— The apartment is mine. You’re moving out.
Sergey was standing in the bedroom doorway. One hand on the doorframe. Not drunk—just certain.
Behind him hovered Kristina from his department. About twenty-eight, a short skirt. She was studying the photos of us on the wall, as if deciding what to keep and what to throw away.
When twenty-seven years end in one minute
I sat on the bed with an open suitcase. Folding blouses slowly. Into neat stacks.
Sergey was waiting for tears. Or screaming.
I could see it—he was waiting.
— Alright.
My voice came out calm. My hands froze. As if they’d gone numb—the way they do when you’ve stood too long at a bus stop in winter.
He blinked. Kristina turned her head too.
— Just like that?
I raised my eyes. Looked at him—really looked at him for the first time in these minutes.
— Just like that.
Sergey let go of the doorframe and stepped into the room. Kristina stayed in the hallway. Apparently she understood it was too early to barge in.
— You can stay at Lenka’s for now. Or with your mother. Then we’ll sell the apartment. Split the money. Civilized.
— Uh-huh.
I zipped the suitcase. Took the bag with my documents. Walked past him. He didn’t even move aside. I had to squeeze through with my shoulder.
In the hallway, Kristina was examining my jacket on the hook. She touched the sleeve—checking the fabric.
— Goodbye.
I said it to her, not to Sergey. She flinched.
The door closed softly. The lock clicked.
I stood on the landing, holding the suitcase and the bag, thinking: twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years in one minute.
The elevator arrived. I went down. Stepped outside.
November. Damp. It gets dark by five.
I took out my phone and texted Lena: “Can I stay with you? For a couple days.”
Her reply came thirty seconds later: “Come. The key’s with the neighbors.”
Three years of quiet preparation
Lena came in the morning. She brought cabbage pies and coffee. Sat across from me on the folding cot where I’d slept, watching me closely.
— You’re too calm.
— I’m just tired.
— No. — Lena poured coffee into two mugs. — You’ve got something planned. I’ve known you thirty years. When you’re this calm, it means you’ve already decided everything.
I took the mug and blew on it. It was hot, burning my lips.
— Three years ago, I transferred the apartment into my name.
Lena froze. The pie stopped halfway to her mouth.
— Meaning?..
— Meaning the apartment is mine. Legally. Sergey signed a deed of gift in 2022. He thought it was for “tax optimization.” Like if we ever wanted to sell, we’d pay less. That’s how I explained it.
— And in reality?
— In reality, back then I already knew about Marina from the next building over. I saw them in his car by the mall. He kissed her. He hadn’t kissed me in five years.
Lena set the pie on a napkin and wiped her hands.
— And you stayed silent?
— I stayed silent. Then there was Olya, the intern. Nineteen, plump lips. Looked at him like he was a god. He’d come home and talk about how clueless she was—yet he was glowing.
— Vera…
— Don’t. — I took a sip of coffee. — I don’t want pity. I want fairness. After Olya, I went to a lawyer. A good one. An expensive one. He explained: everything bought in a marriage gets split in half. But if one spouse gifts an apartment to the other—it becomes personal property. It doesn’t get divided.
— And Seryozha signed?
— He signed. The notary read him all the consequences. Sergey sat there, nodded. Thinking about taxes. And I was thinking: there it is. My insurance policy.
Lena stood up and went to the window. Outside was gray November fog; through it, the neighboring buildings barely showed.
— Does he know?
— He will. When he decides to “divide” the apartment.
— And when will that be?
— Soon. He said “civilized,” remember? That means he’ll come with an offer.
Lena turned around. Her face was something between admiration and horror.
— Three years. You stayed with him for three years. Knowing he was cheating. Preparing.
— I’m not a saint, Len. I’m just not stupid.
— I’m fifty-three. A methodologist with a salary of forty-two thousand. Renting on that money means keeping ten for food. I can’t afford emotions. I can only afford a plan.
— Damn. — Lena sat back down. — You scare me.
— Really?
— Really. So cold. So collected.
I finished my coffee and set the mug on the floor—carefully, without a sound.
— I’m not cold. I just know tears won’t help. But a deed of gift will.
Negotiations with the loser
Sergey came on Saturday. Lena left for her dacha—on purpose, so she wouldn’t interfere.
I opened the door. He stood there with a pastry shop bag. Éclairs—my favorites. Once.
— Can I come in?
I stepped aside. He walked into the room, looked around: folding cot, suitcase in the corner, jacket over the chair.
— It’s cramped here.
— Temporary.
He put the bag on the table. Sat down. Crossed his arms—negotiator’s pose. I stayed standing.
— Verka, I overreacted. I shouldn’t have done it in front of Kristina. Sorry.
— Okay.
— Let’s talk normally. About dividing things. We’ll sell the apartment. Split the money fifty-fifty. You’ll be able to buy yourself a one-bedroom somewhere on the outskirts. Or a studio. It’ll be enough.
— The apartment isn’t divisible.
He tilted his head like a dog that doesn’t understand a command.
— How is it not divisible? Joint marital property. The law.
— The apartment is registered in my name. Since 2022.
Sergey uncrossed his arms and put his palms on his knees.
— What?
— Do you remember? We went to the notary. We did the deed of gift. You gifted me the apartment. For tax optimization—remember?
His face changed. From pink to gray. Then to red.
— You… are you joking?
— No.
He jumped up and paced the room. Three steps there, three back.
— That’s illegal! I didn’t understand what I was signing!
— You understood. The notary read you all the consequences. You signed. Voluntarily.
— But I thought—
— You thought about taxes. And I thought about Marina. And about Olya. And about Kristina. Back then she wasn’t even around yet. But I knew—there would be someone. Sooner or later.
Sergey stopped and stared at me, like he was seeing me for the first time.
— You… did it on purpose?
— I was careful.
— Three years. You kept quiet for three years. Lived with me. Cooked, washed, smiled. And you knew.
— I knew.
He sat down again, slowly. Like an old man.
— I’ll go to a lawyer. I’ll challenge the deed. I’ll prove you tricked me.
— Try.
My voice was even.
Sergey looked at me—and I saw it: he understood. He understood he’d lost.
— So I’m left with nothing?
— You’re left with Kristina. That’s love, right? Real, big love. You’ll manage. You’ll rent a place together.
He stood up and grabbed the bag of éclairs.
— Leave it, — I said. — I truly did like them. Once.
He left, slamming the door.
I went to the table and opened the bag. The éclairs were pretty—chocolate glaze. I bit into one.
Stale. Yesterday’s.
I threw it into the trash.
The lawyer explains the rules of the game
A week later, an unknown number called. A man’s voice, businesslike:
— Vera Alexeyevna? I represent the interests of Sergey Viktorovich Sokolov. We would like to discuss the deed of gift for the apartment.
— Discuss it.
— In person. Tomorrow at eleven. Office at 23 Sovetskaya. Does that work?
— It does.
I arrived ten minutes early. Third floor. A sign: “Legal Consultation.”
The receptionist led me into a meeting room: a table, six chairs, a window overlooking a parking lot. Sergey was already there. Beside him was a lawyer—young, glasses, a folder of documents.
— Have a seat, — the lawyer nodded to the chair opposite. — My name is Anton Igorevich. I’ve reviewed the situation. We have questions.
I sat down and placed my bag on my knees.
Outside, snow was falling—first of the year, big flakes.
— I’m listening.
The lawyer opened the folder and took out the gift deed. A copy.
— You claim that Sergey Viktorovich voluntarily gifted you the apartment?
— I’m not the one claiming it. The notary is. Here’s his signature.
— But Sergey Viktorovich did not understand the consequences.
I looked at Sergey. He sat staring at the table, fingers interlocked, knuckles white.
— Anton Igorevich, have you read the text?
— There’s a phrase here: “The legal consequences of the gift have been explained to me, namely: the transfer of ownership of the real estate object from the donor to the donee irrevocably.” Sergey signed beneath it. Or does he not know how to read?
The lawyer adjusted his glasses.
— A gift can be challenged if deception is proven.
— Who deceived whom? I told my husband: let’s put the apartment in my name—it’ll be easier with taxes if we ever decide to sell. That’s true. If property has been owned for more than five years, the tax is lower. I didn’t lie. I just didn’t say why I also needed it.
— But you concealed your true intentions.
— My intentions are my business. The law asks about the form of the transaction, not thoughts.
Sergey jerked and raised his head.
— You planned it for three years! Three years you lived with me, knowing you’d throw me out!
— I didn’t throw you out. You left on your own terms. You brought Kristina into our apartment and told me to move out. Or did you forget?
— I… lost my temper.
— You lost your temper. And I kept my documents in order for three years.
The lawyer flipped a page and pulled out another sheet.
— It states that renovation work in the apartment was done with joint funds eight years ago—three hundred and fifty thousand. Sergey Viktorovich may claim compensation.
— The renovation was in 2017. Eight years ago. The statute of limitations is three years. You’re late.
Anton Igorevich took off his glasses, wiped them with a cloth, and put them back on.
— You’re well prepared.
— I prepared for three years.
— And all that time you stayed silent?
— All that time I was a wife.
— I cooked, washed, went to his mother’s dacha. Smiled at his friends. Endured him coming home late, smelling of someone else’s perfume. I did what a wife should do. And he did what a husband shouldn’t.
Sergey slammed his fist on the table.
— What do my weaknesses have to do with it?! We’re talking about the apartment!
— The apartment. My apartment. The one you wanted to split with me in half. And give half to that girl who’s twenty-eight. Who didn’t put a cent into the mortgage.
Who didn’t get up at six in the morning to make it to work and cook you breakfast. Who didn’t sit with your mother in the hospital when she had a stroke.
Silence.
The lawyer stared at the papers. Sergey stared out the window. The snow was falling thicker, covering the cars below in white caps.
— The deed was executed properly, — Anton Igorevich said quietly. — You signed voluntarily, Sergey Viktorovich. The notary recorded the explanation of consequences. It can’t be overturned.
Sergey didn’t answer. He kept looking out the window, as if there was something very important there.
— Could I at least… — He stopped, swallowed. — Could I stay in the apartment until I find a place? A month. Two.
I stood up and picked up my bag.
— No. Lena will bring your things. Where to?
— I… I’ll rent a room. On Zarechnaya. — His voice sounded чужой—strange, worn down.
— Fine. We’ll bring them tomorrow.
I walked out. In the corridor, the receptionist was painting her nails pink. The elevator moved slowly. Music was playing—something about love.
I listened and thought: twenty-seven years. Half a life. And it ended in twenty minutes in an office overlooking snow.
A different life in the old apartment
I packed Sergey’s things myself. Lena offered to help, but I refused. I needed to do it alone.
Three bags, a box of documents. Suits, shirts, his running sneakers—though he hadn’t run in three years. Razor, cologne.
A framed photo—us at the sea, twenty years ago. Back then I still dyed my hair light brown. He had no gray. We were both smiling, arms around each other.
I put the photo in the box and sealed it with tape.
Lena took the things to Zarechnaya. Came back two hours later.
— Did he cry?
— No. Signed for the stuff. Said thank you. That’s all.
— Was Kristina there?
— No. The room’s small. Six square meters. A sofa, a table, a fridge. An old flowered curtain on the window.
We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea.
My kitchen. My tea. My apartment.
— Don’t you feel sorry for him? — Lena asked.
I looked out the window. It was getting dark. Streetlights flickered on. Snow lay on the windowsill in an even layer, untouched.
— I do. Sometimes. When I remember what he used to be like. But then I think of Marina, Olya, Kristina—and I understand: I don’t feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for myself twenty years ago. The one who believed.
— And now?
— Now I know: faith is good. But documents are better.
Lena laughed—then went quiet.
— So what’s next?
— Next, I live. I have an apartment, a job, a friend who brings pies. Not much. But it’s mine.
— And men?
— I don’t know. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll meet someone. Maybe not. The main thing is, I’m not living anymore waiting for someone to betray me. That, you know, is freeing.
Silence as a beginning
Lena left at ten. I stayed alone in the apartment.
I walked through the rooms: bedroom, kitchen, living room. Everything was in place. The photos on the wall—I took down the one of us together and put it in the closet. Hung another instead: me and Lena at the dacha last summer.
I sat on the sofa.
Silence. No footsteps in the hallway. No keys in the lock. No questions like “What’s for dinner?” No smell of чужие духи—someone else’s perfume—on shirts.
Silence. And somehow, it wasn’t scary at all.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through ads: evening Spanish classes, beginner dance lessons, a book club.
Put it down. Too soon.
First, just live. Alone. In my own apartment. Get used to the fact that every decision is mine now. That no one will say, “Why do you need that?” or “You’re too old for that nonsense.”
I turned off the light. Lay down in bed—right in the middle, not on the edge.
Closed my eyes.
Twenty-seven years behind me. Ahead—who knows how many. But those years will be only mine.
And maybe that’s enough.
I’m writing honestly—about life after fifty, when you have enough experience, and no patience left for other people’s games
