— Pack your things, Natasha. You have exactly one hour.
Igor’s voice was so casual, as if he were ordering pizza—not shattering ten years of our life. He stood in the entryway, carelessly leaning against the doorframe, and didn’t even bother to take off his shoes. Next to him, clutching his elbow, stood HER. Slim, bright, in a provocatively short dress, wearing the expression of someone who’d already won the grand prize.
— What, did you go deaf? — Igor grimaced, watching me stand there in shock. — Sveta is the mistress of this house now. She needs comfort, and your old curtains and all that granny junk only ruins the energy. We decided you’d be better off at your mother’s. That tiny two-bedroom on the outskirts is exactly where you belong.
I looked at my hands. They weren’t trembling. Inside me—where some warmth had still been smoldering that morning—an icy desert had formed. I’m a designer, the one who turned this “concrete box” into the best townhouse in the whole community, and now I was expected to “pack my things” on the order of a man who hadn’t driven a single nail here without my knowledge.
— Igor, do you even understand what you’re saying right now? — My voice was quiet, but steel already rang through it. — In front of guests sitting on the veranda? You really decided to put on this show at our family dinner?
— So what? — he laughed, draping an owner’s arm around Sveta’s waist. — They’re all ours. Neighbors, friends… let them get used to it. I’m tired of lying, Natasha. You’ve gotten boring. Always with your drawings, your estimates, your orders. And I need life. Fire. Sveta gives me that fire. And you… you’re just a free add-on to my successful life.
Sveta snorted into her fist, staring at me with undisguised triumph. The neighbors on the veranda fell silent. Through the floor-to-ceiling window I saw my mother-in-law, Tamara Nikolaevna, press her lips together in satisfaction. She’d always believed I didn’t “give” her precious boy enough attention because I worked too much.
— So I’m an add-on? — I rose slowly from my chair. — And you’re not ashamed to throw me out in front of everyone?
— You should be ashamed, — my mother-in-law cut in as she entered the house. — You let the man go, Natasha. So he found someone who actually appreciates him. Now hurry up—don’t keep people waiting. We even booked a cleaning crew for tomorrow, to air your “spirit” out of the house.
That was the moment I realized: they’d planned it all. They had already divided up my home, my things, my life. They were so confident in their righteousness that they didn’t even bother hiding their contempt.
You know what’s funniest? Igor was so convinced that everything in this world belonged to him by the divine right of being “the stronger sex,” that he didn’t even bother to check the property papers from the last five years.
— Fine, Igor. If that’s what you’ve decided… — I took a deep breath. — Then let’s invite everyone inside. Let the neighbors and friends see the ending of this drama. If you started it in public, let’s finish it the same way.
— Oh, bring TV cameras for all I care, — Igor waved a hand. — Neighbors! Come in—let’s drink to the new mistress of the house!
People streamed into the living room. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Neighbors exchanged glances—some looked sympathetic, others were openly gloating. Igor stood in the middle, proud as a peacock, holding his “new mistress” close.
I watched Tamara Nikolaevna already begin rearranging my collectible vases on the shelf as if she owned the place. Her fingers greedily felt along the expensive porcelain.
— Before I leave, Igor, I want to ask you one question, — I walked up to the wall safe built into the plaster. — Do you remember how we registered that land plot?
— What are you getting at? — he frowned. — The land is in my name, we built the house together. Well—meaning I managed it and you did some design stuff… What does it matter? By law half is mine, and I’ll pay you out for the other half. Someday.
I pulled a folder of documents from the safe. My heartbeat stayed even. I had been waiting for this exact moment for three months—since the day I saw the two of them in that restaurant for the first time.
— You’re wrong about two things, darling. First, I was never your “add-on.” And second…
I opened the folder and placed the first sheet on the table.
Tell me honestly—can you really feel sorry for a man who throws his wife out like that in front of everyone? Igor thinks he’s “master of life,” but hasn’t he gotten a little too comfortable, after he stopped checking paperwork? If you were Natalia, would you fight for the house—or would you walk away with your pride intact, but with nothing? I’m waiting for your opinions in the comments.
Igor didn’t even move, still wearing that smug little grin. He was so sure of his “male entitlement” that the truth seemed impossible to him.
— And what is this wastepaper? — he nodded lazily at the pages. — An estimate for new curtains you never bothered to hang? Natasha, stop dragging this out. People want to drink to the new mistress, not stare at your papers.
I set the certificate of ownership for the land plot on the table—the very plot our townhouse stood on.
— Read carefully, Igor. The land was gifted to me by my father a week before our wedding. This is the deed of gift. And by law, anything given as a personal gift to one spouse is not marital property and cannot be divided.
Igor frowned. His grin began to slide, slowly, off his face.
— That’s nonsense, — he snapped, snatching the page. — Fine, maybe the land. But I built the house! With my money! I took out loans, I put in every penny! The house certificate is in my name—I saw the form myself!
— You saw the form I showed you so you wouldn’t throw a tantrum, — I laid out the second document. — This is the real certificate. Since the house was built on my land, it follows the legal fate of the plot. And you built it with my money, Igor. Those “loans” you claimed you took for your business were actually repaid from my personal account—where the fees for my projects in the Emirates were deposited. You didn’t even know how much I earned, because you thought my work was just “drawing pretty pictures.”
Sveta, standing beside him, visibly stepped back. Her fingers, which had been stroking his shoulder a moment ago, froze. In the “new mistress’s” eyes, a flicker of doubt appeared. She had clearly expected a different ending.
— You… you set me up! — Igor roared. — You lied to me on purpose! That’s fraud! Mom, did you hear what this snake just said? She stole our house!
Tamara Nikolaevna—the same woman who, a minute ago, had been stroking my porcelain like it was her treasure—clamped both hands on the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white.
— You nasty little viper! — my mother-in-law shrieked. — How dare you lay a hand on something sacred? My son gave you the best years of his life and you’re throwing him out? Not happening! We’ll take you to court! We’ll prove you wrapped him around your finger!
— Go ahead, Tamara Nikolaevna. Just keep one thing in mind: every receipt for building materials, every contractor agreement, and every bank statement showing transfers is in my name. Legally, Igor is nobody in this house. Just a guest who’s overstayed his welcome.
The neighbors began whispering. I saw Gennady—our neighbor on the right, the one who’d always “respected” Igor for his so-called business instincts—now staring at him with barely concealed disgust. The public humiliation Igor had prepared for me was boomeranging straight back into his face.
Igor suddenly went slack. His shoulders drooped. He glanced at Sveta, searching for support, but she was already inspecting her nails, pretending she’d wandered in by accident.
— Natash… why are you doing this? — his voice thinned into something unfamiliar. — In front of everyone… We can make a deal. I lost my temper, the devil got into me. Sveta is nothing—just a fling. You know I only love you. Let the guests leave and we’ll talk calmly. Tomorrow I’ll send that… that Sveta to the station. We’ll start over, I swear!
— You called me an “add-on” in front of all our friends, Igor. You brought your mistress into my home and demanded I move into my mother’s cramped apartment, — I glanced at the clock. — The hour is almost up. Your time is over.
Sveta abruptly spun on her heel and headed for the door, her stilettos snapping against the floor.
— You know what, Igor? — she tossed over her shoulder. — I’m not interested in freeloaders. I thought you were a lion. Turns out you’re just a squatter in someone else’s nest. Ciao!
The front door slammed like a gunshot. Tamara Nikolaevna collapsed into a chair, pressing a hand to her chest.
— Igor, do something! — she moaned. — She’s going to throw us out!
— Exactly, — I said, pressing the button on my key fob. — There’s a taxi waiting outside. Your things—the ones I decided you’re allowed to take—are already in the trunk. Keys on the table. Both of you.
Igor stood in the middle of the living room I had created with so much love and looked like a pathetic ghost. He still hadn’t processed that, in five minutes, the life he’d built on someone else’s success would be over for good.
You know what’s truly terrifying? Not betrayal. The worst part is realizing you spent ten years loving emptiness.
— Out, — I said quietly.
Forty minutes later the house was unnaturally silent. The neighbors had gone home, careful not to meet my eyes. Igor and his mother disappeared into the night. I sank onto the sofa and, for the first time that evening, allowed myself to take a deep breath. But I knew it wasn’t over.
Inside the folder was one last sheet—one I hadn’t shown the guests. A document that would make Igor do more than howl. It would make him beg.
A question for readers: Do you think Natalia was fair to Igor, putting him out so harshly in front of witnesses? Or should she have spoken to him privately first, preserving what little dignity he had left? Some will say she “sank to his level,” but can you ever negotiate politely with predators? I’m waiting for your thoughts in the comments.
When the door finally closed behind Igor and his mother, the house fell so quiet I could hear my own breathing. The neighbors scattered back to their lots, and through the window I watched them cluster in little groups, excitedly dissecting what they’d just seen. By tomorrow the whole neighborhood would be buzzing like a disturbed beehive—but I didn’t care.
I walked to the table and picked up that final sheet.
It wasn’t just a document. It was a civil claim for unjust enrichment and a police report for fraud. For three years Igor had been withdrawing money from my business accounts, forging my signature on payment orders—supposedly for “equipment purchases” for his imaginary company. In reality, the money went to gifts for Sveta and to supporting his mother.
I’d known for a long time. But I waited. I waited until the total crossed the threshold for an “especially large amount,” so he wouldn’t have the option of slipping away with a slap on the wrist.
An hour later my phone rang. Igor.
His voice wasn’t commanding anymore. It was a pitiful, soggy mix of sniffles and wounded pride.
— Natash… — he sobbed. — We’re at Mom’s. The faucet is leaking, the couch is caved in, there’s no air… Mom’s not well, she keeps crying. Natasha, please forgive me. I was an idiot, I got tangled up. Let me come back. I’ll fix everything—everything. I’ll wash floors, I’ll cook—just don’t throw us out for good.
It was his last attempt.
— You left the house keys on the table, Igor, — I said slowly, savoring every word. — Now go look for the keys to your new life in the taxi’s trunk. There’s a folder in there. Study it carefully. It contains copies of your little masterpieces—with my “signature.” Tomorrow morning the originals will be on an investigator’s desk.
There was a loud crash through the phone, followed by Tamara Nikolaevna’s piercing scream. Apparently she’d already opened the folder.
— You wouldn’t dare! — Igor screeched. — I’m your husband!
— You were my husband right up until the moment you opened your mouth at my anniversary, — I said, and ended the call.
Three months later the divorce was finalized. Igor tried to fight it, but the lawyer I hired quickly explained his prospects of spending five years in a penal colony. In exchange for my refusal to pursue criminal charges, Igor signed away any claims to my property and agreed to pay me five million rubles over ten years.
His “business” popped like a soap bubble. Turns out without my money propping him up, he couldn’t even cover the rent on a tiny office. Sveta vanished from his life the instant she realized there was nothing left to feed off. People say she’s “hunting” in another part of the city now, but I couldn’t care less.
Six months passed. I’m standing on the veranda of my house. The curtains are different now—the ones I like, not the ones Igor thought looked “high status.” My business is thriving: interior design projects are booked a year ahead. A salary of 150,000 feels like only the beginning.
Not long ago I saw Igor at a gas station. He was working as an attendant. Gray-haired, hunched, in a wrinkled uniform. He didn’t recognize my new car, and I didn’t roll down the window. Next to him, in the passenger seat of an old Lada, sat Tamara Nikolaevna, furiously scolding her son and waving her hands around. They got exactly what they deserved: each other, in a cramped apartment with a leaking faucet.
I walked back into my house. The silence no longer pressed on me. It was alive, warm, and it smelled of fresh coffee and my freedom.
And do you know what the most important thing is that I finally understood? You can’t be anyone’s “add-on,” even if that person swears eternal love. Your home is you. And if the foundation inside you is strong, no self-proclaimed “masters of life” will ever be able to destroy it.