I was completely exhausted when I went to bed, but then Kirill suddenly reached out and touched my shoulder. — Anya, we’re almost done with the construction,» he said, trying to speak quietly so as not to disturb my sleepy state. «I think in a month we can start the finishing work and, as they say, begin a new chapter.
I barely opened my eyes. Inside, I still had a strange feeling of anxiety that had been haunting me for the last few weeks. — Are you sure it’s ‘soon’? We planned to finish by the end of autumn, and now it’s already mid-October…,» I muttered, suppressing a yawn. — Everything is under control,» Kirill smiled softly. «We’ll get up early tomorrow; I still need to finish a few projects, and then we’ll get on with the repairs.»
He reached for the bedside lamp switch, and the soft warm light slowly disappeared. In the dim light, I felt strange: it seemed like something was about to happen. But what? Three years ago, Kirill and I got married. And all these three years, we worked tirelessly to finish and tidy up the house that Kirill inherited from his father. I invested not only my soul but also a significant part of my income into this construction, without asking any questions. After all, I considered what’s ‘ours’ to be shared.
But at the same time, I couldn’t shake some inner uncertainty. Logically, I should be happy about moving soon from a cramped rented apartment to a big and spacious house. However, deep down, everything was itching: what if something goes wrong?
In my family, there was always understanding and trust. My mother, Galina, was the kindest soul who loved to bake cabbage pies and always fed everyone—me, friends, neighborhood kids—hot pastries straight from the oven. And my father, Evgeny, although quite strict, always treated me warmly. I think I didn’t know what lies and duplicity were in my childhood: could anyone deceive you if your world is one of kindness and friendship?
I remember being taken to music school at seven, although no one in the family was particularly musical. My mother assured that I had a «wonderful ear» and that I would definitely become a virtuoso pianist. My father would add his favorite saying: «As long as the girl grows up healthy, the rest is trifles.» I went there for a couple of years, then realized that I was not drawn to music. And, imagine, my parents understood and supported me. My father even went to speak with the music school director about my dismissal. He said, «You can’t force love.»
This parenting style gave me simple confidence: if there are loved ones nearby, they will always support you. And if you love someone, you need to trust them. Taking this attitude into adult life, of course, I saw no deceit in marriage. Why would I? Kirill is my husband, after all; we’re a family.
We met four years ago at the same construction company where I had taken a job as an accountant, and he was an engineering inspector. Kirill had infectious charm from the first minute: blue eyes, a mocking smile, the ability to joke succinctly and aptly. He definitely stood out among other engineers, who were usually either too quiet or talked to death. Here was a cheerful, easy-going guy who took on everything he was assigned.
Initially, we worked on a joint project. Kirill often talked about his unfinished house in the countryside. He said, «It’s my father’s dream; he once wanted to live closer to nature but never got to finish it.» Then, Kirill’s voice sounded sincere and warm.
Then we started dating. He was gallant, brought flowers, and took me to various cafes. I rented a one-room apartment, and Kirill began to visit me more and more until he finally moved in permanently. I thought: here it is, true family happiness.
His mother, Tamara Petrovna, initially seemed a friendly, sweet woman. At our first meeting, she baked vatrushkas. I remember that aroma—fresh yeast buns with a generous portion of cottage cheese filling… She was so hospitable and kept repeating that «the main thing is understanding in the family; everything else we can acquire.»
Now, looking back, I realize that some of her phrases did sound ambiguous: — Anna, are you really an only child? Your parents must be crazy about you, right? — my mother-in-law inquired, sighing sadly. — Yes, I’m an only child. Mom and dad always spoiled me; I’m probably still a bit naive… To which she could mysteriously respond: — Well, naivety is sometimes harmful; you’ll understand on your own.
Back then, I took this as good life wisdom. Who could have thought that these words contained a dose of sarcasm, even mockery…
After the wedding, we decided not to have children right away: we needed to invest in the house so that later we could raise a child in a spacious place close to nature. I thought the idea was wonderful. Kirill was also enthusiastic: «You’ll see, we’ll have a cool house! I’ll handle some of the finishing work myself to save on carpenters and repairmen.»
I was earning well at that time, as accountants in the construction sector are valued, especially those with knowledge of estimates and calculations. We pooled our money together. Kirill contributed part of the savings inherited from his father (besides the house), but much more was needed. I started covering all the main expenses. Spending on myself, on clothes or vacations, was out of the question, and I didn’t even want to. Everything was for the future, for our shared home.
Sometimes Kirill reminded me that legally the house belonged to him—it was his inheritance after all. But I was absolutely convinced that such things don’t matter between spouses who love each other. Do a husband and wife really split who spent what if they are together?
From the day Kirill announced that we would soon start the finishing work, even greater anxiety settled in my soul. And one day, at dinner, we discussed the renovation details. I suggested making the kitchen in light green tones, with spacious windowsills to place pots of basil and mint. Kirill seemed to nod: — Yes, that’s a good idea, Anya. We can come up with something interesting; I saw a cool selection of modern furniture the other day.
His voice lacked real enthusiasm, but I chalked it up to fatigue. And I myself was quite worn out after the workweek. Remembering my childhood, how mom always decorated the kitchen with sunflowers, I got inspired: — And let’s also hang a Provence-style painting on the wall, like my parents have! Does Tamara Petrovna like such things, or not? Maybe I’ll ask her? — Uh, well… ask, of course,» Kirill shrugged. — But you understand, mom is no advisor on design. I think we can handle it ourselves.
As I went to wash the dishes, it occurred to me that if Kirill really cared about my initiative, he would have responded a bit warmer. But, alas, his reaction was just a brief standard response. It slightly stung me, though I tried not to dwell on it.
We didn’t often visit Tamara Petrovna; she lived on the other side of the city in an apartment. But lately, she almost weekly invited us for tea. She would say: «Kids, you get so tired, I’ll at least feed you pie, indulge an old lady with a chat.» I just smiled in response, feeling her slight sarcasm, but thought it was a normal communication style.
— Anichka, dear, come in, take off your clothes,» my mother-in-law greeted me, took my coat, and hung it on the hangers. — The pie today is with spinach and salmon, just like in an Italian restaurant.
I genuinely complimented her cooking; indeed, the pastries were magical. Kirill habitually loaded up on the food, while the mother-in-law glanced at me and him, kept pouring tea, and said: — You know, Anichka, it took me a long time to master the wisdom of baking, so if something doesn’t work out for you—don’t be upset. You have other talents: you work splendidly, and Kirill loves you.
That evening I cautiously brought up the wallpaper for the living room: — I’d like something calm, like pastel shades of sand. I’ve picked out some pictures. Look, Kirill, here’s…
I hadn’t even pulled out my phone when he suddenly frowned: — Did you forget? This house is mine. It was left to me by my father. So, no need to butt in with your wallpapers.
His harsh words almost made me drop my phone. My heart squeezed, my face probably paled. What a contrast to our earlier conversations. We used to choose everything together, plan… And now—»don’t butt in.»
— But we’re building it together…,» I started, swallowing a lump in my throat. — But your taste is… so-so,» Kirill drawled sarcastically. — I’ve already decided that the living room will have different colors.
I fell silent bitterly. Tamara Petrovna seemed to try to defuse the situation: — Kiryusha, son, what kind of tone is that, Anya is your wife… But I saw from her eyes that there was no confusion, rather a formal remark to appear as a «peacemaker.»
We finished our tea quickly, almost without words. It was oppressive. When we left the apartment, got into the car, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. Kirill was also silent, as if he had closed off. He twirled the keys in his hands, staring at the road ahead, while outside the autumn city slowly sank into chilly twilight.
Back home, I automatically started undressing, as if on autopilot. Kirill threw his jacket on a chair and immediately went to the bathroom, clearly avoiding conversation. His phone lay on the kitchen table. Until that moment, it had never occurred to me to peek into my husband’s personal messages. But memories of his humiliating words, of the apparent coldness, of some strange conversations with his mother—all of it accumulated in me, and I, succumbing to impulse, picked up that phone.
I knew the password. Not intentionally, just once Kirill had unlocked the device in front of me, and the digits imprinted in my memory. Trying to fight off nervous trembling, I entered them.
A chat with «Mom,» that is, with Tamara Petrovna, opened immediately.
— «Mom, I can’t stand this grayness anymore. She follows me everywhere like a sheep. Well, a little more, and I’ll take the house. Need to finish building and get out,» I read Kirill’s message. — «Hang in there, sonny, she’s paying for the construction materials, you yourself said almost everything comes from her salary. Buy more while her grip allows. And then divorce,» his mother replied.
My chest turned cold. It felt like my heart had turned into a piece of ice. My hands trembled. I read those short phrases several times, then locked the phone and put it back in place.
The water was still running in the bathroom. I didn’t want to stay here a second longer. I quickly went into the bedroom, put on jeans, a sweater, hastily packed a few things in a bag—wallet, documents, charger. In the early morning, I could take a bus to my parents’, but at that moment, I realized I couldn’t stay a minute longer in this apartment.
I opened the taxi app. «Your car will arrive in ten minutes»—popped up on the screen. The splashing continued from the bathroom. I stood, looking at the closed door, as if in mute paralysis. Then I heard the water stop, and my heart nearly leaped out of my chest. I had to leave quickly, not to meet Kirill’s gaze.
Standing at the entrance, I put on my coat, raised the collar against the cold wind. Deep night, but I wasn’t scared—I felt sick. The taxi arrived, and I, somehow fitting the bag on my lap, gave the driver my parents’ address in the neighboring small town. Four hours of travel.
Mom and dad, as soon as I told them about my arrival, immediately got worried. They were sitting in the living room when I walked in. It was past midnight. Dad quickly stood up: — Daughter, what happened? You’re shivering. Coffee, tea? Gala, get that mohair shawl.
I wanted to say something, but the words stuck in my throat. I just pressed my hands to my chest, trying to calm the trembling. I barely held back tears, but mom already saw everything in my eyes.
— Let’s go to the kitchen; it’s warmer there,» mom said quietly. — Tell us what happened.
We sat around the round oak table where, in my childhood, we used to make pancakes, discuss lessons, and look at photos. Now, I felt like a teenager who had come with a complaint about a bad classmate. Although in reality, the situation was much more serious.
I told my parents everything, not hiding any details or my feelings. About the construction, the money, the mother-in-law, the chat. When I finished, dad was as dark as a storm cloud: — Well, Anya, this is serious. You know, I have an old friend, Boris Pavlovich. He’s a lawyer, understands all family and property matters. I think we’ll contact him.
Mom took my hand and squeezed it: — My sunshine, you did the right thing by leaving. It’s unfair on their part. They’re using you. We won’t let them leave you with nothing.
My parents’ words sounded like lifebuoys. Finally, I could breathe more freely, although my heart still ached from the hurt and disappointment.
Dad spent the next day calling Boris, and I cried out the rest of my tears in my room. The town where my parents lived was quiet; autumn leaves already lay underfoot in a wet layer. I looked out the window, remembering how I once dreamed of a house, a garden, that Kirill and I would have children running around there… And it all collapsed.
When Boris came to our house, he immediately asked: — Girl, do you have documents proving that you invested money in construction materials, finishing, repairs? Receipts, invoices, account statements? I nodded: — Yes, I’m an accountant; I kept everything because we initially planned to systematize them as an expense estimate.
A confident smile appeared on Boris’s face. — Excellent. Then we can prove in court that the house was jointly constructed. And although Kirill formally owns the property, he can’t just leave you with nothing.
That same day, I filed for divorce. I myself sent Kirill a message: «I’m leaving. Filed for divorce. I have all the receipts. Your lawyer will contact you.» Kirill didn’t respond immediately, but a few days later it started: «Anya, how dare you, it’s all mine!», «You’re not my wife, you betrayed me, and now you want to rob me too?»—and other insults. I tried not to respond, knowing that the court would decide everything.
Months flew by in a whirl of legal consultations, hearings, and paper gathering. It turned out that the law wasn’t so helpless: we managed to prove that I had actually financed the main stages of the construction. Kirill and Tamara Petrovna had to pay me a large sum of compensation.
I didn’t celebrate when I left the courtroom. Yes, I got my money back fairly, but I still felt empty inside. I was betrayed not only by my once-beloved husband’s family but also by my own belief that people are all kind and sincere.
— Daughter, you won, that’s what matters,» dad said, patting me on the shoulder. — As for the rest… time heals all wounds.
Both mom and dad surrounded me with care. It was time to decide what to do next. I didn’t want to return to my old job in the city, where everything reminded me of our failed marriage. Fortunately, soon a position for an accountant opened up elsewhere. And I started everything from scratch.
With the money Kirill and his mother paid me, I took out a mortgage for a small but cozy two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of another city. My parents helped with the initial renovation. Mom brought an antique cabinet where she used to store my childhood clothes, and dad gave me a small master class on laying laminate. Now I was doing everything for myself.
Every day, I gradually settled into my space. I bought a soft fluffy blanket, put pots with herbs on the windowsill—those very ones I dreamed of in «that» house. Now they pleased me, grew next to me when I brewed morning coffee.
I heard almost nothing about Kirill and his mother. A couple of times, he sent more snide messages: «You ruined my life!», «Thought you were more modest,» «Clearly no gratitude for all I did for you.» I silently deleted all these messages.
Sometimes I caught myself thinking: «What if in those chats with his mother he didn’t really mean it? Maybe it was a joke?» But then I remembered reading the words: «Hang in there, son, let her buy more construction materials»—and understood that it was no joke. It was real betrayal, mutual at that.
The main lesson I learned: trust people, but verify your illusions. Naivety and blind faith in «default goodness» don’t fit adult life. I didn’t become bitter or withdrawn, but now I have my own boundaries.
Now, when I visit my parents, I gladly drink mom’s teas and chat with dad about his new hobbies. My father has taken up woodworking again, crafting something in his little workshop. Meanwhile, they both look at me with understanding and love, knowing what I went through.
— Don’t be sad, daughter,» dad says. — You’ll meet a good person who loves you not for money or your «convenient» character. And if you don’t—there are we and your new apartment.
I smile. I know the path is open. And this smile is no longer for show, but genuinely real. Because I’ve learned: to be happy, you first need to believe in yourself, and then—in others. And if a vague anxiety lurks inside, it’s better to check if everything is alright.
That’s the end of my small but very important lesson. Was it worth the offenses, pain, and anxiety? Perhaps, yes: now I walk through life more confidently, not forsaking love, but able to say «stop» at the right moment. And let the next house, if it ever comes, truly be ours—not just on paper, and definitely without the bitter taste of betrayal.»
