February greeted me with a dull gray light outside the window—and a ringing phone. The number was unfamiliar, but I recognized the voice at once: Valentina Ivanovna, my mother-in-law. Ex–mother-in-law, to be precise. Andrey and I had divorced six months earlier, and since then his mother hadn’t called even once.
“Yelena, we need to talk. A serious talk.”
Her tone carried the same metallic edge I remembered from our married life. Valentina Ivanovna had a way of speaking that made refusal feel impossible.
“What is there to talk about?” I asked, though I could already sense trouble.
“We’ll meet at the café. You know where the bookstore used to be? In an hour.”
I could have refused. I should have refused. But curiosity was stronger.
Valentina Ivanovna was sitting at a corner table, sipping coffee and studying some papers closely. At sixty-two, she looked excellent—tall, impeccably groomed, hair neatly styled. She had spent her whole life as a chief accountant at a factory, used to numbers, documents, and tidy schemes.
“Sit down,” she nodded, without lifting her eyes from the papers. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you. Tell me what you wanted.”
She set the documents aside and looked me over, appraisingly.
“Andrey is in a very bad situation. Loans, debts… You know that.”
I did. Believe me, I did. Those loans were exactly why we divorced.
Andrey took out bank loans one after another—first for a car, then for renovations, then for whatever else popped into his head. He said it was temporary, that he’d repay everything with interest soon. He repaid nothing.
“That’s his problem,” I said. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“How can it have nothing to do with you?” Valentina Ivanovna leaned toward me over the table. “You were a family. You lived together, spent money together.”
“He spent it, mostly.”
“But you benefited together! The car was your family car. The renovation in the apartment was for both of you.”
That was true, and I couldn’t argue. We really did buy furniture with that loan money, did a fancy renovation, and took a car on credit. At the time I worked as a schoolteacher—small salary. Andrey earned more; he was a manager at an insurance company.
“Valentina Ivanovna, I didn’t borrow anything. I didn’t sign anything.”
“You didn’t sign,” she agreed. “But you used the results. And then…” She took out her phone. “I have something interesting.”
On the screen were screenshots of messages. I recognized my texts with Andrey—those same arguments we had before the divorce.
I read them and remembered those miserable months: calls from banks, collectors’ threats, constant fights at home. Andrey demanded that I help repay the debts. He said that if we were a family, then we were responsible together.
In the chat it looked like this:
Andrey: “Lena, we need to close the debts. Without your 50,000 a month, we won’t manage.”
Me: “You took those loans because you couldn’t properly provide for the family! And now I’m supposed to clean it up?”
Andrey: “If you knew how to save money and live more simply, we wouldn’t have had to borrow. You wanted the fancy renovation, you wanted new furniture!”
Me: “I wanted a normal life, not just scraping by!”
Andrey: “Then pay for a normal life. Or do you want us to get evicted?”
Valentina Ivanovna scrolled through the screenshots and showed me fragments.
“See? He’s asking you to help with the debts. And you don’t refuse outright.”
“I didn’t agree!”
“But you didn’t say ‘no’ directly. And here,” she jabbed her finger at the screen, “this is especially interesting.”
It was my chat with her. I remembered that conversation—Valentina Ivanovna wrote to me after another fight with Andrey:
Valentina Ivanovna: “Lena, talk to Andrey. He’s completely exhausted from these debts. Family should support each other.”
Me: “Valentina Ivanovna, I understand it’s hard for him. But I didn’t take those loans.”
Valentina Ivanovna: “You didn’t take them, but you benefited. It would be fair to help. At least partially.”
Me: “Fine, I agree. But only partially and only temporarily.”
Valentina Ivanovna: “That’s my girl! That’s how it should be—family must stick together.”
Reading it now, I realized what kind of trap I’d walked into. Back then I just wanted the conversation to end, so I agreed to get her off my back. We never discussed any specific amounts, deadlines, or terms.
“See?” Valentina Ivanovna said triumphantly. “You agreed to help with the debts. It’s recorded in writing.”
“Agreed in words. I didn’t sign anything.”
“And why would you need to sign?” she countered. “We have your written consent. Electronic, but written.”
“Valentina Ivanovna, what is this about?”
She put the phone away and looked at me seriously.
“It’s about the fact that Andrey can’t handle it alone. The debt is already seven hundred thousand with interest. The bank is suing; they could take the apartment.”
“That’s his apartment now, and his problem.”
“No, Yelena. Now it’s your problem too.”
That’s when it hit me—I was in deep. Valentina Ivanovna had handled paperwork all her life, understood laws better than I did. And she’d clearly come up with something.
“What do you want?”
“Justice. I want you to contribute to the payments in proportion to what you got from those loans.”
“And if I refuse?”
Valentina Ivanovna smiled—coldly, without warmth.
“Then the court will decide. I have proof you agreed to help. I think the court will consider that enough.”
I stood up. The conversation had taken a very ugly turn.
“Valentina Ivanovna, I don’t owe you or Andrey anything. I didn’t sign any documents.”
“Documents come in different forms,” she said mysteriously. “Not only the kind a notary certifies.”
I left with a heavy feeling. I knew she wouldn’t drop it. She was the kind of person who wasn’t used to losing.
At home I reread our messages again. Yes, it really did look like I’d agreed to help with the debts. But we never discussed any concrete sums, conditions, or timelines! Those were just emotional conversations during the divorce.
For a week I lived on edge, waiting for the catch. It came right on schedule.
On Monday morning the mail carrier brought a summons—official, with stamps. I read it: plaintiff—my ex-husband; defendant—me. He demanded 350,000 rubles from me as my share of the credit debts.
I sat in the kitchen, turning the paper in my hands, unable to believe it. She actually filed. She really took me to court! For what? For writing that I’d “help”?
I called a lawyer I knew and explained the situation. After listening, he said:
“Yelena, this is serious. If they have written proof you agreed to make payments, the court could treat it as grounds for recovery.”
“But I didn’t sign anything!”
“Electronic correspondence can be considered evidence now too. It depends on the circumstances.”
“What do I do?”
“Prepare for court. And pray their evidence isn’t enough.”
There was a month until the hearing—the hardest month of my life. During the day I worked; in the evenings I studied court practice, read about electronic correspondence as evidence. I learned a lot.
It turned out screenshots alone aren’t enough. You have to prove the messages were sent by the person claimed. You have to confirm the authenticity of the chat. And most importantly—the messages have to clearly spell out the terms: sums, deadlines, and the procedure for fulfilling the obligation.
I read and thought: maybe I have a chance.
Over those weeks Valentina Ivanovna called twice. She offered to “settle it peacefully”—pay at least half, and she’d withdraw the lawsuit. I refused. On principle.
“Fine,” she said on the second call. “See you in court. Let’s see what the judge says about your written agreement to help with the debts.”
“We’ll see,” I answered.
The court day was gloomy and rainy. I arrived at the district courthouse half an hour early. Valentina Ivanovna was already there—sitting on a bench in the lobby with a folder of documents and a lawyer.
When she saw me, she gave a cold nod.
“Yelena, it’s not too late to reach an agreement.”
“There’s nothing to agree on.”
“As you like. I have all the evidence of your consent.”
We entered the courtroom at the appointed time. The judge was a middle-aged woman with glasses and a stern face—the kind who had seen hundreds of cases like this.
“The court is hearing the case of Smirnov versus Smirnova on взыскание задолженности,” she recited monotonously. “Plaintiff, state the essence of your claim.”
Valentina Ivanovna’s lawyer stood and began to explain: that I had benefited from the loan funds, had agreed to participate in repaying the debts, but was not fulfilling my obligation.
“Present evidence of the defendant’s consent,” the judge said.
“Your Honor, we have correspondence where the defendant directly agrees to help with the payments.”
Valentina Ivanovna, triumphant, handed the judge a folder of printed screenshots. The judge studied them for several minutes.
“Defendant, what can you say regarding this correspondence?”
I stood up, my heart pounding.
“Your Honor, this is indeed our correspondence with my ex-husband and his mother. But I did not take on any specific obligations. We never discussed any amounts, deadlines, or conditions of payments.”
“But you expressed consent to help?” the judge уточнила.
“In general terms—yes. But those were emotional conversations during the divorce.”
The judge looked at the papers again, then turned to the plaintiff.
“The correspondence presented lacks specific terms of any obligation. There are no amounts, deadlines, or procedure for performance indicated. How is the court supposed to determine the amount claimed?”
The lawyer grew nervous.
“Your Honor, the amount is stated in the claim. It is half of the total debt.”
“On what basis exactly half?”
“On fairness. The defendant benefited from the loan funds. They were husband and wife.”
“That is your subjective opinion. There are no specific figures in the correspondence.”
The judge asked several more questions—about how the messages’ authenticity would be confirmed, about methods of preserving and recording the chat.
“Furthermore,” the judge said, “this correspondence does not contain the essential terms of a loan agreement or suretyship. General phrases about ‘helping’ cannot serve as grounds to collect a specific sum.”
Valentina Ivanovna went pale. The lawyer tried to object, but the judge cut him off.
“The court denies the claim,” she announced. “The evidence presented by the plaintiff does not confirm that the defendant has any obligation to pay the disputed debt.”
I walked out of the courthouse feeling like I’d been born again. Valentina Ivanovna caught up with me outside.
“You won,” she said bitterly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re right.”
“It means I didn’t take on any obligation. And a messenger chat isn’t a loan contract.”
She never called again. Neither did Andrey. I heard through mutual acquaintances that he did have to sell the apartment, close the debts, and move in with his mother.
And I learned the main lesson: never agree to anything “in general terms,” especially in writing. If you want to help—put everything on paper with clear terms and guarantees. And if you don’t want to—say “no” directly and unambiguously.