Olga closed the door of the notary’s office and stepped outside. An autumn wind tousled her hair, and yellow leaves rustled beneath her feet. In her hands was a folder of documents—certificates of inheritance rights. Five apartments. Everything her mother had left behind.
Four months had passed since the funeral. Four months of paperwork, office visits, applications, and deadlines. Olga had collected statements, filed requests, waited out mandatory time periods. The inheritance had been arranged through a will—her mother had taken care of everything in advance so her daughter wouldn’t have to split the property with distant relatives.
The apartments were in different parts of the city: three one-bedroom units, one two-bedroom, and one three-bedroom. Her mother had bought property little by little, saving money and investing in something reliable. She used to say it was a safety cushion for her daughter—just in case life ever went off track.
Olga got into her car and placed the folder on the passenger seat. She pulled out her phone—there was a message from her husband:
“When will you be home? Dinner’s ready.”
Her husband, Igor, worked remotely and was often home earlier than she was. He cooked, cleaned, never complained about household chores. A good man. Calm. Olga had met Igor three years earlier, and they married six months later. Her mother had approved—she said Igor was dependable, didn’t drink, and worked hard.
Olga started the car and drove home. Along the way she thought about what to do with the apartments. Sell them? Rent them out? Leave them empty? Her thoughts tangled into knots. She just wanted to get home, collapse on the couch, and think about nothing at all.
At home, the air smelled like fried chicken. Igor stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan.
“Hi,” Olga said, taking off her shoes and hanging up her coat. “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.”
“Yeah.”
Olga went into the living room, tossed her bag onto an armchair, and lay down on the couch. She was exhausted—not physically so much as emotionally. Every document reminded her of her mother. Every signature, every stamp felt like another blow.
Igor brought dinner in on a tray and sat beside her.
“So how are you? Managing?”
“More or less. It’s just… hard. All of this.”
“I get it. But at least it’s over now. No more running around to notaries.”
“I hope so.”
They ate in silence. Igor cleared the dishes and took them to the kitchen. Olga stayed on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Her phone vibrated—her mother-in-law, Valentina Stepanovna.
“Olgushka, how are you? Did you get everything finalized?”
Olga sighed and typed back: “Yes, it’s all done.”
“Well done! 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 Olga’s mother died. She called every day, asked how things were going, offered help. At first Olga was even grateful—she thought Valentina Stepanovna simply cared. But over time, the questions grew more specific. How many apartments? Where exactly? What were Olga’s plans?
A week later Igor returned to the inheritance topic. They were sitting in the kitchen having tea.
“Olya, have you thought about what you’ll do with the apartments?”
“Not yet. I’m not ready to make decisions.”
“Sure, but generally… leaving them empty isn’t an option. You could rent them out, get some income.”
“Igor, I can’t deal with that right now. It’s all too fresh.”
“I understand. I’m just saying—property should be used rationally. It’s sitting there doing nothing.”
Olga stayed quiet. Igor went on:
“I can help set up the 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.”
Igor nodded and didn’t push. But Olga noticed the topic kept resurfacing. One time he asked which neighborhood each apartment was in, another time he wanted the square footage, then he asked whether there was furniture.
Valentina Stepanovna didn’t let it go either. She called a couple days later.
“Olgushka, hello! How are you?”
“Fine, Valentina Stepanovna.”
“Listen, I was thinking—you’ve got several apartments now. Maybe you should rent one out? Or sell one? So the money isn’t just sitting there.”
“I’m not planning to do anything yet.”
“Well, what if you suddenly need cash? Anything can happen. Real estate is great, but liquidity matters too.”
“Thanks for the advice. I’ll think about it.”
“If you need help, we’ll help. Igor is smart—he understands these things. He’ll arrange it properly.”
Olga thanked her and ended the call. A strange feeling lingered—as if her mother-in-law wasn’t simply interested, but probing for information.
Another month passed. Olga gradually returned to something like normal life. She worked, met with friends, tried not to think about the loss. The apartments remained untouched—empty, waiting.
Igor kept bringing up the properties. Not aggressively, but regularly.
“Olya, let’s at least rent out one apartment. So it’s useful.”
“Igor, I don’t need the money. My salary is fine.”
“It’s not about money. It’s just—property should work. Otherwise what’s the point?”
“The point is that it’s my mother’s memory.”
“I get that. But memory isn’t about empty walls. You can rent them out and still remember.”
Olga didn’t argue. She just nodded and changed the subject. But anxiety grew inside her. Why was Igor so fixated on the apartments? He had never interfered in her finances before. He’d never advised her about money. And now he talked about real estate constantly.
One evening Olga came home earlier than usual—her boss let her go because there wasn’t much to do. She rode the elevator up and opened the apartment door. Quiet in the hallway. Igor was probably in the other room.
Olga took off her shoes and went to the kitchen for water. As she passed the room, she heard Igor’s voice. He was on the phone. His tone was tense, serious.
“Yes, Mom, I got it. We’ll transfer a couple apartments into my name, then return them. Olga’s soft—she’ll sign if it’s presented the right way.”
Olga froze in the hallway. Her heart began pounding louder.
“No, she won’t find out. I’ll say it’s for tax optimization. Or that it’s just more convenient for renting. I’ll come up with something.”
A pause.
“Mom, don’t worry. I’m telling you—Olga’s trusting. She won’t dig into the details. The main thing is to explain it properly.”
Olga slowly backed toward the front door. Her hands were shaking. Her head buzzed. Igor planned to re-register the apartments under his name—together with his mother. And he meant to trick his wife, dressing it up as taxes or “convenience.”
Olga quietly put her shoes back on, stepped out of the apartment, and went downstairs. She got into her car, started the engine—but didn’t drive anywhere. She just sat there, staring into nothing.
Soft. Trusting. She’ll sign if it’s presented the right way.
Igor thought she was a fool. Valentina Stepanovna thought so too. All the “care,” all the questions, all the attention—it had been about the apartments. About getting their hands on someone else’s property.
Olga took out her phone, opened the contact of the lawyer who had helped with the inheritance, and typed:
“Hello. Can we meet tomorrow? I need a consultation about real estate.”
A reply came a minute later: “Of course. Come at ten.”
Olga put the phone away and exhaled.
No more softness. No more trust.
It was time to protect what her mother had left her.
The next morning Olga told Igor she had errands to run. He nodded, not asking where. Olga drove to the lawyer’s office on the third floor.
The lawyer—a man in his fifties, wearing glasses and a strict suit—greeted her politely.
“Hello, Olga. Have a seat. What happened?”
Olga sat down across from him and pulled out the folder.
“Vyacheslav Petrovich, tell me—if the inheritance is registered in my name, can anyone transfer those apartments without my consent?”
“No. Only the owner can dispose of the property. Any transaction requires your signature and your presence with a notary.”
“And if I sign something without understanding what it is?”
Vyacheslav Petrovich frowned.
“Tell me more.”
Olga told him about the conversation she’d overheard—about her husband’s and mother-in-law’s plan. The lawyer listened closely.
“I see. Olga, if they try to deceive you by slipping you transfer documents disguised as something else, that would be fraud. But it’s better not to let it get that far.”
“What do you recommend?”
“First—never sign anything without reading it carefully. Second—you can issue a power of attorney to a trusted person, for example to me, so no one else can act on your behalf. Third—if you fear pressure from your husband, you can draw up a prenuptial agreement that excludes these apartments from marital property.”
“But the apartments aren’t marital property anyway. They’re inheritance.”
“Correct. But an agreement will formally fix that and prevent any claims later.”
Olga nodded.
“And how do I know if they’re trying to slip me something?”
“Always read what you sign. If you don’t understand the wording—don’t sign. Ask for a copy, bring it to me, I’ll check.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Olga, be careful. Real estate is serious. People sometimes do a lot for that kind of property.”
Olga returned home around lunchtime. Igor was working at his computer.
“So, did you go?” he asked.
“Yes. Errands.”
“What kind of errands?”
“Personal.”
Igor looked at her attentively, but didn’t press.
That evening Igor brought up the apartments again.
“Olya, I was thinking… maybe we should transfer a couple apartments into my name. Purely for convenience.”
Olga raised her head from her book.
“Why?”
“Well, if you rent them out, it’s easier when the owner is a man. Easier to deal with tenants. And we can optimize taxes.”
“Igor, the apartments will stay in my name.”
“I don’t mean take them from you. Just for convenience. We’ll transfer them back later if you want.”
“No. There’s no need to transfer anything.”
Igor frowned.
“Why are you getting tense? I’m just trying to help.”
“I’m not tense. I just don’t see any point in re-registering.”
“Olya… you don’t trust me?”
“I do. But the apartments are my inheritance. They should stay in my name.”
Igor fell silent and turned toward the TV. Olga went back to her book, but the words wouldn’t stick. One thought spun in her head: he was trying to do exactly what he’d promised his mother he would.
Two days later Valentina Stepanovna called.
“Olgushka, hi! How are you?”
“Hello. Fine.”
“Listen, I wanted to talk. Igor says you don’t want to put the apartments in his name. Why?”
Olga pressed her lips together.
“Valentina Stepanovna, it’s my property. I decide what to do with it.”
“Sure, of course. But think about it—Igor is your husband. You’re together. What difference does it make whose name it’s under?”
“It makes a difference.”
“Oh, Olga dear, don’t be so distrustful. Igor isn’t a stranger. He wants to help you, make life easier.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I’ll manage myself.”
“Well, suit yourself. Just don’t regret it later.”
Olga ended the call and exhaled. Her mother-in-law was pressuring her. Igor was pressuring her. They were trying to convince her to transfer the apartments—exactly what they’d discussed on the phone.
Olga opened her contacts and called Vyacheslav Petrovich.
“Vyacheslav Petrovich, can I come tomorrow? I want to issue a power of attorney and discuss a marital agreement.”
“Of course. Come at two.”
The next day Olga again told her husband she had errands and drove to the lawyer. She executed a power of attorney giving only Vyacheslav Petrovich authority to represent her in real estate matters. They also discussed a draft marital agreement—a document that would confirm her mother’s apartments were not jointly owned.
“Olga, you’ll need to sign this agreement together with your husband in front of a notary,” Vyacheslav Petrovich explained. “Without his consent, it can’t be done.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Then the agreement won’t be concluded. But that refusal will tell you a lot.”
Olga nodded. Yes—refusal would tell her everything.
When she got home, she found Igor in the kitchen cooking dinner.
“Igor, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I want to sign a marital agreement.”
Igor froze without turning around.
“Why?”
“To formally state that the apartments from my mother are my personal property, not jointly acquired.”
Igor slowly turned to face her.
“Olga, are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been married three years, and you suddenly decide you need this?”
“Yes. I think it’s the right thing.”
Igor set the knife down.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I want to protect my mother’s inheritance.”
“From who? From me?”
“From any claims in the future.”
“What claims?! I’m your husband, damn it!”
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 there breathing heavily, his face reddening.
“You know what? Do whatever you want. I’m tired of this distrust.”
He turned and left the kitchen. A door slammed. Olga remained by the table. Inside, there was no fear, no regret—only cold clarity. Igor had refused. He didn’t even want to discuss it. He got offended and walked away.
Olga sat down, took out her phone, opened her notes, and began listing next steps. Emotions later. Now she needed to act quickly and clearly.
That night Igor slept in the living room on the couch. Olga lay in the bedroom staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. A plan formed in her mind. Tomorrow—to the notary, to formalize the power of attorney. The day after—to the bank to set up alerts for any document requests. Then—to check what other loopholes they might try.
In the morning Olga got up before Igor, got ready, drank coffee, and left for work without waiting for him to wake. During her lunch break she went to the notary.
Vyacheslav Petrovich saw her without a line.
“Olga, how are you?”
“I need to urgently issue a power of attorney. So only you can represent my interests in real estate matters.”
“All right. Sit down, we’ll fill out the paperwork.”
Half an hour later the power of attorney was ready—stamped, certified, official. Now no one except Vyacheslav Petrovich could act on Olga’s behalf regarding the five apartments.
“One more thing,” Olga said. “Is there any way to protect myself so no one can request registry extracts or copies of documents without my knowledge?”
“You can file a request with the property registry to prohibit registration actions. It’s a temporary measure, but it helps. And at the bank you can set up notifications for any requests related to powers of attorney or statements.”
“Let’s do everything.”
Vyacheslav Petrovich drafted the registry application. Olga signed it and submitted it electronically through the government portal. Then she went to the bank.
At the branch, the manager listened and nodded.
“We can enable SMS notifications for any attempts to access information about your accounts and assets. We can also block issuing any certificates to third parties without your personal presence.”
“Please do it.”
“Of course. It’ll take a few minutes.”
Olga sat in a chair opposite the manager, watching her enter data into the system. A strange feeling—as if she were preparing for war. But what else could you call it when your husband and mother-in-law were planning to deceive you?
That evening Olga came home. Igor sat at his computer working. He looked at her and nodded in silence. Olga went into the kitchen, reheated dinner. They ate quietly. Igor didn’t speak. Olga didn’t either.
After dinner Igor went out to the balcony to smoke. Olga sat in the bedroom and opened the folder again. She reviewed every certificate of ownership. Five apartments, all in her name. All protected by the power of attorney and the ban on registration actions.
Two days later Igor tried again, this time gently.
“Olya, let’s not fight. I understand you’re upset. But let me at least help with renting them out so you don’t waste time.”
“No need. I’ve already handed everything to the notary. Vyacheslav Petrovich will handle it if needed.”
Igor frowned.
“What notary?”
“The one who handled the inheritance.”
“Why did you do that?”
“So there’s less hassle. He’s a professional. He knows all the details.”
Igor fell silent, then nodded.
“All right. As you say.”
Olga could see he wasn’t happy. But he couldn’t argue. The plan had failed. Now he couldn’t simply grab documents and transfer the apartments.
Valentina Stepanovna called that evening.
“Olga, what are you doing? Igor says you gave everything to a notary!”
“Yes, it’s more convenient.”
“More convenient?! Do you realize you’re complicating everything? Igor just wanted to help!”
“I’m not asking for help. I’ll manage myself.”
“Olya dear, come on—Igor is your husband! Why don’t you trust him?”
“I trust a professional who knows the law.”
“What nonsense! Do you understand how this looks? Like you don’t trust your husband!”
“Valentina Stepanovna, I’m tired. Let’s end this conversation.”
“Olga, wait—”
Olga ended the call and blocked her mother-in-law’s number. She didn’t want to hear lectures or pressure anymore.
A week later what Olga had been expecting happened. Igor got dressed and went to the public services center. He said it was for work—documents to submit. Olga nodded and didn’t ask questions.
That evening Igor came back gloomy. He tossed his keys onto the dresser and went into the room. Olga was cooking dinner in the kitchen. 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 registry. I wanted to get extracts for your apartments. They said access is closed—only the owner or an authorized representative.”
“So?”
“Olya, did you set that up on purpose?”
“I protected my property.”
Igor clenched his fists.
“This isn’t normal! I’m your husband!”
“A husband who planned to transfer the apartments into his name 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 I’ll sign anything if it’s presented the right way.”
Igor looked away. Silent.
“Igor, did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“I… it’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?”
“We just wanted to help. Transfer for convenience, then return them.”
“Return them? Seriously?”
Igor rubbed his face.
“Olya, why are you making this 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 stared at him for a long moment.
“Igor, you’re the one destroying the family—when you plan to deceive your wife for real estate.”
Igor turned away, stood there, then went back into the room. The door slammed. Olga returned 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.
“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 realize what you’re doing? Igor is nervous because of you! You’re ruining the family!”
“I’m protecting what my mother left me.”
“From who?! From your own husband?!”
“From people who planned to deceive me.”
“What deception?! We wanted to help!”
“Help transfer the apartments to Igor and then not return them. I heard everything.”
Valentina Stepanovna went quiet. Then she snorted:
“So what? You’re married! Everything should be shared!”
“Inheritance is not shared property.”
“What difference does it make! Igor isn’t a stranger!”
“Igor is someone who was going to deceive me. Together with you.”
“Olga, you’re ungrateful! We’ve done so much for you!”
“Goodbye, Valentina Stepanovna.”
Olga ended the call and blocked the new number too. Her hands were shaking. It was disgusting—her mother-in-law didn’t even deny it. She was simply outraged that their plan had been exposed.
That evening Olga came home and saw some of Igor’s things were gone. The wardrobe was half-empty, his toiletries missing from the bathroom shelves. On the kitchen table lay a note:
“I left for my mother’s. We should both think.”
Olga crumpled the note and threw it into the trash. She sat on the couch and looked out the window. An autumn evening, dark early. Streetlights glowed outside, a few passersby hurried home.
Quiet. Calm. No talk about re-registering apartments. No calls from her mother-in-law. Just silence.
Olga took out her phone and texted Vyacheslav Petrovich:
“Thank you for your help. Everything worked out.”
A reply came quickly: “Glad I could help. Reach out if you need anything.”
A few days later Igor came to pick up the rest of his things. He called in advance to warn her. Olga opened the door and let him in without a word. He gathered clothes, books, chargers—avoiding eye contact.
“Olya, maybe we can still try?” Igor asked as he zipped his bag.
“No.”
“Why? Because of the apartments?”
“Because you were ready to deceive your wife for real estate. Because you don’t see me as a partner—you see me as someone ‘soft’ you can trick into signing papers.”
Igor grimaced.
“That’s not how I meant it…”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant. It matters what you did.”
He lifted the bag and headed for the door, then stopped.
“Where are the apartment keys?”
“With me.”
“Olya, I’m your husband. I should have access.”
“No. The apartments are my personal property. Only I have access.”
Igor looked like he wanted to say something, then changed his mind. He nodded and left. The door closed softly. Olga leaned against the doorframe and exhaled.
All five sets of keys were in a safe. In the bedroom, behind the bookshelf. Olga opened the safe and looked at the key ring. Five apartments. Everything her mother had left her. Whole. Protected. Hers.
A week later a notice arrived from the court: Igor had filed for divorce. Olga wasn’t surprised. She went to Vyacheslav Petrovich and showed him the papers.
“What do I do?”
“Nothing terrible. You’ll file a response. The apartments are your inheritance—your personal property. They aren’t subject to division. Igor can only claim division of assets 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 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 signed the papers 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: the two of them at the sea, a graduation, a birthday.
Her mother had always been forward-thinking. She bought apartments, saved money, planned for the future. She said her daughter had to be independent. That you couldn’t rely only on a husband. That a woman should always have her own safety net.
Olga hadn’t understood back then. She thought her mother was just being overly cautious. Now she understood. Her mother knew life was unpredictable. That people change. That you can’t trust everyone.
Five apartments. Stability. Independence. The freedom to choose.
Olga closed the photo box and stood up. She walked to the window and looked out over the city—lights, cars, people. Life continued.
Her phone vibrated. A message from a friend: “How are you? Haven’t seen you in ages.”
Olga smiled and typed back: “I’m good. Want to meet tomorrow?”
“Sure!”
Olga put her phone away and looked out the window again. Inside, everything felt calm—truly calm—for the first time in a long time, since her mother’s death.
The apartments stayed with her. The keys were in the safe. Her trust in people had become more careful, but it hadn’t disappeared. Now Olga knew: protecting what’s yours isn’t selfishness. It’s wisdom.
Her mother had left her an inheritance—not just real estate, but a lesson. A lesson in independence, strength, and the right to say no to anyone trying to take advantage.
Olga locked the apartment and drove home—to her own one-bedroom where she’d lived with Igor for three years. Now she lived alone. And that was good.
The keys to five apartments lay in her purse—heavy, solid. A reminder that some things shouldn’t be handed over. Not even to those you once considered close
