Vacate the apartment by evening. I’m bringing my new wife,” my husband ordered, not knowing that yesterday I had transferred it to our daughter
“Pack your things, Lida. I want you gone by six this evening.”
I looked up from my phone. Sergey was standing in the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was cold, his voice calm, as if he were talking about the weather.
“Repeat that. I didn’t hear you.”
“Don’t pretend. Nastya is coming at six. She’s going to live here. And you can get out wherever you want. To our daughter’s place, to a rented apartment — I don’t care.”
A cup of tea stood on the table, steam rising from it. I wrapped my hands around it. It was hot, almost burning, but I did not pull my hands away.
“Sergey, this apartment…”
“Our apartment,” he interrupted. “And I decide who lives in it. You have five hours. I think that’s enough time to pack your rags.”
He took out his phone, looked at the screen, and smirked. His fingers started moving quickly across it — writing a message. To Nastya, of course. That same Nastya Solovyova, twenty-seven years old, administrator at a beauty salon on Kutuzovsky Prospekt.
“Is everything clear?”
“Yes, Sergey. Everything is clear.”
He nodded and left the kitchen. The door did not slam behind him — it closed quietly, neatly. He had become different in recent months. Restrained, cold, a stranger.
The phone vibrated on the table. A message from Lena:
“Mom, the documents are ready. Registration went through yesterday at 15:03. Everything is completed. When you say the word, I’ll come.”
I placed the phone face down and finished my tea. It was cold and tasteless, but I drank it to the end.
For thirty-two years, I had been Sergey Volkov’s wife. For thirty-two years, I had lived in this apartment. At first, we rented a one-room place in Medvedkovo, then we took out a mortgage. My parents gave us money for the down payment — two hundred thousand rubles. It had been a huge amount back then, in 2009.
“Lidochka, this is for your wedding,” my mother said, handing me an envelope. “Let you have your own home. Don’t wander from one rented corner to another.”
Two hundred thousand for the down payment. Then for fifteen years we paid twenty-one thousand a month. I worked at a school for one and a half positions, Sergey worked as an engineer at a design institute.
“Mom, what’s going on?” Lena’s voice on the phone was anxious.
I had not even noticed that I had dialed her number.
“He told me to move out by six. He’s bringing Nastya.”
“That…” My daughter restrained herself and did not finish. “Mom, come to my place. Right now.”
“No. I’ll wait until six.”
“Why?”
“I want to see his face. When he finds out.”
“Mom, are you sure? Maybe you shouldn’t make a scene?”
“Lenochka, I’m not going to make any scene. I’ll simply show him the documents.”
Lena sighed.
“Fine. If anything happens, call me immediately. I’m home today.”
I hung up and took a blue folder out of my bag. The documents inside were brand-new, still smelling of printer ink. Certificate of state registration of ownership. Owner: Elena Sergeyevna Volkova. Registration date: April twenty-second, two thousand twenty-six.
Yesterday Lena and I had left the public services office at three in the afternoon. We sat in the café across the street, drank coffee, and stayed silent. Then Lena hugged me.
“Mom, you did the right thing. Truly.”
“I’m just protecting us. You and me.”
Now that folder lay on my lap. Inside were four documents: Lena’s ownership certificate. The marital property division agreement signed by Sergey two years ago. The application to remove him from the residence registration. And a lifetime maintenance agreement with dependent care between me and my daughter.
Marina Olegovna, the lawyer, had explained everything in a one-hour consultation. That consultation cost seven thousand rubles.
“Lidia Pavlovna, you have three trump cards. First — maternity capital used when purchasing the apartment. Second — the inheritance from your parents that you invested. Third — your income was always higher than your husband’s. We will prove that the apartment was bought with your personal funds.”
“And if he challenges it?”
“Let him try. We have an ironclad position. The main thing is to complete everything before he files for divorce.”
The paperwork cost twenty-three thousand. I withdrew the money from the deposit account where I had been saving for the past several years. Seven hundred twenty-eight thousand rubles lay there at six percent annual interest.
At half past four, I dialed the private detective. Igor Viktorovich Sokolov answered after the third ring.
“Lidia Pavlovna, hello.”
“Igor Viktorovich, everything is ready. The conversation will happen this evening.”
“Understood. Good luck to you. And remember — everything is legal on your side. You have not violated anything.”
“Thank you.”
I had paid him fifty-three thousand rubles for his work. A full report, photographs, videos. Sergey and Nastya in the Uryuk restaurant on Tverskaya. Sergey and Nastya leaving the Izmailovo hotel at eleven in the evening. Sergey and Nastya kissing in his car near her home.
At five forty, the doorbell rang. I heard Sergey rush out of his study and hurry into the hallway.
“Seryozha! Finally!”
A young, squeaky voice. Nastya.
“Come in, darling. I’ll show you everything now.”
“And that… what’s her name… has she left?”
“She should have. If she hasn’t, I’ll throw her out now.”
I stood up and smoothed my dress. The dark-blue one Sergey had once called beautiful. I had put on makeup and done my hair. I picked up the folder with the documents and left the kitchen.
In the hallway stood a girl in a red skirt and white blouse. Dyed reddish hair, curled. Long glittering nails. Bright-red lips. Nastya.
“You’re still here?” Sergey frowned. “I told you — by six.”
“There are still twenty minutes.”
“Lida, don’t make a scene. Have you packed your things?”
“No.”
Nastya giggled, covering her mouth with her little hand.
“Seryozh, you said she would already be gone.”
“She will be,” he snapped. “Lida, I’m warning you for the last time. Get out of here peacefully.”
“Sergey, this apartment is not yours.”
He froze.
“What did you say?”
“This apartment is not yours. It never was.”
I placed the folder on the small cabinet near the mirror, opened it, and took out the first document.
“Certificate of state registration of ownership. Owner — Elena Sergeyevna Volkova. My daughter. Registered yesterday, April twenty-second.”
Sergey snatched the document and stared at it.
“This is fake! You couldn’t…”
“I could. And I did. The apartment was transferred to Lena through a gift agreement. Yesterday at three in the afternoon.”
“But… but this is marital property!” His face turned crimson. “You have no right without my consent!”
“I do.”
I took out the second document.
“Agreement on division of marital property. Signed by you on March twenty-third, two thousand twenty-four. Certified by notary Anna Ivanovna Petrova. Do you remember?”
“What agreement? I didn’t sign anything!”
“You did, Sergey. Back then I told you it was for order. That we needed to formalize documents in case something happened. You didn’t even read it. You signed and went to watch television.”
“But there…”
“It says that the apartment is recognized as my personal property. Because it was purchased using funds from the sale of my premarital property and money I received as inheritance from my parents.”
Nastya backed toward the door, her eyes wide open.
“Seryozh, I… maybe I should…”
“Stay!” he barked. “Don’t go anywhere!”
He grabbed the agreement again and ran his eyes over the text.
“There’s some nonsense written here about deposits, about payments…”
“Not nonsense. The truth. Do you want me to explain it in detail?”
I took a thick stack of receipts out of the folder.
“We paid the mortgage for fifteen years. Twenty-one thousand rubles a month. One hundred eighty payments in total. Here are all the receipts. Shall we count them together?”
“Why count? We paid together!”
“No, Sergey. Not together. One hundred twenty-six payments were made from my bank card. Fifty-four from yours. Would you like to check?”
I laid the receipts out on the cabinet in neat stacks. My stack was twice as large.
“Twenty-one thousand multiplied by one hundred twenty-six. That is two million six hundred forty-six thousand rubles. I paid that. You paid one million one hundred thirty-four thousand. Is the difference obvious?”
“But I worked! I earned money!”
“You worked. Your salary was forty-five thousand rubles a month for the last five years. Mine was sixty-eight. Plus tutoring. I worked with children in the evenings and earned another twenty to thirty thousand every month. In total, from eighty-eight to ninety-eight thousand a month. I have all the certificates.”
Nastya pulled the door handle.
“Seryozha, I really need to go.”
“Wait, Nastya!” he turned to her. “This is some misunderstanding. We’ll sort it out now.”
“There is no misunderstanding,” I said calmly. “Nastya, Sergey promised to buy you an apartment, didn’t he?”
The girl nodded, still clinging to the door.
“He told you he had a three-room apartment in the center. That he would sell it and buy you a smaller one, but new. Right?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“He lied. This apartment is worth eleven million eight hundred thousand rubles, according to the realtor’s appraisal. But it is not his. It never was. And he cannot sell it. Do you understand?”
Nastya flung the door open and ran out onto the staircase. Her heels clattered down the steps and faded away.
Sergey sank onto the bench. His face was white, his hands trembling.
“You planned everything. For a long time. You were preparing.”
“One month, Sergey. Exactly one month ago, I received the detective’s report.”
I took out the envelope with photographs and poured them onto the cabinet.
“March twenty-third, Uryuk restaurant. You and Nastya are holding hands.”
“Where did you…”
“March twenty-ninth, Izmailovo hotel. You are leaving room three hundred twenty-two.”
“You were spying on me?!”
“I hired a private detective. Granit Agency, individual entrepreneur Igor Viktorovich Sokolov. His work cost fifty-three thousand rubles. A full report with photos and videos.”
Sergey covered his face with his hands.
“Lida, I didn’t want… it just happened…”
“It happened? You dated her for a year. Promised to marry her. Promised to buy an apartment. With my money, Sergey. With the money I earned for thirty-two years.”
“We could come to an agreement…”
“An agreement about what? An hour ago, you told me to move out. You said you didn’t care where. Even to a rented apartment.”
“I was angry…”
“No. You were sure I would keep quiet. Endure it. Agree. Like I always agreed.”
I took the last document out of the folder.
“Application to remove you from the residence registration. Submitted yesterday, approved today at two in the afternoon. You are no longer registered in this apartment, Sergey.”
“You can’t throw me out!”
“I can. I have a lifetime maintenance agreement with dependent care with Lena. I am a lawful resident here. You are not. You have three days to take your things. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”
“I’ll go to court! I’ll challenge the gift agreement!”
“Go ahead. Lawyer Marina Olegovna Krylova is ready for that. Twenty-three years of experience, specialization — family law. Her fee is ninety thousand for handling the case, and the advance has already been paid. Out of one hundred twenty-three cases, she has won one hundred seventeen.”
Sergey raised his eyes to me. Red, wet eyes.
“Why are you doing this? I’m your husband…”
“You were. For thirty-two years, you were. And then you decided to throw me out of my home for a twenty-seven-year-old girl. Three days, Sergey. That is all I can give you.”
I turned around and went into the bedroom. I closed the door and leaned my back against it. My heart was pounding like mad. My hands were shaking. Only now did it fully hit me that I had done it. I had really done it.
The phone vibrated.
“Mom, how did it go?”
“Lena, he knows. Nastya ran away.”
“Seriously?!” My daughter laughed. “Mom, you’re a heroine!”
“I just protected what is mine.”
“Ours, Mom. Ours. I am so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Lenush.”
The bedroom door opened. Sergey stood in the doorway.
“Lida, let’s talk calmly.”
“About what?”
“Well… I’ll leave. Fine. But give me money. At least a million. That would be fair.”
I looked at him. Standing there, asking me for money. After everything.
“No, Sergey.”
“What do you mean, no?! I was your husband for thirty-two years!”
“And what did you do during those thirty-two years? Work? Your salary was always lower than mine. Help around the house? You didn’t even wash your own plates. Raise our daughter? I raised Lena alone. You came home, ate, watched television, slept. And you call that ‘being a husband’?”
“I provided for the family!”
“Provided? On forty-five thousand a month? While I earned ninety-eight? Don’t make me laugh.”
“You’ll regret this! I’ll find a way to sue for the apartment!”
“Try. All my documents are in order. Everything is legal.”
He turned and left. The door of his study slammed.
I sat down on the bed. My whole body was shaking. The adrenaline had ebbed away, leaving only exhaustion.
“Mom, are you there?” Lena’s voice came through the phone.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked for money. A million.”
“What nerve! You refused, right?”
“Of course. He won’t get a single kopeck.”
“That’s right. Mom, come to my place. We’ll sit, drink tea.”
“No, Lenochka. I’ll stay home. This is my home. And I am not going anywhere.”
For the next three days, Sergey and I did not speak. He silently packed his things. He put clothes into suitcases, books into boxes. I cooked food for myself and ate in the kitchen. He ordered delivery and ate in his study.
On the third day, a moving truck arrived. Two movers carried out boxes, suitcases, his desk, leather chair, and shelves with discs. Sergey stood in the hallway, watching as his things were taken away.
“That’s everything,” he said after the movers left. “I took all my things.”
“Good.”
“Lida…”
“What?”
“I really thought you would accept it. That you would stay silent. You were always so quiet.”
“Quiet. Obedient. Convenient. Yes, Sergey, I was like that. I endured for thirty-two years. But when you decided to throw me out of my own home, something broke. I understood: enough.”
“And now what?”
“Now you live your life. And I live mine.”
He nodded and picked up the last bag.
“Goodbye, Lida.”
“Goodbye.”
The door closed. I walked over to it and turned the key in the lock. The latch clicked. That was it. Thirty-two years were over.
I walked through the apartment. Empty. Quiet. Three rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom. My apartment. More precisely, Lena’s. But I live here.
In the evening, Lena arrived with bags.
“Mom, I bought pies. With cabbage, your favorite. And salad.”
We sat in the kitchen, ate pies, and drank tea.
“Mom, what if he really goes to court?”
“Marina Olegovna says he has no chance. Everything is legal.”
“And if he finds some loophole?”
“What loophole? All our documents are in order. The agreement was notarized. Bank statements confirm all payments. Work certificates show my salary. Everything is solid.”
“Fine,” Lena said, biting into a pie. “Mom, you know what? My boss told me today that starting in May, they’re raising my salary.”
“How much?”
“To seventy-two thousand.”
“Lenush, that’s wonderful!”
“Now I’ll save for my own apartment faster. I want to take out a mortgage next year.”
“And this one?”
“Mom, this is your apartment. Formally it’s in my name, but you are the mistress here. Live here as long as you want.”
I hugged my daughter. The only person close to me. The one who had not betrayed me.
The court hearing was scheduled for May twenty-third. Sergey did file a lawsuit for division of property. He demanded that the gift agreement be declared invalid and that half of the apartment be allocated to him.
Marina Olegovna called me the day I received the summons.
“Lidia Pavlovna, don’t worry. This was expected. We’ll gather all the documents and prepare.”
For two weeks, we collected papers. Salary certificates for thirty years. Bank statements for all payments. Checks, receipts, payment orders.
“Lidia Pavlovna, you have an archive worth a million rubles here,” Marina Olegovna whistled. “Every payment is documented.”
“I was always careful.”
“And that works in our favor. With evidence like this, losing is impossible.”
I arrived at court half an hour early. I sat in the corridor and waited. My hands were cold, my heart beating fast. Marina Olegovna sat beside me, flipping through the documents.
“Everything will be fine,” she said.
Sergey arrived five minutes before the start. With a lawyer. A young man in an expensive suit. They walked past without looking at us.
The courtroom was small and stuffy. The judge was a woman of about fifty.
“The case on the claim of Sergey Mikhailovich Volkov is being heard,” she began. “The plaintiff demands that the apartment gift agreement be declared invalid. On what grounds?”
Sergey’s lawyer stood up.
“Your Honor, the apartment is jointly acquired property of the Volkov spouses. According to Article 34 of the Family Code of the Russian Federation, disposal of common property requires the consent of both spouses. The defendant transferred the apartment as a gift to a third party without the plaintiff’s consent. We ask that the transaction be declared invalid and the consequences of invalidity be applied.”
“Objections?” the judge looked at Marina Olegovna.
“Yes, Your Honor. The apartment is not jointly acquired property. It was purchased using funds that were the defendant’s personal property. We present evidence to the court. First — a receipt from the defendant’s parents confirming that they gave her two hundred thousand rubles as a gift for the purchase of the first apartment. Second — the will of the defendant’s mother, under which the defendant inherited one million five hundred thousand rubles. Third — the sale agreement for a dacha plot that belonged to the defendant’s mother, in the amount of three hundred thousand rubles. All these funds were invested in the purchase of the apartment.”
The judge took the documents and began studying them.
“Continue.”
“Fourth piece of evidence — mortgage payment documents. One hundred eighty payments in total. Of those, one hundred twenty-six, that is seventy percent, were made from the defendant’s bank card. We present bank statements confirming this.”
“Accepted for consideration,” the judge nodded. “What else?”
“Fifth piece of evidence — the marital property division agreement signed by the parties on March twenty-third, two thousand twenty-four, and certified by notary Anna Ivanovna Petrova. According to this agreement, the apartment is recognized as the defendant’s personal property due to the use of her personal funds in its acquisition.”
The judge took the agreement and read it carefully.
“Plaintiff, did you sign this document?”
Sergey stood up.
“Yes, I signed it. But my wife told me it was just a formality. That it had to be done just in case.”
“A formality,” the judge repeated. “The document clearly states that the apartment is the wife’s personal property. Did you read the text before signing?”
“Well… no… I trusted my wife.”
“You trusted her. Understood. Present evidence that you invested personal funds in the purchase of the apartment.”
Sergey’s lawyer laid out several receipts.
“Here are the plaintiff’s mortgage payments.”
Marina Olegovna took out our thick folder.
“And here is the full set for fifteen years. The plaintiff’s payments amount to thirty percent. The defendant’s payments — seventy. Everything is confirmed by bank statements.”
The judge silently flipped through the documents.
“What else from the plaintiff’s side?”
“We have called a witness,” Sergey’s lawyer said. “A colleague of the plaintiff will confirm that Sergey Mikhailovich Volkov actively participated in supporting the family.”
A man of about sixty was brought in. An engineer who had worked with Sergey in the same department.
“I have known Sergey Mikhailovich for twenty years,” he began. “He is a good person, a responsible worker. He always cared for his family.”
“Are you aware of the plaintiff’s income?” Marina Olegovna asked.
“Well… like all of us. An engineer’s salary.”
“Forty-five thousand rubles a month, according to the 2-NDFL certificate for last year. At the same time, the defendant’s income amounted to sixty-eight thousand as a teacher working one and a half positions, plus twenty to thirty thousand from tutoring. In total, from eighty-eight to ninety-eight thousand monthly. Were you aware of that?”
The witness remained silent.
“You may step down,” the judge said. “Plaintiff, do you have any more evidence?”
“No,” the lawyer sat down.
“The case has been considered,” the judge struck the gavel. “The claim is denied. The apartment gift agreement is recognized as lawful. No grounds for declaring it invalid have been established.”
We left the courtroom. Sergey stood by the wall, pale.
“Congratulations,” Marina Olegovna shook my hand. “Now it’s final. He won’t be able to challenge anything else.”
“Thank you.”
I stepped outside. May, sun, warmth. People hurried about their business. And I stood on the courthouse steps, feeling something tight inside me slowly straighten out.
Four months have passed. I am sitting on the balcony, drinking coffee. Morning, a light breeze, birds singing. Lena lives with me — she is renovating her new apartment. She saved for the down payment and took out a mortgage. A one-room apartment, thirty-eight square meters, in a good neighborhood. I helped her with the documents, and we chose wallpaper together.
Sergey married Nastya. They rent a two-room apartment for thirty-five thousand a month. Sometimes I see his posts — Nastya uploads photographs and writes, “my love,” “happiness.” Let them.
I signed up for Italian language courses. I go twice a week and have already learned how to introduce myself and order coffee. In September, I am going to Crimea. I rented a small house in Koktebel for two weeks. Alone. For the first time, I will travel without Sergey.
My pension is small, twenty-one thousand. But I work as a tutor at an educational center and earn another thirty thousand. That is enough.
Freedom came the moment I placed the documents on the cabinet and saw Sergey’s face. He thought I would endure forever. That he could throw me out of my home and I would agree.
He was wrong.
Life after fifty-five is not the end.
It is a new beginning.