Alina realized she’d forgotten the documents only when she reached the parking lot by the office.
She could’ve asked a coworker to reschedule the meeting, made up a story about a system error or a suddenly broken printer, but representatives from a major client were arriving in forty minutes, and the originals of two agreements were sitting at home on her desk.
So she turned around and drove back.
It was around half past ten. Mikhail worked from home on Thursdays, so Alina could already picture her husband greeting her with a question:
“Why are you back?”
And he would definitely add:
“Since you’re here, want some coffee?”
Three years of marriage teach you not just someone’s habits, but also the order of their phrases.
There were definitely voices coming from the apartment.
But the second voice wasn’t the TV, as Alina first thought—it was Tamara Ilyinichna.
Her mother-in-law sometimes visited her son during the day. She lived in a village about fifty kilometers from the city, but once a week she’d come into town on errands: the doctor, the market, or to see an old friend. She usually let them know in advance.
For some reason, she hadn’t warned them today.
Alina took off her shoes, walked down the hallway, and had just reached for the room door when she heard:
“Don’t rush the divorce, son. Let her buy me the dacha first. Then you can announce it.”
Her hand froze by the doorknob.
Tamara Ilyinichna said it absolutely calmly.
Not in a whisper.
Not with a laugh.
In the same tone people use to discuss when to order a new kitchen set to catch a sale.
Mikhail replied more quietly, but Alina couldn’t make out the words.
Her mother-in-law went on:
“So what? Think about it. If you tell her now, she’ll hold on to the money and that’s it. But this way, you two buy the dacha, and afterward you gradually explain how it’s more convenient for me to have it in my name. I live nearby, I’ll take care of the place. In a few months, do whatever you want.”
Alina slowly lowered her hand.
Now she could hear her husband clearly.
“Mom, don’t start pushing. If Alina feels pressured, she’ll dig in her heels out of principle.”
“Are you sure she’ll buy it?”
“I think so. She’s really into the idea. We’re going to look again this Saturday.”
After a short pause, Mikhail added:
“The main thing now is to act like everything’s normal. Make plans, talk about summer, weekends. When she sees a clear picture, it’s easier for her to decide.”
At that moment, Alina didn’t think of their wedding, or the early years together, or even the fact that her husband was planning to divorce her.
She remembered last Sunday.
Mikhail stood in the kitchen, showing her photos of a veranda on his phone.
“Look, you could put a table here. Have coffee in the morning, the forest is right next door. Beautiful, right?”
Back then, Alina laughed:
“You spent five years saying there’s nothing to do in the country after six in the evening.”
“People change.”
Turns out, people really do change.
Especially when a wife suddenly has four million eight hundred thousand rubles in her account.
That money didn’t just fall into Alina’s lap.
She had bought a studio apartment even before the wedding, back when she and Mikhail were dating but not yet living together. The place was small, only twenty-seven square meters, and on the outskirts, but a new metro station had just opened nearby.
At first, Alina thought about keeping the studio apartment for herself. But when she and Mikhail moved in together into his two-bedroom place—which he had owned since before their marriage—she decided to rent the studio out instead.
Several years went by just like that.
There was always something to manage with the tenants. She once had to replace the washing machine, twice re-wallpaper after especially creative renters, deal with a leaky pipe, and explain to a young couple why a cat litter box is not considered normal wear and tear on an apartment.
In the spring, Alina decided it was time to sell the studio.
The neighborhood had become more expensive, the rental income didn’t seem as profitable anymore, and she was simply tired of managing the apartment.
After the sale, four million eight hundred thousand rubles landed in a separate account.
Mikhail was well aware of where the money had come from.
In fact, when they discussed selling the studio, Alina told him directly:
“I’m not adding this money to our shared budget. It’s from my apartment. For now, I’m putting it in a savings account, and I’ll figure out what to do with it later.”
It was never their habit to pool every single penny together anyhow.
Each month, Alina and Mikhail would each transfer fifty thousand rubles towards shared expenses. That covered utilities, groceries, cleaning supplies, joint trips, and big purchases for the home.
The rest of their income they managed separately.
Mikhail was perfectly happy with this system.
That is, until the studio was sold.
And then, suddenly, it seemed like Alina’s money just needed to get out and breathe fresh air.
First, her husband sent her a message with a new listing:
“Hey, check out this country house.”
Then came a second listing.
A week later, they were already on their way to view their first house.
At first, Alina was skeptical about the whole idea. She had never dreamed of spending weekends tending vegetable beds or wondering why the tomatoes were turning yellow at the bottom.
But to her surprise, Mikhail turned out to be pretty convincing.
“No one’s going to make you plant potatoes. We’ll get a couple of chairs, a grill. If you want to go, we’ll go. If you don’t, we’ll stay in the city.”
“What about in winter?”
“We can visit now and then—if the house is decent.”
The most surprising part? He was actually doing his research.
He read up on septic systems.
He checked the electrical capacity.
He asked the sellers if the roads were plowed in winter.
Just a year ago, when friends suggested spending a weekend at a dacha, Mikhail would answer, “I’m a city guy—I need a shower and decent internet.” Now here he was, discussing well depth.
Alina even joked:
“All you need now is a vest with lots of pockets and you could run for head of the garden community.”
Mikhail laughed.
Now, standing in the hallway, Alina finally understood what had awakened Mikhail’s inner country man.
From the other room, Tamara Ilyinichna’s voice floated out again:
“The one near us is still better. I drove by it again yesterday. The apple trees there are really good.”
“I know.”
“Make sure Alina understands that driving a long way out isn’t convenient.”
“I’m telling her.”
“And tell her to try to bring the price down. Four million three hundred is a bit much.”
This was the same house that Mikhail had been raving about all week.
Four million three hundred and fifty thousand.
Just twelve minutes by car from Tamara Ilyinichna’s own neighborhood.
Apparently, even her mother-in-law had checked out the apple trees already.
Alina lingered a moment longer.
There was no point in listening any further.
She quietly left the apartment, went downstairs, got into her car—and only then remembered why she had come back in the first place.
Her documents were still sitting on the table.
She had to go back upstairs again.
But this time, Alina waited in the car for about ten minutes, called Mikhail and said:
“I forgot the documents at home. I’ll stop by now.”
“Okay. Mom just popped in to see me.”
“Alright.”
A few minutes later, when Alina walked back into the apartment, Tamara Ilinichna was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea.
“Oh, I was wondering who that was,” she said warmly. “You’re early today.”
“Just for a minute. Forgot some papers.”
Mikhail looked completely normal.
He even asked:
“Will you be home late tonight?”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
Alina grabbed her documents.
Tamara Ilinichna complained about the weather.
Mikhail went looking for his phone charger.
No one seemed like the kind of person who, just ten minutes ago, was discussing how to get someone else’s property before a divorce.
That was the hardest part.
Not the conversation itself.
But how mundane it all was.
Alina went back to work, held a meeting, approved two contracts, replied to emails, and even went out to lunch with a coworker.
She didn’t rehearse any scenarios in her head.
By evening, she had a new urge—to see just how far Mikhail was willing to go.
At home that night, her husband brought up the dacha himself.
“I found another listing. But honestly, the place near my mom is still the best option.”
He opened the photos.
Alina already had the house memorized: wooden, newly painted, six hundred square meters of land, a small shed, a veranda, two apple trees, and a greenhouse the seller planned to leave behind.
“I’ve been thinking,” Alina said. “You’re right.”
Mikhail looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“We should buy now. While we have the money—prices are only going up.”
Her husband tried to react calmly.
But he failed.
The smile appeared before he could hide it.
“That’s what I’ve been saying!”
“I just want to look at some more options.”
“Of course. No need to rush.”
Alina almost laughed.
The next morning, as she was getting ready for work, Mikhail took his phone and went out to the balcony to talk to his mother.
He closed the door behind him.
This time, Alina didn’t try to eavesdrop.
She’d heard enough already.
The next two weeks turned out to be quite the learning experience.
Mikhail drove her around to different dachas with the enthusiasm of someone defending a dissertation on country real estate.
He didn’t like the roof on one house.
The road to another was a problem.
A third one suddenly had a “suspiciously low price.”
But with every viewing, the option near Tamara Ilinichna seemed better and better.
“This one’s got fifteen kilowatts of electricity.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Year-round access.”
“I see.”
“There’s a store nearby.”
“Mikhail, you already told me all this.”
“Just comparing, that’s all.”
On their third visit, Tamara Ilinichna showed up.
Completely by chance.
Or at least, that’s what Mikhail claimed.
“Mom was just passing by.”
Alina glanced at her mother-in-law, who had “just happened” to be driving past a country village well off the main road—and decided not to ask about her route.
Tamara Ilinichna strode around the property confidently, as if the seller was giving a private tour just for her.
“You could keep the greenhouse here,” she said.
“It’s already here,” Alina pointed out.
“But it’s a small one.”
Her mother-in-law walked over to the fence.
“And here you could put a second one.”
Mikhail cleared his throat.
“Mom, we haven’t bought anything yet.”
“I’m just saying.”
Then Tamara Ilyinishna peeked into the bedroom and announced:
“I’d remove the furniture from here.”
Alina asked:
“Why you?”
Her mother-in-law hesitated for a moment.
“I mean in general. I would remove it.”
“Ah, I see.”
After viewing the place, Mikhail was irritated.
“Did you have to nitpick every single word?”
“Which word?”
“‘Why you?’”
Alina buckled her seatbelt.
“Was I supposed to ask why she wants to throw out furniture from someone else’s house?”
“Mom was just making conversation.”
“Then it’s all good.”
Mikhail looked at his wife more closely, but didn’t say anything.
That same evening, Alina started looking at listings herself.
Until then, her husband had done most of the searching.
Now she set her own conditions: up to four million, a decent road, a lot not cluttered with twenty years of random projects, and the home needed to be usable from spring to late fall.
And most importantly—a different direction.
Three days later, she found a house she liked just from the photos.
Forty kilometers from the city.
Nine hundred square meters of land.
A pine forest started two streets away, and the walk to a small lake took about fifteen minutes.
The house was smaller than the one Mikhail had suggested, but it was well cared for. The previous owners spent summers there themselves, and were only selling because they were moving to their daughter’s place in another region.
The price: three million six hundred and twenty thousand.
It was almost ninety kilometers from Tamara Ilyinishna.
Alina mentally marked this as an extra point in favor, but of course didn’t mention it to the seller.
She went to view the house on her own.
The owner, a woman in her sixties, opened the door and immediately said:
“Take a careful look, please. I’m not going to pretend everything here is perfect. One of the porch boards started to warp in the spring—my husband fixed it, but if it were me, I’d replace it later.”
After two weeks of Mikhail seeing “huge potential” even in a shed with a crooked door, this kind of honesty instantly appealed to Alina.
She checked the paperwork, ordered all the necessary inspections, and booked a separate consultation with a lawyer.
The expert listened to her and asked:
“Have you kept all the money from selling your premarital apartment intact?”
“Yes.”
“Was the sale done via bank transfer?”
“Yes.”
“Did you transfer that sum anywhere or mix it with your joint savings?”
“No, it’s in a separate account.”
“Then keep every document from the chain, and make your new purchase from that same account. The clearer the origin of your funds, the fewer disputes later.”
That’s exactly what Alina did.
She bought the entire house and land for three million six hundred and twenty thousand.
After the deal, from the four million eight hundred thousand she got for her studio, one million one hundred and eighty thousand remained.
She didn’t touch this money.
She didn’t add any family savings to the purchase.
Meanwhile, Mikhail was still sure his wife was just browsing.
He kept sending her ads.
In the evenings, he showed her photos of properties.
One day, he announced:
“I spoke with that seller near your mom’s place. I think we can talk them down to four-two hundred.”
“Maybe.”
“Should we go again on Saturday?”
“We’ll see.”
The registration for the new house was completed in mid-June.
That morning, Alina got the confirmation while sitting in her car outside the office.
She stared at her phone screen for a minute.
Then she closed the app and went to work.
She didn’t send Mikhail a message to tell him about it.
That evening, he brought up the conversation about the dacha again.
“The seller messaged. He says another family is interested.”
“Let them buy it.”
Mikhail didn’t get it right away.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. We don’t need it anymore.”
“But you told me we were buying it.”
“A dacha, yes.”
Alina pulled out her phone and showed him some photos.
“I bought one.”
At first, Mikhail thought she was joking.
He scrolled through the pictures several times.
“What do you mean you bought it?”
“Just what the word means.”
“When?”
“The deal was last week. Registration finished today.”
“Without me?”
“Yes.”
Mikhail set the phone down on the table.
“Alina, are you serious right now?”
“Absolutely.”
“For two weeks we’ve been driving around, picking out houses, talking through everything, and you’ve been secretly buying something else?”
“Why secretly? It’s a good house. I checked everything.”
“Where is it, anyway?”
She told him the location.
Mikhail’s expression changed.
“Are you kidding me? It’s on the opposite side completely.”
“Yes.”
“How far is it from your mom’s?”
This finally made Alina smile.
Just a small smile.
The corners of her mouth lifted on their own.
“Almost ninety kilometers.”
Mikhail got up from the table.
“Wonderful.”
“I liked it too.”
“Why did you do this?”
“I wanted a dacha.”
“We wanted a dacha!”
“You can come too. As long as we’re still married.”
That last line made him look at her completely differently.
About ten minutes later, Mikhail’s phone started ringing.
“Mom” appeared on the screen.
He was about to leave the room, but Alina said:
“Answer here. Nothing to hide now, right?”
“Who’s hiding anything?”
Still, Mikhail picked up the call.
Tamara Ilinichna talked loudly. Alina couldn’t catch every word, but the general idea was clear.
Several times, Mikhail said:
“Mom, later.”
And then:
“No, not that one.”
A few seconds later, he grimaced and handed the phone to Alina.
“She wants to talk to you.”
Alina took the phone.
“Yes, Tamara Ilinichna?”
“Misha says you bought a different dacha.”
“I did.”
“Where is it?”
Alina explained.
Her mother-in-law was silent for a moment.
“So how long will it take me to get there?”
“For you?”
“Well, yes.”
“I don’t know.”
Another pause.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I bought it for myself. So I didn’t calculate your route.”
Mikhail closed his eyes.
A quiet fell over the line.
Then Tamara Ilinichna said:
“You did this in a very strange way.”
“Why?”
“Because usually things like this are discussed in the family.”
“I agree.”
Alina looked over at her husband.
“Especially divorce and putting someone else’s purchase in mom’s name.”
Tamara Ilinichna fell silent.
Mikhail quickly reached out:
“Give me the phone.”
Alina handed it over.
He quickly told his mother:
“I’ll call you back later.”
And hung up.
They were both silent for a few seconds.
The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.
Buckwheat Mikhail had cooked earlier was cooling on the stove in a pot.
It was just an ordinary Wednesday.
Except, it turned out her husband planned to get a divorce right after buying the dacha.
“Explain,” he finally said.
“Explain what exactly?”
“Where did you hear that from?”
“I went back for my documents two weeks ago.”
Mikhail looked away.
That was all it took.
Alina continued:
“You were at home with your mom. I heard her say: ‘Don’t rush the divorce, son. Let her buy me the country house first.'”
He stayed silent.
“Were you eavesdropping?”
“No. You two were talking so loudly it was like you were already picking out a plot owner.”
“Oh, God…”
“Then I heard you talking about putting it in Tamara Ilyinichna’s name. Something about waiting a few months. About not rushing me. And about having to pretend we were still planning things as a family.”
Mikhail ran his hand across his face.
“Alina, it didn’t sound like that at all.”
“It sounded exactly like that.”
“We were joking.”
She looked at him.
“Alright.”
“What do you mean, alright?”
“Explain the joke.”
“Which one?”
“Any part of it. Start with the divorce. What part was supposed to be funny?”
“You’re deliberately making everything sound absurd right now.”
“Then explain the part about the country house. Why is it funny for me to buy a house with money from my apartment, transfer it to your mother, and then for you to divorce me a few months later?”
“No one said it would definitely happen that way.”
“That’s exactly what you two said.”
“My mom said that.”
“And you responded.”
Mikhail raised his voice:
“Because sometimes it’s just easier to agree with her!”
“Great. Then why did you keep driving me to that house next to hers these past two weeks?”
There was no answer.
Alina stood up, took her cup from the table, and set it in the sink.
Mikhail followed her.
“Do you even understand what you’ve done? You spent nearly four million on your own, without your husband.”
“Three million six hundred and twenty thousand.”
“That doesn’t matter!”
“It matters to me. I keep track of my own money.”
“See! Your own! You always have everything of your own. Your own apartment, your own money, now your own country house.”
Alina turned around.
“Funny, when we agreed on keeping separate personal savings, that was fine with you. When you bought a motorcycle last fall with your own money, I never once said half of it was mine.”
“The motorcycle didn’t cost four million.”
“So when did my studio become ‘family property’?”
Mikhail didn’t say anything.
“When I sold it? Or when your mom picked out a greenhouse for herself?”
“Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m just being very precise right now.”
He moved toward the window.
“You were going to buy a country house anyway.”
“For myself.”
“For the family.”
“I was considering buying it for us to relax together. Until I found out the family only mattered to you until the deal was closed.”
Mikhail let out an irritated sigh.
“I never said I was definitely filing for divorce.”
“But you said it to your mother.”
“I said I was thinking about it.”
“And how long have you been thinking about it?”
He was silent for a long time.
Alina realized she didn’t really need the answer anymore.
But Mikhail finally said:
“A few months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I hadn’t decided yet.”
“But you decided to tell your mom.”
“I just needed someone to talk to.”
“And after talking to her you decided to get the house first?”
“I wasn’t trying to get anything!”
“Then why put it in your mother’s name?”
“Because she’s nearby! So she can take care of the property if we’re not there.”
“You don’t have to make her the owner just for that.”
“Well yeah, it’s easy for you to judge now.”
Alina was surprised.
“It would have been easy for me then, too. If only you had asked.”
Mikhail sat down at the table.
For the first time during the whole conversation, he didn’t look angry—just tired.
“Things haven’t been great for us for a while.”
“I know.”
“Yeah.”
“But I never thought to buy your mother property right before breaking up with you.”
He gave a humorless smile.
“You really know how to sting.”
“Mikhail, for two months you tried to convince me to invest four million in a house your mother already considered hers. I’m not trying to hurt you right now. I’m just trying to understand if you really thought that was normal.”
He stayed silent again.
In the days that followed, they barely spoke to each other.
Alina didn’t pack her things in a showy way, nor did she try to get Mikhail to confess to anything else.
She already knew the most important part.
They lived in his apartment, so Alina found a small one-room place not far from her work.
She went to check it out after her shift.
It was a typical apartment: decent kitchen, a somewhat old bathroom, windows facing the courtyard.
It suited her.
When she started to pack her things, Mikhail stood in the bedroom doorway.
“Are you really leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t make any decisions for at least a week?”
Alina folded a sweater into her suitcase.
“You made decisions without me for months. I don’t need a week.”
“Do you think I wanted to take everything from you?”
She stopped packing.
“I think you wanted to use my money first, and then tell me about a decision you already discussed with your mother.”
“It was more complicated than that.”
“Maybe.”
“My mom thinks I invested too much in our marriage.”
This actually caught Alina’s interest.
“Money-wise?”
“Not everything is about money.”
“I agree. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Time. Energy. I helped you with the studio. I delivered materials, found workers.”
“Mikhail, in four years you brought a new fridge there once and were present two times when the plumber showed up.”
“See. You’re counting again.”
“Because right now you’re presenting me a bill.”
He fell silent.
A minute later he said:
“Mom just thought, since we were going to buy a dacha anyway, it made sense to get it next to theirs.”
“Buying next door would make sense.”
“Exactly.”
“Taking it for yourself is a different logic altogether.”
Mikhail waved his hand irritably.
“No one took anything.”
“Only because I heard you first.”
That was the end of their conversation.
Tamara Ilinichna called Alina two days later.
Until then, her mother-in-law had always managed to sound calm, even when she was unhappy. This time, that calm lasted for about a minute.
“I don’t want to interfere,” she began.
Standing by her car with a shopping bag, Alina glanced at her phone’s screen.
The opening seemed promising.
“But you have to understand,” Tamara Ilinichna continued, “I’m worried about my son.”
“I understand.”
“You’ve been together so many years.”
“Yes.”
“And to throw it all away over one conversation…”
“It’s not because of the conversation.”
“Then what is it because of?”
“Because of what was discussed in that conversation.”
Her mother-in-law sighed.
“I really said too much.”
“No, Tamara Ilinichna. You were actually quite accurate.”
“I just thought, since you were buying a dacha, it made more sense to get one near us. After all, if you two split up, why would you need a house on your own?”
After that, Alina completely lost the desire to argue.
“I actually need it just for myself.”
“A summer house for a woman alone—that’s a ton of work.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You’ll have to mow the lawn.”
“I’ll hire someone.”
“You need to look after the house.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“And in winter?”
“I’ll close everything up for the season.”
Tamara Ilinichna fell silent for a moment.
“You’ve decided everything in advance.”
“No. You and Mikhail decided it all for me ahead of time.”
Her mother-in-law’s voice got louder:
“I didn’t steal anything from you!”
“Of course not. You just didn’t get the chance.”
After that, Alina ended the conversation.
For another week, Mikhail kept trying to persuade her not to rush into the divorce.
The irony of the situation didn’t seem to bother him at all.
“Let’s live separately for a bit,” he suggested. “Let’s see how things go.”
“Why?”
“So we don’t make any hasty decisions.”
“And when you were ready to divorce me right after buying the summer house, was that your careful approach?”
“There you go again.”
“Because you don’t have any other answer.”
One day, Mikhail came over to her new apartment.
Alina let him in and set the kettle to boil.
He sat in the kitchen, quietly staring at the counter for a long time.
“I talked to my mom,” he said.
“And?”
“I told her to stop interfering.”
Alina nodded.
That kind of phrase might’ve meant a lot to her in the past.
Now, it meant much less.
“I honestly don’t know if I ever would’ve gone through with the divorce,” Mikhail admitted.
“But you were willing to use my money before you made up your mind.”
“I didn’t really think about it that way.”
“And that’s the problem.”
“I just thought: since we’re buying the house anyway…”
“And then what?”
He ran his finger along the rim of the mug.
“I don’t know.”
Alina looked at him.
For the first time, he didn’t try to explain that his mother was joking, that his wife misunderstood, or that the money was “almost family money.”
He just said:
“I don’t know.”
That was more honest.
But it was too late.
“Misha, I can believe you didn’t sit up at night making a plan to leave me without a dime. But when your mother handed you that convenient arrangement, you didn’t say, ‘No, that’s her money.’ Instead, you started telling me about breakfast on the veranda.”
He made a face.
Alina went on:
“That’s what I can’t forget.”
A few days later, Mikhail agreed to the divorce.
They didn’t have children and, in the end, he didn’t start any disputes about property.
He’d probably spoken to a lawyer, too, because after his initial comments about a “family summer house,” that topic never came up again.
Alina kept the sales contract for her studio apartment, everyone’s bank statements, the house purchase contract and confirmation of all transfers.
One million one hundred eighty thousand—the amount left after the purchase—remained in her account.
They closed their joint bank card after paying the last bills together. The leftover balance was split evenly.
A month later, their marriage was officially over.
No grand speeches.
No last-minute efforts to get back together.
Mikhail brought over the last of Alina’s boxes from his car and said:
“Let me know if you find anything else.”
“I will.”
He lingered for a moment.
“Have you been out to the summer house yet?”
“Of course.”
“How is it?”
“It’s good.”
He smiled wryly.
“At least you get a decent internet signal out there?”
Alina smiled back.
“Perfectly fine.”
That was their last real conversation.
In August, Alina spent almost every weekend at the summer house.
She really did have to do a bit of repair work on the porch. She paid a local guy to mow the lawn, and he managed it in an hour—way faster than Alina could handle even in half a Saturday.
She didn’t set up any greenhouse.
Instead, she bought a large table for the veranda and two comfy chairs.
One evening, her friend Lena came to visit.
They set a plate of cherries, some cheese, and bread on the table, and opened a bottle of lemonade.
Lena took a look around the yard.
“You know, this place is actually really nice.”
“I know.”
“Was the other dacha near your mother-in-law better?”
Alina thought about it.
“The house was bigger.”
“Then why did you choose this one?”
“The air is better here.”
Lena squinted at her.
“Ninety kilometers better?”
Alina laughed.
“Something like that.”
Her phone lay nearby on the table.
Mikhail hadn’t messaged her anymore.
Neither had Tamara Ilyinichna.
And Alina was perfectly fine with that.
The house turned out not to be a symbol of victory or a monument to a failed marriage.
It was simply her house in the countryside.
Bought with the money she earned from her studio.
Registered in her name.
With two apple trees, old currant bushes by the fence, and internet that, much to her ex-husband’s delight, really did work perfectly.
Only now he didn’t need the Wi-Fi password anymore.
And Tamara Ilyinichna got her dacha story completely free.
True, it came without a yard, greenhouse, or porch.
But with a useful reminder: if you advise your son to fake a happy marriage until he buys real estate, you’d better make sure your daughter-in-law hasn’t just come back to grab some forgotten papers.
continued in the comments