Irina was setting plates on the dining table when she heard a key turn in the lock. Maxim entered first. Behind him came his mother, Galina Petrovna, wearing her usual dark blue coat and the expression Irina privately called her “ceremonial face.” Neither of them said a word. Their silence was thick, heavy, like a March fog.
“Sit down. I’ve just set the table for three,” Irina said with a smile, trying not to react to the tension spreading through the room. “Galina Petrovna, I made your favorite salad with pomegranate seeds.”
“There was no need to trouble yourself,” Galina Petrovna replied, taking off her coat and hanging it over the back of a chair without sitting down. “We didn’t come here for dinner.”
Maxim stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring somewhere past his wife, at a spot on the wall that apparently deserved his full attention. Irina noticed that he had worn his “important” shirt that morning — white, with thin pale-blue stripes. He usually took it out for negotiations and meetings where he needed to appear convincing.
“Irina, please sit down,” Maxim finally said, looking at her. But his eyes seemed glassy, rehearsed. “We need to talk.”
“I’m already standing in my own kitchen,” she replied with a soft smile. “But all right. Let’s sit down together. Shall I make tea?”
“No tea,” Galina Petrovna cut in. She finally sat down and placed both palms flat on the table, as if preparing for a card game. “Maxim, speak.”
He cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his shirt. Irina waited patiently, her faint smile still in place, though deep down she was beginning to understand what this little performance was leading to.
“Irina, I’ve thought about this for a long time. We’ve both thought about it,” he said, making a small gesture that included his mother in the word we. “Our marriage… has run its course.”
“Run its course?” Irina repeated quietly. “Is that your phrase, or was it suggested to you?”
“This is our mutual decision,” her mother-in-law interrupted. “Maxim deserves a different life, different opportunities. You’re a wonderful woman, Irochka, but the two of you are simply different people.”
Irina looked at her husband. Seven years of marriage. Seven years of waking up beside this man, cooking his breakfasts, ironing his “important” shirts. Seven years of tolerating visits from his mother, who always managed to find dust on a shelf and hidden meaning in every word her daughter-in-law said.
“Maxim, do you want a divorce?” she asked directly, without a tremor in her voice. “Tell me yourself. Not through intermediaries.”
“Yes,” he exhaled, as though the word burned his tongue. “I want a divorce, Ira. I’m sorry.”
“Finally,” Galina Petrovna leaned back in her chair with the look of a commander who had just won a battle. “I’m glad you found the courage.”
Irina slowly placed the plate of salad back on the table. The pomegranate seeds against the white porcelain looked like drops of blood. She stared at them for a long moment, while Maxim and his mother clearly waited for tears, shouting, hysteria — everything they had already rehearsed in their heads.
“All right,” Irina said.
“What do you mean, all right?” Maxim frowned.
“All right. A divorce it is,” she said, carefully folding a napkin. “I suppose now it’s time for my own move.”
Galina Petrovna and Maxim exchanged glances. Something like worry flashed in her mother-in-law’s eyes — fleeting, barely noticeable, but Irina saw it. She knew that woman far too well.
“What do you mean, your move?” Galina Petrovna leaned forward. “What move?”
“You’ll see,” Irina stood, took off her apron, and hung it on the hook near the stove. “Good night. I hope you won’t need dinner after all. I’ll put the salad in the fridge.”
She left the kitchen, abandoning both of them in a state they clearly had not anticipated. A moment later, from behind the wall, came the sound of the bedroom door closing — quiet, careful, without a slam.
The next morning, Maxim packed his things. Two suitcases, a sports bag, and a backpack with his laptop — that was all the luggage of a man who had lived in that apartment for seven years. Irina watched him from an armchair, a book resting on her lap.
“I’ll stay with Mom for now,” he said without looking up. “Until everything is… settled.”
“Of course,” Irina answered evenly. “Leave the keys on the shelf in the hallway.”
He hesitated at the door. She could see that he wanted to say something else — something conciliatory, something that might justify him. But he only shrugged and left.
An hour later, Natalia called. Her sister always sensed trouble from a distance.
“Ira, are you all right? My left eye has been twitching all morning, and that always means something has happened to you.”
“Maxim left,” Irina said as if reporting a change in the weather. “Yesterday he and Galina Petrovna staged a solemn announcement of our divorce.”
“Are you joking?” Natalia’s voice jumped an octave. “Has he completely lost his mind? Seven years — and just like that?”
“Exactly like that. With Mommy behind his back, in my kitchen, over my salad.”
“I’m coming over,” Natalia said firmly.
“Come. And call Svetlana too. Ask her to come. I need to talk to both of you.”
Two hours later, three women sat at that same dining table. Svetlana, Irina’s friend since university and perhaps the person who knew her best, listened silently while Irina described the events of the previous evening.
“And you just said ‘all right’?” Svetlana lifted an eyebrow. “Not one word of protest?”
“Why protest?” Irina shrugged. “They expected tears. They expected me to cling to him, beg, humiliate myself. Galina Petrovna had clearly spent twenty minutes rehearsing her speech about how I’m wonderful, but not good enough for her son. I had no intention of playing the role they wrote for me.”
Natalia shook her head.
“Ira, I always told you that woman was poison. Do you remember her toast at your wedding? ‘I hope you’ll prove worthy of my boy.’ My boy! He was thirty-one at the time.”
“I remember,” Irina nodded. “But that’s not the point now. Svetlana, can you give me the contact of your acquaintance — the one who handles property matters?”
“Yuri Borisovich?” Svetlana reached for her phone. “Of course. He’s tough, but fair. I’ll message him now.”
“Thank you,” Irina said, clasping her fingers together. “I have a plan. But I’ll need your support.”
“What plan?” Natalia asked cautiously.
“Maxim loves flattery. His whole life, he has bathed in his mother’s admiration. She convinced him he’s a genius, a titan, a future billionaire. If I choose the right words, he’ll hand over everything I’m entitled to. Voluntarily.”
Svetlana whistled softly.
“Irina, sometimes you scare me.”
“I lived for seven years with a man who never once asked whether I was happy. For seven years, his mother convinced him I was a random passenger in his great destiny. I’m not leaving empty-handed,” Irina raised her eyes. “This apartment was bought with joint money. The car was a gift for our anniversary, but it’s registered in his name. I want both.”
Meanwhile, in Galina Petrovna’s apartment, a very different conversation was unfolding. Maxim sat on the sofa, nervously scrolling through his phone, while his mother paced from corner to corner like the pendulum of an old clock.
“Did you see her face?” Galina Petrovna stopped abruptly. “She didn’t even flinch. That isn’t normal, Maxim. A normal woman cries, screams, becomes hysterical. But this one — ‘all right’ — and left.”
“Mom, maybe she just accepted it with dignity?”
“Dignity?!” Galina Petrovna raised her voice. “She said, ‘my move.’ Did you hear that? My move! As if we were playing chess!”
“What can she possibly do?” Maxim said irritably, putting down his phone. “She teaches literature. What is she going to do to me — drop Dostoevsky on my head?”
“Don’t laugh. Quiet ones are the most dangerous,” Galina Petrovna came close to her son. “She might poison you. Hack your work email. Start a scandal online — post photos, messages, something.”
“What photos?” Maxim went pale.
“You know very well what photos. You haven’t exactly been an exemplary husband, Maxim. Marina has been around for more than a year.”
“Quiet, Mom,” he glanced around, though there was no one else in the apartment. “Irina doesn’t know about Marina.”
“Are you sure?” Galina Petrovna leaned toward him. “Absolutely sure?”
Maxim said nothing. He remembered how, a month earlier, Irina had looked at him strangely when he came home later than usual. She had said nothing. Just looked — and turned away.
“Stay here for now,” Galina Petrovna decided. “Don’t go anywhere. Don’t meet anyone. We’ll wait until she reveals herself.”
Three days later, Irina called Maxim and asked to meet. He agreed unexpectedly easily, as if he had been waiting for that call. They met in a café on Tverskaya, at a table by the wall.
“You look well,” Irina said, and it was true. Fear suited Maxim — he had lost weight, his features had sharpened, and something boyish, almost vulnerable, had appeared in him.
“Thank you,” he said awkwardly, turning the menu in his hands. “You too. Ira, I wanted to say…”
“Wait,” she raised her palm. “Let me speak first. I thought a lot after that evening. And do you know what I realized?”
“What?”
“You were right. Absolutely right,” Irina looked straight into his eyes, her voice warm, almost tender. “I was holding you back. You are a man of great scale, Maxim. Your company is growing. You’re making deals you couldn’t even dream of a year ago. And me? I’m just a literature teacher. I lecture students about Chekhov while you build the future.”
“Ira…” he said, confused.
“No, listen,” she gently touched his hand. “I don’t hold a grudge. Truly. Am I hurt? Yes. But I understand. You and Galina Petrovna see the bigger picture better than I do. And I want to leave gracefully. No dirt. No war.”
Maxim blinked. He had clearly not expected this turn. Two feelings struggled inside him: relief and suspicion. Relief won.
“I also want everything to be humane,” he said, and that familiar note of magnanimity entered his voice — the tone of a winner who can afford to be generous.
“Then I have one request,” Irina withdrew her hand. “The apartment. You know I have nowhere to go. My mother lives in a one-room flat. Natalia lives with her husband and two children. I need a roof over my head.”
“The apartment…” he frowned.
“Maxim, in a month you’ll sign a contract with a major client. You told me yourself — it’s a deal worth tens of millions. You can buy yourself a penthouse in Moscow City if you want. And for me, our two-room apartment on Yakimanka will be enough.”
“Well, generally speaking…” he scratched the back of his head. “Yes, the contract is practically in my pocket.”
“You see,” she smiled. “And the car. I need a car to get to work. You were going to replace it anyway. You said you wanted a Mercedes.”
“I did say that,” Maxim straightened with pride. The word Mercedes affected him like an electric shock. He could already see himself behind the wheel — black, matte, leather interior.
“Then transfer them to me as gifts. The apartment to me. The car to me. And we’ll part like two adults.”
“Gift deeds?” he hesitated. “That’s serious, Ira. That isn’t like writing a note.”
“That’s exactly why I suggest we do it today. We’ll go to a notary, sign everything, and that’s it. A clean break. No courts. No scandals.”
“Today? Right now?”
“Why drag it out?” Irina shrugged with the air of someone who didn’t care either way. “You’re a businessman, Maxim. You know a quick decision is the best decision.”
He stayed silent for a minute. Then he took out his phone and looked at the screen — probably wanting to call his mother. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was vanity. Perhaps the desire to prove he could make decisions on his own. Or perhaps that same victorious magnanimity.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They arrived at the notary’s office forty minutes later. Irina had prepared all the necessary documents in advance — Yuri Borisovich had handled everything the previous day — and Maxim didn’t even notice how smoothly and quickly the procedure went. He signed the papers with the expression of a generous patron bestowing charity.
Outside, he stopped and turned to her.
“Ira, you really don’t hate me?”
“I really don’t,” she replied.
And that was almost true. She didn’t hold hatred. She had converted it long ago into something far more useful.
That evening, her mother, Tamara Vasilyevna, called.
“My darling, Natalia told me everything. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Better than fine.”
“Irochka, just don’t do anything foolish. You’ve always been too proud. Pride is good, but not to extremes.”
“Mom, I’m not being proud. I’m taking action,” Irina paused. “He signed the gift deeds. The apartment and the car are mine.”
“Good Lord,” Tamara Vasilyevna gasped. “How did you manage that?”
“I studied this man for seven years, Mom. I know every weakness he has. Flattery is the main one. He grew up with a mother who convinced him he was the center of the universe. All I had to do was confirm the illusion.”
“And what now?”
“Now comes the most interesting part.”
The next morning, Irina received a call from Alisa, Maxim’s younger sister. She had not expected the call and answered cautiously.
“Irina, hi. It’s Alisa.”
“Hi, Alisa. It’s been a while.”
“Listen, I know you and Maxim are… well, getting divorced. Mom told me.”
“And?”
“I want you to know that I’m not on their side,” Alisa said quietly, almost conspiratorially. “Mom never liked you, but I always thought it was unfair. You were the best thing that ever happened to my brother.”
“Thank you, Alisa. That means a lot.”
“And one more thing,” she paused. “I don’t know how important this is, but… Mom has been keeping double books at Maxim’s company. She’s the financial director, and I accidentally saw some documents. For years, she’s been underreporting tax payments and moving money into shell accounts.”
Irina froze. The book she had been leafing through slipped from her hands and fell to the floor, opening on a random page.
“Alisa, do you understand what you’re saying?”
“I do. I’m tired of staying silent. Mom ruined your life, and now she’s ruining the company. Maxim sees nothing — he trusts her blindly. But when it all comes out, and sooner or later it will, he’ll be the one hit hardest.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re the only decent person in this whole story,” Alisa sighed. “Do whatever you want with the information. I’m washing my hands of it.”
After the call, Irina sat for a long time, staring at the fallen book. It was Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. The open page read: Never ask for anything. Never, especially from those stronger than you.
She picked up the book and slowly smiled.
A week later, Irina met with Yuri Borisovich. He was brief, precise, and completely free of sentimentality — exactly what she needed.
“Irina, you have the gift deeds for the apartment and the car. Legally, they are flawless — forgive me, what I mean is that they are impossible to challenge. But you said there was something else?”
“Yes,” she handed him a flash drive. “These are copies of documents I was given. Financial fraud inside my husband’s company. Or rather, my former husband’s company.”
“Where did you get this information?”
“From a source inside the company. I’d rather not be more specific.”
“I understand,” Yuri Borisovich inserted the flash drive into his laptop and silently reviewed the files for several minutes. His expression did not change, but he removed his glasses and wiped them twice — a sure sign that the contents had impressed him. “Irina, this is serious. Very serious. There’s enough material here for years of proceedings.”
“I don’t need proceedings. I need this information to reach the right person.”
“I can send it to Anton Pavlovich. He deals with economic crimes. A principled and incorruptible man.”
“Send it.”
Three days passed in silence. Irina returned to her students, to lectures on the Silver Age, to seminars on textual analysis. She behaved as if nothing had happened — and in that there was a strange beauty. Life continued. Only now, it belonged to her alone.
Then Svetlana called.
“Have you heard? There’s a search happening at Maxim’s office.”
“No, I haven’t,” Irina replied calmly, though her heart began to beat faster. “What happened?”
“They say some investigator came in, requested documents, sealed Galina Petrovna’s office. Half the employees have written resignation letters. The investor Maxim was negotiating with has pulled out of the deal.”
“The contract fell through?” Irina asked.
“Completely. The investor didn’t want to get involved with a company under investigation. And the accounts, apparently, have been frozen.”
Irina closed her eyes. For a second — only a second — she felt sorry for Maxim. He was a weak man, but not an evil one. His weakness was that he had spent his whole life letting his mother think for him, decide for him, live for him. And now this was the result.
But the pity passed quickly. She remembered how Galina Petrovna had looked at her that evening in the kitchen — with the condescending superiority of a queen looking down at a servant. She remembered how Maxim had never defended his wife once in seven years. She remembered every family dinner where her mother-in-law would make some cutting remark: “Irochka, you should at least learn how to cook,” “Irochka, with your salary, you should be grateful to my son every day,” “Irochka, books are nice, but a man needs something else.”
The phone rang again. The screen showed the name: Artyom. She looked at it for three rings, then declined the call.
Not now. Later.
That evening, Maxim called. His voice was unrecognizable — hoarse, cracked, as though he had spent hours shouting.
“Irina, was it you?”
“What was me?” she asked evenly.
“Did you submit the information? About Mom, about the company?”
“What are you talking about, Maxim?”
“Don’t pretend!” he snapped. “An investigator came to my company! Some Anton Pavlovich! Mom is being questioned! The accounts are frozen! The contract I was counting on is in the trash!”
“Maxim, I teach literature,” Irina said with icy clarity. “I don’t understand financial schemes. If your mother had skeletons in her closet, those are not my skeletons.”
“You’re lying! You took revenge!”
“What would I need revenge for?” she allowed herself a brief pause. “You said yourself that our marriage had run its course. I accepted that with understanding. You acted nobly and signed the gift deeds. I left. Where is the revenge?”
He fell silent. She could hear his breathing — heavy and uneven, like that of a trapped animal.
“I need the apartment back,” he finally forced out. “And the car. I have nothing to pay office rent with. Salaries are delayed…”
“No,” Irina said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“No. The gift deeds were signed voluntarily and notarized. This is my property.”
“Ira, you don’t understand…”
“I understand everything, Maxim. For the first time in seven years, I understand everything perfectly. Good night.”
She ended the call. Then she dialed Natalia.
“Natasha, he called. He wants the property back.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said no.”
“Finally,” Natalia’s voice softened. “Finally, you’ve stopped being convenient for everyone except yourself.”
A month later, Irina opened the door of the apartment — her apartment — and saw Maxim standing there. Little remained of the man he had once been: no confidence, no polish, no “important” shirts. A gray jacket, an unshaven face, extinguished eyes.
“Can I come in?” he asked dully.
“Come in.”
He entered and sat at the dining table — the same table where, a month earlier, he had announced the divorce. Irina sat across from him and waited.
“Irina, I came to talk.”
“Talk.”
“The company is collapsing. Mom is under investigation. Investors have scattered. I’m closing the office — there’s nothing to maintain it with. We’ll probably have to sell Mom’s apartment too, to cover the debts.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Irina said, her voice as level as a horizon line.
“Sorry?!” he jerked upward. “You’re sorry? You did this!”
“I didn’t do anything, Maxim. Your mother stole from your own company for years. I didn’t force her to do it. I didn’t forge documents. I didn’t underreport payments.”
“But someone reported it!”
“Maybe. Or maybe it was dissatisfied employees. Or an audit. Or competitors. How would I know?”
Maxim slammed his fist onto the table. The plates clinked.
“Give me back the apartment, Ira. I’m begging you.”
“No.”
“I’m pleading with you!”
“No, Maxim,” she leaned forward, and in her eyes he saw something new — a cold, crystal-clear certainty of a person who knows exactly what she is worth. “Do you remember sitting right here, at this table, telling me our marriage had run its course? Do you remember your mother standing beside you, nodding, pleased with herself? Do you remember how both of you waited for me to burst into tears, fall to my knees, beg forgiveness for failing to meet your great standards?”
“Ira…”
“Do you remember how she called me ‘Irochka’ in that tone, as if I were a pet that hadn’t met expectations? How she said in front of guests that ‘Maximchik could have found someone better’? How you stayed silent — every single time — because Mommy was always right?”
He stared at her, and in his eyes understanding slowly appeared — heavy, late, useless.
“I was an idiot,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she agreed. “You were. And you were a coward. Not because you wanted a divorce — I would have accepted a divorce. But because you never had the courage to be yourself. Your whole life, you were your mother’s shadow.”
Maxim stood. He took a step toward her, and there was something threatening in the movement — not physically, but emotionally, as if he wanted to pressure, to dominate, the way he was used to doing.
“You have no right to talk to me like that!” he loomed over her.
Irina rose in one sharp movement and slapped him across the face.
The sound rang through the apartment — dry, clear, final. Maxim recoiled, grabbing his cheek, staring at her in absolute shock.
“That is for seven years,” she said. “For every time you watched your mother humiliate me and stayed silent. For every evening you spent with Marina, thinking I knew nothing. For every ‘Irochka, you should at least learn how to cook.’ For every hidden glance, every smirk, every sigh with which you and your mother made me understand I was the unwanted guest at your celebration of life.”
He stood there, holding his cheek, saying nothing. For the first time in seven years, he had no words.
“Leave, Maxim. And solve your problems yourself. You’re a great businessman, aren’t you? A titan, a genius, a future billionaire. Show it now — without Mommy behind your back.”
He slowly walked to the door. At the threshold, he turned around.
“You stripped me after all,” he said with a bitter half-smile. “In every sense of the word.”
“No, Maxim. Your greed stripped you. And your mother’s greed. I simply took what was rightfully mine.”
The door closed.
Irina stood in the middle of the apartment — her apartment — and looked at the table, where the same plate of pomegranate salad remained, prepared for today’s lunch. Red seeds on white porcelain.
The phone rang. Artyom.
She looked at the screen, and this time she answered.
“Hello?”
“Irina, good afternoon. I’m calling for the third time,” his voice was warm, with a slight huskiness. “You kept declining. I started to think my number had been blacklisted.”
“It was,” she replied, and for the first time in a month, there was a smile in her voice. “Now it isn’t.”
“Then maybe we could have coffee? Tomorrow, after your lectures?”
“Maybe,” Irina said. “Tomorrow.”
She placed the phone on the table and went to the bookshelf. She took down The Master and Margarita, opened it to the marked page, and read aloud, alone in the silence of her own home:
“Never ask for anything.”
Then she put the book back and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
For herself.
Only for herself.
Three months later, when the investigation was complete and Galina Petrovna was banned from holding management positions for five years and ordered to compensate for the damages, something unexpected came to light.
The first person to report the financial fraud had not been Alisa.
And it had not been Irina.
The documents had been sent to the authorities by… Marina — Maxim’s very own mistress. The same Marina whom he had promised to marry after the divorce, and to whom he had never actually proposed. Hurt by his indecision, Marina had copied files from his work laptop one night and sent them anonymously.
Alisa had only confirmed what another woman had already set in motion.
When Maxim found out, he sat for a long time on a bench outside the former office, staring at the sign being removed from the facade by workers. Everyone had betrayed him — his mother, his wife, his lover, his sister.
But if he were honest with himself, he had been the first to betray anyone.
Irina heard the news from Svetlana and only shook her head.
“You know, Sveta, Tolstoy has that line: ‘All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’ Ours was unhappy with particular creativity.”
“And what now?” Svetlana asked.
“Now I drink coffee alone, read books out loud, and don’t make pomegranate salad,” Irina smiled. “And that is the best thing that has happened to me in the last seven years.”
The End
