Olga received a one-room apartment from her grandmother three years ago. It was small—thirty-two square meters—but in a good neighborhood, with windows facing the courtyard. Her grandmother left it to her granddaughter as the most valuable thing she had. Olga remembered the old woman saying, “This is yours, my dear. So you’ll always have your own corner.” Olga furnished the apartment herself, little by little, without rushing: light wallpaper in the kitchen, a comfortable sofa in the room, a wardrobe by the window. Everything was modest, but cozy.
Andrey moved in after the wedding. The first few months were fine, but then the dissatisfied sighs began. Either there wasn’t enough space, or the layout was inconvenient, or the neighborhood wasn’t right. Olga tried not to take his remarks to heart, thinking he was just getting used to it. But over time she realized: her husband wasn’t unhappy with the apartment. He was unhappy with their life in general.
Andrey worked as a site foreman at a construction company, earning around sixty thousand. Olga handled accounting at a small firm and made forty-five. They didn’t live richly, but they weren’t struggling either. They split the utilities, bought groceries equally. No loans, no debts. It seemed like they could just live and enjoy.
But Andrey started bringing up “expanding” more and more often. He said it was time to think about the future, about children, about how a one-room place was only temporary. Olga listened and shrugged. They didn’t have money for a new apartment, and she didn’t want to take on a twenty-year mortgage.
“We could sell yours and add some,” Andrey said one day, scrolling through listings on his phone. “Look—this is a two-room place in a new building. Good layout, decent neighborhood.”
Olga said nothing. She didn’t want to sell her grandmother’s apartment. It was the only thing she had left from someone dear. But Andrey wouldn’t drop it—he returned to the topic again and again, as if waiting for her to give in.
With Olga’s mother, Maria Ivanovna, Andrey always acted like the perfect son-in-law. He carried her bags, joked, told funny stories. Maria Ivanovna couldn’t praise him enough. She kept telling her daughter how lucky she was, unlike some others.
“Remember Lenochka from apartment six?” her mother would say while pouring tea. “Her Vitalik won’t even go to the store—she carries everything herself. But your Andryusha is so caring!”
Olga nodded and agreed. Andrey really did treat her mother well. Every weekend they went to visit, and her husband was the one who suggested stopping by Maria Ivanovna’s. He said they should help around the house, see if anything was needed. Olga was happy about that attention—she believed he truly cared.
Andrey changed lightbulbs, fixed faucets, took out the trash. Maria Ivanovna fed him pies, asked about work, praised him for taking care of her daughter. Olga sat nearby and smiled, feeling like everything was right, the way it should be.
But lately something had changed. Andrey started staying at her mother’s longer, saying he had to finish one thing or another. Sometimes Olga left earlier and her husband stayed another hour or so. He said he was helping the neighbors with something, or simply got carried away talking with Maria Ivanovna.
Olga didn’t suspect anything bad. She thought her husband genuinely enjoyed visiting her mother and helping out. Only sometimes she noticed that after those visits, Andrey came home in an unusually upbeat mood, as if something had pleased him.
Then the apartment talk returned with renewed force. Andrey became more persistent, more aggressive. He said he was tired of living cramped, that it was time to move forward, that you couldn’t cling to an inheritance your whole life.
“This is my apartment,” Olga said one evening when her husband started again about selling. “My grandmother left it to me. I’m not going to sell it.”
“Olga, you do understand we’re a family, right?” Andrey objected, setting his phone down. “A family has to decide things like this together.”
“We are deciding together,” Olga replied calmly. “And I’ve decided I’m not ready to sell. If you want another apartment, save up and buy it.”
Andrey grimaced but said nothing. Olga felt his silence hiding resentment, but she didn’t push it. She hoped he’d calm down and stop pressuring her.
But a few days later the conversation happened again. Andrey started talking about new buildings, convenience, prospects. Olga listened in silence, realizing he wouldn’t back off. A growing тревожность—anxiety—tightened in her chest, as if something was wrong, though she couldn’t yet understand what.
One evening after work, Olga decided to stop by her mother’s. She wanted to talk, to vent, to ask for advice. Maria Ivanovna always knew how to calm her down and find the right words. Olga called, but her mother didn’t answer. So she decided to come without warning—she had keys anyway.
The stairwell smelled of fried potatoes and fresh baking. Olga climbed the stairs, thinking about how she would tell her mother about her doubts. Maybe Maria Ivanovna would suggest something sensible, help her sort it out.
On the second floor Olga heard voices—a male voice she knew painfully well, and a young, bright female one. She stopped, listening. Her heart started pounding, because the man’s voice belonged to Andrey.
“So what do you think—realistic?” her husband was saying, confident. “I figured the apartment’s worth about four million. We sell it, add a bit, and buy a two-room place. Olga won’t understand anything—just need to оформим документы properly.”
Olga froze. Blood rushed to her face and her ears rang. Andrey was discussing selling her apartment—right here on the landing, with someone else.
“And will she agree?” the female voice asked, and Olga recognized her mother’s neighbor, Alina.
“She’ll have to,” Andrey smirked. “I know how to talk to her. The key is to present it right—like it’s for our future, for the children. She’s soft, she’ll give in.”
Olga took a step forward, then another. Her legs moved on their own, as if someone else was controlling her body. She went up and saw them. Andrey was standing near the door of the apartment across from her mother’s, leaning against the wall. Next to him was Alina—a young woman around twenty-five, in short shorts and a tight tank top. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger and looked up at Andrey, smiling.
“You’re so decisive,” Alina said flirtatiously. “I like men who know what they want.”
“I always know what I want,” Andrey replied, his voice turning softer. “And I get it.”
Olga stood on the landing, staring at the scene. Everything fell into place: the regular visits to her mother, the offers to help, all the “care”—it had all been a lie. Andrey wasn’t coming here for Maria Ivanovna. He was coming here for the young neighbor.
Her hands trembled, and Olga gripped her bag tighter so she wouldn’t drop it. Everything inside her clenched into a tight knot, but she forced herself to take another step. Andrey kept talking, not noticing his wife.
“How are you going to get around the marriage stuff?” Alina asked with interest. “The apartment is in her name, right?”
“Yes, but that’s solvable,” Andrey said confidently. “There are ways. The main thing is that my wife doesn’t understand until the last moment. She’ll sign a couple of papers, and then it’ll be too late.”
Olga stepped into the light, and both of them turned. Andrey’s face went pale. Alina backed away a step, blinking in confusion.
“Olga,” her husband began, but Olga raised her hand, stopping him.
“Don’t,” Olga said evenly, her voice cold. “I heard everything.”
Andrey opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. Alina turned away, pretending to look for something in her bag.
“You wanted to sell my apartment,” Olga continued, looking him in the eyes. “Trick me. Forge documents. And all for what? For a new life with this girl?”
“You don’t understand,” Andrey mumbled, stepping toward her. “It’s not what you think.”
“Not what?” Olga let out a bitter laugh. “You were just discussing how to deceive me. How to steal my apartment. And you’re saying it’s not that?”
“I just wanted what was best for us,” her husband started to justify himself, but Olga cut him off.
“For us?” Olga repeated, her voice breaking into a shout. “For us?! You said I wouldn’t understand anything! That I’d sign papers and it would be too late!”
Andrey fell silent, not knowing what to say. Alina tried to slip away unnoticed, but Olga turned to her.
“Don’t go,” Olga said, steel in her voice. “Want to know what happens next? Andrey won’t get a single kopeck from my apartment. Because it was inherited by me. And no papers he forges will help him.”
Alina shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, staring at the floor.
“I didn’t know,” the girl muttered. “He said you were separating.”
“We are,” Olga nodded. “Right now.”
Andrey grabbed Olga by the arm, but she yanked herself free.
“Don’t touch me,” Olga snapped. “Tomorrow I’m filing for divorce. And by evening I want you out of my apartment.”
“Olga, let’s talk calmly,” her husband tried. “I can explain everything.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Olga shook her head. “You wanted to deceive me. Steal the only thing I have. And you were having an affair with my mother’s neighbor. What is there to explain?”
Andrey stood there with clenched jaw. His face went even paler, sweat beading on his forehead.
“All this time you came here not for my mom,” Olga went on, her voice trembling. “You helped, you cared, you smiled. And in reality you were meeting with her. Making plans to get rid of me.”
“That’s not true,” Andrey objected, but it sounded uncertain.
“That’s exactly true,” Olga said sharply. “I heard every word. You discussed how to get around the marriage details. How to make sure I understood nothing. And now you’re saying it’s not true?”
Andrey lowered his head, unable to answer. Olga turned to Alina.
“And you,” Olga said, her voice harder. “My mother always helped you. Bought you groceries when you had no money. Gave you medicine. And this is how you repay her—having an affair with her son-in-law?”
“I really didn’t know,” Alina stammered, looking away. “He said you were getting divorced.”
“A lie,” Olga said curtly. “Everything he told you is a lie.”
Alina nodded and quickly disappeared into her apartment, slamming the door. Olga was left alone with her husband.
“I’m going inside,” Olga said, turning toward her mother’s door. “And you start packing. By evening I want to see you outside my door.”
“Olga, wait,” Andrey began, but she didn’t listen.
Olga rang the bell, and Maria Ivanovna opened almost immediately. Her mother looked at her daughter, then at Andrey, and understood without a word.
“Come in, sweetheart,” Maria Ivanovna said softly, letting Olga inside.
Andrey tried to follow, but Maria Ivanovna blocked his way.
“You have nothing to do here,” her mother said coldly. “Leave.”
Andrey stood for a moment, then turned and walked away. His footsteps faded in the stairwell, and Maria Ivanovna locked the door.
Olga went into the room and sank onto the sofa. Her mother sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. And then Olga couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears poured out, and she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.
“He wanted to sell my apartment,” Olga sobbed. “Deceive me. Take everything I have.”
“My poor girl,” Maria Ivanovna said quietly, stroking her back. “You should have told me sooner.”
Olga lifted her head, staring at her in surprise.
“You knew?”
“I suspected,” Maria Ivanovna nodded. “Alina has been running to him a lot lately when you weren’t around. I saw them standing on the stairs, talking. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid I’d be wrong. I thought maybe I imagined it.”
Olga cried again, but now the tears were different—not only from pain, but from relief. The truth was out, and she no longer had to guess, invent, doubt.
“He said I’m soft,” Olga said through tears. “That I’ll give in. That I’ll sign any papers.”
“You’re not soft,” Maria Ivanovna said firmly. “You’re kind. And those are different things. Kindness is not weakness.”
Olga nodded, wiping her tears.
“He won’t get anything, right?” she asked softly. “The apartment will stay mine?”
“Of course,” her mother assured her. “It was inherited by you. He has no rights to it. And no forged documents will help him.”
Olga exhaled, feeling the tension loosen. It still hurt inside, but there was certainty now—certainty that she’d done the right thing.
“I’m filing for divorce tomorrow,” Olga said, looking out the window. “I don’t want to see him anymore.”
“Right,” Maria Ivanovna agreed. “A man like that doesn’t deserve you.”
They sat in silence, holding each other. Outside it was getting dark; lights were coming on in the windows across the way. Olga felt the pain slowly recede, replaced by calm. It hurt—very much—but not as much as it could have if she’d found out later.
Olga filed for divorce. Andrey tried to call, text, ask to meet. He said it wasn’t like that, she misunderstood, he could fix everything. But Olga didn’t answer. She declined calls, deleted messages, and moved forward.
Her husband moved out a week later. He took his things and disappeared. Olga changed the locks, rearranged the furniture a little, threw out everything that reminded her of him. She moved the sofa closer to the window, hung new curtains, bought flowers.
The divorce was finalized. No arguments, no claims. Andrey didn’t try to go after the apartment—apparently he understood he had no chance. Olga signed the papers and left the courthouse feeling free.
Some time later Maria Ivanovna said Alina had moved out. Where to—unknown. Maybe with Andrey, maybe alone. Olga didn’t care. That chapter was closed, and she didn’t want to open it again.
Olga kept working, met up with friends, visited her mother. Life gradually settled down, though her trust in people became more cautious. She no longer hurried to let anyone into her life, no longer rushed to open up.
Sometimes, sitting on the sofa by the window with a cup of tea, Olga thought about how it all could have gone. If she hadn’t come to her mother’s that evening, if she hadn’t heard the conversation, if she hadn’t seen Andrey with Alina—maybe he really would have deceived her, gotten her to sign something, and taken away her only home.
But she came. She heard. She saw. And she protected herself.
The apartment remained hers—her grandmother’s apartment, the one corner no one could take away. And Olga knew she would never again let anyone even try
