Irina stood by the window, watching slanted streams of rain shatter against the ledge. The weather matched her mood perfectly—gray, damp, and joyless. Behind her, the front door slammed. Sergei was back from work. She didn’t turn around, still staring outside, even though she couldn’t see a thing anymore—her eyes were flooded with tears.
“You still haven’t packed?” her husband’s voice was sharp with irritation. “I told you—by tonight I don’t want a trace of you in this place.”
Irina turned slowly, trying to hold on to the last scraps of dignity.
“Sergei, let’s talk,” she said. Her voice wavered, but she forced it steady. “You can’t just cross out ten years of marriage like it never happened.”
Sergei twisted his mouth, tossed his keys onto the little hallway table.
“Talk about what? It’s already decided. We’re done.”
“And what about Dasha?” Irina clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms until it hurt. “Is she your daughter or not?”
“Dasha stays with me,” Sergei cut her off. “That’s not even up for discussion. The apartment is my mother’s, so get your things together. Go back to your village to your parents—where you belong.”
Irina closed her eyes. Ever since Sergei announced the divorce, she’d been hoping it was some kind of temporary madness, that he’d come to his senses. But now it was obvious—there was no hope. He simply didn’t need her anymore.
“I’m not going anywhere without my daughter,” Irina said quietly, but with iron in her voice. “And I’m not leaving this apartment.”
“What, you still don’t get it?” Sergei stepped closer, and Irina involuntarily backed away. “This place belongs to my mother. She has every right to decide who lives here and who doesn’t. And she says you don’t belong.”
Irina let out a bitter little laugh. Of course Anna Viktorovna had pushed the divorce along. Her mother-in-law had never hidden how she felt about Irina—a simple girl from a small settlement, with no connections and no money. “You’re not good enough for my Seryozhenka,” she’d said so many times, the contempt barely disguised.
“Sergei, you know that’s not true,” Irina said, working hard to keep calm. “The apartment belongs to both of us. We bought it during the marriage, with shared money.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Sergei scoffed. “What shared money? You haven’t worked for five years—you sat at home with Dasha. My mother paid the down payment, and she helped with the mortgage. So pack your stuff and get out.”
Irina wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could protect her body from his words.
“What about the documents?” she insisted. “The apartment is registered in both our names. I remember signing the papers at the notary.”
Sergei winced and looked away.
“That was all paperwork. Mom didn’t want to be ‘visible’—taxes and all that. But it was her money, which means it’s her apartment.”
Irina shook her head.
“You know that’s not how it works. We paid the mortgage together, out of our family budget. Yes, your mother helped with the first payment, but that doesn’t make her the owner.”
Sergei waved a hand in annoyance.
“Enough arguing! I’ve made up my mind. Tomorrow I file for divorce, and today you move out. Clear? If you want, take your clothes. Everything else stays.”
“And Dasha?” Irina asked softly. “Does she know you’re throwing her mother out?”
Sergei hesitated for a split second, then forced himself back into his cold tone.
“Dasha will stay with her father and grandmother. It’ll be better for everyone. Mom already arranged a good school, tutors. And what can you give her—poverty in a village?”
Irina felt something inside her snap. Ten years of marriage, plans, dreams—and this was how it ended. Coldly. Cynically. Without a hint of regret.
“I’m going to talk to Dasha,” she said, heading for the door.
“Dasha isn’t here,” Sergei snapped. “She’s at my mother’s. And she’ll stay there until you leave. I won’t let you pressure the child.”
Irina stopped, stunned.
“You took my daughter? Without warning me? Without my consent?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Sergei grimaced. “She’s spending the weekend with Grandma, that’s all. And you’ll have time to pack and go.”
Irina lowered herself into a chair as if her legs had suddenly forgotten how to hold her. How had they gotten here? When had the marriage that once felt so solid begun to crumble?
“Why, Sergei?” she asked quietly. “What did I do wrong?”
Sergei turned away, avoiding her eyes.
“Nothing specific. It’s just… gone. The feelings. They’re not there anymore.”
“Because of Marina?” Irina said the name of the woman she suspected he’d been involved with.
Sergei jerked as if struck, and Irina understood she’d hit the truth.
“Don’t say stupid things,” he muttered. “Marina has nothing to do with it. She’s just a colleague.”
“A colleague you spend every weekend with,” Irina replied with a bitter smile. “A colleague because of whom you stopped coming home on time. Don’t treat me like an idiot, Sergei.”
Sergei turned, and Irina saw real anger in his eyes—raw, uncovered anger she’d never seen before.
“Fine. You want the truth?” he snapped. “Yes, I have another woman. And she’s a hundred times better than you! Beautiful, smart, successful. Not some housewife whose only skill is cooking borscht and whining about being tired.”
Irina flinched as if he’d slapped her. Each word hit like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs.
“I stayed home because you wanted it that way,” she said softly. “You said a wife should look after the house and the child, and the husband should earn the money.”
“That was before,” Sergei dismissed her with a flick of his hand. “Now I see who you really are—an uneducated country bumpkin with no ambition and no future.”
Irina stood up. Her heart hammered wildly, yet strangely her mind cleared, as if a curtain had lifted. For the first time she saw Sergei for what he was—a small, cruel man ready to trample ten years of family life for a passing thrill.
“You’re right, Sergei,” she said calmly. “We really aren’t going in the same direction anymore. But I’m not leaving without my daughter. And I’m not moving out either—because by law, the apartment belongs to both of us.”
“What do you know about the law?” Sergei laughed. “You don’t even have a legal education.”
“But my cousin does,” Irina shot back. “And I have a meeting scheduled for tonight—with him and his colleague.”
Sergei froze, staring at her in disbelief.
“What cousin? You don’t have a cousin.”
“A second cousin,” Irina clarified. “They’re coming this evening. We’ll discuss dividing property, custody of Dasha, and child support. Legally, Sergei. The proper way.”
Sergei opened his mouth, then closed it again. He clearly hadn’t expected this kind of turn. Irina—his quiet, compliant wife—had suddenly grown teeth.
“Is that a threat?” he finally managed.
“No,” Irina shook her head. “It’s reality. You can divorce me—it’s your right. But you can’t throw me out on the street and take my child. I won’t allow it.”
Sergei ran a nervous hand through his hair.
“Listen… can we not do all this legal nonsense? We can settle it like normal people.”
“That’s exactly what I offered from the very beginning,” Irina replied. “To talk calmly, to discuss everything, to agree. But you chose a different way. Fine. Now we’ll handle it through lawyers.”
She walked past her stunned husband into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind her. Only when she was alone did she allow herself to breathe out. Her knees trembled, and she sat on the bed, trying to steady herself.
Of course, she didn’t have any second-cousin lawyer. And there was no scheduled meeting. But Sergei didn’t know that. And that small lie gave her the breathing space she desperately needed.
Irina grabbed her phone and dialed the number of her longtime friend, Nadezhda. They hadn’t spoken in years—Sergei didn’t approve of the friendship. He’d always said Nadya was “too modern” and “a bad influence.” Only now did Irina understand: it was his way of isolating her, cutting off her support.
“Nadya? It’s Ira,” her voice shook. “I’m sorry to bother you after all these years. I need help.”
She explained the situation quickly. Nadezhda listened in silence, only interrupting now and then with short questions.
“Okay,” she said at last, firm and decisive. “First, breathe. Second, do not leave that apartment. Third, I’m coming to you right now. And yes—my husband is a family-law attorney, like you remember. He’ll come with me.”
Warmth spread through Irina’s chest for the first time in days.
“Thank you, Nadya. I don’t even know how—”
“Don’t say anything,” her friend cut in. “We’ll be there in an hour. Hold on.”
Irina ended the call and, for the first time that day, allowed herself a small smile. She had a plan. And maybe—just maybe—hope.
From the living room came sounds of movement—Sergei pacing, muttering under his breath. Then his phone rang, and Irina heard him speaking, judging by his tone, to his mother.
“Mom, here’s the thing… yes, she’s digging her heels in. Says she called a lawyer… no, I don’t know if she’s bluffing… yeah, come over, sure.”
Irina exhaled. Her mother-in-law’s arrival meant a new round of conflict. Anna Viktorovna was controlling and not used to being refused—especially by a daughter-in-law she despised.
But now Irina felt she had the strength to withstand it. She wasn’t alone anymore.
She rose, went to the closet, and began sorting through clothes—hers and her daughter’s—not to pack and leave as Sergei demanded, but to understand what they might need in the coming days. Because one thing was certain: she would not walk out of an apartment bought with joint funds. And she would not give up her child.
The doorbell rang exactly an hour later. Irina stepped out of the bedroom to open the door, but Sergei reached it first.
On the threshold stood not his mother, as he expected, but Nadezhda—a tall, confident woman in a tailored suit. Beside her was a fit-looking man holding a leather briefcase.
“Hello,” Nadezhda said, giving Sergei a cool once-over. “We’re here to see Irina Alekseyevna. I’m her friend, and this is Mikhail Semyonovich, an attorney.”
Sergei backed away, confused, letting them in. Irina came forward, and Nadezhda hugged her tightly.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered into Irina’s ear. “We’re not letting anyone hurt you.”
The lawyer walked into the living room and motioned for everyone to follow. Taking a seat at the table, he opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder of documents.
“So, Sergey Nikolayevich,” he began in an official tone, “I understand that you and your wife have disagreements. That happens. But there are lawful procedures for divorce and the division of marital property.”
Sergei’s gaze darted between the attorney and Irina.
“What procedures? The apartment belongs to my mother. She just allowed us to live here.”
Mikhail Semyonovich removed a photocopy from the folder and placed it in front of Sergei.
“This is an extract from the state property registry. According to it, the apartment is owned by you and your wife in equal shares. Your mother is not listed anywhere.”
Sergei went pale, but quickly forced himself to recover.
“That’s just paperwork. The money for the apartment came from my mother.”
“In that case,” the attorney replied evenly, “your mother may file a civil claim seeking recognition of her rights to a share. But it’s a lengthy process with an uncertain outcome. She would need to prove that the money was transferred specifically to purchase the apartment and not as a gift to your family. Also,” he paused, “given that your marriage lasted ten years and the mortgage was paid from the family budget, the court is highly likely to recognize the apartment as jointly acquired marital property.”
Sergei drummed his fingers nervously on the table.
“And the child?” he asked at last. “She’ll stay with me.”
“That will be decided by the court,” Mikhail Semyonovich answered. “Considering the child’s age, the fact that the mother has been the primary caregiver for the past five years, and your work schedule, I can reasonably assume the court will lean toward placing the girl with her mother—while preserving your right to regular visitation and active participation in her upbringing.”
Irina listened in silence, surprised by how calm she felt. That morning she’d been crushed, destroyed, ready to surrender. Now she could feel her confidence returning, breath by breath.
The doorbell rang again. This time, Anna Viktorovna really was there—tall, impeccably put together, her face set in displeasure. Seeing strangers in the living room, she frowned.
“What is going on here?” she demanded, stepping inside without being invited. “Who are these people?”
“Irina’s lawyer,” Sergei said darkly. “And her friend.”
Anna Viktorovna looked them over with open contempt.
“What lawyer? There’s nothing to talk about. The apartment is mine—I bought it. And you,” she jabbed a finger at Irina, “pack your things and get out.”
Mikhail Semyonovich stood.
“Anna Viktorovna,” he said calmly but firmly, “I’m afraid you are mistaken about ownership rights. According to the documents, the owners are your son and his wife. If you have financial claims, you may file the appropriate lawsuit. But until a court rules otherwise, no one has the right to evict Irina Alekseyevna from her own home.”
The mother-in-law froze, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Then she turned to her son.
“Sergei, what does this mean? You’re letting this… this conman talk to me like that? In my apartment?”
Sergei looked shaken.
“Mom… he says the documents really list the apartment in my and Ira’s names. And he says proving it’s yours will be difficult.”
Anna Viktorovna flushed crimson.
“The audacity! I’ll go through every court there is! I’ll prove that money was mine!”
“Of course, that is your right,” the attorney nodded. “But I would recommend all parties sit down and negotiate a compromise. Litigation is long, expensive, and stressful—especially in family matters.”
Irina watched everything as if from a distance. How quickly the world could shift. That morning she’d been on the edge of despair. Now she stood straight, sure of her rights.
“I’m not asking for anything that isn’t mine,” she said, looking at her mother-in-law. “But I won’t give up what’s mine either. Not the apartment Sergei and I bought together, and not my daughter, whom I’ve raised.”
Anna Viktorovna opened her mouth to respond, but Sergei suddenly lifted a hand.
“Mom—wait. Let’s calm down and figure this out.”
He turned to the lawyer.
“Alright. Suppose the apartment is truly joint. What do you suggest?”
“There are several options,” Mikhail Semyonovich replied. “You can sell the apartment and split the proceeds. You can sign a property division agreement where one spouse buys out the other’s share. Or you can agree that the apartment stays with the parent the child lives with, with compensation paid to the other parent. These solutions are about resolving the issue in a civilized way.”
Sergei fell silent, thinking. Anna Viktorovna tugged impatiently at his sleeve.
“Sergei, don’t listen to this paper-pusher! We’ll hire our own lawyer, we’ll—”
“Mom, please be quiet,” Sergei said unexpectedly, sharply. “I need to think.”
Irina stared at him. He had never spoken to his mother like that before. Something in him had changed over the last few hours.
“I suggest everyone take a pause,” the attorney said, returning the documents to his briefcase. “Think it over, consult specialists if needed. Then meet again in a couple of days to discuss workable options.”
Sergei nodded. Anna Viktorovna snorted but stayed silent.
Irina walked Nadezhda and the lawyer to the door. In the hallway her friend hugged her tightly again.
“Call me anytime,” she whispered. “And don’t give up. You’re stronger than you think.”
When the door closed behind them, Irina returned to the living room. Anna Viktorovna was speaking animatedly to her son, but he didn’t seem to hear. He looked at Irina with a strange, thoughtful expression.
“Mom,” Sergei said at last, still staring at his wife, “you should go home. Ira and I need to talk. Alone.”
His mother threw her hands up in outrage.
“Sergei! After everything this… this woman has pulled?”
“Mom,” steel entered Sergei’s voice, “please leave. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Anna Viktorovna pressed her lips tight, shot a searing look at Irina, and walked out, slamming the door hard.
Irina and Sergei were alone. For a moment they stood in silence, neither knowing how to start.
“I didn’t expect you to do this,” Sergei finally said. “I thought you’d just pack and leave. Like always—you’d give in.”
“I didn’t expect it either,” Irina admitted. “But I had no choice. You were trying to take everything from me—my home, my daughter, my dignity.”
Sergei lowered his eyes.
“I… I got confused, Ira. That woman, Marina… she got into my head. Promised me a new life, said I deserved more. And Mom kept pushing, saying you weren’t good enough for me.”
“And you believed her,” Irina stated quietly. “Ten years of marriage. A child. And you believed her.”
Sergei looked up at her, lost.
“So what now? What do we do?”
Irina took a deep breath. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like a victim of circumstances—she felt like the author of her own life.
“I don’t know, Sergei,” she said honestly. “But we won’t make rushed decisions. We have to think about Dasha. About the future. And whether there’s anything left to save.”
She walked to the window. The rain had finally stopped, and the sky in the west had cleared, letting the setting sun paint the city in warm colors.
Irina didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Could she forgive the betrayal? Could Sergei change? Would they find the strength to start again—or would they have to let go? But one thing she knew for certain: she would never again let anyone decide her life for her—not her husband, not her mother-in-law, not anyone. From now on, she would choose her own path.