I sat in the kitchen, mechanically stirring tea that had long since cooled. The old clock on the wall ticked away, its steady sound a monotonous reminder—it’s been a month since I’ve been alone. A month since Viktor packed his things and left. Left her. Left Larisa from the third floor.
—Galya, understand, it’s better for everyone this way, he said back then, shoving his shirts into an old suitcase. —We’ve long ceased to be one.
Thirty years of life together were summed up in one sentence. Thirty years during which I cooked borscht for him, ironed his shirts, endured his outbursts of anger and his long spells of silence. Once, I thought this was love—tolerating, forgiving, accommodating.
—Don’t you see how unserious this is? I asked then, trying to preserve my dignity. —At your age, chasing after a younger neighbor…
—Larisa understands me, he cut in. —With her, I feel alive.
Alive. And with me, then, not alive? Thirty years of slow decline—that’s how he saw it. I watched him leave, and inside, something snapped. Not my heart—no, something deeper. As if an invisible thread that had tied me to my former life had been torn.
For the first few weeks, I lived on autopilot. I woke up, went to work at the library, returned to an empty apartment. Neighbors whispered behind my back, some tried to console me. But I wanted neither consolation nor pity.
—Galina Petrovna, hang in there, said Nina Stepanovna from the neighboring entrance. —Men—they’re all the same. A beard of gray—like a devil in the ribs.
And I looked at my reflection in the mirror and did not recognize myself. When had I become like this—dimmed, resigned, as if faded? When did I allow myself to transform into the shadow of my own husband?
Gradually, something began to change.
At first, I signed up for a swimming pool—just to occupy my evenings. Then I bought a subscription to English classes. The children called every day, but I tried not to burden them with my problems. They had their own lives, their own cares.
—Mom, why don’t you come live with us? my daughter suggested. —You’d like it in St. Petersburg.
—No, Lenochka, I replied. —This is my home. All my life is here.
And now, after seven months, looking at my reflection in the dark window, I suddenly realized—I no longer cry at night. I no longer listen for footsteps on the stairs. I no longer wait for him to have a change of heart and come back.
I finished the cooled tea and went to bed, unaware that tomorrow would turn my life upside down. Once again.
A knock at the door sounded as I was brewing my morning tea. Persistent, demanding—completely unlike the delicate chimes of the neighbors. On the doorstep stood Larisa—made-up, wearing a figure-hugging dress, with some folder in her hands.
—We need to talk, she declared without greeting, stepping into the apartment. She smelled of sharp perfume and self-assurance.
—About what? I asked automatically, straightening my bathrobe, feeling uncomfortable under her appraising gaze.
—About the apartment, Larisa plopped down onto a kitchen chair, crossing her legs. —Viktor has decided it’s time to settle everything officially. He has the right to half.
Inside, something snapped. Again. But now it wasn’t pain—it was anger.
—What do you mean by “has the right”? My voice came out unexpectedly firm.
—It means exactly that, she said, pulling out some papers from the folder. —Thirty years of marriage—everything acquired is divided in half. Vitya and I plan to marry as soon as he gets a divorce. And he wants to transfer his half of the apartment to me.
I looked at her, not believing my ears. This woman, who was about fifteen years younger than me, was sitting in my kitchen and talking about my apartment as if it already belonged to her.
—Larisa, I said slowly, —Did Viktor tell you where this apartment came from?
She shrugged:
—What’s the difference? Joint property is divided equally—that’s the law.
—This is my parents’ apartment, I felt a wave of anger rising inside me. —They gave it to me as a gift even before my marriage to Viktor. And he knows that perfectly well.
—Listen, Galina, Larisa stepped forward. —Let’s not have any more of these dramas. Viktor said that if you insist, we’ll go to court. You don’t want a legal battle, do you?
At that moment something inside me switched. As if the last thread tying me to my former, submissive life had snapped.
—Get out of my house, I said quietly but firmly.
—What?
—Out! I stood up, feeling my hands tremble. —And tell your Vitya that if he wants court, so be it. I am no longer the woman who silently swallows every hurt.
Larisa smirked, gathering the papers:
—You’ll regret this, you old fool. We’ll show you the world.
When the door slammed behind her, I sank onto a chair and burst into tears. But these were not tears of despair—they were tears of anger and determination.
That very day, I called my friend Tamara—she worked at a legal consultancy.
—Galochka, you did the right thing by seeking help, she said after reviewing the apartment documents. —The gift deed from your parents is a rock-solid argument. Such property isn’t divided in a divorce.
I sat in her office, studying the stacks of folders on the shelves. Tamara was typing something quickly on her computer.
—You know what amazes me the most? she looked up at me over her glasses. —Your Vitya knows full well that the apartment is solely yours. He simply assumed that you would yield by habit.
Those words hit me hard. My whole life I had always given in—in the small things and the important ones. When he insisted that I quit my postgraduate studies. When he sold my mother’s piano because “it took up too much space.” When he unilaterally managed our family budget…
—Now listen to the plan of action, Tamara handed me a sheet with notes. —First: we file for divorce. Second: we prepare the documents that confirm your ownership. Third…
There was a knock on the door. A young female secretary stood in the doorway:
—Tamara Nikolaevna, there’s a man for you. He says it’s urgent.
—Let him wait, Tamara waved off, but at that moment Viktor practically burst into the office. Larisa was looming behind him.
—So, there you are! he said, looming over me. —Have you already run off to complain?
I shrank, out of old habit, but then straightened up immediately. No, I would no longer be afraid.
—Viktor Mikhailovich, said Tamara in a cold tone, —please leave the room. Or I will call security.
—Galka, his voice lowered to a threatening whisper, —don’t you understand that I will get my way anyway? Do you think I won’t find a way to get you?
—No, Vitya, I stood up, looking him straight in the eyes. —Understand this: I am no longer the henpecked woman you can boss around. The apartment is mine, period.
—Ah, you… he gestured wildly, but Tamara had already pressed the security call button.
As they were being escorted out, Larisa turned back:
—We’ll meet in court!
—We will indeed, I replied calmly. —And you know what’s most interesting? I am no longer afraid of that meeting.
The following weeks turned into a real nerve-wracking ordeal.
Viktor would send threatening messages, then try to pressure me through mutual acquaintances. Larisa would wait for me by the entrance, demonstratively showing some papers.
—Mom, maybe you should really come live with us? my daughter fretted over the phone. —Why do you need all this stress?
—Lenochka, I smiled, looking at the old family photographs on the wall. —It’s no longer just about the apartment. It’s about my life, about my dignity.
One evening, as I was sorting through old documents, I stumbled upon a yellowed folder. Inside was my father’s will, drawn up back in the eighties.
—My dear, he had said then, —this apartment is your fortress. No matter what happens, you will always be safe here.
I remember how Viktor grimaced when my father insisted on the gift deed before the wedding. “Your father doesn’t trust me,” he grumbled. And as if my father had foreseen it…
I grabbed my phone and dialed Tamara’s number:
—Do you remember you mentioned some additional documents?
—Of course, she perked up. —I’ll expect you tomorrow morning. And you know what? I did some digging into your dear man’s affairs. It turns out he has unpaid loans. I think that’s why he’s so desperately trying to seize your apartment.
That explained a lot. I recalled how for the past year Viktor was constantly borrowing money, hiding things…
—Galina Petrovna! a neighbor called out to me as I stepped out of the entrance. —Please forgive me, but I saw everything back then… How Viktor Mikhailovich with that… she shook her head. —If witness statements are needed, I’m ready.
—Thank you, Anna Vasilievna, I smiled genuinely for the first time in a long while. —You know, I used to be too ashamed to accept such help. But now I understand—I must not be afraid to be strong.
In the evening, there was a knock at the door. Viktor stood there—no longer the imposing figure I had feared all my life, but rather a pathetic man with a restless gaze.
—Galya, let’s talk this over nicely…
—No, Vitya, I shook my head, not inviting him inside. —No more talks.
—You must understand, I’m in a difficult situation, he tried to wedge his foot into the doorway. —Those loans.
—Oh, so you admit the loans now? I smirked. —You know what’s most surprising? I’m not even angry anymore. I just don’t care.
—Galya, his tone took a conciliatory note, —maybe you could spare a room? Larka kicked me out when she found out about the debts.
And then I burst out laughing. Loudly, heartily—for the first time in months. Before me stood not the fearsome husband I had dreaded all my life, but merely a pitiful man who had cornered himself.
—No, Vitya. Not a room, not a corner, nothing. Take your divorce papers and leave.
—You’ll regret this! he once again tried to sound threatening, but it came off as unconvincing.
—You know, what I really regret? I looked him straight in the eyes. —I regret the thirty years I spent being afraid to be myself. But that is in the past.
I closed the door and leaned against it. The apartment was quiet—only the ticking of the old clock on the wall, counting not bitter but peaceful minutes of my new life.
A month later, the court officially recognized my divorce and my sole ownership of the apartment. Viktor didn’t show up at the hearing—they say he left for another city. Larisa pretends not to notice me in the entrance.
And I—I finally bought a new piano—exactly like the one, my mother’s. In the evenings, its sounds spread throughout the apartment, and I feel my soul coming back to life. Next week, I’m going to St. Petersburg—to visit my grandchildren and, at the same time, see the city. Then perhaps I’ll travel to Europe—after all, I didn’t take those English classes for nothing.
Now, this is truly my fortress—not only the apartment, but my life. And I have finally learned how to defend it.
