— “Why isn’t the floor washed? And where’s dinner?” Gleb threw his briefcase on the couch and looked around the room. “You’ve stopped taking care of yourself altogether!”
Marina froze at the stove, flustered. It was past midnight, and there she was, like a fool, waiting for her husband with a hot dinner. He smelled now of someone else’s perfume—a delicate, expensive scent, nothing like her favorite vanilla.
— “Gleb, I called you all evening. Where were you?” she tried to keep her voice steady.
— “I’m sick of your interrogations!” he waved his hand irritably. “I was stuck at work, okay? And my phone died.”
Marina silently set a plate with casserole on the table. Gleb poked at it with his fork in disgust.
— “This greasy crap again. Amazing you haven’t turned into an elephant eating like this,” he pushed the plate away. “Look at Sofia in our office. That’s what a real woman should look like.”
— “Sofia? The one who’s always texting you?” Marina felt a chill run down her back.
Gleb rolled his eyes.
— “Don’t start. Sofia is my colleague, and by the way, she takes care of herself. And you?” He gave his wife a contemptuous once-over. “That overwashed robe, those ridiculous slippers. A gray mouse.”
Marina swallowed the lump in her throat.
— “I can lose weight, if it’s that important to you.”
— “It’s too late,” Gleb tossed over his shoulder and left the kitchen.
Marina sank into a chair, drained. What had happened to them? There was a time when Gleb laughed about her fullness, said he loved “girls with curves.”
Her husband’s phone, left on the table, vibrated. She couldn’t help glancing at the screen. A message from Sofia: “Same time tomorrow?” with a heart at the end.
With trembling hands, she picked up the phone. She’d long since unlocked the passcode—Gleb’s birthday. The chat opened at once: dozens of messages, each one a punch to the gut.
“You’re so passionate.”
“When are you finally leaving her?”
“Can’t wait…”
And photos. Gleb and a slim brunette. Embraces. Kisses. A bed.
Marina switched off the phone and put it back. An icy emptiness settled in her chest. Three years of marriage. Three years since her parents died, when Gleb had become her only support.
She remembered how, after the funerals, Gleb insisted on a modest wedding—“not the time for lavish celebrations.” How he moved into her three-room apartment—“why pay rent when you’ve got so much space.” How he admired the dacha—“great place, we could sell it and buy something more prestigious.”
Marina looked at her hands—small, with plump fingers. Maybe she really was unattractive. Maybe Sofia really was better—if Gleb was happy with her.
From the bedroom came her husband’s snoring. Yesterday’s words rose up: “We need to sell the dacha. Prices are good right now. We’ll start a business and finally live like normal people.”
Marina rose quietly and went to the bathroom. A mirror hung above the sink. A tired face, shadows under the eyes, disheveled hair. When had she become like this? When had she let herself get bogged down in someone else’s wants, forgetting her own?
— “Enough,” she whispered to her reflection. “Enough being a doormat.”
In the morning Gleb was unusually affectionate. He brought coffee to the bed, something he hadn’t done in years.
— “Marina, I went too far yesterday,” he sat on the edge of the bed. “You know—work, stress.”
Marina nodded, feigning understanding.
— “You’re right about the dacha,” she said. “Let’s sell it. I just need to go out there one last time. To take my mother’s things.”
Gleb beamed.
— “That’s my clever girl!” He kissed her forehead. “Then this weekend you go to the dacha, and I’ll look for buyers. We’ll wrap it up fast.”
“Too fast,” Marina thought, but only smiled in response.
It was quiet in the old cemetery. Marina laid flowers on her parents’ graves and sat on the bench nearby. Warm May air was scented with lilacs.
— “You were right about him,” she whispered, looking at the photos of her mother and father. “And I didn’t want to listen.”
Memories surfaced. University, third year. Gleb—the cocksure handsome guy from the economics department who’d noticed rosy, giggly Marina. Back then he’d seemed like a prince from a fairy tale—caring, attentive, with plans for a big future.
— “Maybe you would have approved. Of how he was at the start,” she wiped away a tear.
Her father always said, “Look closely, Marisha. A man who truly loves doesn’t look at other women.” And her mother would quietly add, “And he doesn’t nitpick your flaws either.”
Her phone vibrated. A message from Gleb: “Where are you? I want to show the dacha to a potential buyer tomorrow.”
Marina didn’t answer. Instead she scrolled through old photos on her phone. The wedding—modest, a month after her parents’ funeral. Gleb had convinced her not to drag it out: “Why do we need a big celebration? The main thing is we’re together.”
Now she understood: he just needed to secure his place in her apartment, in her life, as quickly as possible. Reaching a grieving girl’s heart hadn’t been hard—especially when she so wanted to believe she wasn’t alone.
— “He says the dacha and the apartment are a heavy burden,” Marina told her mother’s portrait. “That we need money for a business, for a better life.”
The birch branches over the graves swayed in the wind. A ray of sun fell across the headstone, as if in approval.
— “But I’ve figured it out,” her voice steadied. “He wants to take everything and then leave. He thinks I’m blind.”
Marina stood and, for the last time, ran her hand over the cold marble.
— “Remember what you always said, Mom? ‘We can be deceived only once. The second time, we’re deceiving ourselves.’”
She walked resolutely toward the cemetery gates. A plan had already taken shape in her mind—clear and decisive. Gleb wanted to play dirty? He’d get his game.
On the bus home, Marina dialed the number of Sergei Petrovich—her father’s old friend, a realtor. The old man was delighted to hear from her.
— “Marinochka, sunshine! How are you? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
— “Sergei Petrovich, I need your help. Urgent and confidential.”
— “I never said I’d sell at that price,” Marina looked away from Gleb’s surprised eyes. “The dacha is worth more.”
— “Sweetheart, now is not the best time to haggle,” Gleb gently draped an arm over her shoulders. “This buyer is reliable. And your dacha, sorry, is nothing special.”
Marina jerked her shoulder, shrugging off his hand.
— “Our dacha,” she corrected him. “Or is it not ours anymore?”
Gleb narrowed his eyes.
— “What’s that supposed to mean?”
— “Nothing,” Marina forced a smile. “It’s just strange to hear ‘yours’ when we’re a family.”
Gleb softened and kissed her on the forehead.
— “Of course it’s ours. It’s just that on paper… ah, never mind. It’s all for us, for our future.”
“Our future,” Marina repeated bitterly to herself. For the past week she’d been living in two realities. In one she was the obedient wife who’d agreed to sell her inheritance. In the other she was the woman meeting with realtors, lawyers, and bank managers.
— “I’ll think about it,” she said. “I need to go out to the dacha again. Sort through Mom’s things.”
— “Go, of course,” Gleb agreed surprisingly easily. “By the way, Marina, I almost forgot… I have an important meeting at the office tomorrow, could you…”
— “Drop by with the papers?” Marina finished for him smoothly. “Sure. Which ones?”
— “An extract from Rosreestr (the state real estate register). My client wants to see the documents for the dacha,” Gleb smiled. “Purely a formality.”
— “All right,” she nodded. “And who’s the meeting with?”
— “Clients,” Gleb looked away. “You don’t know them.”
Gleb’s phone chirped. He snatched it up, read the message, and stuffed it into his pocket.
— “Work?” Marina asked innocently.
— “Yeah. They won’t leave me alone,” he was visibly nervous. “Okay, I’m going to bed.”
When the bedroom door closed, Marina quietly took out her phone. Sergei Petrovich answered at once:
— “The deed for the dacha is ready. The buyer agrees to your price. We can close tomorrow.”
— “And the apartment?”
— “There’s a buyer. Ready for a quick deal, no haggling. But are you sure?”
— “Absolutely.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Marina quickly hid her phone.
Gleb, already in lounge pants, went into the kitchen.
— “You’re still up?” he asked, pulling juice from the fridge.
— “I was thinking about Mom,” Marina said, hugging herself. “It’s been three years today since they passed.”
— “There you go again,” Gleb snapped. “Stop living in the past. The dead won’t come back.”
Marina flinched at the harshness of his words.
— “You didn’t even go to the cemetery with me.”
— “I’ve got work up to my ears!” he barked. “Somebody has to earn money in this family.”
— “And I don’t earn, is that it?”
— “A nanny’s aide at a kindergarten?” he snorted. “Be grateful I married you at all. With your looks these days…”
He suddenly fell silent, as if remembering something.
— “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m tired. It’s been a rough week.”
Marina looked at her husband in silence. Once she’d loved him madly. Now a stranger stood before her—an unpleasant one.
— “I’m tired too,” she said quietly.
The next day Marina met with Sergei Petrovich and the new owner of the dacha—an elderly professor, a friend of her father’s. The deal took less than an hour.
— “Are you sure you don’t want to tell Gleb?” Sergei Petrovich asked when they were alone.
Marina shook her head.
— “Gleb is too busy with his Sofia. He didn’t even notice I emptied the closet.”
At home Marina began packing the rest of her things. The apartment sale was set for tomorrow. Everything was happening faster than she’d planned.
Her phone rang. Gleb.
— “Did you bring the documents?” he asked without a greeting.
— “Yes, I did everything,” Marina answered calmly.
— “Excellent!” Triumphant notes crept into his voice. “Then I’ll be late. Don’t wait for dinner.”
The night was hot and sleepless. Wrapped in a thin sheet, Marina lay on the sofa in the living room. Gleb hadn’t come home for the night—for the first time in their marriage. He didn’t call, didn’t write, as if he had vanished.
A loud knock at the door came at 7:30 a.m.
— “Who is it?” Marina asked.
— “Real estate agency!” a man’s voice replied. “As arranged with Sergei Petrovich.”
Marina opened the door. A young couple with a girl of about five stood on the threshold, and a stern man with a briefcase—a notary.
— “Good morning,” the woman held out her hand. “I’m Olga, we spoke yesterday. Sergei Petrovich said you’re ready to sign.”
— “Yes, come in,” Marina invited them into the apartment.
The notary briskly laid out the papers on the table.
— “Your passport, the certificate of ownership, and the preliminary agreement signed yesterday.”
Marina took a folder with documents from her bag. The young couple walked around the apartment, admiring the spacious kitchen and high ceilings.
— “Will your husband be here too?” the notary asked.
— “No,” Marina said. “I’m the sole owner. The apartment came to me from my parents before the marriage.”
— “Perfect. Then let’s begin.”
An hour later, all the signatures were in place and the money had been transferred to Marina’s account. Olga hugged her tightly:
— “Thank you! We’d been looking for an apartment in this area for so long. When can we move in?”
— “As soon as today,” Marina said, handing over the keys. “I’ve moved almost everything out.”
— “But there are still so many things,” Olga said, surprised.
— “Anything you find, you can throw away or keep.”
While the young family checked every corner of their new home, Marina texted Sergei Petrovich: “All set. Going to the bank.”
At the bank she moved most of the money to a new account and withdrew some in cash. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
The call caught her in a taxi.
— “Hello,” Gleb sounded flustered. “Marina, I’m heading home now. We need to talk.”
— “No need to rush,” Marina replied evenly. “I still have errands.”
— “What errands?” Gleb tensed.
— “We’ll talk tonight. Around seven.”
Marina hung up and asked the driver to change route. She needed to check into the reserved hotel room and prepare for the final act of this drama.
Gleb arrived at the building at exactly seven. He rang the bell nervously. No one opened. He pulled out his keys—the lock wouldn’t budge.
— “Who is it?” The door opened a crack, and instead of Marina a stranger stood on the threshold.
— “I… this is my apartment,” Gleb stammered.
— “You’re mistaken,” the woman frowned. “We bought it this morning.”
— “Bought? From whom?” Gleb turned pale.
— “From the owner, Marina Sergeevna.”
Just then, Gleb’s phone rang. His wife’s name flashed on the screen.
— “What have you done?!” he screamed into the phone.
— “Hello, Gleb,” Marina’s voice was unusually firm. “How are you?”
— “Some woman says she bought our apartment!” Gleb was almost squealing.
— “Not ours—mine,” Marina corrected him. “And yes, she’s right. I sold the apartment this morning. And the dacha yesterday.”
— “Are you out of your mind?!” Gleb was gasping with rage. “Where am I supposed to live now?!”
— “Ask Sofia to take you in,” Marina replied calmly. “Judging by your messages, you already spend plenty of time together.”
— “You went through my phone?” Gleb hissed. “You had no right!”
— “And you had the right to humiliate me for three years? Use me? Cheat on me?” Marina’s voice trembled. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure out your plan—to sell my property and then disappear with your perfect Sofia?”
Silence hung on the line.
— “Marina, this is a misunderstanding,” Gleb finally said, changing tactics. “I never… Sofia is just a colleague. Let’s meet and talk it out.”
— “Too late, Gleb,” there was no gloating in her voice, only weariness. “You got what you deserved.”
— “But… what about our future? Our plans? The business?” he asked in despair.
— “Our marriage ended the moment you decided I wasn’t worthy of respect. You’re free. Goodbye.”
Marina ended the call and blocked his number.
A minute later the phone rang again—Gleb was calling from a different number.
— “You bitch!” he yelled. “You’ll pay for this! I’ll sue! I’ll destroy you!”
— “Gleb,” Marina cut him off. “Everything’s legal. The apartment and the dacha were my separate property from before the marriage. We didn’t have a prenup. Legally I don’t owe you anything.”
She could hear Gleb breathing hard into the phone.
— “You shouldn’t have called me a gray mouse,” she said quietly. “You lost, Gleb. Now I’ll live for myself.”
Marina sat by the window of her hotel room, looking out at the evening city. Her phone had been silent for three days. Gleb had stopped calling after all his attempts to reestablish contact failed.
There was a careful knock at the door.
— “Come in,” she said.
Sergei Petrovich entered, holding a folder of documents.
— “All set, Marinochka. The one-bedroom apartment is registered in your name,” the old man handed her the keys. “Small, but cozy. In a good neighborhood.”
— “Thank you,” Marina hugged her father’s friend tightly. “I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”
— “Your father would have done the same for my daughter,” he patted her shoulder. “The bank called. The deposit is open, the money’s in a safe place.”
Marina nodded, feeling a strange hollowness. The revenge had happened—but it hadn’t made things lighter.
— “I heard Gleb tried to get into the sold apartment,” Sergei Petrovich said carefully. “The new owners called the police.”
— “I know,” Marina replied softly. “Olga called. Gleb was drunk and yelling that he’d been robbed.”
— “And what about Sofia? His… colleague.”
Marina smiled sadly.
— “She dumped him as soon as she found out he’d been left without housing and money. Classic, isn’t it?”
Sergei Petrovich shook his head.
— “You don’t regret it?”
Marina went to the window. Below, people hurried about their business—tiny figures with their own stories, victories, and defeats.
— “You know, I thought I’d feel triumph,” she said thoughtfully. “But all I feel is… freedom. Like I’ve shrugged off a heavy backpack I’d been lugging for years.”
Her phone vibrated—a message from an unknown number. Marina opened it.
“I know you’ve blocked me. But I have to say: you’ll regret this. Everything I did—I did for us. For the family. You misunderstood Sofia. Give me back at least part of the money and we’ll forget this nightmare. — Gleb”
Marina silently showed the message to Sergei Petrovich.
— “Even now he can’t admit his guilt,” the old man shook his head.
Marina deleted the message and tossed the phone onto the bed.
— “I’ll change my number tomorrow,” she said firmly. “And start a new life.”
A week later Marina moved into her new apartment. A bedroom, a kitchen, a small living room—everything one person needed. She set out a few photos of her parents, hung a painting she’d bought at a flea market, and for the first time in a long while felt at home.
In the evening, sitting on the balcony with a cup of tea, she took out the old family album—the only thing she’d taken from her past life. On the last page was their wedding photo.
Marina looked at the picture for a long time, then carefully removed it from the album and tore it into tiny pieces.
— “Thanks for the lesson,” she whispered, tipping the scraps into the trash. “Now I know exactly what I’m worth.”
