Svetlana stood in front of a door she knew by heart, fingers sifting through the keys in her purse. Something felt off immediately—the lock had clearly been changed. She frowned and double-checked the number. No, she wasn’t mistaken: third floor, apartment twenty-seven. The same place where she had lived through eight years of marriage.
“Igor said I could pick up the kids’ winter clothes today by three,” she muttered, looking at her watch. “It’s 3:05. Maybe he forgot?”
She pressed the bell. Even the sound was different now—no more “Für Elise,” replaced by some bubbly pop tune.
Behind the door came the click-click of heels. A lock turned.
The door swung open and a tall blonde woman in her early thirties appeared, wrapped in a hot-pink robe. Svetlana didn’t know her personally, but the meaning was instantly obvious. So this was Kristina—the one mutual friends had been whispering about for the last six months.
“Who are you here for?” the blonde asked coolly, giving Svetlana a quick, appraising scan.
“Hello. My name is Svetlana. I’m Timofey and Polina’s mother. Igor and I agreed I’d come pick up the children’s things.”
The woman’s expression changed in a flash. Her eyebrows tightened toward the bridge of her nose; her lips pressed into a hard line.
“This is my apartment. And who are you?” she snapped, blocking the doorway with her arm. “What ‘things’? Igor isn’t home, and I’m not letting some stranger into my place!”
Svetlana felt that familiar burn flare in her chest. Did this woman genuinely not understand who she was talking to? Or did she understand perfectly—and was simply performing, trying to act like the unquestioned queen of the castle?
“Excuse me, but I don’t think you fully understand the situation,” Svetlana answered, keeping her voice steady. “I’m the mother of Igor’s children, and we arranged—”
“We arranged nothing!” Kristina cut in, voice climbing. “I’m the one in charge here. This is my territory! And you… who even are you? The ex-wife? Then stay an ex! Stop coming here!”
Across the hall, a neighbor’s door creaked open. Through the crack appeared the curious eye of Aunt Vera, the building’s resident news agency.
“Girls, quieter,” her voice floated out. “What’s all this shouting? Sveta, is that you? I thought that voice sounded familiar…”
Kristina turned sharply toward the neighbor.
“Everything’s fine!” she barked. “Just someone trying to push her way in. She’s leaving.”
“I’m not leaving until I take the children’s things,” Svetlana said firmly. “And by the way, I’m still registered at this address. So the question of who’s ‘in charge’ here isn’t as simple as you think.”
Kristina went pale, then flushed.
“What do you mean you’re registered here? Igor didn’t tell me anything! You’re lying!”
“Do you want me to show you my passport?”
An awkward pause settled over the stairwell. Kristina looked genuinely thrown, unsure how to respond. Svetlana used the opening.
“Will you please just let me in? I’ll grab Tima and Polya’s coats and boots and be gone. Nobody wants a scene for the whole landing.”
“No!” the blonde barked, stepping back but still barring the entrance. “I don’t know what story you’re inventing about registration! Maybe you’re a scammer! People fake documents in two minutes these days!”
Svetlana inhaled slowly. Okay. Calm. This woman was either ignorant of the full picture—or deliberately trying to dominate it. Either way, getting dragged into a screaming match was beneath her.
“Fine,” Svetlana said evenly, pulling out her phone. “Let’s call Igor and clear it up.”
Igor answered on the third ring. In the background she could hear office noise—keyboard taps, muted voices.
“Hello, Sveta? Did something happen?”
“Igor, I’m at the apartment. Your… wife won’t let me in for the kids’ things. She says she doesn’t know who I am.”
There was silence. Then Igor swore under his breath.
“Is Kristina there?”
“Yes. She’s standing in front of me saying it’s her apartment and I’m nobody.”
Svetlana said it loudly on purpose, staring straight at the blonde. Kristina licked her lips, suddenly nervous.
“Igor, tell her who I am!” Kristina shouted, snatching the phone from Svetlana. “Why didn’t you tell me your ex would be showing up here? I didn’t sign up for this!”
“Kristina, calm down,” Igor’s tired voice came through the speaker. “Svetlana is the mother of my kids. We agreed she’d come pick up their winter clothes. Let her in.”
“But why am I only finding out now?” Kristina’s voice rose even higher. “It’s humiliating! I live here, and some ex-wife just appears without warning!”
“I told you yesterday,” Igor replied patiently. “You were watching a show and you said, ‘Uh-huh, okay.’ Remember?”
Kristina blinked, rattled. She clearly did remember.
“Well… that doesn’t mean I agreed! I can ‘uh-huh’ anything!”
Svetlana took the phone back.
“Igor, how long is this going to take? I have to grab their coats and go pick them up from school. Polya has an экскурсия tomorrow, and Tima has practice.”
“Yes, of course—go in,” Igor said. “The things are in the hallway closet, where they’ve always been. Kristina, please don’t interfere.”
“I’m not interfering!” Kristina protested. “I’m protecting my home from an invasion!”
“Invasion?” Svetlana couldn’t keep the irony out of her voice. “I’m picking up the children’s coats, not planning to sleep here.”
“And how am I supposed to know that?” Kristina snapped. “Maybe you decided to take him back. They’re all the same—first they come ‘for things,’ and then they start making claims!”
Aunt Vera leaned farther out, nearly to her shoulders.
“Girls, what is going on? Sveta, are you okay? And who is this? Did Igor get married again?”
“None of your business!” Kristina snapped.
“How is it not my business?” Aunt Vera shot back. “I’ve known Svetochka for eight years—she’s a good girl. And you’re yelling at her like some market fishmonger!”
“Thank you, Aunt Vera,” Svetlana said wearily. “It’s fine. Just a misunderstanding.”
Then she turned to Kristina.
“Listen—let’s not do the hysterics. I understand this is uncomfortable for you. But the kids aren’t to blame for adults having complicated relationships. They need warm clothes. Give me five minutes and I’ll disappear from your life—until the next time I need to pick something up.”
“Until the next time?” Kristina went white. “So you’ll be coming here regularly?”
“I have two children with Igor. Of course sometimes I’ll have to come here.”
“That can’t be!” Kristina blurted. “Igor was supposed to handle all of this! He promised the past would stay in the past!”
Svetlana felt a sting of pity. Poor woman—Igor had probably painted her a perfect picture of a clean slate, no “baggage” trailing behind him.
“Children aren’t ‘the past,’” Svetlana said gently. “They’re the present and the future. And if you’re building something serious with Igor, you’ll have to accept that.”
Kristina stood with her mouth slightly open. Reality was finally starting to land. Svetlana took advantage of the moment and pulled her passport from her purse.
“Here. Look. My registration is still valid. Technically, I have every right to be in this apartment.”
Kristina took the document automatically and skimmed to the relevant page. Her face fell.
“But… how is that possible? We’re planning a wedding… Igor said the apartment was completely his…”
“He probably forgot to mention a few details,” Svetlana said dryly. “You do understand that an official divorce and dividing property are two different things, right? We divorced quickly through the registry office. We kept postponing the property issues.”
“So… you can claim the apartment?” Kristina’s voice trembled.
“In theory—yes. But I’m not going to. I have my own place, and the kids are comfortable with me.”
The relief that swept across Kristina’s face was so obvious Svetlana almost smiled.
“Then why are you telling me all this?”
“So you understand I’m not some beggar or clingy ex-wife,” Svetlana said evenly. “I’m the mother of Igor’s children, and I have rights. And next time you see me at this door, maybe don’t put on a show.”
Kristina stayed quiet, digesting it all. Finally, she stepped aside, reluctantly.
“Fine… go in. But be quick.”
Svetlana walked into the entryway and immediately felt how much the apartment had changed. Her old cozy chaos was gone. The kids’ drawings that used to hang on the fridge had been replaced by framed photos of Kristina. Even the smell was different—cloyingly sweet perfume instead of the familiar aroma of homemade food.
“Where does Igor keep the children’s things?” Kristina asked, clearly trying to regain control of the situation.
“In the hallway closet, top shelf.”
Svetlana opened the familiar closet and reached up. Kristina watched every movement, as if expecting her to steal something valuable.
“Polina’s jacket… and this one is Timofey’s… Where’s his hat? The blue knitted one—he had it…”
“How should I know?” Kristina snapped. “I don’t track the clothes of someone else’s kids.”
“They aren’t someone else’s kids,” Svetlana corrected calmly. “If you marry Igor, you’ll be their stepmother—whether you want that title or not.”
“I didn’t sign up to be a stepmother!” Kristina exploded. “Igor said the kids were grown and independent, that there wouldn’t be any issues!”
“Polya is seven. Tima is nine. That’s ‘grown and independent’?”
Kristina blinked rapidly, stunned. Apparently Igor hadn’t mentioned that detail either—or she hadn’t listened, too busy dreaming about the romance.
“Nine? But Igor said…”
“What Igor said isn’t the point,” Svetlana replied, finding Timofey’s hat and folding everything into a bag with practiced care. “What matters is what’s real. You have a lot of discoveries ahead if you truly plan to tie your life to his.”
“What are you implying?” Kristina asked.
“Nothing dramatic,” Svetlana said. “Just… Igor has a talent for presenting things in the best possible light. Especially when he wants to impress someone.”
Kristina stared at her.
“Are you trying to break us up?”
“Why would I?” Svetlana looked genuinely puzzled. “What would I gain? Honestly, the happier Igor is, the calmer my life becomes.”
“Then why say things like that?”
Svetlana paused, holding Polina’s little boots. Was warning someone about the obvious the same as trying to hurt them?
“Because I can see you’re wearing rose-colored glasses,” she said quietly. “And reality can be painful when those glasses fall off on their own.”
Kristina sank onto a small ottoman in the entryway, suddenly looking younger—lost, unsure.
“I don’t understand… We dated for six months. He seemed so reliable, so serious. He said the past was closed, that he was ready for a new life…”
To her own surprise, Svetlana felt sympathy. Yes, Kristina had been rude and aggressive—but beneath it she looked like a frightened girl who had just realized she might have fallen for someone who wasn’t who she thought.
“You know,” Svetlana said, crouching down beside her, “Igor isn’t a bad person. He loves the kids. He works hard. He can be charming. But he has a flaw—he hates complications. When there’s a problem, he’d rather ignore it or make it sound smaller than it is.”
“So what am I supposed to do with that?”
“Just be aware of it,” Svetlana said. “And don’t be afraid to ask direct questions. About the kids, about money, about plans. About how often I’ll be here, and whether you can live with that.”
Kristina nodded, wiping away tears that had surfaced.
“And why are you telling me this… after how I behaved?”
“Because I understand,” Svetlana said simply. “When I married Igor, I didn’t know a lot either. I thought love would solve everything. But problems pile up when you pretend they aren’t there.”
“Is that why you divorced?”
Svetlana thought for a moment. How could she explain that the divorce hadn’t been a tragedy—it had been freedom? That living with someone who constantly dodged reality eventually became unbearable?
“We divorced because we grew in different directions,” she said at last. “Igor wanted me to be a convenient wife—no hard questions, no serious talks, just accept whatever is. And I wanted a partner I could actually build a future with.”
“And now you’re happy?”
“Yes,” Svetlana said without hesitation. “It took time to understand it, but yes. I don’t feel invisible anymore. My kids see the real me—not someone pretending everything is fine.”
Kristina stood up, smoothed her robe.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For being honest. And… I’m sorry for the way I acted. I just got scared.”
“It’s okay,” Svetlana answered. “In your place, I’d probably be shaken too.”
Svetlana headed for the door, but Kristina stopped her.
“Wait. Can I… can I ask one more thing?”
“Of course.”
“The kids… will they hate me? Because I’m with their father?”
Svetlana smiled for the first time in the entire conversation—warmly, genuinely.
“Kids are wiser than people think,” she said. “They don’t hate someone for no reason. If you’re honest and kind to them—if you don’t try to replace their mother or turn them against me—everything will be fine. They deserve to see their dad happy.”
“And if Igor and I don’t work out either?”
“Then it’ll be your experience and your choice,” Svetlana said. “Just don’t waste years on something that’s clearly not working.”
Svetlana stepped out into the stairwell. Kristina watched her go and said softly:
“Good luck.”
“You too.”
Walking down the stairs, Svetlana felt a strange sense of relief—not just because she’d finally gotten the children’s clothes, but because she’d managed to stay herself. Not to humiliate herself, not to fight, but also not to swallow the truth when it needed to be said.
Her phone buzzed—a message from Polina: “Mom, are we making pancakes today?”
“Of course, sweetheart. I’m on my way.”
Svetlana smiled as she got into the car. Home, her children, pancakes for dinner—her real, honest life was waiting. And it was beautiful.