“Galya, I sold the dacha. For 2.8 million. But you won’t be getting any of that money.”
Galina Petrovna stared at her ex-husband, unable to believe what she was hearing. Three years of silence—and now he was sitting across from her, turning an espresso cup in his hands and saying it as calmly as if he were discussing the weather. There was a time when the sound of his voice alone would have made her lose her head.
For three years now, Galina had been living on her own, and it suited her just fine. After the divorce from Viktor, she moved into a small one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town—the same place they had once bought as a rental property but never actually rented out. It was tiny, but cozy, with a balcony and decent neighbors. Most importantly, it was hers.
“Mom, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come spend the holidays with us?” her daughter Nastya kept asking on the phone. “Seryozha bought a new grill—we’re making shashlik right in the yard.”
“Sweetheart, I told you, I’m working on the thirty-first,” Galina would reply. “And after that, I’m honestly fine on my own. I’ll watch TV and finally catch up on sleep.”
Nastya would sigh, but she no longer insisted. She had understood long ago that after the divorce, her mother had become a different person. Not closed off, not bitter—just someone who had learned to enjoy peace and her own company.
Galina worked as the administrator of a private dental clinic. The schedule changed week to week, the pay was decent, and the staff was good enough. At fifty-three, she felt she was exactly where she belonged. She booked appointments, settled disputes, and kept the waiting area running smoothly. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it carried responsibility.
“Galina Petrovna, there’s a man here asking for you,” said Lenochka, the young nurse, peeking into reception on December twenty-eighth.
“What kind of man? Is he here for an appointment?”
“No, he says it’s personal. Looks respectable. Nice coat.”
Galina frowned and stepped out into the lobby. Then she stopped dead.
Standing by the brochure rack was Viktor. Her ex-husband. The same man who had walked out on her three years ago for what he called “a more interesting woman.” The same man who had turned the divorce into a circus over dividing the property and, in the end, left her with almost nothing except that one-bedroom apartment.
“Galya,” he said in that same voice that once made her lose all sense. “We need to talk.”
Viktor had hardly changed. There was more gray in his hair now, and shadows under his eyes, but he still carried himself with that same confidence, still looked at her with that same steady intensity. Twenty-five years of marriage had taught Galina to read him like an open book, yet now she couldn’t understand why he had come.
“I have lunch in half an hour,” she said dryly. “We can talk at the café across the street.”
“Fine,” Viktor nodded. “I’ll wait.”
That half hour dragged endlessly. Galina mixed up appointments, dropped pens, and twice called patients by the wrong names. Lenochka watched her with obvious curiosity, but kept quiet.
The café was noisy and festive. Tinsel hung everywhere, a tiny Christmas tree glowed on the counter, and the speakers played some old song about five minutes till midnight. Galina ordered tea. Viktor ordered espresso.
“You look well,” he began from a safe distance. “Do you like the job?”
“Viktor, skip the warm-up,” Galina cut him off. “Three years of silence, and suddenly you appear. What happened?”
He paused and turned the cup in his hands. She remembered that gesture too—it was what he always did before delivering bad news.
“Do you remember the dacha?” he asked at last.
Galina tensed. Of course she remembered it. Six hundred square meters in the Rassvet garden community, with a little country house they had built together over many years. Or rather, she had built most of it—negotiating with the workers, hauling supplies, keeping track of every nail. Viktor mostly came when everything was ready, grilled meat, and played host.
In the divorce, the dacha had gone to him. At the time, Galina hadn’t fought it—she was exhausted by the courts and the shouting and just wanted the whole thing over with. Besides, Viktor had sworn he would sell the property and give her half. He kept promising and promising, and then simply stopped answering her calls.
“I remember,” she said shortly.
“I sold it,” Viktor said.
Galina felt something jolt inside her. For three years she had tried not to think about that place, telling herself money wasn’t the most important thing, that health mattered more. But hearing those words now, she realized that somewhere deep down, she had still been hoping.
“And?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Found a good buyer. Two point eight million. Cash.”
Galina did the math instantly. One million four hundred thousand—her share. That was enough to renovate the apartment. Or put away for emergencies. Or help Nastya with the mortgage she and her husband had been struggling to pay for the second year in a row.
“When will you give it to me?” she asked directly.
That was when Viktor hesitated. He lowered his eyes and turned the cup again.
“You see, Galya… it’s like this. Larisa has health problems. She needs surgery. Urgently. Abroad.”
Larisa. That “more interesting woman.” Galina had seen her only once, in passing, when she was picking up her things from the old apartment. Tall, thin, trying very hard to look aristocratic.
“I’m very sorry,” Galina said, though she wasn’t sorry at all. “But what does that have to do with my money?”
“It was our dacha,” Viktor said, switching into a heartfelt tone. “We built it together, invested in it together. I remember every board, every shrub. And now, when I need help, I thought you’d understand.”
Galina could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Wait. You sold the dacha, got nearly three million rubles, and came here to tell me my share is going toward your mistress’s treatment?”
“She’s my wife,” Viktor corrected. “We got married a year ago.”
“Congratulations. That changes nothing. You owe me half.”
“Galya, you’re a reasonable person,” Viktor said, reaching for her hand, but she pulled it away. “This is about life and death. Are you really that cold-hearted?”
Galina stood up. Her chair scraped so loudly across the floor that people at the next table turned around.
“My compassion ended three years ago, when you left and took everything you could. I expect my money by the end of January. If I don’t get it, I’m taking you to court.”
That evening, she called Nastya. Her daughter listened in silence, then launched into a tirade in which the word “dad” never once appeared, but plenty of other words did—words Galina normally would not have approved of.
“Mom, I told you from the start you should have fought for the dacha in court,” Nastya said once she had calmed down a little. “But no, you kept saying, ‘I don’t want to deal with him,’ ‘my health matters more.’”
“I know, sweetheart. We’re all smart in hindsight.”
“All right. Seryozha has a friend, a lawyer—Andrei Nikolaevich. Smart man, family law, lots of experience. Should I send you his number?”
“Yes. Send it.”
Galina wrote the number down on a café napkin she had absentmindedly brought home. It struck her as symbolic somehow—that a new chapter in her life was beginning on a restaurant napkin. Her hands were shaking for some reason.
Andrei Nikolaevich turned out to be a man in his sixties, with intelligent eyes and a quiet voice. He saw her in a small office stacked with files and law books. The room smelled of paper and coffee.
“So there was only a verbal agreement during the divorce—that the property would be sold and the proceeds split?” he asked, making notes in a notebook.
“Yes. I know, I was foolish. I should have put it all in writing.”
“Not necessarily foolish. Sometimes people just want to get something painful over with as fast as possible. That’s understandable. But let’s see what we have.”
Galina took a folder from her bag. Over the past three days she had dug through every archive she owned, and the result had surprised even her.
“Here. Receipts for building materials from 2015 to 2019. I kept them for tax purposes, back when we thought about putting the dacha under my small business. About four hundred thousand rubles’ worth—and everything paid from my card.”
Andrei Nikolaevich took the stack and started flipping through it.
“Excellent. What else?”
“The contract with the construction crew for the second floor. I’m listed as the client, and payment came from my account. Another hundred and twenty thousand.”
“Wonderful.”
“And bank statements for all those years. They show transfers I made to my husband for ‘dacha expenses’—that’s exactly what he wrote in the payment notes. Altogether, it’s around three hundred thousand.”
The lawyer removed his glasses and looked at her with respect.
“Galina Petrovna, you are an unusually organized person. With evidence like this, we can build a real case.”
“It’s not that I’m organized. Viktor always used to say I was paranoid and kept every piece of useless junk.” She gave a humorless smile. “Looks like the junk came in handy.”
Galina spent New Year’s Eve at work. Her shift was quiet—just a couple of emergency cases, including one woman who insisted on having a tooth filled before the holiday. At midnight, she, Lenochka, and the doctor on duty clinked tea mugs, watched fireworks on the TV, and went back to work.
On January second, Viktor called.
“Galya, I’ve thought it over. Maybe we can find a compromise?”
“I’m listening.”
“Three hundred thousand. Cash. Right now. And we part on good terms.”
Galina nearly choked.
“Three hundred out of one point four million? Are you serious?”
“Well, first of all, it’s not one point four,” Viktor began evasively. “There were selling expenses, realtor fees, paperwork. Second, I told you—Larisa needs the surgery. Third, you have to understand: if this goes to court, we’ll both spend more on lawyers than we’ll ever get.”
“Viktor, I already filed the lawsuit.”
Silence.
“What?”
“A lawsuit. In court. To recover half the value of jointly owned property. The hearing is scheduled for February fifteenth.”
“Have you lost your mind? Court? Why court? We’re civilized people—we can settle this ourselves.”
“We already ‘settled it ourselves’ three years ago. We both know how that turned out.”
“Galya, don’t be stupid. Court means nerves, time, publicity. Do you want everyone we know hearing about our business?”
“I don’t care. I have documents proving what I invested in the dacha. My lawyer says the case is solid.”
“What documents?” There was now real anxiety in Viktor’s voice. “You never kept anything.”
“I did. Receipts, contracts, statements. Five years’ worth.”
Another pause. Then Viktor laughed, but not with much confidence.
“All right. Let it go to court. We’ll see who beats whom.”
The following weeks dragged on. Galina worked, met with her lawyer, gathered more paperwork. Andrei Nikolaevich found another important detail: the land plot had originally been registered in Galina’s name and transferred to Viktor only a year before the divorce.
“That matters,” the lawyer explained. “We may be able to argue that the transfer happened under a misunderstanding—that you signed without realizing the real legal consequences.”
“He told me it would be better for taxes. I signed without even reading it.”
“A classic story. But now it works in our favor.”
Viktor did not give up. He called, showed up outside the clinic, and once even waited near her building. Each time he brought a new argument.
“Think about Nastya. Do you really want your daughter watching her parents drag each other through court over money?”
“Nastya is on my side.”
“For now. Later she’ll understand that you destroyed the family over a handful of cash.”
“You destroyed the family when you left for Larisa.”
“Galya, I was wrong. I admit it. But why stir up the past now? Let’s forget everything and start fresh.”
Galina looked at the man she had spent twenty-five years with. Tall, still handsome, still perfectly capable of saying all the right things. Once, she had believed every one of them. Now all she saw was calculation and manipulation.
“Viktor, we started fresh a long time ago. Separately. And my new page has nothing to do with you.”
A week before the hearing, something unexpected happened. Nastya called, agitated and furious.
“Mom, you won’t believe this. Dad called Seryozha.”
“What for?”
“To convince him to pressure you. He said you were acting irrationally, that court wouldn’t get you anywhere, and that the whole family should sit down and settle it like reasonable people.”
“And what did Seryozha say?”
“Seryozha told him several very expressive things and hung up. Then Dad texted me too. Stuff like, ‘Daughter, you’re a smart girl, explain to your mother that this isn’t how decent people behave.’”
Galina sighed tiredly.
“I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”
“Mom, none of this is your fault. He’s the one dragging everyone in. Listen, Seryozha and I talked. If something goes wrong in court—we’ll help. Not financially, you know we don’t have much with the mortgage and all. But we’re with you.”
“Nastenka, sweetheart, I’ll manage. I’m not a child.”
Her daughter snorted.
“Exactly. Hold your ground. We’re rooting for you.”
February fifteenth came cold and gray. Galina arrived at the courthouse half an hour early, sat on a hard bench in the corridor, and waited. Her heart was pounding in her throat. Andrei Nikolaevich was running late—he had texted that traffic was bad but he was on his way.
Viktor arrived at five to ten. Alone. No lawyer. That surprised her—she had been sure he would hire someone flashy and expensive.
Without asking, he sat down beside her.
“One last chance to settle,” he said quietly. “Five hundred thousand. That’s the most I can do.”
“And where did the rest of the sale money go?”
“To treatment.”
“Has Larisa had the surgery already?”
“No. But we paid a deposit to the clinic.”
“That’s unfortunate. I’ll see you in the courtroom.”
Andrei Nikolaevich appeared literally a minute before the hearing, slightly out of breath but composed. He nodded to Galina, laid out his papers, and quickly checked his notes.
The hearing began.
The judge was young, but sharp-eyed. She listened to both sides and studied the documents. Viktor, without legal counsel, looked uncertain. He mixed up dates and contradicted himself several times.
“You claim that all investments in the dacha were made from your personal funds?” the judge asked him.
“Well, mostly, yes. Galina helped now and then, but only with small amounts.”
“I have the plaintiff’s bank statements from 2015 to 2019,” Andrei Nikolaevich said. “The total amount she transferred to the defendant with the note ‘dacha expenses’ is 327,000 rubles. We also have receipts for building materials totaling 412,000 rubles, all paid from the plaintiff’s card. In addition, there is a construction contract in which the plaintiff is listed as the client.”
Viktor went pale.
“That can all be explained. I gave Galina cash, and she paid by card. It was more convenient that way.”
“Do you have any documentary proof that you gave her cash?”
“No, but we were family. Who keeps documents between family members? We trusted each other.”
The judge made a note.
“I would also like to draw the court’s attention,” the lawyer continued, “to the fact that the land plot was originally purchased in the plaintiff’s name in 2008 and transferred into the defendant’s name only in 2019, one year before the divorce.”
“That was a joint decision,” Viktor interrupted. “For tax optimization.”
“The case file does include the plaintiff’s notarized consent to the transfer. However, the plaintiff states that she signed the document without understanding its legal consequences and while under a misapprehension regarding the defendant’s actual intentions.”
The hearing lasted nearly two hours. Galina was exhausted, but she held herself together. She looked at Viktor and barely recognized him—this confused, squirming man had nothing in common with the confident, attractive husband she had once married.
“The court is now withdrawing to make its decision,” the judge announced. “The ruling will be delivered in thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes turned into forty-five. Galina sat in the corridor while Viktor paced back and forth. At one point he approached her.
“Whatever they decide, I want you to know—I never meant any harm. Circumstances just turned out this way. Larisa really does need the surgery.”
“Viktor, I don’t care.”
“I understand that you’re hurt. But one day you’ll see that I was just trying to save someone I love.”
Galina looked up at him.
“And when did you ever try that hard to save me?”
He had no answer. He walked away and didn’t come back.
“The court rules as follows,” the judge said in an even, emotionless voice. “To recover from the defendant, Viktor Mikhailovich Sidorov, in favor of the plaintiff, Galina Petrovna Sidorova, the amount of 1,200,000 rubles as compensation for her share in jointly acquired property, namely the dacha and associated structures located in the Rassvet garden association. The court also orders reimbursement of legal expenses in the amount of 50,000 rubles.”
It took a moment for Galina to understand that she had won. Andrei Nikolaevich shook her hand and said something about appeals and payment deadlines, but his words reached her as though through cotton.
One million two hundred thousand. Not the one million four hundred thousand she had hoped for, but still—one million two hundred thousand rubles.
Viktor bolted out of the courtroom first without even looking back. Galina followed a little later and stood in the corridor, trying to take it all in. Her hands were trembling now—not from fear, but relief.
“Congratulations,” said Andrei Nikolaevich. “A very good result. Now we’ll need to monitor enforcement of the ruling, but that part is procedural.”
“Thank you. Truly, thank you so much.”
“You did well. Without your documents, none of this would have happened.”
Viktor called two days later.
“Galya, I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Find it.”
“I’m serious. It all went to Larisa. The clinic wants full prepayment—we already gave them a deposit.”
“That’s your problem. There’s a court ruling, and there are deadlines. If you don’t pay voluntarily, they’ll collect it by force.”
“Collect from what? I have nothing. The apartment is in Larisa’s name, I sold the car, the accounts are empty.”
“Then they’ll garnish your wages. Isn’t it fifty percent under the law?”
A pause.
“Do you realize that because of you, I won’t be able to save my wife?”
“Viktor, stop twisting things. You decided to sell the dacha and keep my share. You decided to spend all the money on Larisa. You came to me with an offer no sane person would accept. Those were your choices. All of them.”
“You’ve changed,” anger crept into his voice. “You used to be normal. Understanding. And now you’re…”
“Now I’m a woman who demands what belongs to her?” Galina cut in. “Yes. That’s exactly who I am now. And you know what? I like it.”
The money came in installments over the next three months. Andrei Nikolaevich helped obtain the enforcement order, and the bailiffs found assets Viktor had hidden—a garage on the outskirts of town and a stake in a limited company Galina had never even known existed. In the end, she received more than the court had awarded, once late-payment penalties were added.
Galina put the money into a deposit account and at first was almost afraid to touch it. As if it might vanish or turn out not to be real.
“Mom, enough already,” Nastya said. “Get a proper renovation done. Or buy yourself a trip somewhere.”
“A trip? I’m still tired from this whole winter.”
But in May, when the weather turned warm and everything began to bloom, Galina suddenly made up her mind. Not about a renovation. Not about a vacation.
“Andrei Nikolaevich, do you know anything about real estate?” she asked the lawyer over the phone.
“A little. Why?”
“I want to look for a two-bedroom apartment. In a good neighborhood, closer to work. I’ll sell the one-bedroom and add some of the money I won. It should be enough.”
“A sensible decision. I’ll help you with the paperwork.”
By August, Galina had moved. A two-bedroom apartment in an old Stalin-era building—high ceilings, a large kitchen, thick walls. Not a modern development, of course, but solid and comfortable. Most importantly, it was only a fifteen-minute walk to the clinic.
Nastya came to the housewarming with cake and flowers.
“Well, Mom, look at you,” she said. “I thought you were going to stay in that one-bedroom forever.”
“And why would I? I decided on something, so I did it.”
“Exactly. You decided, and you did it. This doesn’t even feel like you, Mom. Or rather, it is you—but some new version.”
Galina smiled.
“Maybe it is a new version. Or maybe it’s the old one finally coming out.”
Her daughter walked through the rooms, then stepped onto the balcony. It overlooked an old park lined with linden trees.
“You know, I’m glad it all turned out this way. Not the part where you and Dad ended up in court—that was awful. I mean the result.”
“So am I. Though sometimes I wonder—what if he hadn’t come that day in December? What if he’d simply given me my share, no tricks, no games?”
“And then what?”
“Then I probably would have stayed the same. In my little apartment, at my same job, living my same routines. Nothing would have changed.”
“And now things are changing?”
Galina thought for a moment.
“Now it feels like I’ve looked at myself with fresh eyes. I’ve seen what I’m capable of when I have to be. Hiring lawyers. Standing up in court. Making decisions. I used to think Viktor was the one who handled everything, and I was just there to support him.”
“You were never just support,” Nastya said seriously. “You were always the load-bearing wall. You just never noticed.”
In September, Galina got a promotion. The head doctor offered her the position of deputy administrator—more responsibility, but a very different salary too.
“You’ve been with us for years,” he explained. “You know everything here. And you’ve got the right kind of character.”
“What kind of character?”
“A strong one. I heard about what happened with your ex-husband. The way you held your ground and got what was yours. I respect that.”
Galina did not ask how he had “heard.” In a small team, news traveled quickly.
“Thank you. I accept.”
That New Year’s Eve, Galina spent the holiday at work again—it had become a tradition. But this time she wasn’t just an administrator. She was management. At midnight, she congratulated the duty staff, drank tea with them, and went home.
The apartment greeted her with warmth and quiet. A small Christmas tree stood on the kitchen table—the one Nastya had brought the day before. Next to it were food containers from her daughter, who absolutely refused to understand how anyone could celebrate New Year’s without salads.
Galina sat down in the armchair by the window and wrapped herself in a blanket. Behind the wall, the neighbors were celebrating loudly. Firecrackers were bursting somewhere outside. But in here, it was peaceful.
Her phone chimed—a message from Nastya: “Happy New Year, Mom. You’re amazing.”
Galina smiled and typed back: “Happy New Year to you too, sweetheart. Tell Seryozha thank you again for the lawyer.”
“Andrei Nikolaevich sends his regards and says you’re his favorite client of his whole career.”
“Nice to hear.”
“Good night. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Galina set the phone aside and looked at the tree. Small, slightly crooked, with only three ornaments and a single string of lights. The most beautiful tree she had ever had in her life.
Her first New Year in the new apartment. Her own apartment. Earned, defended, honest.
It simply felt good.
