Zinaida snapped the MacBook lid shut with such ferocity it was as if the laptop were to blame for all her troubles.
It had been a rotten day. The client had changed the spec three times, and the doctor on the phone hinted at increasing her medication. As if she weren’t already a walking pharmacy.
Outside, February smeared a dirty gray Moscow murk across the windowpanes. Typical weather for six in the evening. The perfect time to brew her favorite pu-erh and curl up in a blanket.
Only today something went wrong. The front door clicked open three hours earlier than usual.
“Anton? Why so early?” she called without turning, still studying her reflection in the laptop’s black screen.
For the past year their conversations had sounded like a radio play. Each lived on their own frequency, pretending to hear the other.
“We need to talk,” her husband said, his voice oddly hoarse, as if he had a cold.
Zinaida smirked to herself. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her all his intonations. This one meant: “I screwed up, but you’ll be the one at fault.”
“Go on,” she said, swiveling in her chair, noting he looked like a middle manager about to be fired—rumpled, but in full dress.
“I’m filing for divorce,” he blurted in one breath, as if plunging into cold water.
Zinaida felt something snap inside. Not her heart. More like the last thread of hope that things might somehow fix themselves.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” Anton paced nervously. “These endless hospitals, your pills, the constant complaints… I’m a living person! I’m forty-two and I live like an old man!”
“Forty-three,” she corrected automatically. “And who is she?”
Anton froze. “What?”
“Oh, spare me!” She laughed unexpectedly. “I’m not blind. New shirts, a gym membership, ‘business trips’ on weekends. Classic. Just tell me her name.”
“Vika,” he said with a special softness that made Zina shudder. “She’s twenty-five. She… she’s completely different. Full of life, energy. And most importantly—healthy.”
“And she’ll be able to give you children,” Zina said without reproach, merely stating a fact.
Once, they had agreed not to risk her health for the sake of a child. Or so she thought they had agreed together.
“Yes!” Anton practically shouted it. “Yes, damn it! I want a normal family, not this… this existence!”
Zinaida rose slowly. A silly thought spun in her head. Good thing she’d put on her favorite loungewear today and not baggy sweats. For some reason it felt important to look dignified at the collapse of a fifteen-year marriage.
“Fine,” she said, her voice coming out unexpectedly firm. “I agree.”
“Just like that?” He had clearly expected another reaction. A scene, tears, maybe even things thrown.
“On one condition.”
“What condition?” Wariness crept into his voice.
She smiled. For the first time in the whole conversation. The smile made Anton uneasy.
“You’ll find out tomorrow. Give me until morning.”
As soon as the door shut behind Anton, Zinaida grabbed her phone. Her fingers trembled as she searched for the right contact.
“Hey, Rita? Busy? I need something… Yeah, urgent. Very. No, I’m not dying, but… Anton’s filed for divorce. Quit wailing! I need help. Legal help. Your brother’s a lawyer, right? Can he come by in an hour?”
She methodically gathered documents, spreading them across the table like a fan, like a game of solitaire. Fifteen years of married life materialized on paper: marriage certificate, the apartment deed, the mortgage they’d paid off three years ago, the car papers…
“So he wants someone young and healthy? We’ll see,” she muttered, pulling a hefty folder of medical reports from the cupboard.
The doorbell rang exactly an hour later. On the threshold stood Rita’s brother—Pavel, a solid man in an expensive coat with a leather briefcase. The very image of a successful TV-series attorney.
“Tell me,” he said shortly, settling at the table and opening his laptop.
“My husband decided to upgrade the model line,” Zinaida said with a mirthless smile. “Found someone younger and problem-free. And I want… I want him to feel what it’s like to be sick and dependent.”
Pavel raised an eyebrow. “And how do you envision that?”
“I have a plan. I just need to know how legal it is.”
They spent the next hour discussing details. Pavel frowned, then nodded approvingly, then typed rapidly.
“You know,” he said at last, snapping the laptop shut, “I usually don’t take family cases. But this… this is something special. I’m in. I’ll even give you a discount—my sister’s recommendation, after all.”
“So it’ll work?”
“Handled properly—yes. But we have to move fast. I’ll expect you at my office in the morning. And—good job. Most women either freak out or start begging in situations like this. But you…”
“I’m just tired of being the nice one,” Zinaida shrugged. “Like the joke says—don’t wake the bitch in me; she doesn’t get enough sleep as it is.”
After seeing Pavel out, she took a bottle of red from the bar. She poured a glass but didn’t drink—just watched the light play in the dark liquid.
Her phone buzzed with messages. Rita was hammering away, demanding details. Zina opened the chat and typed briefly:
“Everything’s going according to plan. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
In the bedroom, turning down the bed, she allowed herself to cry for the first time all day. Quietly, without a sound—the way people cry who are used to handling everything alone. Fifteen years… Half a conscious lifetime. All that “for better, for worse, in sickness and in health”—utter nonsense when it comes to real problems.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, wiping her tears. “Tomorrow will be a new day. And a new me.”
In the morning, getting ready to go to Pavel’s office, she put on makeup for the first time in ages and wore her favorite dress. Looking in the mirror, she suddenly realized this was far from the end. It was a beginning. The start of something new, where she would no longer feel guilty for being ill.
Anton called as she was getting into a taxi.
“So, will you tell me your condition?”
“Of course, darling,” she said, honey in her voice. “Come to the office on Letnikovskaya at three. We’ll discuss everything there.”
The office of the law firm Expert Law was cool, which pleased her. She hated heat.
Zinaida arrived early to go over the last details with Pavel. Her migraine, of course, had chosen that moment to remind her it existed.
“Coffee?” the lawyer nodded toward the machine in the corner.
“No, thanks. I can’t. Let’s get to it.”
“All right,” he said, spreading the documents across the heavy mahogany desk. “You’re sure you only want the house? We could shake your dear husband down nicely. I have information about some gray schemes at his work.”
“I’m sure,” she cut him off. “I only need that house. The one we got from his mother. And no blackmail. I’m not sinking to his level.”
“The house is in such shape,” Pavel grimaced, flipping through the appraisal photos, “it’s basically tear-down. Leaky roof, shot utilities, overgrown lot. Do you have any idea what the repairs will cost?”
“That’s my concern,” she said with a mysterious smile. “Just prepare the papers. And don’t look at me like that—I haven’t lost my mind.”
“You know,” he leaned back, “in fifteen years of practice I’ve never seen a wife ask for an old house instead of a decent share of the assets.”
“Guess I’m special,” Zina winked, then winced as pain shot through her temple.
Anton arrived right on time: crisp suit, smug smile, expensive cologne. He reeked of happiness and pricey aftershave from a mile away.
At the sight of the lawyer, his smile faded a notch.
“So what’s the condition?” he dropped into a chair, radiating disdain. “Make it quick, I’ve got a meeting in an hour.”
“Simple,” Zina looked at him steadily. “I want your mother’s house on the edge of town. The one she left us. We sell the apartment and split the money evenly. The car stays with you.”
Anton burst out laughing. “That’s it? Seriously? That old shack? And here I was thinking… God, Zina, you were always odd, but this is beyond the pale!”
“Exactly,” she said evenly, though his condescension roiled her inside. “You have your father’s apartment, so housing won’t be a problem. Or were you planning to keep everything yourself?”
“Oh please, take it!” He threw his hands up theatrically. “Honestly, I expected something more… dramatic. Tantrums, demands, threats. And here you are asking for some ancient house with a leaky roof. Vika won’t believe it when I tell her!”
“It’s best not to mention the other woman in divorce proceedings,” Pavel said dryly, sliding the documents toward him. “Let’s focus.”
Silence settled in the office, broken only by the rustle of paper and an expensive pen tapping the desk. Anton ostentatiously read every clause.
“You know,” he said, pausing mid-signature, “before she died, Mom babbled some nonsense about that house. Said it was special, that it had a good aura. Can you imagine? At her age she started believing in mysticism. Kept saying the house had to be cherished, that it gave strength…”
“Maybe it wasn’t nonsense,” Zinaida said quietly, remembering the first time she crossed that threshold.
Back then, fifteen years ago, she hadn’t had migraines. And her mother-in-law was still alive—a kind, wise woman who had welcomed her like a daughter.
When all the papers were signed, Anton stood, tugging his jacket straight. “So, everyone happy now? Vika’s waiting… Damn, excuse me!”
“We’re done,” the lawyer closed the folder. “You’ll get the house title in three days.”
“Good luck with… the house,” Anton tossed over his shoulder and left without even looking at his wife.
Zinaida sat for a long time, stroking the folder. Her mother-in-law’s words about a special house kept circling in her head.
“Everything will be fine,” she whispered. “Now it really will.”
The first thing she did when she got the keys was throw all the windows open.
Mustiness, dust, webs… five years of neglect had turned what was once a cozy home into a horror-movie set.
“Well then, let’s get to know each other again?” she ran her hand over the old wallpaper. It rustled in reply, as if the house truly were greeting its new mistress.
The money from the apartment sale couldn’t have come at a better time.
Zinaida began transforming the house methodically, room by room. New roof, utilities, floors—everything needed replacing. And strangely… the work didn’t exhaust her. On the contrary, she woke each day eager for the next task.
“What are you doing?” Rita wailed when she came to visit. “You’ll blow all your money on this shack! You should’ve just rented an apartment!”
“Not a shack—a house,” Zinaida said calmly, clearing the overgrown garden. “And it’s worth it.”
The summer cottage at the back of the lot turned out to be almost intact. A little roof work, new windows—and it became a perfect studio.
She had long dreamed of her own atelier, but Anton had always called it a whim.
“First customer!” she rejoiced like a child when the neighbor brought a dress for repair. Then came a second, a third… Word of mouth worked flawlessly.
And then something strange happened…
At first, Zinaida didn’t think anything of it, but after six months she noticed the migraines that had plagued her for years were retreating. First less frequent, then milder, and then—
“Impossible,” the doctor muttered, studying her test results. “This just doesn’t happen. Are you taking something?”
“Only fresh air and work that brings joy,” she smiled.
Time flew. The atelier slowly gathered momentum, the house blossomed, and Zinaida… Zinaida seemed younger. The crease between her brows vanished, her eyes shone, her back straightened.
She hardly thought of Anton. Only sometimes, sorting old photos, did she wonder how he was. From mutual friends she knew he had married Vika right after the divorce. But it no longer mattered.
“Mom was right,” she would whisper in the evenings, sitting on the restored veranda. “The house really does have a special aura. Not the walls and roof, but what happens inside them.”
Life was settling into place. Clients multiplied; regulars appeared. She even hired an assistant—a young girl from next door who dreamed of learning to sew.
“You know,” Rita said once, looking her over, “divorce did you good. You’ve become… different.”
“Not the divorce,” Zina shook her head. “I’m finally doing what I love. And living where I want.”
And then that meeting happened. Three years later, at the mall where she’d gone for fabric…
“Zina? Is that you?” A familiar voice caught her by the fabric section. She turned slowly, already knowing who she’d see.
Anton stood a couple of meters away. The first thing she noticed was how much he’d aged—gray at the temples, bags under his eyes, a gaunt face. Nothing remained of the confident charmer who’d announced their divorce three years ago.
“Hello,” she said evenly, holding his astonished gaze. “Long time.”
“I… I barely recognized you,” her ex-husband stared at her with a strange expression. “You’ve changed so much…”
“Time spares no one,” Zinaida shrugged, smiling inwardly. She knew exactly how she looked: toned, well-kept, bright-eyed, with a healthy flush.
“No, you… you’ve gotten younger,” he shook his head. “As if time turned back. And the migraines? Are you still…”
“Gone,” she smiled lightly. “Completely. The doctors are still in shock.”
“How?” Anton’s voice wavered. “Did you find some treatment?”
“You could say that. I started living my own life. In that ‘old shack’ you despised so much.”
He tugged at his cuff. Zinaida noticed how badly his hands were shaking.
“And you… how are you?” she asked, more out of politeness.
“Not great,” he said with a joyless smirk. “The last year feels like a curse. First hypertension, then heart problems. Now neuralgia…”
“And Vika? How is she?”
“She left,” he looked away. “Said she didn’t sign up to be a nurse.”
Zina felt her lips curve into a smile. Not gloating—understanding.
“You know,” she said, hefting her bag of fabric, “life always puts things in their place. I was sick because you were my headache. You left—the illness left. And with you, I guess, it just moved on. Along with Vika.”
“Zina…” He took a step toward her. “I have to say… I was wrong back then. Maybe—”
“No,” she shook her head gently. “No ‘maybe.’ I have my path, and you have yours. And you know what? I’m grateful. If not for that divorce, I’d never have found myself. Thank you.”
“Are you… happy?” There was a strange mix of surprise and bitterness in his voice.
“More than!” Zina adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “I have my own business, a beloved home, and no migraines. Most importantly, no headache in the form of an unloving husband.”
She turned and walked toward the exit, feeling his gaze on her back. Her heels struck the mall’s marble floor with a confident beat—the rhythm of a new, happy life.
Six months later she heard from mutual friends that Anton had been hospitalized with a heart attack. Vika didn’t even visit. But Zina no longer cared. She was far too busy preparing for the show of her first clothing collection.
