“The apartment belongs to Mom now, and you can get out,” my husband sneered. He had no idea I had been waiting for that gift deed on purpose — just so I could make one call to the bailiffs.
“Lenochka, don’t scrub the bathroom tiles with Cif. It makes them dull. I’m the mistress of this place now, and I still have to live here,” my mother-in-law’s voice, Zinaida Pavlovna’s, echoed through the empty hallway.
She tossed her worn faux-leather handbag onto the Italian bench I had ordered from Milan six months earlier, as if she already owned the place. My husband came in after her. My husband — for now. Oleg avoided my eyes, pretending to be deeply absorbed in his phone screen.
“Oleg, don’t you want to explain anything to me?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling the blood pulse beneath my fingernails.
At last, he raised his eyes. There was not a drop of shame in them — only cold calculation.
“What’s there to explain? We’re getting divorced. I inherited this apartment from my grandmother before we got married, so there’s nothing for us to divide. Yesterday, I transferred it to my mother as a gift. The property registry extract is in her handbag. So, legally, you are nobody here anymore. Pack your things. I’m giving you two hours.”
I looked at the man with whom I had shared a bed for seven years and was stunned by his baseness.
And yet I had known he would try to cheat me. I just had not thought he would choose such a stupid way.
Two months earlier, I had found an earring in the glove compartment of his car. Then I checked his phone bill details — the usual story. A twenty-two-year-old fitness trainer. Spa hotels on weekends. I filed for divorce.
Oleg immediately took a stance: “You’ll leave with nothing but the clothes on your back!”
Formally, the apartment really was his. But there was one problem. Seven years ago, it had been his “grandmother’s” ruined den, full of cockroaches and rotten pipes. I sold the country house I had inherited from my father, added my own savings, and together we poured four million rubles into a complete renovation.
According to the law — Article 37 of the Family Code — if one spouse’s investments significantly increase the value of the property, it may be recognized as jointly owned. I hired a lawyer and prepared a claim.
Oleg got scared. And his cunning lawyer advised him to pull a trick: quickly gift the apartment to his mother. Under our law, when the owner changes, former family members lose the right to use the housing. His mother becomes the new owner and can legally throw her daughter-in-law out with the police. And suing the new owner over an old renovation is a hopeless case.
“Lena, why are you standing there frozen?” my mother-in-law drawled in a syrupy voice, walking into the kitchen and running her finger along the artificial-stone countertop. “Don’t you have any boxes? I can give you some bags from Pyaterochka. You understand, Olezha and I need this apartment more. He has a new life to build.”
“True,” I said, slowly approaching the kitchen island and pouring myself a glass of water. My hands were no longer shaking. “A new life is wonderful. Zinaida Pavlovna, do you remember how three years ago your younger son, Vitenka, opened a business? An auto repair shop.”
My mother-in-law froze. Oleg frowned.
“What does Vitka have to do with this? Lena, stop changing the subject. Pack.”
“It has everything to do with it, Olezha,” I said, taking a sip of water and savoring the moment. “Back then, Vitenka took out a loan for five million. And your mother acted as guarantor and collateral provider. The business collapsed, Vitya disappeared into the sunset, and the bank filed a lawsuit.”
Zinaida Pavlovna turned so pale she almost blended into the white refrigerator.
“How… how do you know that?” she stammered.
“I work in the bank’s security department, Zinaida Pavlovna. Have you forgotten?” I smiled sweetly. “And I know perfectly well that for the past year and a half there has been enforcement proceedings against you for almost six million rubles, including penalties.”
“So what?!” Oleg exploded. “Mother lives in an old one-room apartment! It’s her only home! By law, the bailiffs have no right to take someone’s only home for debts! They can’t do anything to her!”
I put the glass down on the table. The sound of the glass striking the surface seemed deafening.
“Absolutely right, Oleg. It was her only home. Until yesterday.”
It dawned on Oleg slowly. He blinked, looking at me, then turned his gaze to his mother, then back to me again.
“Yesterday,” my voice became cold and clipped, “you, Olezha, with your very own hands, gave your mother a second piece of real estate. This very luxurious apartment, with a four-million-ruble renovation. And now Zinaida Pavlovna owns two homes.”
“No…” my mother-in-law breathed, clutching the edge of the countertop.
“Yes,” I said, taking my phone out of my handbag. “As soon as the transaction went through Rosreestr, the property information was updated in the database. This morning, I made one call to a bailiff I know — the one handling your case. Do you know how happy they get when a debtor suddenly turns up with elite real estate free of encumbrances?”
“You bitch!” Oleg roared, rushing toward me, but stopped halfway when he met my icy stare.
“I’m just a woman who wanted to recover only the money she invested. I offered you a deal, Oleg. You could pay me two million for the renovation. But you decided to be clever. You decided to throw me out onto the street with nothing. Well… congratulations.”
The doorbell rang.
My mother-in-law flinched as if struck by electric current.
“And that must be them,” I said, picking up the suitcase I had packed in advance and left in the corner. “They’ve come to seize the property. They’ll inventory the apartment now and put it up for auction. It will go for next to nothing, of course. But it will cover your mother’s debt. And whatever change is left, if there is any, will be yours. You can buy yourselves a new life. In a communal apartment.”
Oleg stood in the middle of the luxurious living room, clutching his head in his hands. Zinaida Pavlovna sank heavily onto that very same Italian ottoman, quietly howling.
I opened the front door. There really were people in the uniform of the Federal Bailiff Service standing on the threshold.
“The apartment belongs to Mom now, Olezha. Enjoy it,” I threw over my shoulder, carefully walked around the bailiffs, and stepped toward the elevator.
The air outside seemed unusually fresh that day.
Yes, I had lost the money I had spent on the renovation. But the look on the faces of my ex-husband and his scheming mother when they realized they had sent a fifteen-million-ruble apartment to auction with their own hands…
That sight was priceless.