Do you think happiness is going to knock on the door by itself?” Nastya stood in the middle of the kitchen with a rag in her hand, looking at her husband as if he were a stranger. “Or are you still waiting for someone to decide for us when it’s time to get out of this little cage?”
“We don’t live in a cage, we live in an apartment—our own, by the way,” Mikhail muttered, not lifting his eyes from his mug. “It’s not my fault that nothing is ever good enough for you.”
“It’s not that ‘nothing is good enough,’” Nastya shot back, wringing out the rag and tossing it into the sink. “I just want us to breathe, do you understand? To stop listening to the upstairs neighbor drilling for the third hour straight, and the woman next door screaming at her cat.”
“She wants to breathe,” Mikhail snorted. “Open the window—breathe all you want.”
He spoke calmly, but with a tone that made something inside Nastya crack. His constant sarcasm… it used to seem almost funny. Now it irritated her to the point of shaking.
“Misha, I’m serious. I’ve already saved a little. We could start looking at options. At least just browsing,” she tried to sound gentler, but it came out strained.
“Uh-huh.” He stretched and glanced at his phone. “She’s going to browse. Houses, mortgages, problems. We don’t even have money for a new washing machine, and she’s already planning to buy a house.”
“I’m not saying tomorrow!” Nastya flared. “Just dreaming, planning—that’s not a crime!”
“Dreaming isn’t a crime,” he smirked. “Only what’s the point of your dreams if I’m the one who’ll have to clean up the mess afterward?”
“You don’t have to ‘clean up’ anything,” she said coldly. “Everything we have is my job, my overtime, my nerves.”
“Oh, here we go,” Mikhail leaned back in his chair. “A woman’s favorite line: ‘I do everything myself, it’s all me.’”
“Is it not?” She turned, looking him straight in the eyes. “When was the last time you bought something for the house? Or just asked how my day went?”
He said nothing, but his face showed it hit a nerve.
“You know, Nastya,” he finally said, “it’s impossible to talk to you anymore. Everything’s an accusation. I’m tired.”
“And I’m tired of waiting for you to want to live instead of just exist!” she blurted.
After that, silence hung in the kitchen. The only sound was rain drumming on the windowsill outside. October—gray, cold. Everything felt as if it had teamed up to crush her mood.
Mikhail quietly got up, poured himself more tea, and without looking at his wife said:
“Your dreams, Nastya, are like loans. With no repayment term.”
He left the kitchen, trailing the smell of cheap tobacco and the dull slam of a door.
Nastya stood frozen. That line hit harder than she wanted to admit.
“Loans… with no repayment term.”
She brushed crumbs off the table and felt her throat tighten. He hadn’t said anything new, really—yet inside her something seemed to snap.
That evening she went to bed later than usual. In the next room the TV droned; Mikhail fell asleep with his phone in his hand. Nastya lay staring at the ceiling, thinking that their marriage was like an old blanket: it still warmed you, sort of, but it was full of holes—and you didn’t even want to patch it anymore.
Morning was like always: Mikhail slammed the door on his way out and yelled from the threshold, “Don’t forget to pay the internet.” He didn’t even say goodbye.
Nastya turned on the kettle and pulled out a notebook—old, worn, with bent corners. On the first page was a neatly written list of expenses. At the bottom, in small letters, a note: “Save up for a house.”
That line was like a secret mantra. Nastya repeated it every time she set aside even a little money—ten, fifteen thousand. Five years—eight hundred thousand. All on her own. Without her husband. Without help. Without support.
Sometimes she imagined the two of them drinking tea on the terrace of their own house: sun, quiet, the scent of apple trees. He grumbled, she laughed.
But the older their marriage got, the farther that picture drifted away.
In recent months Mikhail had been like someone else. Silent, glued to his phone, snapping at every little thing.
“Misha, let’s at least go out of town for the weekend,” Nastya suggested once. “Just to breathe.”
“I’m swamped,” he tossed back curtly.
She nodded. But deep down she already knew: it wasn’t work. They simply had nothing left to talk about.
A couple weeks later life threw in a twist that made Nastya’s head spin.
A call came from the district administration: her grandmother had died and left her an inheritance. Nastya sat in her office, listening to the lawyer’s voice, not believing it. Two million three hundred thousand. Real money—not a dream.
At first she thought it was a mistake. Then a letter arrived from the notary—everything was confirmed.
That evening, trembling with excitement, she told Mikhail.
“Misha, can you imagine—Grandma… she left me money. Real money! We can buy a house!” she said, unable to hide her smile.
Mikhail didn’t even lift his head from the laptop.
“Well, congratulations,” he answered dryly. “Just don’t rush to spend it.”
“Not spend it—buy!” Nastya burst out. “A real house, Misha. A garden, a bathhouse, everything I wanted!”
He glanced at her.
“Yeah. Just don’t get talked into some falling-apart shack.”
And back to his phone.
It was like hitting a wall. Her joy instantly settled like dust.
She didn’t argue. She just sat down on the couch and opened her laptop. The “Real Estate” section. Her fingers trembled, but her heart was beating—for the first time in a long while—not from anger, but from hope.
A couple days later she found the one. A house in the suburbs, forty minutes by commuter train. Three rooms, a bathhouse, a garden. Old, but solid. Price: three million.
“If I add my savings, it’ll be enough,” she calculated.
On the weekend she went to see it. Autumn was in full force—wet leaves, the smell of dampness, a low sky like the ceiling in an old Khrushchyovka apartment.
But the house… the house felt alive. Small, tidy, with carved window frames and an apple tree in the yard. The owner was an elderly woman—tired, kind, with a voice like a warm woolen shawl.
“I lived here forty years,” she said. “Now I’m moving to my daughter’s, to Krasnodar. The house is good, solid, doesn’t flood. The stove works, the roof is new.”
Nastya listened, and something inside her turned over. Her place. Her house.
That evening she showed the photos to Mikhail.
“Look how nice it is! And not expensive.”
He flipped through the pictures without taking his eyes off his phone.
“Kind of far.”
“But it’s quiet.”
“Well, if you like it, buy it,” he said indifferently.
She heard not permission, but detachment. Still, a spark flared inside her: “Whatever. I’m doing it anyway.”
A week later the deal was done. The house was registered in her name. Without Mikhail. All the paperwork clean; the notary confirmed everything.
The first days Nastya lived as if in a dream. Everything around her was new—the smell of wood, the crackle of the stove, the rustle of wind outside the window. Even tea on the old enamel stove tasted better.
Mikhail came by a couple times, stood in the yard, bored. Phone, cigarette, silence.
“Help me carry in the boards,” Nastya asked.
“Yeah, in a minute.”
Minutes turned into hours. Then she stopped asking. She did everything herself—hands in paint, knees in dust, but with the feeling that she was finally living.
When everything was ready—curtains, shelves, a lamp above the table—Nastya worked up the courage:
“Misha, maybe we should move? It’s all ready. We even got internet installed.”
He shrugged.
“We’ll see. I’m swamped.”
“Again?” she asked softly.
“Yeah. Don’t start, okay?”
She didn’t start. She just nodded and went to bed.
But inside, everything burned.
A week later she moved in alone. With bags, a cat, and a thermos of tea. Her first night was on a mattress, to the whisper of wind and the crackle of the stove.
In the morning she looked out the window—fog above the apple tree, frost on the grass. Her heart clenched: “This is it. Mine.”
The neighbors welcomed her warmly. A woman around fifty, plump, in rubber boots, peered over the fence.
“New owner, are you?”
“Yes. Nastya.”
“I’m Marina. It’s quiet here. If you need anything—tea, sugar, conversation included.”
Nastya smiled. No one had spoken to her that simply in a long time.
After that, life fell into its own rhythm. Work, the train, evenings with a book and the kettle. She called Mikhail—he was always “busy.”
Sometimes just ringing. Sometimes a dry “We’ll see.”
And the quieter their talks became, the louder the thought rang: “He’s leaving. Not today—tomorrow.”
Nastya tried not to think about it. But night is a tricky thing. When it’s dark outside and you can hear the stove crackling, thoughts crawl into your head like mice into a pantry.
And then one evening, at the end of November, a call.
Her mother-in-law’s number.
“Nastya, hi,” Tamara Petrovna’s voice was sugary, like compote made from last year’s cherries. “I heard you’ve moved into a house now?”
“Yes. I have.”
“And Misha’s still in the city?”
“For now, yes.”
“Oh, I thought you were together. Well, never mind, it’ll all settle down. The main thing is that the house is looked after.”
“It’s looked after,” Nastya answered dryly.
“Well, well, girl. Don’t forget, our Misha is a responsible boy. He won’t abandon his family.”
Nastya tightened her grip on the phone.
“Won’t abandon his family…”
In her mother-in-law’s voice you could hear it—she knew more than she was saying.
And a week later that “more” came to Nastya in person.
Saturday. A fine, wet snow drifted down; the gray sky hung low like an old blanket. Nastya was washing the kitchen floor, humming under her breath—either to avoid thinking or to keep from falling apart.
And then—the sound of an engine outside. Sharp, brazen. Impossible to mistake. Mikhail.
She looked out—and nearly dropped the rag.
There he was. Jacket on, unshaven, eyes like he hadn’t slept in a week. And beside him… a figure in a puffy coat, a headscarf, with a bag. Tamara Petrovna in the flesh.
“Lord,” Nastya breathed. “Here we go.”
She went out onto the porch, crossing her arms.
“Well?”
“Hi,” Mikhail said without meeting her eyes. “We need to talk.”
“I can see that. Just get to it—no frills.”
They went into the kitchen. Nastya put the kettle on, but no one touched the tea. The air rang with tension, as if it might crack any second.
“Mom…” Mikhail began. “Basically, she has nowhere to live. The apartment is damp, there’s mold, the ceiling leaks. The doctors said it’s harmful.”
“And?” Nastya stared straight at him without blinking.
“And I thought she could live here. Temporarily. Until she sorts out the housing issue.”
She didn’t even believe she’d heard him right.
“Wait,” Nastya said slowly. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Why are you reacting like that?” he cut in. “Mom’s not a stranger. The house is big, you’re alone—there’s plenty of space.”
“This is my house,” she answered quietly.
“I’m not arguing. But why are you being stubborn? We’re family.”
“Family?” Nastya gave a bitter little laugh. “So I’m supposed to let your mother move into my house because ‘family’?”
“Nastya, don’t exaggerate,” Mikhail started getting irritated. “Mom’s having a hard time, she needs help.”
“Help her,” Nastya snapped. “She’s your mother.”
He frowned.
“I don’t see what the problem is. She’ll live here, so what?”
“The problem is you didn’t even ask for my consent,” Nastya said sharply.
“I just decided to tell you. So it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“Tell me?” she scoffed. “So you’ve already decided everything, yeah? All that’s left is to bring her things?”
He looked at her from under his brows.
“Nastya, don’t start. I’m stuck between you two.”
“Because you’re a coward,” she said calmly. “It’s easier for you to play along with your mother than to talk to me honestly.”
“Don’t make it personal,” he jumped up. “I’m just trying to help a person!”
“Help her. Just not at my expense.”
Silence. He stood there breathing hard, then hissed:
“Mom is sacred. And if you don’t have the heart to let her in, I’ll move her here myself.”
Nastya looked him in the eyes.
“Try,” she said quietly. “Just try.”
He froze. His gaze turned icy.
“You’re leaving me no choice.”
“And you’re leaving me none.”
Mikhail gathered his things in silence. He didn’t even yell. He only threw over his shoulder as he left:
“You’re the one who destroyed our marriage.”
“You destroyed it earlier,” Nastya answered. “I just didn’t want to see it.”
He drove away. Outside, the smell of gasoline and loneliness lingered.
Nastya stood on the porch for a long time, until snow covered the steps with a thin layer.
On the third day, a call.
That same voice—sticky as cold jelly:
“Nastya, it’s me, Tamara Petrovna. I’ll stop by tomorrow, take a look at the house.”
“What do you mean—stop by?” Nastya nearly dropped the phone.
“What’s the big deal? I need to understand where I’ll be living.”
“You won’t be living here,” Nastya enunciated.
“Girl, don’t get hotheaded. Misha said you just flared up.”
“Tell your son,” Nastya said calmly, steel in her voice, “that if you step onto my property without permission, I’ll call the police.”
A pause. Then a cold little laugh:
“Oh, is that so… We’ll see.”
And they did—see.
Morning. Frosty; the air crunched. Nastya had lit the stove, brewed coffee, had almost convinced herself it was over. And then—again: the roar of an engine.
She looked out—a Lada. Mikhail. And beside him—his mother.
Tamara Petrovna wore an important expression, as if she’d come to inspect how the hired help was doing.
“What, you won’t even open the gate?” she called loudly. “It’s cold!”
“I won’t,” Nastya replied calmly. “You came for nothing.”
“Stop it,” Mikhail cut in. “We agreed.”
“We didn’t agree,” Nastya interrupted him. “I said no.”
“Nastya, you’re acting like I’m a stranger.”
“And you became one.”
He fell silent. Tamara Petrovna stepped up to the fence, looking at Nastya as if she were stupid.
“Oh come on, Nastenka, I’m not your enemy. I’ll help. I’ll tidy up the garden, look after the flowers.”
Nastya smirked.
“Help? So you’re planning to live here.”
“Well, why not? The house is big, and I’m not picky. Just a little corner, that’s all.”
“No,” Nastya said hard. “There will be no corners.”
“Oh, I see you’ve got a temper,” her mother-in-law sneered. “That’s how you scare men off.”
“Let them be scared,” Nastya answered evenly.
Mikhail stepped closer to the gate.
“Nastya, enough stubbornness. Mom can’t live there, and here there’s empty space.”
“It’s empty because you never come.”
He exhaled through his teeth.
“You don’t understand. Her health…”
“I understand everything,” Nastya cut him off. “But that’s not a reason to force your way in where you’re not welcome.”
For a second they stood there at an impasse. Then Tamara Petrovna sighed theatrically.
“Come on, son. She doesn’t need me. Let her live alone—so proud.”
Mikhail looked at Nastya—tired, almost pathetic.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“I do. I finally do,” she said, and shut the gate right in his face.
That evening Nastya sat in the kitchen wrapped in a blanket. The house was quiet; only the clock ticked.
A message blinked on her phone:
“You destroyed everything yourself. I’ll file for division of property.”
She smirked.
“What property, Misha? The house is mine.”
Still, it was unpleasant—not because of court, but because of how low he’d sunk.
“When a person can’t control you, they try to break you,” she remembered a line from an old movie.
And how perfectly it fit.
A week later a letter came from the court.
Nastya went to the city, sat in the old building with peeling walls.
At the hearing Mikhail was there, of course. In a suit, but with the eyes of a cornered animal.
The lawyer read the documents:
“The house was purchased with the personal funds of citizen Orlova Anastasia Sergeyevna, confirmed by inheritance papers and bank statements.”
The judge delivered the decision dryly:
“Claim denied. The house remains with the defendant.”
Mikhail went pale, as if someone had yanked him out of a dream.
When they stepped into the corridor, he came up to her.
“So. Happy?”
“More than you know,” Nastya said.
“We could’ve done this the easy way.”
“The easy way is when there’s respect,” she replied. “And we never had it.”
He pressed his lips together.
“You’ve changed. You’re cold.”
“No, Misha,” she gave a small smile. “I just stopped being convenient.”
He turned away and said quietly:
“Good luck, Nastya.”
“You too,” she answered calmly.
And that was it.
No shouting, no drama, no fireworks. Just—an end.
When she got back home, Nastya walked through the rooms for a long time. Every little thing reminded her: all of this was hers. Not someone’s shared “ours,” not “for two,” but hers.
She turned on the light, opened the curtains—sun broke through the clouds, laying golden patches across the floor.
The garden glittered with frost, the stove crackled, the air smelled fresh and still.
Nastya took out the notebook—the very one where she used to list expenses.
The last line read: “Save up for a house.”
She ran her finger over it and crossed it out.
No more saving was needed.
Spring came quietly. The snow melted, the apple tree bloomed, neighbors started bringing benches out into the sun.
In the mornings Nastya stepped outside with a cup of coffee and watched the first green shoots push up through the soil.
Marina waved over the fence:
“So, Nastya—getting used to the house?”
“I am,” Nastya smiled. “Now it’s truly mine.”
“Right,” Marina nodded. “The main thing is—don’t let anyone in who comes with dirty feet.”
“Oh, I’ve learned that one,” Nastya chuckled.
They both laughed—lightly, woman to woman, without barbs.
In the evening she sat on the terrace, watching the sun sink behind the rooftops. The air was warm, smelling of smoke and fresh earth.
Nastya took an old sheet of paper and wrote:
“A home isn’t walls. It’s respect for yourself.”
She set down the pen and breathed deeply.
Her chest felt calm—not from happiness, but from clarity.
She looked at the road where Mikhail had once left.
Now she didn’t wait. Didn’t fear.
She just lived.
In that house, in that quiet, in that new self—real