When Denis received the letter from the court, it took him a moment to even grasp what he was looking at.
“Claim for division of property. Plaintiff: Valentina Sergeyevna Ponomaryova. Defendant: Denis Viktorovich Ponomaryov.”
He actually coughed—not out of rage, but from shock. The anger showed up right after.
It had already been six months since Valya moved out. She took everything she considered hers: the iron, the drying rack, that infamous set of pots, even the cast-iron skillet his mother had once gifted them. And now—“division of property.”
“So she’s decided to split assets…” he muttered into the empty kitchen, where nothing remained except an old moka pot, chipped tiles, and silence.
That evening he called Nika.
Nika listened the way she always did. No theatrics, no “I told you so.” She simply made tea, set the table, and placed a plate of cabbage pies in front of him. She couldn’t really cook—but she tried.
“Well? What did she say?” she asked softly, peering at him over her mug.
“She says the apartment is marital property. Wants half. Or compensation.”
“And you?”
“And I told her my mother bought this place for me before I ever got married. It’s in my name. And if she wants to live with mice out on Kashirka—she can take it to court.”
He gave a crooked smile, but it disappeared almost immediately. Because Mom. Mom, as usual, learned everything first.
Not from him, of course. From someone “she knows.” Irina Petrovna always had those all-seeing “connections” who somehow knew his life sooner than he did.
The next morning she was already calling.
“Denis Viktorovich,” she said icily. “I’ve been told your ex-wife is going after MY apartment. Have you lost your mind?”
“Mom, it’s not yours. It’s registered to me.”
“It’s none of your business whose name is on it! I bought it for you—and now, excuse me, you’ve moved some slut in there!”
“Mom…”
“Don’t interrupt me! What have you even turned into since the divorce? Who is this… what’s her name… Nika? Does she even have a last name? Or did you pick her up in your kitchen?”
He hung up without listening further. It was already the third time that month a conversation ended with a dead, hollow tone.
Nika sat beside him in silence. Then, softly—almost inaudibly—she said:
“I can leave, if all of this is because of me.”
“Because of you? No, Nika. It’s because of them. No one will ever be good enough for them. Not ever.”
She nodded, eyes lowered.
And things might have stayed that way—Denis turning bolts in his workshop, Nika buried in paperwork at her small law office—if not for that Sunday. The day he—an idiot—drove her to meet his parents. Decided it was time to stop hiding. They were adults. You only get one life.
His mother opened the door in a perfectly pressed robe, wearing the expression of someone who’d just been told her son planned to marry a raccoon.
“Hello, Irina Petrovna,” Nika said politely, offering her hand.
“Yeah,” the older woman nodded, not taking it. “Come in. We don’t wear slippers here—the floor’s heated.”
“Then barefoot?”
“Better on your toes. Socks.”
Denis already knew: the day had gone off the rails. His father, Nikolai Nikolayevich, sat in the kitchen corner sipping tea, silent as tradition demanded. Stas, Denis’s brother, looked like the head of a department dedicated to cataloging mistakes that would never be forgiven.
“So…” his mother began once they sat down. “Nika, where do you work? What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer. I work with a real estate firm. We handle transactions, verify documents, draft—”
“Oh, I see,” Irina Petrovna cut in. “Paper shuffling. So—no medical worker, no engineer, no teacher. Mm-hm.”
“Mom, enough,” Denis interrupted.
“And you hush. This is life and death. One woman nearly put my son in the grave—now the second one’s lining up for the cemetery?”
Stas snorted.
“Oh come on, Mom. Maybe this one’s tougher. She’ll have to live with our family, after all. Or is she just visiting? Temporary?”
To her credit, Nika smiled—awkwardly, but sincerely.
“I’m not temporary. I’m serious about Denis.”
“A-ah,” his mother drawled. “So now we’ll have a new family. With new rules? Denis, have you already signed the apartment over to her?”
Denis’s eye twitched.
He exhaled, stood, and looked his mother straight in the face.
“Mom, stop. The apartment is mine. I live there. Nika lives there too. And it shouldn’t concern you.”
“Oh, it shouldn’t?!” Irina Petrovna shot up. “So I worked, I invested, I made sure you had a roof over your head—and you let every woman stroll in there! First one, now this one! What’s the guarantee she won’t demand her half in a year?”
“Nika isn’t Valya,” he said sharply. “And don’t compare them.”
“You all say ‘she’s different’—and then it starts. First she fries you little cutlets, then she slips a deed across the table. You’ll see!”
Stas lifted an eyebrow.
“Well, if she slips it to him, at least make it pretty. Valya, with her hook hands, could barely sign her name…”
Nika stood, turning pale.
Quietly, clearly, she said:
“Thank you for the evening. I should go.”
She headed for the door. Denis stood to follow, but his mother latched onto his sleeve like a guard dog.
“Stop! Don’t you dare leave with her! Don’t you dare! I raised you, fed you, clothed you—and this is how you repay me?! That… that lawyer will be more important than your own mother?!”
“Yes, she will,” he snapped. “Because she’s the only person who doesn’t see me as her project.”
He yanked his arm free.
They left in silence. Didn’t say a word until the car. Then they just sat there.
“I’m sorry,” he said, staring through the windshield. “I didn’t think it would be this…”
“I knew it would be hard,” she said. “I just didn’t think it would be that humiliating.”
He said nothing.
Then she added:
“And you still have to talk to her. She… she could start a war. Through the courts. Or team up with Valya…”
“She already started,” he answered.
A week later Nika said it would be better if she lived separately. Not because she was offended—because she was cautious.
And a week after that, Rosreestr called him: someone had filed a request for copies of every document related to the apartment.
And Denis understood—his mother had decided to act.
Not with words. With paperwork.
That was how the war began.
Court. Replies. Motions. And in every line: “The apartment was purchased by the defendant’s mother,” “There are indicators of gifting,” “The plaintiff believes she resided at the address as a family member.”
The plaintiff was Valya.
But the wording wasn’t hers.
He recognized the style.
Nika.
He hadn’t slept for three nights.
He dozed off at dawn, slipped into a shallow half-sleep, and woke with a savage headache.
Nika didn’t call. He didn’t call either.
The apartment felt hollow. In the kitchen there was only a jar of instant coffee and an electric kettle.
A true bachelor’s poverty.
He boiled water, dumped coffee straight into a mug, took a sip—bitter, scalding, stupidly “manly.”
Questions spun in his head.
Why her? Why did she hand Valya those papers? Why her, if she said she loved him?..
He tore through everything he could. Re-read their messages. Lines that once felt warm now sounded double-edged. Especially that one remark of hers—“I’d love to look at how your apartment’s paperwork was done, just out of curiosity… those ’90s registrations can be wild”—said cheerfully at the kitchen table between the kettle and an omelet. Back then he’d just waved it off with a laugh. Now…
Now he stared at the court summons, where two names appeared instead of one.
Plaintiffs: Valentina Sergeyevna Ponomaryova; representative—Veronika Andreyevna Nikonova.
Well. That was a plot twist, as my therapist would say—if I’d lived long enough to get one.
The hearing began Monday at nine. Denis arrived at eight, with vending-machine coffee and eyes the color of dusty asphalt.
He sat on the bench by the door and opened his folder.
Documents. Copies. His written statement. Everything ready.
He was ready for anything—except one thing.
She walked in.
Without Valentina. Alone.
A strict suit. Hair slicked back. Folder in hand. No makeup. This Nika looked like a stranger.
A stranger—yet not weak. And that was the frightening part.
“You… seriously?” he asked quietly, standing.
“Seriously,” she answered evenly. “I’m her representative. Everything is legal.”
“And the fact you slept with me—was that legal too?”
She lowered her gaze.
“Don’t do that. That wasn’t for the case.”
“Then what was it for, Nika?”
“For the fact that I truly loved you. I believed in you. And then I realized you were never going to let her go. Not your mother. Not Valya.”
He couldn’t help it—he laughed. Low, bitter.
“So you decided to join forces with them? Brilliant. Set up a tribunal? Re-register my mattress?”
“Don’t start,” she winced. “This isn’t personal. It’s work.”
“Oh, I know that line. A traffic cop told me the same thing when he shook me down for five thousand right before New Year’s.”
He turned and walked into the courtroom.
On the way he noticed Valya standing by the window, staring at the ceiling like she was counting cracks. She looked ten years older—but also satisfied. Calm. Confident.
Because now Nika would speak for her.
The courtroom was quiet. Too quiet.
The judge—a woman about forty-five, with the face of a stern vice principal and the eyes of an accountant right before payday—asked a couple of routine questions, read the claim, and it began.
“Your Honor,” Nika started, eyes on the papers, “at the time of the marriage, the disputed apartment had already been acquired. However, subsequent expenses for renovation, furnishing, and maintenance were borne jointly by the spouses. Determining a proportional share is possible only through the court.”
“Bullseye,” Denis whispered under his breath, exhaling.
“Additionally, the plaintiff states she lived at this address for no fewer than ten years and held permanent registration, and therefore may be recognized as a participant in shared ownership under terms of compensation.”
The judge nodded.
Listened.
Denis felt sweat slide down his neck—not from heat, but from shame.
“Do you have an objection?” the judge asked, lifting her head.
He stood.
“Your Honor. This isn’t a division of property. This is a division of a life. This apartment was purchased by my mother—yes, in my name—yes, before the marriage. It’s all documented. I have extracts, receipts, even renovation photos where Valya appears only as a spectator. But that isn’t the point now. I’m watching two women work against me—women I once shared my life with. This… isn’t even about fairness. It’s about revenge. You can’t compensate resentment with square meters. And love…” He looked at Nika. “Love can’t be measured in walls.”
He sat down.
The judge sighed.
“Hearing adjourned until Friday.”
After the session, he sat in his car.
For a long time. Forty minutes, maybe.
His fingers trembled.
Nika…
She exited through a different door. He saw her in the mirror.
She approached.
Tapped on the window.
He lowered it.
“We need to talk.”
“Too late, Nika.”
“Not quite.”
She opened the passenger door and sat down.
“Listen. I took the case because Valya came to me. At first I didn’t realize it was you. The documents were under the last name. Then when I understood—it was already too late to refuse. I need money. I’m in debt. My mother is in Samara after a stroke. I’m not excusing myself. I just… I needed to survive.”
“And me?” he asked. “Was I just a comfort zone? A transfer station from loans to an apartment?”
She stared out the window for a long time. Then:
“You were a chance at love. I truly believed. But I lost that day you took me to your mother.”
He gave a short, grim smile.
“Right. The great audition for ‘Valentina Number Two.’”
She nodded.
“She had everything planned down to the minute. You were supposed to be obedient. I was supposed to be convenient. The moment you defended me—she declared war. And Valya… Valya just wants to get something back. Anything. She’s broken. Just like I am.”
“And me?” he asked. “So I’m alive, fresh, unbroken?”
“You’re the only one who still has a chance to be whole. But only if you climb out of that family pit.”
He didn’t answer.
She opened the door.
“I’ll withdraw from the case,” she said as she got out. “But Valya will hire someone else. And you’ll be fighting again. Only without me. I’m sorry.”
And she walked away.
Friday.
Court.
Valya came with a new lawyer.
A young guy with the face of a calculator. Nika didn’t come.
The judge said:
“Representative Nikonova has been removed from the case per her personal written request.”
Denis clenched his fists. Then exhaled.
“And I’d like to file a counterclaim,” he said. “To have the apartment recognized as my personal property.”
“Grounds?”
“Everything in these papers,” he said, handing over his evidence. “And a personal request: leave my life alone.”
The judge nodded.
“We’ll consider it.”
That evening he went to see his father.
Alone. His mother was at the dacha “cleansing the earth’s energy” (that was her new hobby now, too).
His father poured him cognac.
“So? How is it?”
“Mom would be proud of you,” Denis said, and they both gave a brief, tired chuckle.
“You were too soft with her,” his father muttered. “With the first one and the second one.”
“It wasn’t the women who were cruel,” Denis said. “I was just too needy.”
“And now?”
“Now… I just want to live. Without wars. Without fronts. Without lawyers in bathrobes.”
His father looked at him.
“You know, Denis… sometimes the main thing isn’t winning. It’s getting out in time.”
The next morning someone knocked at his door.
He opened it.
Nika stood there.
With a bag. No makeup. The plain face of a tired human being.
“I still make terrible pies,” she said. “Will that do?”
He nodded.
“And dessert?” he asked.
“Peace. No conditions.”
He stepped aside.
And she walked in.
Two weeks later he was summoned for a repeat hearing.
Valya filed an appeal—she didn’t accept the ruling that left the apartment in his ownership. Her new lawyer had already lodged the complaint.
They wouldn’t back down.
Even if he died in the hallway with keys in his hand and the words “I WON’T GIVE IT UP” stamped on his forehead—they’d still demand compensation.
Nika left.
Quietly. No scandals. No goodbyes.
She left a note:
“It became easier to breathe when I stopped being a lawyer for other people’s trauma. Forgive me for everything. You’ll survive.”
He sat in that apartment—now, finally, officially his—and thought how absurd it was:
people kill for square meters, and then live inside those meters like a prison cell.
Valya tried to come in once.
“I need to pick up my winter boots,” she said through the door.
“I’ll toss them down from the balcony,” he answered, and didn’t open.
Would he have become like her if he’d lost?
In spring his mother ended up in the hospital. A stroke.
He went alone—without reproaches, without sarcasm. Just as a son.
“You did everything wrong,” she whispered weakly. “You should’ve held on to Valya. At least someone.”
He leaned closer.
“I don’t hold on to people who aren’t living with me—but living with you.”
You always chose for me.
“You’re weak, Denis…”
“And you’re old. And alone. Because of your own efforts.”
She turned away. They didn’t speak again.
He hired a caregiver.
He paid, visited once a week. Nothing more.
Summer passed.
He rented out the apartment and moved to Sochi.
Not because “the sea heals.” Because he wanted not to recognize himself.
Change the weather. The accent. The neighbors.
There he opened a small bar. He called it “The Key.”
Symbolic. Because the only key he would never hand over again was the one to his own life.
Nika didn’t write.
He didn’t either.
But sometimes he saw her in dreams—without a legal folder, barefoot in his shirt, in that morning kitchen full of sun.
He no longer believed in a partnership between two grown adults if one of them was the other’s mother’s lawyer.
Now he lived alone.
And for the first time—he was finally living.
The End.