Misha slammed his cold cup of coffee onto the table and clicked the button on the coffee machine. Five minutes until he had to leave. Their old apartment had become a cramped box for him, where every corner reminded him of twenty years of marriage— a marriage he’d decided to end three months ago.
“Did you forget your documents?” Ira’s voice came from the hallway.
Not his wife anymore. Just Ira now.
“Didn’t forget. I’m not a kid,” Misha muttered, taking a sip of fresh coffee.
Ira walked into the kitchen. Thinner, with dark circles under her eyes— it seemed like in these three months she’d aged ten years. Misha turned toward the window. It felt awkward to look at her.
“You didn’t have to come. I could’ve brought the things myself,” she said, opening the fridge and nervously shifting jars around.
“It was on my way. And I need to get the keys back.”
“Can’t wait to be rid of everything?”
Misha shrugged.
“Ira, don’t start. We agreed.”
“We agreed,” she repeated, slamming the fridge shut. “Of course. You always decide everything. You decided for twenty years.”
Misha glanced at his watch. He couldn’t be late.
“Listen, maybe we should go right now? The lawyer asked us to come earlier.”
“Your lawyer,” Ira gave a tight, nervous laugh. “I don’t have money for a lawyer. You know that.”
Misha winced. Here we go.
“You could’ve taken it from our joint—”
“Joint?” Ira laughed again, and the sound was new, unfamiliar. “Do we even have anything joint? You wouldn’t even let me use the card.”
“Ira, enough!” Misha shot to his feet. “You know what? I’m even glad I left. This is unbearable.”
“Unbearable,” she echoed quietly. “And my life now is just one big party. A room in a communal apartment. At fifty-two.”
“I offered to pay for a rental apartment.”
“And then what? Until your Sveta asks you to stop?”
Misha wanted to answer, but his phone chirped with a reminder.
“We need to go,” he cut in.
On the way to court they were silent. Misha drove the car— their family Volkswagen, which would, of course, stay with him. After all, he bought it with his money.
“Is Dima coming?” Misha asked, unable to stand the silence.
“No. He says it’s disgusting to watch our divorce.”
“He could’ve at least supported us.”
“Supported who?”
Misha didn’t answer. After the divorce announcement, their son had almost stopped talking to him. He’d promised to come to court, but changed his mind at the last moment.
The courthouse greeted them with echoing corridors and the stale smell of government buildings. By the courtroom door, Misha’s lawyer was waiting— a lean man in glasses, holding a folder.
“Mikhail Valeryevich! Everything’s ready,” the lawyer said, shaking his hand firmly. “And this is…?”
“Irina Nikolayevna, my… spouse,” Misha stumbled.
“Without a lawyer?” surprise flickered in the lawyer’s voice.
“Yes,” Ira replied firmly.
The lawyer shrugged.
“Well, that’s even better for us…”
Misha saw Ira flinch.
“Let’s go in,” he said, tugging the lawyer by the sleeve. “We’ll go over the details.”
While they whispered in the corner, Ira sat down on a bench. Out of the corner of his eye, Misha watched her— hunched, small, twisting the strap of her purse. A strange feeling pricked somewhere inside. Guilt? No— just nerves.
“So, with the property it’s simple,” the lawyer murmured. “The apartment was bought during the marriage, but with your money. The car is yours too. Savings get split in half— that’s the law. No hard feelings.”
“Fine,” Misha nodded. “She’s not really arguing.”
“Great. We’ll finish fast.”
But when they were called into the courtroom, Misha noticed something odd. People were gathered near the entrance. He recognized his father-in-law— a heavyset man with a cane— his mother-in-law, and… Ira’s brother with his wife. They nodded at him coldly, without greetings.
“Ira, what is this?” he hissed, grabbing her sleeve. “Why did you drag your parents here?”
“They came on their own. I have a family, you know— one that actually cares about me,” she snapped, and walked into the courtroom.
Misha felt everything slipping off-plan. Completely off-plan.
The judge— a woman with short hair and a stern look— opened the session in a dry tone. Misha sat straight, shoulders squared. Everything was going as expected until they reached the division of property.
“So,” the judge said, lifting her eyes from the papers, “according to the plaintiff’s statement, he claims the apartment and the Volkswagen vehicle. Your position, Mr. Sokolov?”
Misha’s lawyer stood.
“Your Honor, the apartment and the vehicle were purchased with my client’s funds. The spouse did not participate financially; she worked as a nurse on a minimal salary.”
Misha stole a glance at Ira. She sat with her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Irina Nikolayevna, do you agree?” the judge asked.
Ira straightened. Something in her gaze had changed.
“No, I don’t,” she said quietly, but firmly.
Misha tensed.
“Explain your position to the court,” the judge said, setting her pen down.
“We bought the apartment with my parents’ money. They sold their house in the village and gave us most of the amount. And the car is registered to our son, Dmitry.”
Misha sprang up.
“That’s not true! I paid for everything!”
“Sit down,” the judge said sharply. “Do you have evidence, Irina Nikolayevna?”
“My parents are here. And the documents…”
It was as if Misha had been doused with ice water. His mother-in-law rose from the back row.
“My husband and I gave three-quarters of the amount for the apartment. We kept the papers and bank statements.”
“This is nonsense!” Misha spun toward his lawyer. “Say something!”
The lawyer flipped through the folder, confused.
“I… I wasn’t told about this.”
The judge frowned.
“Are there documents confirming the transfer of funds?”
“Yes, here,” Ira pulled a folder from her bag. “The deed of gift and my parents’ account statements.”
Misha couldn’t believe his ears.
“Ira, what are you doing? We agreed—”
“Agreed on what, Misha? That you’d take everything?” Her eyes flashed. “I stayed silent for twenty years. Enough.”
Ira’s brother, Sergey, stepped forward.
“And the car belongs to Dima on paper. Mikhail registered it to his son three years ago to avoid taxes as a sole proprietor.”
“Is that true?” the judge stared at Misha.
“It’s… a formality,” Misha felt his plan collapsing. “I’m the one who uses the car!”
“The owner is your son,” the judge said, studying the documents.
Misha looked helplessly at his lawyer.
“You said it would be simple!”
“You didn’t mention these details,” the lawyer hissed.
“We are taking a recess to review the new circumstances,” the judge announced. “The hearing will continue in one week. Please provide all documents regarding the property.”
In the hallway, Misha grabbed Ira by the elbow.
“You set this up on purpose? You humiliated me!”
“Me?” she gave a bitter half-smile. “You humiliated yourself. You thought I’d quietly disappear into my tiny room?”
“You were never interested in money!”
“I trusted you, Misha. And you…”
Her father stepped closer, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Let her go,” he said grimly. “Enough with the commanding.”
“You were always against me!” Misha backed away. “Always!”
“Because we saw right through you,” her mother said softly.
At that moment Misha’s phone beeped. A text from Sveta: “How’s it going? Will you be done soon?”
Misha clenched his teeth. Nothing was going right. Nothing at all.
The week dragged on endlessly. Misha bounced between work, the rented apartment where Sveta waited, and meetings with his lawyer. Each time, the lawyer looked more and more grim.
“Our chances are… uncertain,” he said, paging through documents. “If the gift deed is authentic— and with the car it’s completely clear…”
“How could she do this?” Misha slammed his fist on the table. “Twenty years and she never said a word about her parents’ money!”
“Did you know about it?” the lawyer asked.
“Well… yes,” Misha turned toward the window. “But that was a long time ago. And I earned ten times more than she did!”
“That won’t impress the court,” the lawyer removed his glasses. “Marital property is divided equally regardless of income. And if part was a gift from her parents…”
“Find a way out!” Misha raised his voice. “I’m paying you!”
On the day of the hearing he woke with a headache. Sveta made coffee, but he barely touched it.
“Everything will be fine,” she said, stroking his shoulder. “You told me your ex was quiet and wouldn’t make a scene.”
“She was quiet,” Misha grumbled. “Silent for twenty years— and now suddenly she’s talking.”
At court, another surprise awaited him. In the hallway stood Dima— their son. Tall, with his father’s features, but a cold gaze.
“Dima?” Misha jolted toward him. “You came!”
“Yes,” the son said flatly. “For my car.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. It’s mine. I want to take it. Mom said you’re claiming it.”
“Dima, you understand—” Misha stopped. His son was looking at him like a stranger.
“I understand. You decided to screw Mom over and take everything. Including my car.”
“It’s not yours! I mean, formally yes, but…”
“And in reality— whose is it?” Dima crossed his arms.
Misha fell silent. At that moment Ira approached with her parents.
“Dimочка!” she hugged her son. “You really came!”
“Couldn’t miss it,” he hugged his mother. “Hi, Grandpa, Grandma.”
He didn’t even look at Misha.
Inside the courtroom, the atmosphere was tense. The judge reviewed all the documents and finally lifted her eyes.
“After analysis of the presented materials, the court has established the following. The apartment was purchased with substantial financial assistance from Irina Nikolayevna’s parents. This is confirmed by bank statements and the gift deed. The Volkswagen vehicle is registered to Sokolov Dmitry Mikhailovich, as evidenced by the title and the deed of gift from father to son.”
Misha clenched his fists. The lawyer beside him looked sour.
“Given these circumstances, the court considers the plaintiff’s demands for sole rights to the apartment and vehicle unfounded.”
“This is unfair!” Misha jumped up. “I supported the family all these years! I paid for the apartment!”
“Sit down, Citizen Sokolov,” the judge said strictly. “Do not interrupt.”
“My parents’ money should count too,” Ira said quietly. “And I worked all those years as well.”
“As a nurse!” Misha snorted. “Your salary barely covered utilities!”
“And who watched Dima while you were building your business?” Ira raised her voice for the first time. “Who worked night shifts and then did everything at home in the morning?”
“Silence in the courtroom!” the judge struck the gavel. “The court has reached a decision: the apartment is recognized as marital property, taking into account the contribution of the defendant’s parents. The vehicle is the property of Sokolov Dmitry Mikhailovich.”
“I protest!” Misha turned crimson. “This is a setup! They staged everything!”
“One more remark and you will be removed from the courtroom,” the judge warned.
Dima stood.
“Dad, stop. You’ve already done enough. You left for someone else, kicked Mom out of the house— and now you want to take my car too?”
“I didn’t kick her out! She left herself!”
“After you brought your new woman into our home!” Ira’s eyes filled with tears. “In front of me!”
A whisper ran through the room. The judge struck the gavel again.
“The hearing is closed to outsiders. Everyone except the parties, leave the courtroom.”
When the extra people left, the judge removed her glasses and looked at the spouses wearily.
“Listen. We can drag this out forever, but let’s resolve it civilly. The documents speak for themselves. The apartment is joint property, accounting for the contribution of Irina Nikolayevna’s parents. The car belongs to the son. What remains are the bank accounts and other property.”
Misha sat red-faced, his jaw tight. Ira stared at the floor.
“Your Honor,” the lawyer began. “My client is prepared to revise his position regarding the vehicle. But the apartment—”
“I will live in the apartment,” Ira suddenly said firmly. “I have nowhere else to go. Mikhail has a new family and income. I have only this apartment.”
“All my money is in the business!” Misha slammed the table. “I can’t just give up housing!”
“Not ‘just’ give it up,” the judge said sternly. “In accordance with the law. You may pay compensation for your share if she remains in the apartment.”
Misha opened his mouth, but Dima cut him off.
“You know, Dad, I always thought you were fair. Remember how you used to say, ‘A man must be responsible for his family’? What happened to that man?”
The courtroom fell silent. Misha slowly sank back into his chair.
“I propose a compromise,” the judge continued. “The apartment remains with Irina Nikolayevna. The vehicle is the son’s property. Mikhail Valeryevich receives compensation from the marital assets. Does everyone agree?”
Misha was silent for a long time, then nodded reluctantly.
“Fine. I agree.”
After the ruling, they went out into the hallway. Ira’s parents hurried to their daughter, and Dima pulled his father aside.
“Give me the car keys.”
Misha silently handed over the key fob.
“Dima, let’s talk…”
“About what? About how you humiliated Mom for twenty years? Or how you brought your new woman home when Mom was on shift?”
“How do you know that…?”
“A neighbor called. And Mom stayed quiet, endured it. Her whole life, she endured.”
Misha lowered his eyes.
“I didn’t want it to turn out like this.”
“But it did,” Dima took the keys. “You know, I always used to be proud of you. And now…”
He didn’t finish and walked over to his mother. Misha stayed alone in the middle of the corridor.
Outside, a drizzle fell. Misha stood under the awning, not knowing where to go. He dialed Sveta.
“Hello, where are you? Can you come pick me up?”
Ira came out last, arm in arm with her son. Her parents waited in the car.
“Dima, can you drive me to the apartment? I need to get my things.”
“Of course, Mom.”
Misha stepped toward them.
“Ira, listen…”
She stopped. There was no anger in her eyes— only fatigue.
“Misha, everything’s already been said. Twenty years and three months’ worth.”
“I didn’t think it would turn out like this.”
“And how did you think it would?” she smiled sadly. “That I would always stay silent? That my parents wouldn’t stand up for me? That Dima wouldn’t find out?”
“Mama, let’s go,” Dima tugged her hand. “The rain’s getting heavier.”
“I just wanted to say… I’m sorry.”
Ira shook her head.
“You know, I should thank you. If it weren’t for this divorce, I would’ve never learned how strong I am.”
She turned and walked to the car. Dima followed, not even glancing back at his father.
A month later, Ira moved back into the apartment for good. Dima helped with the renovation— they repainted the walls and replaced the furniture. Her parents gifted new appliances. For the first time in twenty years, she decided for herself what color curtains to hang and where to put the couch.
At work, Ira took extra shifts. Her colleagues noticed the changes— she looked younger somehow, her shoulders straightened, she started smiling.
And Misha… Misha moved out from Sveta’s place two months later. Without an apartment, without a car, and with a damaged reputation, he wasn’t as attractive anymore. He rented a tiny studio and sometimes called Dima, but his son answered rarely, briefly.
One day he ran into Ira at the supermarket. She looked fresh, well-groomed, and even— it seemed— happy. A man was standing beside her.
“Hi, Ira,” Misha nodded awkwardly.
“Hello,” she nodded back. “How are you?”
“Fine… working.”
“That’s good,” she smiled softly. “Dima asked me to tell you he’ll stop by this weekend. If you’re not busy.”
“Of course I’m not busy,” Misha felt his eyes sting. “Thanks for telling me.”
They went their separate ways— each down their own road. But Ira didn’t look back anymore