Olga closed the notary’s office door and stepped outside. The autumn wind tugged at her hair, yellow leaves rustled underfoot. In her hands—a folder of documents. Certificates of inheritance. Five apartments. Everything that was left of her mother.
Four months had passed since the funeral. Four months of paperwork, running around to different offices, processing documents. Olga gathered certificates, filed applications, waited out deadlines. The inheritance was handled by will—her mother had taken care of everything in advance so her daughter wouldn’t have to share the property with distant relatives.
The apartments were in different parts of the city. Three one-bedrooms, one two-bedroom, and one three-bedroom. Her mother had bought the properties gradually, setting money aside and investing in something reliable. She said it was a safety cushion for her daughter. In case life went wrong.
Olga got into the car and put the folder on the passenger seat. She took out her phone—a message from her husband: “When are you coming home? Dinner’s ready.”
Her husband Igor worked remotely and was often home early. He cooked, cleaned, didn’t complain about housework. A good man. Calm. Olga had met Igor three years ago; they married six months later. Her mother approved—she used to say Igor was dependable, didn’t drink, a hard worker.
Olga started the car and drove home. On the way she thought about what to do with the apartments now. Sell them? Rent them out? Leave them empty? Her thoughts tangled. She just wanted to get home, lie down on the couch, and not think about anything.
The house smelled of fried chicken. Igor stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan.
“Hi,” Olga took off her shoes and hung up her jacket. “What are you making?”
“Chicken with vegetables. So, did you get everything done?”
“Yes. I got the certificates.”
Igor nodded without turning around.
“That’s good. So now it’s all official.”
“Uh-huh.”
Olga went to the living room, tossed her bag into a chair, and lay down on the couch. She was tired. Not so much physically as emotionally. Every document reminded her of her mother. Every signature, every stamp—like a blow.
Igor brought dinner on a tray. He sat down beside her.
“So, how are you holding up?”
“I guess I am. It’s just all so hard.”
“I understand. But at least it’s over now. No more running to notaries.”
“I hope so.”
They ate in silence. Igor gathered the dishes and took them to the kitchen. Olga stayed lying there, staring at the ceiling. Her phone vibrated—it was her mother-in-law, Valentina Stepanovna.
“Olga dear, how are you? Did you get everything done?”
Olga sighed and typed back: “Yes, it’s all finished.”
“Good girl! If you need anything, reach out, we’ll help. Don’t carry it all alone.”
“Thank you.”
Her mother-in-law had become especially attentive after her mother’s death. She called every day, asked how things were, offered help. At first, Olga was glad—she thought Valentina Stepanovna was simply being caring. But over time the questions got more specific. How many apartments? Where exactly? What are your plans?
A week later Igor came back to the topic of the inheritance. They were in the kitchen having tea.
“Olga, have you thought about what you’ll do with the apartments?”
“Not yet. I’m not ready to make decisions.”
“Well, generally? Leaving them empty isn’t an option. You could rent them out and get an income.”
“Igor, I’m not up for this right now. It’s all too fresh.”
“I get that. I’m just saying—property should be used rationally. It’s sitting idle.”
Olga kept quiet. Igor went on:
“I can help with setting up rentals, if you want. I’ll find an agency, they’ll handle everything. You won’t even have to bother.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want to change anything yet.”
He nodded and didn’t press. But Olga noticed—the subject kept coming up. Igor would ask which apartment was in which district, then clarify the square footage, then wonder if there was any furniture.
Valentina Stepanovna didn’t let up either. She called a couple of days later.
“Hello, Olga dear! How are you?”
“I’m fine, Valentina Stepanovna.”
“Listen, I was thinking. You’ve got a few apartments now. Maybe you should rent one? Or sell one? So the money doesn’t just sit there.”
“I’m not planning to do anything for now.”
“But what if you need money? Anything can happen. Real estate is great, but liquidity is important too.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll think about it.”
“If you need anything, we’ll help. Igor’s a smart one, he knows about these things. He’ll arrange everything properly.”
Olga thanked her and ended the call. A strange feeling remained afterward. As if her mother-in-law wasn’t just showing interest, but trying to ferret out information.
Another month passed. Olga gradually returned to her normal life. She worked, met with friends, tried not to dwell on the loss. The apartments remained untouched—empty, waiting for their time.
Igor kept bringing up the real estate. Not pushy, but regularly.
“Olga, let’s at least rent one of the apartments out? So there’s some benefit.”
“Igor, I don’t need the money. My salary’s fine.”
“It’s not about the money. Property ought to work. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“The point is that it’s my mother’s memory.”
“I understand. But memory isn’t about empty walls. You can rent them and still remember.”
Olga didn’t argue. She just nodded and changed the subject. But unease grew inside. Why was Igor so fixated on these apartments? He’d never meddled in her finances before, never told her what to do with money. And now he was constantly talking about the real estate.
One evening Olga came home earlier than usual. Her boss had let her go—there wasn’t much to do. She took the elevator up and opened the apartment door. The hallway was quiet. Igor, apparently, was in the living room.
Olga took off her shoes and headed to the kitchen for some water. As she passed the living room, she heard her husband’s voice. Igor was on the phone. His tone was tense, serious.
“Yes, Mom, I got it. We’ll transfer a couple of the apartments into my name, then we’ll switch them back. Olga’s soft, she’ll sign if we present it the right way.”
Olga froze in the hallway. Her heart hammered louder.
“No, she won’t find out. I’ll say it’s for tax optimization. Or that it’s more convenient for renting. I’ll think of something.”
A pause.
“Mom, don’t worry. I’m telling you—Olga’s trusting. She won’t get into the details. The main thing is to explain it properly.”
Olga slowly retreated toward the front door. Her hands were shaking. Her head was buzzing. Igor was planning to re-register the apartments to himself. With his mother. Together. And he meant to trick his wife, presenting it as tax or convenience.
Olga quietly put her shoes back on, left the apartment, and went downstairs. She sat in the car. She started the engine but didn’t drive anywhere. She just sat and stared into space.
Soft. Trusting. She’ll sign if you present it right.
Igor saw his wife as a simpleton. So did Valentina Stepanovna. All their care, all their questions, all that attentiveness—because of the apartments. To get their hands on someone else’s property.
Olga took out her phone. She opened the contact for the lawyer who had helped with the inheritance. She wrote a message: “Hello. Can we meet tomorrow? I need a consultation about real estate.”
The reply came a minute later: “Of course. Come at ten.”
Olga put her phone away and exhaled. No more softness. No more blind trust. It was time to protect what her mother had left.
The next morning Olga told Igor she had errands to run. He nodded without asking where. Olga went to the lawyer’s office and rode up to the third floor.
The lawyer—a man of about fifty, wearing glasses and a sober suit—greeted her warmly.
“Hello, Olga. Have a seat. What happened?”
Olga sat down across from him and took the folder from her bag.
“Vyacheslav Petrovich, tell me—if I’ve registered the inheritance in my name, can anyone re-register these apartments without my consent?”
“No. Only the owner can dispose of the property. Any transaction requires your signature and your presence at a notary’s.”
“And if I sign some documents without realizing what they are?”
Vyacheslav Petrovich frowned.
“Tell me more.”
Olga told him about the conversation she’d overheard. About her husband’s and mother-in-law’s plans. The lawyer listened carefully, without interrupting.
“I see. Olga, if someone tries to trick you by slipping in documents to re-register the property under the guise of something else, that would constitute fraud. But it’s better not to let it come to that.”
“What do you advise?”
“First, never sign documents without reading them carefully. Second, you can issue a power of attorney to a trusted person—say, me—so that no one else can act on your behalf. Third, if you fear pressure from your husband, you can draft a prenuptial agreement that explicitly excludes these apartments from the marital property.”
“But the apartments aren’t marital property anyway. It’s an inheritance.”
“Correct. But a prenup will fix that officially and forestall any future claims.”
Olga nodded.
“And how do I spot it if someone slips me something?”
“Always read what you sign. If you don’t understand a clause—don’t sign. Ask for a copy, bring it to me, and I’ll check it.”
“All right. Thank you.”
“Olga, be careful. Real estate is serious business. People sometimes go to great lengths for property.”
Olga returned home close to noon. Igor was at the computer, working.
“So, you went out?”
“Yes. Errands.”
“What errands?”
“Personal.”
Her husband looked at her closely but didn’t ask further.
That evening Igor raised the apartment issue again.
“Olga, I was thinking. Maybe we should put a couple of the apartments in my name? Just for convenience.”
Olga looked up from her book.
“Why?”
“Well, if you rent them out, it’s more convenient when the owner is a man. It’s easier to deal with tenants. And we can optimize taxes.”
“Igor, the apartments will stay in my name.”
“I’m not talking about taking them. Just for convenience. Later we can transfer them back, if you want.”
“No. There’s no need to re-register anything.”
He frowned.
“Why are you so tense about this? I’m offering to help.”
“I’m not tense. I just don’t see the point in re-registering.”
“Olga, don’t you trust me?”
“I do. But the apartments are my inheritance. They’ll remain in my name.”
Igor fell silent. He turned to the television. Olga went back to her book, but the words didn’t register. One thought kept circling in her head: her husband was trying to do exactly what he’d discussed with his mother on the phone.
Two days later, Valentina Stepanovna called.
“Hello, Olga dear! How are you?”
“Hello. Fine.”
“Listen, I wanted your opinion. Igor says you don’t want to put the apartments in his name. Why not?”
Olga pressed her lips together.
“Because it’s my property. I decide how to manage it.”
“Yes, of course. Just think about it—you’re married. What difference does it make whose name is on it?”
“There is a difference.”
“Olga dear, don’t be so suspicious. Igor isn’t a stranger. He wants to help you, make your life easier.”
“Thank you for your concern. But I can handle it myself.”
“Well, all right. Just don’t regret it later.”
Olga ended the call and exhaled. Her mother-in-law was pushing. Igor was pushing. Both of them were trying to convince her to re-register the apartments. Exactly what they’d coordinated on the phone.
Olga opened her contacts and called Vyacheslav Petrovich.
“Can I come by tomorrow? I want to issue a power of attorney and discuss a prenuptial agreement.”
“Of course. Come at two.”
The next day Olga again told her husband she had errands and went to see the lawyer. She issued a power of attorney to Vyacheslav Petrovich so that only he could represent her interests in matters of real estate. They discussed a draft prenup—a document stating that her mother’s apartments were not marital property.
“Olga, you’ll need to sign this agreement with your husband before a notary,” explained Vyacheslav Petrovich. “Without his consent, a prenuptial agreement cannot be executed.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Then there will be no agreement. But his refusal will tell you a lot.”
Olga nodded. Yes, the refusal would say it all.
When she got home, she found Igor in the kitchen making dinner.
“Igor, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I want to sign a prenuptial agreement.”
Igor froze without turning around.
“Why?”
“To formalize that the apartments from my mother are my personal property, not marital.”
He slowly turned.
“Olga, are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been married three years. And you suddenly want a prenup?”
“Yes. I think it’s the right thing to do.”
Igor set the knife down on the table.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I want to protect my mother’s inheritance.”
“From whom? From me?”
“From any future claims.”
“What claims?! I’m your husband, for God’s sake!”
Olga didn’t look away.
“If you’re my husband, you’ll sign it. Because you’ll understand why it matters to me.”
Igor stood facing her, breathing heavily. His face reddened.
“You know what? Do whatever you want. I’m tired of this distrust.”
He turned and walked out of the kitchen. A door slammed. Olga remained standing at the table. Inside there was no fear, no regret. Only cold clarity. Igor refused to sign. He didn’t even want to discuss it. He just took offense and left.
Olga sat down and took out her phone. She opened her notes and started making a to-do list. Emotions later. Now she had to act fast and precisely.
That night Igor slept on the couch in the living room. Olga lay in the bedroom, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come. A plan arranged itself in her head. Tomorrow—to the notary, to issue the power of attorney to Vyacheslav Petrovich. The day after—to the bank, to set up alerts for any requests for documents. Then—check what other loopholes they might use.
In the morning, Olga got up before her husband. She got ready, drank her coffee, and left for work without waiting for Igor to wake up. During her lunch break she went to the notary.
Vyacheslav Petrovich saw her without an appointment.
“How are you, Olga?”
“I need to urgently issue a power of attorney. So that only you can represent my interests in real-estate matters.”
“All right. Sit down, we’ll fill out the forms.”
Half an hour later the power of attorney was ready. Notarized, sealed, official. Now no one but Vyacheslav Petrovich could act on Olga’s behalf regarding the five apartments.
“One more thing,” Olga said. “Is there a way to set up protection so no one can request extracts from the property registry or copies of documents without my knowledge?”
“You can file a statement with the registry to prohibit registration actions. It’s a temporary measure, but it helps. Also, at the bank you can set up notifications for any requests for powers of attorney or extracts.”
“Let’s do everything.”
Vyacheslav Petrovich drafted the registry application. Olga signed it and submitted it electronically through the government services portal. Then she went to the bank.
At the branch, the manager listened and nodded:
“We can set up SMS alerts for any attempts to obtain information on your accounts and property. We can also block the issuance of any certificates to third parties without your personal presence.”
“Please do.”
“All right. It’ll take a few minutes.”
Olga sat in a chair across from the manager, watching her enter the data. It was a strange feeling. Like preparing for war. But what else could you call it if your husband and mother-in-law were planning to deceive you?
That evening Olga came home. Igor sat at the computer working. He looked at her, nodded silently. Olga went to the kitchen and reheated dinner. They ate in silence. He didn’t start a conversation, and neither did she.
After dinner her husband went out to the balcony to smoke. Olga sat in the bedroom and opened the document folder. She looked through each certificate of ownership. Five apartments. All registered to her. All protected by the power of attorney and the ban on registration actions.
Two days later Igor brought up the apartments again. His tone was conciliatory, gentle.
“Olga, let’s not fight. I get that you’re upset. But let me at least help with the rental paperwork? So you don’t waste your time on it.”
“No need. I’ve already handed all the documents over to the notary. If necessary, Vyacheslav Petrovich will handle things.”
Igor frowned:
“What notary?”
“The one who handled the inheritance.”
“Why did you do that?”
“To have fewer hassles. He’s a professional; he knows all the ins and outs.”
Her husband fell silent. Then he nodded:
“All right. As you wish.”
Olga could see—Igor was displeased. But he had nothing to counter with. The plan had fallen apart. Now he couldn’t just take the documents and re-register the apartments.
That evening, Valentina Stepanovna called again.
“Olga, what are you doing? Igor says you handed everything to a notary!”
“Yes, it’s more convenient that way.”
“Convenient?! Do you realize you’re making everything harder? Igor wanted to help!”
“Valentina Stepanovna, I’m not asking for help. I’ll manage on my own.”
“Olga dear, what’s with you? Igor is your husband! Why don’t you trust him?”
“I trust a professional who knows the law.”
“What nonsense! Do you even realize how this looks? As if you don’t trust your husband!”
“I’m tired. Let’s end this conversation.”
“Olga, wait—”
Olga hung up. She blocked her mother-in-law’s number. She didn’t want any more lectures and pressure.
A week later, what Olga had expected happened. Igor got ready and drove to the public services center. He said it was work—he had documents to submit. Olga nodded and didn’t ask.
That evening he came back sullen. He tossed his keys on the console table and went to the living room. Olga was in the kitchen making dinner. A few minutes later he came out.
“What did you do?” His voice was quiet, but angry.
“What do you mean?”
“I went to the property registry to get extracts for your apartments. They said access is restricted. Only the owner or an authorized representative.”
“So?”
“Olga, did you set this up on purpose?”
“I protected my property.”
Igor clenched his fists.
“This isn’t normal! I’m your husband!”
“A husband who planned to re-register the apartments to himself without my knowledge.”
Igor froze. His face went pale.
“What did you say?”
“I heard your conversation with Valentina Stepanovna. A week ago. You said I’m soft and would sign anything if it’s presented right.”
He looked away. He said nothing.
“Igor, did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“I… It’s not what you think.”
“How exactly, then?”
“We just wanted to help. To re-register for convenience and then switch them back.”
“Switch them back? Seriously?”
Igor ran a hand over his face.
“Olga, why are you making everything so complicated? They’re just apartments!”
“They’re my mother’s inheritance. The last thing I have from her.”
“And you’re ready to destroy our family over some apartments?”
Olga looked at him for a long moment.
“Igor, you’re the one destroying our family. When you plan to deceive your wife for the sake of property.”
He turned away. He stood there for a bit, then went to the bedroom. The door slammed. Olga went back to the stove and turned off the burner. She’d lost her appetite.
The next day, Valentina Stepanovna called from another number. Olga answered without checking who it was.
“Olga! Finally! Did you block my number?”
“Yes.”
“How could you?! I’m not a stranger to you!”
“Valentina Stepanovna, I don’t want to talk.”
“Wait, don’t hang up! Do you understand what you’re doing? Igor is upset because of you! You’re destroying your family!”
“I’m protecting what my mother left me.”
“From whom?! From your own husband?!”
“From people planning to deceive me.”
“What deception?! We wanted to help!”
“Help by re-registering the apartments to Igor and then not returning them. I heard everything.”
She went quiet. Then snorted:
“So what? You’re married! Everything should be shared!”
“Inheritance isn’t marital property.”
“What difference does that make! Igor isn’t a stranger!”
“Igor is someone who was going to deceive me. With your help.”
“Olga, you’re ungrateful! We’ve done so much for you!”
“Goodbye, Valentina Stepanovna.”
Olga hung up. She blocked the new number. Her hands were trembling. Disgusting. Her mother-in-law hadn’t even bothered to deny it. She was just outraged that the plan had been exposed.
That evening Olga came home and saw that some of Igor’s things were gone. The closet was half empty, his toiletries were missing from the bathroom shelves. On the kitchen table lay a note: “I’ve gone to my mother’s. We both need to think.”
Olga crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash. She sat on the couch and looked out the window. An autumn evening, early dark. Streetlights glowed outside, a few passersby hurried home.
Quiet. Calm. No more talk about re-registering. No more calls from her mother-in-law. Just silence.
Olga took out her phone and wrote to Vyacheslav Petrovich: “Thank you for your help. It worked.”
The answer came quickly: “Glad to have helped. Reach out if you need anything.”
A few days later Igor came to pick up the rest of his things. He called ahead to say so. Olga opened the door and silently let him in. He gathered clothes, books, chargers. He didn’t meet her eyes.
“Olga, maybe we should try again?” he asked, zipping his bag.
“No.”
“Why not? Because of the apartments?”
“Because you were ready to deceive your wife for the sake of property. Because you see me not as a partner but as a soft simpleton you can slip papers to for signature.”
Igor winced.
“That’s not how I intended it…”
“It doesn’t matter how you intended it. What matters is what you did.”
He picked up the bag and headed for the door. He stopped there:
“Where are the keys to the apartments?”
“With me.”
“Olga, I’m your husband. I should have access.”
“No. The apartments are my personal property. Only I have access.”
He started to say something, then changed his mind. He nodded and left. The door closed quietly. Olga leaned against the doorframe and exhaled.
The keys to all five apartments were in the safe. In the bedroom, behind the bookcase. Olga opened the safe and looked at the key ring. Five apartments. Everything left of her mother. Intact. Protected. Hers.
A week later a court notice arrived. Igor had filed for divorce. Olga wasn’t surprised. She went to see Vyacheslav Petrovich and showed him the papers.
“What should I do?”
“Nothing serious. You’ll file a counterstatement. The apartments are your inheritance, essentially acquired outside the marriage, only registered afterward. They aren’t subject to division. Igor can seek division only of what you acquired together during the marriage.”
“We don’t have anything like that. I live in my own apartment, bought before the marriage. He moved in with me.”
“Then there’s nothing to divide. The process will be quick.”
And so it was. Three months later the divorce was finalized through the registry office. Igor didn’t claim the apartments—he understood the law was on Olga’s side. They just signed and went their separate ways.
Valentina Stepanovna tried calling a few more times from different numbers. Olga didn’t answer. Eventually, the calls stopped.
Half a year passed. Olga sat in one of her mother’s apartments—the three-bedroom in the city center—sorting through boxes. Photos, letters, old postcards. Her mother had kept everything. Olga looked at the pictures—there they were at the seaside, then graduation, then a birthday.
Her mother had always been farsighted. She bought apartments, saved money, planned for the future. She said her daughter needed to be independent. That you shouldn’t rely only on your husband. That a woman should always have her own safety cushion.
Olga hadn’t understood back then. She thought her mother was overcautious. Now she understood. Her mother knew life was unpredictable. People change. Not everyone can be trusted.
Five apartments. Reliability. Independence. The power to choose.
Olga closed the box of photos and stood up. She walked to the window and looked out at the city. Lights, cars, people. Life goes on.
Her phone vibrated. A message from a friend: “How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Olga smiled and typed back: “I’m good. Meet tomorrow?”
“Let’s do it!”
She put her phone in her pocket and looked out the window again. Inside, she felt calm. For the first time in a long while—since her mother’s death—truly calm.
The apartments were still hers. The keys—in the safe. Her trust in people had become more cautious, but it hadn’t vanished. She simply knew now: protecting what’s yours isn’t selfishness. It’s wisdom.
Her mother had left an inheritance. Not just real estate. A lesson. A lesson in independence, strength, and the right to say no to those who want to take advantage.
Olga locked the apartment and drove home. To her one-bedroom, where she had lived for three years with Igor. Now—alone. And that was good.
The keys to the five apartments lay in her purse. Heavy, solid. A reminder that some things must never be handed over. Not even to those you once considered close
