I love the morning light — it always seemed like a promise to me. I’m making breakfast, humming a song that was playing on the radio yesterday. It’s quiet at home. Boris is still in the shower, and I’m setting the cups — a blue one for him, the one with the chipped handle for me. It’s funny, but over the years I’ve gotten used to it.
When he walked into the kitchen, I immediately knew something had happened. Boris always had two expressions on his face before an unpleasant conversation: either he’d frown, like before a storm, or like now — looking unnaturally pleased, like a cat that had snatched a cutlet from the table.
“Shall I pour you some tea?” I ask, even though I’m already pouring it.
“Yes, thank you.” He sat down and unfolded the newspaper. “You know, I met with the realtor yesterday. A smart guy.”
My hand trembled, and the tea spilled onto the tablecloth. The yellow stain spread like an unpleasant premonition.
“Which realtor?” I asked, trying to wipe the stain with a napkin.
“We’re selling the apartment,” he said it so casually, as if he were just telling me the weather forecast. “He’ll show it tomorrow.”
I froze with the wet napkin in my hand.
“Borya, is this some kind of joke?”
“What jokes, Lara? We don’t need all this space. We’ll buy a one-bedroom place closer to the metro, and put the difference in the bank.”
“But we… I’m not planning to move anywhere,” I mumbled, feeling the floor slip out from under me.
“Stop it,” he still didn’t look at me. “Finish your breakfast and clean up a bit. People are coming to view it tomorrow.”
Boris got up, kissed me on the top of my head, and went to the hallway. The front door slammed shut.
And I just stood there with the rag, looking at his unfinished tea. The only thought spinning in my head was — when did this happen? When did I become the kind of person with whom you don’t need to consult?
Anton’s apartment always reminded me of a tech fair. Wires, flashing boxes, large screens. On the table next to the couch — a cup of cold coffee, slippers on the floor, one turned sideways. A bachelor’s life.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Anton opened the door and froze. “You look… Come in quickly.”
I stepped over the threshold, not knowing how to begin. Talking about how your father decided to sell the roof over your head felt shameful. As if I had missed something, overlooked something.
“I’ll make some tea,” Anton pulled me into the kitchen. “Sit down.”
He was bustling around, clinking cups, while I watched his back — broad like my father’s when he was young. Only Anton had my side of the family’s character — stubborn, direct.
“Dad’s selling the apartment,” I finally blurted out when a cup of tea appeared in front of me. “Our apartment. The one from my parents.”
The cup in Anton’s hand stopped halfway.
“What do you mean, selling? Is he crazy?”
“He says we don’t need so much space, we’ll buy something smaller…”
Anton slammed the cup down.
“Mum, it’s your apartment! It’s not even joint property, right? He doesn’t have the right!”
I lowered my gaze. Of course, the documents were in my name. But after forty years of marriage, it had been forgotten that there was “mine” and “his.” Everything had been “ours.”
“Anton, maybe he’s right? It’s a big apartment, I’m struggling on my own…”
“What?” my son almost shouted. “No, Mum! This is manipulation! I’ll come over tomorrow, and we’ll talk to Dad. We’ll figure it out. But for now — no realtors, understand?”
I was flooded with a feeling of shame and at the same time — relief. Someone was on my side. Someone said I wasn’t crazy.
“It’s too late, Anton. Tomorrow they’re coming for the viewing.”
“Then I’ll come too,” his voice sounded confident, like a judge passing a verdict. “And we’ll sort everything out. No more games behind your back.”
I nodded, feeling something long forgotten stir inside me. Maybe dignity?
By the bench
Our yard had always been cozy — old linden trees, benches where pensioners gathered in the summer. Everyone knew each other here. Once, Boris and I walked here with little Anton, and now I sit alone, sorting through the strange conversation with my husband in my head.
“Lara Petrovna!” Nina Semyonovna, the neighbor from the fourth floor, called to me. “Am I bothering you?”
I moved over on the bench. Nina was one of those who knew all the news in the building but, unlike others, didn’t make things up.
“You look pale,” she sat down beside me, smoothing her dress. “Spring, vitamin deficiency…”
“No, just…” I hesitated, unsure whether to share. “We’re selling the apartment, lots of things to take care of.”
“You’re selling?” Nina turned to me fully. “You and Boris?”
I nodded, crumpling a handkerchief in my hands.
“Surprising,” she stretched the word out. “It’s the second time.”
“The second time?” I asked, confused.
Nina hesitated, as if regretting what she had said.
“Well, you see… Boris Alexandrovich was married before you. Not for long, though.”
I knew about my husband’s first marriage, but I never pried.
“There was also an issue with the apartment,” the neighbor continued, lowering her voice. “I’ve known him for a long time. Even before you, he lived here — with his first wife, Vera. Then, she left rather quickly, and soon after, he appeared with you. People said he tricked her into leaving… But of course, these are just rumors.”
My heart started to beat faster. Fragments of old conversations, hints I had ignored, came rushing back.
“And also…” Nina leaned in closer, “they say he has debts. Big ones. People saw some unpleasant characters coming by. They were demanding money.”
I swallowed hard. Boris never discussed finances with me. He just brought home part of his salary, and what he did with the rest was none of my business. Old-fashioned.
“Maybe he does have debts,” I said quietly, feeling anxiety grow inside me.
“You should check the documents, Larisa Petrovna,” Nina patted my hand. “You never know what’s on a man’s mind. Better safe than sorry.”
As I was returning home, I already knew that tomorrow everything would change. Even if no realtor shows up.
At the office
The lawyer’s office was small but neat. Light walls, a plant by the window, stacks of papers neatly arranged in some specific system. It smelled of coffee and citrus — maybe air freshener.
“Please sit, Larisa Viktorovna,” Elena Sergeyevna, a woman in her fifties with a short haircut, gestured to the chair across from her. “Tell me, what happened?”
I pulled documents from my bag — the title deed, my passport, and some other papers I hastily gathered before leaving. My hands were shaking slightly.
“My husband wants to sell my apartment. Without my consent,” I began, feeling silly. As if I were complaining about a child.
“Is the apartment in your name?” the lawyer asked, taking the documents.
“Yes… It was passed down from my parents, before Perestroika.”
Elena Sergeyevna carefully examined the papers, occasionally making notes in her notebook. I sat there, staring at my worn-out shoes. The heels were worn down — I really should buy new ones. It’s strange what you think about in important moments.
“Okay, Larisa Viktorovna, listen carefully,” the lawyer finally said. “Without your signature, no one can sell this apartment. It’s your personal property, not joint property. Even if your husband brings a hundred realtors, without your signature on the sale agreement, the transaction is impossible.”
Something inside me seemed to straighten out. A little spring that had been tightly wound for many years.
“What about the realtor? The inspection?” I asked.
“These are just words. Let them inspect all day. Without your consent, it’s all empty talk,” Elena Sergeyevna smiled. “But I would recommend taking precautions. Just in case.”
She jotted down a few points on a piece of paper: “Check if your husband has a power of attorney from you,” “Make sure the original documents are in a safe place,” “Talk to your husband in the presence of witnesses.”
“And also,” the lawyer added, handing me back the documents, “you can file a request with the Rosreestr to ban any registration actions without your personal presence. It’s a precaution, but it won’t hurt.”
I left the office with the feeling that I had just learned how to swim. It’s scary, but I can now keep myself afloat. On the subway, looking at my reflection in the dark glass, I smiled for the first time in a long while. It turns out the law is on my side. And my son too. I’m not alone.
Straight talk
The evening was stuffy. Not a breath of wind came through the kitchen window, just the noise of cars from the avenue. I was chopping vegetables for the salad when I heard the key turning in the lock. Boris. Then, another sound — the doorbell. It was Anton, punctual as always.
I heard from the hallway, surprised:
“What are you doing here?”
“To see mom,” my son’s voice sounded calm, but I knew that tone — it was how he spoke when holding back anger.
They entered the kitchen almost simultaneously — my husband with a displeased expression, my son determined, as though preparing for battle.
“Larochka, what’s going on?” Boris kissed me on the cheek as usual.
“Sit down,” I pointed to the chairs. “We need to talk. All three of us.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Boris waved his hand dismissively. “If you complained to our son about moving, that’s a mistake. I’m doing this for us.”
“For ‘us’ or for yourself, dad?” Anton crossed his arms over his chest. “Mom told me everything. About the realtor, and your plans.”
“We have common plans,” Boris began to get irritated. “Larisa is struggling with cleaning, the apartment is big…”
“Stop, wait,” I set the plate with the sliced vegetables on the table. “Let’s be clear, Borya. This is my apartment. I didn’t discuss it with anyone. And I didn’t sign any papers.”
My husband coughed, as if he choked on his words.
“You went to a lawyer?”
“Imagine that,” my voice was firm. “And now I know my rights. The apartment belongs to me, and only I decide what to do with it.”
“Lara, are you out of your mind? We’re a family!” Boris raised his voice.
“Exactly!” I too began to raise my voice. “A family discusses important decisions together. Not springing them on each other!”
“I’m doing the right thing!” Boris slammed his fist on the table. “You don’t understand your own happiness!”
Anton leaned forward:
“Dad, tell me honestly — you have debts, don’t you?”
Boris turned pale. Silence hung in the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Suddenly, I realized — all my suspicions were true. The neighbor was right, and Anton…
“These are my affairs,” Boris finally hissed. “I would have managed…”
“On mom’s apartment?” Anton shook his head. “No way. Mom, tell him what you’ve decided.”
I took a deep breath and looked Boris straight in the eye:
“I’m signing a prenuptial agreement. Retroactively. And no selling. And you… you better live separately. Think it over.”
The expression on his face reflected so many emotions at once — distrust, anger, confusion.
“You can’t kick me out!”
“I’m not kicking you out,” I shook my head. “I’m just reclaiming my right to decide my own fate.”
A new life
The sunbeams danced on the wall — the glass vase cast reflections. It held yellow tulips, bought yesterday at the market. The first flowers of this spring in my house. Now truly my house.
Three weeks had passed since that evening. Three weeks of silence, peaceful sleep, and the strange, unfamiliar feeling of freedom. Boris had moved out the next day — he proudly declared that if I was going to act like this, he wouldn’t lower himself. He took his things, his fishing gear, his coin collection. His mother sided with him, calling to scold me — how could I throw him out after all these years? I stayed silent on the phone. What’s there to explain?
“Mom, is the tea ready?” Anton entered the room, interrupting my thoughts. He was wearing an old T-shirt — with some rock band logo on the front. A book in his hands.
“Yes, just a moment,” I stood up from the couch.
The room looked different — the chairs had been rearranged, a new tablecloth, books that had gathered dust in the cupboard. It was like I was rediscovering the space, making it my own.
We sat at the kitchen table — with tea, and the apple pie I baked in the morning.
“How are you, mom?” Anton looked at me closely.
“Strangely, but… good,” I smiled. “You know, I thought it would be scary, but it turned out to be peaceful.”
“You’re awesome,” my son covered my hand with his. “You stood up for yourself.”
Outside the window, sparrows were chirping. The yard was coming back to life after winter — the janitor was sweeping up last year’s leaves, a young mother was pushing a stroller.
“I have plans, Anton,” I took a sip of my tea. “I want to sign up for computer courses. And maybe… even for dance lessons.”
My son laughed — not mockingly, but joyfully.
“Wow! That’s great, mom! I was going to suggest we go to Crimea together this summer. Rent a little house by the sea. You’ve never been, right?”
“No, I haven’t,” I shook my head. “We always planned to, but then… Boris didn’t like the south.”
We stayed there for a long time, making plans. I looked at my grown-up son and thought — it’s strange how it all turned out. I had feared being alone my whole life, clinging to a marriage that had long become a habit. And it turned out that loneliness isn’t scary. What’s scary is losing yourself.
When Anton left — to handle some business, back by evening — I returned to the room and went to the window. There, in the yard, life was going on as usual. Some people were hurrying home, others were leaving. Children played, elderly people sat on benches.
And I stood in my apartment, with the keys to the door that no one could open without my permission. And that feeling — strange, unfamiliar — felt like happiness.