“Be patient, Mom, until Sveta pays off the whole mortgage,” Vladimir replied calmly. “Then I’ll divorce her and we’ll split the apartment evenly. She won’t be able to prove anything anyway. Everything’s set up the way it should be. Half will be mine.”
Svetlana met Vladimir five years ago. They both had jobs, but no place of their own, and there was no one they could really rely on. So right after the wedding they decided to get their own apartment.
By then Sveta had a decent amount saved—she’d been putting money aside since her first years at university. They decided to use that money as the down payment on a mortgage. Especially since the wedding was almost entirely paid for by Vladimir. Although, to be honest, the wedding was very modest.
Vladimir turned out to be tight-fisted. He never threw money around and parted with every ruble reluctantly. He saved, calculated, and was constantly cutting costs. Sometimes it irritated her, but Sveta reassured herself that he was reliable and prudent. And overall—a hard worker with a sense of humor, faithful, and not hard to live with.
Their families were in similar situations: Vladimir’s parents lived in a village out of town, and Sveta’s were in another region. When they visited, they usually stayed with them. The small two-room flat in a bedroom community periodically turned into a waystation for guests.
This time, too, his mother, Antonina Pavlovna, came to visit her overgrown child—her beloved son. Said she needed to check whether his wife was feeding him properly and ironing his socks. As usual, she arrived with bulging bags: jars of pickles, a farm chicken, some crocheted doilies, and a million pieces of advice she handed out generously from morning till night.
Sveta put up with it; she didn’t argue or snap back. After all, these visits were temporary. She tried to tune it out—kept to her routine and mentally counted the days until their guest left.
One night, deep into the night, Sveta woke from the stuffiness. She propped herself up on her elbows and didn’t see her husband beside her, but she heard whispering in the kitchen. Light spilled from there along with low voices. Sveta got up, tiptoed to the door, and stopped, holding her breath.
She listened. The voices were hushed, but she could make out the tones—irritation in Antonina Pavlovna’s voice and a strange, calculating note in Vladimir’s. She pressed closer to the doorframe.
“How much longer are you going to live with that silly, useless thing?” his mother hissed venomously. “She counts every kopeck, and for what? Being with her is like being in prison!”
“Be patient, Mom, until Sveta pays off the whole mortgage,” Vladimir replied calmly. “Then I’ll divorce her and we’ll split the apartment evenly. She won’t be able to prove anything anyway. Everything’s set up the way it should be. Half will be mine.”
Sveta gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth as the conversation continued.
“Mashka, by the way, cries every night. The poor thing—she’s lonely and scared!” Antonina went on. “And you’re here fooling around with this city girl! She’s not a wife to you, she’s a temporary investor. And you know that perfectly well!”
Sveta frowned. Mashka? Who on earth was Mashka?
“Mashka knew what she was getting into,” Vladimir said quietly, almost wearily. “We discussed everything. Besides, I send money for the child every month. She doesn’t complain.”
“It’s not money she needs, Vovochka. She needs a man by her side! You’re a father! And you’re behaving like a stranger! How much longer are you going to hide out here?”
Everything Sveta thought she knew about her husband crumbled in an instant. It turned out he not only planned to divorce her, he already had a child with another woman. And now he was sitting on her neck, simply waiting for the right moment to split everything.
Without a sound, Sveta went back to the bedroom, lay down slowly, and pulled the blanket over herself. Her heart pounded, her head throbbed. Sleep was gone for good. She stared at the ceiling, not understanding what to do with this information.
Vladimir returned a few minutes later. He came into the bedroom without turning on the light and slid quietly in beside his wife. Sveta pretended to be asleep and turned her back to him, burying her face in the pillow.
A minute later he was already snoring, and soon he was full-on sawing logs.
“How does he do that? He just lay down…” Sveta thought, staring into the darkness. Insomnia sank its sharp claws into her. She was suffocating on resentment. She couldn’t understand how she hadn’t noticed that Vova was living a double life. Everything she had thought was a happy marriage turned out to be a lie.
Three months earlier.
Sveta sat on the edge of the couch, worrying the hem of her house T-shirt. Vladimir was at his laptop. He hated being distracted from his “important” games.
“Vova… my period is late,” Sveta said uncertainly. “I haven’t taken a test yet, but it’s been three days…”
Vladimir tore his eyes from the screen as if doused with ice water. His eyes narrowed, he stood abruptly and paced the room, stepped on a sock lying on the floor, and kicked it hard into the corner.
“Now is not the time,” he snapped. “We’ve got a mortgage and a mountain of work. What kid are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?”
“I just thought… maybe…” she whispered, her throat dry.
“I’m saying this right now: if it comes to that, no nonsense. Abortion. No discussion.”
He went to the kitchen and slammed the fridge door. Sveta stayed on the couch, not knowing what to do. Then she lay down and cried into her pillow all night without a sound.
In the morning her period started. False alarm. And instead of relief, she felt bitterness and emptiness. With it, the small, timid wish to become a mother vanished, too.
Now she knew why he’d been so scared then. Why he reacted so harshly. Because he already had a child—somewhere out there—with some Mashka. And Sveta, in this story, was just an “investor,” a foolish woman who believed in a shared happy future.
In the morning Sveta got up early, twisted her hair into a messy bun, and behaved as usual. Not a hint that she knew everything. Vladimir sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and his phone, scrolling the news. Sveta said hello, poured herself some water, silently ate half an apple, and went to get ready. She didn’t even look in his direction.
She rode to work as if in a fog. At her lunch break, Sveta called her friend.
“Zhanna, can you talk?”
“Of course! Why do you sound so down? What happened?”
“I… I’ll tell you everything in detail later,” her voice trembled traitorously. “Short version: Vova has a child with some Mashka. And he plans to divorce me once I pay off the mortgage. He said it straight to his mother. I heard them last night.”
Zhanna was stunned.
“That bastard. A double bastard! I’ll come over right now and rearrange his pretty little face!”
“Zhanna…”
“No, you don’t get it! I’ll break his nose! You live with him, invest in the relationship, put up with that poisonous mother-in-law of his, and it turns out he’s just using you?! I’ll—” her friend was nearly shouting.
“Zhann,” Sveta cut in. “I don’t want a scandal. I need help. I don’t know what to do next.”
Zhanna exhaled loudly; you could hear her reining herself in.
“Listen carefully. First thing—find a good lawyer. Not just anyone, a competent one. He’ll tell you how to do everything properly so that jerk gets nothing if it comes to a divorce.”
“But after a divorce everything is split fifty-fifty.”
“Yeah, generally. But you can provide statements—whatever proves you paid the down payment and most of the installments. I hope you’ve got a record of everything?”
“Yes. The money came from my account.”
“Perfect. Just don’t drag your feet. The sooner you go, the better. I can go with you tomorrow if you want. I’m free in the afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Sveta sighed in relief. “I just… I don’t even know how to talk to Vova after this.”
“And don’t talk. Do everything quietly, calmly. You’ll find another man—three of them, even. Just better ones, not… this. But you have to protect the apartment and your nerves. Don’t give up a single centimeter without a fight, got it?”
“Got it,” Sveta whispered. “Thank you.”
Sveta came home black as a cloud. The moment she crossed the threshold, she smelled hot oil. In the kitchen, Antonina Pavlovna was cooking—pies were sizzling on the stove, and the air reeked of cheap sunflower oil.
His mother stood at the stove in a bright apron, happily flipping another batch.
“Well, finally,” she turned. “I’ve made pirozhki! Nice and warm, with cabbage and potato! Eat while they’re hot.”
“And why didn’t you turn the exhaust on?” Sveta asked without greeting and pressed the button herself. “I’ve told you—if you cook, turn it on. This isn’t a fry shop or a cafeteria.”
“What good does that buzzing thing do?” she waved her off. “Just makes noise. The air is right there, from the window.” She pointed at the kitchen window—closed.
“The smell is all over the apartment already. I wash the curtains after every one of your cooking sessions. Is it so hard to turn the fan on once?”
Antonina squinted at her.
“What’s that tone? Rough day at work? Or are you sharpening your teeth on me?”
“I did have a rough day,” Sveta took off her jacket and hung it in the closet. “And now I’ll be blunt. I’m not going to keep pretending I don’t see how you and your darling son are using me.”
“What are you talking about?!” his mother squealed. “We with Vovochka…”
“Vovochka?” Sveta sneered. “Vovochka who’s sleeping with another woman while living off me? Vovochka who stays up nights with you, plotting how to screw me over the moment I finish paying the bank?”
Antonina’s face went slack. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find a reply.
“Save it. I heard everything. Absolutely everything. Including how, in your opinion, I’m a silly fool who can’t do anything. Funny how I, supposedly so stupid, am the only one putting real money into this apartment.”
Sveta walked past her into the bedroom and slammed the door. Then exhaled. Her heart was pounding, her palms were shaking, but she felt she had to say it. The hypocrisy grated on her.
She sat on the edge of the bed, hugging her shoulders. She was still shocked—not at her mother-in-law, but at her own resolve. She had never spoken like that before. She never allowed herself to. Today she did. There was nothing left to lose.
The kitchen fell deathly silent—but not for long. After a couple of minutes Sveta heard the door creak and hurried footsteps. Then his mother’s muffled voice. She was obviously calling someone. Words filtered through the thin walls:
“Your fool… yes, she found out… everything…”
Sveta knew exactly whom she was calling.
“I don’t know what to do,” Antonina muttered. “She just yelled at me like I’m some stranger… Yes! I made her pirozhki and she—like that! Come right now.”
Sveta closed her eyes. She hadn’t planned to fight with anyone—she wanted to do everything quietly—but she couldn’t stand it any longer. This was outright betrayal! Half an hour later, the front door opened—Vladimir was home from work. Sveta didn’t leave the bedroom. She already knew what would happen next.
“Mom?” he called softly. “Where is she?”
“In the room. She said she heard everything. About Mashka, about the mortgage… everything, Vova.”
“Fine,” he muttered, irritated. “I’ll handle it.”
He flung open the bedroom door.
“Some show you’ve put on,” he began. “Sitting here like you’ve been wronged. Playing the victim? Are you normal?”
Sveta was silent. She just looked at him, wondering how she could have lived under the same roof with this person for so long. He had neither shame nor conscience.
“What did you expect?” he went on, raising his voice. “I’m carrying you, this apartment, the mortgage! And you make scenes? If it weren’t for me, you’d still be living in a dorm!”
“If it weren’t for me,” Sveta cut him off, “you’d still be in your village dreaming of a no-interest credit card. And you’re not ‘carrying’ anything—you’re leeching, Vova.”
“Are you crazy?” he exploded. “I trusted you, and you—”
“And I, for some reason, believed you,” Svetlana said coolly. “That’s my mistake. But I’m already fixing it. Tomorrow I’m going to a lawyer, and you and your mother can pack your things today. Should I call a taxi for you?”
His eye twitched.
“Who would even want you?” he sneered. “You think anyone will look at you after me?”
“After you,” his wife laughed, “I don’t need anyone at all.”
He fell silent. Then he turned sharply and left. From the hallway came the sounds of zippers, rustling bags, heavy steps. Antonina whispered something in her son’s ear, glancing at her daughter-in-law, but he just waved her off.
Fifteen minutes later, the door slammed.
Sveta sat back down on the bed, covered her face with her hands, and finally let herself cry.
Zhanna didn’t let her down. The very next day she sent Sveta a lawyer’s contact, adding a voice message: “He’s a beast—in the good way. He’ll tear your parasite apart in court.” That’s how Sveta met Evgeny—a confident, competent, pleasantly calm man of about forty who, at the very first meeting, laid everything out neatly.
“Your situation isn’t unique,” he said, leafing through copies of the documents. “But you, Svetlana, have a strong position. The down payment is yours. Most of the installments are yours, too. Yes, by law property acquired in marriage is divided equally. But there are nuances. If we prove you contributed the bulk while your husband’s contribution was minimal, then, taking into account the outstanding mortgage balance, we can seek a redistribution of shares. For example, 70–30, or even better.”
Sveta listened, hardly believing her ears.
“And the debt? There’s still a year to pay,” she asked.
“That’s our advantage. You can propose the following: the portion of the debt that Vladimir would have to cover can be offset by returning to him the money he has already paid toward the apartment.”
So that’s what they did. The paperwork came together quickly—everything had gone through Sveta’s account: bank statements, receipts, even scans of transfers. In court Evgeny spoke confidently and methodically, like a surgeon at the operating table. Vladimir, by contrast, looked lost, grew angry, spewed incoherent phrases, and complained about “deceit and betrayal.”
“I thought by law everything is split in half!” he fumed. “What is this?!”
The judge merely adjusted his glasses and calmly reminded him that Russia has laws, and they don’t run on emotions but on documents. And the documents were entirely on Sveta’s side.
He left the courthouse dark as a thundercloud. No pride, no grand words left—just a low hiss and a hateful glance in Sveta’s direction.
Sveta exited after him, walking slowly, deliberately keeping a respectable distance. Her soul felt light. She felt like a winner in a game where she had been just a pawn in someone else’s hands.
When she stepped outside, she saw the following scene: a woman in a colorful summer dress clung to Vladimir’s neck. She looked at him with devoted tenderness, as if he were her savior. And beside them stood a little boy, about three years old. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, clutching the man’s hand. The boy was fair-haired, with thin lips and the same scowling look as Vladimir.
Sveta stopped. There it was—the confirmation that she had done the right thing. A scoundrel, a traitor, a two-faced man who had cheated on her in marriage and used her trust, money, and kindness.
She watched the scene for a couple more seconds, drew a deep breath, and, without looking back, walked away from the past.
