Marina got home around eleven at night, slipped off her heels in the entryway, and heard Dmitry’s displeased voice coming from the bedroom.
“Late again,” her husband said as he walked into the hallway, arms folded across his chest. “Every day it’s the same story. Normal wives are home by seven. And you—out roaming around until midnight.”
Marina hung her coat on the hook without even meeting his eyes. She was drained. Three meetings, a client sign-off, and a heated dispute between departments she’d had to settle. All she wanted was to reach the couch, kick off her shoes, and sit in silence for five minutes.
“I was working, Dmitry,” Marina replied evenly. “It’s a crunch period right now. I warned you.”
“A crunch period that’s been going on for a year and a half,” he grumbled, trailing her into the kitchen. “You know what I’m tired of? Waiting. When are we finally going to have a baby?”
There it was again.
Marina paused in front of the refrigerator, not even opening it. The topic surfaced every week—sometimes more. Dmitry insisted, demanded, pressed. As if a child wasn’t a mutual choice, but a requirement his wife owed him on command.
“We’ve discussed this already,” Marina said, taking out a yogurt. “Now isn’t the right time. I’m up for a promotion—I can’t just go on maternity leave.”
“Your promotion,” Dmitry snorted. “Always your career, your job. Do you ever think about the family?”
“That promotion will give us stability,” Marina replied, peeling back the lid and pulling a spoon from the drawer. “My salary will almost double. We’ll be able to save. We can take a real vacation—not just go to your mother’s dacha.”
“You’re a bad wife,” Dmitry cut in, the words sounding as ordinary as a comment about the weather. “A real woman thinks about her husband and children first, and only then about her ambitions. But you couldn’t care less about me.”
Marina lowered the spoon slowly. She looked at him—his tight face, pressed lips, that accusing stare. Two years earlier they’d stood in a registry office, and she’d believed she was marrying a man who would support her, understand her, respect her. Now she was facing someone who branded her selfish simply because she refused to drop her life to satisfy his desire to become a father immediately.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Marina said softly, leaving the kitchen with the half-eaten yogurt still on the table.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. She lay staring at the ceiling, thinking. Divorce. The word itself was frightening, unpleasant. But what was worse—the breakup, or the thought of living for years beside a man who didn’t respect her choices? Marina replayed the conversations of recent months and realized: Dmitry had never genuinely cared about her work. When she spoke about a difficult project, he nodded without listening and steered the conversation back to himself. When she had trouble at work, he didn’t comfort her—he told her it was her problem and she should handle it.
Sometime before dawn, Marina understood: divorce no longer felt impossible. It was beginning to look like the only way to get her life back.
The arguments became daily. Dmitry nitpicked everything—dinner wasn’t tasty enough, the apartment wasn’t cleaned right, Marina slept in on weekends. Any small thing turned into another accusation that she didn’t care about “the family,” and then they were back to the baby topic.
“You stay late on purpose so you don’t have to see me,” Dmitry said one evening when Marina came home around ten.
“I stay late because I work,” she answered, exhausted. “Our deadline is in a week.”
“More excuses,” he said, shaking his head. “Normal people don’t live at work. Normal women come home on time, cook dinner, make the house cozy.”
Marina didn’t respond. Arguing was pointless—anything she said Dmitry twisted into proof that she was a selfish wife who only thought about herself. She simply turned and went to the bathroom, refusing to keep the fight going.
As if that weren’t enough, her mother-in-law added her own pressure. Valentina Petrovna called once a week—sometimes more—and every conversation turned into a lecture on how a “proper wife” should behave.
“Marinochka, do you realize Dimochka is suffering?” Valentina Petrovna’s tone was reproachful even through the phone. “He needs an heir, a family. And you? Chasing a career as if you’re a man, not a woman.”
“Valentina Petrovna, I’m just trying to get a promotion,” Marina tried to explain, though she knew it wouldn’t help. “It matters for our future.”
“Your future is children and a home,” her mother-in-law snapped. “A woman is meant to give birth, create comfort—not build a career. You’re making my son miserable. He deserves a better wife—one who understands her purpose.”
Marina gripped the phone, feeling everything inside her tighten with hurt and anger. But arguing was useless. Valentina Petrovna didn’t want to hear reasons. To her, Marina would always be the bad daughter-in-law who refused to fulfill her duty to her husband’s family.
What enraged Marina most was that Dima never defended her. When his mother attacked, Dmitry either stayed quiet or even chimed in. Marina understood: she would never be respected in that family. She would always be “the outsider,” the wrong one, the one who didn’t fit.
One morning Marina urgently needed the car. She had a client meeting across town, and with traffic she might not make it by taxi. The car legally belonged to Marina—bought with her money before the marriage and registered in her name. But for the past six months Dmitry had used it constantly, driving to work, to friends, to his parents. Marina hadn’t fought about it; she took the metro anyway.
But that day she needed it. Marina called Dmitry—no answer. She texted—silence. She checked the time: two hours left until the meeting. She couldn’t afford to waste any more.
Marina ordered a taxi and went to Dmitry’s office. His company was in a business center not far from Kursky Station. She went up to the third floor, walked down the corridor past the secretary—who nodded, recognizing her as one of the managers’ wives.
Dmitry’s office was at the end. As Marina approached, she noticed the door was slightly ajar. Voices drifted out—Dmitry was speaking to someone. Marina recognized the second voice right away: Igor, Dmitry’s brother. She was about to push the door open and go in, but what Dmitry said made her stop cold.
“I would’ve moved out ages ago,” Dmitry said, and his voice carried open weariness. “Living with her is unbearable. It’s work, career, plans—always. There’s no real home. No wife, basically.”
Marina stood outside the door, unable to move. Her heart pounded so loudly she felt certain they could hear it inside.
“Then why don’t you leave?” Igor asked.
“The apartment,” Dmitry answered shortly. “She bought it before the wedding. By law it’s premarital property. If I walk out now, I’ll have nowhere to live. I’ll have to rent—or go back to Mom.”
Marina leaned against the wall. Her legs went weak; her throat dried out. She knew things were bad, she knew Dmitry was unhappy, that the fights had escalated. But hearing this—that he stayed with her only because of the apartment—hit like a blow to the chest.
“Got it,” Igor said, sympathetic. “That’s brutal. Have you thought about getting it transferred to you somehow? Or at least securing a share?”
“I have,” Dmitry let out a hollow laugh. “I even saw a lawyer. No options so far. She bought it before marriage, so it stays hers. You can’t break the law.”
“What if you persuade her to sign it over voluntarily?” Igor suggested. “A heart-to-heart. Say it’s for the family, for the common good.”
“I tried hinting,” Dmitry scoffed. “Marina isn’t stupid. She gets tense right away, says it’s her apartment, end of discussion. I don’t even know how to approach it.”
“And what if you have a baby?” Igor kept thinking aloud. “Maybe then you could negotiate—talk about family, about the child’s future.”
“That’s exactly why I’m pushing the baby topic,” Dmitry replied, and Marina felt a cold wave slide through her body. “If a child is born, we could demand a share, claiming it’s for the minor’s interests. It might not work, even then. But it’s something.”
“So you’re pressuring her to get pregnant on purpose?” Igor clarified. “Not because you want a child, but because you want part of the property?”
“Well… not only for that,” Dmitry hesitated. “A kid would be good too, sure. But the apartment issue is the main thing. I don’t want to live with her anymore. She irritates me, you know? I’m sick of her constant busyness, sick of hearing about work. But I’m not leaving with nothing. I need to get at least something out of this marriage.”
Marina closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe evenly. Two years. Two years with a man who considered her a burden but tolerated her for the apartment. A man who demanded a child not out of love, but as a tool to claim her property. A man planning a divorce while keeping up appearances so she wouldn’t suspect a thing.
“Listen, if I were you, I wouldn’t rush,” Igor advised. “Be careful. If Marina senses anything too early, you’ll end up with nothing. Keep your mask on—act interested in the marriage—until you find a way to solve the apartment problem.”
“I’ve been doing that for a long time,” Dmitry smirked. “Playing the loving husband who wants a family and a baby. But really, the relationship has been dead for six months—maybe longer. I’m just waiting for the right moment to get something from this marriage and disappear.”
Marina unclenched her fists—she hadn’t even realized she’d been clenching them. Inside her there was no longer pain, no longer hurt. Only a clear, icy understanding. Everything finally clicked into place. The fights, the accusations, the pressure—it had all been a performance. Dmitry was acting, manipulating, pushing to get what he wanted. And what he wanted was her apartment.
Marina pushed the door open and stepped into the office.
Dmitry and Igor sat at the desk with coffee mugs in front of them. Both snapped around at the sound. Dmitry’s face went white instantly. Igor stopped mid-sentence, staring at Marina with wide eyes.
“Marina…” Dmitry started, his voice trembling. “You… how did you—?”
“I came for the car keys,” Marina said calmly as she walked up to the desk. “The door was open. I heard everything.”
Dmitry sprang up from his chair, red blotches spreading across his face.
“Listen, you didn’t understand—” he reached toward her as if to touch her arm, but Marina stepped back. “We were just talking, I didn’t mean it like that…”
“Don’t,” Marina lifted a hand, cutting him off. “I understood perfectly. You’re with me only because of the apartment. You’re demanding a baby so you can claim a share of my property. You’ve been pretending to be a loving husband while, for you, the marriage is already dead. Did I hear you correctly?”
Dmitry opened his mouth—and said nothing. Igor stared at the tabletop, as if wishing he could sink through it.
“Good,” Marina continued in the same calm, cold tone. “There won’t be any transfer—there won’t be any ‘share.’ I’m filing for divorce. Today. Give me the car keys.”
“Marina, wait—let’s talk—” Dmitry tried to block her, but Marina walked around him and picked up the keys lying on the edge of the desk.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, turning toward the door. “You said it yourself—the relationship is dead. So why keep the comedy going?”
“You misunderstood! I was angry, I said stupid things!” Dmitry’s voice rose, turning desperate. “Igor—tell her. It was just talk. We didn’t mean it!”
Igor stayed silent, eyes on the floor.
Marina paused in the doorway, turned, and looked at her husband.
“You know what’s funny?” she said. “I really had been thinking about divorce these past weeks. I doubted myself. I worried. I was scared I was doing the wrong thing. And now you’ve explained everything for me. Thank you for your honesty, Dmitry—even if you didn’t mean to be honest.”
Marina left the office and closed the door behind her. She walked down the corridor, and her legs didn’t shake—though inside she was strung tight as wire. The receptionist looked up and smiled, but when she saw Marina’s face, the smile slid away.
Marina walked out of the building, got into the car, and started the engine. She sat upright, hands on the wheel. Only then did she exhale—slowly, deeply, as if she’d been holding her breath for years.
Her phone vibrated. Dmitry.
Marina declined the call. It rang again. She declined again. Then messages began to pour in—long, frantic, full of excuses and pleas to talk. Marina blocked his number without reading to the end.
She drove to her client meeting. On the way, she thought. Two years of marriage. Two years with a man who used her—manipulated, pressured, accused, tried to break her so he could take what he wanted. All that time Marina had made excuses for him, looked for the fault in herself, wondered if she really was a bad wife, if she was selfish, if she had done something wrong.
Now it was clear: she hadn’t. Dmitry had simply been playing his game. And he’d lost.
The meeting went by on autopilot. Marina smiled, nodded, discussed project details—but her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking about going home and packing Dmitry’s things. Not hers—his. He would be the one leaving. The apartment was Marina’s, and she had every right to put him out. She imagined going to a lawyer tomorrow, filing the divorce. Blocking Valentina Petrovna so she’d never again have to listen to those accusations. Finally living the way she wanted—without pressure, without manipulation, without having to justify every decision she made.
That evening Marina came home. Dmitry wasn’t there. She pulled a large travel bag from the closet and began gathering his things—clothes, shoes, his razor from the bathroom, his laptop from the desk. She packed neatly, without anger. Just collecting someone else’s belongings that no longer had any place in her home.
When the bag was nearly full, the doorbell rang.
Marina opened the door. Dmitry stood there holding a bouquet of roses, wearing a guilty expression.
“Marina, I’m sorry,” he began, offering the flowers. “I’m an idiot. I said stupid things, I wasn’t thinking. Let’s talk properly, please.”
Marina took the bouquet without a word and set it on the entryway cabinet. Then she went back, lifted the packed bag, and brought it into the hallway.
“Your things,” Marina said. “Take them and leave.”
“Marina, please—just give me a chance to explain!” Dmitry tried to step into the apartment, but Marina blocked him.
“There’s nothing to explain. I heard everything. You’re with me because of the apartment. You’re demanding a baby so you can get a share. Is that true?”
Dmitry opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Finally he forced out:
“I was angry. I was just venting to my brother…”
“Answer the question,” Marina said. “Is it true?”
Dmitry lowered his head.
“Partly,” he mumbled. “But it’s not that simple…”
“That’s enough,” Marina cut him off. “I’ll file the divorce tomorrow. Don’t call me. Don’t come here. It’s over.”
Marina closed the door.
Dmitry stayed on the landing with the bouquet and the bag. He knocked, rang the bell, begged her to open. Marina stood inside the entryway with her back against the door and said nothing. Ten minutes later the knocking stopped. Footsteps retreated—he left.
Marina walked into the living room, lay down on the couch, and closed her eyes. Strangely, there were no tears—no sobbing, no sharp pain. Only emptiness. And relief. As if a massive weight had slid off her shoulders—a weight she’d been carrying for two years without realizing how heavy it was.
In the morning Marina did exactly what she’d said: she filed for divorce. She knew perfectly well that an apartment bought before marriage would remain her property, and Dmitry had no rights to it. The car was hers too. There was nothing to divide—they hadn’t acquired joint assets.
Dmitry kept calling from other numbers, kept writing, sending voice messages. Marina didn’t reply. Valentina Petrovna called once and started shouting, accusing Marina of destroying the family. Marina listened calmly and said:
“Valentina Petrovna, your son stayed with me only because of my apartment. Those were his words, not mine. If you want to blame someone for ruining the family, blame him.”
Her mother-in-law fell silent for a few seconds, then tried to defend her son, insisting Marina had made it up—but her voice was suddenly unsure. Marina ended the call and blocked her number.
Three weeks passed. The divorce process was underway. Dmitry tried to drag it out, demanded meetings, pressured Marina through mutual acquaintances. Marina didn’t budge. No meetings. No talks. The decision was made—there was nothing to save.
One morning Marina woke up, brewed coffee, and sat by the window. The sun was shining. Children were playing in the courtyard. Someone was walking a dog. An ordinary morning. Yet for the first time in months, Marina felt calm. No tension. No fights. No pressure. Just quiet. And freedom.
She finished her coffee and opened her laptop. She wrote to her manager, confirming she was ready to accept the promotion. Her career no longer had to matter to anyone but her. She could make plans without checking them against the opinions of a man who would never respect her choices anyway.
Dmitry moved in with his mother. The attempts at reconciliation faded. Marina received the official divorce certificate and placed it in her folder of important documents. Two years of a mistake were over. Ahead of her was a new life—one she would build herself, for herself, without anyone’s manipulation or attempts to use her.
And for the first time in a long while, Marina understood: divorce wasn’t the end.
It was the beginning.