Ksenia placed the phone on her desk with the same precision she used when putting away a work tool.
Her office fan hummed beside the monitor, where an unfinished safety inspection report for the Ferris wheel in Zarechye was still open. Aunt Zoya had spoken so quickly that most of her words blurred together, but one fact remained painfully clear:
Uncle Grisha had died at six that morning.
Ksenia pulled her planner closer, wrote down the date, then crossed it out so hard that the pen tore the paper.
Her grandmother had died earlier that year. In spring, her twenty-six-year-old nephew had died suddenly from a heart problem. The previous year, her father had passed away—a man she had known through only three meetings and one large apartment he had left her.
Her phone vibrated again.
Her mother.
“Mom, I know. Zoya called.”
“Ksyusha…” Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice sounded exhausted. “He wasn’t even sick. Yesterday he was writing to me about his apple trees.”
“What do you need?”
“Nothing yet. Maybe some money. Zoya won’t be able to manage everything on her pension.”
“I already sent some. I’ll send more when you know the expenses. Don’t try to save money on the funeral.”
Her mother fell silent.
Ksenia stared at the bright red warning on her monitor: DOES NOT MEET SAFETY REQUIREMENTS.
Then she closed the laptop.
“Mom, remember the bicycle Uncle Grisha built for me from scrap metal?”
“I remember. You rode it for three summers.”
“And it never fell apart.”
After the call, Ksenia grabbed her bag and left the office.
Uncle Grisha had been the kind of man who appeared when something was broken and disappeared when everything worked again. After Ksenia’s father vanished from their lives, Grisha carried sacks of potatoes for her mother, repaired leaking taps, fixed furniture, and always claimed he had simply been “passing by.”
Aunt Zoya never objected.
“Let him fix things,” she once said. “His hands need something to do, and everything in my house is already repaired.”
Outside, the evening was unbearably warm.
Ksenia walked home angry.
Grief always transformed into anger inside her—anger at death, weak hearts, ambulances that took twenty-five minutes, and the stupidity of people believing tomorrow was guaranteed.
The department she had spent four years pulling out of financial trouble could survive one evening without her.
At home, the apartment smelled of reheated delivery pizza.
Artyom was sitting in an armchair staring at his phone.
“Uncle Grisha died,” Ksenia said.
Artyom stood awkwardly.
“Damn. I’m sorry. He was a good man. How’s Aunt Zoya?”
“How do you think?”
“Does she need help?”
“Yes. But not yours.”
Artyom nodded and sat again.
His phone vibrated.
He went into the hallway, but failed to close the door properly.
“Not now,” Ksenia heard him whisper. “I haven’t talked to her yet… Yes. Today. Stop pressuring me. Later.”
When he returned, Ksenia was waiting.
“You wanted to tell me something.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Artyom. I buried half my patience today. Don’t waste the other half.”
For the past year, their marriage had become heavy and mechanical. Work. Bills. Business trips. Silence. Sometimes two weeks passed without a real conversation.
Ksenia had blamed exhaustion.
“Is this about vacation?” she asked. “Because I can’t take August off. We have the cable-car inspection.”
Artyom shook his head.
Then, after several painful seconds, he inhaled.
“I want a divorce.”
Ksenia expected herself to feel shocked.
She didn’t.
Instead, something inside her clicked neatly into place, like a suitcase lock.
Finally, she thought. He actually decided something by himself.
“Understood.”
Artyom stared at her.
“That’s it? ‘Understood’?”
“What do you want me to do? Collapse onto the floor?”
She sat opposite him.
“Do you remember when we used to talk until four in the morning? When we walked across the entire city because we couldn’t afford a taxi?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to us?”
Artyom immediately became defensive.
“Ksyusha, don’t. No memories, no tears, no ‘let’s try again.’ Let’s just divorce.”
“I’m not trying to stop you. I’m asking why.”
She studied his face.
“Another woman?”
“Ksenia…”
“Be honest once in your life.”
He relaxed when he realized she wasn’t going to scream.
That was the most expensive mistake of his life.
“Her name is Alisa. She’s twenty-nine. She works as an instructor at the rope park across the bridge.”
Ksenia almost smiled.
“Funny. I shut places like that down when they fail inspections.”
“Don’t start. She’s… alive. When I wake up beside her, I actually want to get out of bed. She laughs at my jokes. She doesn’t treat me like an extension of her job.”
“How long?”
“A little over a year.”
“A little over a year,” Ksenia repeated.
They had no children. Not because they couldn’t, but because they had always postponed it. Mortgage. Renovation. Certification. Next year.
Now she was suddenly grateful.
There would be nothing to divide except furniture, disappointment, and several years of wasted patience.
“Fine,” Ksenia said. “Don’t drag this out. Open the app and file for divorce. I’ll confirm.”
“Now?”
“Why wait? You made the decision. Act on it.”
His phone vibrated again.
Alisa’s name appeared on the screen.
“Tell her it’s settled,” Ksenia said. “Wouldn’t want her getting distracted at the rope park and fastening somebody’s harness incorrectly.”
Red-faced, Artyom rejected the call and submitted the application.
Ksenia confirmed it from her phone.
Forty seconds.
Done.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Artyom leaned back, relieved.
Everything had gone surprisingly well.
Quietly. Civilized. Like adults.
Then he made another mistake.
“Well, good. Now we should calmly discuss the property.”
“Stop.”
Ksenia raised one hand.
“I’ll decide what happens to the property. We’re divorcing. That means all the privileges you enjoyed as my husband are canceled.”
“What privileges?”
“I’ll list them.”
She stood.
“First, you pack your things and leave tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight.
“Second, the car stays here. I bought it with my money. It’s registered in my name. You drove it because I allowed you to.
“Third, put the country-house keys on the table. It belongs to my mother. You were welcome there because you were my husband.”
Artyom stared at her.
“Are you insane?”
“Fourth.”
She dialed a number.
“Rodion? Hi. Short update. Artyom and I are divorcing. The application was filed ten minutes ago. Anything I previously asked you to overlook or arrange for him is canceled. He’s no longer my husband. He’s simply your employee. Judge him only by his work.”
She hung up.
Artyom jumped up.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Freeing your employer from obligations connected to my name.”
She immediately called another number.
“Tamara Yegorovna, hello. I won’t be paying for the resort trip. The reason is simple: your son filed for divorce. No, it isn’t an argument. The application has already been submitted. Goodbye.”
Artyom went pale.
“My parents already packed! What do they have to do with this?”
“As of today, your parents are strangers to me. Just like you.”
Then she called Gleb, Artyom’s brother.
“Gleb, it’s Ksenia. Artyom filed for divorce. Any privileges his relatives received through me are over. I want the six hundred and forty thousand you borrowed returned by the end of the week. Yes, I have the signed agreement. If you don’t repay it, I’ll go to court.”
Artyom opened and closed his hands helplessly.
“He borrowed that for the planetarium! He takes children to villages!”
“Then he can continue doing it with his own money.”
“You’re being cruel!”
“No. Cruel was spending a year living in my apartment while keeping another woman in your phone.”
Her voice finally sharpened.
“Did you honestly think you would walk away looking noble while everything useful remained attached to you? Your brother’s debt? Your parents’ holiday? The job I helped you get? My car?”
“I never drove her in the car—”
“Don’t humiliate yourself.”
Ksenia walked to his jacket, reached into the pocket, and removed another key.
“The apartment on Pervomaiskaya Street. My inheritance. My father’s apartment. I rent it out. You collected meter readings for me, and apparently decided that made it yours.”
“I never planned to move there!”
“You had a note on your phone: sofa, washing machine, talk to tenants before September.”
Artyom fell silent.
Then his phone vibrated.
A message from human resources.
His position was being eliminated, with compensation according to company policy.
“I’ve been laid off,” he whispered.
Ksenia nodded.
“Rodion works quickly.”
Artyom exploded.
“You bitch! You planned this! You’re destroying my life!”
He stepped toward her, shouting.
Ksenia slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room.
Artyom stumbled backward over the armchair and fell.
“Stand up,” Ksenia said. “And listen carefully.”
Holding his cheek, he got to his feet.
“You wanted a clean divorce,” she continued. “Change women, move out, and leave your wife maintaining all your benefits like she’s responsible for a stray cat.
“I could forgive you for wanting a divorce. People stop loving each other. It happens.
“But you cheated for more than a year.
“And today, on the day Uncle Grisha died—the only man who never abandoned me when I was a child—you decided this was the perfect moment to confess because your girlfriend kept calling every ten minutes.”
“I didn’t choose—”
“Be quiet.”
Her voice became cold again.
“I got you that job. You weren’t especially good at it, and we both know my name protected you. The car is mine. I’m taking it back. I’m not obligated to finance vacations for people who are no longer my relatives. A debt is a debt. Your brother signed for it. And the apartment on Pervomaiskaya has absolutely nothing to do with you.”
“Ksenia, can’t we handle this like human beings?”
“We are. You get the sofa, your suitcase, your computer, and your personal belongings. Everything else disappears with the marriage.”
He packed for two hours.
Boxes. Clothes. Computer parts.
Twice he tore plastic bags. Once he dropped his suitcase on the stairs.
At the door, he turned around.
“Will you at least invite me to the funeral?”
“Funerals,” Ksenia said, “are for family.”
She closed the door.
At Artyom’s parents’ home, two packed suitcases stood in the middle of the room.
His mother, Tamara Yegorovna, finally reached him after several attempts.
“What happened?! Ksenia called me like she was reading a court sentence!”
“I filed for divorce.”
“You did what?”
“She lost her mind. And now she refuses to pay for your trip.”
There was a pause.
“You ruined our resort vacation because of some woman?”
“Because of a person.”
“I told everyone we were going! Zinaida, Lyusya, the downstairs neighbor! I even got my medical paperwork!”
His father said nothing. He simply walked out of the room.
Then Gleb called.
“Mom, what is happening? Ksenia says I have to return six hundred and forty thousand by the end of the week!”
“Your brother is divorcing her.”
“Where am I supposed to get that money?”
“You borrowed it. You repay it.”
“Talk to her!”
“She’s a stranger to me now. If you don’t want to meet her in court, pay.”
Gleb then took his panic out on his wife, Polina, who had just returned from shopping.
When Polina shut herself in the bedroom, furious, she called someone to complain.
Alisa.
“Everything’s going crazy,” Polina said. “My husband’s brother is apparently divorcing. Everyone’s fighting over money.”
“He really filed?” Alisa asked softly.
After hanging up, Alisa laughed with relief.
Her belongings had already been packed for a week.
Three bags, a box of kitchenware, and her climbing equipment.
Finally.
She called Artyom.
“Tyoma! You filed! You actually did it!”
“Alisa. Calm down.”
“How can I calm down? I’ve waited a year! Where are you?”
“I left her. Completely. I’m coming to you.”
Silence.
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“But… my apartment is tiny. It’s rented. And my things are packed. I thought we were moving…”
“I’ll explain when I arrive.”
He ended the call.
Artyom stood outside Ksenia’s building with a suitcase and a box containing his computer.
The conversation ahead would not be pleasant.
Alisa had been waiting for a man with access to an apartment on Pervomaiskaya Street, a car, and a stable salary.
Instead, she was getting a man with a suitcase, no car, no job, an angry mother whose holiday had been canceled, and a brother who suddenly owed hundreds of thousands.
“Idiot,” Artyom muttered, meaning Ksenia. “We could have separated normally.”
Then he carried his suitcase toward the bus stop.
The car remained in Ksenia’s courtyard.
Inside the apartment, Ksenia moved the armchair back into place and opened a notebook.
She made a practical list:
Bank.
Insurance.
Keys.
Locks.
Tenants.
Copy of Gleb’s loan agreement.
Then Tamara Yegorovna called.
“I want to understand what happened.”
“I’ll explain point by point,” Ksenia replied. “Your son told me himself that he has had another woman for more than a year. He said he wanted a divorce. He filed the application in front of me. I confirmed it. That’s everything.”
“But why punish us? What did we do?”
“I paid for vacations for my husband’s parents. I no longer have a husband. Therefore I no longer pay. That isn’t revenge. It’s arithmetic.”
“You’re cruel.”
“I’m consistent.”
“And Gleb? He was like a brother to you!”
“He was a borrower to me. A borrower with a signed agreement.”
“You’re destroying our family!”
“Your son damaged your family. I simply stopped financing it.”
Ksenia hung up.
She added two more notes.
Money for Zoya—Tuesday—wreaths.
Buy Mom blood-pressure medication.
Half an hour later, someone rang the doorbell.
It was Nastya, Ksenia’s younger sister.
“Mom called. Uncle Grisha… I came immediately. Why weren’t you answering?”
“I turned the phone off.”
Nastya walked into the room and suddenly noticed the half-empty wardrobe.
“Ksyusha… where’s Artyom?”
“Gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“He divorced me today and moved out.”
Nastya sat down on the floor.
“Today? On the day Uncle Grisha died?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re this calm? Have you even cried?”
“I cried for Uncle Grisha. I don’t have enough tears for both of them, so I had to choose.”
“You chose Uncle Grisha.”
“Yes. He built me a bicycle. Artyom couldn’t even finish hanging a shelf. There’s still a hole in the wall.”
Despite herself, Nastya almost laughed.
“Who’s the woman?”
“Twenty-nine. Rope-park instructor. Apparently she’s alive, cheerful, and laughs at his jokes.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Nastya, I spent four years dragging my department out of losses. I sign inspection reports that shut down unsafe attractions. Owners call me afterward to explain what a horrible person I am. I get home at nine at night and want silence. I stopped laughing at Artyom’s jokes when most of them became jokes about my salary.”
“And you cut him off from everything immediately?”
“Yes. Because he thought divorce meant he could leave while keeping everything good.
“The job I helped him get.
“My car.
“My father’s apartment.
“His parents’ vacation paid for by me.
“His brother’s permanent interest-free debt.
“I simply canceled his subscription.”
Nastya smiled weakly.
“I almost feel sorry for him.”
“So do I. About one kopeck’s worth.”
Ksenia leaned back.
“He isn’t pure evil. He’s a coward. A truly calculating man would have planned everything first. Artyom arrived empty-handed and assumed I would keep carrying him out of habit.”
“And his family?”
“His mother won’t go to the sea and will have to explain why. His father is angry. Gleb is fighting with his wife. Everyone will blame me because that is easier than admitting one man started all of this.
“But saving them is no longer my job.”
“That’s harsh.”
“That’s honest. I spent twenty years being convenient. Enough.”
Nastya stayed until nearly midnight.
Before leaving, she asked:
“What happens now?”
“Tuesday is the funeral. Then bills. Then locks. Then court if Gleb doesn’t repay me. Then I go back to Zarechye because the cable on that attraction is worn almost to the core, and the owner is convinced we can settle everything ‘nicely.’”
“And what about you?”
Ksenia looked around the apartment.
“For myself? I’ll rewind my whole life from beginning to end and cross out everything unnecessary.”
She smiled faintly.
“Turns out it’s easy to cross things out when you stop feeling sorry for the pencil.”
After Nastya left, Ksenia locked the door and walked through the apartment turning off the lights.
For a moment she stopped beside the empty section of wall where Artyom’s boxes had stood.
She switched on her phone only long enough to check whether her mother had called.
Eight missed calls.
Three from her former mother-in-law.
Four from Gleb.
One from Artyom.
Ksenia looked at the screen, yawned, and turned the phone off again.
Divorce meant divorce.
There was no reason to tear her hair out over it.
There were locks to change, debts to collect, a funeral to arrange—
and, finally, one unfinished hole in the wall she could drill properly herself