Six years ago, Alexandra thought she had found the man of her dreams. Ilya seemed reliable, serious, with good plans for the future. They met at her friend’s office party, where Ilya worked in the IT department, and Alexandra had come just to support her acquaintance. They spent the entire evening talking about travels, books, and life plans. Ilya spoke about Japan, which he dreamed of visiting, and Alexandra about Italy, where she wanted to study Renaissance art.
“Imagine,” Ilya said then, leaning closer in the noisy café, “we could travel all over Europe. I’ll save up money, you take time off, and we’ll go wherever the road takes us.”
Alexandra smiled, imagining those trips. At that time, it seemed to her they had endless time ahead for all these plans.
The wedding was modest but cozy. Alexandra didn’t want a grand celebration, and Ilya supported that decision. After the ceremony, they had a small dinner with close friends and relatives. Alexandra’s grandmother, Maria Ivanovna, gave the young couple an envelope with keys.
“Sasha, dear,” the old woman said, hugging her granddaughter, “these are the keys to the apartment on Pushkinskaya. I registered it in your name a year ago, everything’s signed with the notary. Live happily.”
Alexandra almost cried with gratitude then. The two-room apartment in the city center was truly a gift of fate. Bright rooms, high ceilings, and most importantly — their own place to build a life together.
Ilya hugged his grandmother and thanked her for her generosity. But on the way home, he began talking about how great it was to have their own apartment.
“Now we have a base,” the husband said, looking around the rooms. “We don’t have to spend on rent and can save up for travels.”
Alexandra put almost all her savings into the renovation. She chose the wallpaper, furniture, dishes — every little detail. She wanted to create a perfect place where they would be happy. Ilya helped with advice but didn’t give money — he said he was saving for a vacation in Thailand.
“You understand,” the husband explained, “you have the apartment, and I have nothing. It’s fair if I spend on our holiday.”
At the time, Alexandra thought that reasonable. The apartment was indeed a gift to her, and joint trips required money. The first years of marriage, they really traveled a lot. Thailand, Turkey, Greece — every vacation was spent in a new country.
To friends, Ilya spoke of their apartment as shared property.
“We bought a two-room in the center,” he said proudly. “Of course, we had to spend on renovations, but it was worth it.”
At first, Alexandra corrected him, reminding that the apartment was a gift from her grandmother. But Ilya asked her not to emphasize it.
“Why mention it unnecessarily?” the husband argued. “People might misunderstand, think I married for the apartment.”
Gradually, Alexandra stopped correcting him. After all, they were a family, and everything was common. At least, that’s how it seemed to her.
The first problems began about six months ago. Ilya started staying late at work, coming home tired and late. He answered his wife’s questions with short replies.
“How are things?” Alexandra asked.
“Fine,” Ilya grunted, not even looking up from his phone.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Anything.”
Before, the husband always talked about work, shared plans, discussed colleagues. Now, it was like he had disconnected from their shared life. His phone became a constant companion — Ilya checked messages even during meals.
“Is something wrong?” Alexandra cautiously asked one evening.
“Nothing’s wrong,” her husband snapped irritably. “Just lots of work. Don’t make problems out of nothing.”
But Alexandra felt something had changed. Ilya became different — distant, indifferent. Even his hugs became formal, as if out of obligation.
One night, Alexandra woke to the vibration of the phone. Ilya was sleeping beside her, but the screen lit up with a notification. Normally, she never looked at someone else’s messages, but something made her glance.
“Well, have you told her yet? When we move in together, we’ll buy that beautiful bedding set we saw in the store.”
The sender was Larisa, Ilya’s colleague from the neighboring department. Alexandra knew the girl — young, bright, always laughing cheerfully at parties.
Her heart pounded so loudly Alexandra was afraid to wake her husband. The message left no doubt. “Have you told her yet” meant about a divorce. “When we move in together” meant they planned to live together.
Alexandra carefully put the phone back and lay awake for a long time. Thoughts and memories of recent months spun in her head. Now everything fit the picture — the late work, the distance, the constant phone use.
In the morning, Ilya behaved as usual — ate breakfast, got ready for work. But Alexandra now saw everything differently — how he avoided her gaze, hurried to leave, checked his phone.
“Goodbye,” Ilya said, kissing his wife on the cheek.
“Goodbye,” Alexandra replied, thinking that this “goodbye” might be prophetic.
She spent the whole day thinking about what to do. Make a scene? Demand explanations? But why, if everything was already clear? Better to prepare for the inevitable conversation.
Alexandra took from the closet a folder with documents for the apartment. The gift deed from her grandmother, certificates from the BTI (housing inspection), the ownership certificate — all registered in her name before the wedding.
The next evening, Ilya came home earlier than usual. He sat at the kitchen table and was silent for a long time, apparently gathering courage.
“Sasha, I need to talk to you,” the husband finally said.
“I’m listening,” Alexandra answered calmly, internally preparing for the inevitable.
“I… you see…” Ilya hesitated, then straightened up and said firmly: “I’m leaving. Don’t make a tragedy out of it. We can resolve everything reasonably. We’ll divide the property equally — I want my share.”
Alexandra looked at her husband carefully. No apologies, no explanations. Only demands.
“Fine,” the wife said. “Bring the documents for all your property tomorrow. We’ll make a list and see who owns what.”
Ilya nodded, clearly surprised by such a calm response.
“Agreed. And… thanks for no hysterics.”
That evening, Alexandra took out all the documents and spread them on the table. The gift deed for the apartment, receipts for furniture and appliances she bought with her own money, renovation bills. It was a substantial stack of papers.
Two days later, Ilya came with a small folder. Inside were documents for his car, bought on credit before the marriage, and his salary certificate.
“These are my documents,” the husband said without looking at Alexandra’s papers. “I’ve already found an apartment closer to work. If we sell this one, it will be enough for the down payment.”
Alexandra smiled and took the gift deed from her grandmother.
“The apartment? Oh yes, it’s a gift from Grandma. Not yours — you won’t get it!” Alexandra smirked, watching the ex-husband pack his bags.
Ilya paled, examining the document. The date was a year before their wedding. Maria Ivanovna’s signature and the notary’s seal. Everything official, no joint property.
“But… we were family,” the husband muttered, flipping through papers. “I contributed too…”
“To what exactly?” Alexandra asked calmly, pulling out receipts from the folder. “Furniture, appliances — all in my name. If you have anything, show me the documents.”
Ilya mumbled something about shared life, living together, building a life. But no documents. In six years of marriage, the husband hadn’t spent a single kopek on the apartment — all money went on his entertainment and vacations.
“You owe me for my best years!” Ilya suddenly shouted, jumping up from the chair. “Six years of my life! I could have found someone else, bought my own place!”
Alexandra silently pulled out her phone and showed a screenshot of her husband’s chat with Larisa. A photo from a seaside resort where the couple hugged against a backdrop of palms. The date — last month, when Ilya was supposedly on a business trip.
“Your best years?” the wife quietly asked. “Apparently, the last year was definitely good.”
Ilya lowered his eyes, no longer finding words.
That same evening, the phone rang. Alexandra answered and heard frantic shouting.
“Are you crazy?!” Ilya’s mother yelled into the phone. “Throw him out of the apartment! And where will you live? Alone in a two-room, while my son wanders around!”
“Good evening, Lyudmila Petrovna,” Alexandra replied politely. “Ilya no longer lives here. By his own choice.”
“What do you mean ‘by his own choice’? It’s a family apartment! Give him his share back!”
“What share?” Alexandra was surprised. “The apartment was a gift from my grandmother before the wedding. Your son has no claim to it.”
Lyudmila Petrovna kept yelling for another ten minutes, demanding justice and threatening court. Alexandra patiently listened and hung up.
The next week, Ilya still went to a lawyer. He brought marriage documents, hoping to find a way to get at least part of the apartment. The lawyer carefully examined the gift deed, BTI certificates, and shook his head.
“Sorry, but you will get no share,” the lawyer said. “This is not joint property. The apartment was gifted to your wife before marriage and registered in her name.”
“What if we go to court?” Ilya insisted. “I contributed to the renovations…”
“Prove it with documents,” the lawyer shrugged. “Receipts, transfers, notes. Without documents, the court won’t recognize anything.”
Ilya left the legal office empty-handed and finally understood — he would not get the apartment.
Two weeks after the talk with documents, the ex-husband came to collect his last things. He packed clothes, books, chargers for devices. Everything fit into three bags.
“That’s all?” Ilya asked, standing in the hallway with bags.
Alexandra silently nodded and opened the door.
“That’s all. And thank God,” the wife said, closing the door behind her ex-husband.
The next day, Alexandra called a locksmith and changed the locks. Then she ordered new furniture for the bedroom — the old one reminded her of their life together. She repainted the walls light blue — a shade she always liked, but Ilya thought too bright.
For the first time in a long time, no one needed to agree on every decision in the apartment. No disputes over which sofa to buy or where to hang a picture. Alexandra arranged the furniture as she wished.
A month later, a friend told her the news from Ilya’s office.
“Heard about your ex?” the friend asked over coffee. “Larisa’s already not thrilled with her new roommate. Says Ilya promised a beautiful life, but in reality had to take a mortgage on a one-room in a commuter district.”
Alexandra smiled, imagining how the young lover’s pink dreams about a ready apartment in the center were shattered.
“Apparently, not everything was as simple as planned,” the ex-wife noted.
“Yeah. Larisa complains to friends that the loan is for thirty years, and Ilya’s salary isn’t as big as it seemed.”
In the new bedroom, Alexandra hung a photo of her grandmother — the very one where Maria Ivanovna stands as a young woman by the sea. The wise old woman seemed to smile at her granddaughter, approving the decisions made.
Sometimes Alexandra thought about what might have been if she hadn’t seen Larisa’s message that night. Maybe Ilya would have continued his double life for a long time. Maybe she would never have known the truth.
But now it didn’t matter. The apartment was quiet and peaceful. Favorite books stood on the shelves, violets bloomed on the windowsill — the flowers Ilya used to call dust collectors. In the evenings, Alexandra played classical music — the kind her husband couldn’t stand.
Through the window, the evening city was visible, lights in other apartments. Somewhere people argued, somewhere made peace, somewhere planned the future. And here, in this apartment gifted by a wise grandmother, a new life began. Without lies, without betrayal, without the need to share what belonged only to her.
