Vera held the mug between both hands, warming her fingers against it, and looked at Artyom calmly, almost tenderly.
“I’m glad you brought it up yourself,” she said quietly. “I thought I’d have to start this conversation.”
“Start what?” He smirked, lounging back in his chair. “Do you even understand that without me, you’ll be left with nothing?”
“Explain it to me. I’m listening carefully.”
“What’s there to explain?” Artyom snapped his fingers as if calling over a waiter. “The car is mine. The country house is mine. And I’m taking the dog too, so you won’t sit here whining every evening.”
Vera took a small sip and placed the mug on the table with great care, as though she were afraid of waking a sleeping child.
“Graf only comes near you when you’re holding sausage,” she observed. “But that’s beside the point. Go on.”
“What do you mean, beside the point? I’m serious. Keep acting clever, and you’ll walk out of this apartment wearing nothing but your slippers. Is that clear?”
“Artyom.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “You’re breathing so fiercely that the neighbor’s cat has probably crawled under the sofa.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Not at all. I’m simply enjoying the performance.”
He leaned forward, his voice climbing toward a shrill pitch.
“Vera, you obviously don’t understand what’s happening. I’ll make your life hell. Lawyers, documents, legal claims. I’ll leave you with nowhere to go.”
“Nowhere to go?” Vera tilted her head. “Do you mean around the world? A world tour sounds tempting, but my plans are a little more modest.”
“You and your stupid jokes!” He slapped his palm against the table. “I’m talking about your life, and you’re laughing!”
“I’m not laughing. I’m smiling.”
Artyom clenched his jaw and began speaking slowly, forcing each word out as though he were teaching her the rules of a game.
“Listen carefully. I’m taking everything we acquired during the marriage. Legally. Do you understand? By. The. Law.”
“I understand.” Vera nodded. “The law is a wonderful thing. Especially when you read it all the way to the end.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m still being patient with you. For now.”
Artyom paced around the kitchen in circles, waving his hands and clearly finding himself very convincing.
“Who bought the car? I did. Who drove it, paid for gas, and took it to the garage? Me. So it’s mine.”
“You drove it, yes,” Vera agreed. “Would you like me to remind you whose name is on the registration?”
“What difference does that make? What matters is who used it!”
“What excellent logic.” Vera leaned back in her chair. “I use the elevator every day. Perhaps I should take it home and claim it as mine.”
“Stop clowning around!” he roared. “Whose country house is it? I painted the fence there!”
“Once. Three years ago. And, as I recall, you painted the cat at the same time.”
“The cat again! What does the cat have to do with anything?”
“Nothing at all,” she agreed gently. “But the fence and the country house belong to my mother, Artyom. The car is registered in her name too. So is the land. You know that perfectly well. Hello? Anyone home?”
He stopped moving. His eyes darted around before filling with anger again.
“So what? We’ll transfer everything! I’ll prove that I invested money in it!”
“With what evidence? A can of paint and a traumatized cat?”
“You…” He choked on the word. “You’ve always been calculating! You grabbed everything for yourself, put it all in your family’s name, and I was left looking like an idiot!”
“I partly agree with you,” Vera said with a nod. “Not about me grabbing everything. About you looking like an idiot.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you never registered a single thing in your own name, and now you’re furious because there’s nothing to divide. It’s like showing up at someone else’s wedding and getting offended because nobody gave you a piece of cake.”
Artyom loomed over the table, pressing his knuckles against the surface.
“I’m warning you nicely. Give me the country house, give me the car, and we’ll separate quietly.”
“And if I don’t cooperate?” Vera raised an eyebrow with genuine curiosity. “What happens then? Will you breathe threateningly at me?”
“I’ll ruin your life!”
“Artyom, you haven’t managed to put up the curtain rod in our bedroom in two years. What life are you planning to ruin? What exactly are you going to break?”
He opened his mouth, preparing to deliver something devastating, when the doorbell rang.
Lidia, Artyom’s mother, stood in the doorway. She took off her raincoat, hung it on a hook, and walked into the kitchen with the confident stride of someone who had not come for a friendly visit but to settle a matter.
“I could hear everything from the stairwell,” she said evenly. “You’re shouting loud enough for the entire building.”
“I’m not shouting. She’s provoking me!” Artyom blurted out at once. “Mom, tell her! Tell her I have rights!”
Lidia slowly sat down, looked first at her son and then at Vera.
“What exactly do you have a right to, son?” she asked calmly. “List it.”
“The car! The country house! I’m the husband. I’m the head of the family!”
“The head of the family,” Lidia repeated, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. “Let me remind you of something.”
“Mom, don’t start telling your old stories.”
“Be quiet,” she cut him off, her voice turning firm. “When your father and I divorced, he took everything. Do you understand? Everything. The car, the apartment, the savings. And according to the documents, he had every right to do it because all of it genuinely belonged to him.”
“Exactly, and I—”
“You are the opposite,” Lidia interrupted, looking straight at him. “You don’t have a single document. Nothing. Yet you’re sitting here demanding property that belongs to someone else. That isn’t a legal right, Artyom. It’s shamelessness.”
“Whose side are you on?” he exploded.
“The side of fairness,” Lidia replied sharply. “And today, fairness is not on your side.”
Vera quietly stood, switched on the kettle, and took out a third mug.
“Lidia Pavlovna, would you like lemon or mint?”
“Mint, please, Vera. Thank you.”
“You’re going to sit here drinking tea?” Artyom gasped in outrage. “You planned this together!”
“Nobody planned anything,” his mother said calmly. “I simply don’t want to discover one day that my son threw a woman out of her own apartment while waving someone else’s keys in her face.”
Artyom paced from wall to wall. His voice cracked, and the veins in his temples stood out.
“This isn’t fair! You’re both against me! What am I now, nobody?”
“You’re a grown man who threatened to throw me out in my slippers ten minutes ago,” Vera reminded him calmly. “Sit down. Finish your tea. Listen.”
“I’m not listening to anything!”
“You are,” Lidia said in a tone that made him sit down.
Vera placed a mug in front of him and leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing her arms loosely, without the slightest trace of aggression.
“Now it’s my turn to put the cards on the table,” she said. “You’ve spent the entire evening frightening me with the law. Fine. Let’s talk about the law.”
“Fine!” He raised his chin.
“The car belongs to my mother. The country house belongs to her as well, and she owned it before our marriage. There is nothing to divide because none of it is jointly owned property. Zero. Nothing.”
“What about the apartment? We live here!”
“This apartment was given to me as a gift, Artyom. Before I met you. You moved in with one suitcase and a coffee machine.”
“The coffee machine is mine!” he blurted out, then immediately fell silent when he realized how foolish it sounded.
Vera smiled.
“You may take the coffee machine. Honestly, with my blessing. It makes noises in the morning like an old tractor anyway.”
His mother quietly chuckled into her mug.
“So there is nothing for us to divide,” Vera continued. “Not the car, not the country house, not a single square meter. As for the dog… Graf, come here.”
The dog lazily rose from his place in the corner, padded over to Vera, and sat beside her feet, pressing his body against her leg.
“See?” She scratched him behind the ear. “He made his choice without lawyers.”
“That isn’t fair,” Artyom whispered. “He used to come to me.”
“For sausage,” Vera reminded him. “And you have to admit that wasn’t love. It was business.”
Artyom sat with both hands wrapped around the mug. He searched for a loophole, turning possible threats over in his mind, but each one fell apart before he could put it into words.
“You planned all of this in advance,” he finally managed to say.
“No,” Vera replied calmly. “I simply took care of the documents while you were busy painting the cat.”
“Enough about the cat!”
“Fine. No more cat.” She sat down across from him. “Artyom, I’m not angry with you. Not anymore. I think I became tired of being angry sometime during the second year of our marriage.”
“So you don’t care about me?” His mouth twitched almost pitifully.
“It isn’t that I don’t care,” she said softly. “I feel calm about you. That’s a different feeling, and for you, it’s much worse.”
Lidia put down her mug and stood.
“Son, listen to me one last time today,” she said. “I once lost everything because I believed beautiful promises and failed to read the documents. I don’t want Vera to repeat my mistake. And I certainly don’t want you to repeat your father’s. So sit down, breathe, and accept one simple fact: there is nothing here for you to take because you never earned or acquired any of it.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” he asked quietly.
“Back where you came from,” Vera replied without anger. “With your suitcase and your coffee machine. I’ll even give you a box so you don’t drop anything on the way.”
He was silent for a long time. Then he looked up. The shouting and threats had vanished from his eyes. All that remained was the confusion of a man who had suddenly had the stool kicked out from under him while he was standing on it, waving his fists.
“What if I want to stay?” he said at last. “Like a decent person.”
“It’s too late,” Vera answered calmly. “Do you know the difference between us? You delayed, threatened, and looked for something you could grab. I simply make decisions. Quickly. And today, I made mine.”
“Just like that?”
“Why drag it out? Dragging things out is your specialty. I’m built differently.”
His mother walked toward the door, then turned around.
“Vera, keep the car keys and the country house documents with you,” she said. “Give them to your mother. I’ll call her myself. And you, Artyom, start packing. I’ll walk you downstairs so you don’t suddenly remember something else that supposedly belongs to you.”
“Mom!”
“And don’t forget the coffee machine,” Vera added, handing him a box. “I promised you could have it.”
Artyom stood, awkwardly accepted the box, and clutched it to his chest like a child holding a schoolbag on the first day of class, frightened and uncertain about everything.
“You’ll regret—” he began automatically, then stopped when he met her gaze.
“Don’t,” Vera said calmly. “The ending of this scene has already been written. And, surprisingly enough, it contains no car, no country house, and no Graf. There’s only you and the coffee machine. Take good care of each other.”
He remained there for another second, as though waiting for her to change her mind, laugh, and tell him he could stay after all.
Instead, she simply opened the door for him.
“Graf, say goodbye,” she said.
The dog barked once, briefly and efficiently, then turned toward his food bowl.
“See?” Vera smiled. “Even he doesn’t like long farewells.”
The door closed softly, without a slam. Vera turned the key, leaned against the doorframe, and exhaled with the lightness of someone who had finally put down a heavy bag.
“Lidia Pavlovna will see you out,” she said aloud, even though there was no one left behind the door. “And I think I’ll have some tea. With mint. And without threats.”
Graf walked over, sat beside her, and rested his head on her knee.
“Well, that settles the division,” she said quietly to him. “You get the sofa. I get the peace and quiet. And he gets the coffee machine. Seems fair to me.”
Then she laughed—softly and freely, like a person who had finally put everything back where it belonged.
