“I’m not going to pay the utility bills for this apartment. It isn’t mine.”
“Sorry… what?”
“Well, you bought it yourself, put it in your name, and you’re the one paying the mortgage. So the monthly bills are your responsibility too, aren’t they?”
…Viktoria was only twenty-five when she took out a mortgage on a spacious three-bedroom apartment not far from her parents’ home.
She worked as a real estate agent, earned well, loved her profession, and understood the property market as confidently as she knew her own home.
She had not chosen that neighborhood simply because it was convenient. She was drawn to it—the green courtyards, the familiar little streets, the school just around the corner. That was where her childhood and youth had passed. And, of course, her parents were nearby, which mattered too.
Her mother, Lyubov Stepanovna, had been skeptical at first.
“And what happens when you get married? Men don’t like it when a woman already has everything. He won’t feel like the head of the house,” she complained over the phone.
“Mom, I’m not buying this apartment for some future husband. I’m buying it for myself,” Vika answered calmly. “Let him be the master in his own place. This is my home.”
Two years later, she met Egor. He seemed calm, grounded, not flashy, but quietly strong. He worked as an engineer for a private company, rented a place in another district, drove an old Skoda, and gave the impression of being a dependable man.
After six months, they moved in together. Eight months later, they got married.
The wedding was modest. Their parents insisted on at least a small celebration in a café. As usual, Vika organized everything herself and made sure not to waste money.
Everything seemed to be going well, but only two months after the wedding, she heard something from her husband she had never expected.
“I’m not paying the utility bills for this apartment. It’s not mine.”
At that moment, Vika was standing by the stove, stirring soup.
“Sorry, what?”
“Well… you bought it, put it in your own name, and you’re the one paying the mortgage. Logically, the utilities are your problem too.”
The soup was already boiling, but Vika stood perfectly still. Not because she was angry—because she was stunned.
“Wait,” she said, turning to him slowly. “You live here. You use the water, the electricity, the gas. Isn’t it normal for us to share the costs?”
“If the apartment belonged to both of us, sure, no problem. But like this… it’s strange to pay for someone else’s property.”
“But you’re not paying the mortgage either.”
“So?”
“I see… I understand your position.”
She turned off the stove and sat down at the table.
Everything about the moment felt unreal, like a scene from some low-budget soap opera. Except it was her life, and her husband was saying it all with complete confidence, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Hold on. You’ve been living here for a long time already. We’ve never had an issue with paying before. It never even crossed my mind that this could become a question.”
“Of course it didn’t cross your mind. It was convenient for you when I was paying.”
There was some truth in his words. But Vika earned enough and had no intention of enduring conversations like this.
It was simply that, in her understanding, marriage was supposed to work differently.
“All right… if you believe you owe nothing, then fine,” she said calmly, and went back to her meal.
Of course she was upset, but she did not let her emotions take over. Experience had taught her to think rationally.
No tears. No screaming. Just one conclusion: she and this man had completely different ideas about family and responsibility.
And that was the first warning sign.
Almost a month passed before Vika casually mentioned it to her mother.
Lyubov Stepanovna listened in silence at first, then exploded.
“So he’s living off you and doesn’t even want to contribute? And the fact that you feed him and clean up after him means nothing?”
“Looks that way,” Vika answered quietly.
“Well, your Egor found himself a very comfortable arrangement! He got married and instantly settled in nicely!”
Vika only smiled. Her mother was as sharp-tongued as ever, but now her words sounded perfectly reasonable.
A couple of weeks later, it became obvious where Egor’s views had come from.
They were having dinner at his parents’ house when the conversation turned to housing expenses, and his mother, Svetlana Viktorovna, casually remarked:
“Egor and I settled this a long time ago. Son, don’t throw your money around. If your wife is so proud—she bought the apartment herself—then let her carry the whole burden herself.”
Vika was so stunned she nearly dropped her fork. In that moment, she understood: this was not just his personal opinion.
It was a mindset planted in him by his mother.
“And Vika understood everything correctly,” Egor added.
“You’re joking, right?” Vika asked in confusion.
“Of course we’re joking,” her mother-in-law quickly corrected herself.
But the bitter aftertaste remained.
Three months later, Egor came home beaming beside a brand-new Mazda.
“You bought a car?” Vika asked in surprise.
“Yeah. I saved up well enough to get the full package.”
He was glowing with pride.
“I’m going to drive over to my parents’ place and show them. Mom will be thrilled.”
Vika said nothing. He had been saving money behind her back while she carried everything—mortgage, groceries, household expenses, even their vacation by the sea.
And now he had a brand-new car.
And she had nothing but exhaustion and emptiness inside.
She stayed alone in the apartment. The walls seemed to press inward, and the air felt heavy.
Then her phone lit up. It was her friend Kristina calling.
“Hey, Vika. How are you?”
And Vika let it all out. She told her everything—from the utilities to the car to the words of her mother-in-law.
Kristina listened and then said firmly:
“All right. Put on a dress, I’ll pick the cocktails. We’re meeting at seven.”
Instead of a quiet café, they ended up at a karaoke bar.
Vika sang, laughed, danced to old hits—and for the first time in a long while, she felt alive again.
Meanwhile, Egor was proudly boasting at his parents’ house:
“Now I’ve got a car. Next step is saving up for an apartment. Mom, you were right. Later we can get Vika’s apartment transferred into my name.”
“Of course, son,” his mother said with approval. “Live with her for now, then later you can find someone younger.”
Vika knew nothing about that conversation.
She came home late that night. Egor was already asleep, satisfied, a smile on his face.
She looked at him and quietly said to herself:
“It’s time to end this soap opera.”
The next morning, she opened her laptop and went to the website for filing a divorce application. She filled out the form—then stopped. She decided they needed one face-to-face conversation first.
That evening Egor came home carrying a box of chocolates.
“Hi, darling. I called you yesterday…”
“Sit down,” Vika said calmly. “We need to talk.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. We’re just not compatible. We have different values. I am not going to finance your life while you save for your own.”
“Is this about the car?”
“It’s about everything. The utilities, your mother, your attitude. I’m filing for divorce.”
Egor went pale.
“Seriously? Over utility bills?”
“Not because of the bills. Because of you.”
She looked him straight in the eyes.
“I always knew I could rely on myself. But I learned I could never rely on you. So leave the keys behind—and start thinking about where you’re going to park your Mazda.”
He left.
A couple of weeks later, he filed in court for division of marital property.
Vika calmly gathered all the documents: the mortgage papers, payment records, receipts—everything was in her name.
The court took that into account. The apartment remained hers.
As for the car, since it had been purchased during the marriage, it had to be sold, and Egor paid half the money to his ex-wife.
Vika did not celebrate. She simply let out a quiet breath of relief.
“We could have parted peacefully…”
But now she had no regrets.
She had done the right thing.
And at last, justice was on her side.
