Anya Karpenko woke up at half past six in the morning from the sharp slam of the front door. Igor, as usual, was leaving for work without even saying goodbye. She turned to the other side, buried her face in the pillow, trying to get back to sleep, but her thoughts wouldn’t let her — they were swirling again around numbers: how much more she needed to save to break free from this rented apartment and start living for real.
In three years of marriage, Anya had gotten used to her husband’s silence, to his constant phone use during meals, to the fact that he never once asked her, “How was your day?” She had gotten so used to it that she stopped noticing. She worked as an accountant at a construction company, saved every penny, and dreamed of having her own place. The two-room apartment they rented had long stopped feeling like home — too thin walls, a nagging landlady, high rent.
“That’s it, we’ll move soon,” she told Igor, showing him listings on her phone. “Another six months and we’ll have enough for the down payment.”
Igor nodded without looking up from the screen and mumbled something indistinct. He worked as a driver at a logistics company, earned decent money, but spent grudgingly on shared goals. His money went to cigarettes, beer with friends, and gas for his beloved car.
Anya didn’t complain. After realizing that Igor simply didn’t hear her, she stopped sharing her feelings altogether. She just saved, planned, and weighed options. On weekends, she went to look at apartments, took pictures, compared prices. Igor never went with her.
“You’ll figure it out better,” he would brush off. “Whatever you choose, we’ll take it.”
That February day began like any other. Anya was sitting in the office, balancing the accounts for the previous month, when Igor’s phone rang. He had forgotten it at home — it was lying on the kitchen counter next to an unfinished sandwich. Anya wanted to ignore the calls, but they kept coming. The name “Max” appeared on the screen.
She knew Max — Igor’s friend from school, now working somewhere in sales. Tall, slim, always with a mocking look in his eyes. She had seen him only a couple of times during the marriage but remembered his jokes, funny only to him and Igor.
“Hi, this is Anya,” she answered when she heard the voice. “Igor forgot his phone at home. Is it something important?”
“Anya! Hey! Nothing special, just wanted to ask how the apartment thing is going? You said you were going to buy one.”
“Yes, we’re hoping for summer,” she replied. “What happened?”
“Nothing, just curious. He sounded so pleased, like he won something for free.”
Something in Max’s tone made Anya wary, but she didn’t press further. They said goodbye, and she hung up. In the evening, when Igor came back, she returned the phone to him.
“Max called, asked about the apartment,” she said.
Igor glanced quickly at the screen but remained silent. Only his face tensed.
“Will you eat dinner?” Anya asked.
“Don’t want to,” he grumbled and went to his room.
Anya shrugged. In three years, she had learned not to be surprised by his moods.
But a week later, something happened that changed everything…
Igor forgot his phone at home again, but this time Anya didn’t answer the calls. She simply muted the sound and forgot about it. In the evening, when her husband asked if he had any calls, she lied — said no one called.
Igor frowned, took the phone, and went into the bathroom. Anya heard him speaking quietly to someone but couldn’t make out the words. When he came out, his face was grim.
“I’ll be late tomorrow,” he said. “Important cargo, might be until late.”
Anya nodded. Now she really didn’t care.
The next day Igor left as usual but returned after half an hour — he had forgotten some documents. Anya was in the shower, heard him hurriedly searching for something in the room, then closing the door again and leaving.
She came out of the bathroom — and saw his phone on the floor. It had probably fallen out of his pocket while he was digging through the papers. Anya picked it up to take it to the table… but noticed the screen wasn’t locked. Several unread messages from Max were glowing.
She wasn’t going to read them. Honestly. She just wanted to put the phone back and wait. But her eyes slid to the screen on their own. The first lines caught her:
“Are you sure she suspects nothing? She reacted strangely yesterday…”
Anya’s heart beat faster. Her fingers pressed the screen by themselves.
The correspondence was long. Anya read and couldn’t believe her eyes.
Igor:
“Everything is going according to plan. She’s almost saved enough for the down payment. I think we’ll close the deal by May.”
Max:
“And right after buying?”
Igor:
“Of course. The apartment is marital property — so half legally mine. I’ll get divorced and take my share.”
Max:
“Brilliant, bro. What if she suspects something?”
Igor:
“She won’t figure anything out. So trusting, almost touching. Saving for OUR apartment for three years, but really — for mine. Or rather, ours — remember, the auto service?”
Max:
“Remember. Good deal. With your money, we can get a solid start.”
Igor:
“Exactly. Just need her to hurry picking the apartment. I’m tired of playing the caring husband role.”
Max:
“Remember how she wanted a child? Good thing you talked her out of it.”
Igor:
“No way! Kids are just extra problems when dividing property. It’s simpler without them.”
Max:
“You’re ruthless, Igor. Living with a woman for three years and not a drop of pity.”
Igor:
“Why should I pity her? She’s not losing out. She’ll get her half and live. And I’ll finally be free. Fed up with her spreadsheets and dreams.”
Anya put down the phone with trembling hands. Her head was buzzing, her vision blurry.
Three years.
Three years she had built a future with a man who counted down the days until divorce. Three years she saved money for their life together, and he planned how to get that money for himself.
She slowly sat down on the sofa, trying to pull herself together. Igor was supposed to come back soon — for the phone. A decision had to be made. But which one — she didn’t know yet.
Anya quickly photographed the most important messages on her phone, carefully put Igor’s phone back, and sat waiting.
Igor returned about twenty minutes later, irritated and distracted.
“Where’s my phone?” he asked without greeting.
“It was on the floor,” Anya replied calmly.
Igor grabbed the device, skimmed the screen, and relaxed slightly.
“Alright, I’m off. Will be back late.”
“Okay,” she said.
When the door closed, Anya finally let the tears flow.
But she didn’t cry for long. Tears of anger quickly dried, replaced by cold determination. She was betrayed, but now she had proof. And she wasn’t going to let anyone control her life.
Anya took her own phone and started searching for information. She read articles on family law, property division, how to prove that the money for the apartment was her personal savings. By lunchtime, she knew more than she had in the entire marriage.
In the evening, Igor came home late as promised. Anya met him with a warm smile and a set table.
“How was your day?” she asked, pouring him tea.
“Fine,” he grumbled, not looking at her. “And you?”
“Good. By the way, I talked to the realtor today. He advised registering the apartment in one of our names. Said it would reduce taxes.”
Igor looked up, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
“Whose name would be better?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Anya shrugged. “He said whoever has the higher official income. What’s your salary on paper?”
“Twenty-eight thousand,” Igor replied.
Anya knew the real figures were much higher — part of his income was “under the table.”
“And mine’s thirty-five,” she said. “So it’s better to register it in my name.”
Igor thought about it.
“But does it really matter? We’re married; property is joint anyway.”
“Yes, of course,” Anya agreed. “Just lawyer’s advice. Less trouble with the government.”
For several days, she carefully continued preparations: mentioning meetings with a good lawyer, stressing the importance of doing everything correctly and officially. Igor nodded, but Anya noticed his internal tension whenever documents were mentioned.
Then something unexpected happened.
One Saturday morning, Igor announced he was going to visit his parents in the countryside.
“Mom asked for help with the summer house,” he said. “I’ll be back in the evening.”
Anya nodded and saw him off. An hour later, Lena came — her older sister, straightforward and determined. She never hid her feelings about Igor, calling him “cold,” “indifferent,” and often wondering why Anya stayed with such a husband.
“You look pale,” Lena remarked as she stepped inside. “Did something happen?”
“I’m not sick, just tired,” Anya replied.
“Tired of what? That wooden guy of yours?”
Usually, Anya defended her husband, but this time she couldn’t. Instead, she laid everything out before her sister: the messages, Igor’s plans, her pain, and fear.
Lena listened carefully, her gaze growing harder.
“Bastard,” she finally said. “A complete bastard. So, what will you do now?”
“I don’t know,” Anya admitted honestly. “Still thinking.”
“Thinking isn’t needed here,” Lena said sharply. “You have to be faster than him. Do you have proof?”
“I photographed the messages.”
“Good. And the money?”
“In my account. I saved it myself.”
“Excellent. So here’s the plan: tomorrow, go to the lawyer, find out how to protect yourself. And hurry up with the apartment before he gets suspicious.”
“But what about…” Anya began.
“What about what?” Lena interrupted. “Do you still feel sorry for him? He used you for three years, planned how to cheat you, and you feel sorry for him?”
Anya was silent. She didn’t pity him but those years they had lived together. Maybe there was no love, but there was some routine, habit, even the illusion of a family.
“Listen to me,” Lena took her hands. “You’re kind, Anya. Too kind. But now you need to be smart, not just kind.”
On Monday, Anya took a day off and went to the lawyer. The young woman in a business suit listened carefully and shook her head.
“The situation is complicated, but there are chances,” she said. “The main thing is that you have proof of his intentions. And you can show the money is yours alone. But you must act carefully.”
“How exactly?” Anya asked.
“First, do not let him know you know the truth. Second, prepare the contract properly. You can state that the apartment is bought with funds from one spouse’s personal income.”
“But I saved the money during the marriage.”
“That’s not a problem. The main thing is documentary proof. Do you have salary statements?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Great. You can prove the money came from your income. And if there were no joint contributions, the husband has no right to claim a share.”
The lawyer gave more advice, and Anya left feeling she had a plan.
At home, Igor was waiting. He sat in the kitchen smoking — something he rarely did at home — and looked worried.
“Where were you?” he asked.
“Ran some errands,” Anya replied. “Why?”
“Just asking.”
But his voice was tense. Anya realized he suspected something.
At dinner, he suddenly asked:
“When are you planning to buy the apartment?”
“I think in a month or two,” Anya replied. “I want to have enough for the down payment and repairs.”
“Maybe don’t delay?” Igor suggested. “Prices are rising. If we buy now, it’ll be cheaper.”
Anya looked at him closely. His urgency was no accident.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”
The next day she went to see the apartment she had had her eye on for a long time. A one-room in a new building with a convenient layout. The sellers were ready to hurry for a small discount.
Anya arranged a meeting for the weekend and brought Igor to see it.
“Okay,” he said briefly after checking the rooms. “Take it.”
“Maybe look for a two-room?” Anya was surprised.
“Why?” he shrugged. “This is enough. As long as we have a roof over our heads.”
Now Anya understood why he was in such a hurry. The faster the apartment was bought, the sooner Igor could start the divorce process.
On Monday, she met the sellers and began preparing for the deal. The lawyer helped draft the contract so that the apartment would be registered in Anya Karpenko’s name as her personal property, accumulated from her official income. Igor only had to sign as the spouse giving consent.
“Why such wording?” he asked, reading the draft contract.
“The lawyer says it’s safer that way,” Anya answered. “For the tax authorities.”
Igor shrugged and signed.
The deal was set for Friday. Anya lived the whole week in constant tension — sometimes it seemed Igor sensed something, other times he was too calm. But he behaved as usual: silently, detached.
Thursday evening, Max called.
“Anya, hi!” his voice sounded strange. “Is Igor home?”
“No,” she answered. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to congratulate on the purchase. He said you’re signing tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow,” Anya confirmed.
“Well, good luck,” Max said and hung up.
Anya stood holding the phone, feeling that something was wrong. His voice was laced with mockery.
That night she barely slept. Something important was slipping away from her.
Friday morning they went to the Multifunctional Center. Anya rode with a heavy heart but looked composed. Igor, surprisingly, was cheerful and relaxed.
The paperwork was done quickly. Anya signed the papers with trembling hands, and Igor with a satisfied smile. After the last signature, he hugged her by the shoulders.
“Now we have our own home,” he said.
“Yes,” Anya replied. “Our own home.”
They drove home in silence. Anya thought: when will he file for divorce? In a week? A month?
The answer came sooner than she expected.
Monday at breakfast, Igor suddenly said:
“Anya, we need to talk.”
Her heart clenched.
“About what?” she asked.
“About us. Our relationship.”
He talked at length, incoherently, about how “we are drifting apart,” how “we each have our own goals,” how “he feels constrained.” Anya nodded, but inside pain tightened. Not because he wanted to leave — she was ready for that. But because of the hypocrisy of his words.
“I think it’s better if we separate,” Igor said. “Peacefully, without scandals. You understand there’s nothing between us anymore?”
“I understand,” she answered quietly.
“Good,” he breathed with relief. “I’ll file for divorce today. I think we’ll split the apartment equally. No objections?”
“No objections,” she nodded.
Igor looked at his wife in surprise. He clearly expected tears, reproaches, pleas to stay. But got nothing.
“Seriously?” he asked.
“Seriously. If you want this — let’s get divorced.”
“Alright,” Igor said. “Then I’m off.”
When the door closed behind him, Anya took out her phone and called the lawyer.
“He started,” she said briefly. “Filing today.”
“Good,” the woman replied. “Are you ready for the next step?”
“Ready.”
A month later, a court hearing was held for property division. Igor came with a lawyer and a satisfied smile. Anya came with a folder of documents and a calm look.
The husband’s lawyer immediately claimed the apartment was bought during the marriage and considered joint property.
“I object,” Anya said firmly, standing up. “This apartment was purchased solely with my personal funds.”
She presented salary statements, bank statements, receipts, proving all savings came from her official income. That Igor contributed almost nothing to the family budget except occasional groceries.
“Moreover,” she added, “I have proof my ex-husband planned the divorce before buying the property, with the sole goal of getting half the apartment.”
With that, she handed the court printouts of Igor’s correspondence with Max.
Igor paled. His lawyer quickly skimmed the documents and frowned.
“I protest,” he said. “These messages may be fabricated.”
“Then let the defendant provide his phone for examination,” Anya replied calmly.
The hearing lasted almost two hours. In the end, the court recognized the apartment as Anya’s personal property. The reasons were obvious: the money belonged to her, and the other party’s intention to exploit the situation for gain was proven.
Igor left the courtroom gloomier than a thundercloud. At the exit, he caught up with Anya.
“You knew all this time?” he asked.
“Yes. From the start.”
“And stayed silent?”
“What would that have changed? You would have gone your way anyway.”
He looked at her long, then shook his head.
“I thought you were too simple to play such games.”
“Then you didn’t know me well,” Anya replied.
They stood on the courthouse steps — already ex-spouses. Anger and confusion in Igor’s eyes. Fatigue, but no longer pain, in Anya’s.
“Well,” he said, “so be it.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
He turned and walked to his car. Anya watched him leave, then took out her phone and called Lena.
“Lena, it’s over. The apartment stays with me.”
“Good job,” her sister said. “How do you feel?”
Anya thought. How did she feel? Relief? Sadness? Emptiness?
“Free,” she finally said. “For the first time in three years, I feel free.”
That evening she sat in her apartment — now truly hers — and drank tea. On the table lay the court ruling and divorce papers. Tomorrow normal life would begin again. She’d have to go to work, meet friends, make new plans.
Anya went to the window. The city lived its life — streetlights shone, cars drove by, people walked. Life went on.
She thought about Igor. What was he doing now? Sitting in a bar with Max, complaining about the unfairness of the world? Or already making a new plan — to find another woman to deceive?
Anya shrugged indifferently. That was no longer her concern.
Taking a notebook, she opened the first clean page and wrote:
Change the locks.
Find a good realtor.
Prepare the apartment for sale.
Because Anya Karpenko had finally understood a simple truth: life is too short to settle for less. She had saved for a one-room apartment for three years. Now she would save for a three-room. In a good neighborhood. With a park view.
She closed the notebook, turned off the light, and smiled. Tomorrow a new chapter begins.
And it will be exactly the way she wants it to be.