Late evening settled over the city, painting the sky in deep shades of violet. A cozy half-darkness reigned in the quiet apartment, broken only by the soft glow of a desk lamp. Sofia was dozing on the couch, wrapped in a throw, when the insistent ring of her mobile phone tore her from the arms of sleep. Her heart clenched with an inexplicable foreboding, a chill of anxiety ran down her spine. A familiar picture lit up the screen—Mom.
Anna Vasilyevna’s voice sounded muffled and uneven, as if she were trying to master the tremor that ran through every word.
“Sweetheart, are you awake?” she said, and Sofia understood at once—something important and unpleasant was in the air.
“No, Mom, I’m awake. Has something happened? Is it serious?” Sofia sat up, settling herself more comfortably, trying to put as much calm and confidence into her own voice as she could.
“I have to be admitted to the hospital tomorrow. The doctors insist on a procedure. They say it can’t be postponed any longer,” Anna Vasilyevna spoke quietly, choosing her words, but fear seeped through the telephone line, filling Sofia’s room.
“What procedure? Mom, please explain what’s going on?” The young woman rose from the couch, her fingers unconsciously clutching the edge of the throw.
“Little stones have formed inside me, in the gallbladder. They’ve begun to cause trouble, there’s inflammation. They admitted me today, and in the morning they scheduled surgery,” Anna Vasilyevna stifled a cough. “Sweetheart, can you come? I would really like to have you near me.”
“Of course I’ll come. I’ll take the very first bus that leaves in the morning,” her daughter answered at once, her thoughts already racing through options, drawing up a plan.
After ending the heavy conversation, Sofia slowly walked into the kitchen. Her husband, Artyom, was sitting at the table scrolling through a newsfeed on his tablet. The calm of his face was lit by the bluish glow of the screen.
“Artyom, I need to go to my mother urgently. I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” Sofia said, stepping up to the sink.
“Did something serious happen?” Her husband tore his eyes from the screen, his gaze turning attentive and focused.
“She’s having surgery. They’ll remove her gallbladder. I need to be there to help her afterward,” Sofia poured a glass of water, her hands moving automatically.
“I see. Go, of course. It’s your duty. How many days do you plan to be gone?” Artyom set the tablet aside and focused entirely on his wife.
“At least a week. Maybe a bit longer—it’ll depend on how quickly Mom recovers,” she sat down at the table, suddenly feeling tired.
“Alright. I’ll manage everything here. I’ll finally have a chance to get the balcony in order—I’ve been meaning to for a long time,” Artyom shrugged, his voice even and reassuring.
Sofia only nodded. Artyom really had been promising to clear the clutter on the balcony for months. Maybe he really would get around to it now, she thought.
Morning began in a flurry. Sofia quickly packed a bag with the essentials, remembered her documents and wallet. Artyom accompanied her to the bus station and helped stow the luggage in the bus.
“Don’t forget to call as soon as you arrive. And keep me posted on what’s happening—let me know how your mother is,” her husband asked, embracing Sofia to say goodbye at the bus door.
“I will. And you don’t disappear either—call if anything comes up,” Sofia kissed him on the cheek and climbed the steps into the bus.
The trip took several long hours. Her mother lived in a small provincial town more than three hundred kilometers away. Sofia arrived and, without stopping at her mother’s empty house, went straight to the hospital. Anna Vasilyevna lay on a hospital bed; her face was pale and tired, but hope shone in her eyes.
“You came, my dear,” her mother tried to smile; it was a little weak, but sincere.
“Of course, Mama. Everything will go well. This operation has long been routine for surgeons—they have enormous experience,” the daughter took her mother’s hand in hers, feeling the delicate coolness of her skin.
The procedure took place the next day. Everything went successfully, without any unforeseen complications. Anna Vasilyevna was transferred to a regular ward, where she gradually came to after the anesthesia. Sofia stayed by her side constantly, helping however she could: offering water, fluffing pillows, reading favorite books aloud.
The first few days after surgery were especially hard. Her mother suffered from pain, her sleep was restless and fitful, every movement took tremendous effort. The daughter became her shadow, her support and help. She fed her with a spoon, helped her to the bathroom, carefully changed the dressings.
Artyom did not call often. Once or twice a day, and the calls were brief. He asked about his mother-in-law’s health and tersely said that everything was fine with him. Sofia didn’t pay much attention—her husband was busy at work; there were always things to do.
A whole week passed. They discharged Anna Vasilyevna from the hospital. Being at home clearly did her good, though help and care were still necessary. Sofia cooked, cleaned the house, and accompanied her mother for the mandatory dressing changes at the clinic.
Her contact with her husband grew more sporadic and meager. Artyom sent short messages: “All good,” “Crisis at work,” “I’ll call later.” Phone calls happened every other day at most, and lasted no more than a couple of minutes.
She chalked it up to simple fatigue and workload. Artyom was a foreman on a major construction site, with irregular hours; he often returned home after dark. He was probably just dead on his feet and had no energy for long conversations, Sofia reassured herself.
By the end of the second week, Anna Vasilyevna was noticeably stronger. She started moving about the house on her own, and the pain had practically subsided. Sofia decided it was time to return home. Her mother didn’t argue—she could see how tired her daughter was from the constant strain and care.
“Go home, my dear. I can manage now. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me,” Anna Vasilyevna embraced her daughter before the departure, and in her arms there was a whole universe of warmth and gratitude.
“Mom, if anything happens, even the slightest trouble, call me at once. I’ll come the same day,” Sofia kissed her mother on the cheek, inhaling her familiar scent.
The bus left early in the morning. Sofia took a seat by the window and set her travel bag on the neighboring seat. She took out her phone and wrote to Artyom: “I’m on my way. I’ll be home in about four hours.”
There was no reply. She put the phone in her pocket and closed her eyes. The road ahead was long; she could rest and sleep a little.
She awoke as the bus smoothly braked at the next stop. They had arrived. Sofia took her bag and stepped onto the platform. It was chilly outside; the autumn sun hid behind a veil of gray clouds, its light dim and diffuse. Gusty wind drove colorful fallen leaves along the asphalt, making a sad, yet beautiful carpet.
She hailed a taxi. It was a twenty-minute ride home. Sofia looked out the car window, thinking how nice it would be to get into her own apartment, take a long hot shower, and finally rest properly in her own bed.
The taxi stopped by the familiar five-story building. Sofia paid the driver and took her bag. She walked to the entryway—and suddenly froze in place.
Right by the entrance stood a car she didn’t recognize. A new, gleaming foreign model in a rich dark-blue color, the body perfectly clean. It occupied the very spot where their modest family car always parked.
She frowned. Maybe a neighbor had bought a new car? Or perhaps someone was visiting? She shrugged, pushed away the odd anxiety, and went inside.
She climbed to the third floor. She pulled the keyring from her purse and approached the familiar door of her apartment. She put her key in the lock and tried to turn it.
The key wouldn’t turn. It jammed, as if it had run up against an immovable barrier. Sofia tried again, adding a bit more force—the result was the same. She pulled the key out and examined it closely. It was her key, the right one, the very same, with no damage.
Then she looked more closely at the lock itself. It was different. Completely new. Not the one that had been there two weeks before.
A sharp, icy anxiety stabbed her heart. Sofia pressed the doorbell. She heard unhurried steps inside, then the click of the lock. The door swung open.
A young woman she didn’t know stood on the threshold. Around thirty, very well-groomed, with long blond hair and flawless makeup. She wore an expensive silk robe, and a delicate gold chain glinted at her neck. The stranger looked at Sofia with a cold, appraising gaze full of superiority.
“Do you need something?” she asked, leaning carelessly against the doorframe.
“This is my apartment. Excuse me, who are you? And where is my husband?” Sofia took a step forward, trying to peer past the woman into the apartment.
“Your apartment?” The woman smirked, open mockery in the smirk. “Not anymore. We live here now.”
“What are you saying? What do you mean, ‘we live here now’?” Sofia couldn’t believe her ears.
“Your personal things are on the landing by the dumpsters. You can take them, if you still need them,” the stranger moved to slam the door.
“Wait a minute! What things? Where is Artyom?” Instinctively, Sofia braced her palm against the door, stopping it from closing.
“Artyom is busy at the moment. And your stuff is where I said—by the trash bins. You can go check,” the door slammed with a loud click right in her face.
Sofia remained standing on the landing. A deafening ringing filled her ears; her legs felt weak and unsteady. Her thoughts tangled, refusing to line up into any logical chain.
Her apartment. A stranger inside. The lock changed. Her things thrown out.
She spun around and quickly went down the stairs. She stepped into the courtyard and headed for the trash containers. Next to the big bins stood several large black garbage bags, the corners of her dresses, sweater sleeves, familiar jeans sticking haphazardly out.
Sofia came closer. She untied the first bag. Inside lay her clothes—dresses, sweaters, and trousers she had once carefully folded. The second bag held her shoes. The third—important documents, family photos, an old treasured photo album.
Her hands trembled. She crouched down, helplessly sifting through the contents of the bags. Everything was there. Her entire life, her entire story, all her memories stuffed into garbage sacks and thrown out like worthless junk.
A neighbor, Aunt Valentina, was passing by, returning from the shop with bags full of groceries. Seeing Sofia, she stopped, her face showing genuine sympathy and pity.
“Sofia? You’re back already? I thought you were still with your mother, helping her.”
“I just arrived. Valentina Petrovna, what is going on here? Do you know anything?” Sofia rose, brushed the dust from her knees, and gestured toward the scattered bags.
“Oh, dear child…” the neighbor shook her head sadly, sorrow in her eyes. “I don’t even know how to tell you this. Your Artyom brought some woman here. That was about three days ago. He said she is now the full mistress here.”
“What woman? What do you mean?” Sofia’s voice faltered, breaking.
“Well, the very one who’s living in your apartment now. Beautiful, well-groomed. She came in an expensive car. They took your things out together and packed them into these bags,” Aunt Valentina sighed heavily, as if she herself found it hard to breathe under the weight of such injustice. “I tried to talk to Artyom, asked how he could do such a thing—his wife looking after her sick mother while he brings a mistress into the house. He answered rudely, told me to mind my own business and not tell him how to live.”
Sofia listened, and inside her everything slowly froze over with ice. Just two weeks. She had been gone only fourteen days. And in that short time her husband had managed to bring another woman into their home, throw his legal wife’s belongings into the trash, and change the locks.
“Sofia, you need to go to the police. This is outrageous! It’s a violation of every law!” the neighbor advised, her voice full of sincere concern.
“Thank you, Valentina Petrovna, for caring. I… I’ll deal with this somehow,” Sofia forced out the words and reached for her phone.
The neighbor nodded in understanding and, with a heavy sigh, went on toward her entrance. Sofia remained alone with the bags that now embodied her entire past life. Her hands shook; her breathing was uneven; tears prickled at her eyes. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, to sob, to run upstairs and kick that door down.
But she gathered herself, mustering all her will. She turned on her phone camera and methodically began photographing everything she saw: the bags with her belongings, the trash containers, the entryway, the license plate of the unfamiliar car. Everything that might serve as evidence later.
She carefully put the documents into her travel bag—passport, marriage certificate, work record book, health insurance. She gently tucked the old photo album inside as well. She put the clothes back into the bags and left them by the bins—this wasn’t the moment to lug them around.
She dialed Artyom’s number. Long rings, then the call dropped. She dialed again—the same story. She sent a short message: “I need to talk to you. Immediately. Explain what is going on.”
No reply. Sofia put the phone back in her pocket. She had to decide what to do next. They clearly wouldn’t let her into the apartment; she had no keys, and no one intended to let her back in.
She pulled out her phone again and called her longtime friend, Anastasia. Long rings, and then—an familiar, dear voice.
“Sonia? You’re back already? How’s your mother?”
“Nastya, I urgently need your help. Can I come to you? Right now?” Sofia’s voice trembled again, though she tried to keep herself in check.
“Of course you can! Come immediately. Just tell me what happened—are you alright?”
“I’ll tell you everything when I get there. I’m on my way,” Sofia hung up, unable to continue.
She called another taxi. While she waited, she looked up again at the windows of her apartment. Third floor, end windows. The lights were on, and she could make out vague silhouettes moving behind the curtains.
Artyom and his new flame were setting up their life in the apartment Sofia had inherited from her parents. In the apartment where she had lived with him for five long years. Where all their memories were kept, where plans for the future were made, where hopes had lived.
The taxi arrived. Sofia got in and gave her friend’s address. The car pulled away smoothly. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
Inside her raged a real storm of mixed feelings and emotions—hurt, anger, unbearable heartache, utter bewilderment. How could someone stoop so low and act so vilely? To throw his own wife out on the street while she was caring for her sick mother?
But alongside those destructive emotions, something else began to grow—slowly but surely. A cold, steely resolve. Sofia had no intention of giving up without a fight. She wasn’t about to hand over her apartment, her hard-earned possessions, her very life built with such effort.
She would fight. She would prove her legal right to it all. She would take back what rightfully belonged only to her. And Artyom and his new beloved would answer for what they’d done and bear the punishment they deserved.
Her friend Anastasia met her at the door, worry written on her face. She brought Sofia inside, sat her on the soft living-room couch, and brought a big mug of hot, sweet tea.
“Now tell me this instant what happened,” Anastasia said, settling down beside her and studying her intently.
Sofia told her everything. About returning home, about the unfamiliar woman opening the door to her own apartment, about her things tossed by the trash, about the neighbor’s words. She spoke with surprising calm, but her hands still trembled, and her fingers gripped the warm mug helplessly.
“What a bastard,” Anastasia breathed, feelingly, when she’d heard it all. “While you were caring for your mother, he managed to move his mistress into your home.”
“I don’t even know what to do now. They won’t let me into my own apartment; they changed the locks,” Sofia set the half-finished mug on the coffee table.
“Tomorrow morning we’ll find you a good lawyer. This is outright lawlessness; the apartment is your property,” Anastasia declared firmly. “And for now you’ll stay with me—as long as it takes until this gets resolved.”
Sofia only nodded gratefully, unable to say a word. The night passed with almost no sleep. She lay on the fold-out bed in the guest room and replayed everything over and over. How could Artyom have done this? How could such a thing even be possible?
In the morning, Anastasia helped her find an attorney. A friend recommended a specialist in housing disputes—Dmitry Alexandrovich, an experienced lawyer with an impeccable reputation. They made an appointment at once.
The consultation was set for lunchtime. Dmitry Alexandrovich turned out to be a man of about fifty, gray at the temples, wearing stern glasses, with an attentive, perceptive look. He listened to Sofia’s story from beginning to end without interrupting, only occasionally asking clarifying questions.
“Is the apartment in your name? On what grounds?” he asked when she’d finished.
“Yes, entirely in my name. I inherited it from my parents before I married. It’s registered as inherited property,” Sofia answered clearly.
“Then it’s your personal property, not marital community property,” the lawyer nodded with satisfaction, making notes in his notebook. “Your spouse had absolutely no right to dispose of it without your knowledge and consent.”
“But he won’t let me in now. He changed the locks,” she said, taking out her phone and opening the photo gallery.
Dmitry Alexandrovich carefully studied the pictures—the bags of belongings, the license plate of the unfamiliar car, the view of the entryway.
“You were right to document everything. It will be very useful,” he said, setting the phone aside. “Do you have all the original documents confirming your ownership of the property?”
“Yes, of course, I have all the originals. The certificate of state registration of ownership, a recent extract from the Unified State Register of Real Estate,” Sofia took from her bag a neatly organized folder of important papers.
The lawyer examined the documents meticulously, checking seals, signatures, dates, verifying numbers.
“The paperwork is all in order. You are the sole and rightful owner of the dwelling. No one had the legal right to evict you,” he concluded. “Now the main question: did your husband sell the apartment, or did he merely move his partner in?”
“I don’t know for sure. The neighbor said the woman stated outright that they’re the owners now,” Sofia frowned, trying to recall every detail.
“We need to check immediately whether any official transactions were made. We’ll request an extended extract from the register; it will show all changes and operations,” the lawyer said, making a few more notes.
They ordered the extended extract at once. The document arrived two days later. Sofia returned to the office to receive it. Dmitry Alexandrovich unfolded the papers and began to read carefully.
His face darkened as he progressed.
“Unfortunately, a transaction was carried out. A week ago. The apartment was sold to one Galina Viktorovna Sokolova for two million rubles,” the lawyer pointed out the ill-fated line in the extract.
“Sold? But I didn’t sign anything! No documents!” Sofia jumped to her feet, unable to contain her indignation.
“Your signature is present here. But with a very high degree of probability, it’s forged,” he frowned deeper. “Sadly, I’ve seen this before. Dishonest spouses often use old powers of attorney or simply forge signatures.”
“Power of attorney…” Sofia suddenly remembered an important detail. “I did give him a power of attorney about two years ago—so he could pay utilities while I was on an extended vacation.”
“There we have it. He may have used that. Or simply fabricated your signature on the documents,” the lawyer noted. “We’ll now have to challenge the transaction in court. We’ll file a criminal complaint for fraud with the police and simultaneously prepare a civil suit to have the sale declared void.”
Sofia nodded silently, grasping the seriousness of it all. Dmitry Alexandrovich immediately began preparing the necessary documents. They drafted a detailed police statement about the fraud and signature forgery, and prepared a lawsuit to have the sale contract invalidated and the unlawfully residing persons evicted.
Three days later, Sofia filed everything in person. With the police—a complaint about fraud and forging official documents. With the court—a suit to void the sale and evict the illegal occupants.
The investigator who received the complaint ordered a handwriting examination to establish the authenticity of the signature. Sofia would have to provide samples of her signature for subsequent comparative analysis.
The court scheduled a preliminary hearing for a month later—time to review the materials of the case.
Artyom continued to ignore calls and messages. Sofia sent him an official notice that she had filed suit. The document was delivered by courier, and he was forced to sign for it.
The first court session was fairly formal. The judge reviewed the claim, heard both sides. Artyom appeared with his attorney and stated that his wife had voluntarily agreed to the sale and personally received all the money.
“That is an outright lie! I never signed any sale contract!” Sofia protested heatedly, barely holding back her emotions.
“Your Honor, we request evidence to the contrary,” Artyom’s attorney demanded.
“A handwriting examination will be conducted in this case. Its results will give us an unambiguous answer,” Dmitry Alexandrovich replied calmly and confidently.
The judge granted the motion for an expert examination. Sofia provided the necessary signature samples. Now the experts had to compare them thoroughly with the signature on the sale contract.
While the examination was carried out, another two long months passed. Sofia continued to live with Anastasia, working remotely from her friend’s apartment. Her morale was at the limit—every new day began with thoughts of her apartment, of the fact that a complete stranger was playing mistress there.
Artyom still ignored all attempts at contact. Through her lawyer, Sofia learned some details of the deal. The buyer of record was Galina Viktorovna Sokolova—the mother of the very woman her husband had taken up with. The woman was fifty-eight and managed a local pharmacy.
The fraud scheme was brutally simple. They executed the sale to the mistress’s mother to try to hide their true aim. On paper the money had been transferred; there was even a receipt for its acceptance. The signatures on both the contract and the receipt allegedly belonged to Sofia, but on closer inspection were obviously forged.
Patiently, Dmitry Alexandrovich explained:
“They acted in haste. They wanted to push it through as quickly as possible before you could return and interfere. That’s why the transaction looks so dubious and sloppy. The court will take note.”
At last, three months after the filing, the expert report was completed. The official conclusion came a week before the next hearing. After studying it closely, the lawyer called Sofia at once:
“Congratulations. The examination gave an unequivocal conclusion—the signature on the contract is forged. You did not sign those documents.”
For the first time in months, Sofia exhaled in genuine relief. Three months of agonizing waiting, constant nerves, sleepless nights, raw anguish—and at last, a substantial result in their favor.
The next court hearing was set for mid-December. It was a cold winter day; large, fluffy snowflakes swirled outside. Sofia arrived early at the courthouse, where Dmitry Alexandrovich was already waiting.
Artyom came accompanied by his attorney—and by that same woman. She looked excessively self-assured—wearing an expensive designer coat, high heels, flawless makeup. She looked at Sofia with undisguised contempt and arrogance.
All participants entered the courtroom. The judge read the handwriting expert’s conclusion aloud. The signature on the sale contract was officially recognized as forged. The transaction had been carried out in gross violation of the law, without the knowledge or consent of the rightful owner.
Artyom’s attorney tried to challenge the results, alleging bias and lack of objectivity. The judge rejected the motion, explaining that the examination had been conducted by an independent accredited laboratory and there were no grounds to doubt its findings.
Then Dmitry Alexandrovich presented additional evidence: written testimony from the neighbor, Valentina Petrovna, describing how Artyom and his partner carried out Sofia’s belongings; photographs of the bags by the trash containers; a printout of messages showing the husband ignoring his wife’s questions.
The judge listened attentively to all arguments. Then she retired to the deliberation room to render a decision, returning about half an hour later.
“All rise. The court is in session to pronounce judgment,” the clerk announced.
Everyone stood. The judge began reading the operative part:
“The plaintiff, Sofia Andreevna Mironova’s claims are to be fully and unconditionally satisfied. The sale of the apartment located at [address] is hereby declared null and void. The defendants, Artyom Igorevich Mironov and Galina Viktorovna Sokolova, are ordered to vacate the premises within ten days of this decision entering into legal force. The court further orders Artyom Igorevich Mironov to compensate the plaintiff for moral damages in the amount of one hundred thousand rubles and to reimburse all court costs.”
Sofia closed her eyes, feeling a massive weight that had pressed on her for months lift from her shoulders. Victory. Justice had prevailed. The law was on her side.
Artyom’s partner shot to her feet, shouted something loud and incoherent at him, and, not hiding her outrage, ran from the courtroom. Artyom remained seated, his face pale, his eyes empty and dull.
After the decision was read, Sofia left the courtroom with her attorney. Dmitry Alexandrovich shook her hand warmly and firmly.
“Congratulations on a well-deserved victory. The case is won. In ten days your apartment will be completely vacated.”
“Thank you so much for all your help and support,” Sofia smiled genuinely for the first time in many months, feeling long-forgotten calm return to her heart.
Artyom followed them out and tried to speak to his former wife. But Sofia walked past without so much as a glance. There was nothing to talk about. Everything had long been said by his own actions.
The ten days granted by the court passed. Sofia arrived at her apartment with Dmitry Alexandrovich and a court bailiff. They climbed to the third floor and rang the bell.
Artyom opened the door. He was alone, without his partner. He looked battered and exhausted—unshaven face, rumpled clothes, red sleepless eyes.
“Are you vacating the premises in accordance with the court’s decision?” the bailiff asked formally.
“Yes. I’ll gather my last things now and leave,” the ex-husband answered quietly, lowering his eyes.
Sofia stepped inside without a word. She looked around slowly. The apartment looked very different from what she was used to—new, alien furniture; different wallpaper in the hallway; an unfamiliar rug at the threshold. But it was still her apartment, her home, which she had managed to defend.
Artyom, saying nothing, began stuffing his scattered things into big travel bags. There was no sign of his partner.
“And where is your lady friend?” Sofia couldn’t resist asking, breaking the heavy silence.
“Gone. As soon as she heard the court’s decision, she packed immediately. Said she wouldn’t tie her life to a loser who can’t even hold on to his own housing,” Artyom smirked bitterly, still packing.
Sofia didn’t answer. Her ex-husband had gotten what he deserved. He had betrayed and deceived her, tossed her things out like trash while she cared for her sick mother. Now he was left completely alone—without an apartment, without a lover, facing court-ordered debts.
About an hour later Artyom finished packing. The bailiff carefully checked that everything had been removed and nothing belonging to others remained. The ex-husband walked out silently, lugging his heavy bags. On the threshold he turned one last time:
“Sofia, forgive me, if you can…”
“Goodbye, Artyom,” she replied coldly and utterly impassively, and closed the door—leaving her entire former life on the other side.
She remained standing in the hush of her entryway, listening to the silence. The apartment belonged to her alone again. There was no longer any place here for lies, betrayal, or strangers.
The first thing she did was call a locksmith. She replaced all the locks with new, modern ones, better protected against tampering. She threw the old keys into the trash without the slightest regret.
Then she picked up the bright synthetic rug that the lover had laid by the door. It was so alien, so out of place in her home. She rolled it up and carried it to the trash. In its place, she laid her old, familiar rug, which she’d found among her belongings once thrown out.
Back inside, she again walked slowly through each room, touching the walls, the furniture, the familiar objects. The home welcomed her with its warm, familiar coziness. There was work ahead—restoring the apartment to its former beloved look, removing all traces of that unwanted presence.
Over the next few days, Sofia devoted herself to a small but thorough refresh. She stripped the new wallpaper that had been hung by Artyom and his partner and returned the walls to her own light, calm pattern. She put the furniture back where it belonged. She threw out all the things they had left behind.
Gradually, step by step, the apartment regained its old, dear appearance. Sofia worked unhurriedly, savoring every moment. Each action restored her sense of home—her personal, protected space that no one would ever dare invade again without her consent.
Anastasia came almost every day to help with cleaning and arranging. Together they washed the windows, hung new, beautiful drapes, and arranged the books on the living-room shelves.
“Well, how does it feel to be home again?” Anastasia asked as they wiped dust from the big bookcase.
“It’s impossible to put into words. I feel again that this is my place, my corner, my fortress,” Sofia smiled, and there was so much light and peace in that smile.
“And you don’t feel sorry for him? For Artyom?” her friend asked gently, almost in a whisper.
“No. Not a bit. He made his choice. He betrayed me when I needed his support most, while I was with my sick mother. He got what he deserved, and I feel nothing for him but indifference,” Sofia answered firmly, without a trace of doubt.
Anastasia simply nodded in understanding, and the friends continued their work in comfortable, trusting silence.
By New Year’s the apartment was completely transformed. Sofia had removed every trace of the intruders, restoring the dear, homey comfort of her place. She even bought herself a new, comfortable couch—the old one reminded her too much of her life with Artyom, and she no longer needed those memories.
On the evening of December thirty-first she sat alone in her kitchen with a large mug of fragrant herbal tea. Soft snow was falling outside; the whole city was preparing to greet the new year, a new chapter of life. Sofia watched the winter fairy tale beyond the window and thought about the long, difficult path she had walked over the past year.
So much had happened. The betrayal of the person closest to her, a long and exhausting fight for her own apartment, court proceedings, nerve-racking waiting, and at last a deserved victory. Four months of constant tension, sleepless nights, tears, and despair. But she endured it all, did not break, did not give up, and managed to defend what rightfully belonged to her.
Her phone buzzed softly on the table. It was a message from her mother: “Happy New Year, my dear! Wishing you strong health and great happiness!”
Sofia smiled and quickly replied: “Happy New Year to you too, my dear Mama! How are you feeling? Is anything bothering you?”
“Everything’s wonderful—I feel great. The doctors say I’ve fully recovered. Come visit me in the spring; we’ll spend time together.”
“I definitely will. I miss you so much. Big hugs.”
She set the phone aside. Her mother was healthy, the apartment was returned, justice had prevailed. She could now begin an entirely new life with a clear heart and an unburdened soul. A life without lies, without betrayal, without people ready to stab you in the back at your hardest moment.
The future awaited her—clean, bright, free of the burdens of the past, full of new hopes and boundless possibilities. And that future belonged to her alone. It began right now, in the quiet and comfort of her own home, with the soft clinking of glasses through the wall and the steady ticking of the clock counting down the last minutes of the departing year. And in that future, she would surely be happy
