Olga had barely closed the door behind her, kicked off her shoes, and stretched—dreaming of hot tea and silence. But instead of the usual “How was your day?” she was met by Alexey, standing in the middle of the kitchen with a sheet of paper in his hands. His face was tense, as if he were bracing himself for an important conversation.
“Here,” he said, placing a printed table on the table in front of her. “I calculated it.”
Olga frowned, studying the columns of numbers.
“What is this?”
“Expenses for the month. Your personal food spending.”
She slowly ran a finger down the lines. Buckwheat, eggs, milk, bread—even salt—everything itemized down to the last kopek. At the bottom was the total: 3,567 rubles.
“Are you… serious?”
“Completely. We agreed: shared budget—half and half. You ate my groceries.”
Olga laughed, but it came out nervous.
“My groceries? Alexey, you’ve been living in my apartment for three years.”
He hesitated for a second, then immediately recovered:
“That doesn’t matter. We’re a family.”
“Family?” Her voice trembled. “Then why are you counting every ruble I ‘owe’ you?”
“Because it’s fair!”
Olga took a deep breath, trying not to snap.
“Fine. If we’re doing this…” She pulled out her phone and opened her banking app. “Then let’s be honest. You live in my apartment. Market rent for a place like this is 25,000 a month. Minus half the utilities—so that’s 22,500 from you.”
Alexey went pale.
“Are you messing with me?”
“No. I’m just calculating. Like you.”
Silence settled in the kitchen like a heavy weight.
“That’s totally different!” he finally blurted out.
“Why?” Olga tilted her head. “You’re the one who wants fairness, right?”
He shifted, avoiding her gaze.
“The apartment… isn’t food.”
“Ah. Got it. Fairness only works one way.”
Alexey jumped up, shoving his chair back.
“You just don’t want to be responsible for your spending!”
Olga stopped holding back.
“Great! Then starting tomorrow—either you pay for living here, or you move out. Choose.”
He slammed the bedroom door. Olga stayed alone in the kitchen, staring at that stupid printout.
“How did it even get to this?”
Memories surfaced: how three years earlier Alexey—back then just her boyfriend—had moved in “temporarily,” saying he was renting out his own place and just needed a little time. How it turned out there was nothing to rent out—the one-bedroom was his mother’s. How, little by little, he started treating her home like it was his, and treating her like some kind of free service.
She crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash.
“Enough.”
Morning began with loud pounding on the door. Olga, not fully awake yet, reached for her phone—seven a.m. Who would come at this hour?
She threw on a robe and walked barefoot to the entryway. Through the peephole flashed a familiar displeased face: Lyudmila Petrovna, Alexey’s mother.
Olga took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Hello, Lyudmila Petrovna. Do you ever call ahead?”
Without answering, her mother-in-law stepped inside, dragging a huge wheeled bag behind her. A sharp cloud of cheap perfume trailed after her.
“Where’s my son?” she snapped, scanning the apartment with an appraising look.
Hearing his mother’s voice, Alexey immediately darted out of the bedroom wearing only boxer shorts.
“Mom! What are you doing here?”
“Oh what, sweetheart—so now a mother can’t come see her own child?” She reached to hug him, then sharply turned to Olga. “Though of course, in someone else’s home, even being a guest is complicated.”
Olga crossed her arms.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, if you’re coming to stay, giving a day’s notice is basic politeness.”
“Oh, excuse me, Your Majesty!” the older woman snorted. “Should I also ask your permission to visit my son?”
Alexey grew anxious when he saw Olga’s lips tighten.
“Mom, no scandals. Let’s go to the kitchen—I’ll put the kettle on.”
Lyudmila Petrovna, without even taking off her coat, followed him, clicking her heels loudly. Olga remained in the hallway, staring at the dirty boot prints on the floor she’d just washed.
On the kitchen, it started immediately.
“Sweetheart, you’ve lost weight!” his mother wailed, grabbing Alexey’s cheeks. “Does she even feed you?”
“Mom, come on…”
“And what’s this list?” Lyudmila Petrovna snatched the crumpled sheet from the table—yesterday’s calculations.
Olga, standing in the doorway, felt goosebumps crawl up her back.
“Oh, what do we have here?” the mother-in-law unfolded the paper. “‘Buckwheat—56 rubles, eggs—89…’ What kind of circus is this?”
Alexey lowered his eyes.
“We just… decided to track the budget more carefully.”
“Budget?” Lyudmila Petrovna whirled toward Olga. “Did you make him humiliate himself like this? Counting every penny?”
Something inside Olga boiled over.
“Your son started counting what I ‘owe’ for groceries. And when I reminded him he lives in my apartment for free, he didn’t like that.”
The kitchen froze for a beat.
Lyudmila Petrovna slowly rose from her chair.
“So… you’re blackmailing my son?”
“That isn’t blackmail,” Olga answered coldly. “That’s called fairness.”
“Oh, fairness!” the mother-in-law laughed fake and sharp. “Do you know how much my Lyoshenka could be earning if he hadn’t gotten involved with you? He had an offer from a developer’s daughter! And you…” She looked Olga up and down with contempt. “You can’t even give him children.”
Olga inhaled as if she’d been struck.
Alexey jumped between them.
“Mom, stop it!”
“What ‘stop it’?” Lyudmila Petrovna pressed toward Olga. “You’ve lived with her three years—where are the grandkids? Where’s your career? She’s accusing you of something? Then let her prove she’s even a woman!”
Olga couldn’t stay silent anymore.
“Get out of my apartment.”
“What?!”
“You heard me. Out.”
Lyudmila Petrovna froze, then turned slowly to her son.
“Did you hear how she’s talking to me?”
Alexey looked back and forth between his mother and his wife, lost.
“Olya… maybe don’t be so harsh?”
“Harsh?” Olga laughed. “Your mother comes into my home, insults me, and I’m supposed to smile?”
She stepped toward her phone.
“I’m giving you five minutes to pack up. Or I’m calling the police.”
Lyudmila Petrovna went pale.
“You… you wouldn’t dare!”
“Try stopping me.”
Alexey grabbed his mother’s hand.
“Mom, let me walk you out…”
She yanked free, but headed for the door. On the threshold she turned back.
“Remember this, Olga. You’ll regret it.”
The door slammed.
The apartment fell silent. Alexey stood with his head lowered.
“Sorry… I didn’t know she would…”
Olga didn’t answer. She turned and went into the bedroom, clicking the lock loudly.
“Now I see where he gets his manners,” she thought, staring up at the ceiling.
But the worst was still ahead.
Three days after Lyudmila Petrovna’s visit, Olga came home from work dreaming of a quiet evening with a book and tea. But the moment she opened the door, she was hit by loud laughter from the living room and the smell of beer.
On her couch, sprawled like the owner, sat Kostya—Alexey’s younger brother. On the table in front of him were three empty bottles, a bag of chips, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
“Oh, Olga’s here!” Kostya waved lazily, not even trying to stand. “We thought you might be spending the night somewhere else.”
Olga stopped in the doorway, gripping her bag.
“Alexey,” she said, her voice unnaturally calm. “Explain.”
Alexey appeared from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel.
“Kostya’s here for a couple days. He’s got housing problems.”
“A couple days?” Olga pointed at the suitcase by the door—packed for at least a week.
“Well… maybe a little longer,” Alexey shrugged.
Kostya reached for a fresh bottle.
“Oh come on, Olya, why so tense? You’re a feminist, right? You should be for equality. So I can live here too.”
Olga walked to the table, took the beer bottle, and poured it down the sink.
“First: I’m a feminist, not a maid. Second: equality means everyone contributes.”
Kostya snorted.
“Here we go…”
“Do you pay rent?” Olga continued. “Help around the house? Or do you just sit on my couch and trash my apartment?”
Alexey tried to cut in.
“Olya, he’s family…”
“Family?” Olga snapped toward him. “Then let him pay like family: 500 rubles a day. Or he cleans, cooks, and washes up for everyone.”
Kostya rolled his eyes.
“Oh, screw you…”
He reached for Olga’s laptop on the coffee table.
“Move,” she warned.
“Relax, I just want to put music on…”
With an awkward motion he knocked a mug of tea. Dark liquid poured straight onto the keyboard.
Dead silence.
Olga walked over, flipped the laptop. Water dripped from the casing.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s it.”
Kostya gave an uneasy laugh.
“Well, it happens…”
Olga slowly raised her head.
“Alexey. Either he packs his things and leaves right now. Or you both leave.”
Alexey blinked, stunned.
“But…”
“Choose.”
Kostya stood up, finally realizing how serious it was.
“Come on, Olya, it was an accident…”
Olga pulled out her phone.
“I’m counting to three.”
“Olya!” Alexey pleaded.
“One.”
Kostya started frantically grabbing his stuff.
“Two.”
“I’m going, I’m going!”
When the door slammed behind his brother, Alexey sank onto the couch.
“You’ve totally lost it…”
Olga said nothing. She picked up the damaged laptop and went into the bedroom.
An hour later she put Kostya’s things out in the hallway.
And in the evening she sent Alexey the bill for the laptop repair.
A week after the Kostya incident, Olga noticed Alexey acting strangely—staying late at work, whispering on the phone, going silent the moment she entered the room. On Saturday morning, while he was showering, his phone lay on the kitchen table and lit up with a notification from “Katyusha.”
Olga wasn’t planning to check his phone. But a minute later a second message arrived: “Thanks for the transfer, darling! God, I miss you so much…”
Her hands moved on their own.
She knew the password—they always used the same date, their wedding day. The chat opened, and Olga saw weeks of messages: photos of Katya half-dressed, talk of their meetings, and—most of all—confirmed bank transfers: 15,000, 20,000, another 25,000… In one month Alexey had sent this “Katyusha” almost 70,000 rubles.
The bathroom door opened. Alexey, wrapped in a towel, froze in the doorway when he saw his wife holding his phone.
“What are you doing?” His voice shook.
Olga lifted her head slowly. Tears stood in her eyes, but her voice was steady.
“I’m curious— is this the developer’s daughter your mother mentioned? Or just the first random girl you found?”
Alexey went pale.
“Olya, it’s not what you think…”
“Then what is it?” she held up the screen. “An investment? Or a down payment on ‘Katyusha’s’ new breasts?”
He lunged for the phone, but Olga jerked back.
“Don’t touch me! For three years you kept saying we didn’t have money for a vacation, for repairs, for my courses! Turns out we did—we just didn’t have it for me.”
Alexey started babbling excuses.
“She just got into a hard situation… she had nowhere to live…”
“How touching!” Olga laughed, and it sounded frightening. “You’re sending money to your mistress while living in my apartment? While I pay your bills? While your brother destroys my things?”
She stood up so abruptly the chair clattered to the floor.
“Pack your stuff. Now.”
“Are you serious?” Alexey forced a nervous laugh. “Over some stupid mistake?”
“A stupid mistake is not turning off notifications when you cheat,” Olga said coldly. “You have an hour. Then I call the police and report illegal residence.”
Alexey’s face changed.
“You don’t have the right! This is my home!”
“No,” Olga took out her own phone. “This is my home. And I’m about to prove it.”
She called the bank on speaker. Within five minutes, all of Alexey’s transfers from the past month were frozen, and his access to their joint account was cut off.
“How…” he stared at her in real horror. “How could you?”
“Learn from the best,” Olga said. “Now you have exactly one hour to disappear. And I suggest you hurry—I can already picture how happy your Katya is to see her ‘darling’ back.”
When the door slammed behind Alexey, Olga dropped onto the floor and sobbed.
But only for a minute. Then she stood up, washed her face, and started making a list—of everything she needed to do so she would never end up in this situation again.
First: “Divorce.” Second: “Change the locks.” Third: “Lawyer.”
But the most important thing she’d already done—she stopped being a victim.
Three days after Alexey moved out, Olga had already changed the locks and filed the divorce papers when the doorbell rang insistently again. In the peephole she saw several faces at once—her mother-in-law, her father-in-law, some aunt with two teenage kids.
Olga took a deep breath and opened the door, keeping the chain on.
“We came to talk,” Lyudmila Petrovna announced, trying to peer inside. “Will you let us in, or are we doing this on the stairs?”
“You have five minutes,” Olga said coldly, undoing the chain.
The crowd poured into the hallway, talking loudly over one another. The kids immediately headed for the fridge.
“Can we grab something to eat?” the teenage girl asked, already pulling open the fridge door.
“No, you can’t,” Olga snapped. “Sit down and tell me what you want.”
Her mother-in-law gave her a contemptuous look.
“You kicked my son out of his own home! We came to restore justice.”
Olga crossed her arms.
“First, it’s my apartment. Second, your son chose to leave for a mistress he was supporting with our shared money.”
“Liar!” the aunt shrieked. “Lyosha would never do that!”
“Here’s proof of the transfers,” Olga said, pulling out bank printouts. “Seventy thousand in a month. Want to see their chat with photos too?”
Awkward silence.
Her father-in-law recovered first.
“Well… even if that’s true, you have to understand—sometimes a man needs… variety. But family is sacred!”
Olga laughed.
“What a touching concern for family. Then where were you when your son was counting every kopek I spent on food? Or when his brother trashed my apartment?”
Lyudmila Petrovna snorted.
“You’re still wrong! We’re family and we’ll handle it as a family. Today we’re staying with you so we can discuss how you’re going to get Lyosha back.”
Olga rose slowly and walked to the door.
“You have two minutes to gather your things and leave.”
“You’re kicking us out?” the aunt protested. “We’re guests!”
“In my home, guests behave decently,” Olga said. “You aren’t. So either you leave, or I call the police.”
“Who do you think you are?!” Lyudmila Petrovna screamed. “We’ll drag you through the courts! The apartment is family property!”
“No,” Olga said calmly. “It was mine before the marriage. Here are the documents.” She took out a folder. “Want to check?”
Her father-in-law reached for it, but Olga pulled it back.
“Time’s up. Out.”
When they finally spilled back into the hallway, Lyudmila Petrovna hissed:
“You’ll regret this. We’ll destroy you on social media!”
Olga only smiled.
“Go ahead. Just don’t forget to attach screenshots of your son’s transfers to his mistress. I think your followers will be interested.”
The door slammed shut. Olga leaned against it and closed her eyes. A plan was already spinning in her head—tomorrow she’d file for a restraining order. But for now… she just needed to survive the day.
She went to the window and saw the “family” loudly arguing in the parking lot. Alexey was there too, gesturing as he shouted at his mother. Lyudmila Petrovna yelled back. The aunt had already pulled out her phone and was furiously typing—probably starting the promised online “harassment.”
Olga sighed and drew the curtains. Let them write. The truth was on her side. And that was what mattered.
A week after the relatives’ visit, Olga stood before the mirror, trying on a строгий suit for court. The clock ticked in the kitchen—two hours until the hearing. Suddenly, the doorbell rang sharply.
Through the peephole she saw Alexey. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. Olga opened the door but kept the chain on.
“What do you want?”
“Let’s talk,” he rasped. “No court. I… I’m ready to settle this peacefully.”
Olga shook her head.
“Too late. Too many lies, Alexey.”
“But you can’t just throw me out on the street!” He grabbed the doorframe.
“I have rights!”
Olga calmly took a document from the folder.
“Here’s the Rosreestr extract. The apartment is my property. And here’s our prenup—you insisted on it, remember? ‘So you wouldn’t claim my business.’ Shame the business never showed up.”
Alexey went pale.
“You… you don’t have the right…”
“I do.” She flipped the page. “Under Article 35 of the Housing Code. Want me to read it to you?”
His face changed again.
“Olya, let’s do this nicely… I’ll pay it back! That money… I…”
“What money, Alexey?” Olga narrowed her eyes. “The money you sent Katya? Or the money you spent on her new breasts?”
He shook his head hard.
“No, you don’t understand… She blackmailed me! Said she’d tell you about our affair last year if I didn’t…”
Olga yanked the door wide open.
“LAST YEAR?”
Alexey realized he’d slipped. His face twisted.
“That’s it! I won’t let you talk to me like this!” He tried to force his way inside.
In one motion Olga pulled out her phone.
“I’ve already dialed 102. You leave on your own, or with the police.”
They froze in tense silence. Then the elevator opened and their neighbor—Grandma Zinaida Petrovna—stepped out.
“Olya, everything okay?” the old woman peered hard at Alexey. “This… person bothering you again?”
Alexey clenched his fists.
“This is a family matter!”
“Family?” Grandma snorted. “When was the last time you took out the trash? Or paid a bill? Olya carried everything, and you just drank and slept around!”
Alexey went rigid at her bluntness. Olga barely held back a smile.
“I… I’ll call my lawyer!” he muttered, backing toward the elevator.
“Call,” Olga shouted after him. “Just ask how much a consultation costs for dividing property you don’t have!”
When the elevator doors closed, Grandma nodded approvingly.
“Good girl. A man’s like a bus—don’t like this one, wait for the next.”
Olga laughed. For the first time in months, it sounded real.
Two hours later the judge approved the divorce through an expedited procedure. As Olga left the courthouse, her phone rang—an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“This is Katya,” a young voice said. “I… I wanted to apologize. I didn’t know he was married until I saw your photos on his phone…”
Olga rolled her eyes.
“Congrats on your purchase. Take him—he’s already packed.”
“No, you don’t understand!” Katya’s voice shook. “He… he owes me 50,000. He said after the divorce he’d get half the apartment and pay me back… and now I find out the apartment isn’t even his!”
Olga smiled slowly.
“Welcome to my world, Katya. I suggest you sue him. I’ve got an excellent number for his lawyer.”
She hung up and took a deep breath. The air smelled like freedom.
At exactly eight a.m., a courier rang the bell. Olga signed papers—an official copy of the divorce decree. She set it on the table beside another document: an application for a restraining order, now in her purse to hand to Alexey.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
“You thought it would end that easily? Expect a surprise. K.”
Olga frowned. Who was that? Kostya? Katya? Or Alexey trying to “joke”? She set the phone aside—today wasn’t for riddles.
In the hallway stood three big boxes of Alexey’s belongings, packed the night before. Olga checked the clock—nine sharp, the time they used to drink morning coffee together. Now that tradition was gone, along with their marriage.
She opened the front door and carefully set the boxes out on the landing. Then she took a photo—just in case Alexey claimed she’d stolen something.
She was about to close the door when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. Alexey appeared on the landing, red with rage, with two police officers.
“There!” he pointed at the boxes. “See? She threw out my things! This is my home!”
The older officer—a man around forty with a tired face—sighed.
“Ma’am, are these your actions?”
Olga calmly pulled documents from her purse.
“Here is the divorce decree. Here is the Rosreestr extract showing the apartment is my property. And here”—she handed over the last page—“the official notice I sent this citizen a week ago demanding he pick up his belongings.”
Alexey snatched the papers from the officer’s hands.
“All fake! I’m registered here! I have rights…”
“Sir, calm down,” the second officer said firmly. “Under Article 35 of the Housing Code…”
“That article again!” Alexey roared. “How sick I am of all of you with your articles!”
The officers exchanged a look. The older one took out a notebook.
“Ma’am, do you mind if he takes his things now?”
“Of course not,” Olga smiled. “I’ll even help.”
Alexey grabbed the first box he could reach. At that moment a voice rose from below:
“Olga Nikolaevna? It’s me, Zinaida Petrovna. I’ve got пирожки for you!”
The neighbor appeared with a plate in her hands. Seeing Alexey, she snorted.
“Oh, the trash is back! You bring the bills you haven’t paid in three months? Or you here to demand something again?”
Alexey ground his teeth.
“None of your business!”
“It absolutely is,” the old woman said, setting the plate on the railing. “I’ve lived here forty years and I’ve never seen nerve like this. Officers, look—” she jabbed a finger at the box in Alexey’s hands—“he didn’t even forget to take the gifts for his mistress!”
Olga lifted an eyebrow, surprised. Alexey jerked back.
“That’s not yours!”
“Sure, ‘not mine,’” the neighbor laughed. “And who was drinking beer with a redhead by the entrance yesterday? Also ‘not yours’?”
The officers exchanged another look. The younger one took the box from Alexey.
“Let’s check it so there are no misunderstandings.”
“You have no right!” Alexey shouted, but it was too late.
The officer opened the box. On top were old jeans and T-shirts, but underneath… Olga gasped. An expensive perfume set that had “gone missing” half a year ago. Her favorite earrings. And a stack of cards that read: “To Katyusha, from Lyosha.”
“Interesting ‘misunderstanding,’” the older officer said dryly. “Sir, you’re lucky the complainant isn’t filing a theft report.”
Alexey stood like a schoolboy caught red-handed. Grandma Zinaida smiled triumphantly.
“That’s how it always is. Steal, lie, and then call the police on her. So, Lyoshenka—how does the truth taste?”
Olga silently watched as Alexey, red with shame and rage, grabbed his boxes and went downstairs. The officers apologized for the disturbance and followed him out.
“Thank you, Zinaida Petrovna,” Olga said quietly.
“Oh, come on, girl,” the neighbor waved a hand. “A man’s like the flu—catch it, recover, and you’re fine. Here, take a пирожок, cabbage.”
Olga took the warm pastry and suddenly felt tears on her cheeks. But they were tears of relief. It really was ending.
She went back inside, closed the door, and turned the key twice. For the first time in years, the click of the lock sounded like real freedom.
A year later, Olga stood on the balcony of her—now entirely hers—apartment, enjoying the first spring sunlight. The renovation she’d started during the marriage was finally finished. Light wallpaper, new floors, a spacious kitchen—everything breathed freshness and peace.
On the living room table sat a laptop with her blog open. Her latest post was collecting hundreds of likes and comments: “How I learned to value myself: the story of one divorce.”
Olga reached for her coffee when the doorbell rang. A courier with a bouquet—huge white lilies. She frowned at the card: “Happy anniversary of our meeting. I understood everything. A.”
“What nerve,” Olga muttered, and immediately threw the flowers into the dumpster by the entrance.
Back inside, she sat down at the computer and began typing a new post: “Why charging your husband rent is normal.” The words came easily—one year of therapy and work on herself had done its job.
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Olya… Olya, it’s me…” The familiar raspy voice made her freeze for a second. “I… I wanted to apologize. For everything.”
Olga exhaled deeply.
“Alexey, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Wait! I realized everything. Katya dumped me, my mother’s driving me insane, my brother borrowed my last money and disappeared…” His voice held genuine pain. “I was such an idiot…”
“Yes, you were,” Olga said calmly. “But that’s not my problem anymore.”
“I changed, really! Maybe we meet? As friends?”
Olga looked at her laptop screen where new comments flashed—women sharing their stories, thanking her for support, asking advice.
“You know, Alexey,” she said at last, “I only date sane men now. And you, unfortunately, aren’t on that list.”
She hung up, added the final paragraph to her post, and hit “Publish.” Then she reached for her planner—she had a meeting with a publisher in an hour, interested in her book.
At the doorway Olga paused, taking in her apartment. Quiet. Order. No one counting her money, throwing socks around, demanding an account for every ruble.
She smiled and closed the door. A new day. A new life. A real life.
And in the dumpster by the entrance, the luxurious lilies slowly wilted, never getting the recipient they were meant for. Beside them lay the crumpled card—the last cry of someone drowning who realized too late what he’d lost