Anastasia received an apartment as a gift from her parents for her twenty-fifth birthday. It was small, but her own, in a good neighborhood with decent neighbors. Her parents gave up nearly all their savings to buy their daughter a home. It was truly a gift from fate. At first, Anastasia could hardly believe that she now had her own place. Although initially she had to sleep on an old sofa that came with the apartment and mostly eat pasta, she was happy.
The young woman worked as a hairdresser in a small salon. The salary wasn’t impressive, but it was enough to live on. On weekends, Anastasia often took extra shifts or went to regular clients’ homes. In two years, she managed to save enough money to renovate and buy decent furniture.
Anastasia met Daniil at a friend’s birthday party. A tall, somewhat awkward guy with a kind smile immediately caught her attention. He was simple, without big ambitions, but sincere and caring. Daniil worked as a system administrator at a small company, enjoyed computer games, and liked cooking.
“Forgive me, but I’m not good at romantic gestures,” Daniil admitted on their first date. “I can cook a tasty dinner, help with your computer, but poetry and serenades aren’t my thing.”
Anastasia even liked that. After a few dates, Daniil told her he lived in a rented apartment with a roommate and that paying for it was becoming harder.
“The landlady raised the price again. She says utilities got more expensive. Soon I’ll have to find something cheaper or move back to my parents in the village.”
“Why don’t you move in with me?” Anastasia suggested without much thought. “I have my own apartment, there’s enough space.”
At first, Daniil refused, saying it was inconvenient and that they didn’t know each other well enough yet. But eventually, he agreed. So they started living together.
They officially married after eight months of living together. The wedding was modest: a few close friends and Anastasia’s parents. Daniil’s relatives did not come to the celebration.
“My mom is sick, and my aunts are in a bad mood again,” Daniil explained. “They generally don’t like the city. They think people here are spoiled.”
“Oh well, I’m not offended,” Anastasia replied, though she was a little upset.
“Just understand, they’re country folk, narrow-minded,” Daniil justified. “But we live in the city now, it doesn’t matter to us.”
At first, the newlyweds’ life was almost perfect. Anastasia worked at the salon, Daniil as a system administrator. They did house chores together, went to the movies, walked in parks. Both saved money for a trip to the sea.
But six months into married life, Daniil suddenly announced he was quitting.
“My boss got on my nerves. Demands the impossible, pays peanuts. I want to try freelancing. Be my own boss.”
Anastasia supported her husband. Even if income was unstable, at least he’d do what he liked. And since he’d be home, he could take on more housework.
But things turned out differently. Daniil got few orders; many clients delayed payments. He worked more for fun than money. Anastasia took over paying utilities, buying groceries, and even part of his debt for a new laptop Daniil bought “for work.” The apartment was still in her name, and apparently, this arrangement suited everyone.
But over time, things began to change. Daniil started calling the apartment “ours,” which was natural since they were a family. However, he gradually withdrew from housework.
“Listen, I can’t wash the dishes now, I’m swamped with a project,” Daniil would brush off, though he was sitting at the computer with headphones on, clearly playing games.
Once, after a quarrel over dirty dishes and an unmade bed, Daniil suddenly said:
“Do you think I would have married you if it weren’t for the apartment?”
Anastasia froze, unable to believe her ears. Daniil immediately tried to explain, saying he didn’t mean it, that it was just a slip of the tongue. But the sting remained.
Then he began repeating a phrase that made Anastasia uneasy: “It’s unfair that some people have everything and others have nothing.” He said it especially often after phone conversations with his relatives.
Their relationship grew more tense. Daniil hardly worked, spent much time playing computer games, and only did housework when Anastasia insisted. They argued more and more.
One day, after a particularly loud fight, Daniil silently packed a bag and left. There was no dramatic farewell or slammed door — he just said:
“I need to rethink everything. I’ll call.”
For two days, there was no word from him. Anastasia didn’t know what to think. Then came a message: “I’m at my mom’s in the village. I’ll stay here and think. We’ll decide later what to do next.”
Anastasia was confused. On one hand, the relationship had long been strained, and perhaps the breakup was inevitable. On the other — it all happened so suddenly and strangely.
Two weeks passed. Anastasia almost got used to the silence in the apartment. She was returning from work when she saw two women with large shopping bags standing by her door on the stairwell.
“Hello, who are you here for?” Anastasia asked, stopping.
“For you, beauty,” said one woman, plump, with dyed red hair. “I’m Galina Petrovna, and this is Zinaida Petrovna. We’re Daniil’s aunts.”
“Hello,” Anastasia said, confused. “Daniil’s not home. He’s with his mom.”
“We know, dear,” said the thinner woman with a stern look. “We’re not here for Daniil. We came for his things. Anyway, open the door, we need to talk.”
Anastasia didn’t understand why she let them in—maybe surprise, maybe respect for their age. But once inside, the situation sharply changed.
“So, this apartment belongs to Daniil, got it?!” declared Galina Petrovna, firmly setting down the bags in the hallway. “Pack your stuff and get out!”
“What?” Anastasia didn’t understand what was happening.
“Don’t play dumb,” Zinaida Petrovna jumped in. “Daniil told us everything. How you charmed him, how you don’t want to share this apartment. But this, by the way, is his apartment! You were married, so the property is joint!”
Anastasia finally came to her senses.
“You’re mistaken. This apartment is mine. My parents gave it to me before I met Daniil.”
“Oh, don’t try to tell us stories,” Galina Petrovna waved her hand. “In our village, people don’t just leave like that. If you leave, you have to take something with you. And what’s the most valuable to you? Right — the apartment!”
Anastasia took a folder from the closet and silently showed them the purchase agreement, the certificate of ownership—all in her name, all dated two years before she met Daniil.
“Forging documents is easy,” snorted Zinaida Petrovna. “You think we don’t know how things work in the city? You’re sly, clever, latched onto our Daniil for the apartment, and now you’re playing the victim.”
The women started walking around the apartment, pointing at furniture, calling things “jointly acquired.”
“This wall unit was definitely bought with Daniil’s money!” Galina Petrovna pointed.
“And the TV too,” Zinaida Petrovna agreed. “Our Daniil bought everything as the owner, and you’re kicking him out!”
“Listen,” Anastasia tried to stay calm though inside she was boiling. “Daniil left on his own. And this apartment is mine, I have all the proof. If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police.”
“Call them!” Galina Petrovna challenged. “Let’s see who’s right!”
Anastasia took her phone and indeed called the police. The women quieted a bit but kept mumbling about injustice and “city tricks.”
“Miss, strangers are trying to take things away and broke into the apartment,” Anastasia explained to the dispatcher.
While waiting for the officer, the aunts managed to make an hour-long scandal. They talked about how wonderful Daniuel was, how he suffered from injustice, how he was “fooled.”
Finally, a tired older officer arrived. He checked the documents, listened to everyone, and warned the women about the consequences of violating housing privacy.
“If you have property claims, take it to court,” he said. “Now leave the apartment, or I will file a report.”
The aunts reluctantly obeyed, but on their way out, Zinaida Petrovna ominously said:
“You’ll remember us! We don’t give up that easily!”
When the door closed behind the relatives, Anastasia sank onto the sofa. Her hands were noticeably trembling. The officer, Sergey Ivanovich, stayed a little longer, carefully reviewing the documents.
“I recommend you file a report,” he said. “These women may come back. This way, the incident will be officially recorded.”
Anastasia looked uncertainly at the policeman. “Do you really think it’s necessary?”
“Better safe than sorry, especially when it comes to housing,” Sergey Ivanovich replied.
The young woman followed his advice, wrote a report, and received a copy. The officer left his business card in case the unwanted guests returned.
A couple of days after the incident, Anastasia’s phone notified her of a new message from Daniil: “Hi. Sorry about the aunts, they overdid it a bit. But I understand their intentions — just caring about me. Let’s meet and discuss how to divide everything fairly.”
Anastasia read the message several times. What does “divide fairly” mean? The apartment had belonged to her long before meeting Daniil. All documents were in perfect order. Daniil had never invested in renovations or furniture. In recent months, her ex-husband hardly earned anything.
After some thought, the girl agreed to meet. Better to clarify the situation right away than constantly expect new unpleasant surprises.
They agreed to meet at a café near the salon where Anastasia worked. Daniil looked rested and completely calm, as if there had been no strange departure, no two weeks of silence, no scandal with the aunts.
“How are you?” Daniil asked casually.
“Fine,” Anastasia replied dryly. “Let’s get to the point. What do you mean by ‘divide fairly’?”
Daniil took a sip of coffee, carefully choosing words: “You see, we were married. I lived in this apartment for almost two years. The apartment became part of my life, my space. It would be fair if you gave me one room.”
“A room? In my apartment?” Anastasia couldn’t believe what she heard.
“Exactly. I have nowhere to live now. It’s cramped at my mom’s village, and renting is expensive.”
“Daniil, we don’t live together anymore. You left yourself.”
“I could just come sometimes. Leave me a key just in case,” Daniil suggested, as if nothing strange about it. “I’ll drop by when needed. After all, I have the right to housing as your husband.”
“Ex-husband,” Anastasia corrected. “And no, you have no rights to this apartment. It was mine before we met.”
Daniil sighed like someone explaining the obvious: “Listen, I’m not asking for the whole apartment. Just one room. That’s fair.”
“No, that’s not fair, it’s just ridiculous,” Anastasia shook her head. “You left on your own will and now want a room and keys? Daniil, what are you even talking about?”
Daniil’s face suddenly changed, the friendly mask disappeared: “Aren’t you asking for too much?” he hissed, leaning across the table. “By the way, I defended you in front of my relatives. And you’re so ungrateful!”
Anastasia stood up, leaving money for the coffee. “The conversation is over. Don’t call me again.”
A few days later, the downstairs neighbor, Marina Stepanovna, stopped Anastasia near the entrance.
“Can you believe some women tried to get into the building!” the elderly woman angrily said. “They said they were coming ‘to Daniil’s.’ Of course, I didn’t let them in. And yesterday, I saw them at your door, ringing the intercom. Allegedly, they wanted to take your husband’s things.”
“What things?” Anastasia was surprised. “He took all his things when he left.”
“That’s what I thought. Strange women.”
After talking with the neighbor, Anastasia checked social media. She found many unpleasant comments from Daniil’s relatives. One especially stood out under a photo of her in her apartment: “Don’t worry, everything will fall into place soon, other people’s apartments don’t last forever.”
Anastasia didn’t engage in arguments. She simply deleted all comments and completely closed her profile to outsiders. However, the unpleasant feeling of being watched remained.
For peace of mind, Anastasia installed a video peephole with recording on the front door. Now she would have evidence if Daniil’s relatives decided to visit again.
One evening, the doorbell woke the quiet apartment. Anastasia looked through the peephole and saw an unfamiliar man about forty years old.
“Who’s there?” she asked without opening.
“Good evening! Petr Sergeyevich, your parents’ neighbor at the dacha,” the stranger introduced himself. “Your parents asked me to deliver something.”
Anastasia became wary. Her parents had never mentioned such a neighbor. Besides, they sold their dacha many years ago, before buying the apartment.
“My parents don’t have a dacha,” she answered.
“Oh really?” the man faltered. “Auntie Daniil told me… Anyway, I brought you a package — a jar of jam and a letter.”
“Leave it by the door,” Anastasia said, deciding not to open.
The man placed the package on the threshold and left. After a few minutes, Anastasia cautiously opened the door and took the package. Inside was indeed a jar of jam and an envelope. She immediately threw the jar away — too suspicious. She didn’t even open the letter — tore it up and threw it in the trash.
The incident made Anastasia seriously think. What is happening in life? Why must she be afraid to open the door? To be suspicious of food? And all because of what? Because of an apartment that legally belongs only to her?
One evening, Anastasia came home tired, sank onto the sofa, and looked around. A small but cozy apartment. Flowers on the windowsill she carefully tended. Books on the shelves reflecting her interests. A mirror in the hallway reflecting a tired but calm face.
And then Anastasia realized: no one has the right to force her to share what belongs only to her. Especially with someone who left on their own. This is her personal space, her home, her life. She is under no obligation to give anything away just because someone thinks it’s “fair.”
Some time later, Daniil wrote again: “Maybe we start over? I miss you. Let’s try again.”
Anastasia stared at the screen for a long time. A month ago, such a message might have stirred emotions. But not now.
“Place is taken. And not by an apartment,” the girl replied.
Daniil never wrote again.
The aunts called several more times from unknown numbers. Once, Anastasia accidentally answered and heard an unfamiliar voice.
“Consider that you stole from our family,” came Zinaida Petrovna’s voice over the line.
Before, Anastasia would have started to justify, explain, prove. Now she just pressed the block button and forgot about it.
With summer’s arrival, Anastasia decided to refresh her home. Not a major renovation, just a freshening up of the interior. She got rid of everything that reminded her of the past — pillows Daniil had chosen, mugs with silly inscriptions, photographs. She bought new bedding, hung light tulle curtains, repainted the bedroom wall a gentle mint shade.
During the rearrangement, Anastasia found an old photo where she and her parents stood at the entrance to this very apartment. The day they got the keys. Her father was hugging her shoulders, her mother smiling happily. On the back was written: “Our Nastya — the mistress of her own life.”
She placed the photo on the bedside table. Now no one stood at the door with demands or threats. No one tried to make her feel guilty for having her own roof over her head.
And no one would dare say this was not her home anymore. Because now living within these walls was not just Anastasia — but a woman fully aware of whom she owed her peace of mind.
Herself.
