Andrei was sure I wouldn’t last a week without his apartment. For the first time ever, I started counting my money not for our shared life, but for the chance to leave—without needing his permission.
That Saturday, I came home from the accounting office earlier than promised. I’d planned to finish some reports, but the necessary document never arrived. As I reached the entrance, I remembered Andrei had invited Denis and Igor over. Those two had been his friends long before we met, and always discussed other people’s marriages with such confidence, as if they understood everything perfectly.
I opened the door with my own key. Voices floated in from the living room, and I was just about to say hello when I heard my own name.
“Irina won’t do anything,” Andrei was saying. “We’ve been together sixteen years—I know her. Even if she finds out I cheated, she’ll forgive me. She’ll grumble for a couple of days, then ask what I want for dinner.”
I stayed in the entryway, coat still on. My bag of work papers weighed down my hand, the strap pressing hard into my fingers. Someone on the other side of the wall scooted a chair up to the table.
“You’re not just talking about being late from fishing,” Igor objected. “It’s one thing if your wife’s angry over something small. It’s another if you actually have another woman.”
“I really did have another woman,” Andrei replied. “So what? That’s not a reason for decent people to throw away sixteen years of their lives.”
“You’re so sure because she doesn’t know yet,” Denis said. “Wait until she finds out and packs her things—then we’ll see how well you really know her.”
Andrei laughed. I knew that laugh well—it was how he always ended conversations when he had no intention of listening to anyone.
“I’ll bet three hundred thousand she won’t file for divorce. Even if you tell her everything, she’ll stay home. Irina can’t leave, she just knows how to give in.”
“One hundred fifty to each of us?” Denis clarified. “Then let’s make the bet clear: if she files for divorce by September thirtieth, you pay up. If not, we’ll admit you were right.”
“I agree,” Andrei said. “And you both can apologize for doubting me when it’s over.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be so confident,” Igor remarked. “Irina isn’t a foolish woman.”
“Exactly, she’s smart,” my husband replied. “She knows she’s better off staying. The apartment’s mine, and her salary isn’t enough for a good life on her own.”
I entered the living room. Andrei was sitting at the far end of the table, Denis was fiddling with a teaspoon, and Igor was watching my husband. All three saw me almost at the same time.
“Go on, Andrei. I’m especially interested in what you think about my salary,” I said. “After all, you just explained to your friends exactly what I’m capable of.”
My husband glanced at his friends first, then leaned back in his chair.
“Irina, this was a guys’ chat. We crossed some lines. You know how it is when old friends get together.”
“You set a deadline of September thirtieth and a bet of three hundred thousand. Doesn’t sound like a random joke to me. Did I hear right—were you talking about your affair?”
Denis set his spoon down on the saucer. Igor looked away, and Andrei stood up from the table.
“We’ll talk later. You’re upset right now, and you’ll take everything the wrong way.”
“I’m willing to talk when your guests leave,” I answered. “And you men can finish your tea. But please, stop deciding for me what I’ll agree to.”
No one touched their cups. Ten minutes later, Denis and Igor left, both avoiding eye contact with me. Andrey walked them to the door, then came back and immediately asked how long I’d been standing in the hallway.
The next morning, I found him in the kitchen. He was scrolling through news on his phone, as if our argument last night had just been about a window left open. I placed our marriage certificate, which I’d taken from the document drawer, next to his cup.
“Tell me, what did you mean by ‘was’ yesterday?” I asked. “I don’t want a story for your friends. I want an answer from my husband.”
He put his phone down, face to the table.
“I was seeing another woman,” he admitted. “It was brief, and now it’s over. It’s my own fault for even mentioning it to Denis. He loves blowing up other people’s stories.”
“Denis didn’t make a bet on your behalf. And he wasn’t the one who got involved with someone else.”
“I’m not asking you to pretend this never happened,” Andrey replied. “But let’s be reasonable. Sixteen years of marriage can’t be erased by a single mistake. We didn’t just meet yesterday.”
I remembered last year when he canceled our trip to the seaside without discussing it, because he decided to buy a new tool for the garage. I swallowed my resentment then. The trip didn’t seem important enough to argue about for months. Now he was using almost the same words, only this time, it wasn’t about a vacation.
“So, I have to be the reasonable one for both of us?” I asked. “And you’re allowed to cheat and bet with your friends on whether I’ll forgive you?”
“It was a bad joke,” Andrey said. “The money was just for show. They all know no one’s going to transfer that much cash over a conversation.”
“But when Denis clarified the bet, you agreed,” I reminded him. “He said the condition was for me to file for divorce by September thirtieth. So you both completely understood the terms.”
Andrey rubbed his forehead and looked out the window.
“Irina, I’m fifty-two and you’re forty-nine. Starting over at our age is hard. Plus, the apartment was mine before the marriage. Where will you live? Are you really going to spend your whole salary on rent?”
In sixteen years, we never bought another apartment. I worked as an accountant, earned seventy-six thousand, and paid for groceries, utilities, and some shared expenses. I’d managed to save eighty-eight thousand. It once seemed like a safety net—now, I was mentally subtracting the unknown cost of a new place from it.
“I’m filing for divorce, Andrey,” I told him. “Not because of your bet, but because I can’t live with someone who believes my dignity means nothing.”
He was silent for a while, then picked up his phone again.
“You were upset last night, and you still are today. I’ll give you time. In a week, you’ll realize you overreacted.”
That evening, I opened apartment rental listings. He walked past the room twice and didn’t even ask what I was looking at. I guess he thought I was shopping for furniture or a new bag.
On Monday, September 21st, I went to view a studio apartment. The landlord, Natalia, was about fifty-six years old. The unit was on the third floor of an old building. The entryway was so cramped that two pairs of shoes already blocked the path, but the stove worked, the faucet didn’t leak, and I could get to work without needing to switch trains.
“It’s thirty thousand per month, plus the same amount as a deposit,” Natalia said as she showed me the contract. “Utilities are paid separately by meter. If the apartment suits you, we can sign today. I already have two people scheduled to see it next week.”
I sat down at the small kitchen table. Up until this moment, the idea of moving had only existed in conversations and search engines. Now the contract was right in front of me, and my banking app showed the balance available on my account.
“I work nearby, so the location is convenient for me,” I said. “I just want to clarify when you’ll be able to give me the keys, and if I can move my things in on Saturday.”
“I’ll hand over the keys after payment and signing,” Natalia replied. “Moving in on Saturday is fine. Just let me know ahead of time if you’re bringing any large furniture.”
I wasn’t planning to take any furniture. I’d be moving my clothes, documents, books, and the sewing machine, which Andrey had called useless for years—even though I used it to hem his pants.
As I read through the contract terms again, I got a call from Valentina Semyonovna. My mother-in-law usually asked when we’d visit the dacha, but this time she skipped the small talk.
“Andrey told me that you two had a big argument,” she began. “Irina, you’re an adult. Think carefully before ruining your family. Men say stupid things sometimes, especially with their friends around.”
“Your son can explain what he said if he wants to,” I answered. “I’m busy right now and not ready to discuss our marriage on the phone.”
“I’m not a stranger to you. We already have plenty to worry about without your arguments. The roof at the dacha is leaking, and Andrey promised to help in the spring. I’ve been saving for repairs for years, and now we have family troubles on top of that.”
I glanced at the contract. Natalia tactfully turned toward the window, but I realized my conversation could clearly be overheard in the small room.
“I understand you have your concerns, Valentina Semyonovna. But the decision about where I’ll live is mine to make.”
“I hope you’re not doing this out of spite,” she said. “Andrey is certain you’ll make up.”
I ended the conversation and signed the contract. I transferred sixty thousand to Natalia, received the keys, and made sure they worked in the door. Between my wallet and bank account, I had twenty-eight thousand left from my savings. I still had to pay the court fee, transport my things, and cover normal expenses until payday.
On my way home, I bought heavy-duty bags for my clothes. When I got back, Andrey asked if I was planning a major cleaning. I told him I’d be moving my things on Saturday. He raised his eyebrows, but seemed to think the move was just a way to scare him.
On Tuesday, I woke up before my alarm. The day before, I had printed out the divorce petition, prepared copies of all the documents, and got the receipt for the five-thousand-ruble court fee. I sent a copy of the complaint to Andrey by registered mail and kept the mailing confirmation. We didn’t have any children together, but since Andrey didn’t agree to the divorce, I had to apply to the justice of the peace.
Outside the courthouse, I checked twice to make sure I had my passport. The corridor was full of people with folders and phones; a woman by the window was sorting her papers. When I handed in my documents and got the submission stamp, there was no feeling of celebration. It simply became clear that going back to our old life, pretending we’d just had an argument, was no longer an option.
That evening, Andrey was standing in the kitchen doorway as I sorted work receipts into envelopes. He saw the stamped paper on the table and reached for it.
“So, you really filed the suit?” he asked. “Irina, I asked you not to rush into any decisions. The court hasn’t decided anything yet. You can still stop all of this.”
“The court really hasn’t dissolved our marriage yet,” I replied. “But I did file the application. I rented an apartment on Monday and already have the keys. I’m moving out on Saturday.”
“You spent our money on another apartment?” He pushed the paper to the edge of the table. “You didn’t even discuss the cost with me?”
“I spent the money I had saved from my own salary. Just yesterday you reminded me that your apartment belonged to you before the wedding. I found a place to live so we wouldn’t have to argue over every key.”
He walked over to the fridge, opened the door, and then closed it without taking anything.
“Do you realize what kind of situation you’ve put me in? Denis and Igor are already demanding their money. I told you not to make decisions in the heat of the moment.”
“You argued with them without even asking me. And you promised them money on your own,” I said. “So why should I be responsible for that conversation now?”
“Because it’s three hundred thousand!” Andrey pulled out a chair but didn’t sit down. “Why should we both lose money and our family? Let’s make a deal: you withdraw the application, I’ll stop talking to them, and I’ll never go back to that woman again.”
Just that morning I had worried he’d apologize the way he used to, and that I’d want to believe him. Instead, he listed his debt as the first reason for reconciliation. I looked at his hands—he kept adjusting his watch, as if he was running late for something important.
“Are you seriously asking me to save this marriage just so you don’t have to pay your friends?” I asked. “You haven’t even bothered to ask how much it hurt me.”
“Don’t twist my words. I said the cheating has ended. Do you want me to spend the rest of my life apologizing to you?”
“I want you to stop deciding for me what I should have to forgive. I’ll be leaving on Saturday. I’m not taking the application back.”
Andrey picked up the paper from the table, read it again, and put it back. For the first time in days, he didn’t say I’d change my mind. From the living room, his phone started ringing. He looked at the screen and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
On Thursday, he barely spoke to me. On Friday, he came home late, set a bag of groceries on the kitchen table and asked if I still wanted the moving truck I had ordered to be canceled. I told him the move was set for ten in the morning on Saturday. He didn’t argue, just asked if I planned to take the sewing machine. I replied that I would take everything that belongs to me.
On Saturday, September 26th, I was closing up a bag of bedding when the doorbell rang. Andrey answered it. On the threshold stood Valentina Semyonovna. She hadn’t even undone her coat and looked exhausted.
“Andrey told me you’re leaving today,” she said to me. “I decided to come myself. While your things are still here, we can still have a proper conversation.”
I led her into the living room. Boxes of books were stacked against the wall, my jacket lay on the couch. My husband leaned against the doorway, staring over our heads.
“We already talked on the phone, Valentina Semyonovna,” I said. “I respect you, but please don’t try to persuade me to stay.”
“I have no intention of persuading you,” she replied, though her voice sounded very different. “What I do want to know is why because of your divorce, my son now owes me three hundred thousand.”
I turned to look at Andrey. He let out an irritated sigh.
“Mom, we agreed this was just between us. I wrote you an IOU and I will pay you back. Please don’t make a scene in front of Irina.”
“You want me not to discuss this in front of Irina?” Valentina Semyonovna’s voice stayed calm but each word was distinct. “You came to me on Thursday and told me you lost three hundred thousand to your friends because of a family argument. I transferred you the money I’d been saving for the new roof. And now I find out I don’t even know what you were all arguing about.”
Andrey looked at me as if I was supposed to help him end the conversation.
“Explain to Mom that it wasn’t serious,” he pleaded. “The guys talked too much. They saw a chance to make some money, and you took everything literally.”
“Let me tell you what I heard,” I said to Valentina Semyonovna. “Your son told his two friends that he had cheated on me. Then, he bet three hundred thousand that I would forgive him and not file for divorce before the end of September. Denis and Igor accepted the bet. When I walked in, Andrey insisted it was all a joke.”
My mother-in-law turned to him.
“You told me you’d just made a bet on how many days you and Irina would fight. Not a word about cheating, or betting on her forgiveness. Is that true?”
“I don’t have to explain the details of my personal life to you, Mom,” Andrey replied. “What matters is that I owe you money now. I’ll pay you back, don’t worry.”
“I never doubted the money—until you explained all this,” she said. “Now I want to know what you actually consider normal. You humiliated your wife in front of people and handed me the bill for your own bragging.”
Andrey pulled out his phone. After a few seconds of opening the banking app, he offered the screen to his mother.
“Look, I transferred them 150,000 each, just like I promised—Denis got his on Thursday morning, and Igor in the evening. Their debts are paid off, now I just owe you. What more do you want from me?”
Valentina Semyonovna looked at the amounts and handed the phone back.
“I want you to understand the difference. You’ve settled up with your friends, but for some reason you’re still making decisions for your wife. The roof isn’t going to fix itself this spring. Are you planning to pay me back by then?”
“Mom, please don’t take her side. If Irina had just waited a week instead of rushing to file a lawsuit, none of this would’ve happened.”
“Andrey, you’re the one who placed the bets,” I said. “I didn’t invite your friends, I didn’t set the deadlines, and I didn’t borrow from your mother. And I didn’t file the claim for them to win anything.”
He stared at me for a few seconds, then sat down on the edge of the couch between the boxes.
“We could have fixed everything. I offered to start over. Why couldn’t you even try?”
I used to want to start over, too. Not move into a room where a wardrobe barely fit, not have to check the price of every grocery, not have to explain to colleagues why I lived in another neighborhood now. But then I remembered Andrey only talked about getting back together after he realized what his old confidence was costing him.
“I tried to hold our family together for years,” I replied. “Not every disagreement was a disaster. But after you cheated, you never once asked what I wanted. You only asked if I would withdraw my claim so you wouldn’t have to pay. I don’t want to have that conversation again.”
A car honked briefly outside. I had arranged for the driver to call when he arrived, but Andrey heard the sound first and looked over at the boxes. He didn’t block my way. He just pushed aside the box of books so I could get through more easily.
Valentina Semyonovna came up to me in the hallway.
“I wanted you two to make up,” she said. “But after hearing everything, I won’t pressure you. I’ll deal with the money and Andrey myself. I’ve got his IOU.”
I thanked her and grabbed my bag with the documents. The driver had already taken the sewing machine with the first boxes, and we carried down the rest in two trips. Andrey stayed by the apartment door. During our whole goodbye, he never once asked me to stay—unless it was about loss and expenses.
At the studio, the driver and I carried in the boxes, and I paid him for the move. Then I set my bag on the table and pulled out the rental agreement, the rent receipt, and the paper showing I’d filed my claim. On a separate sheet, I wrote down my expenses: sixty thousand for rent and deposit, five for the claim, four for the move. Out of eighty-eight thousand, there were nineteen thousand left, and my next paycheck was only in a week.
I took the sewing machine out of its box and placed it on the small table by the wall. The space was a tight fit. I still needed to buy hangers, sort out the meters, and stretch what money I had left until payday. Before, I would have asked Andrey if every little expense was worth it. Now there was no one to ask, and it was up to me to make those decisions.