“Still, Gleb, I think we really need to think this through before taking on obligations like that,” Alya said, carefully studying the documents spread out on the kitchen table.
“Alevtina, we’ve discussed this a hundred times already. A new apartment is our future,” Gleb said, impatiently drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Three rooms instead of two, fresh renovation, a new neighborhood. What’s there to think about?”
“Money, Gleb. A mortgage down payment is no joke.”
“We’ll sell this apartment and use the money as the down payment,” he said, sweeping his hand around the space. “How old is it now—thirty years? And the building will probably be put on the list for major repairs soon anyway.”
Alya sighed. This apartment had come to her from her grandmother. Sure, it didn’t have the “European-style renovation” Gleb loved to talk about, but the walls held childhood memories—summer holidays at Grandma’s. Still, her husband wasn’t wrong: the neighborhood was aging, and the building’s utilities left a lot to be desired.
“Alright, I agree to think about it. But let’s not rush,” she said, stacking the papers neatly. “We still need to save enough for the down payment, even if we factor in selling this place.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about,” Gleb perked up. “Mom and Dad offered to help us with the down payment!”
Alya looked up from the documents.
“Your parents? Seriously? Why such generosity all of a sudden?”
“What do you mean, ‘all of a sudden’?” Gleb frowned. “They’ve always helped us.”
“Of course, honey,” Alya said gently. “It’s just that usually they offer advice, not money.”
“Mom said they’ve been saving for our future apartment for a long time. Think of it as their investment in our future.”
Alya nodded, but something inside her scratched uneasily. In three years of marriage, her mother-in-law had never once mentioned any savings like that. And in general, Olesya Sergeyevna wasn’t particularly fond of her daughter-in-law, even if she tried not to show it.
“They want to come on Saturday to discuss the details,” Gleb continued. “Mom already called a realtor—an old friend of hers.”
“Wait,” Alya straightened up. “You’ve already discussed selling my apartment with them?”
“Our apartment,” Gleb corrected. “And yes, we talked about it preliminarily. It’s logical—sell the old one and buy a new one.”
Alya fell silent. Something about her in-laws’ sudden concern was unsettling, but she couldn’t yet put her finger on what exactly.
Saturday came too quickly. Alya cooked lunch and set the table, trying to satisfy her mother-in-law’s picky tastes. The doorbell rang exactly at two—Olesya Sergeyevna had always been punctual.
“Alevtinochka, how are you?” Olesya Sergeyevna kissed her daughter-in-law on the cheek, enveloping her in a cloud of cloying perfume. “You look a bit tired.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Alya said, taking the bag of fruit from her. “Please, come in.”
Roman Anatolyevich gave his son a firm handshake and nodded to Alya.
“I’ve noticed you’ve got new cars being parked in the yard. The neighborhood’s growing—young people are moving in.”
“Yes, Dad, but the building is old,” Gleb replied. “The pipes are always leaking, and the wiring is ancient.”
“Exactly!” Olesya Sergeyevna chimed in, settling at the table. “That’s what I’m saying. You need to move while this apartment is still worth something.”
Alya brought out the salads and, to her surprise, saw that an unfamiliar woman in her fifties had already joined them at the table.
“Alya, meet Tatyana Kovaleva—my longtime friend and the best realtor in the city,” Olesya Sergeyevna introduced her.
“Nice to meet you,” Alya said, confused. “I didn’t know we were having more guests.”
“Tatyana was passing by, so I suggested she drop in,” her mother-in-law explained. “She works with apartment sales in this area.”
Tatyana swept an appraising look around the apartment.
“Yes, a typical two-room Soviet layout. It’s not exactly trendy these days, but there’s still demand. Prices are dropping, though, so I wouldn’t advise dragging out the sale.”
“But we haven’t decided to sell,” Alya objected.
“How come you haven’t?” Olesya Sergeyevna looked genuinely surprised. “Gleb said you’d already discussed everything.”
Alya shot a quick glance at her husband. He gave her a guilty smile.
“I said we’d think about it.”
“Good,” Roman Anatolyevich cut in. “Then we’ll discuss it today. We’ve got an offer you’d be a fool to refuse.”
Through lunch, Alya listened more than she spoke. The plan her in-laws presented sounded tempting: they would add the missing amount for the down payment, Alya would sell the apartment, and together they would buy a new three-room place in a prestigious neighborhood.
“And who will the new apartment be registered to?” Alya asked when they got to the legal details.
“Well, since we’re putting in some of the money, I suppose it would be fair to register it to Gleb and us as co-borrowers,” Roman Anatolyevich replied. “Purely formally, of course.”
“And what about me?” Alya felt something tighten inside her chest.
“Sweetheart, you understand the bank looks at ability to pay,” Olesya Sergeyevna stepped in. “Your municipal salary isn’t that high. It’s just paperwork.”
Alya saw Gleb avoiding her gaze. Something was definitely wrong.
“No. I’m not selling the apartment until I understand all the legal nuances,” Alya said firmly after Gleb’s parents left. “Why didn’t you tell me they want the new apartment registered to you and them?”
“What difference does it make whose name it’s in?” Gleb snapped. “We’re a family!”
“A family where I suddenly have no ownership rights? After selling my apartment?” Alya shook her head. “Sorry, but that’s strange.”
Gleb softened and put an arm around her shoulders.
“You’re being paranoid. My parents want what’s best. The apartment will be ours—what does it matter whose name is on the papers?”
Alya didn’t continue the argument, but she decided to call her friend Nika. Veronika worked as a lawyer and always gave practical advice.
They met the next day in a quiet café near Alya’s office.
“So they want you to sell your apartment, and register the new one without you?” Nika frowned. “That’s very suspicious.”
“Maybe I’m exaggerating,” Alya said uncertainly. “Gleb says it’s just a formality for the bank.”
“The bank doesn’t care who the mortgage is registered to as long as the income checks out. But Gleb’s parents clearly care,” Nika tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Listen—have you noticed anything else strange lately?”
Alya remembered how Gleb had started meeting his parents more often without her, how evasive he’d become when she asked about those meetings, how insistently Tatyana Kovaleva pushed them to sell quickly.
“You think…”
“I think you need to be more careful,” Nika said seriously. “Don’t make rash decisions, and don’t sign anything.”
Over the following weeks, Alya watched her husband and in-laws closely. Gleb grew irritable whenever she brought up the legal side of buying a new place.
“Maybe we should sign a prenuptial agreement,” Alya suggested over dinner. “Just to clearly spell out both sides’ rights.”
Gleb set down his fork.
“A prenup? You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not about trust,” Alya replied gently. “It’s just a reasonable precaution with decisions this big.”
“My parents are helping us, and you respond with ingratitude,” Gleb stood up from the table. “I’m not discussing this.”
At work, Alya decided to talk to her boss, Andrey Solovyov, who had always treated her well.
“Andrey Viktorovich, may I speak with you?”
“Of course, Alya, come in,” he said, looking up from his computer. “Something happened?”
Alya briefly described the situation, trying to stay objective.
“You know, I had an acquaintance in a similar situation,” Andrey said thoughtfully. “His wife sold her apartment, the money went toward a new one registered to her husband and his parents. A year later they divorced, and she was left without housing and without money.”
“You think Gleb…”
“I’m not claiming anything,” Andrey raised his hands. “But be careful with the paperwork. And honestly—why rush the sale? If everything’s fine between you, the apartment isn’t going anywhere.”
That evening Alya found a glossy brochure for Tatyana Kovaleva’s real estate office in the mailbox. On the back, someone had handwritten: “Call back about the apartment showing on Thursday.”
“Gleb, did you arrange a showing of our apartment?” she asked when her husband came home.
“Oh, yeah,” he said casually, tossing his jacket onto a chair. “Tatyana said there are potential buyers who want to see it.”
“But we haven’t decided to sell!”
“Alya, it’s just a preliminary showing. No big deal. Don’t slow the process down, okay?”
On Thursday Alya took the day off specifically to be present for the showing. Tatyana arrived with a married couple and walked them through the rooms, praising the apartment’s advantages.
“How much do you want for it?” the man asked when the tour ended.
“We haven’t decided on a price yet,” Alya answered.
“What do you mean you haven’t decided?” Tatyana interjected. “We discussed it with Gleb. Three million two hundred is a very good price for an apartment like this.”
Alya stared at the realtor in disbelief.
“That’s significantly below market value.”
“Alevtina, the market is stagnant right now,” Tatyana explained in a patronizing tone. “Besides, the building is old and the utilities are worn out.”
After the potential buyers left, Alya turned to Tatyana decisively.
“I want to clarify something. My husband and I have not made a final decision to sell. And we certainly haven’t agreed on a price.”
“Dear, there’s no need to get so worked up,” Tatyana patted her hand. “Gleb explained everything in detail. You sell this apartment, you buy a new one—better and bigger. Everyone’s happy.”
After the realtor left, Alya opened her laptop and checked the joint bank account she shared with Gleb. What she saw made her go cold: three days earlier, Gleb had transferred four hundred thousand rubles to his father’s account.
That evening she confronted her husband about the transfer.
“Oh, that…” Gleb hesitated. “Dad asked for help with a project. It’s a temporary loan—he’ll pay it back.”
“Why didn’t you discuss it with me? That’s our joint money.”
“I didn’t think it mattered to you,” Gleb snapped. “You’ve gotten kind of suspicious lately!”
Alya decided it was time to act. The next day she called Nika again.
“I think they’re planning something bad,” she admitted. “I need a consultation with a good attorney.”
“I can recommend Kirill Yefremov,” Nika offered. “He specializes in family law—very competent.”
Alya met Kirill at his office. After telling him the whole story, she asked:
“What do you think is going on?”
“From what you’ve described, it looks like your husband and his parents are trying to deprive you of ownership rights to the new apartment while using the money from selling your current one,” Kirill said gravely. “It’s a common scheme. Unfortunately, I see cases like this often.”
“What should I do?”
“First—don’t sign any sale documents. Second—collect evidence of their intentions: recordings of conversations, bank statements, witness testimony if possible.”
“And if I want to get divorced?”
“If you have proof of your husband acting in bad faith, the court will take it into account during property division,” Kirill said. “But we need undeniable evidence.”
Alya followed his advice. She copied all documents, recorded phone calls where Gleb let things slip, and gathered bank statements.
One day she found a draft purchase agreement among her husband’s papers. Alya wasn’t mentioned in it at all—only Gleb and his parents as co-borrowers.
That same evening, Gleb told her his parents would come on Saturday to discuss “important details” of the upcoming deal.
“I want us to finally make a decision,” he said. “Don’t drag it out, okay?”
“Alright,” Alya agreed unexpectedly easily. “Let’s discuss everything and decide.”
After Gleb called his parents, Alya phoned Nika.
“I need your help. And some equipment.”
On Saturday Alya cooked lunch and, while Gleb was in the shower, installed a small camera in the living room—disguised as a decorative item. It was a gift from Nika, who had brought it the day before.
“So, Alevtina, we’ve concluded we need to move faster,” Olesya Sergeyevna announced as soon as she sat down. “Tatyana found very good buyers willing to take your apartment at the price we discussed.”
“And what price is that?” Alya asked.
“Three million two hundred,” Gleb answered. “We talked about it.”
“But the market value is higher.”
“Market value, shmarket value,” her mother-in-law waved it off. “The important thing is we have a concrete offer. And have you found a good three-room in a new building?”
“Yes, Dad already arranged a preliminary viewing,” Gleb nodded. “In the ‘Rechnoy’ residential complex.”
“And how much does that apartment cost?” Alya asked.
“Six million,” Roman Anatolyevich replied. “Everything’s new, fresh renovation, good neighborhood.”
“So we’re short almost three million,” Alya calculated. “And you’re ready to add that?”
“Well, not exactly,” Roman Anatolyevich cleared his throat. “We’ll add one million, and the rest will be a mortgage.”
“And whose name will the apartment be in?”
“In Gleb’s name and ours as co-borrowers,” Olesya Sergeyevna answered confidently. “You understand the bank looks at ability to pay.”
“And why can’t it be registered to me and Gleb? We have a stable joint income.”
Her in-laws exchanged glances.
“You see, Alevtina, anything can happen in life,” Roman Anatolyevich began. “We have to look out for our son.”
“So you don’t trust me?” Alya looked from her in-laws to her husband.
“It’s not about trust,” Gleb cut in. “It’ll just be easier for the mortgage.”
“And where will the money from selling my apartment go?”
“Part of it for the down payment, and part…” Olesya Sergeyevna hesitated.
“And part can be invested in a promising business project,” Roman Anatolyevich jumped in. “I have an idea—very profitable. Much more profitable than paying bank interest.”
“So you want me to sell my apartment, use part of the money to buy a new one where I won’t be an owner, and use the rest for your business project?” Alya clarified.
“When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very good,” Roman Anatolyevich frowned.
“And how should it sound?”
“Alya, you’re making this complicated,” Gleb sighed. “My parents are trying to help us.”
“Help you, you mean?” Alya stood up. “Excuse me—I need to think. Alone.”
She left the room but didn’t go far—she stopped in the hallway by the slightly open door and listened.
“Gleb, why are we even messing around with this mortgage?” Roman Anatolyevich asked irritably. “Your wife has a spacious apartment. Sell it, invest the money in my project, and in a year we’ll buy you a place without any loans.”
“But she wants to put the money into the new apartment,” Gleb answered.
“Son, don’t be naïve,” Olesya Sergeyevna cut in. “We’ll register the new apartment to you and us. If something goes wrong in your marriage, you won’t end up on the street. And the money from her apartment can be used wisely.”
Alya felt the blood drain from her face. It was exactly what she’d suspected all along—they were planning to deceive her. The man she loved, the man she’d lived with for three years, was ready to leave her with nothing.
For the next few days, Alya acted as if nothing had happened. She went to work, cooked dinners, discussed weekend plans with Gleb. But inside, her decision was taking shape.
Three days after that conversation, she met Kirill Yefremov again and brought him everything she had collected: recorded conversations, bank statements, copies of documents, and most importantly—the video recording of Saturday’s discussion, where her in-laws and Gleb openly talked about their plan.
“These are very serious pieces of evidence,” Kirill said, reviewing the material. “With this, you can go to court.”
“I don’t want to sue,” Alya shook her head. “I want a divorce and to keep my apartment.”
“With evidence like this, that won’t be a problem. They were clearly acting in bad faith. The court will be on your side.”
Kirill helped Alya prepare the divorce papers. The hardest part remained: the conversation with Gleb.
That evening Alya invited her in-laws over for dinner. She set the table and cooked Gleb’s favorite dishes.
“Is there some kind of celebration?” her husband asked, surprised, when he came home from work.
“More like an important conversation,” Alya answered. “Your parents will be here soon.”
When everyone sat down, Alya said calmly:
“I accidentally overheard your conversation last Saturday. I want to understand why you’re planning to deceive me.”
Silence fell. Olesya Sergeyevna went pale. Roman Anatolyevich froze with his fork in his hand.
“What are you talking about?” her mother-in-law recovered first. “No one was going to deceive you.”
“Really?” Alya smiled. “Then what about: ‘Gleb, why do we need a mortgage when your wife has a spacious apartment?’ And then—how to register the new place to Gleb and you so I have no rights to it?”
“Alya, you misunderstood everything,” Gleb cut in. “My parents are just worried—”
“About you, not about me,” Alya finished for him. “That much I understood perfectly. As well as the fact that you were going to use the money from selling my apartment for some shady ‘business projects.’”
“You were eavesdropping?” Olesya Sergeyevna burst out.
“Yes,” Alya answered evenly. “And not only that. I have all the evidence of your ‘plan’—recordings, documents, video. I could take this to court for attempted fraud, but I won’t. I’m simply filing for divorce.”
She took a folder of papers and placed it in front of Gleb.
“This is the divorce petition and a property settlement agreement. You take your things and return the money you transferred to your father from our joint account.”
“You can’t do this!” Gleb jumped up. “We’re—”
“You don’t have to finish,” Alya remained astonishingly calm. “I’ve decided. You have a choice: we separate peacefully, or I use the evidence I’ve collected in court. And yes—here’s a copy of the recording of your conversation,” she said, placing a flash drive on the table. “You can listen. Very educational.”
Gleb and his parents looked stunned. They clearly hadn’t expected that turn of events.
“Alya, let’s talk this through,” Gleb made one last attempt. “You got it all wrong.”
“No,” Alya said firmly. “I understood everything exactly as it is. The three of you planned to deceive me. That’s a fact—and I have proof. Decide, Gleb. The easy way, or through the courts.”
The divorce went quickly and without unnecessary noise. Afraid of legal consequences and public exposure, Gleb didn’t dispute the terms. He returned the money he’d transferred to his father and moved in with his parents, taking only his personal belongings.
Her mother-in-law tried calling a few times, but Alya didn’t answer. Everything that needed to be said had already been said.
At work, Alya threw herself into a new project—a program for renovating older neighborhoods. Noticing her enthusiasm and professionalism, Andrey Solovyov offered her a promotion.
“Deputy head of the department,” he announced at the end of the quarter. “You’ve earned it, Alya.”
Alya decided not to sell the apartment. Instead, she took out a small loan and renovated it—replacing the old windows, doors, and plumbing. The apartment was transformed, becoming truly her space, where every detail reflected her taste and character.
In the evenings she often met up with Nika, who had become even closer to her after everything that happened.
“You know, I don’t regret it,” Alya admitted one night over coffee. “Yes, it hurt, but now I feel stronger.”
“You are strong,” Nika smiled. “Not everyone could have handled it so gracefully.”
One day, coming home from work, Alya practically bumped into a man at the entrance to her building.
“Sorry, I didn’t—Pavel?” she recognized an old acquaintance from university.
“Alya? What a coincidence!” Pavel said happily. “You live here?”
“Yes, my whole life. And you?”
“I just moved in. Came back to the city after six years in Siberia.”
They started talking, and Pavel invited her for a cup of coffee. Alya agreed—why not?
Pavel turned out to be the complete opposite of Gleb: open, straightforward, with a great sense of humor. He worked as an engineer at a large company, traveled a lot, and, as it turned out, had also recently gone through a divorce.
“My ex-wife decided I spent too much time working,” he said. “Maybe she was right. But now I’m trying to pay more attention to balance in life.”
Alya didn’t rush into new relationships, but she enjoyed Pavel’s company. They often took evening walks, talking about books, movies, and work.
Half a year after the divorce, Alya met Nika again in their favorite café.
“Imagine this—Gleb and his parents are trying to buy an apartment on credit, but the bank turned them down,” Nika said, scrolling on her phone. “As far as I know, Roman Anatolyevich ran into trouble with his ‘profitable business project.’”
“How do you know?” Alya asked, surprised.
“Small town,” Nika shrugged. “News travels fast.”
Alya thought for a moment.
“Sometimes you have to lose something valuable to understand what things are really worth. I’m grateful for the lesson.”
“And for your apartment,” Nika added with a wink.
“And for that too,” Alya smiled. “But most of all, I’m grateful that now I know for sure: a home isn’t just walls—it’s the place where you feel safe. And sometimes you have to protect that place from the people you let into your life.”
That evening, coming home, Alya saw Pavel waiting by the entrance with a bouquet of wildflowers.
“Wanted to make you happy,” he said shyly.
Alya smiled and invited him in for tea. Maybe it was the beginning of a new chapter—a chapter where her home would remain her fortress, but with room inside it for new, sincere feelings.