Dasha didn’t want to admit even to herself that after seven years of marriage, almost nothing was left of her. Something important was disappearing piece by piece, imperceptibly, day by day — her sense of self-worth, joy, dreams. Sometimes she would catch her reflection in the mirror and not recognize the woman looking back — gaunt, with a dimmed gaze.
“You’ve really let yourself go,” Artem constantly said, disapprovingly looking at his wife. “You used to be different.”
Used to be. Dasha remembered that “used to be” — when she believed their marriage was based on love and mutual respect. But the years of living together showed a different reality. Her husband saw her not as a partner but as an appendage to his life — a woman who had to cook, clean, plan the budget, pay the bills, remember all important dates, buy gifts for his relatives, schedule his doctor’s appointments — all this after her main job.
Dasha’s evenings looked the same: cook dinner, warm it up when Artem deigned to come home (usually a couple of hours later than promised), listen to complaints about a hard day, wash the dishes, clean the kitchen. And what did the husband do? He’d lie on the couch with his phone or go out “to have a drink with friends,” because “he needed to relax after work.”
Their family budget was also maintained only by Dasha. Not that Artem didn’t earn money — it just regularly vanished. A friend urgently borrowed some, then a new phone was “absolutely necessary,” then some urgent investment that never paid off. And afterward, with a disarming smile: “Dasha, you’ll pull us through, right?”
And she did, month after month, year after year. Until one day she realized she couldn’t anymore. The point of no return was the death of her father. Dasha was his only daughter and inherited a small house outside the city. Artem then shrugged and said:
“Let’s sell it and buy a car. I’ve needed one for a long time.”
Not “we,” but “I.” At that moment, Dasha finally realized she had no family. There was only an eternally immature consumer who did not see her as a person.
The divorce went surprisingly smoothly. Dasha expected scandals, but Artem was almost indifferent. They didn’t divide property — there was hardly any. The apartment they lived in was rented, and there was nothing worth fighting for. Artem didn’t even try to dispute her decision to live in her father’s house. He only smiled smugly:
“Where will you go? You’ll call me back anyway.”
Dasha knew what he thought — she had nowhere to go except the inherited house. He thought she wouldn’t manage alone and would crawl back. Artem’s friends let him stay “for a couple of weeks” — those very “friends” who had always been more important than his wife. Dasha almost heard their conversations: “She’ll freak out and call you back, where will she go?”
The first week after the move, Dasha simply slept. The deafening silence of the house, the absence of the need to jump at every demand, to account for every ruble spent — all this was a new, intoxicating feeling of freedom.
The second week she devoted to a deep cleaning. The house had been empty for several months, and dust covered all surfaces. Dasha washed, cleaned, threw out her father’s old things that reminded her of the hard last days of his life. She was freeing up space — for new furniture and a new life.
The third week was spent on repairs. Nothing major — fresh paint on the walls, replacing cracked tiles in the bathroom, fixing the creaky gate. Each action had an almost ritual meaning: Dasha was transforming not just the house, but her own life.
“So, how’s your country life?” Artem asked during their only phone call. “Not tired of being alone yet?”
“I’m not alone,” Dasha replied, stroking the head of her new acquisition — a shaggy rescue dog. “I have great company.”
Artem snorted and hung up. Dasha smiled — with each passing day, his calls meant less and less to her.
Three months passed. The house had changed beyond recognition. Light walls instead of faded wallpaper, new light curtains instead of heavy Soviet drapes, flowerpots on the windowsills, a neat lawn in front of the house. Dasha planted greens in the garden — parsley, dill, basil. In the mornings, she brewed tea and went out to the porch, inhaling fresh air and listening to the birds sing.
She found remote work — translating texts for a travel company. The income was modest but stable. Dasha didn’t sue her ex-husband for alimony — she didn’t want extra contact with Artem, and she didn’t need it. Alone, with her dog, in a house with minimal utilities, she spent much less than before.
Each day was a small victory. Dasha relearned how to enjoy simple things — a tasty breakfast she didn’t have to share with a dissatisfied person, a movie she could watch without adjusting to someone else’s tastes, a quiet evening with a book without calls saying “I’ll be late for another hour.”
“You know, Marsik,” Dasha said to the dog, “I think I’m happy for the first time in a long time.”
The dog wagged his tail and looked at his owner devotedly. That look was worth all the words Dasha hadn’t heard from her husband during seven years of marriage.
That Sunday, Dasha planned to repot the houseplants. She had just finished breakfast when she heard the gatebell ring. Persistent, confident. Marsik barked and ran to the fence, wagging his tail.
“Who could it be?” Dasha muttered. The neighbors usually warned about visits, and she wasn’t expecting guests.
Throwing on a light sweater over her home T-shirt, Dasha went into the yard and headed to the gate. Marsik followed her, sniffing and trying to get ahead.
“Coming, coming!” Dasha called when the bell rang again, more insistently.
Opening the gate, she froze. Artem stood outside. With a big suitcase. Smiling so smugly as if he deserved a medal for special merits.
“Hi, Dasha,” said her ex-husband in a tone as if they’d seen each other yesterday, not three months ago. “I decided to drop by.”
Marsik growled, sensing his owner’s tension.
“Artem?” Dasha blinked, not believing her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, missed me?” Artem tried to step onto the property, but Dasha instinctively blocked the way. “I thought you’d calmed down by now. Let me stay for a while.”
Dasha stared at her ex-husband, unable to comprehend his words. Was he serious? After the divorce, after three months of silence — just come with a suitcase and expect to be let in?
“You seriously expected to get the keys to MY house?” Dasha asked, not believing her ears.
Artem looked at her confused, as if not understanding the point.
“What’s so strange? You’re alone anyway. Why waste good?” And he tried again to step onto the property, pushing Dasha aside with his shoulder.
Marsik sensed the threat and barked louder, standing between his owner and the stranger.
“You got a dog?” Artem grimaced. “Why? Just dirt and fur. Fine, I’ll put up with it,” he said as if doing a huge favor.
Dasha looked at the man she had lived with for seven years and couldn’t believe she once loved him. Or thought she did. Somewhere deep inside, old insecurities stirred — maybe she should let him in? Maybe he really had nowhere to go?
“Your friends kicked you out?” Dasha asked, feeling her heart pounding.
“Not kicked out exactly,” Artem shrugged. “Just uncomfortable overstaying my welcome. And here you are, alone, in the whole house. There’s space, and you’ll cook too…”
He said it so matter-of-factly that Dasha almost laughed. She’d be the one cooking. Of course. Because what else is an ex-wife for?
“Did you think I might not be alone?” Dasha asked, surprised at her own boldness.
Artem gave her an assessing look — home T-shirt, messy hair, no makeup.
“Come on,” smirked the ex-husband. “Who’d want you? And doesn’t look like there’s anyone else here anyway,” he glanced over Dasha’s shoulder, inspecting the yard. “So, will you let me in?”
Marsik growled louder, sensing the rising tension. Dasha put a hand on his neck, calming him.
“No,” Dasha said firmly. “I won’t let you in. We’re divorced, Artem. I started a new life. And there’s no place in it for…”
“For whom?” Artem squinted. “For the man who put up with you for seven years?”
“Put up with me?” A wave of indignation rose inside Dasha. “You put up with me? Who paid the bills when you spent all the money on your ‘investments’? Who cooked, washed, cleaned, planned?”
“Oh, here we go,” Artem rolled his eyes. “I thought maybe you got smarter over these three months. Learned something.”
“I did,” Dasha nodded. “I realized I was never happy with you. That you sucked all the strength, all the joy out of me. That I was not a wife to you but a free servant.”
Artem stepped back, surprised by her retort.
“What, you’ve been watching those feminist videos of yours?” smirked the ex-husband. “Dasha, stop breaking down. Who needs you here, in the village? Will you let me in or not?”
Dasha stood by the gate, feeling a strange calm spreading inside. Three months ago, she probably would have cried. Or started to justify herself. Or even let him in — out of pity, fear of being completely alone, out of habit of giving in.
But now before her stood not the harsh judge of her life, but just a man — far from the smartest, not the most handsome, not the kindest. A man she once depended on for some reason. Depended emotionally, though in reality, he was the one who needed her, not the other way around.
“No,” Dasha said calmly. “I won’t let you in. And I have to go — I have a lot to do.”
Artem leaned forward, clearly not expecting such an answer.
“Seriously?” the ex-husband asked incredulously. “You won’t let me in?”
And then something strange happened. Dasha laughed. Not nervously, not angrily — genuinely, with relief, like people do when they realize the mountain they feared is just a pile of dirt.
“Really, I won’t let you in,” Dasha said, laughing and wiping tears from her eyes. “Artem, you left. And there’s no way back. This is my house. Not ours. Not yours. MINE.”
Artem looked at his ex-wife with undisguised amazement. Where was that shy, insecure woman who always gave in? Who was afraid to say a word out of turn? Before him stood a completely different Dasha — calm, confident, firmly standing her ground.
“Is this pride?” Artem finally blurted out, clutching at a straw. “I thought you’d at least fight…”
“Fight?” Dasha was amazed. “For what? The right to cook you dinners you criticize again? The privilege to pay for your whims? No, thanks.”
“But where will I go now?”
“Where all grown-up people without housing go,” Dasha shrugged. “Rent an apartment.”
Marsik, as if realizing the danger had passed, stopped growling and sat at his owner’s feet, attentively watching the stranger.
“Are you serious?” Artem still couldn’t believe what was happening. “You’re just going to leave me homeless?”
“Yes,” Dasha nodded. “Exactly that. And now, if you’ll excuse me, my plants need repotting.”
With that, Dasha closed the gate in front of a stunned Artem. Returning to the house, she felt an extraordinary lightness. There was no anger, no resentment — only quiet joy that she managed. Managed to say “no.” Managed to protect her space.
In the evening, the phone rang. Artem. Dasha looked at the screen for several seconds but then answered.
“Hello.”
“Dasha, this is really stupid,” Artem’s voice sounded conciliatory. “Think about it — the house is empty, there’s plenty of space. I’m not asking to live as husband and wife again. Just a roof over my head.”
“No,” Dasha replied. “And don’t call me about this anymore.”
Artem kept calling. The next day, and the day after. First asking, then demanding, then reproaching.
“You’re cruel. I have no home. You could be a decent person,” Artem said accusingly, words that would have made Dasha shrink and feel guilty before.
But now those words found no echo in her.
“I’m a person,” Dasha answered calmly. “Only now — first and foremost — for myself. You’re an adult, not a child — we broke up, so each on their own.”
Four days after Artem’s sudden visit, Dasha decided it was time to take additional measures. Her calm was more important than anyone’s offended feelings.
Dasha called a locksmith from the city and changed the locks — on the gate and on the front door of the house. She also installed a simple video surveillance system — a camera at the gate and another on the porch. So she wouldn’t catch “surprises” in the form of uninvited guests anymore.
“Good job,” Dasha said to the locksmith, taking the new keys. “How much do I owe you?”
“Fifteen thousand for everything,” the locksmith replied, gathering his tools. “Good locks, reliable.”
Before, Dasha would have been scared by such an amount. But now she only nodded and took out the money. Security and peace of mind were worth every penny.
By evening, messages began coming from Artem’s relatives. First, his mother, Irina Nikolaevna, wrote:
“Dear Dasha, how could you? Artem says you didn’t let him in? He’s cramped with friends there, and you have a big house. Isn’t it possible to help?”
Then his sister, Oksana:
“I understand you broke up, but he’s a man with no roof over his head. Isn’t it too much to let him in even for a while?”
Dasha felt a familiar wave of guilt and doubt rising inside. Of course, she didn’t want Artem to end up on the street. But she also had no intention of returning to the role of eternal savior of her ex-husband.
After some thought, Dasha wrote one message and sent it to everyone trying to pressure her conscience:
“The house is mine. There will be no keys. Let him rent a place like normal grown-ups do.”
After that, Dasha put her phone on silent mode and went to play with Marsik in the yard. The dog joyfully chased the ball, and Dasha enjoyed the warm evening and the feeling of calm confidence.
Gradually, calls and messages became less frequent. Life settled into a new routine. Dasha worked, walked the dog, met new neighbors. Some of them turned out to be very nice people — a family with two children across the street, an elderly couple two houses down, a single artist at the end of the street.
One day, Dasha invited her neighbor Vera for tea. They sat on the veranda, discussing plans for landscaping the plot.
“You know,” Vera said, sipping tea, “when you first moved, many thought you wouldn’t stay long. They said you’re a city girl and would run back quickly.”
“But I’m not going anywhere,” Dasha smiled. “I like it here. The silence, the air, my own space.”
“That’s obvious,” the neighbor nodded. “You look happy. It’s hard to believe you recently went through a divorce.”
Dasha thought. Yes, technically she went through a separation. But for the first time in many years, she felt truly alive.
A month after Artem’s attempt to return, Dasha accidentally learned from a mutual acquaintance that her ex-husband had moved in with some girlfriend, with the same suitcase and the same lines about “temporary shelter.”
“How long has he been there?” Dasha asked without much interest.
“Two weeks already,” the acquaintance replied. “He says it’s temporary too, but you know Artem.”
Yes, Dasha knew Artem. And she was grateful to fate that she no longer bore responsibility for his life decisions.
That same evening, sorting through boxes with things she hadn’t yet sorted after the move, Dasha came across a small velvet box. Inside lay the wedding ring — simple, gold, with a small stone. A ring tied to so many hopes. And so many disappointments.
Next to it lay a photo album of their wedding. Dasha flipped through it, lingering on some photos. There they were at the registry office — she in a white dress, he in a dark suit. Both smiling. Who would have thought that after seven years, not a trace would remain of those smiles?
Dasha looked at the photos for a few more minutes, then decisively put the album in a far drawer. And threw the box with the ring into the trash bin. It was a symbolic gesture — a final farewell to the past. To that Dasha who always put others’ needs above her own.
Another month passed. Warm days gave way to the coolness of early autumn. Marsik stretched out on a rug near the door after a long walk, lazily watching his owner. Dasha threw a warm plaid over her shoulders and settled on the veranda with a book and a cup of hot tea.
Twilight slowly descended on the quiet street. Lights came on in neighboring houses. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Dasha took a sip of tea and deeply inhaled the cool air, filled with the scent of fallen leaves and ripe apples.
The house was not empty, as Artem’s relatives feared. It was full — full of her life, her interests, her peace. Without encroachments. Without the past. With hope for the future — not perfect, not cloudless, but her own.
Marsik got up, stretched, and came to his owner, resting his head on her lap. Dasha stroked the dog behind the ear, smiling. Sometimes the most important acquisition in life is not a new house but the ability to protect your boundaries. The ability to say “no” to those who see only convenience in you. The courage to live by your own rules.
Dasha put down the book and looked at the stars appearing in the evening sky. Ahead was a whole life — her life, without looking back at the past, without fear of the future. And that was the most wonderful prospect she could ever dream of.