Anna pulled the keys from her bag and pushed the door open carefully, trying not to wake Sergey. The hallway was dark, filled with a warm, spicy aroma—he must have reheated delivery pilaf again, probably late at night. His boots were abandoned in the middle of the floor, one knocked over as if kicked off carelessly. She nudged them back to the wall and slipped out of her coat.
In the kitchen, the sink overflowed with dirty dishes. Anna stared at the mess, let out a weary sigh, and turned away. Foolish. She knew it had been his turn to clean. But she also knew that if she kept quiet, tomorrow evening would look exactly the same. The kettle began to boil. Out of habit, she thought of making herself tea just to calm down—but then caught herself. No, enough. Today is not the day to hide behind old rituals.
Sergey was asleep in the bedroom, sprawled across the bed. His phone lit up with flashing notifications beside him. Most likely his mother again: Son, buy bread before you forget, or Why didn’t you call me? I’m worried. Anna lingered on his face—so relaxed, a faint smile playing across his lips. How strange, she thought. He looked utterly carefree, while her head was still ringing from what she had just discovered.
That afternoon, as she left work, she’d stepped into the elevator with a neighbor—a thin woman in a dark coat with shiny buttons. Anna had seen her around, but never spoken to her.
“Oh, you’re Sergey’s wife, aren’t you?” the woman smiled.
“Yes. And you are?”
“Valentina Petrovna. I live across the hall. So many years in this building, yet we rarely meet.”
Anna nodded politely. The elevator moved. Silence lingered, but the neighbor’s smile stayed, as if she were waiting for the perfect moment to add something.
“It’s nice you and Seryozha moved into his mother’s apartment. She kept it empty for so long. Now at least there’s life in it.”
Anna froze.
“His mother’s apartment?”
“Of course. Olga Vyacheslavovna bought it back in the nineties. Sergey lived here with his ex, and now—well, now it’s you.”
The elevator doors opened. Anna almost forgot to step out. The neighbor kept talking, but the words blurred into nothing.
One thought pounded in her mind: she wasn’t paying rent. She had been paying her husband. Two years of her salary funneled straight into his family’s pocket.
At home, silence pressed in. She didn’t go to the bedroom. Instead, she opened her laptop on the couch and pulled up the tax office website. She entered the address and his mother’s surname.
A few minutes later, the result appeared.
Owner: Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova.
Anna stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
It all made sense now.
But a fight tonight would be pointless.
She shut the laptop and let her gaze sweep across the room. Their so-called cozy nest. Her bookshelves. The soft throw she’d bought on sale. The lamp with warm yellow light. All paid for with her money.
And in the next room, Sergey slept on, unbothered.
Anna leaned back against the couch, laced her fingers tightly together.
This lie would not remain without consequences.
The next morning, she woke earlier than usual. Sergey, as always, was curled up in a fortress of pillows. She went into the kitchen. The room was cool. Crumbs scattered across the table. A half-empty bottle of beer sat abandoned in the corner. She tossed it into the trash, then dialed the management company.
“Hello, I’d like to check something about our apartment.”
The girl on the line chirped pleasantly, unaware of the weight behind the question.
“Yes, the apartment is registered to Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova. Payments are always made on time.”
Anna thanked her and hung up. Her pulse raced. The neighbor had been right. Everything fit together now.
She returned to the bedroom and quietly opened Sergey’s dresser. Beneath a mess of receipts and old bills, she found a folder of bank statements. Slipping one out, she scanned the page.
Payment purpose: utilities.
Sender: Olga Vyacheslavovna’s card.
Anna slid the paper back into the folder, careful not to leave a trace.
Fifteen minutes later, Sergey shuffled into the kitchen, yawning.
“Morning,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“Morning,” Anna answered smoothly, a small smile on her lips.
She watched him pour himself water, sit down heavily, elbows on the table, already absorbed in social media.
“By the way,” she said gently, taking the seat across from him, “I was thinking… maybe we should buy our own place after all. We give eighty thousand every month to strangers—but at least then, we’d be paying toward something that’s really ours.”
Sergey froze for a moment, then shrugged it off.
“Well, you know… mortgages are complicated. Papers, interest, all that hassle.”
“But at least in the end, it would be ours,” Anna said quietly, watching his face.
He shifted his gaze to his phone, as if something urgent had appeared on the screen.
“Let’s just think about it, all right?” she pressed. “Maybe we could work out an installment plan with the owner. You know him, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer. Only a faint stiffness in his neck betrayed him.
“Well, you see… it’s just…” he muttered vaguely. “You understand.”
Anna studied him for a long second, then rose and walked to the window.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I understand perfectly.”
Snow was falling outside, coating the sidewalks in a slow, silent veil. Sergey mumbled something about work, drained his glass of water, and left the kitchen.
The moment the door clicked shut, Anna picked up her phone and called Maria.
“Masha, are you busy?”
“No, tell me.”
“I need your advice. Do you have a conference room no one uses?”
Maria paused, then chuckled nervously.
“Anna, you’re scaring me. All right, come over.”
Half an hour later, Anna sat in a cluttered office usually reserved for project meetings. Papers piled on the table, and Maria sat across from her, scrolling quickly through her phone.
“So,” Maria began, frowning at the screen. “If the apartment is registered to his mother, and she never signed a lease, then legally… you’re just living with her.”
“But I’m the one paying.”
“You’re paying,” Maria confirmed, then suddenly looked up sharply. “Anna, this is awful. You’ve basically been handing money to someone who should have been supporting you.”
“Not someone,” Anna said calmly. “My husband.”
Maria stared at her in silence.
“So… what now?”
Anna’s lips curved into an unexpected smile.
“Now, Masha, I’m going to make sure these last two years weren’t wasted.”
“How exactly?”
Anna pulled a sheet of paper closer, smoothed it flat, and wrote across the top: Plan of Action.
Maria leaned in, watching.
“You know,” she murmured, “I’m starting to like this smile of yours.”
Anna picked up a pen. For the first time, she knew exactly what to do.
Over the next two weeks, Anna played her role flawlessly. She cooked, laughed at Sergey’s jokes, told him stories from work. But her eyes missed nothing: the way his shoulders tightened whenever money came up, the ease with which he accepted her “rent” and then splurged on gadgets, his silence whenever the topic of the apartment or his mother surfaced.
On the third day, he came home carrying a glossy bag from a brand-name store.
“New sneakers?” Anna asked, keeping her voice light.
“Yeah. Big sale,” he said quickly.
She smiled, already knowing the truth had nothing to do with discounts.
“We should probably ask the landlord for a copy of the contract,” she suggested casually. “Just in case he decides to raise the rent.”
Sergey froze for a split second before covering it with a shrug.
“No need. We’ve lived here this long; nothing’s going to change.”
Anna didn’t argue. She simply stored the reaction away.
The night before the rent was due, she made an unusual suggestion: dinner at a restaurant.
Sergey blinked in surprise—they almost never went anywhere fancy, sticking to the cafés around the corner. But if his wife wanted to, why not?
The restaurant was elegant, bathed in soft light and quiet music. Anna chose a table by the window, where the city shimmered against the night. She sat across from him, turning her glass slowly between her fingers, as though savoring a moment she had long prepared for.
“Well, what are we drinking to?” Sergey asked, flipping through the menu.
“To family,” Anna replied evenly, a faint smile touching her lips.
He nodded, pleased, and ordered meat.
“You know,” she went on, crossing her arms, “I was thinking… maybe we should buy this apartment.”
Sergey froze for a heartbeat, then forced a shrug.
“Well… we can’t afford it. Mortgage, interest rates…”
“What if we negotiated with the owner for a lower price? Maybe he’d agree to sell?” Anna’s tone was casual, though her words carried an edge he could not miss.
He grimaced and pushed his glass away.
“I don’t know… Why would you even think that?”
Anna leaned forward, her smirk deliberate.
“Just remind me, Sergey—who exactly have we been paying all this time?”
He looked away, pretending confusion.
“Well, you transfer the money, don’t you? Why are you asking?”
“Who,” she pressed softly, “is this person?”
He shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to invent a gentler lie.
“Or,” she added after a pause, her voice almost tender, “have we simply been paying your mother?”
The words landed like a blade. Sergey stiffened.
“Anna…” he began, faltering.
“Tell the truth,” she said quietly, holding his gaze.
His fingers fumbled with the tablecloth.
“Well… sort of. Yes.”
Anna smiled faintly, as if she had only confirmed what she already knew. She reached into her bag, pulled out an envelope, and placed it in front of him.
“My last transfer. Not a ruble more.”
She rose, picked up her bag, and walked out, leaving him staring at the envelope in silence.
Anna didn’t pack her suitcase right away. She stayed in the apartment a few more days, watching him. Sergey grew quieter, glued to his phone, waiting—hoping—she would forget that dinner and resume paying.
But she wasn’t going to forget.
On Friday evening, she went to the bank. The joint account was already closed; the balance safely in her name. Now she wanted proof.
“I need the lease agreement for this apartment,” she told the manager.
The woman peered at her over her glasses.
“What lease agreement?”
“The one the owner should have on file—unless we’ve been living here for free.”
The manager rifled through the database and shook her head.
“No contract exists. No record of this apartment being rented.”
Anna nodded slowly. Her suspicions were confirmed.
That evening, her suitcase stood ready by the door.
“Business trip?” Sergey asked, hanging his jacket. His voice wavered.
Anna closed the suitcase and turned to face him.
“No. I’m moving out.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“I won’t keep paying your mother just to live with you.”
Sergey inhaled sharply, straightening, as though words might come—but none did.
“I transferred you nine hundred sixty thousand in two years,” she continued, leaning against the wall. “You could have told me the truth. We could have just split the utilities. But instead, you made me believe I was paying rent.”
“That’s not—”
“Yes, it is,” she cut him off.
He tried stepping closer, his voice almost pleading.
“I just didn’t want you to think I was supporting you. We agreed to share expenses equally.”
“Equally?” Anna laughed bitterly. “You paid your mother, and I paid you. Brilliant scheme.”
She grabbed the suitcase and moved toward the door.
“Anna, wait—” He caught her hand, then quickly let go.
She looked at him one last time.
“You could have been honest.”
And with that, she left.
Half an hour later, Anna unlocked the door to her new studio. It was small, modest—bare walls, no glossy kitchen or giant TV. But it was hers. And it was quiet. Peaceful. Free.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Olga Vyacheslavovna:
“Son, where is your wife?”
Anna smiled.
Let Sergey explain. It wasn’t her problem anymore.
