He spent the whole week having fun with someone else, while a suitcase was waiting for him at home.
Sergey stepped out of the taxi by the familiar garages. The evening sun was setting, painting the metal roofs a deep orange. He adjusted the strap of his bag, straightened his shoulders, and smiled. The week in Sochi had been flawless – the sea, the sun, expensive restaurants, and all of it with Viktoria. She was young, slim, always laughing. She looked at him like he was the only man in the world. Sergey felt like a winner.
His friends were already gathered by the garages. Some were smoking, others checking under their car hoods, and a few just enjoying the warm evening sun. Sergey walked up, greeted everyone, and set his bag down.
“Hey, Seryoga! You’re back!” exclaimed Nikolay, a broad-shouldered man with a hint of grey in his hair. “So, how was your business trip?”
Sergey smirked. Leaning against the hood of his gray Vesta, he began his story with obvious satisfaction.
“You should have seen Viktoria!” he said excitedly. “So gentle, so caring, always cheerful. She spent the whole week proving there’s no one better. Like she was in a competition with every woman out there, trying to make sure I’d never forget her.”
Nikolay whistled in surprise.
“Wow, Seryoga. What about Natalia?”
“What about Natalia?” Sergey shrugged. “She’s waiting at home. Where’s she going to go? You know what she’s like? Quiet, obedient. Tell her to do something—she’ll do it. I told her I was on a business trip, and she bought it. Didn’t even ask for any details.”
His friends glanced at each other but kept silent. A few grunted, some shook their heads, but Sergey didn’t notice. He was too absorbed in his own victory.
“She always used to cook for me,” he went on. “Borscht, cutlets, pies. Did the laundry, cleaned the place. And me? I’m a man. I need to relax. I need a woman who inspires me. And Natalia… what kind of muse is she? An accountant. Boring, predictable.”
“So Viktoria’s not boring, then?” Nikolay asked with a little smirk.
“Viktoria’s a firecracker!” Sergey threw his hands up. “The things she said to me, the words… She made me feel like a real man. But at home? It’s just nagging. ‘Sergey, help with the homework.’ ‘Sergey, we need to pay the rent.’ ‘Sergey, you promised to fix the faucet.’ Boring stuff.”
He laughed. His friends joined in, but not very enthusiastically. Sergey didn’t notice. He said goodbye, picked up his bag, and headed towards his building.
The walk home took about ten minutes. Sergey strolled through the familiar courtyard, breathing in the evening air, already imagining a quiet night. Natalia probably had dinner ready. He’d eat, take a shower, stretch out on the couch, turn on the TV. Maybe he’d even tell her something about his ‘business trip.’ Though, why bother? She wouldn’t get it anyway.
He didn’t notice that her old Lada Granta wasn’t in its usual spot in the parking lot. The place where she always parked was empty. He also didn’t notice that the windows of the apartment were brightly lit even though Natalia usually tried to save on electricity.
The entrance. The elevator. His familiar landing. Sergey took out his keys, put one in the lock, and turned it. The door opened easily.
The scent of cleanliness hit him as soon as he walked in. It was sharp, unfamiliar, almost sterile—the kind you get when someone scrubs the floors with vinegar and airs out every room. The hallway was bathed in bright light, every bulb blazing. By the mirror, a large suitcase stood on the ottoman. Next to it, a smaller one. The closet doors at the entrance were wide open, and the shelves inside were completely bare.
Sergey froze in the doorway. He was still clutching his keys, his smile still lingering, but it started to fade slowly from his face.
Natalia sat on a chair in the hallway. She wore a strict gray coat he hadn’t seen in years. A handbag rested on her knees. Her hair was perfectly styled. Her face looked calm—too calm.
“Are you… going somewhere?” he asked awkwardly as he took off his shoes. “To your mom’s or something?”
Natalia looked up at him. There was no anger, no tears, no accusation in her eyes. Only emptiness. Cold, steady emptiness.
“I’m leaving, Sergey,” she said in an even voice. “For good. Ilya is already at my sister’s. He won’t bother you.”
Sergey froze again. He didn’t even drop the shoe he was holding.
“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” He gave a nervous laugh, but there was something fake in it. “Natasha, come on. I’m exhausted and hungry. Can we talk about this later?”
“I know everything,” she interrupted. “About Viktoria. About Sochi. About how you were supposedly ‘working’ at the Pearl Hotel.”
She handed him a sheet of paper. Sergey took it without thinking. It was a printout of a hotel bill. Next to “Guest” was his full name. “Number of guests”—two. “Check-in date”—last Monday. “Check-out date”—this morning.
Sergey turned pale. The paper trembled in his hand.
“You… you’ve been snooping through my stuff?” he forced out. “Who even are you? You live in my apartment!”
“Your apartment?” Natalia stood up. She was a head shorter than him, but now she seemed taller. “This apartment, Seryozha, was bought with my money. Three years ago. While you were ‘finding yourself’ on the sofa. So, it’s my apartment. And you…”—she paused—”you’re just moving out. Today.”
“What are you… I mean…” He was gasping with rage. “You’re nobody! You won’t get anything! Not a single cent!”
“I’ve already filed for divorce,” Natalia said calmly while fastening her coat. “And for the division of property. The car is jointly owned, so we’ll split it. Alimony for Ilya—as required by law, a quarter of your income.”
“What do you mean, division?!” he shouted. “Are you out of your mind? I’ll drag you through the courts!”
“My lawyer says,” she continued without raising her voice, “that for emotional damage due to infidelity, I can file for compensation. We also have a prenuptial agreement, Sergey. You signed it. Remember?”
Sergey froze again. The prenuptial agreement. That day she’d brought the papers and he’d signed them without reading. What difference did it make? He was the man. He was always right.
“You… you set me up,” he whispered.
“I warned you,” Natalia replied. “You just never listened.”
She grabbed her suitcase by the handle. Sergey lunged toward her and grabbed her arm.
“Wait! You’re not going anywhere! Do you hear me? I forbid it!”
Natalia slowly turned her head. She looked at his hand. Then, she looked him in the eyes.
“Take your hand off me,” she said quietly. “Or I’ll call the police. And that’ll just be another thing to add to the lawsuit.”
Sergey jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned. He stared at her, struggling to recognize her. This wasn’t his quiet, obedient Natalya. This was a stranger—a cold, determined, and dangerous woman.
“You’ll regret this,” he whispered.
“I already do,” Natalya answered, opening the door. “But not because I’m leaving. I regret not doing it sooner.”
The door shut. The lock clicked. Sergey was left alone in the empty apartment.
He stood in the hallway for several minutes. Then he slowly walked into the room. There was an envelope on the table. He opened it. Inside was a copy of the marriage contract. And a note, written in her steady handwriting:
“Sergey, I knew everything. I waited, hoping you’d come to your senses. I gave you chance after chance. But you never noticed. Now it’s too late. The documents for the apartment are with me. I left the keys on the nightstand. Call me when you’re ready to collect your things. I won’t be in the way. Natalya.”
Sergey sat down on the floor right there in the hallway. He looked at the suitcase Natalya had forgotten to take. Inside was his clothing. She’d packed everything for him. She even thought of that.
He clenched the hotel bill in his fist. The paper crumpled, but the numbers were still there. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. One week. Just a week.
He lifted his head. In the window across from his, a light was on. Someone else’s life. Someone else’s window. Suddenly, he realized he had nothing left. No wife. No son. No apartment. Just a suitcase with his things and a hotel bill he’d paid himself.
His phone rang. The screen lit up: “Mom.” Sergey ignored the call. A second later it rang again. He turned the phone off.
Silence. Only the clock on the wall ticked. Steady, calm, indifferent.
Sergey closed his eyes. In his mind, he heard her voice: “I know everything.” He didn’t ask how she knew. He didn’t ask where from. He just sat on the floor, listening as his life fell apart.
Somewhere in the city, in a new apartment with a big balcony, Natalya tucked her son in under a blanket. Ilya was already asleep. She kissed his forehead, turned off the light, and walked to the window. The city was glowing with lights. She smiled. For the first time in years—she felt at peace.
Sergey didn’t sleep all night. He sat in the kitchen, drinking beer straight from the bottle, his eyes fixed on a spot. Natalya’s note and the marriage contract were on the table in front of him. He reread her words over and over, and every time, something tore inside him. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. To him! Sergey Sokolov, the man everyone said was lucky to have his wife. Quiet, agreeable, hardworking. She never objected. Never caused a scene. And now—suitcase, court, lawyer.
By morning, he was still in the same place. The bottles lined up against the wall. His phone was dead. He hadn’t noticed.
The doorbell rang. Insistently, for a long time, several times in a row.
Sergey got up slowly, like an old man. His legs wouldn’t obey him. He opened the door.
Standing on the doorstep was his mother, Lyudmila Petrovna. Tall, upright, with tightly pressed lips. Behind her was his sister, Oksana. Both of them were dressed as if they were headed to a celebration: bright coats, flashy purses, makeup. Lyudmila Petrovna held a phone in her hand.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” she barked from the doorway. “We’re going crazy over here! Oksana has been calling you all evening, and you just won’t pick up!”
She burst into the apartment without even taking off her shoes. Oksana followed, glancing around with a look that was equal parts curious and barely-concealed satisfaction.
“Where is that snake?” demanded Lyudmila Petrovna, standing in the hallway. “Where’s Natalia?”
“She’s gone,” Sergei replied hollowly. “Yesterday.”
“What do you mean—gone?” Oksana threw up her hands. “Where did she go?”
“To her sister’s. Ilya’s with her. She’s filed for divorce.”
Lyudmila Petrovna froze. Then she slowly turned to her son, her face breaking out in splotches.
“You… you let her go?” she hissed. “You just stood there and watched her leave?”
“Mom, she said…”
“What did she say?!” Lyudmila Petrovna shouted. “What did she say to you? Does she think she’s a queen now? That she has the right to do this?”
She headed into the kitchen. She saw the bottles, the note, and the copy of the contract. She grabbed the paper and held it up to her eyes, reading it for a long time, lips silently moving. Then she tossed it onto the table.
“This is all nonsense!” she declared. “A piece of paper, that’s all. It’s meaningless. We’ll challenge this. We know a lawyer, don’t we, Oksana? He can help us.”
“Mom,” Sergei ran a tired hand down his face, “my signature’s on it. I signed it myself.”
“So what?!” Lyudmila Petrovna slammed her fist on the table. “They tricked you! You didn’t read it! It doesn’t count!”
Meanwhile, Oksana was already sitting in an armchair, scrolling through her phone. She looked up.
“Sergei, are you sure the apartment’s really under her name? Are you absolutely certain?”
“She showed me the documents. Everything’s in her name.”
“And what about the car?” Oksana pressed. “That’s still split, right? That’s something. We can sell it and split the money.”
“Oksana,” Sergei looked at his sister. “Do you even get what’s happening? They’re kicking me out of the apartment.”
“Then don’t let them!” she scoffed. “Are you a man or what? Tell her you’re not leaving. This is your home.”
“It’s her home.”
“What difference does it make!” Oksana rolled her eyes. “You lived there. You’re registered there. She has no right to throw you out.”
Lyudmila Petrovna nodded at her daughter’s words. She grabbed her phone again.
“I’m calling her now. I’m going to explain to her exactly what she needs to do.”
She dialed the number. Ringing. Long, drawn-out rings. Then—call ended. Lyudmila Petrovna dialed again. Again, the call was declined.
“She won’t pick up,” she muttered. “Fine. I know where she is—at her sister’s. Let’s go.”
“Where to?” Sergei snapped his head up.
“To her. We’ll talk. Family business.”
Oksana stood up from the armchair and straightened her coat.
“Yes, Sergei, come on. We can’t just let this go. She needs to understand that family is sacred. No matter what.”
Sergei looked at his mother and sister. Their eyes burned with determination—righteous, unshakable. They always knew best; they always told him what to do. And as usual, he gave in.
They left the building. Lyudmila Petrovna climbed behind the wheel of her old Toyota. Oksana settled in beside her. Sergei sat in the back. The car pulled away.
They drove in silence. Lyudmila Petrovna stared at the road, gripping the wheel tightly. Oksana scrolled through her phone, occasionally glancing at her brother. Sergei gazed out the window. The city drifted by—gray, ordinary, unfamiliar.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to a nine-story apartment building on the outskirts of town. This was where Natalia’s sister, Vera, lived—a quiet and unobtrusive woman. Sergey had never really paid attention to her before, but now he remembered: Vera had always looked at him with a certain disapproval. Silent, but unmistakably judging.
They entered the building. The elevator. Up to the fourth floor. Lyudmila Petrovna pressed the doorbell—long and insistently.
Vera opened the door, wearing a housecoat and a hair clip. She saw the unexpected guests and wasn’t surprised—she just sighed.
“Natasha,” she called softly. “Someone’s here for you.”
Natalia came out of the room. She wore a simple dress, no makeup. Calm and composed. When she saw Sergey and his family, her expression didn’t change.
“Come in,” she said evenly. “Just make sure to take your shoes off. Vera keeps the place spotless.”
Lyudmila Petrovna ignored the request and walked straight into the room, looked around, and sat on the sofa. Oksana followed her in, while Sergey stayed by the door.
“Natalia,” Lyudmila Petrovna began, “we came to talk. Like civilized people.”
“Go ahead,” Natalia sat across from them. “But let me warn you right away: no yelling. Ilya is sleeping.”
“Ilya is my grandson,” Lyudmila Petrovna shot back. “I have the right to see him.”
“You do,” Natalia agreed. “But not today. And not like this.”
“What do you mean, ‘not like this’?!” Oksana suddenly exclaimed. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Natasha! You kicked your brother out of the house, ran off with your son, and don’t want to know us!”
“I didn’t kick anyone out,” Natalia answered calmly. “Sergey made his own choice. He spent a week having fun with another woman. So I made my own decision. It’s that simple.”
“Simple?!” Lyudmila Petrovna raised her voice. “Is this what you call simple? You’re destroying a family! You’re not thinking about the child! You’re selfish!”
“I’m the one thinking about the child,” Natalia looked straight at her mother-in-law. “But you’re always thinking about Sergey. Only him. Even now.”
“Because he’s my son!” Lyudmila Petrovna stood up. “And you—you’re nothing! You came into our family, you were supposed to…”
“Supposed to what?” Natalia stood up too. “Put up with it? Stay silent? Smile when he comes home from another woman? Cook his borscht? Iron his shirts?”
“You were supposed to be a wife!” Lyudmila Petrovna shouted. “A real wife! Instead, you just nagged him! Always demanded things! Lessons, the sink, money! He’s not your errand boy!”
“He’s a father!” There was steel in Natalia’s voice for the first time. “He has a son. He has responsibilities. But he chose something else. And you chose to support him.”
Oksana stepped forward.
“Natash, you know you can’t make it without Seryozha,” she said with fake concern. “You’re alone with a child. Sure, you have an apartment, but then what? He’s a man. He earns money. You need him.”
“I don’t need a man who doesn’t respect me,” Natalia replied firmly. “And I’m not lost. I have a job, an apartment, a son—and a lawyer.”
“A lawyer!” Lyudmila Petrovna sneered. “What can your lawyer do? Your piece of paper isn’t worth anything!”
“The prenup,” Natalia spoke softly, but every word hit like a stone. “It was signed willingly. Notarized. It has legal power. Cheating has been documented. The apartment is my personal property. The car will be divided, but since there’s evidence of cheating, the court can decide to split things differently.”
“You… you planned all of this,” Oksana whispered. Fear flickered in her eyes.
“Yes, I planned everything,” Natalia nodded. “Because I knew, sooner or later, you’d all show up. You always do. Whenever you need something. Whenever there’s something to take.”
“How dare you!” Lyudmila Petrovna stepped toward her.
Natalia didn’t back down.
“I dare,” she said. “Because I’m not afraid of you anymore. Not either of you. And you too, Sergey—I’m not scared of you either.”
She turned to her husband. He was standing by the door, pale, arms hanging at his sides.
“You came here with them,” she told him. “You didn’t come to me. You came with them. That’s all I need to know.”
Sergey opened his mouth, but didn’t say a word. He didn’t know what to say. He never did.
“Leave,” Natalia said, opening the door. “All of you. Right now.”
“We’ll be back,” Lyudmila Petrovna threatened on her way out. “We’ll find a way to deal with you. You’ll regret ever getting involved with us.”
“I already regret it,” Natalia replied. “Getting involved with your son.”
She closed the door behind them. The lock clicked shut.
Oksana stood in the hallway, lost. Lyudmila Petrovna was breathing heavily. Sergey just stared at the closed door.
“It’s all her fault,” Lyudmila Petrovna suddenly said. “Her. Not you, Seryozha. She pushed you to this. She was always cold. Heartless. I saw it from the start.”
“Yes, Mom,” Sergey whispered. “Her.”
He didn’t believe the words, but he said them. Because it was easier. Because that’s how it always was.
They went downstairs and got into the car. Lyudmila Petrovna started the engine.
“It’s fine,” she said. “We won’t give up. We have connections. We know people. She thinks she’s clever. But we’re even smarter.”
Oksana nodded.
“That’s right, Mom. We’ll outsmart her.”
Sergey stayed quiet. He looked out the window at the fourth-floor lights. His son was up there. His wife was up there. The woman who was no longer his wife.
Suddenly, he realized he had no idea how to win her back. Or if he even wanted to try. Or if all he wanted to fight for was his apartment. His car. His comfortable life.
The car pulled away. The city blurred past the windows. Sergey closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he felt truly afraid.
Meanwhile, in Vera’s apartment, Natalia sat in the kitchen sipping tea, gazing out the window. Vera walked over and wrapped her arms around Natalia’s shoulders.
“You did it,” Vera said quietly.
“I know,” Natalia smiled. “But it’s not over yet. They won’t back off that easy.”
“They will,” Vera answered confidently. “Once they see you won’t give in.”
Natalia nodded. She finished her tea and went to the bedroom. Ilya lay asleep, curled up. She tucked the blanket around him and kissed the top of his head.
Tomorrow would be a new day. And she wasn’t afraid of it.
The court hearing was set for Wednesday. Natalia arrived with her lawyer—a woman about fifty, dressed in a strict dark blue suit, her hair pulled back neatly, and carrying a folder stuffed with documents. The lawyer’s name was Irina Viktorovna. She spoke quietly yet confidently, and Natalia felt calm beside her.
Sergey showed up with his mother. Lyudmila Petrovna wore her best coat and pinned on a brooch, as if attending a formal event. Oksana stayed home—’just in case,’ as she put it. The truth was, she didn’t want to see her brother lose. Sergey looked pale, unshaven, his jacket wrinkled. He hadn’t slept all night, turning over in his mind how to turn things around. But his thoughts were jumbled—nothing good came to mind.
The courtroom was small and stuffy. Rain was drizzling outside the window. The judge, an older woman with tired eyes, took her seat at the table and spread out her papers. She glanced at both sides without interest, the way you look at yet another case among hundreds.
‘We are here regarding the dissolution of marriage and division of marital property,’ she announced. ‘Plaintiff: Natalia Vladimirovna Sokolova. Defendant: Sergey Nikolaevich Sokolov. Plaintiff, please state your claims.’
Irina Viktorovna stood up.
‘Your honor, we demand the dissolution of marriage, division of jointly acquired property, as well as compensation for moral damages based on the marital contract. In addition, we request child support for the minor son, Ilya Sergeevich Sokolov, in the amount of one quarter of the defendant’s income.’
‘What contract?’ Lyudmila Petrovna shot up from her seat. ‘There was no contract! She made it all up!’
The judge looked up.
‘Who are you?’ she asked coldly.
‘I am the defendant’s mother!’ Lyudmila Petrovna said proudly. ‘And I declare…’
‘Please maintain order,’ the judge struck her gavel. ‘Or I will have you removed. Defendant, do you confirm the existence of a marital contract?’
Sergey was silent. He stared at the floor, wishing he could disappear. He remembered the day Natalia brought the papers. She had said, ‘It’s just a formality, Sergey. Just in case.’ He signed without reading them. What did it matter? He was a man. He was always right. But now that piece of paper decided everything.
‘Defendant,’ the judge repeated. ‘Do you confirm that this is your signature?’
Irina Viktorovna handed over the document. Sergey glanced at it. His signature was there on the last page—bold and confident. He nodded.
‘Yes,’ he managed. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Very well. The contract is recognized as valid. As for the division of property: according to the documents, the apartment is the plaintiff’s personal property. It was acquired before the marriage with the plaintiff’s funds. It is not subject to division.’
‘What do you mean, before the marriage?!’ Lyudmila Petrovna shouted. ‘They bought it while married!’
‘The date of the sale contract is March 2020,’ Irina Viktorovna replied calmly. ‘The marriage was registered in August 2020. The apartment was registered to Natalia Vladimirovna before the marriage. It is her personal property.’
Lyudmila Petrovna opened her mouth, but the judge interrupted her.
‘Sit down. Or I will have you removed.’
Lyudmila Petrovna sat down, but her face was burning. She clutched her purse so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
“Next,” the judge continued. “The Lada Vesta car was purchased during the marriage. It is joint property and subject to division. However,” she flipped the page, “considering the defendant’s proven infidelity, the court may depart from the principle of equal shares. Plaintiff, do you have any evidence?”
Irina Viktorovna nodded.
“Your Honor, here is a printout from the Pearl Hotel for the period from August 12th to 19th. The guest is Sergey Nikolaevich Sokolov. The number of guests: two. I’m also providing a printout of calls and messages between the defendant and Victoria Andreevna Krylov. This confirms the infidelity.”
Sergey turned pale. He had no idea where she got those printouts. He didn’t know how she collected all this. He felt exposed, naked before everyone.
“Defendant, do you admit to the infidelity?” the judge asked.
“I…” Sergey swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. We’re getting divorced anyway.”
“It matters for the division of property and for compensation for moral damages,” the judge looked at him without sympathy. “Answer the question.”
“Yes,” he whispered. “It happened.”
Lyudmila Petrovna made a sound like a moan. She covered her face with her hands.
“Next,” the judge returned to the documents. “Child support for the underage son. Defendant, your income?”
“I… I’m an engineer. I earn one hundred thousand rubles.”
“That means one quarter—twenty-five thousand rubles monthly. And compensation for moral damages according to the marriage contract—five hundred thousand rubles. So, to be paid…”
Sergey listened as the judge listed the sums and felt the ground slipping out from under him. He was left without an apartment. Without most of the car. With a five hundred thousand debt. Obligated to pay child support. And all this—because of one week with Victoria. One week that had seemed like a triumph.
“The court will now retire to make its decision,” the judge announced.
They waited in the hallway. Sergey sat on a bench, his head in his hands. Lyudmila Petrovna paced back and forth, muttering something. Irina Viktorovna stood by the window, calmly leafing through documents.
Natalya sat separately. She didn’t look at Sergey. She didn’t look his way at all. She gazed out the window at the rain and thought about how tomorrow she and Ilya would shop for curtains for their new apartment. She’d always wanted curtains the color of baked milk. Now she could have them.
The judge returned. Everyone stood up.
“The court has ruled,” she began. “The marriage between Sergey Nikolaevich Sokolov and Natalya Vladimirovna Sokolova is dissolved. The apartment located at… is recognized as the personal property of Natalya Vladimirovna Sokolova. The Lada Vesta car is recognized as joint property. Given the defendant’s infidelity, the court transfers the car to the plaintiff’s ownership. The defendant shall pay the plaintiff compensation for moral damages in the amount of five hundred thousand rubles. The defendant is also ordered to pay child support for their son, Ilya Sergeevich, in the amount of one-quarter of his income monthly, starting from the date the suit was filed.”
Lyudmila Petrovna gasped. Sergey stood frozen. He heard the words, but they just didn’t make sense. He simply stood and watched as his life fell apart.
“You have the right to appeal this decision within a month,” the judge concluded.
Natalya was the first to leave the courtroom. Irina Viktorovna walked beside her. Outside, the rain grew heavier. Natalya opened her umbrella.
“Congratulations,” Irina Viktorovna said. “Everything went smoothly.”
“Thank you,” Natalya smiled. “I’m so grateful to you.”
“If you ever need anything, just reach out,” the lawyer nodded and headed to her car.
Natalya got into her Granta—the same car Sergey used to call a “tin can.” She started the engine and drove to her sister’s place. Ilya was waiting for her. She had promised him pizza.
Sergey left the courthouse later. He stood in the rain, oblivious to how soaked he was getting. Lyudmila Petrovna was saying something to him, shaking his arm, but he didn’t hear her. He pulled out his phone and dialed Viktoria’s number.
“Vika, hey,” he said when she answered. “I… I’m getting divorced. She got everything. The apartment, the car, and I still owe her five hundred thousand. Now I…”
“Sergey,” Viktoria’s voice was cold. “I was actually going to tell you—we can’t see each other anymore. I’ve met someone else. Sorry. Goodbye.”
Just the sound of the dial tone. He stood there with the phone in his hand. Alone. In the rain. People walked by, hurrying about their own business. No one cared about him.
He went to his mother’s place. Lyudmila Petrovna was silent the whole way. Oksana was waiting at home. The moment she saw her brother, she understood: they lost.
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s done,” Sergey said. “No apartment. No car. And now I’m in debt.”
Oksana threw up her hands.
“What do you mean, in debt? To who?”
“To her. Five hundred thousand. And alimony.”
Oksana sat down on the couch. She looked at her brother, and her eyes showed no sympathy. Only calculation. She was already realizing she wouldn’t get anything out of it. The apartment she counted on was gone. Now her brother was just a burden.
“You really screwed up, Seryozha,” she said at last. “You lost a woman who always brought everything home. And you…”
“Me?” Sergey lifted his head. “I’m the screw-up? What did you do? You always told me, ‘Don’t give up, fight for it.’ But now it’s all my fault?”
“Who else?” Oksana shrugged. “You should’ve thought about it before getting mixed up with Viktoria. Now you get to deal with the mess.”
Lyudmila Petrovna sat in her chair, staring at the wall. She suddenly seemed ten years older. She was thinking about what the neighbors would say. What her friends would say. That her son was a failure. That she had raised someone like this.
“Mom,” Sergey called. “Mom, what should I do?”
Lyudmila Petrovna slowly turned her head.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know anything anymore. You’re a grown man. Decide for yourself.”
She stood up and went to her room. The door closed. Sergey was left in the kitchen with Oksana. His sister looked at him as if he were a stranger.
“Do you have anywhere to stay?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe with you?”
“I have a two-room. Two kids. Are you serious?”
“At least for a while…”
“No, Sergey,” Oksana stood up. “I’m sorry. I can’t. You need to figure things out on your own. You’re a man, after all.”
She left. Sergey was alone. He sat in his mother’s kitchen, sipping tea and gazing out the window. The rain didn’t stop. He thought about what was left in his life. Nothing. Just the suitcase that Natalia had packed for him the very first night. He didn’t even take it with him. The suitcase still stood there in the empty apartment.
Suddenly, he realized he needed to ask for forgiveness. From Natalia. From his son. He picked up his phone and dialed her number. The dial tone rang on and on. She didn’t answer. He tried again. Still nothing. He typed out a message: “Natash, I’m sorry. Can I see Ilya?” But there was no reply.
He sat there until nightfall. The light was on in his mother’s room. She never came out. Oksana had gone home. Sergey was alone.
Meanwhile, in Natalia’s new apartment with the big balcony, lights were glowing. Ilya was already asleep. Natalia sat in her kitchen, drank tea and looked at her curtains, the color of warm milk. She bought them today. They hung perfectly—beautiful and straight. She smiled. For the first time in years, she felt at peace.
Her phone vibrated on the table. She glanced at the screen. A message from Sergey. She read it, then set the phone aside and took a sip of tea. She wasn’t going to reply tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. For the first time in her life, she had the right to choose.
She stood up, turned off the lights, and walked into the bedroom. Ilya was sleeping curled up under his blanket. She straightened the covers and kissed the top of his head.
“Good night, son,” she whispered.
Outside, the rain was still falling. But inside the apartment, it was warm. And quiet. And peaceful.