Banks always felt suffocating. Even in winter. The air was dry, stale, heavy with the smell of paper and someone else’s perfume. Viktoria sat at a small desk, gripping the pen so tightly her fingers turned white. She was signing the final document. The mortgage was paid off. That was it. She could breathe again.
Her heartbeat thudded in her temples—maybe from drinking coffee on an empty stomach, maybe from the thought spinning through her head: Five years. Five whole years I lived like I was standing on a minefield. I counted every paycheck, saved every bonus, denied myself every unnecessary purchase. And now it’s over. I did it.
The bank manager, a pleasant young woman of about twenty-five, held out her hand.
“Congratulations, Viktoria Sergeyevna. You’re free.”
The word free sounded almost surreal, as if she had just been released from prison. Vika even let out a quiet laugh. Well, in a way, a mortgage really was a kind of sentence.
She stepped outside, filled her lungs with the cold air, and immediately felt lighter. Pictures began flickering through her mind: a romantic dinner in her own apartment, a bottle of wine, Andrey smiling at her… And above all, no more debt hanging over her head. A home that truly belonged to her.
What waited for her at home, however, was a surprise of a very different kind.
Lena was sprawled across the couch in sweatpants, painting her nails bright red. Empty chip packets were scattered on the coffee table, along with a mug crusted with dried coffee and her sneakers tossed into opposite corners of the room for no reason at all.
“Hey,” Lena said lazily, not even turning around. “Do you have any bread?”
Viktoria pressed her lips together. There had been bread. She had bought some that morning. But asking where it had gone would have been pointless—it was obviously already eaten.
“Lena, how much longer are you planning to stay with us?” she asked carefully as she took off her coat.
Lena sighed, blew on her nails, and finally turned to face her.
“You know I’m going through a hard time right now. I don’t have money, renting is expensive, and staying with friends is awkward. You understand.”
Understand? Viktoria thought bitterly. Lena was always going through some “hard time.” Yet somehow there was always money for new jeans and beauty salons.
Andrey came in from the kitchen holding a mug of tea. His hair was tousled, and he was wearing an old T-shirt. He smiled at Vika so warmly that her heart actually softened for a second.
Then he said, “Vik, there’s something we need to talk about.”
She instantly went on alert. Whenever Andrey said we need to talk, nothing good ever followed.
At dinner, the tension hung in the air like fog. Vika was frying chicken breasts, Lena was watching shows on her phone at full volume, bursting into laughter as if they were in a café instead of someone else’s home, and Andrey kept turning his fork over in his hands.
“Vik,” he began, clearing his throat, “Lena… well, she wants to get a mortgage. But the bank won’t approve her. She’s young, her job is unstable. You know how it is.”
“And?” Vika looked up.
“And I was thinking…” He hesitated. “Maybe you could take it out in your name. Your credit history is good, and you have an official salary.”
She nearly dropped the frying pan.
“What?”
Lena sighed theatrically and pressed a hand to her chest.
“Vika, I’m not asking you to pay for me. Just to sign for it. I’ll handle everything else myself. I swear.”
Her word. Coming from Lena, it sounded almost laughable.
“Andrey,” Vika said, trying to stay calm though her voice trembled, “I paid off my mortgage today. Today. Do you have any idea what that means to me?”
“Why are you flaring up like this?” he said with a frown. “This is for family. For my sister. She’s my own blood. And you’re smart, responsible—you can handle it.”
A hot wave of anger rose inside her.
“Wait. Stop. I spent five years surviving on buckwheat to pay off this apartment. Five years. And now you want me to crawl right back into debt so your sister can live comfortably?”
Lena lifted her chin, offended.
“What do you mean, comfortably? I’m barely scraping by!”
At that exact moment, Lena’s phone pinged. A message flashed across the screen: Turkey booking confirmed.
Vika looked at her so sharply that Lena instantly covered the screen with her hand.
“Are you serious?” Vika asked quietly. “You have no money? Not a single cent?”
“That’s… that’s my friend’s booking,” Lena mumbled, stumbling over her words.
Andrey looked away. He clearly knew the truth, but chose to pretend he didn’t.
And right then, Vika understood: both of them were against her. He was doing it because of “family.” Lena was doing it because it was convenient.
“Vik,” Andrey said again, irritation creeping into his voice, “you’ve become cold. You don’t think about the people close to you anymore.”
The word hit her like a slap. Cold. So that was what five years of struggle made her in his eyes.
“Cold?” Her voice broke. “Who do you think I did all this for? For us! So we could have our own home! And now I’m supposed to sign up for another mortgage so your sister can live like some pampered princess?”
Lena snorted.
“If you’re too stingy, just say that. No need for all the drama.”
That was the last straw. Viktoria slammed her fork onto the table.
“Excuse me, but this is my home. My apartment. And my decision.”
Silence fell. The only sound was Lena’s fingernail tapping against her phone screen.
Andrey looked at his wife, and for the first time she saw open resentment in his eyes.
“You know what, Vik? Maybe you really are taking this too far.”
She stood up, fists clenched.
“No, Andrey. You took it too far.”
No one spoke after that. The television muttered in the background, Lena half-heartedly scrolled through her feed, Andrey shut himself in the bedroom, and Viktoria sat alone in the dark kitchen listening to strangers move around in her apartment as if nothing was wrong.
She woke up early the next morning even though it was Saturday. Something felt off—as if someone чужой was moving around her home. She walked into the kitchen and found Lena there in her robe, pulling sausage out of the fridge and eating it standing there with the refrigerator door left wide open.
“Sorry,” Lena said casually, not embarrassed in the slightest. “I was hungry.”
“You know, breakfast is usually eaten at the table,” Viktoria replied coldly, pouring herself coffee.
Lena shrugged and wandered back into the living room, collapsed onto the couch, and buried herself in her laptop while a TV series blared through the room.
There it was: her apartment, her nest. And yet somehow she felt like the one renting a corner in it.
Around lunchtime Andrey came back carrying shopping bags. There was food inside—but it was clearly for their dinner, the one they had apparently decided to prepare for Lena.
“Vik, come on, don’t be upset,” he said with a smile as he unpacked everything. “Let’s have a family dinner tonight. Sit down, talk.”
“Family, huh?” Vika said with a bitter smile. “Funny. Because in this family, I seem to be the extra one.”
Andrey frowned.
“You’re overreacting. She’s my sister. She’s having a hard time.”
“A hard time?” Viktoria set down her cup with force. “She’s booking Turkey, Andryusha. Tur-key.”
He flinched, like someone had caught him lying. But he recovered quickly.
“That’s nonsense.”
“It was right there on her phone. You saw it yourself.”
“What kind of woman are you?” he snapped. “Always digging, always looking for hidden motives.”
Vika could feel her hands beginning to shake.
“I just want to live peacefully. In my own apartment. Without your sister fused into our couch.”
As if on cue, Lena walked in holding her phone.
“Oh, here we go. Let’s make me the villain in everything again.”
“And who’s to blame, Lena?” Vika stood up. “You’ve been living off us for a month and haven’t contributed a single penny to this house.”
Lena scoffed.
“For your information, I am looking for a job.”
“On Instagram?” Vika shot back.
Lena flushed red. Andrey slammed his palm down on the table.
“That’s enough! Vik, you’re becoming unbearable. You’re constantly picking at everything.”
“I’m unbearable?” Her voice trembled. “I don’t even recognize you anymore, Andrey. You used to be different.”
He turned away.
“People change.”
That evening everything finally exploded.
Viktoria put soup on the stove, threw in the meat, but she had no appetite. Lena was laughing loudly into her phone, chatting with a friend about “last-minute vacation deals.”
“Lena,” Viktoria said at last, forcing herself to stay controlled, “pack your things. You need to move out tomorrow.”
Lena stared at her like she had gone insane.
“What? Move out? Where exactly am I supposed to go?”
“Anywhere you want. Just not here.”
Andrey came rushing in, his face red with anger.
“Have you lost your mind? That’s my sister!”
“This is my apartment,” Viktoria said sharply.
Lena let out a theatrical sob.
“I thought you were like a sister to me… and this is how you treat me? Throwing me out?”
Vika walked to the wardrobe, pulled out Lena’s sports bag, and threw it onto the couch.
“Are you going to pack it yourself, or should I help?”
Lena sprang to her feet.
“To hell with you!” she shouted, swinging her arm as if she meant to hit her.
Vika caught her wrist and shoved her away. The bag hit the floor, spilling out a makeup pouch—and a bundle of euros.
Silence.
Everyone stared at the money.
“So that’s your hard time,” Viktoria said. “You’ve got euros for a vacation, but not enough to pay rent.”
Andrey tried to smooth it over.
“Vik, well… you know, it could mean anything…”
“Be quiet,” she cut him off.
As Lena scrambled to gather up the money, she hissed, “You’ll regret this.”
“You’ll regret it if I don’t see a packed suitcase in five minutes.”
That night was hell. The argument escalated into shouting, slaps, and doors slamming. Andrey defended his sister to the bitter end. Lena cried dramatically, called people to complain, and played the victim. But for the first time in a very long while, Viktoria did not feel like the wounded one. She felt like someone finally drawing a line.
Toward morning, Andrey packed up too. He left with Lena, slamming the door behind him.
The apartment fell quiet.
The decisive conversation came the next evening. Viktoria had just put the kettle on and was enjoying the silence when the doorbell rang—long and insistently.
Andrey stood on the doorstep. His cheeks were red, his eyes restless. Lena was behind him clutching a folder of papers to her chest.
“We need to talk,” he said without greeting her.
They went into the kitchen. Lena dropped onto a stool as if she still lived there and set her bag on the table.
“Viktoria,” Andrey began in a businesslike tone, “we consulted a lawyer. The apartment was acquired during the marriage. I’m entitled to a share.”
“A share?” Viktoria almost laughed. “I bought it before we got married. I paid the mortgage with my own money. Other than endless whining, you contributed nothing.”
Lena raised her eyebrows.
“We’ll still win our part in court!”
Viktoria stood up, took a folder from the cabinet, and threw it onto the table.
“Here. Documents. Bank statements. Payment records. The contract. Everything is in my name. The apartment is mine.”
Andrey froze. Lena went pale, though only for a second before shrieking again:
“So you really want to throw us out?”
“I don’t want to,” Viktoria said firmly. “I’m doing it. Take your things and leave.”
Andrey clenched his fists as if ready to argue, but then he looked into her eyes and, for the first time, saw steel there. The very steel he had always been afraid of.
Half an hour later, the door closed behind them. Silence filled the apartment once again.
Viktoria poured herself tea, sat down in the armchair, and understood something for the first time: a home is not walls or furniture. A home is a place where no one gets to claim your labor or your life without your consent.
And now, finally, that home belonged to her alone.