Two-room apartment on the third floor of an old brick building had come to Inna from her grandmother, Ekaterina Vasilyevna. The woman had died two years earlier, leaving her granddaughter the only truly valuable inheritance — housing in the city center. Inna had registered the ownership rights before the wedding, so the apartment was considered her personal property and was not subject to division.
Dmitry moved in with his wife immediately after they registered their marriage. He sold his one-room apartment on the outskirts, and spent the money on a car and renovations in his new home. Inna did not object — the family budget needed support, and her husband promised to find stable work and take on part of the expenses.
The promises remained just words. Dmitry did odd jobs as a security guard, a loader, and an assistant at an auto repair shop. He received money irregularly and spent it on gas and entertainment with friends. He had no real desire to get a permanent job — he was always talking about some grand projects that were supposed to bring in big money.
“I’ll find an investor for my idea,” Dmitry would tell his wife over dinner, “and then we’ll live like normal people. We’ll renovate the apartment, buy a new car.”
“What kind of idea?” Inna would ask.
“It’s too early to say. But the prospects are huge.”
Inna would nod and continue eating. Her husband was already thirty-two, and the grand projects still had not materialized. Meanwhile, utility bills, groceries, and all other expenses were paid exclusively by his wife.
Inna worked as a coordinator at a logistics company. Her salary was sixty-five thousand rubles — not millions, but enough for two adults without children to live normally. Her husband regularly asked for money for gas, meetings with friends, and various small needs. Inna gave it to him without counting — after all, the family budget rested on her income anyway.
Dmitry took almost no part in household chores. He could heat up ready-made food for himself, make tea, and sometimes take out the trash. But cleaning the apartment, doing laundry, grocery shopping, and paying bills — all of that fell on Inna’s shoulders. He explained his passivity by saying he was busy looking for work and developing business plans.
“You understand,” Dmitry would say when his wife asked him to help with cleaning, “I’m in an important period right now. I can’t be distracted by little things.”
Inna did not argue. It was easier to do everything herself than to listen to lectures about the importance of men’s affairs.
Over the past year, her husband had become noticeably more distant. Before, Dmitry at least talked about his plans and shared news about his friends. Now he came home silent, ate dinner in front of the television, then went to the bedroom with his phone. When asked about his mood, he answered irritably:
“I’m tired. Stop bothering me with questions.”
“Tired from what?” Inna would wonder. “You were home all day.”
“I’m tired from having no inspiration!” her husband snapped. “You don’t understand what it’s like to search for your place in life.”
Inna decided not to interfere in her husband’s emotional struggles. She had enough worries at work — constant negotiations with suppliers, delivery control, resolving conflicts. She came home exhausted and wanted silence and peace, not relationship arguments.
Inna noticed the first oddities in the spring. Dmitry began going somewhere more often, claiming he had meetings with potential business partners. He returned late in the evening, and sometimes the next morning. At the same time, his gas expenses did not increase — on the contrary, he began asking for money for fuel less often.
“Where did you spend the night yesterday?” his wife asked.
“I stayed at Anton’s. We discussed the project until late, and it was inconvenient to go home.”
Inna nodded, but questions kept building up inside her. Why had Dmitry not called to warn her? Why had his phone not answered until morning? And most importantly — what kind of project required discussions all night?
Dmitry became more secretive with his messages. Before, he calmly left his phone on the table, paying no attention to incoming messages. Now he carried the device with him constantly, even to the bathroom. When notifications arrived, he quickly read them and immediately deleted them.
“Who keeps writing to you so often?” Inna asked one day.
“Work matters,” her husband answered curtly. “You don’t understand the specifics of business.”
In the summer, Inna accidentally saw a photo on social media. She was scrolling through her feed during her lunch break when she came across a post from a local motorcycle club. In the background of a group photo stood Dmitry. Next to him was a young woman with long red hair. He had his arm around the stranger’s shoulders, and she was pressed close to him, smiling at the camera.
The caption under the photo read: “Our regular participants Dima and Katya at the latest ride. Beautiful couple!”
Inna stared at her phone screen for a long time. Her heart was pounding so loudly that it seemed her colleagues in the neighboring offices would surely hear it. Her husband had never spoken about motorcycles, never mentioned any Katya, and never told her about any rides.
That evening, his wife decided to speak to him directly. She waited until Dmitry had eaten dinner and settled on the sofa with his phone.
“Dima, we need to talk.”
“About what?” her husband asked without looking up from the screen.
“I saw the photo from the motorcycle club. You were there with some woman.”
Dmitry sharply raised his head. His face became tense, his jaw clenched.
“So what?”
“Who is this Katya?”
“A friend. And what business is it of yours?”
“What do you mean, what business is it of mine?” Inna was confused. “You’re my husband. Why don’t I know about your female friends?”
Dmitry got up from the sofa and threw his phone onto the armchair.
“Because you’re controlling!” he raised his voice. “You can’t calmly accept that I have my own life!”
“Your own life?” Inna also stood up. “Dima, we’re married! We’re supposed to have a shared life!”
“We’re all adults,” her husband cut her off. “These things happen. People meet, talk, become friends. Or do you think I’m supposed to sit at home and wait for you to come back from work?”
“Friends?” Inna repeated. “In that photo, you don’t look like friends.”
“Interpret it however you want,” Dmitry shrugged. “I don’t care about your suspicions.”
He went into the bedroom and slammed the door. Inna remained standing in the middle of the living room, unable to understand what had just happened. No apologies, no explanations. Only aggression and a complete unwillingness to discuss anything.
For the next two days, the spouses barely spoke. Dmitry left home early in the morning and returned late in the evening. Inna did not ask where her husband spent his time — the answer was already obvious.
On Saturday evening, Dmitry came home sober and focused. He sat across from his wife, who was reading a book on the sofa, and said a phrase that made Inna’s breath catch:
“You have one week to move out. I’m bringing my new woman into this apartment.”
Inna silently looked at her husband. Dmitry sat in the armchair with the air of a man who had just announced some ordinary decision — for example, changing the brand of toothpaste. No awkwardness, no doubts. Only firm confidence that his demand would be carried out.
“I see,” his wife said calmly.
Inna added nothing else. She got up from the sofa, went into the bedroom, and closed the door behind her. Dmitry remained in the living room, apparently expecting a stormy reaction, tears, or an attempt to persuade him otherwise. But no sounds came from the bedroom.
Inna took the folder with the apartment documents out of the wardrobe. The certificate of ownership, BTI records, inheritance documents — everything was neatly filed and placed in transparent sleeves. She took the folder and returned to the kitchen.
She placed the documents in the middle of the table so her husband would definitely see them. Let him leaf through them and refresh his memory about who owned this apartment. Dmitry noticed the folder, but did not even approach to look at its contents. The documents lay on the table all evening, and he demonstratively ignored them.
The next morning, Inna woke up earlier than usual. The apartment was quiet — Dmitry was still asleep after yesterday’s announcement. She quietly went into the bedroom and began packing her husband’s things.
She acted methodically, without haste. She took a travel suitcase from the wardrobe, one she had once bought for their joint vacation in Sochi. She carefully folded his shirts, T-shirts, and jeans. She packed his underwear, socks, and sportswear. From the bathroom, she gathered his toiletries — razor, shampoo, deodorant.
No crumpled laundry, no thrown-out boxes. Everything was packed as carefully as Inna usually packed suitcases for trips. She even wrapped her husband’s favorite mug in a towel so it would not break.
Inna placed the packed suitcase by the front door. Dmitry was still asleep, apparently planning to sleep in before the important day of his wife’s relocation.
At around ten in the morning, her husband woke up and came into the kitchen. He saw the suitcase and frowned.
“What is that?” Dmitry asked.
“Your things,” Inna replied without looking up from her breakfast.
“Why did you pack them?”
“You said someone had to move out. So move out.”
Dmitry burst out laughing, as if he had heard a good joke.
“Are you serious? Inna, this is my apartment too. We’re married. Everything is shared.”
“The apartment came to me from my grandmother before our wedding,” his wife said calmly. “The documents are on the table. You can look.”
“But I live here! This is my home!”
“It was your home. And now you want to bring another woman here. That means it’s time to make room.”
Her husband’s face changed. The laughter disappeared; tension appeared.
“Listen, let’s not get emotional,” Dmitry began in a different tone. “I just said something stupid in the heat of the moment. We need to turn a new page, start everything with a clean slate…”
Inna pointed to the suitcase, then to the door. She did not say a word.
“Can’t you hear me?” her husband raised his voice. “I’m trying to talk to you like a human being!”
The woman continued to remain silent, finishing her coffee.
“Fine,” Dmitry changed tactics. “You want to play the offended one? You’ll regret this. People don’t forgive things like this, Inna. When you understand what you’ve done, it’ll be too late to ask forgiveness.”
His wife got up from the table and rinsed her cup in the sink. Dmitry paced around the kitchen, waving his arms.
“You’re selfish!” he continued. “You only think about yourself! What am I supposed to do, live on the street? I have problems, do you understand? A difficult period in life!”
Inna dried her hands with a towel and hung it back in place.
“All right, I’m ready to reconsider everything with a cool head,” Dmitry lowered his tone. “Give me time to sort out the situation. I’ll change, we’ll fix our relationship…”
He spoke for another ten minutes, shifting his intonation from threatening to pleading. Inna listened silently, not reacting to his words, neither objecting nor agreeing. She simply waited until her husband ran out of breath.
When Dmitry’s speech dried up, she went to the hallway. She took the set of keys from her bag, the one her husband had thrown onto the shelf the day before. She put the keys into her bag and zipped it shut. Then she opened the front door and stood beside it.
“Are you serious?” Dmitry asked once more.
Inna nodded toward the open door.
Her husband stood there indecisively, then picked up the suitcase with a demonstrative sigh. He went out into the stairwell, but he was in no hurry to leave. He kept looking back over his shoulder, throwing out final remarks:
“You think I have nowhere to go? I have options!”
“You’ll call me again and beg me to come back!”
“You shouldn’t have done this, Inna. You really shouldn’t have…”
The woman stood in the doorway, not looking at her husband, not answering his words. She simply waited until the sound of his voice finally faded in the stairwell.
Half an hour later, Dmitry finally went downstairs. Inna closed the door, took out her phone, and found the number of the locksmith who had installed a new lock for the neighbors several months earlier.
“Can you come today?” the woman asked. “I need the cylinder in the front door changed.”
“I can come in an hour,” the locksmith answered.
“Excellent. I’ll be waiting.”
By evening, there was a new lock in the door. Inna received two keys and checked the mechanism. Then she sat down with her phone and methodically deleted her ex-husband’s number from her contacts. She deleted all the messages in her messengers. She cleared the call history.
In the kitchen, she put the folder with the documents back into the wardrobe. There was no longer any need to display the documents — only the legal owner remained in the apartment.
That evening, Inna cooked dinner for one. A small portion of salad, a piece of fish, buckwheat. She ate slowly, enjoying the silence. No one demanded a second helping, complained about the taste, or talked about grand plans for the future.
After dinner, she turned on her favorite movie, which Dmitry could not stand. She settled on the sofa with a blanket and a cup of tea. On the screen unfolded a melodrama about a woman who, after divorce, opened her own café and met true love.
The apartment became truly quiet. The silence was not empty, but filled with peace. She no longer had to listen to complaints about the lack of inspiration, no longer had to pay for someone else’s entertainment, no longer had to tolerate the presence of a person who considered this apartment a temporary platform for his plans.
Inna finished her tea and took the cup to the kitchen. Tomorrow would be an ordinary workday at the logistics company. Negotiations with suppliers, delivery control, solving current problems. Her salary would be spent only on herself, on her needs and desires.
A week later, Dmitry sent a message from a new number. He asked to meet, talk, and discuss the prospects of getting back together. Inna read the text and blocked the number.
She had only one prospect — to live in her own apartment, inherited from her beloved grandmother Ekaterina Vasilyevna, and to let no one else in. At least, no one who considered himself the owner of someone else’s inheritance.
At last, the person who was supposed to live there had settled in the home — the owner herself.
“Enough. Dinner with your relatives is not a celebration, it’s a punishment. Go by yourself, and I’ll rest for the first time in six months.