Ksenia opened the banking app on her phone and once again counted the amount in her savings account. Two million three hundred and seventy thousand rubles. Five years. Five long years of cutting back on everything.
Ksenia and Andrey lived in a cramped one-room apartment—thirty square meters—which they rented for eighteen thousand a month. The woman worked as an accountant at a construction company. Her husband worked as an engineer at a factory. Out of their family budget of one hundred and ten thousand, they set aside forty-five—almost half. The rest went to rent, food, utilities, and transportation.
No vacations abroad. No weekend restaurant outings. No new clothes unless absolutely necessary. Ksenia wore old jeans, altered blouses, and bought mass-market cosmetics. Andrey wore his jacket for the third season, repaired his shoes instead of buying new ones. The couple dreamed of a spacious three-room apartment in a new building. A place where they could truly breathe. Their own home, where they wouldn’t have to ask a landlord for permission to do renovations or keep a pet.
The dream became more real with every passing month. Just a little more, and they would have the full down payment.
Tamara Ivanovna came to visit once every two weeks. Her mother-in-law would walk in with a displeased expression, scanning the tiny apartment with a critical eye. She would sit down on a chair in the kitchen, drink tea, and comment on everything.
“You’ve got dust on the windowsill again, Ksyusha. Is it really that hard to wipe it?”
“I’ll wipe it this evening, Tamara Ivanovna.”
“And the way you’re dressed… sloppy somehow. Andrey deserves a wife who takes care of herself.”
Ksenia clenched her teeth as she poured her mother-in-law more tea. She endured the visits for her husband’s sake. Andrey asked her not to pay attention, said his mother was simply like that by nature. That she was just worried about her only son.
Tamara Ivanovna kept criticizing her daughter-in-law for everything—cooking, cleaning, appearance, thriftiness. Especially thriftiness.
“You live like paupers, honestly. Always saving and saving. Life is passing you by.”
“We’re saving for an apartment,” Ksenia explained patiently. “Just a little more, and we’ll be able to buy a three-bedroom.”
“A three-bedroom,” her mother-in-law snorted. “No guarantee you’ll manage. Banks don’t hand out mortgages to just anyone these days.”
But the bank approved it. When the amount in the account reached two million four hundred thousand, Andrey submitted applications to three banks at once. Two approved a mortgage on favorable terms. The couple chose the offer with the lower interest rate. All that was left was to find a suitable apartment and finalize the paperwork.
Then came the whirlwind of viewings. Ksenia and Andrey toured new buildings, studied floor plans, compared prices. They found the perfect option—seventy-five square meters in a new building, finished interior, good layout, not far from work. The price was right: eight million. With their down payment, the monthly payment would be forty thousand. Manageable.
The paperwork process began. Andrey took all the bureaucracy upon himself.
“You’re exhausted enough from work,” he told his wife, hugging her. “I’ll collect the documents, take them to the bank myself. Don’t worry.”
Ksenia agreed with relief. At work, chaos had started—quarterly reports, inspections, urgent payments. She stayed late at the office, sorting through papers and reports. She came home exhausted and collapsed on the bed without strength.
Meanwhile, Andrey went to the bank, spoke with managers, carried certificates and forms. He came home with updates about the progress. Ksenia listened with half an ear, nodded, happy that things were moving along.
Tamara Ivanovna started coming more often. Once a week, then twice. She would sit for a long time in the kitchen with her son, talking behind a closed door. Ksenia didn’t listen in. She assumed her husband’s mother was simply worried about him, giving advice about buying an apartment—normal maternal involvement.
One evening, when Ksenia returned from work, she found them both leaning over a laptop. Andrey and Tamara Ivanovna were discussing something in low voices, pointing at the screen. Noticing her daughter-in-law, the mother-in-law snapped the laptop shut.
“Oh, Ksyusha is home. Andryusha and I were just discussing the purchase details. Nothing important.”
Ksenia nodded and went to the bathroom. She was too tired to ask questions.
Two weeks later, the bank approved the final package of documents. A date was set for signing the contract at the notary. Ksenia and Andrey were supposed to come at ten in the morning to finalize the sale and the loan agreement.
But that morning, an emergency happened at work. The chief accountant got sick and dumped urgent contractor payments on Ksenia. She rushed between her computer and phone, signing payment orders, confirming amounts, checking bank details. She didn’t make it by ten. Panicked, she called Andrey.
“I can’t make it! Total crisis at work. Maybe we should reschedule?”
“Don’t worry. Come when you’re free. Mom and I will start the paperwork, prepare the documents. You’ll just sign at the end.”
“With your mom?”
“Yeah. She wants to be there. She’s worried about me. It’s fine.”
Ksenia agreed, hung up, and returned to the payments. She finished only around eleven-thirty. She grabbed her bag, ran out of the office, caught a taxi. During the ride she nervously drummed her fingers on her knee. Two hours late. She hoped they had prepared everything.
She burst into the notary office building out of breath. Up to the third floor, the door to Office Seven. Andrey and Tamara Ivanovna sat at a wide table opposite an elderly notary. Neat stacks of documents lay before them. Her mother-in-law held a pen, finishing something in a form.
“Sorry I’m late,” Ksenia panted, dropping into the chair next to her husband. “Work held me up.”
The notary nodded, sliding the documents toward her.
“No problem. We’ve just finished the preparation. All that’s left is signatures. Here, here, and here.” He pointed to the marked places on the pages.
Andrey handed her the pen with a strained smile.
“Go on, sign. Soon it’ll all be done.”
Ksenia took the pen and pulled the first document closer. The loan agreement. She began skimming quickly, looking for the signature line. Her eyes caught on the field labeled “Borrower.” It read: Sokolova Ksenia Andreevna.
She frowned. Sokolova was her last name. It made sense that the mortgage would be in both spouses’ names. But why only hers? Where was Andrey?
She flipped further. Loan amount, interest rate, term, monthly payment—everything looked correct. She returned to the beginning and read more carefully.
Borrower: Sokolova Ksenia Andreevna.
No co-borrowers.
Her heart skipped a beat. Ksenia set the loan agreement down and picked up the next document—the purchase agreement. She scanned the text and stopped at the “Buyer” section.
Buyer: Sokolova Tamara Ivanovna.
Her mother-in-law. The apartment was being registered in her mother-in-law’s name.
Slowly, Ksenia raised her eyes to her husband. Andrey looked away, avoiding her gaze. Tamara Ivanovna sat with a stone face, hands folded on the table.
“What is this?” Ksenia’s voice was quiet, but clear.
“What?” Andrey shrugged.
“Why am I the borrower? Why is the apartment in your mother’s name?”
Andrey licked his lips and glanced at Tamara Ivanovna.
“Well… we… decided to do it that way. Just to be safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“Ksyusha, don’t get worked up,” her mother-in-law cut in. “It’s a reasonable approach. A precaution.”
“A precaution against what?”
“Against a possible divorce,” Tamara Ivanovna answered calmly. “If something happens, the apartment stays in the family. With me. Not with you.”
Ksenia stared at her, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“So you’re taking out the mortgage in my name, but registering the apartment in yours?”
“Exactly. That way you’ll be tied to the family forever. You’ll still have to pay the mortgage, but you won’t be able to leave with the apartment. Smart, isn’t it?”
Blood rushed to Ksenia’s face. She jumped up, knocking her chair over.
“You wanted to leave me on the street?!” Her voice cracked into a shout.
The notary flinched, leaning back from the table. Andrey turned pale.
“Ksyusha, calm down…”
“Calm down?! You’re taking a twenty-year loan in my name—and the apartment in hers! I’ll be paying for a home I won’t even legally own!”
Tamara Ivanovna rose, straightening her back.
“Don’t yell at me, girl. It’s for your own good. So you won’t be tempted to run away.”
“Run away? I spent five years saving for this apartment! Five years!”
“You saved with Andrey. And we’ll do the paperwork properly. The right way.”
Ksenia grabbed the stack of documents from the table—the loan agreement, purchase agreement, certificates, statements—everything. She looked at her husband, at her mother-in-law, at the notary. Then she tore the documents in half.
The papers ripped with a sharp, unmistakable sound. She threw the torn pieces onto the table.
“There won’t be any deal.”
“What have you done?!” Tamara Ivanovna clutched her head. “Those are documents! We’ll have to do everything again!”
“Do it yourselves. Without me.”
Andrey sprang up and grabbed her wrist.
“Ksyusha, wait! We’ll fix it!”
She jerked her hand free and stepped back toward the door.
“You won’t fix anything. I’m leaving.”
She turned and walked out of the office. The door slammed behind her. She rushed down the stairs and out into the street, breathing heavily as she pressed herself against the building wall. Her hands were shaking. Her vision darkened.
She caught a taxi and named the address of their rented apartment. She rode in silence, staring out the window. Five years of saving. Five years of denying herself everything. For what? To become a powerless debtor, paying off a mortgage for her mother-in-law’s apartment?
She came home, pulled suitcases from the closet, and began methodically packing. Only her things. Everything of hers—clothes, shoes, cosmetics, documents, books. She left shared items and gifts from her husband behind. She didn’t need them. She didn’t want anything from him.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. Andrey. He rushed into the apartment, red-faced, frantic.
“Ksyusha, forgive me! I didn’t want this! Mom insisted!”
Ksenia kept folding clothes into the suitcase without lifting her head.
“Mom insisted—and you agreed.”
“I thought it was the right thing! That it would be safer!”
“Safer for whom? For your mother?”
He stepped closer, tried to hug her. Ksenia pulled away, taking a step back.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Ksyusha, please…”
“Five years, Andrey. Five years we saved together. I gave up everything—vacations, new clothes, cafés. I wore old jeans. I saved on cosmetics. For what? So you and your mother could deceive me?”
“We weren’t deceiving you!”
“No? Then what do you call taking out a mortgage in my name and putting the apartment in hers?”
Andrey fell silent, lowering his head.
“I thought…”
“You didn’t think. You obeyed your mother. Like always. She’s been criticizing me for five years—you stay silent. She humiliates me every visit—you tolerate it. She decides to leave me without rights to the home—and you agree.”
“Ksyusha…”
“You betrayed our dream. You betrayed me. For your mother’s manipulation.”
Ksenia closed the suitcase and zipped it up. She took a second one and started packing her shoes.
“Don’t go,” Andrey asked quietly. “I’ll fix it. We’ll register the apartment in both our names. I’ll talk to Mom.”
“Too late.”
“Ksyusha, give me a chance!”
“I did. For five years. Enough.”
She packed everything in two hours. Two suitcases, plus a bag with documents. She called a taxi. Andrey sat on the sofa with his face in his hands. Ksenia walked out without saying goodbye.
She went to her friend Lena’s place. Lena let her in without questions, helped carry the suitcases, made tea. Ksenia told her everything from start to finish. Lena listened, shaking her head.
“Bastards. Real bastards.”
“Yeah.”
“So what will you do?”
“Get divorced. And split the money through court.”
The next morning Ksenia went to a lawyer. She explained the situation and showed account statements confirming regular contributions into the savings account. The lawyer studied the documents carefully.
“The money was saved during the marriage. That’s marital property. In a divorce it’s split in half. You have every reason to claim your share.”
“Good. File for divorce and division of property.”
The process took four months. Andrey tried to dispute it, claiming he earned more and contributed more. But the court considered that Ksenia also worked, contributed, and ran the household. Their joint contribution was recognized as equal. The two million four hundred thousand was divided equally. Ksenia received one million two hundred thousand.
She rented a decent studio in a good neighborhood—thirty-five square meters, fresh renovation, near the metro. Rent was twenty-five thousand a month. She put the remaining money into a deposit account.
She enrolled in professional development courses for accountants—new software, tax changes, international reporting standards. In the evenings she sat over textbooks, took notes, solved practice problems.
Two years later she got promoted at work. She became chief accountant with a salary of eighty thousand rubles. Life settled down—without a husband, without a mother-in-law, without humiliation and betrayal.
Andrey remarried a year after the divorce. His new wife worked as a sales clerk, earning thirty thousand. He tried to apply for a mortgage again, but the bank refused—the family income wasn’t enough for a three-bedroom. They continued renting a one-room apartment on the outskirts for eighteen thousand.
Tamara Ivanovna remained in her old one-room Khrushchyovka. No new spacious three-bedroom. No chance to pocket someone else’s property. She called Andrey every day, complaining about life and demanding financial help.
Ksenia heard the news through mutual acquaintances. She listened and understood: tearing up those documents in time saved her entire future. If she had signed back then, she would now be paying a mortgage for Tamara Ivanovna’s apartment—twenty years of bondage, without ownership rights, without the ability to leave.
But now—freedom. A good job, a decent salary, her own studio, plans for the future. The chance to save again—but this time correctly. For herself. In her own name.
Ksenia learned the most important lesson: always read documents. Every word, every line—especially when people are nearby who are ready to use your trust for their own benefit. Even if it’s your husband and your mother-in-law. Especially if it’s your husband and your mother-in-law.
Trust without verification is the road to disaster. Attention and the ability to say “no” in time—that’s salvation