“Are you suggesting I give away what I worked seven years for? Are you out of your mind?” Svetlana looked at her husband as if she were seeing him for the first time. In her eyes there was less anger than bewilderment.
Andrey drummed his fingers nervously on the tabletop. His patience was running out by the second.
“Svet, let’s not do hysterics. Your apartment is worth three times less than my parents’ house. It’s a reasonable trade. We’ll have our own house, you understand? A house!”
Svetlana laughed. The sound came out sharp, almost like a bark.
“You honestly don’t see the problem? I’m supposed to sell my apartment so your parents can move to Spain and buy a place there? And we’ll be paying off the loan on their house? A house they haven’t been able to sell for three years, by the way, because the price is inflated?”
Andrey winced as if from a toothache.
“They lowered the price by forty percent специально for us.”
“Oh, how generous!” Svetlana threw up her hands theatrically. “Let’s be honest: they want to dump a burden they can’t sell and, at the same time, solve their son’s housing problem. Your mother practically said it: ‘Andryusha, it’s such a great investment!’ And you nod along like one of those little bobblehead dolls.”
Their marriage had been held together by compromises. Svetlana, who’d grown up in a family where her father was rarely sober and her mother carried two children on her back, had learned to forgive a lot. Andrey understood: the daughter of an alcoholic can’t easily believe a man is capable of steadiness. Distrust is written into her DNA.
He let sharp phrases like “If you think I’ll stay with you just because there’s a stamp in my passport, you’re wrong” go in one ear and out the other. He didn’t notice how she tucked money away into an emergency stash. He didn’t take offense when Svetlana refused to merge their budgets. She had her own apartment, bought before she ever met him. Svetlana was the chief editor of an online publication, earned good money, but pinched pennies on everything.
Andrey, raised in a well-off family where money was never a problem, was surprised by her habits at first. Later he treated them with mild mockery. Her fears seemed ridiculous to him, but he tried to be patient.
Five years of marriage. Five years in which every step came hard. And now—another test.
Svetlana looked at her husband, remembering how it had started. She’d been at a book presentation when a tall man with a chiseled profile approached her. He spoke about literature with such passion that she didn’t notice how three hours flew by.
A month later Andrey admitted he worked at his father’s law firm. A well-provided boy raised in a greenhouse. Her complete opposite. The difference was obvious: he could easily spend her entire weekly grocery budget on one dinner at a restaurant, without a thought for tomorrow.
But he had something she valued more than money—reliability. He didn’t make empty promises, always showed up on time, always answered calls. After a string of men who would disappear for weeks and return with apologies and bouquets, Andrey felt like a miracle.
Now, staring at him across the kitchen table, Svetlana tried to understand: had she really been wrong?
“I’m not selling the apartment,” she repeated.
“That’s unreasonable,” Andrey pulled himself together; his voice was almost calm. “We’ll have a big house with land. Do you really prefer living in this box when there’s an alternative?”
“In the box I bought myself,” Svetlana corrected. “That belongs to me, not your parents. And where no one tells me how to arrange the furniture.”
“There you go again,” Andrey rolled his eyes.
“What’s wrong with what I’m saying? Your mother makes remarks every time, like she’s here for an inspection. She doesn’t like the curtains, the sofa ‘isn’t the right style.’ I stopped inviting them over, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“She’s just giving advice.”
“Oh yes—and it always sounds like orders. ‘Andryusha, why is Sveta cooking frozen vegetables? I’ll bring you fresh ones from the dacha.’ Thanks, but I’ll decide myself what to cook in my own home!”
“That’s just the way she communicates. You take everything too personally.”
“And you don’t react at all!” Svetlana raised her voice. “She controls every aspect of your life, and you let her. But I’m not you, Andrey. I’m not going to live the way your mother wants.”
Andrey went silent, gathering his thoughts.
“Fine. Let’s forget my parents for a minute. Look at it objectively. Your apartment is forty-five square meters. The house is one hundred fifty plus land. Even with the mortgage it’s a good deal.”
“It’s not about the deal,” Svetlana shook her head. “You don’t get it. This apartment is my insurance. I bought it by denying myself everything. It’s the only thing that belongs to me completely.”
“You talk like you’re preparing for a divorce,” Andrey frowned.
“I talk like that because I know life. My father drank away everything my mother had. Left us with nothing in a rented apartment. I swore I’d never end up in that situation.”
“I’m not your father.”
“And I don’t want to test that in practice.”
Dinner passed in heavy silence. Svetlana mechanically chewed her pasta without tasting it. Andrey stared at his phone, pointedly ignoring his wife.
That evening, while she washed dishes, the phone rang. Andrey answered, and by his tone Svetlana immediately understood—it was his mother. He went into the other room, but the thin walls didn’t hide the conversation.
“Yes, Mom… No, she still hasn’t agreed… I understand you need to settle it by the end of the month… Yes, I’m trying to explain…”
Svetlana slammed a plate down with a clatter. So that was it. His parents were in a hurry to sell—surely they’d already found options in Spain. And they were pressuring their son to solve the “stubborn wife” problem faster.
When Andrey came back into the kitchen, his face was set with determination.
“My parents are willing to lower the price another ten percent.”
“How generous,” Svetlana dried her hands on a towel. “You know what your problem is? You don’t understand what’s happening. They’re not doing us a favor. They’re solving their problems at our expense.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is. They can’t sell the house at market price. The real estate agent told them it’s overpriced by at least thirty percent. But admitting that would mean admitting they were wrong. Your parents don’t know how to admit they’re wrong, you know that?”
Andrey flinched as if she’d struck him.
“They’ve always supported us.”
“They supported you—on the condition you do what they want. That’s not support, it’s manipulation. Remember how your father forced you into law school when you wanted architecture? How they insisted the wedding be at a country club when we wanted a small ceremony?”
“That’s different…”
“No, it’s the same. They decide, and you obey. And now they decided we should buy their house, and I should give up my apartment.”
Andrey stood up abruptly.
“You know what? I’m not discussing this anymore. Either we make a decision about the house together, or…” He didn’t finish.
“Or what?” Svetlana asked.
He shook his head.
“Nothing. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
Andrey left for the bedroom, leaving Svetlana alone in the kitchen. She sat for a long time, staring out the window. In the glass she saw her own reflection—drawn, with hidden тревога in her eyes. “Or what?” pulsed in her head, not letting her rest.
The following week passed in tense silence. They spoke only when necessary, trading short phrases. Svetlana stayed late at work; Andrey came home late. Their shared dinner became a formality.
On Friday evening Andrey didn’t come home. He called around nine and said he’d stay at his parents’—there were important matters to discuss. Svetlana didn’t ask which ones. Something inside her cracked.
On Saturday morning she woke to the sound of the front door. Andrey returned, but not alone—with him was his father, Viktor Pavlovich. Svetlana threw on a robe and went into the hallway.
“Good morning,” her father-in-law greeted her dryly. “Hope we’re not слишком early.”
“No, it’s fine,” she replied, looking questioningly at her husband.
“Dad came to talk,” Andrey said. “We need to settle the house issue.”
They went to the kitchen. Svetlana silently put the kettle on, trying not to show how her hands trembled. “The decisive battle,” she thought as she took out cups.
Viktor Pavlovich cleared his throat, sat down, and folded his hands in front of him.
“Svetlana, let’s be frank. We found a great option in Spain, but we need to close the deal in the next two weeks. For that we have to sell the house.”
“I understand,” Svetlana nodded.
“We’re offering you very favorable terms. The price is down thirty percent from the original. That’s below market value.”
“Below by how much?” Svetlana asked.
Viktor Pavlovich hesitated.
“About ten percent.”
“So you admit you originally inflated the price by forty percent?”
Her father-in-law pressed his lips together.
“We simply wanted to find a good buyer.”
“And decided the best buyer was your son, who would make his wife sell her apartment for it?”
“Svetlana,” Andrey cut in, “let’s not обвинять.”
“I’m not accusing; I’m stating facts,” she said, turning back to her father-in-law. “Viktor Pavlovich, I’m not selling the apartment. That’s my final word.”
Her father-in-law’s face hardened.
“Then you won’t be able to buy the house. You simply don’t have that kind of money.”
“I understand that.”
“And you’re willing to deprive your husband of the chance to have his own house?” he raised his voice. “Because of some apartment?”
“Because of my financial independence,” Svetlana answered evenly. “Andrey knew what he was getting into when he married me. I always said I wouldn’t fully merge finances.”
“What an egoist you are!” Viktor Pavlovich exclaimed. “Andrey, are you really going to let her behave like this?”
Svetlana looked at her husband. He stared at the floor, avoiding her eyes.
“What do you say, Andrey?” she asked quietly.
He slowly lifted his head. In his gaze was a determination she hadn’t seen before.
“Dad, Sveta’s right. I’m not going to make her sell her apartment. And we’re not buying your house.”
Viktor Pavlovich turned purple.
“What do you mean, ‘we’re not buying’? And what about our Spain? We already paid a deposit for a house!”
“That’s your problem,” Andrey said firmly. “You’re adults. Deal with it yourselves.”
“Deal with it ourselves?” his father sneered. “And who gave you a job in the company? Who bought you a car? Who paid your rent until you got married?”
“Exactly,” Svetlana cut in. “All of it—hooks. Help with conditions attached.”
“You!” Viktor Pavlovich jabbed a finger at her. “This is all your fault! You turned my son against his parents!”
“No, Dad,” Andrey stepped between them. “It’s you who’s turning me against my wife. And I choose her.”
A heavy silence hung in the room.
“So that’s how it is,” Viktor Pavlovich finally said. “Then don’t count on my help anymore. Not at work, not… anywhere.”
“I’ll manage,” Andrey replied.
Viktor Pavlovich stood up.
“Come on, Alla!” he shouted toward the room where his wife had been examining the apartment. “There’s nothing for us to do here.”
“But I just—” she began, stepping into the hallway.
“Let’s go!” he barked.
They left, slamming the door loudly. Svetlana and Andrey stood in the middle of the kitchen, not looking at each other. The silence wrapped around them like fog.
“Are you really choosing me?” Svetlana finally asked.
Andrey was quiet for a long moment, then sighed heavily.
“I don’t have a choice. But I don’t know if it’s the right one.”
He went into the bedroom and shut the door. Svetlana stayed alone in the kitchen, feeling a strange emptiness inside. The victory tasted bitter.
On Monday Andrey came home from work earlier than usual. Without a word he walked into the kitchen, took out a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself half a glass.
“What happened?” Svetlana asked, though she already guessed.
“I got demoted,” he took a big swallow. “Moved from legal to administrative. Now I’ll be handling хозяйственные matters. For a third less pay.”
“Your father?”
“Who else?” Andrey gave a bitter smile. “He said it’s a ‘temporary measure until I come to my senses.’”
“You can quit,” Svetlana suggested. “Find another job.”
“Where? With my experience? Without my father’s recommendations?” He shook his head. “It’s a family company. Everyone knows I’m the owner’s son. No one will take me on—they won’t want to ruin relations with him.”
Svetlana was silent. She felt guilty and, at the same time, a dull раздражение. Why should she feel guilty? She was protecting what was hers—that was all.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
“For what?” Andrey looked at her with tired eyes. “For defending your interests? You were right. They wanted to use us. And they’re still doing it.”
He finished the whiskey and set the glass down.
“I’ll stay at Kirill’s tonight,” he said, getting up. “I need to clear my head.”
“Andrey…”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink or do something stupid. I just want to be alone.”
He left without waiting for an answer. Svetlana remained at the kitchen table, staring at the half-finished bottle of whiskey. For the first time in a long while, she felt like getting drunk.
Andrey came back two days later—haggard, but calm. In that time Svetlana had thought through everything, from divorce to fully giving in to her mother-in-law’s demands.
“I talked to Igor,” he said instead of hello.
“Which Igor?”
“My classmate. He works at Alfa-Pravo. They’re looking for a lawyer in corporate. The salary is lower than what I had, but… it’s a start.”
Svetlana stayed quiet, afraid to scare the moment away.
“I filed my resignation,” Andrey continued. “Dad was furious. Said I betrayed the family.”
“I’m sorry,” Svetlana said softly.
“I’m not,” Andrey smiled for the first time in a long time. “You know, I feel a strange relief. Like I’ve carried an impossible weight on my shoulders my whole life—and now I’ve dropped it.”
He went to the window and looked out at the street.
“I realized I always wanted their approval. I did what they considered right just to hear, ‘Good job, Andryusha.’ And even when I married you—a girl they didn’t approve of—part of me still hoped they’d accept it.”
Svetlana stepped closer, but didn’t dare touch him.
“And now?”
“Now I’m free,” he turned to her. “Starting from a blank page. I just don’t know whether you want to be part of this new beginning.”
Svetlana looked at her husband as if seeing him for the first time. Always the obedient son, used to submitting, he had suddenly become an independent man, ready to make hard decisions.
“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.
“While I was at Kirill’s, I thought a lot. About us, about my parents, about all of it. And I understood one thing: you and I are too different.”
Svetlana felt her heart skip.
“You come from a family where everyone is for themselves,” Andrey went on. “You’re used to relying only on yourself—protecting what’s yours, trusting no one. I come from a family where decisions are made together, where individuality is subordinated to the common good. We see the world differently.”
“So what now?” she asked, barely audible.
“Now we need to decide: can we build something of our own, unlike your family and unlike mine. Something where we respect each other’s boundaries, but still act as one.”
He paused.
“Or maybe it’s better we separate before we hurt each other even more.”
Svetlana stared at him, unable to say a word. Memories flashed through her mind—five years of marriage, good and bad moments, fights and makeups. Five years of life.
“I don’t want to separate,” she finally said. “But I don’t know if I can change.”
“I don’t know if I can either,” Andrey answered honestly. “But I want to try. Only it has to be mutual.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Start over. Without my parents, without their influence and expectations. Just you and me.”
Svetlana thought. She had always been afraid to fully trust a man—open up, become vulnerable. But now, looking at Andrey, she saw someone who had gone against his family for her. Maybe he deserved that trust.
“I agree,” she said. “But I have a condition.”
“What?”
“The apartment stays mine. That’s not up for discussion.”
Andrey held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded.
“Okay. Your apartment is your insurance policy. I understand. But then I have a condition too.”
“I’m listening.”
“We start saving for our own house. Not my parents’ house, not your apartment—our shared home. And we put money aside for it together.”
Svetlana swallowed hard. Combining finances had always felt dangerous. But maybe it was time to рискнуть.
“I agree,” she said after a pause. “But only for the house. The rest stays separate for now.”
“Deal,” Andrey held out his hand like he was sealing a business agreement.
Svetlana shook it, feeling a strange mix of relief and тревога. It wasn’t a happy ending—more like an uncertain beginning of something new.
Six months later Andrey had settled into his new job. The salary was lower, but the ambitions were bigger. For the first time he felt he was achieving something on his own, without his father’s support.
He barely spoke to his parents. They tried to reach out a few times—especially his mother, who missed her son. But every conversation came down to one thing: “When will you come to your senses?” Andrey wasn’t ready for that kind of contact.
Svetlana rented out her apartment—to good, reliable people. The rent money went toward the mortgage on a new, small two-bedroom they bought together. Not luxurious, not in the center, but theirs—without parental interference.
One evening, as they sat in the kitchen discussing weekend plans, Andrey suddenly asked:
“Do you regret it?”
“What?”
“That it turned out this way. That we didn’t buy my parents’ house. That I fell out with my family.”
Svetlana thought for a moment.
“No,” she finally said. “I regret that you had to choose. But I don’t regret the result. And you?”
Andrey was quiet, then shook his head.
“Sometimes it’s hard. Especially when I think about Mom… But overall—no. For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m living my own life, not the one they planned for me.”
He looked at Svetlana with a tenderness that hadn’t been there before.
“Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For not giving in. For making me see the truth.”
Svetlana smiled. She wasn’t sure their marriage would survive every test. She wasn’t sure they could build a real family unlike her childhood experience and unlike Andrey’s. The future was still foggy.
But right now, in this moment, she was glad she hadn’t sold the apartment.
