Lyudmila placed a cup of tea in front of her, absentmindedly stirring the cooling liquid with a spoon. Her hand trembled, and the metal quietly tinkled against the porcelain — the only sound in the oppressive silence of the kitchen. Their kitchen.
Thirty-five years of life shared between two, and suddenly… just like that?
— Lyuda, I’ve made up my mind, — Viktor’s voice sounded detached, as if it no longer belonged to these walls. — I need freedom. To live for myself. You have to understand…
— Understand what, Vitya? — she lifted her eyes, in which there was not so much pain as bewilderment. — Thirty-five years together, and suddenly freedom? Freedom from what?
He jerked his shoulder irritably, adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose — a gesture she knew like her reflection in the mirror.
— From all this, — he vaguely swept his hand around the kitchen as if it were to blame. — From obligations, from routine. Understand, I’m sixty-five, there isn’t much time left…
— And I’m sixty-two, so what? — the rhetorical question hung in the air. — Or do I have more time?
The conversation was interrupted by the doorbell. Alexey and Maria — both had rushed over as soon as she called, saying only that Dad wanted to talk to them about something important. They didn’t know. Not yet.
— Hi, Mom! — Alyosha, tall like his father but with her eyes, hugged Lyudmila. — What’s going on here?
Maria followed cautiously, scanning her parents.
— We’re drinking tea, — Lyudmila replied with a forced smile. — Come in.
Viktor straightened up, putting on the expression she called “the director’s face” — that’s how he looked when delivering bad news to subordinates.
— I’ve filed for divorce, — the words dropped like stones. — Your mother and I are separating.
Silence. The ticking of the clock on the wall sounded deafening.
— Are you crazy? — Maria leaned forward, clutching the back of a chair. — Dad, you’re sixty-five! What divorce?
— Age has nothing to do with it, — Viktor snapped. — I have a right to happiness.
Alexey was silent but his jaw muscles twitched.
— And Mom? — he finally managed. — Doesn’t Mom have rights?
— Mom… — Viktor hesitated. — Mom will understand. In time.
Lyudmila looked at her hands — her own hands that had cooked for him, washed, ironed, supported for thirty-five years. It seemed they should hold all the strength in the world, but they just trembled over the cooling tea.
— Have you already filed the papers? — her voice was unexpectedly calm.
— Yes. And about the property… we need to talk.
— Property? — Maria’s eyes widened. — You’re planning to split that too?
— By law, I’m entitled to half of the jointly acquired assets, — Viktor cut in.
— Including Mom’s apartment? The one she inherited from her grandmother? — Alexey stood up, towering over the table.
Lyudmila raised her hand, stopping her son:
— Quiet, Alyosha. The documents are probably already in court, right? — she turned to her husband. — Thirty-five years, and you didn’t even discuss it?
— There’s nothing to discuss, — he looked past her. — I’ve made up my mind.
— You know, Vitya, — Lyudmila stood up, suddenly straightening her shoulders, — maybe I was a shadow for thirty-five years, but shadows only make sense if there’s something to hide from. And here… — she spread her hands — what is there to hide from? Your freedom?
The children exchanged glances. They rarely saw their mother like this — decisive, with unexpected steel in her voice.
— Who is she? — Alexey suddenly asked.
Viktor flinched as if struck.
— Who?
— Don’t make fools of us, Dad, — Maria crossed her arms. — Of course you didn’t just suddenly decide you wanted freedom. Who is she?
— There is no one, — Viktor answered too quickly. — This is my decision. Personal.
— Nina Sergeyevna? — Lyudmila said the name quietly, almost in a whisper. — Your former secretary? I saw how you looked at her at the New Year’s party.
— Nonsense! — Viktor slammed his palm on the table. — She’s forty-three, why would I need her?
— Oh, so you counted? — Maria bitterly smiled. — Forty-three… you know for sure, right?
Lyudmila slowly shook her head:
— It doesn’t matter. If you decided — you decided. But you miscalculated with the apartment, Vitya. It’s in my name. As inheritance from my mother.
— Jointly acquired! — Viktor cut in. — We got it during the marriage.
— Not we, but I, — Lyudmila quietly objected. — And the documents will confirm that.
In the following days, Lyudmila’s life turned into an endless stream of paperwork, calls, and conversations with her lawyer friend Svetlana, who worked at a law firm.
Viktor moved into a rented apartment, taking only personal belongings and his computer.
— Lyuda, he’s claiming everything, — Svetlana spread documents in front of her. — The dacha, savings, even the apartment. I looked into it — we can fight for the apartment, but the rest…
— What dacha? — Lyudmila looked at her friend in confusion. — Our dacha near Moscow? But we sold it fifteen years ago. When Vitya had business problems.
Svetlana frowned:
— According to the documents, the dacha is pledged to the bank. The loan is still being repaid.
— What? — Lyudmila felt the room spin. — That’s impossible. We sold the dacha. I remember.
— Then what is this? — Svetlana laid papers before her. — A loan agreement in your name, with the dacha as collateral. Monthly payments have been debited from your account for fifteen years.
— From mine? — Lyudmila stared at the numbers and signatures. — But I never… oh God!
The image appeared before her eyes: Viktor handing her some papers. “Sign here and here, it’s just formalities for accounting, money from the pensioners’ aid fund will be credited to your account.” She signed without looking — trusting her husband as herself. And he…
— He stole my money? — the words caught in her throat. — For fifteen years?
— Apparently, yes, — Svetlana nodded. — And that changes everything. The court will be on our side.
The first court hearing caught Lyudmila off guard — she never thought she would be here not as a supportive wife of a lawyer-husband but as a plaintiff defending her property from that same husband. Viktor sat across — neat, in a strict suit, next to a well-groomed lawyer who looked like a predatory bird.
— All my life I provided for the family, — Viktor’s voice was confident. — Apartment, dacha, accounts — all the result of my work. My wife never worked.
Lyudmila shuddered at the words. “Wife.” Not by name. As if a stranger.
— And who raised the children? — she quietly asked. — Who created the home so you could work? Who cared for your mother in recent years?
Viktor just waved his hand away like a pesky fly:
— That didn’t bring income. I’m talking about material contribution.
— Your Honor, — Svetlana stood up, — I have documents that radically change the picture of this case.
Lyudmila watched as Svetlana laid out papers before the judge. Her slender fingers, never knowing household work, methodically and precisely arranged the evidence. The courtroom was filled with ringing silence.
— Here is the loan agreement in my client’s name, — Svetlana’s voice was firm. — Fifteen years ago, Viktor Pavlovich mortgaged the family dacha by taking a loan registered to his wife. Here are statements from Lyudmila Sergeyevna’s account confirming monthly payments to the bank. Over fifteen years the amount has reached…
She named a figure that made Lyudmila dizzy. Had she really been paying all this time? How blindly she had trusted… How could this be?
— This is impossible! — Viktor’s face contorted. — I didn’t mortgage anything!
— Is this your signature? — the judge looked at him over his glasses. — The expert examination confirmed its authenticity.
— The signature… yes, but… — Viktor glanced helplessly at his lawyer. The lawyer whispered something quickly.
— Your Honor, — Viktor’s lawyer rose, — even if this loan exists, it was taken during the marriage, meaning…
— Meaning it should be repaid by both parties, — Svetlana interrupted. — However, all payments have actually been made only from Lyudmila Sergeyevna’s personal account. Moreover, — she took out another folder, — we have written statements from bank employees that Viktor Pavlovich personally submitted a request to change the account for debiting, indicating his wife’s account without her knowledge.
A whisper rose in the courtroom. Lyudmila saw Viktor pale — his arrogant mask began to crack.
— Dad, how could you? — Maria, sitting in the front row, looked at her father with wide eyes. — You deceived Mom for fifteen years?
Viktor did not answer, only tugged at his tie as if it was choking him.
— And that’s not all, — Svetlana continued. — We have evidence that money from the supposed sale of the dacha never went into the family accounts. Viktor Pavlovich created an illusion of a sale to explain to his wife the disappearance of the property from their assets.
— Where did the money go, Vitya? — Lyudmila looked straight at her husband. — You said — business, problems. What kind of business?
Viktor’s lawyer feverishly took notes, but Viktor himself sat with his head down. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last ten minutes.
— Do you have anything to say, Viktor Pavlovich? — the judge asked.
— I… I wanted to get it all back, — his voice was muffled. — The investments turned out unsuccessful. Then other problems appeared…
— For example, Nina Sergeyevna? — Lyudmila asked almost in a whisper, but in the courtroom silence it sounded like a shot.
Viktor raised his head:
— What does she have to do with it? Yes, we have a relationship, but I did not spend family money on her!
— The ruling for today, — the judge struck the gavel, calling for order. — We are only considering property issues today.
But Lyudmila no longer listened. In her mind, a picture formed — fifteen years of lies, fraud, double life. While she saved on everything to “help the family,” repaying a loan unknown to her, Viktor…
— How long, Vitya? — she couldn’t stop herself. — Nina Sergeyevna — five years? Ten?
— Two years, — he didn’t raise his eyes. — But it’s not about her…
— Then what, Vitya? — bitterness overflowed Lyudmila. — Freedom? You were already free. Free to lie, free to steal from your own wife, free to live a double life!
Alexey stood up from his seat and approached his mother, placing a hand on her shoulder:
— Mom, don’t. He’s not worth your tears.
— I’m not crying, son, — Lyudmila touched her dry eyes in surprise. — Imagine that. I really am not crying.
This realization struck her most of all. Where was the pain of a broken heart? Where were the sufferings of a betrayed wife? Instead — a strange lightness. As if a heavy backpack she had carried for decades was finally taken off her shoulders.
— Your Honor, — Viktor’s lawyer spoke, — despite these… circumstances, my client still has the right to part of the jointly acquired property…
— Right to what exactly? — Lyudmila asked firmly. — To what I paid out of my pension while you said the money was needed to treat your mother? Or to the apartment I inherited from my mother? What else do you want to take, Vitya?
Viktor looked at the floor, his shoulders slumped. For the first time in thirty-five years, Lyudmila saw him like this — defenseless, caught red-handed, stripped of his usual facade of confidence.
— Lyuda, I didn’t know it would turn out like this, — he mumbled. — Back then, fifteen years ago, money was needed urgently… I thought I’d pay it back quickly.
— And you decided to take out a loan in my name? — bitter irony sounded in her voice. — And then what stopped you from telling the truth? Ten years ago? Five? Yesterday?
— I was ashamed, — he spread his hands, and that gesture somehow seemed utterly alien to Lyudmila, as if a stranger was sitting before her. — Then time passed, and it became harder to admit…
— It was easier to keep lying, — Alexey finished for him. — Mom, do you hear him? He was ashamed. Of himself, not you.
The judge struck the gavel:
— Considering the evidence presented, the court rules: the apartment, as premarital property inherited, remains the property of Lyudmila Sergeyevna. The loan obligations on the dacha are recognized as the personal debt of Viktor Pavlovich with compensation to Lyudmila Sergeyevna for all payments made by her, adjusted for inflation…
The judge’s words came to Lyudmila as if through cotton. She looked at her husband — her ex-husband — and saw not only him but herself: a woman who lived for thirty-five years with her eyes closed, afraid to see the truth.
When the session ended, Viktor tried to approach her in the corridor:
— Lyuda, let’s talk. Alone.
— About what, Vitya? — she looked at him without hatred but without warmth. — We had thirty-five years for talks. You chose silence.
— Dad, go away, — Maria stood between them. — Haven’t you done enough?
— I didn’t want to hurt you, — he spoke sincerely, Lyudmila felt it. — Really, Lyuda.
— You know what’s the strangest? — she suddenly smiled. — I believe you. You really didn’t want to hurt me. You just wanted it all: a family as a cover, and freedom for your affairs. And you almost got it. Thirty-five years you almost got it.
They left the courthouse — Lyudmila, the children, and Svetlana. The April sun blinded her for a moment, and Lyudmila shielded her eyes with her hand. When she lowered her palm, the world seemed surprisingly bright.
— Mom, come have lunch with us? — Alexey offered. — Lena baked your favorite apple pie.
— No, son, — Lyudmila shook her head. — I think I’ll go home. I need to… think.
— Alone? — Maria worried. — Maybe I’ll come with you?
— You know, — Lyudmila hugged her daughter, — I think I was afraid all my life to be alone. And now… I want to try. That’s freedom too, right?
At home, Lyudmila opened the windows wide, letting spring air into the rooms. She took down their wedding photo from the wall and looked long at the young faces — happy, full of hope. Then carefully put the photo away in the closet.
— Freedom, — she said aloud, tasting the word. — So that’s what you wanted, Vitya? Well, I’ll try it too.
A week later, Lyudmila found an envelope in the mailbox. Inside was a check for a substantial amount. There was also a note.
“This is just the beginning of payments. Sorry, if you can. V.”
She smirked, looking at the familiar handwriting. Apologies and money — so masculine, so typical of Vitya. She set the check aside — it would be useful for the repair she had long postponed. And the note… she crumpled and threw away.
In the evening, Maria called:
— Mom, Alexey and I thought… you’ve never been to Europe, though you always dreamed of it. Maybe we should go together? You and me to Paris, and then Alexey with Lena and the kids will join later…
— To Paris? — Lyudmila laughed. — You know what, let’s do it! But… I think I’ll get used to it here first.
— Here? — her daughter didn’t understand.
— In my freedom, — Lyudmila simply answered. — Turns out it’s a whole new world, Mashenka. And I’m sixty-two — not so little time to explore it.
She hung up and walked to the window. The city spread before her, full of lights and possibilities. Thirty-five years ago, Lyudmila chose a life behind her husband’s back. Now she was choosing herself. And it didn’t scare her — it stirred her blood like champagne at that distant wedding where it all began.
And for the first time in many years, Lyudmila felt not bitterness from her husband’s “freedom” but gratitude — for his leaving and accidentally giving her a real life. Her own life, earned by decades of sacrifice and dedication. A life that was just beginning.