Polina had received the apartment from her Aunt Vera three years earlier, when Vera’s heart problems became severe. Vera insisted on transferring everything in advance, so there wouldn’t be any ugly fights later with distant relatives who would magically appear right after the funeral. Polina tried to refuse—said it was too early, that her aunt would get better. But Vera only shook her head and signed the papers at the notary with a trembling hand. Six months later she was gone, and Polina was left with a three-bedroom apartment in an old building—high ceilings, creaky parquet floors, the kind of place with character. The deed was in Polina’s name alone, with no add-ons or conditions, and that detail mattered more than anyone realized at the time.
When Polina met Maksim a year later, she set her terms from the start. They were sitting in a café on their first date when the conversation naturally shifted to housing. Maksim talked about renting a tiny one-bedroom on the outskirts, complained about noisy neighbors and expensive rent.
“And you—where do you live?” he asked, finishing his coffee.
“In my own place,” Polina answered. “It was my aunt’s. A three-bedroom in the center.”
“Lucky you,” he smiled. “It must be great to have your own home.”
“It is,” she agreed, looking him straight in the eyes. “And it will stay mine. Always. I want you to understand that right now, from the beginning.”
Maksim nodded as if that were completely reasonable. Polina remembered that nod—light, effortless, no hesitation, no questions. Back then, she believed he truly understood.
They dated another six months before Maksim moved in with her. Polina repeated her rules: the apartment was hers, no joint investments, no illusions about some future property split. He nodded again, agreed, even joked that he was glad he wouldn’t be paying rent anymore. Polina didn’t laugh. To her, it wasn’t funny.
At first, living together was calm. Maksim worked for a construction company, came home late and exhausted, ate dinner quietly, and fell asleep in front of the TV. Polina didn’t complain—she appreciated the silence and the lack of pressure. But little by little, things began to change. Maksim started visiting his mother more often. First once a week, then twice, then almost every other day. Each time he returned with a tense expression, like he’d been burdened with someone else’s ideas and now had to carry them home.
Polina didn’t ask what they discussed. She only knew her mother-in-law, Lyudmila Petrovna, from occasional holiday meetings. The woman kept herself cold, with a faint note of disapproval—as if Polina were a temporary mistake in her son’s life. For Maksim’s birthday, Lyudmila Petrovna gave him a book about family law. Polina said nothing, but she didn’t forget it.
One evening, as they sat in the kitchen, Maksim suddenly asked:
“Have you ever thought about registering the apartment in both our names?”
Polina looked up from her phone.
“Why?”
“Well, we’re family,” he shrugged. “Mom says it’s normal. That everyone who takes marriage seriously does it.”
“Your mother says a lot of things,” Polina replied, setting her cup down. “But the apartment stays mine. I explained that to you before we even started dating.”
“I remember,” he said, looking away. “I just thought you’d change your mind with time.”
“I won’t,” she said firmly.
He didn’t respond, but after that conversation he began disappearing to his mother’s even more. Polina noticed how he came back with tight lips, tired, almost offended. She understood he was being influenced, pushed, conditioned—but she had no intention of fighting for his beliefs. If he couldn’t defend his own position in front of his mother, then he didn’t really have a position at all.
Then one Friday evening, Maksim came home earlier than usual. Polina was cooking dinner when she heard the front door slam. He walked into the kitchen unusually upbeat—almost triumphant—and that immediately put her on edge.
“Hi,” he said, taking off his jacket. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” Polina asked without turning around.
“About the apartment.”
She turned off the stove and faced him. Maksim pulled a folded envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on the table. Polina looked from the envelope to her husband.
“What’s that?”
“A deed of gift,” he said with a confidence she hadn’t heard in his voice before. “Mom handled everything. It’s been registered in my name. The apartment is officially mine now.”
Polina didn’t understand at first. The words reached her slowly, like they were crawling through thick fog. Gift deed. Registered. Mine.
She opened the envelope and pulled out several pages. The document was printed on an official-looking form with stamps and signatures. At the top, in bold: “Deed of Gift of Real Estate.” Underneath, it stated that Polina Sergeyevna Kravtsova allegedly transferred the apartment at a specific address to Maksim Andreyevich Sokolov.
Polina read the text once. Then again. Maksim stood beside her with his arms crossed, watching with barely hidden anticipation. In his head, he was already the owner. He imagined her panicking, making excuses, maybe even crying. But Polina didn’t cry.
Instead, she noticed several things immediately. First, the signature at the bottom was clearly not hers—crooked and shaky, nothing like the one she’d used for years. Second, the date was from the previous year, back when they weren’t even officially married. Third, the notary stamp looked suspiciously blurred, as if it had been scanned from another document and pasted onto this one.
Polina lifted her eyes to him. There was no confusion in her gaze. No doubt. Only icy calm.
“Did you honestly think this would work?” she asked quietly.
“What do you mean?” Maksim frowned. “It’s an official document. Mom found a notary who agreed to backdate it. He said it can be done.”
“It can,” Polina smirked. “If I had actually signed it. But I didn’t, Maksim. This is a forgery.”
“It’s not a forgery,” he snapped, raising his voice. “Everything’s legal! There’s a stamp, a signature—everything!”
“The signature isn’t mine,” Polina said, placing the pages back on the table. “The date is fake. The stamp is so blurry you can’t even read the registration number. Any lawyer would prove this is counterfeit in five minutes.”
Maksim went silent. His expression made it clear he hadn’t expected that reaction. He was counting on a scandal, tears, fear—anything that would push her toward compromise. But Polina wasn’t afraid.
She stood up slowly, walked to the front door, and turned the key in the lock. Then she returned to the kitchen, picked up the envelope, and held it out to him.
“You can wipe your ass with that ‘gift deed’ and go back to your mother,” Polina said evenly, and opened the door.
Maksim froze. For a few seconds he just stared at her, as if he couldn’t believe the conversation was truly over. Then he took the envelope and squeezed it in his hand.
“You can’t just throw me out,” he muttered. “I live here.”
“You lived here,” Polina corrected. “Now pack your things.”
“Polina, listen…”
“No,” she cut him off, still not raising her voice. “I’m not listening. You came here with a fake document and tried to take my apartment. The only thing I owe you right now is an open door. Take everything else with you.”
He stood by the doorway, gripping the envelope, and Polina watched anger, resentment, and something like shame fight in his eyes. She felt no pity. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment mistake—it had been planned too carefully, prepared too thoroughly.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” he tried again. “We’ll talk calmly.”
“Don’t call,” Polina said, standing straight with her arms crossed. “There’s nothing for us to talk about.”
Maksim nodded slowly, turned, and went into the hallway. Polina heard him open the closet, pull out a bag, throw his things inside. He packed for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. She stayed by the kitchen doorway without moving. When he finally came out with two stuffed bags, he stopped in the corridor and looked at her one last time.
“Mom said you were like this,” he said quietly. “Cold. Calculating.”
“Your mother’s right,” Polina replied without emotion. “That’s exactly what I am. And it’s the reason I didn’t lose my home.”
He didn’t answer. He simply turned and walked out. The door slammed behind him with a dull thud, and Polina was left standing alone in the hallway. She exhaled slowly, as if dropping a heavy weight she’d carried for far too long.
She went back to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and sat at the table. Her hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the tension finally releasing. She thought about how easy it would have been to believe him, to freeze, to start explaining herself. If she had been different—less attentive, less firm—this could have ended another way.
That same evening, Polina called a handyman she knew and asked him to come the next morning to change the locks. He arrived at nine, installed new, stronger ones, and gave her two sets of keys. Polina tested the lock, paid him, and closed the door. Now Maksim had neither the right nor the ability to come back.
Three days later he called. Polina didn’t pick up. He called again. And again. He sent several messages—first apologetic, then accusing, then threatening to sue. Polina didn’t respond. She knew a lawsuit would get him nowhere. The apartment had been in her name before the marriage, there were no joint investments, and the attempt to forge documents would only make his situation worse.
On the fourth day, a message came from her mother-in-law. Lyudmila Petrovna wrote that Polina was cruel, that she’d destroyed a family over “some apartment,” that a real wife should share with her husband. Polina read the message, gave a small, amused snort, and blocked the number.
That evening, she sat on the couch with a cup of tea and looked around the empty apartment. It was quiet. Maksim wasn’t blasting the TV anymore, wasn’t slamming closet doors, wasn’t leaving his things scattered everywhere. Polina didn’t feel lonely. She didn’t feel regret. She felt relief.
She thought of Aunt Vera, who had left her this home. She remembered how insistently Vera had pushed her to sign everything properly—almost as if she’d foreseen that one day someone would try to take it from Polina. Maybe Vera understood that in this world you have to hold on tight to what’s yours and not trust pretty promises.
Polina finished her tea, set the cup down, and smiled. For the first time in a long time, she felt truly free. The home was still hers. Her life was still hers. And the man who tried to take it no longer had anything to do with her.
And that was how it should be.
A week later, Polina received a letter from Maksim’s lawyer. It demanded a division of property and compensation for their time living together. She took it to her attorney, who only smirked after reading it.
“They don’t have a chance,” he said, setting the paper aside. “The apartment was registered to you before the marriage. There was no prenuptial agreement. There’s no proof of joint вложения—investments. Even if they try to claim something, we’ll knock it down easily. And the forged ‘gift deed’ attempt will only backfire on them.”
“Good,” Polina nodded. “So we just wait?”
“Yes. Most likely they’ll drop it quickly once they realize it’s hopeless. And if they don’t—we’ll win in court.”
Polina left her lawyer’s office feeling lighter. She knew there could still be hassles ahead—court dates, unpleasant conversations, pressure from Maksim and his mother. But she was ready. She was defending what was hers, and that gave her strength.
That evening she came home, brewed her favorite tea, and sat by the window. Streetlights glowed outside, and a few passersby hurried along on their way. Somewhere out there was Maksim—probably back at his mother’s, probably planning the next move with her. But that was no longer Polina’s problem.
She understood the most important thing: sometimes the only way to keep your life is to close the door in time on the people trying to take it. No explanations. No justifications. No guilt. Just close it—and move forward.
And Polina moved forward. No looking back, no regret, with the keys to her apartment in her pocket and the certainty that no one would ever dare to try to take what was rightfully hers again.