“And where am I supposed to live? Do you even understand what you’ve done? This is my— You couldn’t do this to me! I’m your husband!”
“You were my husband. Up until the moment you decided your brother’s problems mattered more than me and our future. Now you’re simply the respondent in a property division case.”
Part 1. A Bird’s-Eye View
Up here, the wind always carried a particular flavor — a mix of heated tar, metal filings, and city dust. Boris loved this kind of work. Roofing left no room for chaos or amateurs. Everything here was honest: there was the horizon, there was the slope beneath your feet, and there was you, balancing between the sky and solid concrete. He drove another screw into the corrugated sheet, feeling the pleasant tension in his forearm. Down below, in the anthill-like bustle of the city, problems seemed tiny and insignificant.
His coworker, a shaggy young guy everyone called Screw, settled himself on the roof ridge and unscrewed the lid of a thermos.
“Hey, Borya,” Screw said, squinting against the sun. “Here’s a philosophical question for you. What can a woman be compared to? Broadly speaking.”
Boris wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove and smirked. His mood was combative despite the morning argument with Oksana.
“Compared to what?” he echoed, slipping the drill into the holster on his belt. “Probably a traffic cop.”
“Why’s that?” Screw laughed.
“Well, look,” Boris said, taking the mug of tea from him. “A female inspector pulls you over. You haven’t broken any rules. You’re driving normally, obeying the speed limit, minding your own business. And then she waves that striped baton — pull over to the shoulder. She walks up nice and slow, doesn’t even introduce herself, and goes straight to: ‘Why do you look guilty? Why are your eyes darting around?’ You hand over your license, your insurance, your inspection papers — everything’s fine. But she keeps going. ‘There’s something suspicious about you,’ she says. ‘You smell like last night’s fun,’ even though you’re sober as a pane of glass. Then she starts circling the car, kicking the tires, checking the first-aid kit in case one of the bandages expired. By the end of it, she’s lectured you about road safety, fined you because your car’s dirty even though the streets are full of slush, taken away your right to a peaceful life, and somehow made you feel like you ran over a pedestrian on a crosswalk. And the worst part? Arguing just makes it cost you more.”
Screw burst into laughter so hard he nearly dropped his sandwich.
“Exactly! That’s spot on! Mine wrote me up yesterday too — for looking at her the wrong way.”
Boris smiled, but the smile came out crooked. His phone vibrated in the pocket of his work overalls. His brother’s name lit up on the screen. Arkady was calling for the third time that day.
“Yeah,” Boris answered dryly, staring at the spire of a nearby high-rise.
“Borya, has your wife completely lost it?” his brother’s voice came through shrill and hysterical. “I got a notice. She’s demanding the whole amount back plus interest! The numbers are insane! Did you talk to her?”
Boris grimaced.
“I did, Arkash. She won’t budge. Says a contract is a contract.”
“What contract to hell with the contract? We’re family! When I signed it, I thought it was just a formality to calm her down! She ate at my dacha! Drank with us! We heated the bathhouse for her! Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“I’ll try again tonight,” Boris promised darkly. “But you know what Oksana’s like. Once she gets something in her head…”
“Are you a man or not? Slam your fist on the table! She’s your wife — she’s supposed to listen to you. That dacha is the only decent thing I’ve got left, and she’s trying to snatch it away for pennies!”
Boris hung up. Anger, thick and sticky like molten tar, began rising in his chest. He was ashamed in front of his brother, ashamed in front of his parents, who had been nagging him over the phone for a week. Oksana’s principles, which had once seemed like reliability, now looked like betrayal. The three-room apartment they lived in had always been her territory, and that had always weighed on him. But now she had gone after something sacred — his family’s property.
Part 2. Headquarters of Strategy and Tactics
The enormous exhibition pavilion buzzed like a hive on the verge of swarming. Stagehands dragged metal trusses for the platform, sound engineers cursed over cable layouts, and volunteers darted around uselessly with boxes of merch. Oksana stood in the center of the chaos with a tablet in hand, an island of icy composure.
Her job was to sell the city. To create brands, meaning, legends. She knew how to calculate. She knew how to see structure where everyone else saw a heap of trash.
“Move the district stand closer to the exit — the crowd flow will go counterclockwise,” she tossed to her assistant without looking up. “And check the lighting. If the banner reflects glare, I’ll deduct it from the contractor’s fee.”
For one brief moment she was alone, sitting down on a hard equipment case. In her mind, alongside the estimate for the city festival, another calculator was running. A far more personal one. A far more ruthless one.
She remembered that day in exact detail. The smell of smoke from Arkady’s summer house, his pitiful eyes, his pleading voice. Oksanochka, help me out, the season’s starting, I need to redo the roof or the whole log structure will rot. That day she withdrew all her savings. The very “foundation” of the future she and Boris were supposed to build together — money she had scraped together little by little, saving on taxis, lunches, vacations. She suggested formalizing everything through a notary not because she lacked trust, but because she believed in order. Money needed accounting, and family ties too often became an excuse for theft.
Arkady signed the papers with a smirk. To him, it was all just a game. And now that the deadlines had passed, he had decided the rules could be rewritten on his side alone. I’ll pay you when I can. Come on, we’re family. You stayed with us, didn’t you?
Oksana felt no hurt. Hurt was for the weak. What she felt was cold, calculated fury. It was the fuel her mind ran on. Boris had not betrayed her when he refused to repay his brother’s debt. He betrayed her when he said, “What, are you really that stingy with family? You’ll earn more. You’ve got a good salary.”
At that moment, he stopped being a husband and turned into a high-risk, illiquid asset.
Oksana opened her email. A message from her lawyer read: The writ of execution has been obtained. We are starting the recovery procedure. The collateral property will transfer to the creditor if payment is not made within three days.
“Excellent,” she whispered.
No screaming. No shattered dishes. Just contract clauses. Clause 5.7: In the event of a delay exceeding thirty days, a penalty of 1% of the debt amount will accrue for each day overdue. By now Arkady’s debt had grown so large that the dacha no longer covered the full amount. But Oksana was prepared to take what she could in kind.
“Oksana Vladimirovna, there’s a problem with the microphones!” a pale intern rushed up to her.
“Problems are solved by replacing equipment,” Oksana replied calmly. “Or replacing the people responsible. Get back to work.”
Part 3. The Ashes of Ambition
Arkady sat on the veranda of that same dacha. The smell of charcoal from the grill mixed with the scent of blooming lilac, but he couldn’t force himself to eat. The house had been repaired, the roof — paid for with Oksana’s money — gleamed with fresh metal tiles. He had been proud of himself: he’d twisted things neatly, fixed the place, and somehow convinced himself he owed no one anything. So what if he was a year late? She had an apartment in the city center. Money practically grew on trees for her. She’d manage.
The gate creaked open. Arkady flinched, expecting bailiffs, but instead his mother, Galina Petrovna, and father, Igor Semyonovich, walked in. They had come to support their “unfairly wronged” son.
“It’ll be all right, son, it’ll be all right,” his mother fussed, setting containers of pies on the table. “Boris will talk to her. She’ll be ashamed to take the last thing from her own relatives. A person should have some conscience.”
“What conscience?” Arkady spat. “She’s a shark. A city snob. I tell her I’m struggling, and she says, ‘The contract.’ Disgusting.”
His father frowned as he poured homemade liquor into shot glasses.
“Boris is spineless. Can’t keep his wife under control. If I were him…”
Arkady’s phone beeped. An email. He opened it lazily, but a second later his face turned gray as ash in the grill.
“What is it?” his mother asked in alarm.
“A seizure…” Arkady croaked. “A freeze on all registration actions. And… my God, these amounts! Where did all these penalties come from?”
He started frantically dialing Boris, but Boris kept rejecting the calls.
“She filed for enforcement,” Arkady collapsed onto the bench. “She actually did it.”
“That can’t be!” Galina Petrovna threw up her hands. “On the dacha? Your dacha?”
“Her dacha now, Mom. Looks like hers now. The contract’s written so badly for me that even if I give up the house, I’ll still owe her more.”
Arkady remembered that day at the notary’s office. Oksana’s calm voice: “Arkady, the terms are harsh. Think carefully.” He had only waved it off then. “Oh, come on, Ksusha, we’re not strangers.”
Anger at his own stupidity mixed with hatred for his sister-in-law. But the worst realization of all was this: Boris would not help. Boris was no one in that apartment himself.
Part 4. The Territory of Stagnation
His parents’ apartment greeted Boris with the smell of valerian drops. The cramped Khrushchyovka pressed on his shoulders. After the spacious Stalin-era flat he had shared with Oksana, this place felt unbearable. He slept on his brother’s old couch, his legs hanging off the edge, a spring digging into his side.
He had stormed out three days earlier. Loudly, slamming the door, shouting over his shoulder, “You’ll regret this!” He had thought Oksana would panic. That she would call, beg him to meet, try to make peace. But the phone stayed silent. Well, not completely — only his parents and Arkady called, demanding that he “fix the situation.”
“Just look at what’s happening!” his father barked, throwing a printout Arkady had brought onto the table. “She’s going to leave us with nothing! Are you a husband or not? Go to her and deal with it!”
“I left, Dad. It’s over. I told her: either she withdraws the claim, or we get divorced.”
“You idiot!” Arkady roared, coming out of the kitchen with a bottle of beer. “What kind of blackmail was that supposed to be? Leaving? She doesn’t care! She’s a robot! You should’ve forced her!”
Boris looked at his brother and, for the first time, saw him clearly. The puffy face, the darting eyes, the permanent posture of a victim. Arkady had lived in this apartment until he was thirty, then bought that dacha, always borrowing, always whining.
“And why am I supposed to force her?” Boris asked quietly. “You borrowed the money, right? You spent it, right? So why didn’t you pay it back?”
“What, now you’re taking her side?” his mother screeched. “You sold out your own brother for some woman’s skirt?”
“This has nothing to do with a skirt!” Boris jumped to his feet. “She saved that million for two years! And you blew it and decided you could just cheat her! You set me up too! I’m basically homeless now!”
“You’ve still got your registration,” his father cut in sharply. “At your aunt’s place in Verkhorenchsk. You won’t die. But we need to save the dacha. Go throw yourself at her feet if you have to.”
Boris stepped out into the stairwell and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. He felt like a trapped animal. He was afraid to message Oksana — his pride wouldn’t allow it. And what would he even say? The new email address he’d made for his “new life” was blank and untouched. He had abandoned the old one, the one linked to the family computer. He still remembered the password, but he refused to log in. He was afraid he’d find emails from her asking him to come back. He wanted to believe she was suffering.
He had no idea that entirely different messages were arriving in that old inbox — and at the address of his official registration in distant Verkhorenchsk, at his aunt’s place, where he hadn’t been in ten years. Court summonses. Legal notices.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from Screw: Hey, looks like your ex is hanging some kind of billboard on the main street. You said she worked in marketing, right? Man, you’re screwed.
Boris didn’t understand what it meant, but a cold sense of disaster tightened in his stomach.
Part 5. The Point of No Return
The autumn boulevard was covered in golden leaves. Boris walked with hunched shoulders, his hands buried deep in the pockets of an old jacket. Three months had passed. Three months of hell in his parents’ apartment, three months of endless fights with his brother, who had indeed lost the dacha but still owed a fortune in penalties.
He saw her by accident. Oksana was leaving a café, talking on the phone. She looked… expensive. Not flashy — expensive, in the way confidence itself becomes elegant. A camel-colored coat, a structured handbag, a straight back.
Boris quickened his pace and stepped into her path.
“Oksana!”
She stopped and slowly lowered the phone. There was neither love nor hatred in her eyes. Only mild surprise, as though she had run into a former classmate whose name she could no longer remember.
“Hello, Boris.”
“How… how are you?” His voice faltered. “Arkady got kicked out of the dacha. Bailiffs. My parents have nearly lost their minds.”
“The law is the law. The property was sold to cover the debt. The remaining balance will be collected from his wages. That is no longer my concern. The lawyers are handling it.”
“You’re cruel,” he spat. “I never thought you were like this. I waited three months for you to write even one word, to try to talk.”
Oksana lifted an eyebrow.
“I did write, Boris. Six times. To your email. I notified you of the divorce hearings. I sent copies of the legal claims to your registration address in Verkhorenchsk. You failed to appear every time.”
Boris froze. The world tilted.
“What divorce?..”
“A standard one. Under Article 22 of the Family Code. We were divorced by default a month ago. The ruling is already in effect. Didn’t you know?”
“I… I changed my email… And I haven’t been to my aunt’s place…” he stammered.
“That’s your irresponsibility, Boris. As always.”
“But wait!” He grabbed her sleeve. “What about… the apartment? I wasn’t registered there, but my things…”
“Your belongings are packed in boxes and stored in a paid warehouse. It’s covered through the end of the week. After that, they’ll be disposed of. I changed the locks the same day you left.”
“But you can’t do that! I’m your husband!”
“You are my former husband, Boris. And by the way, since you failed to appear in court and didn’t file objections, the division of jointly acquired property went according to my proposal. The car stays with me as compensation for part of the funds spent on family needs that you were unable to document.”
She gently freed her sleeve from his hand.
“Did you really think I would cry into my pillow? No, Borya. Your brother tried to cheat me out of money by hiding behind family ties. You supported him and betrayed me. The two of you received exactly what you deserved. Lesson over.”
She walked around him and headed toward her car. Boris remained standing in the middle of the boulevard. People hurried past, someone laughed nearby, tires whispered against the pavement.
He understood everything in one instant, and it was terrifying. He had lived under the illusion that he was the center of the world, that without him she would collapse, that she would beg him to return. Instead, she had simply crossed him out the way one deletes a bad line from a budget sheet.
Hell waited for him at home: a brother who hated him for losing the dacha, and parents who nagged him from morning until night. He no longer had a wife, no home, no savings. With his own hands, through pride and stupidity, he had burned down his life — just as Arkady had nearly burned down that cursed dacha once before.
Boris lifted his collar against the wind. He had to go to the warehouse and pick up the boxes. Then to work. Night shifts, weekends, side jobs — anything. Because staying at home was unbearable, and he had no money to rent a place of his own.
“A traffic cop,” he recalled, thinking of his joke. Yes, she really had taken away his license.
His license to the good life he had never appreciated.
And the only one to blame for that was himself.
