Yana, a designer, arrived at her new client Elizaveta’s a little early. The door was slightly open, and when she stepped inside, she saw her husband Pasha in someone else’s robe and slippers.
“Pasha, what are you doing in my client’s apartment?” Yana asked.
He snapped irritably, “Did you mix up the address, Yana?”
Elizaveta came out of the kitchen—also in a robe.
“Hello, Yana,” she purred in a honeyed voice. “You’re early. We were just discussing the mezzanine shelf.”
“He points very well to where it’s convenient for him,” Yana replied, staring at her husband.
“Pasha?”
“I’m at Liza’s. And you’re here for work. That’s all,” he shrugged.
“With your client, yes—but as if at home,” Elizaveta corrected gently. “This is my apartment. And Pasha is my friend. We were talking about shelves.”
Then Elizaveta deliberately adjusted the collar of Pasha’s robe.
“Got it,” Yana said. “So now we call other people’s husbands a ‘friend,’ do we?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand,” Pasha sneered. “Yeah, I… come here. What else do you want?”
“I want you to stop making a fool out of me. How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t have to report to you,” he cut her off. “I’m an adult. And no scenes.”
“He’s rough in the mornings,” Elizaveta chimed in with a fake smile.
Yana stepped closer to her husband and said quietly, “You’re married. I’m your wife. And you’re standing in my client’s apartment in a robe. You call that a ‘crossroads’? I call it betrayal. I’m filing for divorce. Today.”
He laughed bitterly. “Fine. You’ll still remember who used to screw your shelves in.”
“A handyman will fix my cabinet door,” Yana replied. “And a court will deal with the ugly truth.”
“You take stamps in passports too seriously,” Elizaveta cooed. “Pasha won’t be lost with me. We’re a good match.”
“Being a good match for what isn’t yours doesn’t make you a woman,” Yana said calmly. “It makes you an option.”
She picked up her folder and walked to the door.
“Tomorrow I’ll send you the apartment keys via courier. Your personal things—you’ll pick up from the neighbor. Give me back the spare keys.”
“We’ll see how you talk in a week,” he muttered.
“In a week I’ll be talking to a lawyer,” she said. “Not to you.”
Yana went out, walked down one floor, and sat on the windowsill, trying to steady herself. She called the office to warn them she’d be late, then dialed her lawyer.
At home, Yana packed all their shared documents into a backpack. A text from Pasha came in: “Let’s talk without the theatrics. This is your fault—you never noticed me… Liza is gentle, it’s peaceful with her.” Yana replied briefly: “Tomorrow you’ll send your keys through your sister,” and muted her phone.
At the lawyer’s office, Yana laid out the facts: the apartment was hers, bought before marriage; her husband wasn’t registered there; they had no children. The lawyer confirmed the divorce would be quick and advised her to change passwords and access codes. Yana immediately contacted the building management company.
At work, she told her boss about the conflict of interest and handed the client over to colleagues.
That evening, her mother-in-law showed up unannounced with a key.
“Yana, what is this disgrace? Pasha says you’re throwing a fit. So what if he sat at a friend’s place. He’s a man. You should be smarter.”
“Please leave the key,” Yana said. “And don’t come without calling again. Pasha is cheating. I saw him at my client’s in a robe. I’m filing for divorce. This decision is final.”
Her mother-in-law tossed the key onto the shelf. “Your own fault—you didn’t hold on to him,” she said, and left.
Yana put the photo of her and Pasha into a drawer.
Pasha tried to “talk”—he came by, called, stood outside her door, sent messages (“sorry,” “let’s talk,” “it just happened”). She only answered through the door: “Talk to my lawyer.”
In court everything went quickly, impersonally. Pasha tried to speak to her in the hallway, but she only nodded and walked away. The apartment slowly emptied of his things. Elizaveta sent a neutral message; Yana didn’t reply.
Then summer came. Yana threw herself into a new project, ran in the mornings, and found comfort in work and simple routines. Pasha tried a couple of times to catch her near the entrance:
“Yana, can we at least talk like people? It’s empty without you.”
“It was hard with you,” she answered. “I chose the hardship without you.”
Once she heard him talking to someone in the courtyard on the phone: “Yeah, I’m the idiot. No, she won’t come back.”
A few months later, with the divorce papers and new keys in hand, Yana realized the memory of that hallway scene no longer hurt. She filed it away in a “back folder” and went to put the kettle on. Outside the window, the light was steady—calm, and hers
