“We’ll start on the finishing work soon. We’ve almost completed it,” my husband told me in the evening as we were getting ready for bed.
“So the renovation is soon, and that’s that?” I said, rubbing cream into my hands and wrists.
“Yes. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Arkady settled in more comfortably, pulling up the blanket. “All right, let’s sleep; we have work tomorrow.”
We lay down, but I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time; something vague and troubling kept gnawing at me. Arkady and I had married three years earlier. We weren’t in a hurry to have children, because my husband had just lost his father, who had left his son a half-built house with a large plot. We decided we would finish it and live there, out in the fresh air, outside the city. The house stood only half an hour’s drive from town, so commuting would be convenient. At that point more than half the construction had been done, but what remained still required huge investments. Building is expensive—both Arkady and I knew that—so we didn’t rush into children. We put all our energy into earning so we could get a spacious home as soon as possible.
I grew up in a family filled with trust and love. Mom often joked that we were like the Rostovs from Tolstoy’s four-volume epic, only not so many children. There were two of us—my brother and me. But Volodya was eleven years older than I was; he left the nest early, and as the late child, I was adored, spoiled, and never refused anything. Dad was always ready to listen, and Mom called me nothing but “my joy.” When I was applying to university, it was a little sad to have to leave for another city. But it was necessary; I understood that in our tiny town there would be nothing for me to do. I finished my degree in economics and got a job at a large construction company where the pay was above average.
Then I met Arkady. It happened by chance. He had come to apply for a job at the same company where I worked. A guy with golden hands and a bright mind, he was hired with pleasure, and for a couple of months we were colleagues. Then Arkady was transferred to another site, and I stayed where I was. By then we were already dating—going to cafés in the evenings, taking walks, and Arkady would drop by my place. I earned enough to rent a roomy studio, furnished to my taste. Arkady still lived with his mother, whom he took me to meet after he proposed. Alevtina Dmitrievna turned out to be a pleasant, pretty woman well past fifty. Arkasha was her only son, and she loved him very much.
When he was little, his father honestly told his wife he had met another woman and left my then-young mother-in-law with a child in her arms. Relatives helped, of course, but even so it was very hard for Alevtina Dmitrievna. She didn’t break, didn’t give up, didn’t complain; she did everything so her son would be clothed, shod, and educated. Arkady understood how much his mother had done for him, and he respected her, never refusing to help. That said, she didn’t ask my husband for help very often; she usually managed on her own. Nor did she show up at our place too frequently. Arkady and I lived in a rented apartment, pouring all our energy and money into building the house. My husband often told me I was too gullible, trusting, and simple. I didn’t understand whom, in our family, I was supposed to distrust. My grandmother used to say that being married is like going to church: if you believe, it’s worth going; if you don’t, there’s no point. And I believed Arkady unconditionally, never doubting that our family was ruled by the same respect and love I’d seen with my parents.
But Arkady wasn’t like my father. Dad was always straightforward—he didn’t mince words, but he never harbored anything bad in his heart. My husband was flowery with words, which didn’t always conceal what he actually meant. Arkady called it “the art of being agreeable.” For example, he’d shower our accountant Lenochka with compliments, though behind her back he’d always tell me she was unattractive and even ridiculous.
Lately my husband and I had been talking more and more about what finishings we’d choose for the house.
“I want a kitchen in yellow tones, with big window sills. I’ll keep plants, we’ll put in a good range hood, and order a kitchen suite—I’ve already been looking at options,” I said over dinner.
I decided to treat us that day: I made turkey that had marinated all night and all day in soy sauce and honey. The turkey came out with a fragrant, crispy golden crust. For a side—vegetables stewed in sauce. Arkady always loved to eat a lot and well, and with his active lifestyle it didn’t affect his figure at all.
“Look, I’m constantly searching too. I want the most compact entryway for the corridor. Turns out there’s so much furniture these days. I’m not a cabinetmaker, but I think I can make it. Custom orders are very expensive,” my husband said, gladly keeping the conversation going.
We planned to start on the renovation and furniture next month. The construction was almost completely finished; there was still something being done in the boiler room, but that was already small stuff. The grand part was over, and I was already dreaming of how we’d move from our rented place into our spacious home. It’s very important to have a home that belongs to your family. Yes, of course, legally the house and the plot were in my husband’s name—it had come to him by inheritance, and before our marriage—but between husband and wife everything is shared. That’s why, without a second thought, I had invested so much in that house. My mother-in-law never tired of praising me to my husband—what a good girl I was, how willingly I helped, how much I worked and earned.
Lately, every weekend, Alevtina Dmitrievna would invite us over for tea, bake pies, and ask, with sincere interest, about our future plans.
“Arkasha, have another piece of pie—it turned out well this time,” my mother-in-law cooed.
“Alevtina Dmitrievna, you really have a talent for baking; your pies always turn out,” I said, quite sincerely.
“Learn while I’m still alive! It’s not hard; I gave you the recipe,” the older woman smiled at me warmly.
“I’ve tried many times—I even measured the flour, salt, and sugar on the scales. But… it just doesn’t come naturally to me.”
“You have other talents, Vera. Don’t worry. My son is happy and at peace with you; you built this house together. Without you he wouldn’t have managed. Building materials cost so much, and almost everything was bought with your money.”
“I’ve never counted how much I put into it. It’s ours, and our children will grow up in that house,” I replied.
“Of course, Vera, of course. You’re thinking exactly right. Once upon a time, Pyotr and I dreamed of this house, and then he was gone and I don’t need anything. At least you young ones will live there, and I’ll visit you and mind my granddaughters.”
“Oh, Mom, it’s too soon for grandkids! We need to do the renovation now,” Arkady chimed in, polishing off another slice of pie.
The pie was exquisite. The short, crumbly pastry melted in your mouth, and the cod fillet with rosemary inside was perfectly baked. I savored every bite, sincerely regretting that I had no talent for baking such delights.
“I’ve found some very pretty wallpaper and a sofa. I spent a long time surfing interior sites and sketched what I want,” I said, opening a picture of our bedroom design on my phone.
My mother-in-law kept smiling broadly—somehow unnaturally. But my husband’s face suddenly turned to stone, and he said:
“For the record, Vera, that house is mine alone. I inherited it from my father. So why are you butting in with the finishing?”
I was taken aback.
“But we finished it together, and I’d like the renovation and furnishings to be to my taste…”
“You have no taste. I’ll decide myself what and how it’ll be there. Clear?”
I fell silent, staring into my cup of half-finished, now cold tea. Suddenly it felt very chilly, hurtful, and bitter that my husband had shown such an unseemly side of himself.
“Arkasha, what are you saying? Vera is your wife, son—of course you’ll discuss it later and choose together,” Alevtina Dmitrievna tried to defuse the situation.
I apologized and got up from the table. My husband, saying nothing more, hurried home. Sitting in the car and fastening my seat belt, I looked out the window. Outside, the streets of the evening city flashed by with lights; a fine, unpleasant autumn rain was falling. The charm of autumn had already vanished; the golden leaves torn from the trees had turned into dirty mush underfoot. We drove home in silence and went up to the apartment in silence. I waited for a talk, for an apology, but Arkady, still silent, went to take a shower.
He left his phone, as usual, on the kitchen table, and I couldn’t resist picking it up. No, I had never snooped before—I never suspected my husband of anything. Trust was paramount. But right now the anxiety inside me had grown so strong that my fingers quickly entered the passcode. My husband’s correspondence with his mother opened immediately.
“Mom, I can’t stand her anymore. She’s drab, uninteresting; she can’t string two words together, just looks at me with a dog’s devotion,” Arkady wrote to his mother. “I’ve put up with enough; now I want to separate from Vera.”
“Be patient—your little wifey will finish the house for us, and then you can leave,” I read my mother-in-law’s message.
I nearly dropped the phone at what I saw in their messages. Tears clouded my eyes. I locked the device, quickly texted my father that I was coming to them. My parents lived in a small town four hours away. Fortunately, I had money. I called a taxi while my husband was still in the shower, hurriedly got dressed, and tossed the bare essentials into an overnight bag. I had no desire to explain anything to my husband. Everything was already perfectly clear—I really had been too trusting. The trip cost me a tidy sum; I tried to doze in the car, but it didn’t work—I was too upset.
Mom and Dad were awake, though it was long past midnight. They were waiting for me, searching my face anxiously.
“Did he hurt you?” Dad asked at once.
“Let me change, we’ll pour some strong tea, and I’ll tell you everything,” I said, shivering.
From nerves I was chilled; I wanted something hot and to throw Mom’s cozy shawl over my shoulders, which she immediately handed me.
We talked until morning. I told my parents everything honestly, and they listened without interrupting. A friend of my father’s was a first-rate lawyer, and he was the one Dad called in the morning.
“Savelyevich, hi! It’s Gena. My daughter just came from her husband. You won’t believe…”
Dad told Ivan Savelyevich what had happened between Arkady and me. The next day I filed for divorce and wrote to my husband about it. Arkady didn’t even deign to answer, which actually pleased me. I didn’t want scenes and fights.
Dad’s friend managed to prove that I had invested in the house. By law, my now former in-laws were ordered to reimburse all the sums I’d spent on the construction. My husband wrote me long insulting texts, which I ignored. Mom and Dad were there and supported me. For a time I settled in with them, changed jobs, my social circle, and something inside myself. I won’t be so quick to trust again. Arkady taught me a very valuable lesson—to trust, but verify.
I wasn’t in a hurry to start a new relationship. With the amount my ex paid me, I took an apartment—the bank’s down payment was covered—and my parents added money for furniture and minimal renovations. I happily furnished my cozy feminine nook. Whatever happens, I’ll now have my own place, which I’ll gradually pay off, and no one but me will have any rights to it. Even if I marry again and meet a good person, I’ll always have an escape route. I didn’t write all men off as dishonorable penny-pinchers, but I no longer looked at people with a child’s trust, as if everyone were good. As it turned out, people are different. And you have to keep your wits about you.
A couple of months after all the settlements and payments, Arkady disappeared from the radar completely. My mother-in-law stopped appearing altogether. Now I understood how false her smile had been when she expressed her supposed sympathy. She wanted my money; for its sake her son lived with me and “put up” with me. For a while that undermined my faith in myself—could anyone love me simply for who I am? My parents helped me with that too.
“Do you even need love, daughter, from such a vile, two-faced person?” my father asked me—and with that he saved me from doubts and self-reproach.
I don’t. I understand that very clearly now, and I’m moving on, having learned from the experience of my past marriage.