Gleb froze in the middle of the living room. In his hand he held a glass of cognac, which swayed slowly, casting amber glints on the wall. His face took on a strange shade—neither quite pale nor quite flushed, as if two colors were fighting for the right to claim his skin.
“What kind of NONSENSE are you talking, Margarita?” His voice cut through the air.
I sat in an armchair with my legs crossed, calmly flipping through the documents spread across the coffee table. Bank statements, photographs, printed message threads—an entire dossier on my dear husband.
“No nonsense, Gleb. Just facts. The apartment on Tverskaya you bought six months ago—supposedly as an investment. Except that this ‘investment’ has a name: Alina. And she works at your company as a junior manager.”
The glass in his hand trembled. Drops of cognac fell onto the Persian rug—our tenth anniversary gift.
“HOW did you—” He broke off, realizing the question itself was an admission.
“But that’s not the main point. For fifteen years you humiliated me, turned me into a servant, a shadow, an accessory to your successful persona. And now this.”
I stood up and walked to the window. Beyond the glass, the lights of evening Moscow shimmered. Somewhere out there, in one of the high-rises, was that very apartment—my husband’s little love nest.
“Rita, you’re misunderstanding everything…” Gleb tried to take control, but his voice gave away his confusion.
“Oh, I understand perfectly. I understand how you introduced me at corporate parties: ‘My wife? She’s a housewife—nothing interesting.’ I understand how you laughed with your friends at my attempts to find a job: ‘Who needs a forty-year-old philologist with no experience?’ I understand how you denied me even the simplest things, saving money on me so you could buy your Alinochka designer handbags.”
“DON’T you dare talk like that! I supported you all these years!”
“Supported?” I turned to him. “You BOUGHT me, Gleb. You bought my youth, my dreams, my belief in love. And now that the merchandise has bored you, you’ve decided to replace it with a newer model?”
He took a step toward me, but I raised my hand, stopping him.
“Don’t even THINK about it. Your time for manipulation is over. I filed for divorce. And yes—I’m demanding division of assets. Everything fifty-fifty. Including your company.”
“WHAT?!” Gleb’s face went fully crimson. “You… you…”
“I’m your legal wife. And I have the right to half of everything acquired during the marriage. By the way, that little apartment for Alina was bought during the marriage too. So technically, half of it is mine.”
“You’ve LOST YOUR MIND! I won’t give you a kopeck! You’ll get NOTHING!”
His shout echoed off the walls of our—already former—apartment. I pulled another document from the folder.
“This is a copy of your and Alina’s agreement on ‘joint business management.’ More precisely: transferring part of your company’s assets to a shell firm with her listed as director. I think the tax authorities will be VERY interested in this scheme.”
Gleb let the glass slip from his hand. Crystal exploded into tiny shards; the cognac spread in a dark stain.
“You… you wouldn’t dare…”
“Would I? That depends on you. Either we part ways like civilized people, and you leave me THIS apartment—and your darling gets that one. Or I hand these documents over to the appropriate people, and you and Alina will be explaining the origins of your millions to a very different audience.”
“That’s BLACKMAIL!”
“That’s JUSTICE, Gleb. The very justice you loved to preach about whenever you refused me money for courses, for a therapist, for a simple trip to see my mother. ‘Is it fair that I work and you spend?’—remember your favorite line?”
He collapsed into the armchair, clutching his head. All his polish, all his performative confidence, fell away like husk. In front of me sat a frightened middle-aged man who had suddenly realized his game was up.
“Rita… Margarita… let’s talk… We’ve been together so many years…”
“Yes—so many years. And you know what I finally understood? All those years I lived with a STRANGER. A man who didn’t see a person in me, not a partner—just a convenient add-on to his life. A maid you don’t have to pay.”
I gathered the documents back into the folder and picked up my bag.
“Where are you going?”
“To my mother’s. She’s been asking me to stay with her for a long time. And you… you can call Alina. Let her comfort you. Though I doubt she’ll want to comfort a man who’s about to lose half his fortune.”
“STOP!” He jumped up, blocking the doorway. “You CAN’T just leave like this!”
“I can—and I will. Think about my offer. You have three days. After that, the documents go where they belong.”
“How DARE you threaten me?! I made you into someone! You were nobody—a student from the provinces!”
“You’re right. I was nobody. And I became a shadow. Your shadow. But here’s the thing: shadows disappear when the light goes out. And your light, Gleb, is about to go out.”
I stepped around him and headed for the door. In the hallway I turned back:
“Oh—and I almost forgot. Your mother called. I told her about Alina. And about the apartment. She said you’re just like your father. He took a mistress at your age too. Only your mother was smarter than me—she left right away, taking everything.”
The door clicked shut softly behind me.
Three days flew by in the blink of an eye. My mother met me without questions—she just hugged me and sat me down for tea with homemade jam. In her small two-room apartment near Avtozavodskaya, it felt cozier than in our three-hundred-square-meter elite housing.
“You did the right thing, deciding to do it,” she said, setting the table. “I’ve long seen you were unhappy. I just didn’t want to interfere.”
“Mom… do you regret divorcing Dad?”
She paused, stirring sugar into her cup.
“You know, at first I did. It was scary—lonely—no idea how to live дальше. And then… then I breathed freely. I realized I could choose for myself what to eat for breakfast, what movie to watch in the evening, where to go on vacation. Little things? Maybe. But life is made of those little things.”
My phone buzzed. A message from Gleb: “I agree to your conditions. Notary tomorrow.”
I showed it to my mother. She smiled.
“He got scared?”
“Of course. Alina matters to him more than trouble with the law—but not more than money. He agreed to give me the apartment just to keep the business.”
“And what will you do next?”
I thought for a moment. Next… what next? Forty isn’t the end of life, right?
“First I’ll finish the psychology courses I started secretly behind his back. Then… we’ll see. Maybe I’ll open my own practice. Help women who end up in similar situations.”
“That’s noble.”
“It’s FAIR, Mom.”
The meeting at the notary was quick and emotionless. Gleb looked worn down. Alina didn’t come—apparently he didn’t want her anywhere near an official procedure.
As we signed the documents, he hissed:
“I hope you’re happy. You DESTROYED our family.”
“No, Gleb. You destroyed it. The moment you decided I wasn’t worthy of respect. The moment you started looking for happiness elsewhere. The moment you turned our marriage into a fiction.”
“You’re TAKING REVENGE on me!”
“I’m just taking what’s legally mine. You can’t get years of life back—but you can get an apartment.”
The notary coughed delicately, reminding us the appointment time was limited. We finished and went outside. The May sun was blinding.
“By the way,” I called after Gleb as he was leaving, “Alina called me yesterday.”
He froze.
“What?!”
“Yes, imagine that. She wanted to know whether it’s true you’re getting divorced. And whether your business is in danger. I told the truth. She hung up without saying goodbye.”
His face turned gray.
“You… you did that on purpose!”
“Me? No. Your lies did their job. Alina wanted a successful businessman, not a troubled middle-aged man with an ex-wife and debts. By the way, she already reassigned that shell company to her new boyfriend. Did you know?”
Gleb swayed. It seemed to finally sink in that he’d lost not only his wife, but also his mistress—and part of his business.
“You know, Gleb, there’s a saying: don’t dig a pit for someone else. You spent years digging one for me—humiliating me, devaluing me, betraying me. And you fell into it yourself.”
I turned and walked away. Behind me came his shout:
“RITA! WAIT! Let’s bring everything back! I understand my mistakes!”
But I didn’t turn around. Some bridges burn to the ground—and can’t be rebuilt.
A month passed. I settled into the apartment that now belonged only to me. I threw out everything that reminded me of Gleb—his fishing trophies, his collection of expensive alcohol, even the furniture he had chosen.
I bought simple light curtains instead of heavy drapes, put fresh flowers in every room, hung paintings by local artists on the walls—bright, cheerful, inexpensive, but sincere.
My mother helped with the renovation—more accurately, with remaking the space for me. We painted the walls warm peach tones, laid down soft rugs you could sit on with a cup of tea and a book.
“You know, you have a talent for design,” my mother said, looking around the transformed living room.
“It’s just that I’m finally doing what I want, not what someone else thinks is ‘right.’”
The doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone. On the threshold stood an unfamiliar woman around thirty-five, well dressed.
“Are you Margarita Sergeyevna?”
“Yes. And you are…?”
“My name is Elena. I… I’m the wife of your ex-husband’s partner. May we talk?”
I let her in. We sat in the kitchen; I made tea. Elena nervously twisted the edge of her scarf.
“I know it’s strange that I came. But… I have no one else to turn to. I heard your story. About how you… how you managed to leave.”
“And?”
“My husband… he’s the same as your ex. He humiliates me, cheats, treats me like his property. I want to leave, but I don’t know how. I’m afraid of being left with nothing. We have two children…”
I looked at her and saw myself a year ago—trapped, scared, having lost faith in my own strength.
“Elena, it won’t be easy. But it’s POSSIBLE. First you need a good lawyer—I’ll give you contacts. Then you need to gather evidence of cheating, financial schemes if there are any. And most importantly—don’t be afraid. Fear is what their power over us is built on.”
For the next two hours we talked, making a plan for her freedom. When Elena left, she hugged me.
“Thank you. You gave me hope again.”
“Reach out if you need help. And remember—you deserve respect and love. Real love, not the substitute men like that try to sell us.”
That evening an unknown number called. I almost declined, but curiosity won.
“Margarita Sergeyevna? This is Alina.”
That was the last person I expected to hear.
“I’m listening.”
“I… I wanted to apologize. For everything. I know what you think of me, and you’re right. I acted vilely.”
“Why are you calling?”
“Gleb… he’s stalking me. He’s demanding I return the money he transferred to the company. He’s threatening me. I don’t know what to do.”
The irony of it—my ex-husband’s mistress asking me for advice.
“Alina, you’re an adult. You knew he was married. You knew you were part of financial fraud. Now you’re reaping what you sowed.”
“I understand, but—”
“No ‘but.’ Get a lawyer. And next time, think before you destroy someone else’s family. Though… you know what? Thank you.”
“What? For what?”
“For helping me see Gleb’s true face. If it weren’t for you, I would have kept enduring humiliation, thinking it was normal. Now I’m free. And that is priceless.”
I hung up without waiting for an answer.
Six months passed. I finished my courses and earned a counselor’s certificate. I rented a small office not far from home and started a private practice. There weren’t many clients, but there were some—women in toxic relationships, unsure of themselves, who had lost themselves in marriage.
Every story was unique, yet similar in its own way. Husbands who treated wives as property. Mothers-in-law who tormented daughters-in-law. Mistresses who broke families apart. And women who endured because “where would I go,” “for the children,” “he’ll change.”
I helped them find the strength to change their lives. Not all of them decided to divorce, but all of them started valuing themselves more.
One day, leaving the office, I ran into Gleb. He stood by the entrance, clearly waiting for me. He looked bad—thin, bags under his eyes, wrinkled suit.
“Rita, we need to talk.”
“We have NOTHING to talk about, Gleb.”
“Please. Five minutes.”
I checked the time. There was still time before meeting my mother.
“Fine. Five minutes.”
We went into a nearby café. He ordered coffee; I ordered water.
“You look good,” he began.
“Get to the point.”
“I… I want you back. I understand what a mistake I made. Alina turned out to be a con artist—she drained the money and disappeared. The business is falling apart. My friends turned away when they learned about the scandal. Mom won’t speak to me. I’m ALONE.”
“And you thought I’d take you back? After everything?”
“Rita, we lived together for so many years. We had good things. Remember our wedding? Our trip to Italy?”
“I remember. I also remember you calling me fat when I gained three kilos. I remember you forbidding me to work because ‘a director’s wife shouldn’t work for pennies.’ I remember you introducing me to partners by saying, ‘My wife, unfortunately, isn’t exactly brilliant, but she cooks well.’”
He winced.
“I was an IDIOT. Forgive me. Let’s start over.”
“No, Gleb. Some things can’t be fixed. You broke me, crushed my self-esteem, stole the best years of my life. And now that you’re miserable, you remembered me? No. NEVER.”
I stood up, left money on the table for the water.
“Rita! I’ve changed!”
“Maybe. But it’s not my story anymore. My story now is about how to live дальше. Without you.”
I walked out, leaving him at the table with his cooling coffee. Outside, the autumn sun was shining; the air was clear and crisp.
My phone buzzed—my mother: “Waiting for you for dinner. I baked your favorite apple pie.”
I smiled. Ahead was an evening with the closest person I had, weekends with friends I’d found after the divorce, new clients I could help.
And also—tickets to Barcelona, which I bought myself as a birthday gift. I’ll go alone, stroll down La Rambla, drink sangria in little cafés, admire Gaudí’s creations.
Life after forty is just beginning. And it will be BEAUTIFUL. Just me, my dreams, and the huge world around me.
And Gleb… well. Everyone gets what they deserve. He wanted a young mistress—he got a con artist. He wanted freedom from a “boring wife”—he got loneliness. He wanted to play the master—he ended up nobody.
Fair? More than fair.
I took out my phone and wrote in the women’s support group I had created a month earlier:
“My dears! Remember—you deserve happiness. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Not husbands, not relatives, not society. Your life belongs only to you. And only you decide how to live it. With love, Margarita.”
Within a minute, replies started pouring in—hearts, words of gratitude, stories of small victories. Women who finally said “NO” to abuse. Who left tyrants. Who began new lives.
We are strength. We are support for one another. We are the ones who didn’t give up.
And that is real JUSTICE
