Anastasia stood by the window of her one-room apartment, looking at the gray high-rises beyond the glass. Thirty-two square meters—a small space for two adults. She had bought the apartment five years ago, before the wedding, with the money she’d saved over years of work and from selling her share in her parents’ apartment.
The place was cozy—light walls, a minimalist interior, a small kitchen with new appliances. But it was cramped. Especially after Mikhail, Anastasia’s husband, moved in two years ago.
She worked as a manager at a logistics company; Mikhail worked in manufacturing. Their earnings were enough for living—groceries, utilities, the occasional outing. But Anastasia dreamed of more.
Of a house. A real house with a plot of land where she could plant a garden, put up a gazebo, get a dog. Not thirty-two square meters, but a full hundred. A place to breathe freely without bumping into walls.
Anastasia often pictured that house: two bedrooms, a spacious living room, a big kitchen with a dining area. Bright rooms with high ceilings. Wood floors, panoramic windows, a terrace overlooking the garden. She dreamed of arranging every room to her taste—choosing curtains, placing furniture, creating comfort.
“What are you thinking about?” Mikhail came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair.
“Oh, nothing,” Anastasia turned. “Thinking about a house.”
“About a house again,” her husband smirked. “Nastya, a house costs millions.”
“I know,” she nodded. “But I can dream, can’t I?”
“You can,” Misha shrugged and went to the kitchen.
Her husband didn’t share her dream. Mikhail was comfortable in the apartment—close to work, not far from the center, everything at hand. Why have a house somewhere on the outskirts if everything you need is here?
But Anastasia didn’t let go of the idea of her own house. And she started putting money aside.
Five years ago, she opened a separate account. Every month she transferred ten to fifteen thousand to it. She cut back on everything—bought clothes less often, skipped expensive cafés, didn’t go on vacation. Every saved thousand went to the account.
Mikhail didn’t contribute to the savings. He spent his salary on personal needs—clothes, gadgets, outings with friends. Anastasia didn’t object—let him live as he wished. The main thing was that he didn’t interfere with her saving.
The money grew slowly. In a year she saved about a hundred and fifty thousand. In five years—seven hundred and fifty thousand. A lot, but not enough. Houses in a decent area started at three million.
Anastasia studied the real estate market, browsed listings, compared prices. She dreamed of a house in the suburbs, in a quiet area with good ecology. With a ten-hundred-square-meter plot where she could set up a garden.
But the dream felt far away. Another ten years of saving at least.
And then something unexpected happened.
Anastasia’s grandmother died. The elderly woman had lived alone in a village, in an old house. When the will was opened, it turned out the grandmother had left all her savings to her granddaughter. Two million three hundred thousand rubles.
Anastasia couldn’t believe it. That kind of money. Such good fortune. Her grandmother had saved all her life, put aside her pension, sold a plot of land. And left everything to her beloved granddaughter.
“Misha,” Anastasia ran home, unable to contain her joy. “Can you imagine—Grandma left me money! More than two million!”
Mikhail tore himself away from the computer.
“Seriously?”
“Yes!” she twirled around the room. “Now we can buy a house! A real house!”
“Wow,” her husband nodded. “That’s good.”
Mikhail’s joy was restrained, but Anastasia didn’t mind. She immediately began searching for options—scrolling listings, going to viewings, comparing offers.
A month later she found the perfect option. A house in the suburbs, forty minutes from the city. One hundred and twenty square meters, three rooms, a spacious kitchen–living room. A ten-hundred-square-meter plot, an old garden, a small bathhouse. Price—three million. With Anastasia’s savings, it was enough.
She went to see it. The house was old and needed cosmetic repairs, but it was solid. The foundation was intact, the roof new, the utilities installed. They could move in immediately and fix things up gradually.
“Misha, I found it!” Anastasia showed her husband the photos. “Look how nice it is!”
Mikhail flipped through the pictures.
“It’s far from work.”
“But it’s our own house,” she put her arms around his shoulders. “Can you imagine? Our own home!”
“Well, if you like it,” he shrugged. “Buy it.”
Anastasia closed the deal quickly. The sellers were in a hurry and were ready to drop the price to two million nine hundred thousand. She agreed, paid the deposit, and signed the documents two weeks later.
The house became hers. Legally registered in Anastasia’s name. Her money, her dream, her property.
She devoted the next month to setting it up. She went to the house every weekend and did cosmetic repairs. She painted the walls in light tones, laid new laminate, replaced the doors. Her husband sometimes went with her, but mostly sat in the car on his phone.
“Misha, at least help bring in the furniture,” Anastasia asked.
“Yeah, just a minute,” he replied without looking up from the screen.
She didn’t press. She managed on her own and hired workers for the heavy lifting. Gradually, the house transformed.
A bright kitchen with new cabinets. A living room with a comfortable sofa and a big TV. A bedroom with a wide bed and a sliding-door wardrobe. The second room was still empty—Anastasia planned to make it a home office.
In the garden, she pruned the old trees, planted flowers, and set up a bench. The plot came to life and turned cozy.
“When are we moving?” Anastasia asked one evening as they drank tea in the apartment kitchen.
“Soon, I guess,” Mikhail shrugged.
“Maybe this weekend?” she looked at him hopefully. “I’ve almost got everything ready. Just need to pack and move our things.”
“Let’s make it in a week,” he avoided her gaze. “I’ve got a crunch at work right now.”
“Okay,” she nodded. “In a week then.”
Over the next few days she packed. She boxed up dishes, folded clothes, sorted books. The apartment gradually emptied.
On Saturday morning Anastasia got up early and started packing the last boxes. Mikhail slept until ten, then came into the kitchen and had some coffee.
“Misha, help me carry the boxes out,” she asked.
“Wait,” he sat down at the table. “I need to talk to you.”
She set the tape aside and looked at him. His face was serious, even tense.
“What’s wrong?”
“About the house,” he stirred his coffee. “My mother will live there.”
Silence. Anastasia stood holding a box of dishes, not understanding what she’d just heard.
“What… what did you say?”
“My mother will move into the house,” Mikhail repeated, staring into his cup. “Her apartment is small, ground floor, damp. The doctors say she needs a dry climate. The house is perfect.”
Anastasia slowly set the box on the floor.
“Misha, you’re joking, right?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I’m serious. Mom will move there permanently.”
“But… it’s my house!” Anastasia’s voice trembled. “I bought it for us!”
“So what?” Mikhail finally looked up. “My mother needs housing. She has health issues.”
“And I have an issue with some stranger living in my house!” Anastasia felt herself boiling inside. “Without my consent!”
“A stranger?” he frowned. “That’s my mother!”
“She’s a stranger to me!” Anastasia raised her voice. “I did not consent!”
Mikhail stood up from the table.
“Nastya, be reasonable. Mom really needs a house. Her apartment isn’t livable.”
“Then let her sell the apartment and buy another one!” Anastasia stepped toward him. “What does my house have to do with it?!”
“The point is, there’s a house,” he said evenly. “And it’s standing empty. Why shouldn’t Mom live there?”
“Because it’s my house!” Anastasia screamed. “I saved for five years! I got an inheritance from my grandmother! I bought it with my own money!”
“So what?” he crossed his arms. “Does that mean you get to be selfish?”
Anastasia froze. Selfish? She was selfish?
“Misha, do you hear yourself?” she forced herself to speak slowly. “I dreamed of this house. I saved for years. I set it up. I planned our life there.”
“You planned,” he nodded. “I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want to move.”
“You didn’t ask?” She felt the ground slipping away. “You agreed! You said it was a good idea!”
“I said it so you wouldn’t get upset,” Mikhail shrugged. “But to be honest, I’m fine in the apartment.”
“So this whole year I was killing myself with repairs and you didn’t care?” Anastasia’s voice shook.
“You wanted it yourself,” he turned away. “I didn’t insist.”
Silence. Anastasia stood, trying to grasp what was happening. Her husband didn’t want the house. He had never wanted it. He just kept quiet to avoid conflict.
“And now you’ve decided to give my house to your mother?” she asked slowly.
“Not give—let her live there,” Mikhail corrected her. “Temporarily.”
“How long is ‘temporarily’?”
“Well… until she finds another option.”
“So, indefinitely,” Anastasia gave a short laugh. “Wonderful.”
“Nastya, don’t dramatize,” he turned to her. “Mom is elderly. She needs help.”
“Help is one thing,” she stepped forward. “Moving her into someone else’s property is another.”
“Someone else’s property?” he frowned. “We’re a family.”
“A family?” Anastasia felt a wave of rage rise inside. “Is that what you call it when you make decisions without me?!”
“I didn’t make a decision, I just informed you,” he said calmly.
“Informed me!” she nearly choked with indignation. “That my property will now be occupied by your mother!”
“Stop it,” Mikhail waved a hand. “So you bought it. So what! Mom needs that house more than you do now!”
The words came out cold and peremptory. Anastasia stared at him, unable to believe she’d heard that.
“What did you say?” she asked quietly.
“I said the truth,” Mikhail looked her in the eye. “Mom needs the house more. She has health problems. And you’re fine in the apartment.”
“Needs it more,” Anastasia repeated mechanically. “Your mom needs it more.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “And you should understand that.”
Anastasia exhaled slowly. Inside, everything seethed—rage, resentment, pain. Five years of saving. Dreaming. Planning. Fixing the house with her own hands. And now her husband was saying his mother needed it more.
“Misha,” she made herself speak calmly. “Why should I think about your mother? Why not you?”
He looked at her in surprise.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that caring for parents is a child’s responsibility,” Anastasia crossed her arms. “If your mother needs housing, you should provide it. Not me.”
“But you have a house!”
“I have a house that I bought for myself!” Anastasia shouted. “For my family! Not for your mother!”
“My mother is part of the family!”
“No!” She stepped closer. “Your mother is your responsibility! If you want to help her—sell your car, take out a loan, rent her an apartment! But don’t touch my property!”
Mikhail turned pale.
“You… you’re a monster! How can you talk about my mother like that?!”
“I’m not talking about your mother!” Anastasia was almost gasping. “I’m talking about my rights! About my property! About my dream that you want to take away!”
“No one is taking anything away!”
“You are!” she jabbed a finger into his chest. “You want to give my house to your mother! The house I bought with my grandmother’s money! The house I poured my soul into!”
“Nastya, calm down…”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she backed away. “I won’t calm down! Because you’re betraying me! You’re spitting on my dreams! You’re putting your mother above your wife!”
Silence. Mikhail stood with his head down, not knowing what to say.
“Nastya, my mother really needs—”
“And I didn’t need anything?” Anastasia cut him off. “For five years I saved! I denied myself everything! To buy this house! And now you say your mother needs it more?!”
“She’s elderly…”
“So what?!” she was almost crying with fury. “I am not obliged to provide her with housing! She’s your mother! Your responsibility!”
Mikhail looked up.
“So you refuse?”
“Yes!” Anastasia screamed. “I refuse! Your mother will not live in my house!”
“Then we have nothing to talk about,” he said coldly.
“Agreed,” she nodded. “Pack your things. Leave.”
Mikhail froze.
“What?”
“I said—pack your things and leave,” she repeated. “This is my apartment. And I don’t want you to stay here.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
“Yes,” she looked him in the eye. “I am. Because you betrayed me. Because you don’t respect my rights. Because you tried to take my dream.”
“Nastya, you’re insane!”
“No,” she said calmly. “I’ve just realized who you really are.”
He wanted to say something, but Anastasia raised her hand.
“Leave. Now. Or I’ll call the police.”
He stood there for another minute, then turned sharply. He went into the room and began shoving things into a bag—clothes, shoes, documents. He packed quickly, angrily.
Twenty minutes later he was ready. He picked up the bag and walked to the door.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Leave.”
The door slammed. Anastasia was alone in the apartment.
She went into the room and sat down on the couch. Her hands were shaking, her breathing uneven. But inside—calm. A strange, cold calm.
The decision was made. Final and irreversible.
Anastasia spent the next week dealing with practicalities. She filed for divorce and submitted the paperwork to the court. Mikhail didn’t object, he only demanded half of the house. But the house had been bought with Anastasia’s money, so the court rejected his claim.
She also decided to rent out the apartment. She found tenants—a young married couple, quiet and tidy. She rented it for twenty-five thousand a month. That covered the house’s utilities and groceries.
Anastasia moved into the house. Alone, with her things, with her dreams. The house greeted her with silence and space.
She walked through the rooms, touching the walls, opening the windows. This was her life. Hers alone. No one else could lay claim to this space.
Anastasia turned the second room into a study. She set up a desk, a bookcase, a comfortable armchair. She now worked partly remotely, going to the office twice a week.
In the garden, she planted roses, put up a swing, and set up a barbecue area. She got a dog—a Labrador named Jack. He ran around the plot, rejoicing in his freedom.
In the evenings Anastasia sat on the terrace with tea, watching the sunset. Jack lay nearby with his muzzle on his mistress’s knees. Quiet, peace, freedom.
For the first few weeks Mikhail tried calling. He asked her to come back, said they could talk everything over. But Anastasia didn’t answer. She understood there was nothing to return to. Her husband had shown his true face. There would be no second chance.
Life went on. Work, the house, the garden, the dog. Simple joys that once seemed unattainable. Now all of it belonged only to Anastasia.
She stood by the window of her house, looking at the garden. The sun was setting beyond the horizon, painting the sky in pink and orange. Jack raced through the grass, chasing butterflies.
Anastasia smiled. This was freedom. This was her home. Her dream that no one managed to take away.
And it was the best decision of her life.