Tamara Ivanovna was chopping salad for dinner when her husband laid a folder of documents down in front of her. An ordinary Friday evening—cucumbers, tomatoes, sour cream. The potatoes were finishing up on the stove, the open packet of dill scented the air.
“Sign here and here,” Vitaly jabbed a finger at several spots.
“What is it?” She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Oh, nothing special, for the bank. I’m refinancing the loan. It’ll be more profitable.”
“Why do you need my signature?”
“You’re a co-borrower. Forgot? When we bought the car, we signed together.”
Tamara took the documents and began to read. Vitaly tapped his fingers on the table impatiently.
“Tamara, don’t read it! It’s already almost eight, the notary’s only open till nine. Come on, hurry up!”
“Wait, I’m going to read it.”
“For God’s sake, Tamara! We’ve lived together for twenty-six years, do you really not trust me?”
She did trust him. She always had. But something had changed in the last six months. Vitaly had become jumpy, secretive. He always carried his phone with him, even took it into the shower. In the evenings he was “staying late at work,” although his boss, Semyonych, had once let slip that they’d had shortened hours on Fridays for over a year.
“I trust you. But I’ll read it,” she said stubbornly.
She sat down at the table and switched on the desk lamp. The font was small, but legible. Purchase and sale agreement… Stop. What purchase and sale?
She read carefully, sliding her finger along the lines. Their three-room apartment in the city center was being sold for fifteen million. The buyer was a certain Karina Eduardovna Melnikova, thirty-two years old.
Her heart plunged. Tamara turned the page. Next came a purchase and sale agreement for a one-room apartment in Biryulyovo for four million. The buyers—she and Vitaly.
“What does this mean?” She raised her eyes to her husband.
Vitaly flushed, then went pale.
“Ah… that… I wanted to surprise you. We’re selling the big apartment and buying a smaller one. The difference is eleven million. We’ll buy a dacha with that, a new car. Why do we need such a big place for just the three of us? Our son’s in America, he never comes home.”
“And who is this Karina Melnikova?”
“A realtor. She’s handling everything.”
Tamara took out her phone and typed the name into the search bar. Karina Melnikova, fitness trainer, social-media page. Photos—young, pretty, sports bra and leggings. And here—a photo from a restaurant. At the next table, in profile but unmistakable—Vitaly.
“The fitness trainer became a realtor?” Tamara asked calmly.
“What? Oh, yeah, she does both.”
“Vitaly, don’t lie. I’m not an idiot. You want to sell our apartment, buy me a shoebox in Biryulyovo, and give the rest of the money… to her?”
“Tamara, you’ve got it all wrong!”
“I’ve got it exactly right. Are you seeing her?”
Vitaly deflated and dropped into a chair.
“Yes. It’s been six months. Tamara, try to understand, I’m fifty-five. My last chance to live for myself.”
“And me? The twenty-six years together don’t count?”
“You’ll get an apartment. A perfectly decent one-bedroom. You’ll have your pension, you’ll manage.”
“How generous. And the eleven million goes to the young beauty?”
“Don’t be so cynical. I have a right to be happy!”
Tamara slowly stood up, went to the stove, and turned off the gas. The potatoes had boiled to pieces and turned into mash. She carefully drained the water and set the pot on the table.
“Are you going to eat dinner?”
“Tamara, are you going to sign the papers?”
“I’ll think about it. Give me until Monday.”
“But the notary—”
“Until Monday, Vitaly. This is not the kind of paper you sign without looking.”
He went to bed angry. Tamara stayed in the kitchen. She took out her old laptop—the one her son had given her five years earlier. She started digging up information on Karina Melnikova.
She found plenty. Fitness trainer at an elite club. Married twice. Both husbands significantly older. The first—a businessman; they divorced after two years, she got the apartment. The second—a doctor; they divorced after a year, she won the car and a dacha in court.
The scheme was obvious. A huntress of well-off men.
In the morning Tamara got up earlier than usual. She made breakfast—omelet, coffee, toast. Vitaly was surprised.
“Why are you up so early?”
“I’m going to see a friend. Marina’s in the hospital, I want to visit her.”
“And the papers?”
“On Monday, Vitaly. Don’t rush me.”
She didn’t go to her friend. She went to a lawyer. She’d found him by reviews on the internet—Oleg Petrovich, a specialist in family law.
“You see, Tamara Ivanovna,” the lawyer explained. “The apartment was purchased during the marriage, so it’s marital property. He can’t sell it without your consent. But if you sign…”
“I won’t sign. What can he do?”
“He can file for divorce. When the property is divided, you’ll receive half. That’s seven and a half million from the sale of the apartment.”
“And if I refuse to agree to the sale?”
“Then the court can order it sold. But that’s a long process. At least six months, maybe a year.”
“I see. And if he… tries to forge my signature?”
“That’s a criminal offense. Fraud on a large scale. Up to ten years.”
Tamara thanked him and left, deep in thought. On the way home, she stopped at the bank to check the accounts. Their joint account was almost empty—only about twenty thousand left. And there had been over three hundred; they’d been saving for a vacation.
Where the money had gone was obvious. He’d spent it on Karina. On restaurants, gifts.
At home, Vitaly wasn’t there. There was a note on the table: “Went to Lyokha’s dacha. Back tomorrow.”
To Lyokha’s. Of course. Lyokha had been a convenient excuse for the past six months.
Tamara sat down at the computer. She went to Karina’s social-media page. Karina had posted a new photo—a gym selfie. Caption: “Big changes coming soon! Intrigue!”
Comments from her girlfriends:
“Getting married again?”
“Karina, you’re a huntress!”
“Somebody’s lucky!”
Karina’s reply: “Girls, this time it’s serious. The man’s well-off, apartment in the center. Housewarming soon!”
Apartment in the center. Their apartment.
Tamara took screenshots. Then she called her son in America—luckily, it was morning there.
“Hi, Mom! How are you?”
“Alyosha, I’ve got a problem. Your dad wants to sell the apartment.”
“Why?”
She told him everything. Her son listened in silence, then cursed in English.
“Mom, don’t you dare sign anything! I’ll buy tickets and fly out.”
“No, Alyosha. I’ll handle it.”
“Mom, you’re too soft. Dad will push you into it.”
“He won’t. I’ve got a plan.”
By evening the plan had fully taken shape. Simple, but effective.
On Sunday Vitaly came back in high spirits, smelling of someone else’s perfume.
“Well? Have you thought about it?”
“I have. Vitaly, let’s talk honestly. Do you want a divorce?”
“I… don’t know. Maybe.”
“Because of Karina?”
“How do you know about Karina?”
“I know a lot. I know she’s a fitness trainer. That she’s thirty-two. That she’s already had two husbands she cleaned out.”
“That’s gossip!”
“That’s fact. Verifiable fact. Vitaly, she’s using you.”
“Don’t make me laugh! She loves me!”
“She loves your money. Or rather, our money. The apartment for fifteen million.”
“You’re just jealous!”
“No. I’m sorry for you. But it’s your decision. Here’s what I’m offering: a divorce and an equal division of property. Fair and legal. Seven and a half million for you, seven and a half for me.”
“But… I need the whole amount!”
“For Karina? Let her wait. If she loves you, she’ll wait.”
Vitaly started pacing around the kitchen.
“She won’t understand! She thinks I’m well-off!”
“And you are well-off. Seven and a half million is a decent fortune.”
“Tamara, sign the papers! I’ll pay you back later!”
“No.”
“I… I can cause you problems!”
“For example?”
“I’ll say you’re incompetent. That your memory is failing. I know a psychiatrist who—”
Tamara took out her phone and turned on the voice recorder.
“Repeat that, please. Are you threatening me right now?”
Vitaly froze when he saw the phone.
“You… you’re recording?”
“Yes. Just in case. Do you know what happens for knowingly arranging a false psychiatric evaluation? And for making threats?”
On Monday morning Tamara went to the police. She filed a report about an attempted fraud. She attached the documents, screenshots from Karina’s page, and explained the situation.
“You see,” the investigator said. “Right now there’s no crime. You didn’t sign the papers.”
“But he might forge my signature.”
“He might. But he hasn’t yet. We’ll take your statement and run a check. That alone will hold him back.”
In the evening Vitaly was pale.
“Tamara, what have you done? An investigator called me!”
“I played it safe. In case you decided to forge my signature.”
“I would never…”
“Never say never. Vitaly, I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow. And another thing—I recorded all our conversations. Where you admit to your affair with Karina, where you threaten me with the psychiatrist. That’s called blackmail, by the way.”
Vitaly collapsed into himself like a punctured balloon.
“What do you want?”
“Fairness. A fifty-fifty split of the property. And alimony.”
“What alimony? Our son is twenty-five!”
“Spousal support. I haven’t worked for twenty-six years, I took care of the home and of you. The law says I’m entitled.”
“But… Karina…”
“What about Karina? Tell her the truth. That you’re not a millionaire. That you have an ex-wife who gets half. If she loves you, she’ll accept it.”
The divorce went through quickly. Vitaly didn’t fight—he was afraid of scandal and of a criminal case. They sold the apartment and split the money.
Tamara bought a two-room apartment in a nice neighborhood. Not the center, but close to the metro, a park, shops. With what was left she did renovations, bought new furniture, and still had some put aside for a rainy day.
Vitaly bought a one-room place. When Karina found out he wasn’t as rich as he’d seemed, she vanished. Removed him from her friends list, blocked his number.
Three months later he called Tamara.
“Can we meet?”
They met at a café. Vitaly looked older, worn down.
“Tamara, forgive me. I’m an idiot.”
“I know.”
“Karina dumped me. As soon as she found out about the property split.”
“Predictable.”
“Can I come back?”
“No, Vitaly. You can’t.”
“But we’ve been together so many years!”
“We were. And you were ready to have me locked in a psych ward for the sake of a young beauty. Remember?”
“I didn’t mean it seriously…”
“Oh, you meant it very seriously, Vitaly. You know, I’m actually grateful to you.”
“For what?”
“For the lesson. I realized—you can’t blindly trust. Not even those closest to you. Especially not those closest to you.”
“Tamara, give me another chance!”
“No. Go live your life. And I’ll live mine.”
A year has passed now. Tamara works as an administrator at a medical center. The pay is modest, but enough. The main thing is she’s around people; she’s needed.
In the evenings she goes to classes—she’s learning English. She’d always dreamed of it, but Vitaly used to laugh: “What do you need that for at your age?”
In the group she met Mikhail—a widower, a history teacher. Intelligent, calm, reliable.
“Tamara Ivanovna, may I invite you for a coffee?” he asked after class.
“You may,” she smiled.
They sat in a little café and talked about books, travel, life.
“You know,” Mikhail said. “I admire you.”
“What for?”
“For your strength. Not every woman could do what you did. Divorce at fifty-four and start a new life.”
“What else was I supposed to do? Let myself be cheated?”
“Many people do. Out of fear of being alone.”
“Loneliness isn’t as scary as living with a traitor.”
Alyosha came for New Year’s. He brought gifts and introduced his girlfriend—an American of Russian descent.
“Mom, you’re amazing! The apartment’s great, and you look fantastic!”
“I try, son.”
“And Dad?”
“I don’t know. We don’t talk.”
“Good. He doesn’t deserve you.”
Vitaly calls sometimes. He complains about being lonely, about his health, about life. Tamara listens politely, sympathizes, but isn’t in a hurry to help.
Those are his problems. He chose that path.
And she has her own life. Work, studies, new acquaintances. And Mikhail, who carries her bag after class and reads her Brodsky’s poems.
“Do you regret it?” he asked her once.
“Regret what?”
“Your old life. After all, twenty-six years is a long time.”
“I don’t. There’s a saying: ‘Better a terrible end than terror without end.’ I chose the end. And the beginning.”
“That’s wise.”
“No. Just self-preservation. If I had signed those papers, I’d be out on the street. In the best case—in Biryulyovo. In the worst—without anything at all.”
“But you didn’t sign.”
“I didn’t. I read every single letter. And that’s what saved me.”
In the spring she and Mikhail went to Prague. It was Tamara’s first time abroad. They walked through the old town, drank coffee in little cafés, listened to street musicians.
“Are you happy?” Mikhail asked.
“Yes. And you?”
“I am too. You know, I thought my life was over. After my wife died, I was sure it was all just waiting out the rest. Then I met you—and realized life is just beginning.”
“At our age?”
“What does age have to do with it? The soul doesn’t grow old. And feelings don’t either.”
Tamara took his arm. They walked across Charles Bridge and made wishes.
What wish? A simple one—that no one ever tried to deceive her again. That she would always have honest people by her side. That her son would be happy.
And that Mikhail would stay beside her. Kind, decent, genuine.
As for Vitaly… Vitaly got exactly what he deserved. Loneliness, a cramped one-room flat, and the memory of how he traded a loyal wife for a young gold-digger.
Is it fair? Completely.
Cruel? Not at all.
People simply get what they choose.
And Tamara chose dignity. And she won—
By reading every letter. Especially the fine print