Anastasia had received the apartment from her grandmother. It was not an inheritance—her grandmother was still alive. She had simply decided to transfer ownership to her granddaughter while she could.
“So there won’t be any unnecessary trouble later,” she had explained.
Anastasia was twenty-four at the time. She had just started working for a small marketing agency, and the apartment on the fourth floor of an old building seemed like an incredible fortune.
It was small, with low ceilings and creaking parquet floors, but it belonged to her.
For the first six months, Anastasia entered it almost as if she were visiting someone else’s home. She would come in after work, make herself a cup of tea, look out at the quiet courtyard, and think, This is mine.
She met Alexander two years later at a party hosted by mutual friends. He worked as a construction foreman and was quiet, practical, and good at handling all the household tasks Anastasia tended to postpone indefinitely.
A shelf she had been planning to mount for three months was securely attached to the wall within twenty minutes of his first visit.
She liked that about him.
 
When they married, Alexander moved into her apartment. It was a little cramped for two people, but they managed. He rearranged some things, moved others into the storage closet, and somehow found a place for everything.
Alexander had a natural talent for organizing spaces.
Six years passed.
During that time, Anastasia never once doubted him. He had never given her a reason to.
Then the renovation began.
At the beginning of that year, Anastasia finally decided it was time to put the apartment in order. The parquet had become unbearably noisy, and some of the boards shifted underfoot. The bathroom tiles were cracked, the windows no longer closed properly, and the radiators rattled at night.
She and Alexander had postponed the renovation for years. Sometimes they did not have enough money. Sometimes they lacked the time. There was always another reason.
That year, everything finally came together.
They discussed the budget and estimated the work would cost around four hundred thousand rubles, plus the materials Alexander could purchase through his contacts at a discount. They had saved for a year and a half, setting aside money from both their salaries.
Alexander’s mother, Zoya Valeryevna, contributed another hundred thousand.
“For the tiles and the windows,” she said. “You should at least have those done properly.”
Anastasia thanked her without giving it much thought. Her mother-in-law occasionally helped them financially—a birthday envelope here, a New Year’s gift there.
While the work was being done, Anastasia and Alexander stayed with her parents. They spent two months in someone else’s home, living out of suitcases and without a kitchen of their own.
Alexander completed some of the renovation himself after work. He tiled the bathroom, replaced the wiring, and leveled the walls. Anastasia saw how much effort he was putting into the apartment, and she was grateful.
Moving back into the finished home felt almost like entering it for the first time.
Afterward, they learned that some of the property documents needed to be updated. Moving a partition in the bathroom had changed the official floor plan. The alteration had to be entered into the cadastral records, new technical documents had to be issued, and updated registry extracts had to be obtained.
Anastasia knew very little about such paperwork and had no time to learn. Her company was going through an especially demanding quarter. She was managing three projects at once, spending every day on calls and revisions. She often stayed at the office until nine and occasionally worked Saturdays.
“I’ll take care of it,” Alexander told her. “You already have enough on your plate.”
“There’ll be a lot of running around. The public service center, cadastral engineers, a notary, all kinds of certificates.”
“I don’t mind. My schedule is more flexible than yours right now.”
 
Anastasia felt grateful.
This was what it meant to have a dependable person beside you, she thought. While she was carrying the burden at work, her husband was handling things at home.
That was what a normal family was supposed to be.
In six years, Alexander had never given her a single reason to doubt him.
Not once.
Anastasia went to a notary and issued a power of attorney. It was not a general authorization covering all her property. It applied specifically to matters concerning that apartment: submitting and collecting documents from cadastral authorities, the public service center, and Rosreestr, as well as signing the necessary applications.
The notary, an older woman with an observant gaze, carefully clarified the extent of the authority. She then included a provision commonly used in such cases: the right to conduct transactions involving the specified property, sign agreements, and submit applications for the registration of a transfer of ownership.
“Without this provision, if you need to correct a registry error through a transaction or sign consent for registration, you’ll have to return and issue another document,” the notary explained. “And you’ve said you don’t have much time.”
Anastasia nodded.
It sounded reasonable. One document could cover every possible situation, saving them from making ten separate visits.
“This power of attorney grants broad authority over the apartment,” the notary said, looking up from the papers. “That includes the right to enter into transactions on your behalf. Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Anastasia replied. “He’s my husband. We’ve been together for six years.”
“Very well. Sign here.”
In six years of marriage, she had never had a reason to distrust him.
Not one.
For the first few weeks, everything seemed normal. Alexander occasionally mentioned that he had visited the public service center or was waiting for a certificate. He complained about the enormous lines.
Anastasia would nod and return to her own work.
Whenever he left printouts on the table, she barely glanced at them. Paperwork had never interested her, especially now, when she barely had enough time to eat lunch.
Then she began noticing small, unsettling details.
One evening, she came home earlier than usual and found Alexander talking on the phone. The moment he saw her, he stepped onto the balcony to continue the conversation.
He had never done that before. Normally, he spoke openly in front of her and sometimes even handed her the phone.
Another time, Anastasia found several pages covered in numbers on the table. They looked like an estimate or some kind of financial calculation.
When she asked about them, Alexander quickly gathered the papers.
“It’s nothing important. Just work,” he said, ending the conversation.
Anastasia did not press him.
One evening, he spoke to Zoya Valeryevna for a long time. His mother called regularly, so that alone was not unusual. But this time Alexander’s voice was especially quiet. When Anastasia entered the room, he turned toward the window.
She walked over with a mug and stood beside him. He ended the call almost immediately.
“Was that your mother?” she asked.
“Yes. She had a few things to discuss.”
 
Anastasia said nothing.
She did not suspect anything specific. She merely registered the feeling somewhere at the edge of her mind: something was slightly wrong.
But she had neither the time nor the energy to investigate that vague uneasiness. A deadline was approaching, the client was growing impatient, and one of her colleagues had taken sick leave at the worst possible moment.
Zoya Valeryevna called Anastasia one day as well. They spoke about ordinary things—the renovation, Anastasia’s job, and how everything was going.
Her mother-in-law casually mentioned that she would like to visit and see the finished apartment.
“Of course,” Anastasia answered politely. “Come whenever you like.”
Zoya Valeryevna said goodbye, and that was all.
Work consumed Anastasia’s life. She got up at seven, returned home at nine or later, and collapsed into bed. In the mornings, she drank coffee standing up while reading emails on her phone.
Documents, certificates, Rosreestr, and public service centers had become background noise. Alexander had taken responsibility for all of it, and Anastasia was relieved not to be involved.
She never checked what he was actually doing.
She trusted him.
At the end of October, her friend Lena called and invited her out for coffee. They had not seen each other in a long time and wanted to catch up.
Anastasia readily agreed. Her projects had finally slowed down that week, and she could breathe again.
She got dressed, picked up her bag, said goodbye to Alexander—who was sitting with his phone and merely nodded—and left the apartment.
Two blocks from home, on her way to the metro, she realized she had forgotten her phone.
She silently cursed. Without it, she could not pay for coffee or call Lena. Walking back would take twenty minutes, so she hailed a cab and returned in five.
She rode the elevator upstairs and took out her keys.
The lights were on inside the apartment, and voices came from the kitchen. One belonged to Alexander. The other was a woman’s voice.
Zoya Valeryevna.
She had apparently come to see the renovation, just as she had planned. Anastasia had invited her herself a few days earlier. But it seemed Alexander had called his mother immediately after his wife left and told her to come while Anastasia was away.
Anastasia did not announce her arrival.
She quietly removed her shoes in the dark hallway and hung up her coat. The kitchen door was partly open, and she could hear every word.
“Be patient a little longer,” Alexander was saying. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“I understand,” Zoya Valeryevna replied. “I’m simply nervous. When will it happen?”
“Another three weeks, maybe a month. We just need to wait until she’s completely buried in work and then submit the registration.”
“Never mind,” her mother-in-law said, her voice suddenly relaxed, almost cheerful. “She’ll stay here another month, and then she’ll be out. The apartment is practically ours already.”
Silence followed.
Then came the sound of a cup being placed on the table.
“Don’t tell anyone yet, Mom.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
Anastasia stood motionless in the hallway.
For several seconds, she seemed to stop breathing.
Then she slowly picked up her phone from the entryway cabinet, quietly left the apartment, and closed the door behind her.
She walked one block, then another.
It was cold, but she could not feel it. She moved quickly, staring at the ground and trying to think.
But her thoughts refused to form a coherent pattern.
“The apartment is practically ours already.”
The sentence spun through her mind like a foreign object that did not belong there.
She stopped beside a shop and stood there for a moment. Then she took out her phone and called Lena.
“I’ll come to your place instead,” she said. “I’ll be there in about forty minutes.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I was just delayed.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll see you soon.”
She put the phone away. A man walking a dog passed her on the sidewalk.
Then Anastasia turned and headed toward the metro.
She spent the entire evening at Lena’s apartment, thinking.
Lena offered her tea, then wine, and eventually simply sat beside her. Anastasia gave only short answers, and her friend, sensing that something serious had happened, stopped asking questions.
 
Anastasia tried to think methodically.
Not about what she should do immediately—it was too soon for that. First, she needed to understand exactly what had happened.
What did “the apartment is practically ours already” mean?
What did Alexander mean by “it’ll all be over soon”?
Why did Zoya Valeryevna need to be patient for another month?
Then Anastasia remembered the power of attorney.
She had given Alexander authority over transactions involving the apartment several months earlier. The notary had warned her that the document allowed him to conduct transactions on her behalf.
Anastasia had nodded and signed it.
They had been married for six years. He had never given her a reason not to trust him.
A transaction.
A transfer of ownership.
Using the power of attorney, Alexander could sign an agreement on Anastasia’s behalf without her presence or signature. He could submit it for registration. Once the ownership transfer was registered, the apartment would no longer belong to her.
Who would own it?
His mother.
Zoya Valeryevna.
Then there would be a divorce.
Or perhaps there would not even be one at first. Anastasia might simply wake up one day and discover that she was living in someone else’s property. Her mother-in-law would be the legal owner, while Anastasia would have no registered ownership rights.
“She’ll stay another month, and then she’ll be out.”
It would not necessarily mean they would physically throw her out. Legally, she would have no right to remain. The apartment would belong to someone else. Its owner could simply tell her to leave.
And that would be the end of it.
Perhaps Alexander intended to wait until Anastasia left voluntarily after discovering the truth. Maybe they would tell her, “Sorry, it had to be transferred to Mom because of debts or circumstances.”
Then would come the divorce—and there would be nothing left to divide.
Anastasia sat in her friend’s warm kitchen, staring at a cup of cold tea.
Six years was a very long time not to notice who a person truly was.
Or perhaps it was a very long time to refuse to notice.
Then she stopped herself.
First, she needed facts.
Documents.
She had to determine what had already been done and what had not.
“Lena,” she said, “do you have a laptop?”
“Of course.”
“May I use it? I need to check something.”
Anastasia opened Rosreestr’s website and requested a brief extract from the Unified State Register of Real Estate.
It arrived quickly.
The apartment was still registered in her name. There were no encumbrances and no recorded applications for a transfer of ownership.
That meant the transaction had not yet been completed. The power of attorney was valid, but Alexander had not used it—or had not yet submitted the registration documents.
She still had time.
How much, she did not know.
“Another three weeks, maybe a month,” he had said.
So she had three weeks.
Perhaps less.
Lena looked up several times but did not ask any questions.
She was smart.
Anastasia appreciated that.
She returned home around ten. Alexander was already in bed watching television. Zoya Valeryevna had left.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked.
“Yes. It was nice.”
Anastasia lay down beside him but barely slept. She stared at the ceiling and wondered whether he had already submitted something.
What if an application was already being processed but had not yet appeared in the online extract?
A brief online report was not the same as checking the complete official registry.
 
She would verify everything properly in the morning.
The following day, Anastasia took time off work. She told her manager she was unwell, which was not entirely a lie.
She waited until Alexander left, got dressed, and went out.
Her first stop was the notary.
The same older woman looked up from her papers, recognized Anastasia, and invited her to sit.
“I want to revoke the power of attorney.”
“The one issued to Alexander Sergeyevich?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“Personal circumstances. Can it be done today?”
“Of course. You have the right to revoke it at any time without providing a reason. I’ll enter the revocation into the Unified Register of Notarial Acts. From that moment, the power of attorney will cease to be valid. Any transactions attempted under it afterward will have no legal force.”
Anastasia signed the necessary papers, paid the fee, and left.
She stood on the steps outside the notary’s office and thought, That’s it.
One signature, and Alexander’s authority to control her apartment was gone.
Then she took out her phone and called Viktor.
Viktor was an acquaintance who specialized in family and property law. Anastasia briefly explained the situation: she had issued a power of attorney authorizing transactions with the apartment, she now had reason to suspect dishonest intentions, and she had revoked the authorization that morning.
What should she do next? What needed to be checked?
“First, order a complete extract from the real estate register,” Viktor advised. “Not the short online version—an official expanded extract through the public service center or the government portal. You need to confirm that no ownership transfer was registered before the power of attorney was revoked. You also need to make sure there are no pending applications.”
“I checked online last night,” Anastasia said. “Everything was clear. I was still listed as the owner.”
“That’s encouraging. But an online extract may not show an application submitted that same day. Order the official record with the full ownership history. You should receive it today or tomorrow.”
“What if he has already submitted the documents but they haven’t been processed yet?”
“If the power of attorney has been revoked and the revocation is registered, Rosreestr must verify the representative’s authority before completing the transaction. Once the system shows that the authorization has expired, registration should be denied. But to be safe, file a separate request prohibiting any property registration without your personal participation. That will create an additional barrier.”
“I’ll do that.”
“One more thing: keep your copy of the power of attorney, if you have one, and the notarized revocation document. You may need both.”
The official extract arrived the following evening.
The apartment was registered in Anastasia’s name. There were no encumbrances, no transfers of ownership, and no pending applications.
Everything was clear.
She had made it in time.
Even with the document in her hands, however, she could not fully relax. The power of attorney had been revoked, but Alexander did not know that yet.
He still believed he possessed the tool he needed.
He thought he had another three weeks.
He believed the plan was proceeding on schedule.
The question was no longer whether he could use the power of attorney. He could not.
The question was what he would do once he discovered that.
At home, Anastasia behaved normally. She prepared dinner and asked Alexander about his day. He answered casually and said nothing about the property documents. Evidently, he had not yet learned that the power of attorney was invalid.
He ate and scrolled through his phone.
Anastasia watched him from across the table.
He seemed remarkably calm. He had a pleasant, familiar face. Over six years, she had learned to read his moods through tiny details—the way he held his spoon, the way he looked down at his plate.
She had known this man.
Or she had believed she knew him.
For now, that did not matter.
Something else did.
A little more than a week passed.
One morning, Alexander announced that he was going to “finish the last of the paperwork.” He did not explain what he meant.
Anastasia nodded and wished him luck.
He returned in the afternoon.
He was not alone.
Zoya Valeryevna came in with him, and Anastasia understood from their expressions that something had gone wrong.
Her mother-in-law entered the living room without removing her coat. Alexander sat down and remained silent for a moment.
“The power of attorney is invalid,” he finally said.
“I know,” Anastasia answered.
 
“You revoked it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She looked at him, then at Zoya Valeryevna, and back at him again.
“Because I came home for my phone about three weeks ago. I stood in the hallway while you and your mother were talking in the kitchen.”
Alexander did not answer immediately.
Something passed over his face, though Anastasia could not quite identify it.
It was not shame.
It was closer to the confusion of someone who had been caught earlier than expected.
“You misunderstood us,” he said after a moment.
“‘She’ll stay another month, and then she’ll be out. The apartment is practically ours already.’ Which part did I misunderstand?”
“We were talking about something else.”
“About what?”
He fell silent.
Until then, Zoya Valeryevna had said nothing. Now she straightened her back.
“You’re behaving like a madwoman,” she declared. “You found an excuse to create a scandal. Alexander was handling your documents and investing his time, and you betrayed him by revoking the authorization.”
“I betrayed him?” Anastasia asked.
“Exactly. You canceled the power of attorney without warning and ruined the entire process.”
“Zoya Valeryevna,” Anastasia said evenly, “your son obtained a power of attorney allowing him to conduct transactions involving my apartment—the same apartment the two of you had already divided between yourselves. I heard your conversation. There’s no point telling me I misunderstood.”
Zoya Valeryevna refused to stop.
She talked about everything she and her son had invested in the renovation: money, time, and physical effort. Alexander had lived there for six years and had helped create the home. He had laid the tiles himself and replaced the wiring.
And what about the hundred thousand rubles she had contributed? It had not been a loan. It had been money for their shared home.
Her son had rights, she insisted.
Anastasia was a greedy, selfish woman who thought only about herself.
Anastasia listened quietly without interrupting.
Alexander remained seated and silent. He no longer attempted to explain himself. Perhaps he had realized that no explanation could help him.
“We paid for the renovation together,” Anastasia said when her mother-in-law finally paused. “The money came from our shared household budget. I worked and earned a salary. Alexander worked and earned a salary. I’m grateful for the hundred thousand you gave us, but that does not make you a co-owner. It certainly does not give you the right to transfer my apartment into your name using a power of attorney I issued for technical paperwork.”
“Legally, perhaps not,” Zoya Valeryevna replied. “But morally? My son lived here for six years. He did everything for this place, and now you’re throwing him onto the street!”
“Morally, your son obtained authority over my apartment and planned to transfer it to you while I was at work. Without my knowledge. Without my consent. You said, ‘The apartment is practically ours already.’ Was that moral?”
Zoya Valeryevna went silent.
Alexander finally raised his head.
“I wasn’t trying to steal from you,” he said quietly. “I thought that after the renovation and everything we invested, the apartment wasn’t only yours anymore. I lived here for six years. Mom helped us. I thought it would be fair for it to belong to all of us. You would have continued living here anyway. Nobody was going to throw you out.”
“But you wanted to register it in your mother’s name,” Anastasia replied. “Not as jointly owned property. In your mother’s name.”
He said nothing.
 
“And what was supposed to happen afterward?” Anastasia asked. “A divorce? Or were you simply going to tell me one day that I was living in someone else’s apartment?”
“There wasn’t going to be a divorce,” Alexander said. “Everything would have remained the same. Only the legal owner would have changed. It was a precaution.”
“A precaution against what?”
He did not answer.
Neither did his mother.
Anastasia understood without being told.
It was a precaution against her.
If there were ever a divorce, a serious argument, or any decision Alexander disliked, the apartment would no longer belong to Anastasia. She would not be able to leave him and keep what was hers.
She would always be dependent.
She would always know that the home was not hers and that she lived there only because someone allowed it.
“She’ll stay another month, and then she’ll be out.”
It had not merely been about divorce. Once Zoya Valeryevna became the legal owner, Anastasia would cease to be the mistress of her own home.
They could ask her to leave at any moment.
And the law would support the owner.
“We were talking about something else,” Alexander tried again, though even he no longer sounded convinced.
“You’ve already said that. I heard your conversation word for word.”
When it became clear that continuing the discussion was pointless, Anastasia stood and opened the front door.
“I want both of you to leave.”
Zoya Valeryevna walked out with her lips pressed tightly together.
Alexander stopped on the threshold and stared at Anastasia for several seconds.
“You’ll regret this.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “But not today.”
She closed the door.
Anastasia remained in the hallway for a moment, then went into the kitchen and stood by the window, looking down at the courtyard.
The following day, she met Viktor in person and brought all her documents.
He spread the papers across his desk, reviewed the registry extract, examined the power of attorney, and read the notarized revocation.
“The apartment belongs to you. The power of attorney has been canceled. No transactions or pending applications have been recorded,” he said. “That’s an excellent position. In a divorce, the apartment should not be divided. You acquired it before the marriage through a gratuitous transfer. Joint spending on repairs does not automatically create ownership rights unless there was a major reconstruction or permanent improvement that multiplied the property’s value. Cosmetic renovation and the replacement of utilities are ordinary household expenses.”
“Will he try to claim a share?” 
“Most likely. He has already tried to take the entire apartment. He’ll probably hire a lawyer and refer to the renovation, the six years he lived there, the improvements, and his mother’s money. Courts do examine such claims. But your documentation is clean. The apartment was transferred to you as a gift before the marriage. His renovation expenses came from the shared marital budget, not from separate personal funds. And his mother’s hundred thousand was a gift to the family, not a registered investment in the property. Your chances are very strong.”
“Very strong?”
“That’s how lawyers speak,” Viktor said with a smile. “Still, I recommend filing a formal prohibition against registering any transactions involving the apartment without your personal participation, in case he attempts to use another method.”
Anastasia followed his advice.
She filed for divorce a week later.
At first, Alexander delayed everything. Then he attempted to speak to her.
One evening, he came to the apartment while she was home. He stood in the doorway and told her they could resolve the situation differently. He admitted he had acted rashly and claimed his mother had influenced him.
If Anastasia was willing to forgive him, he said, they could start over.
She listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she said, “Alexander, you obtained a power of attorney over my apartment and planned to transfer it to your mother while I was at work. That wasn’t a moment of anger. It was a plan that lasted several weeks. You called her, discussed the timing, and calculated how much time remained. That was not an impulse.”
He said nothing.
“Please leave.”
During the divorce proceedings, Alexander did try to claim part of the apartment.
He hired a lawyer who referred to the money spent on renovations, Alexander’s six years of residence, the improvements made to the property, and the hundred thousand rubles contributed by Zoya Valeryevna.
Viktor answered every argument calmly and methodically.
The turning point came during the third hearing.
Alexander’s lawyer argued that the renovation expenses had been “substantial and systematic.” He claimed the apartment had effectively been rebuilt and asked the court to award Alexander a share proportional to his investment.
The judge requested evidence: receipts, contractor agreements, and bank statements proving that Alexander had used personal funds rather than money from the couple’s shared marital income.
The lawyer hesitated.
He produced several receipts from a building-supply store totaling approximately thirty thousand rubles.
Viktor pointed out that these were ordinary purchases made during the renovation. They had been paid for using a card into which Alexander’s salary was deposited. As income earned during the marriage, the money belonged to the marital household.
There was no proof that Alexander had made any substantial investment from separate personal funds.
Zoya Valeryevna’s hundred thousand rubles had been transferred to the same family account and spent on materials in the ordinary way. There was no loan agreement, no formal investment contract, and no registered claim against the property.
The judge looked at the papers and then at Alexander’s lawyer.
“Do you have any further evidence that your client made personal contributions exceeding the couple’s ordinary family budget?”
The lawyer admitted that he did not.
In essence, that ended the dispute.
The remaining hearings were little more than a formality.
The apartment remained entirely Anastasia’s.
Alexander moved in with his mother. He collected his clothes, several boxes, the bedroom television, and a few kitchen items.
He did not say goodbye. He left while Anastasia was away and placed his key on the entryway cabinet.
 
When she returned that evening, she walked through every room.
There was an empty space where the television had stood. Only her coat remained on the rack in the hallway.
The kitchen was silent with the particular kind of silence that follows when someone is gone and will never return.
Anastasia made coffee and sat at the table.
She thought she ought to cry or at least feel something sharp and overwhelming.
But there was only quiet.
It was not relief or happiness. It was simply silence, and within that silence, something was finally returning to its proper place.
She did not miss the television.
She did not mind the quiet.
She mourned the six years she had lost, but that was different.
She understood that now.
 
A month later, Anastasia renovated the apartment again.
This time, the changes were small and entirely her own.
She painted the living room walls a pale gray-green—a color she had always loved but Alexander had dismissed as “cold” and “depressing.”
He had been wrong.
Morning sunlight filled the room and softened the color, turning it into Anastasia’s favorite place in the apartment.
She rearranged the furniture and installed the shelves she had wanted even before the previous renovation but had always postponed buying.
She added several potted plants. Alexander had objected to them before.
“They’re too much trouble,” he used to say.
They were not much trouble at all.
That felt good too.
One day, Anastasia’s grandmother came to visit. She walked slowly through the rooms, studying the newly painted walls, the shelves filled with books, and the plants along the windowsill.
“Good,” she said at last. “This is how it should be.”
 
They sat in the kitchen drinking tea.
It was the same kitchen where another woman had once said, “She’ll stay another month, and then she’ll be out.”
Now the room smelled of mint and was wonderfully quiet.
In the end, it was Alexander who had to leave.