, and a joint Netflix subscription. I made up the rest in my head.
He fell quiet—then played his last card.
— Mom is sick. Really sick. Her blood pressure. Her heart. You won’t abandon her, will you?
— I never adopted her in the first place. So let the person who raised her stay with her. I’m going to take care of myself.
He looked at her like she was the traitor.
She looked at him like he could no longer hurt her.
A month later, the court issued its decision:
The apartment—hers. The loans—his. There was nothing to divide because he had nothing. And emotional damages were compensated by one thing: freedom.
Elena walked out of the courthouse not simply happy—liberated. For the first time in years, she felt it: no one was dragging her down anymore. Not a husband. Not his mother. Not his sister, who had wrapped them all up like a spider weaving poverty into webs.
She went to the office and gathered her team.
— Starting today, we’re launching a new direction. A project for women leaving toxic relationships. Courses. Financial literacy. Lawyers. Therapists. Practical help. No pity, no tears—just action.
— And the name? — someone asked.
— “Again.”
That evening she sat in her kitchen: new renovation, fresh walls, music, champagne. She read a text from her ex:
“I miss you. You’ll always be my wife in my heart. You’re just angry right now. You’re not like this…”
She replied:
“You’re right. I’m not like that anymore. Thank God.”
Then she blocked his number.
Rain started outside. But inside, it was warm—because she finally had the one thing that mattered most: herself. Whole. Real. Without lies.
The End.