Marina was coming home, exhausted.
It was an ordinary autumn evening—weekday, damp. In her bags: bread, milk, a pack of buckwheat, apples. In the stairwell, as always, it smelled of mildew and boiled cabbage, and the bulb above the second floor flickered in its nervous rhythm, like an alarm signal.
Climbing to the third floor, she turned toward the railing almost automatically—when she noticed that the door of her mother-in-law’s apartment, on the second floor, was ajar. In the same instant, she heard the voice of her husband, Andrey, from inside.
“Don’t worry, Mom. Everything’s already taken care of. The apartment is mine under the prenup. She won’t even realize until she’s left with nothing. The signature looks real.”
Marina froze. Her heart dropped into her shoes.
“That’s right, son,” the mother-in-law replied. “Didn’t give you an heir, so why should she get the apartment? She’s just a temporary inconvenience.”
Marina pressed herself against the wall, gripping the handles of her shopping bags as if trying to anchor herself to reality. Without making a sound, she slowly continued upstairs, like a shadow.
She shut the door behind her and slowly set the bags down on the kitchen table. One tore, the bread tilted, and the apples rolled across the floor—she didn’t even try to catch them. She just sat on the stool by the radiator, staring into emptiness.
The words from a floor below hammered in her head like a mallet striking metal.
“She won’t even realize… The signature looks real…”
Stupid. Did he really think she wouldn’t figure it out?
And yet, it had all started with “convenience.” Six years ago, when they were choosing a flat, Andrey spoke with confidence, insistence—like he had already made the decision.
“Mom’s apartment is just one floor down. That’s a plus! She’ll be right there to help, to keep an eye on things. We’ll pay off the mortgage faster. Makes sense, right, Marish?”
He called it “family support.”
Marina had simply nodded. She didn’t know how to argue—and didn’t want to. The important thing was to have their own place. Their own territory. Even with a mortgage, at least it wouldn’t be rented, with someone else’s rules.
They registered the apartment in both their names. Then the papers started.
“Sign this,” Andrey would leave a sheet on the kitchen table, next to her coffee cup. “Just standard stuff, the bank needs it.”
Or, “The lawyers said it’s for insurance. Pure formality.”
She signed. Not because she was stupid—because she trusted him. Who double-checks “formalities” with the person you live with, eat with, sleep with, share a bed and a loan with?
Her mother-in-law, Nadezhda Semyonovna, had never hidden her disapproval:
“You’re cold. No tenderness, no smile. Everything with you is on a schedule. Not a woman—an audit in a skirt.”
Marina never took offense—she simply stayed silent. Only when Andrey left—for work or the gym—did she let herself relax. A deep breath in, and out—like climbing a mountain.
Her mother-in-law interfered in everything: curtains, dishes, the frequency of marital “dates,” as she called them. Even soup.
“Not salty. Do you even know how to cook?”
Marina didn’t know how to snap back. She just did her part—laundry, bills, Saturday cleaning, sorting laundry by color.
She lived by the rules—what she thought were shared rules. Turned out, they were someone else’s.
And now all the “technicalities,” the little things she signed without thinking, had suddenly become a weapon. Against her. With her own signature.
She stared at an apple that had rolled under the fridge and thought, for the first time:
“Maybe I haven’t really been living—just existing on paper.”
She said nothing. Not that evening, not at dinner, not over coffee the next morning. Everything was the same: Andrey hurried through breakfast, complained about traffic, kissed her cheek, and slammed the door on his way out. Only now, she no longer watched him go.
When he left, Marina opened the bottom drawer of his desk. The folder with documents lay there as always—carelessly. She sifted through the papers with trembling fingers. Then—there it was: Prenuptial Agreement.
Inside—her name, his name, and the terms stating that the apartment would go to him in the event of a divorce.
Dated a month before the wedding.
Her signature. Almost.
She stared at it for a long time. It was almost her signature—but not quite. She had never written the letter “M” at that angle.
Two hours later, she sat in a café by the window, across from Sveta, her friend from law school.
“It’s a forgery,” Sveta said, after skimming the scans. “We’ll need handwriting analysis. In the meantime—silence. Don’t let him suspect.”
That evening, Marina placed a small voice recorder in the hallway—under the dresser. She photographed the signature and compared it to her passport.
The next day, she recorded Andrey in the bathroom telling his mother:
“Relax, Mom. She hasn’t noticed a thing.”
Three days passed. Marina kept up the routine—laundry, mopping, stacking groceries on shelves. But now she counted Andrey’s steps, listened to his tone, and asked herself over and over: How can he sit next to me and lie so calmly?
On Saturday, she made borscht—his favorite, with garlic and fried onions. She baked an apple pie. Andrey came home cheerful, snapping his fingers to the music on his phone.
“Smells amazing! I’m dead tired today. Let’s eat?”
They ate in silence. Marina was calm—almost icy. When he finished his second bowl, she dried her hands on a towel and looked him straight in the eye.
“I heard your conversation with your mom. And I found the ‘contract.’ You didn’t even bother to forge my signature properly.”
Andrey froze. Then smirked sharply.
“What nonsense? As usual, you’re making things up.”
Marina took the copy of the document from the drawer and laid it in front of him. Then she played the recording, his voice clearly saying:
“The apartment is mine under the prenup.”
Andrey went pale, then flushed.
“Everything depends on me! You’re nothing! You can’t prove a thing. It’s already done. You make trouble—you’ll be out of here in your slippers.”
Marina stood up calmly.
“Thank you, Andrey. You’ve just helped me win the case.”
The next day, she filed the papers. Sveta handled everything—divorce petition, motion to declare the prenup invalid, request for handwriting analysis.
The experts confirmed: the handwriting wasn’t hers. The slant, the pressure, even the curve of the letter “r”—all wrong. Plus, the audio recordings. In them, Andrey freely discussed with his mother how to leave his wife with nothing. Sveta smiled:
“It’s clean. The scheme he was so proud of is now working against him.”
In court, Andrey sat sullen, lips pressed in a thin line. His mother sat behind him, clutching her purse to her chest. Her expression wasn’t shame—it was disappointment: he hadn’t pulled it off.
The judge didn’t waste time.
“Signature forged. Contract invalid. Audio confirms intent. The apartment remains with the wife. The defendant will pay compensation.”
After the hearing, Marina stood at the courthouse entrance, clutching a copy of the decision. The paper rustled as if it were breathing.
Andrey walked past without meeting her eyes. His mother beside him.
“You shouldn’t have eavesdropped,” he muttered. “You ruined everything.”
Marina didn’t answer. She simply turned away and walked to the bus stop. Steady. Straight.
When Andrey finally moved out—over two nights, without farewells—the apartment became quiet. Strangely so. No sound of his footsteps, no mother-in-law’s voice on the phone, no slamming door in the mornings.
A week later, Nadezhda Semyonovna rang the doorbell. Marina opened without checking the peephole.
“Let’s not be enemies? We’re still family,” the mother-in-law murmured, clutching a container of pies.
Marina shut the door without a word. Not harshly—calmly.
That same day, she took down the dark curtains and threw out the wedding china set. Bought a new kettle, painted the kitchen walls a light color. Laid a rug she had always wanted, but which “didn’t match the sofa.”
For the first time, she moved the bed—not according to her mother-in-law’s feng shui, but for her own comfort.
A bright potted plant appeared on the windowsill.
Marina made tea, opened the window, and sat at the table.
This was her place. At last.
A year passed. Marina was now a senior analyst at the same company. Recently she’d been offered a managerial position, and for the first time she didn’t doubt—Yes, I can handle it.
She lived alone. Peacefully. With trips, unhurried weekends, and Saturday pottery classes.
That’s where she met Egor—a widowed instructor, slightly balding, with a quiet voice and warm hands. He didn’t laugh loudly, but his laughter was contagious.
“You’ve got the hands of someone who’s done this before,” he told her once, watching her shape a vase.
They began seeing each other more often. No promises—just warmth.
One evening, sitting in her newly bright kitchen, Marina held a cup of tea and smiled.
“Now I know—whatever they’re saying through the wall, the most important thing is that your own life carries your own voice.”
