— Why did you tell them about the apartment? — Lydia’s voice was trembling, but not from tears — from rage. So much so that the kettle behind her seemed to decide not to boil but to evaporate in shame.
— They just want to help… — Igor, not lifting his eyes from the screen, scrolled something on the monitor. He’d rather be in Skyrim now than in family debates. — You yourself said we don’t have enough.
— Help?! — Lydia turned sharply. The chair creaked, as if foreseeing the coming hell. — Help and at the same time immediately say: “Register it only under Igor’s name, in case you get divorced”? Is that help, huh?
— They’re worried… — he mumbled and shrugged. Poor parents, how could they not worry that Lydia might drag their son into a sneaky mortgage and then into nowhere.
— Tell me, Igor, do you even see me in this equation? Or am I like a coffee maker — tolerated while working but nobody registers the papers in my name?
He stood up. That was impressive, considering that for the past two weeks he’d mostly been moving between his office chair and the fridge.
— Lida, you know they’re old-fashioned. It’s simple for them: the son is the owner, the wife is with him. You’re an accountant, you understand…
— Oh, thanks for reminding me, — she cut in with a smile that made the plastic windowsills freeze. — Accountant, yes. So here’s what I see: one and a half million from me, one and a half from them. But it will be registered under you because we’re still living in the Middle Ages in our heads, and no one cares who put in what.
Silence hung in the kitchen. Even the fridge decided not to hum — as if it didn’t want to interfere, in case they started dividing it too.
— Dad said it’s normal practice. And the notary confirmed it, by the way, — Igor adjusted his glasses. As if lenses would protect him from the storm already approaching his bald head.
— Dad said? Notary confirmed? And does it matter that I’m not furniture from Hoff that you can just put under someone’s will? — she pressed her lips. — Okay, listen further. I also talked to a lawyer. And I was confirmed: if both invest, it must be registered in both names. Or I’m out of this purchase. No joke, Igor.
He thought. His expression was like a programmer suddenly asked to cook borscht without a step-by-step guide. Or maybe even without a pot.
— You’re exaggerating… — he finally said.
— No. I’m just starting to straighten up, Igor. You get it?
She went to the bedroom. Not with a dramatic door slam — that would be too theatrical for such quiet, sticky despair. She just closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. The bed creaked — the only thing still connecting them.
The next day Lydia left work early — even earlier than the day when the dentist kept her in the chair until half past six. She just couldn’t stay in that office, thinking about realtors, apartments, and Igor’s parents, who in her mind had started acting like concentration camp commanders: strict, clear, and ruthless.
Tamara Semyonovna called. The same woman who at the wedding called her “such a calm girl, you could put a bandage on her wound,” but now — obviously — saw her as a source of worry and a threat to the family inheritance.
— Lidochka, hi. How are you?
Her voice was sweet, as if intending to grease pancakes with it.
— Fine, Tamara Semyonovna.
— Vasya and I thought. Really, it will be hard for you with this mortgage. And if, God forbid, something happens — the apartment will remain yours, and my son will be left with nothing?
— If, God forbid, something happens — it means the marriage is broken. And if the marriage is broken, maybe the apartment isn’t that important?
— Are you being deliberately harsh now? — the mother-in-law’s voice was icy, a tone Lydia recognized from every visit to the dacha. When she didn’t cut the salad right or hung the towel wrong.
— I’m being honest. And honesty, as you yourself said at the anniversary, “is not for everyone to stomach.”
The mother-in-law hung up like the infamous fly in amber. She was silent for three, maybe four seconds — an eternity in her format.
— Well, we just want what’s best. Please understand us.
— I understand. But I’m afraid that “what’s best” for us is two different countries. And the visa regime between them is extremely strict.
She hung up.
Igor didn’t come home for dinner. Then sent a message: “Sleeping at my parents’. Need to cool off.” And added casually: “Dad says you’re acting irrationally.”
She reread — “irrationally.” Sure. As soon as a woman asserts her rights, she’s immediately “irrational.” Too loud, too confident, too… alive. And they want her decorative. Convenient. Like a shelf in the hallway.
The next morning she went to the notary. Officially. Without Igor, without Vasiliy Petrovich, and without Tamara Semyonovna.
— Half is mine, — she told the lawyer. — Otherwise, I’m not participating.
He looked at her with respect. As if he rarely met women who were their own lawyer, judge, and jury.
Then, already on the subway, Lydia for the first time in all this time wasn’t thinking about what her husband would say. Or what the mother-in-law would throw at her. She thought about herself. About how strange — but pleasant — it was to feel support under her feet. Her own. Not parental, not husband’s. Her own.
Unusual, but damn right.
Lydia woke up early on Saturday because her internal alarm clock gave the command: “Fight or flight.” She went to the bathroom — cold tiles, wrinkled pajamas, red streaks under her eyes. Looked in the mirror and, for the first time in many days, allowed herself a spiteful smile: “And yet I didn’t crack.”
The kitchen was quiet. Even the fridge seemed to have gone to spend the night with Igor. No husband. No coffee smell. No usual grumbling when he, still with eyes closed, demands: “Where’s the sugar?”
On the table lay a note, but alas, not romantic, but businesslike. In block letters:
“Parents want to talk. Please be at their place at 3 PM. Need to make arrangements.”
No signature. Like a summons from the housing office: appear, talk, sign your surrender.
Lydia arrived exactly at three, because her stubbornness had been raised since childhood — like Uncle Zhora from the power company, who even mentally removed his appendix “so it wouldn’t interfere with work.”
Tamara Semyonovna opened the door. Flower-patterned dress, cherry lips like the late Lyudmila Gurchenko’s girlfriends, and a look usually reserved for sending a chicken to be butchered.
— Come in, Lidochka, — she said as if inviting the daughter-in-law to the living room, not to a moral execution. — We were just waiting.
In the living room sat Igor, drooping like a curtain in a cheap hotel, and Vasiliy Petrovich — in a dress shirt, with a briefcase on his lap. He was always all about protocol. If he worked in a factory producing conscience, the country would be holy.
— Sit down, — he said. — Let’s talk like adults.
Lydia sat, crossed her arms. She felt cold, although the radiators were blazing like in a borscht kitchen in November.
— Vasya and I thought, — he began, opening his briefcase like a priest revealing sacred scripture. — And decided to register everything via a gift deed. The apartment will be fully under Igor’s name, but we understand you are investing too.
— How magnanimous, — Lydia exhaled. — And then? He’ll kick me out like a dog?
— Don’t talk nonsense! — Tamara Semyonovna interrupted, coquettishly waving it off. — You’re his wife. Who would kick out his wife?
— Well, unless, of course, they get divorced, — Vasiliy Petrovich added. — Then it’s a different matter.
— Exactly, — Lydia stood. — Different. And I’m already dreaming of that “different matter” at night. With your permission — no. I’m not part of a scheme where my money becomes yours and my rights get zeroed. Either registered in both names, or the deal is without me.
— You don’t understand! — Igor shouted, his voice full of pain as if she just smashed his favorite laptop with a hammer. — Parents give the money. Most of it. That’s their condition.
— And who am I then, Igor? Sponsor? Cohabitant? Or just a sweet girl with suitcases who pays but then leaves on command from above?
— It’s not hard for you! It’s just a formality! — Tamara exploded. — And if you have kids, you’ll get everything for them. Don’t be so stubborn.
— Are you aware that I don’t lay eggs like a goose? — Lydia raised an eyebrow. — Or have you already written your dream: give birth, then disappear?
There was a pause. Igor shrank. Mother looked away. Father cleared his throat — as if to show how to behave like a man.
— You don’t respect your elders, — he said quietly but ominously. — And don’t think about the future.
— And you don’t respect me, — Lydia shot back. — And don’t think about the present. In which I’m not a shadow of your son but a full person.
— Uh-huh, — Vasiliy Petrovich snorted. — You’ll come crawling later.
— I’m not a cat to crawl, — Lydia was already grabbing her bag. — I’m an accountant. And I’ve calculated everything.
— If you back out — all money back, — he loudly threw after her. — And don’t even hope for a divorce — we’ll arrange everything through the court.
— How convenient. — She stopped in the doorway. — Just remind me when your family turned into a business tribunal? After the wedding? Or immediately when you gave a 15-piece dinner set and decided you bought me with it?
The door slammed. This time — with expression.
It was cold outside. The wind blew anger from her lungs. Pulsing in her head: “This is the end.” The end of illusions that you can be with Igor and not be alone.
The next day Lydia packed her things. Not all. Just her own. Dry, neat, like moving to another life. Left Igor a letter — without pink tears but with copies of receipts and transfers.
“I’m leaving. It costs me too much to be in your system of coordinates. Thanks for everything. Don’t thank me.”
A week later, she lived at a friend’s, drank “Three in One” in the mornings, and looked at apartments. Only her own. Without parents. Without schemes. Without Igor.
And him?
He came home after work, saw emptiness. Stood in the kitchen and long stared at the stove where her keys had been yesterday. Then dialed:
— Lida… What are you doing? We’re family. Parents just…
— Igor, you’re an adult man. A programmer, not an idiot. If you couldn’t choose between your wife and your parents — let your parents save you now. They need you more. And I — need myself.
He was silent. As if he understood everything. Or at least started.
The apartment on the first floor smelled of new linoleum, a foil door, and freedom. There were no curtains on the windows — Lydia had just moved in today, and buying textiles felt like surrender. No, first the walls, then furniture, then maybe voile. Or maybe not. Because now she decides whether there will be voile or Roman blinds, whether someone will roam her house in slippers saying “we just want to ask” or not.
On the kitchen table stood a thermos with brewed tea and two mugs. One chipped on the edge — old, from “that” life. The other — new, white, with the inscription: “Just pour and breathe.” Lydia chose the new one. The old one no longer works.
She sat by the window, sipped the sharp tea like a foreign truth, and turned on her phone. Igor’s messages were all the same: “Are you still mad?”, “Maybe we should talk?”, “I miss you,” “Are you okay?”, “Are you home?”, “You’re not home?”
She didn’t want to reply. But her hand betrayed her and reached out.
And at that moment — as if scripted in a poorly dubbed soap opera — the doorbell rang.
At the door stood Tamara Semyonovna. In a gray down jacket, with a “Globus Gourmet” bag and an expression as if she came to forgive Lydia for breaking up the USSR.
— So, you’re here, — she stated. — I thought you were at your friend’s, what’s her name… Ritka?
— Svetka. But you’re close, — Lydia tilted her head slightly. — Come in. If you came in peace. Or at least with chocolate.
— I came… to talk, — Tamara stepped inside, glanced around as if expecting to see a club of wine alcoholics. — Cozy, in your own way. Where are the curtains?
— In the “later” section. Sit down. Or will you stand in the pose of a righteous mother?
They sat down. Opposite each other. The smell of sausage from a bag. Real, “pork by GOST.”
— You know, I thought a lot, — Tamara began. — I had such a moment myself… I didn’t immediately divide everything with Vasya.
— It was different for you, — Lydia replied dryly. — He went to the army for you, then the factory, then children. I don’t think he told you: “We’ll register the apartment only in my name, and you’ll be just couch decoration.”
Tamara was silent.
— I don’t want you to divorce, — she said. — But I feel sorry for Igor. He’s not a leader. He doesn’t know how to be tough like that. He’s used to being told what to do. Not on purpose. He’s just like that.
— He’s an adult, Tamara Semyonovna, — Lydia nodded. — And if he can’t choose, then living with him is like lying on the rails hoping the train will back up.
— What if I say we changed our minds? That the apartment will be for both of you? — she blurted out and immediately fell silent in fear. — Vasiliy is against it, of course. He thinks you’re doing this on purpose.
— And I think I don’t want an apartment signed under coercion. If he’s against it — so be it. I’m buying my own now. No conditions, no blackmail, no compromises.
— Igor is worried, — Tamara’s voice became quieter. — He says you’re like cold water. At first refreshing, then scalding.
Lydia smiled.
— And he’s like an undercooked egg. Strong on the outside, half-dead inside.
— Don’t you love him at all?
Lydia stood, went to the window. Outside, spring was starting against all odds: the sun slid across snow-dusted roofs, and children chased a ball as if no divorces or mortgages existed in the world.
— I loved him very much, — she said quietly. — But then it turned out I was the soloist here. And he just clapped. Or rather, just… blinked.
Tamara stood. Went to the door. Squeezed the handle of the bag.
— Lidochka… If you change your mind — we’re nearby. We’re… not beasts. Just… old. We don’t know any other way.
Lydia didn’t answer. Just nodded. There was a knock. She didn’t even have time to be surprised — Igor came in.
Gray, tired, with eyes like a cat kicked off the roof.
— I didn’t know mom was here already, — he said. — I just… wanted to see you.
— See, — Lydia crossed her arms. — Only, I’m afraid, too late.
— We sold that apartment. Split the money. Parents decided it was fair. I insisted.
— A bit late, isn’t it? — she sat back at the table, motioning him a cup. — I already have everything here: layout, furniture, even a new snake plant. And life. Without you.
— Can I just… come sometimes? Not as a husband. Just as someone who hasn’t yet figured you out.
— And I don’t want to be taken apart again like an unfinished novel. I’m not a chapter or paragraph. I’m a whole book. And it will no longer be given to the library of your relatives.
They fell silent. Time froze. Then Lydia got up. Handed him a cup — the old one, chipped on the edge.
— Here. That’s the only thing left of “us.” Take it. Or throw it away.
He took it. Was silent. And left. Without a word. Without pomp. Just left.
In the evening Lydia lay on the couch. The apartment was quiet. It smelled of new furniture and — suddenly — relief.
She scrolled her feed. Smiled. Tomorrow — apartment viewing she saved for herself. Without anyone’s conditions. No gift deeds. No family advice.
She chose herself. For the first time.