Valentina woke up to silence. Strange how quickly you get used to loneliness at fifty-eight. For thirty-five years, every morning began with Peter’s grumbling: the coffee wasn’t strong enough, or the shirt wasn’t perfectly ironed.
And now — silence, piercing and cold, like the wind outside the rented room’s window.
She slowly got up from the sofa, which her sister had kindly offered her for the time being, “until everything settles down.” But nothing was settling down.
Three months after the divorce, and she still only had two suitcases of belongings, a stack of photographs, and the divorce certificate stating clearly — there was no jointly acquired property.
“See, what a mess,” Peter’s lawyer had explained with feigned sympathy, spreading his hands. “Peter Sergeyevich bought everything himself, with his own money. And you, Valentina Nikolaevna, haven’t worked for the last fifteen years…”
Of course she hadn’t worked. She only cooked, washed, ironed, kept the house in perfect order. She cared for his mother until her last day. She raised their son, who was now twenty-five and living abroad, rarely calling his father and never calling her.
Valentina mechanically brewed some tea and sat by the window. From the fifth floor of the panel nine-story building, she had a view of the playground. She watched a young mother pushing her daughter on the swings and remembered how once Peter had pushed their Kirill just the same way.
“Valyusha, are you going to have breakfast?” her sister Tanya looked in—the only person who had lent a helping hand.
“No appetite, Tanya,” Valentina sighed.
“That won’t do,” her sister said firmly, sitting down beside her. “You’ve been like a shadow for three months. How long can this go on? Yes, Petya acted like a scoundrel. The apartment, the car, the summer house — he registered everything in his name beforehand. But this isn’t the end of life!”
“Do you know what hurts the most?” Valentina turned to the window to hide the tears welling up. “Not the property. But that he planned it all. For years he prepared a backup plan, and I didn’t even notice.”
“But now you will notice,” Tanya squeezed her hand. “Nina from the post office said she saw him with that… little tramp. She said he dressed her up like a queen. Bought Svetka’s daughter a fur coat. Takes her to restaurants.”
Something inside Valentina trembled. Thirty-five years of marriage, and not one fur coat. “Why do you need it, Valyusha? You’re beautiful as you are,” he used to say, buying himself a third suit that year.
“Margareta Stepanovna called us yesterday,” Tanya continued. “Remember her, from the kindergarten where you worked? She said they need a nanny. Temporary. Maybe you could go?”
Valentina slowly nodded. It couldn’t get worse.
At that moment, the phone rang. An unknown number.
“Hello?” Valentina answered uncertainly.
“Valentina Nikolaevna?” a pleasant female voice said. “This is Karina, secretary to notary Saveliev. Remember, you came by last week asking about some documents?”
“Yes, of course,” Valentina’s heart beat faster.
“Could you come by? There’s some information that might interest you.”
“What kind of information?” Valentina gripped the phone tighter, afraid to hope for good news.
“I can’t discuss it over the phone,” Karina’s voice was conspiratorial. “But I can say this: Yuri Alexandrovich found an interesting… discrepancy in the documents.”
An hour later, Valentina was sitting in the small office of the notary. Saveliev, a stout man with attentive eyes, was leafing through some papers.
“Remember the apartment on Beregovaya street your grandmother left you?” he asked, adjusting his glasses. “The one you entrusted your husband to sell ten years ago?”
“Of course,” Valentina nodded. “Petya convinced me it was better to invest that money into renovating our shared apartment.”
“Well,” the notary triumphantly raised his finger, “there was no sale. Or rather, an attempt was made, but the deal never happened. And your power of attorney was issued with violations and lost its validity nine years ago.”
Valentina blinked in disbelief.
“But Petya said…”
“Peter Sergeyevich probably decided not to bother you with ‘trifles,’” the notary’s voice dripped with irony. “The apartment is still registered in your name. Here is the statement.”
The lines of the official document blurred before her eyes, but one phrase was clear: “Owner: Kravtseva Valentina Nikolaevna.”
“Why didn’t he tell me? Why did he lie?” she whispered.
“That’s not a question for me,” Saveliev shrugged. “But what’s even more interesting — yesterday your ex-husband was here, inquiring about the possibility of selling that very apartment.”
Valentina felt something inside shift. Thirty-five years she had played by Petya’s rules. Trusted, believed, never checked. And this is how it ended.
“What can I do?” her voice suddenly strengthened.
“Do nothing,” smiled the notary. “Without your signature, he can’t sell the apartment. Although… judging by the documents he brought, the buyer is already found, and the deposit might have been received.”
On the way home, Valentina felt a strange numbness. A one-room apartment on the city’s outskirts — not a fortune, but her own roof. And Petya tried to steal even that from her.
At home, Tanya met her anxiously:
“Well? Bad news?”
“On the contrary,” Valentina said slowly. “I have an apartment. And it seems Petya is in serious financial trouble if he’s trying to sell what doesn’t belong to him.”
That evening, the phone rang again. The screen showed: “Petya.” Valentina took a deep breath and answered.
“Valya, how are you?” her ex-husband’s voice was unusually soft.
“What do you want?” she asked calmly.
“Well, I thought I’d drop by, visit. After all, thirty-five years together… Maybe we should talk?”
“About what? Our summer house? Or the apartment on Beregovaya?”
There was a heavy pause on the line.
“You… found out,” Petya finally blurted.
“Yes, imagine that, I found out!” For the first time in many years, Valentina let herself raise her voice. “And I also found out you’re going to sell MY apartment! The one you said you sold ten years ago!”
“Valya, listen, it’s not what you think…”
“And what am I supposed to think?” She felt a wave of anger rising inside, long suppressed and built up over years of humiliation. “That you, Petya, robbed me once, and now you decided to rob me again?”
“I’m in trouble,” Petya’s voice fell. “Serious trouble. I owe partners. If I don’t pay within a week, there’ll be big problems.”
“And that’s supposed to worry me?” Valentina herself was surprised at the coldness of her voice.
“I can’t manage… Svetka needs money for her business, and I don’t have it. I thought I’d sell the apartment, pay the debts, and everything would be fine.”
“Svetka?” Valentina smiled bitterly. “The very one you bought a fur coat for? The one you spend money on in restaurants?”
After hanging up, Valentina leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. Her hands trembled. In thirty-five years of marriage, she had never allowed herself to speak to Petya in such a tone.
“What happened?” Tanya rushed out of the kitchen worried.
“He… he went into debt because of that woman,” Valentina’s voice shook. “And now he’s trying to sell my apartment to get out of it.”
“That bastard!” Tanya threw up her hands. “So what will you do?”
Valentina sighed:
“I’ll return to my apartment. And then… we’ll see.”
The next three days became a whirlwind of activity.
Together with her sister, Valentina went to Beregovaya, opened the old one-room apartment she hadn’t seen in ten years. Dusty, musty, but the walls were sturdy, and even the faded wallpaper felt familiar. Old acquaintances — a plumber and an electrician — quickly got the utilities in order.
“Well, what do you think?” Tanya asked, helping arrange the few pieces of furniture they had gathered from friends.
“Like in my youth,” Valentina smiled, feeling a strange sense of returning to her former self, once independent and determined. “Only then everything was ahead, and now…”
“And now everything is still ahead,” Tanya interrupted her. “Fifty-eight isn’t ninety-eight!”
Valentina’s phone vibrated constantly. Petya called, sent messages, begged her to call back. She stayed silent, gathering strength for the decisive conversation that had to happen.
And it happened on Friday, as Valentina finished arranging books on a shelf brought from her sister’s house. The doorbell rang sharply, insistently.
“What the hell are you not answering for?!” Petya burst into the hallway without even greeting. But his angry outburst quickly faded as he looked around. “You… you live here?”
“Yes, as you can see,” Valentina answered calmly. “In my apartment.”
“Valya, listen,” his tone changed to pleading. “I know I was wrong. But I really have serious problems. Can we somehow come to an agreement? I’ll pay it all back later, I swear!”
Valentina looked closely at the man with whom she had spent most of her life. Gray temples, wrinkles near his eyes, which she once found so attractive. But now she saw a complete stranger, ready once again to use her.
“What did you promise the buyers?” she asked. “And when is the deal supposed to take place?”
Petya hesitated:
“Monday. I have to repay the debt on Tuesday, otherwise…” He drew a hand across his throat.
“Who do you owe?”
“Partners from Togliatti. I took goods from them on credit but couldn’t sell them. Svetka said she had sales channels, but everything fell through.”
“And Svetka, of course, is not involved now,” Valentina concluded.
“She… she says it’s not her fault,” Petya mumbled, looking away. “She agrees to wait with the fur coat and jewelry, but…”
Valentina smiled bitterly:
“How generous of her.”
“Valya, you’re not like that,” Petya tried to take her hand. “You were always kind and understanding. You won’t let me down, will you? I’ll sell the apartment, pay the debt, and then buy you another one, better than this!”
So many times he promised her “later.” A new fur coat — later. A sea vacation — later. Bathroom renovation — later. That “later” never came.
“No,” Valentina said firmly.
“What do you mean no?” he didn’t understand.
“I won’t let you sell my apartment. Figure out how to manage on your own.”
“Do you even understand what will happen?!” he exploded. “Those guys don’t joke around!”
“And do you understand what will happen to me if I’m left without a roof over my head again?” she quietly asked. “At fifty-eight, without a job, with a minimal pension? Did you think about that, Petya?”
He blinked confusedly:
“We’ll figure something out together…”
“No. There is no more ‘we.’ You made that clear when you took everything we had together. And now you want to take the last thing I have.”
“You’ll regret it,” he hissed, suddenly changing tone sharply. “You think I didn’t find out there was a mistake in your power of attorney? I’ll prove it was a technical error, and the court will side with me!”
“Try,” Valentina answered unexpectedly calmly. “The notary has already given me all the documents. I think the court will be interested to know why you hid the fact of the failed sale for ten years. And where the money went that you supposedly received from non-existent buyers.”
Petya went pale, muttered something incomprehensible, and rushed out of the apartment, slamming the door loudly.
Valentina sank into a chair. Strange, but she felt lighter.
On Sunday evening, the phone rang again.
But it wasn’t Tanya or Petya.
“Valentina Nikolaevna?” an unfamiliar female voice said. “My name is Svetlana. We need to talk.”
“Svetlana?” Valentina gripped the receiver, imagining a tall blonde in a expensive fur coat. “What exactly should we discuss?”
“Petya says you refuse to sell the apartment,” the voice was surprisingly nervous, without the rudeness Valentina expected. “Can we meet? It’s important.”
To Valentina’s surprise, Svetlana turned out to be a thin, short woman about thirty. They met in a café.
“I understand everything,” the girl began. “You hate me. You have every right. Petya… he promised a lot,” Svetlana looked young and confused. “He said he would help with the business, that he had connections, capital. I believed him. Then it turned out there was no money, but there were debts. And the partners don’t want to wait.”
Valentina was silent, studying the girl. Could she herself have looked that trusting thirty years ago?
“I didn’t want to harm anyone,” Svetlana continued. “I didn’t know he cheated you, took everything at the divorce. When I found out… it was too late. I also got into debt.”
“And what do I have to do with that?” Valentina asked.
“I’m leaving,” Svetlana said decisively. “My sister in Yekaterinburg will help me start over. And you should know that the apartment buyers will come tomorrow anyway. Petya took a deposit but didn’t manage to forge the documents. There will be a scandal.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Valentina nodded.
“One more thing,” Svetlana handed over a flash drive. “Here are bank statements and IOUs. Petya was ‘borrowing’ money from me, although it was actually funds for paying for goods. Maybe this will help if it goes to court.”
The next morning, a scandal erupted at the real estate agency. Buyers demanded the deposit back with interest, the realtor called Petya, who didn’t answer. Valentina calmly presented ownership documents, and under the weight of evidence, the agency agreed to resolve the issue with the buyers to avoid court proceedings and reputational damage.
A week later, Valentina returned to the kindergarten. Not as a teacher — her health was no longer the same — but as a part-time methodologist. And in the evenings, she sewed toys to sell — a hobby Petya always considered a “stupid waste of time.”
Petya disappeared from town for six months. Rumors said he was hiding from creditors, then somehow made a deal and got a job as a foreman on a construction site in a neighboring region. He called his son, but after hearing the whole story from his mother, the son refused to communicate.
One evening, as Valentina was returning from work, she saw a familiar figure near the entrance.
Petya looked older, in a simple work jacket instead of an expensive coat.
“Valya,” he began uncertainly, “I just wanted to say… you did well. You managed. And I destroyed everything — the family and the business. Forgive me, if you can.”
Valentina looked at the man she had lived most of her life with. No anger, no love — just a slight sadness.
“I forgive you, Petya. But there’s no going back.”
He nodded, turned, and walked away, more hunched than usual. And Valentina went up to her small but so dear apartment, where sketches of dolls for the upcoming Christmas fair lay on the table — and where her home was hers alone.
