He walked into the bathroom just as I was standing in a robe, rubbing cream on my legs. Without knocking, just like he used to. Only now, his face didn’t have that confident “man of the house” smirk, but an expression as if he had just entered a mall restroom where the lights were out.
“Are you still living here?” he asked without looking at me.
That’s how it all started. Not with arguments, insults, or throwing an ashtray at the wall. With a phrase said in the tone of a minibus driver.
I straightened up and wiped a drop of cream off my hand.
“So, have you already decided who stays?”
He shrugged and reached for the shelf as if conversation wasn’t part of his plan. His deodorant used to be there, but now it was my sea buckthorn peeling cream. He grimaced.
“I thought we agreed: you go to your mom’s.”
“We?” I even laughed. “When? When you went out for an hour ‘to get some air’ and came back two days later smelling like a woman’s shampoo?”
He waved me off like I was a fly.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting, Vlad. I’m finishing.”
Once, I thought love was cozy, shared breakfasts, warm blankets, funny videos in bed. But reality turned out to be like a steam iron on full blast. Especially if the man next to you has more warmth for the iron than for you.
At first, Vlad was very sweet. Really. He brought flowers, called, sent emojis — the full set of “man in love 1.0.” Foolishly, I fell in love. He used to stroke my head so tenderly when I was sick that I got all emotional and thought, “Here he is, the real thing.”
We got married quickly. Nine months later. Because I was “not a girl anymore anyway,” and he was like “we have to get things arranged somehow.” At the wedding, his mother, Nina Pavlovna, looked me in the eyes and said:
“Well, at least not in something short. I was afraid you’d come in something scandalous. After all, you’re the second wife.”
Second. His first marriage was in his youth, three years, no kids. He always “forgot” to tell me about it, until I stumbled upon a box of photos, and he wriggled out with: “Oh, who even remembers that Natasha anyway.”
At first, everything was fine. Well, “fine.” He lived — I tried. Cooked, cleaned, worked, while hearing things like “the potatoes are under-salted again” and “you could at least change the kettle filter once.”
Then Dasha was born. And Vlad turned into a ghost. He was around, but his help was as useful as a stool. Left for work at eight, returned at eleven, always “meetings, clients, conferences.” He wouldn’t hold the baby — he was afraid. Said: “I don’t know how. What if I drop her.”
But his mother came every week. With a bag of cottage cheese, crooked remarks, and her trademark look: “What have you done here without me?”
“You need to harden Dasha,” she preached. “I gave my Vladik carrot juice at four months — and he didn’t die.”
“We decided with the pediatrician it’s too early,” I replied gently.
“Pediatrician…” Nina Pavlovna snorted. “These days doctors just push medicine. Marina, have you read anything besides your novels?”
I didn’t read novels. I read Komarovsky, Spock, mom forums, and jar instructions. But who cared about my opinion if in this family I was just a guest?
Three years passed like that.
Three years in which Vlad completely became a shadow, and I — an irritated housekeeper on call. We lived like two strangers accidentally put in the same apartment by a social program.
By the way, the apartment was mine. Inherited from my grandmother. A small one-bedroom in Khimki, nothing special, but owning a place is like a fortress.
Vlad kept hinting we should sell it and get a two-room on mortgage. For a family. In a new building. I asked:
“Can you handle the loan?”
He snorted.
“We’ll manage. The main thing is to step into the future. Not sit in grandma’s den.”
Translation: “Make me the owner, idiot.”
I didn’t.
And then, two days ago, he left. Said:
“We need to think. Live separately. Live for ourselves.”
I just nodded. Didn’t make a scene. Let him think. Let him live. He left — so he wasn’t holding on.
But not even two days had passed before he came back. With a bag. I caught him in the hallway unloading sneakers.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“My mom said it’s noisy there, the TV bothers her. And the couch hurts her back. I decided I’d stay here for now. We need to figure this all out somehow.”
That day I realized there’s a limit. That even the most patient donkey has a wild cat inside ready to scratch your face.
“Did you come back to me or just to the couch?” I asked.
He sighed.
“You’re starting again. We’re adults. We need to be civilized. No hysterics.”
“Civilized means divorce papers. Or at least return the keys.”
He frowned.
“Yeah? And then I go to my mom’s? Who has seventy square meters but still thinks I should wash myself in the kitchen sink because she ‘just cleaned the bath yesterday’?”
“Go to the station if you want. I don’t need you in the apartment.”
“It’s a shared apartment!”
“Vlad, no. Mine. Before marriage. Documents in the closet. You can look.”
He was silent. Then said:
“Well, we’ll see who needs whom more.”
That evening Nina Pavlovna called. No “hello,” no “how’s Dasha.” Straight to attack:
“Marina, I’ve heard everything. I understand, you’re emotional, but you’re a family. You have a child. Why are you kicking Vlad out? He’s got stress, work, and now allergies — from nerves.”
I was sitting on a stool, watching the faucet drip. It had been dripping for three days, but no one fixed it.
“He had allergies before me. To responsibility.”
“Marina, don’t joke. It’s serious. I just don’t get how you can. You have a child. You’re a mother. What will you show her with your behavior?”
“I’ll show her that mom is not a doormat.”
She hung up.
The next day when I came back with Dasha from a walk, Vlad was home. Shirtless, in his favorite sweatpants, with a sandwich and a TV show.
“We’re staying,” he said.
I silently went to the kitchen. My soup was on the stove — with his cigarette butt floating in it.
I took trash bags from the closet.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“What?”
“You.”
“Are you crazy?”
“No, Vlad. I finally sobered up.”
Fifteen minutes later, the suitcase was in the hallway. He screamed, threw shoes, demanded explanations. I was silent. For the first time in three years, I realized you can be silent — and say so much more.
“I’ll file for division,” he hissed at the door. “You think it’s that easy?”
“File. Just know the court will look at documents. And witnesses.”
He slammed the door so hard my scarf fell from the hanger.
Dasha came to me and took my finger.
“Mom, did daddy leave?”
“For now, yes, sweetheart. But now — for real.”
At that moment, among spilled soup and cigarette smoke, I felt something inside me begin to straighten. Slowly.
The first night without him, I slept strangely. Not sweetly. More like a person finally freed from a fever — still delirious, but no longer drenched in sweat.
The bed was too big. Even Dasha, sprawled starfish-style, didn’t fill the emptiness. The pillows didn’t smell of his cologne, and the kitchen no longer felt like a men’s dormitory.
And yet — silence. Real silence. Without hidden tension, without the phrase “you forgot to take the laundry out again.”
But, as usual, calm is just a pause before the next episode. Titled simply: “Who are you without a husband?”
It started when a woman named Larisa called. Her voice like a morning radio host: sweet, disgustingly friendly.
“Hello, Marina? I’m Larisa, a lawyer. Vladislav Igorevich is my client.”
“Nice to meet you,” I held back, though I wanted to say, “My condolences.”
“Vladislav Igorevich informed you he intends to file for property division?”
“He did. At the door, in sweatpants, with an Adidas backpack.”
“I see. Marina, I want to warn you: since the marriage is registered and residence is shared, the apartment is subject to division.”
I was silent. Honestly, I wanted to laugh.
“Larisa, are you serious? The apartment is mine. By gift deed. From grandma. Before marriage. I didn’t buy it in a kiosk.”
“Vladislav Igorevich believes joint funds were invested.”
“Like what? His beer and pizza on Fridays? Or the three crooked baseboards he nailed in 2021?”
“We will file a court claim. You will get a summons.”
“Great. I’ll wait with popcorn.”
After the call, I sat in the kitchen and stared out the window. An old lady with a tiny dog was shouting at a passerby. Some decide the fate of a country, others decide who lives in your one-room.
I called my mom. She listened silently, as always.
“Well, what did I tell you when you married him?” she finally said.
“Mom…”
“He’s not your match. His eyes look like a sparrow’s at a wedding.”
“Mom, enough. Now’s not the time.”
“When is it? When he kicks you out and says the closet is joint property? He probably registered Dasha under himself too?”
“Mom!”
“Alright, alright. Come over. Stay the night. Rest.”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see. I just didn’t want to. Not because I was hurt. Because I didn’t want to be “daughter” again. I was already a mother. And a tired woman being robbed like a kiosk without an alarm.
Two days later Vlad appeared at the door. Shirt on, flowers in hand. Hiding under the camellias was a lawyer’s envelope.
“I thought… Maybe it shouldn’t be so abrupt. Let’s talk.”
“No.”
“Wait. It’s not about that. I just thought: what about Dasha?”
“Nothing. She’ll live with me. You can come visit. By schedule.”
He went to the kitchen and sat at the table. Like he owned the place. I felt my skin tighten.
“I enrolled her in a kindergarten nearby. Through a connection.”
“Vlad, are you comfortable being a father now? With a trial ahead? Or is it just for show?”
He looked at me condescendingly. Like men who once slept with you but now think you’re just a nervous woman.
“Didn’t you think a child should have a father?”
“Oh, please. Where were you for three years when she couldn’t sleep? When I ran her to hospitals? When her temperature was near forty?”
He stood up. The flowers stayed on the stool.
“So, you won’t let me see her?”
“Come by court order.”
“Do you really think the court will decide in your favor?”
“I do. Because I have papers. Not just sass.”
The next day he came with Nina Pavlovna.
I opened the door and almost laughed. She stood like an empress: fur coat, face like she was going to bless the entrance.
“We want to talk.”
“Let’s, but quickly. Dinner’s cooking.”
“Marina,” she began, sitting without invitation. “I don’t understand how you can be so petty.”
“Are you talking about the apartment? Or fatherhood?”
“About everything. You’re destroying the family. You forgot who took you in when you were nobody?”
“Yeah. Took me in like a cat for boarding.”
“Vladik has nowhere to live. I can take him in, of course. But he needs a family.”
“Then let him find one. Somewhere else.”
“Dasha needs a father. And you’re a bitter woman with complexes. You can’t handle it.”
I stood up.
“And you’re a retiree meddling in other people’s lives. The court will decide who’s worse.”
Nina Pavlovna blushed.
“We will file a countersuit. For moral damage. For denying access to the child. And for interfering with Vladislav’s parental rights.”
I went to the door and opened it.
“Out. Both of you. And no dishwashing. You’re not guests. You’re plaintiffs.”
After that, there was a strange calm. Three days no calls, no summons, no texts. Even my mom didn’t call. Silence — like before a storm.
And it came.
On the fourth day I found the lock jammed. Wouldn’t open. I called a locksmith. He fiddled and snorted:
“Your cylinder is twisted. On purpose. Someone fiddled.”
“Can this be proven?”
He shrugged.
“If you didn’t twist it, someone else did. Someone with a key.”
I sighed. Vlad had a duplicate. And so did his mom.
Later I found boxes with his stuff missing from the storage room. Some kitchenware too — blender, coffee grinder, pot. Even the drying rack.
On the fridge was a note:
“If you think I own nothing here — I took only mine. You’re strong, Marina. Deal with it. V.”
At that moment I didn’t cry or get angry. I just walked around measuring the apartment — under the windowsill, near the door, in the bathroom.
Two days later I filed a countersuit: restraining order, parental rights termination, and child support claim.
Life got simpler. When you’re not afraid. When you understand being alone isn’t the worst.
The worst is living with someone who thinks you’re just temporary. Like a nightstand.
And now — I’m in a real fight. With numbers, papers, lawyers. And he can think he’ll win.
But I have an advantage. I know what I’m fighting for. For Dasha. For myself. For the woman who finally remembered she has a voice. A right. And an apartment.
When they brought me the summons, I was hanging laundry. Ironically, the drying rack was gone — Vlad stole it along with a coffee pot and ladle. Small, cheap, but symbolic.
“You need to sign here,” the courier said handing me the yellow envelope.
I signed. Took the paper to the kitchen. Sat down. Looked at the summons. Then at the window. Then back at the summons. Inside — date, court address, judge’s name.
That’s it. Official now. Not just “we’ll think about it,” not “let’s take a break.” A real, stamped, family showdown.
At the first hearing he came with Larisa. Lawyer-radio host, in a strict suit, with a face that said, “I’m not married and won’t be — too smart for this circus.”
Vlad also cleaned up. Neatly combed hair, matching tie, folder with documents. The same man who three weeks ago ate dumplings with his hands and wiped them on a towel.
I sat with the lawyer I hired on my mom’s friend’s advice. A simple guy, folder titled “Court Practice 2020–2024,” glasses on a string. But one of us. Understanding.
“Don’t worry, Marina Vladimirovna. It’s all legal. Gift deed before marriage means no division.”
Then Larisa stood up.
“Your honor, our client claims substantial funds were invested in the apartment during the marriage: repairs, appliances, furniture. Also, the residence was shared, and Vladislav Igorevich was not deprived of ownership rights.”
The judge raised an eyebrow.
“Documents? Receipts, contracts, statements?”
Larisa shrugged.
“None preserved. But there’s a witness — Vladislav Igorevich’s mother. She will confirm.”
Nina Pavlovna entered the courtroom like she was on Channel One camera. In a blue suit, papers, glasses on a chain.
“I saw it all!” she declared immediately. “Vladik and I wallpapered in 2019, I personally bought the tiles!”
“Tiles where?” asked the judge.
“In the bathroom. They had an old yellow one. Now it’s white!”
I sat thinking: here it is, the bottom line. Nothing lower. We’re fighting in court over tiles.
The next hearing lasted three hours. They discussed shared furniture, microwave, even the cabinet from my grandmother. Vlad claimed he restored it.
“I sanded it! And lacquered it two days in a row!”
“I fed you while you sanded!” I shouted back.
The judge sighed:
“Let’s get to the point.”
My lawyer laid out documents: gift deed, statement, receipts for appliances. Everything I kept from some inner paranoia.
“Your honor, all appliances were bought personally by Marina Vladimirovna.”
“The blender?!” Vlad shouted. “I gave it as an anniversary present!”
“A three-thousand-ruble blender?” I clarified. “That’s love.”
In the end, the court recognized the apartment as my property. Not subject to division. All Vlad could take were his drying rack, coffee grinder, and pot.
He stood in the corridor with Larisa, red as a beet. Nina Pavlovna whispered in his ear like a witch before battle.
I walked by without looking back. Only a phrase kept spinning in my head: “God, is that it?”
But it wasn’t. Two weeks later came a new claim. Vlad wanted to determine the child’s residence.
“As a father, I have the right. I don’t agree that the child lives with someone who kicked out the father.”
At the hearing, he said I was “mentally unstable,” “constantly nervous,” “shout at the child,” and “interfere with him being a father.”
For the first time in my life, my hands trembled. Not with fear. With rage.
“Where were you when the child had bronchopneumonia?” the judge asked.
“I was working.”
“Have you seen the child in the last three weeks?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Mother won’t let me.”
“Did you file a visitation order?”
He was silent.
I said:
“Because he doesn’t care. He remembered Dasha only when he realized he can’t grab the apartment. She’s a tool for him. Manipulation.”
The court ruled: the child stays with me. Vlad can see her on an agreed schedule. Only in my presence.
After court, he approached me in the corridor. Coat open, eyes angry like a hungry dog.
“Do you think you won? You destroyed the family. With your own hands.”
I was silent.
“Don’t complain later that you’re alone. Because you always will be.”
I looked at him and suddenly realized: he was talking about himself. He’s the one who will be alone. With a drying rack, a pot, and his mom.
But I — won’t.
Three months later I sold the apartment. Yes, that one. Grandma’s.
Moved with Dasha to New Riga. To a quiet neighborhood, kindergarten within walking distance, windows facing the forest.
Started a new life. Without ashtrays, shouting, lawsuit folders, and cheap cologne smell.
And most importantly — I started breathing again. Not just existing, but living.
And you know what? It’s not running away. It’s coming back to myself.