Ilya slammed a thick plastic folder onto the kitchen table. The dull smack made Dasha flinch, and the damp dish towel slipped from her hands. On the countertop, right on top of the unfinished morning omelet and bread crumbs, lay printouts of some diagrams and charts.
“I’ve done the math, Dash. Studied the market, talked to people who actually know what they’re doing,” Ilya said, planting both hands heavily on the table and leaning over her. “We’ve stalled long enough. Your grandfather’s house needs to go on the market tomorrow.”
Dasha picked the towel up from the linoleum floor and calmly hung it back on the hook by the sink. Inside, unease was rising, but outwardly she remained perfectly composed.
“Ilya, we’ve already had this conversation. I’m not selling Grandpa Matvey’s house. It’s part of my family. And it belongs to me.”
“Family memories won’t pay the bills,” he snapped, tugging irritably at his shirt collar. “But a valuable property sitting uselessly outside St. Petersburg while we scrape by here in Ryazan? That’s just stupid. Here’s the plan: we split your millions—half for me, a third for my mother, and with what’s left you can buy yourself a decent car. Or maybe a studio apartment.”
Dasha looked at the man she had spent the past three years building a life with and felt nothing now but a growing sense of disgust.
They had met at a construction expo. Dasha worked as a landscape designer, planning private outdoor spaces for clients. Ilya was a purchasing manager for building materials. An ordinary man, not especially ambitious, but he had seemed dependable and practical.
Their wedding had been modest. They signed the papers, had dinner with their parents at a café, and that was that. Dasha brought her husband straight into the spacious three-bedroom apartment she had inherited from her own parents. Ilya arrived with one single blue wheeled suitcase.
“We’ll make it,” he had said then, placing his few T-shirts onto the empty shelves of the oversized wardrobe. “I’m a man. I’ll provide for us.”
But the years passed, and it was mostly Dasha who did the providing. She kept getting new clients, and her work never slowed down. Ilya stayed on the same salary, complained about his incompetent boss, and constantly rotated through expensive hobbies. One month it was high-end snowboarding gear, even though he went out twice. Then it was fishing equipment he barely used.
At first they split everyday expenses evenly. Then, little by little, the utility bills, groceries, and household repairs all ended up on Dasha’s shoulders. Ilya would only spread his hands helplessly and say, “Babe, they cut bonuses this quarter. Be understanding. We’re a family, aren’t we?” And Dasha always was.
Things began to crack three months earlier, when Grandpa Matvey died.
Her grandfather on her father’s side had lived outside St. Petersburg, in a beautiful old settlement. A huge lot shaded by century-old pines, and a solid red brick house built to last. The relatives rarely remembered him unless it was a holiday, usually calling just long enough to hint that an old man alone in such a place must be struggling.
But the only one who truly cared for him was Dasha. She took remote work assignments so she could fly out every month, handled his practical needs, and hired help whenever she couldn’t stay herself. Ilya hated those trips. He believed his wife was wasting their money on someone who was not worth it.
When the will was read, the family erupted. Grandpa Matvey had left all of his property to Dasha, the one granddaughter who had simply shown up when it mattered.
The moment Dasha came back from the notary and mentioned the estimated market value of the estate, something changed in Ilya. He stopped complaining about work. He became restless, overly attentive, unnaturally affectionate. Every morning he made coffee and brought it to her in bed, peering into her face with ingratiating warmth.
A week later, the business proposals began.
“Dash, what do we need that old place for?” Ilya started casually one evening, scrolling through his phone. “Let’s sell it. I found a space we could use as a warehouse. I’ll launch my own logistics company. We’ll be rolling in money.”
“Ilya, part of my childhood is tied to that house,” Dasha replied. “I want to restore it. We can spend our vacations there. Maybe even move there one day.”
He said nothing then, but his lips tightened.
The real assault began when his mother came over.
Tamara Vasilyevna was a heavyset, domineering woman who had never been especially fond of her daughter-in-law. She visited maybe twice a year, ran her fingers across shelves looking for dust, and always found something to criticize.
But that Tuesday she showed up carrying a cake and a massive rolled-up sheet of drafting paper.
“Come in, Mom,” Ilya fussed, hurrying to take her coat.
Tamara stomped into the kitchen, shoved Dasha’s laptop with its landscape plans aside, and unrolled the paper across the table. It was a design for a commercial building.
“Look, Dasha dear,” her mother-in-law said, jabbing a thick finger with bright manicure polish into the center of the plan. “Ilyusha and I have thought everything through. You sell your grandfather’s country house, and with the money we build a three-bay car wash. I’ve already found the perfect lot on the edge of town.”
Dasha set down her mouse and folded her arms across her chest.
“A car wash? You can’t be serious.”
“Completely serious,” Tamara nodded, pouring herself tea. “It’s high time Ilya had a proper business. I’ll handle the accounting. Of course, not all the money will go into the business. I’ll be taking part of it for myself.”
“You?” Dasha asked. “You’ll be taking part of it? On what grounds?”
Tamara stopped chewing her cake and looked heavily at her daughter-in-law.
“Because, my dear, I raised my son. I gave my health to that boy. I need more living space—my Khrushchyovka is too cramped. We’re one family, and family money belongs to everyone. You are obligated to invest in our future.”
“You can pay for your future yourself, Tamara Vasilyevna,” Dasha replied sharply. “The house is not being sold. End of discussion.”
Her mother-in-law turned crimson, stormed into the hallway, and left wailing loudly about ungrateful daughters-in-law who sat on her precious son’s neck. Ilya didn’t speak to Dasha for four days after that. He slept on the sofa in the living room and slammed the refrigerator door for emphasis every chance he got.
And now he had moved into open attack.
“So,” Dasha said, looking at the crumpled plans on the kitchen table, “half for you, a third for your mother, and I get permission to buy a car. Very generous. How long have you been planning all this?”
“A month,” Ilya shrugged. “Enough with the victim act. This is a perfectly normal way to divide things in a normal family. You can’t maintain that place by yourself anyway. The fence will start collapsing, the roof will leak. Who are you going to ask for help? Me. And I won’t lift a finger for some stranger’s house.”
“A stranger’s house,” Dasha repeated quietly.
Everything in her mind snapped into perfect focus. All the layers had been stripped away, and what remained was the truth of the man standing in front of her—small-minded, resentful, greedy.
“That’s right,” he said. “So tonight we’re meeting with realtors. I already set it up.”
Dasha walked to the sink, turned on the tap, and rinsed out a coffee cup. For a moment, the sound of running water filled the tense silence in the kitchen. Then she shut it off, dried her hands with a paper towel, and turned back to him.
“You’re not going to the realtors,” she said. “You’re going somewhere else.”
He frowned, confused.
“What does that mean? Where?”
“I don’t care,” she said, stepping around the table until she stood directly in front of him. “To your mother’s. A hotel. The train station. Makes no difference to me. This marriage is over, Ilya. I’m filing for divorce.”
He laughed. Loudly. Artificially. Throwing his head back.
“Divorce? Because I suggested a business opportunity? Are you out of your mind? Who do you think needs you and your flower beds?”
“I need myself,” Dasha said. “And I don’t need you anymore. Pack your things.”
The laughter vanished. His eyes narrowed, and angry blotches spread across his face. He took a step toward her, breathing hard.
“You are not throwing me out of my apartment. I live here.”
“This is my apartment, Ilya. I bought it before we got married. You’re not even registered here. Pack your things before I call for help.”
“I’m entitled to half of what we built together!” he shouted. “I did repairs here! I hung wallpaper! I laid the bathroom tile! I’ll take you to court, and you’ll end up owing me! Half of that inheritance is mine by law—we were married when you got it!”
Dasha let out a tired sigh.
“Go see a lawyer, Ilya. They can explain to you how inherited property works. And while you’re there, tell them about the tile we paid for with my credit card. You have one hour.”
She walked into the bedroom, shut the door firmly behind her, and sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands trembled slightly from the strain, but at the same time she felt lighter than she had in months, as if something crushing had finally been lifted off her shoulders.
Outside the door she heard banging, swearing, drawers slamming, things thrown violently to the floor. She did not come out.
Forty minutes later, the front door slammed shut so hard that the wall calendar in the hallway fell to the floor.
Dasha stepped out of the bedroom. His shelves in the wardrobe were empty. The game console was gone from under the television. His fishing rods had disappeared from the balcony. On the entryway table his keys had been left behind like an afterthought. The same blue wheeled suitcase he had brought into her life three years earlier had rolled right back out with him.
Two hours later, a locksmith came and changed the lock.
That evening Dasha’s phone exploded with messages. Tamara Vasilyevna sent furious tirades, calling her selfish and accusing her of ruining her precious son’s life. Ilya alternated between threatening lawsuits and begging her to open the door so they could “talk like adults.”
Dasha blocked them both.
In the end, all of Ilya’s threats turned out to be empty noise. Not a single competent lawyer wanted the case once they heard the property in question had been inherited through a will. His attempts to claim part of her premarital apartment for “all the repairs he did” collapsed too—Dasha had kept every receipt and bank statement proving she had paid for all the materials herself.
The divorce went through quickly.
In the courtroom, Ilya sat hunched over, refusing to look at his ex-wife. Tamara Vasilyevna had come to support her son and spent the hearing sighing loudly from the back bench, glaring daggers at Dasha.
When the divorce decree became final, Dasha stepped outside the courthouse, drew in a deep breath of cool air, and smiled genuinely for the first time in a very long while. Breathing suddenly felt easy again.
Six months later, she sold the apartment in Ryazan and moved into Grandpa Matvey’s house. It smelled of pine resin and old timber. She turned the land into the breathtaking garden she had always dreamed of, and inside the house she set up a bright studio where she could work.
And Ilya?
According to mutual acquaintances, he is still living with his mother in her cramped Khrushchyovka. He changed jobs, sold his snowboard, and now spends his time complaining that women are manipulative creatures who only want money from decent men.