— Have you completely lost your mind?! — Artyom burst into the living room and threw his jacket over the back of the armchair, where he never hung it. — How many times have I told you not to touch my things on the shelf!
Katya was standing by the window, looking at him calmly. Too calmly — Artyom felt it, but did not understand it. In general, he rarely understood anything the first time when it concerned his wife.
— There was a postcard from Mom there. From Mom! You moved it somewhere, and now I can’t find it.
— It’s on the refrigerator, — Katya said. — Under the magnet.
Artyom went into the kitchen. He rattled things around there, moved something, muttered. Then he came back — without a word of thanks, of course.
Katya turned thirty-two today. Thirty-two was not eighteen, when a cake with candles and balloons were mandatory. But she still wanted at least something. At least a “happy birthday,” even in passing.
Nothing.
She had bought herself a small honey cake at the pastry shop on the corner on her way home from work. She put it in the refrigerator. She told no one.
That evening, her mother-in-law called — Raisa Mikhailovna, a woman with the voice of a prosecutor and the gaze of an accountant checking someone else’s expenses.
— Artyomushka, — Katya heard from the hallway, — you haven’t forgotten that I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, have you? My blood pressure is jumping again. I didn’t sleep all night.
Artyom immediately transformed. His voice became soft, almost tender — a voice Katya had never once heard directed at herself in seven years of marriage.
— Mommy, of course I remember. Everything will be fine. I’ll come by in the morning.
Katya walked past him into the kitchen, took the honey cake out of the refrigerator, and cut herself a slice. She ate silently, standing by the sink.
Artyom ended the call and appeared in the doorway.
— I’m going to Mom’s tomorrow morning. Her blood pressure is bad.
— All right.
— And anyway, — he grimaced, — what’s wrong with you? Are you offended about something?
— No.
— Well, good.
He went off to watch a series. Katya finished the honey cake, washed the plate, and stood for a long time, gripping the edge of the sink. Outside the window, an advertising banner blinked — some fitness club, happy people on the screen jumping and laughing.
Interesting, she thought. Are they really that happy, or are they just paid well to smile too?
The story with Raisa Mikhailovna’s blood pressure repeated itself roughly once every two months — always at the perfect time. When Katya was going to her sister’s anniversary party — blood pressure. When she and Artyom planned to go to Saint Petersburg for the weekend — blood pressure. When Katya’s mother was in the hospital and needed help — her mother-in-law’s blood pressure turned out to be especially serious, and Artyom did not go with his wife; he stayed to “support Mom.”
Raisa Mikhailovna lived ten minutes away by car, alone in a three-room apartment, and that apartment, according to Raisa herself, “should one day go to Artyomushka — but only if everything is done properly.” What “properly” meant was never specified. But everyone understood everything.
Katya worked as a designer in a small studio. She earned decently — by the standards of their district, even well. For the last two years, she had been saving money. Quietly, methodically, without unnecessary words. Artyom was not interested in her account — in general, he was interested in very little besides his mother’s postcards and his TV series.
That Saturday, while Artyom had gone to Raisa Mikhailovna’s place early in the morning — “blood pressure, you understand” — Katya got up at half past seven.
Without rushing, she made coffee. She drank it by the window. Then she took out her phone and wrote to the realtor, Olesya, whom she had known since university: “I’m ready. When can we sign?”
The reply came three minutes later: “I’m already at the office. Come.”
Katya packed a bag — the one she had kept ready for about three weeks. Documents, her laptop, her favorite mug with a polar bear, several books. A little clothing. Nothing else was needed — she would buy the rest herself.
On the table in the living room, she left a note. Briefly: “I’m moving out. The keys are on the shelf. The documents will follow through a lawyer.”
No explanations. Seven years of explanations were enough.
The apartment was on the eighth floor of a new building by the river. Small — one room, a kitchen, a balcony. Olesya helped arrange everything quickly. Katya had paid the first installment a month earlier, and today she received the keys.
Ordinary keys — two of them, on a simple ring.
She stood by the door and looked at them. Something inside tightened and immediately released — as if she had been holding her breath for a long time and had finally exhaled.
The apartment was empty. It smelled of fresh paint and new linoleum. Sunlight fell through the window in a long stripe, and dust swirled in it — slowly, beautifully, without any hurry.
Katya walked into the room, placed her bag on the floor, and looked around.
This is mine, she thought simply, without pathos. Mine.
Then she took out her phone — and only then saw that Artyom had already called. Three times. The last call was fifteen minutes ago.
She called him back.
— Where are you?! — his voice was tense, but not frightened. More irritated — the way someone sounds when an object suddenly turns out not to be where they left it.
— In my apartment.
A pause.
— What apartment? What nonsense is this?
— I rented an apartment, Artyom. Did you see the note?
— I… — he stopped short. — Are you serious?! Did you think about me at all? And Mom is really unwell today, her blood pressure is—
— Artyom, — Katya interrupted calmly, — today is my birthday.
The silence was long.
— So what? I remember. It’s just Mom—
— You didn’t remember. You didn’t say a single word to me. This is the third year in a row.
He began saying something — about his mother, about blood pressure, about how she was dramatizing everything. Katya listened with half an ear, looking out the window. Down below, people were walking along the embankment. Someone rode a scooter, someone walked a dog, someone simply walked and looked at the water.
— I’ll call you back later, — she said and ended the call.
She put the phone in her pocket.
In her bag, under the books, there was a small box from the pastry shop. Honey cake — bigger this time. She had bought it in the morning, even before going to Olesya.
Katya placed the box on the windowsill, opened it, and took out a plastic fork. She ate the first piece right by the window, looking at the river.
No one wished her happiness. No one called with congratulations — except her sister, who had sent a voice message at seven in the morning, laughing and saying something about a “new life,” not yet knowing how right she was.
But for some reason Katya felt — right now, with a fork and honey cake by a window that was still unfamiliar — that this birthday would be the most important one.
Not the merriest. Not the loudest.
But the most real.
Artyom called again twenty minutes later. Katya did not answer.
Then Raisa Mikhailovna called.
Now this is more interesting, Katya thought, and answered.
— Katenka, — her mother-in-law’s voice was velvety, almost affectionate, — what is happening? Artyom told me you went somewhere. He’s terribly upset, he can’t find a place for himself.
Katya smirked. Artyom being “upset” was something new. Usually he was “busy,” “tired,” or “not in the mood to talk.”
— Everything is fine, Raisa Mikhailovna. I moved out.
— Moved where? — the pause was short but meaningful. — Is this some kind of joke?
— No.
Raisa Mikhailovna fell silent. Katya could hear her breathing — evenly, calmly, nothing like a person suffering from high blood pressure. Then her mother-in-law gathered herself.
— Do you understand what you are doing to the family? Artyom does not deserve this kind of treatment. He is a good husband, a caring son. Maybe you are the one doing something wrong, hm?
There it was. Always the same — first velvet, then the sting.
— Raisa Mikhailovna, I wish you good health, — Katya said evenly. — Tell Artyom that the lawyer will contact him next week.
And she hung up.
She placed the phone facedown on the windowsill. She stood there, looking at the river. Then she took another piece of honey cake.
They had met seven years ago — in a queue at a government services center, which in itself sounded like the beginning of a joke. Back then Artyom had been different — or had seemed different, which was essentially the same thing. Cheerful, quick, able to make her laugh in any situation. At the time, Katya had just returned from Yekaterinburg, where she had worked for two years in a strange city among strangers, and she had missed simple human warmth.
Artyom seemed warm.
Raisa Mikhailovna appeared on the third date — she called right in the café, and Artyom answered without apologizing and talked for about ten minutes while Katya looked out the window and drank her now-cold… no, drank her juice. Back then she decided: it’s all right, a mother is a mother.
That was her first mistake.
After that, the mistakes followed one after another — quietly, invisibly, like cracks in a wall that you do not notice until the plaster collapses.
By lunchtime, her sister called — Vera, four years older, practical and straight as a ruler.
— Well? Did you sign?
— I signed.
— And how is it there?
Katya looked around. An empty room, bare walls, a strip of sunlight on the floor. Somewhere behind the wall, music was playing softly — a neighbor, apparently.
— Good, — she said. — Quiet.
— Did Artyom call you?
— Yes. And his mommy too.
Vera snorted — briefly and expressively.
— And how is Raisa Mikhailovna? Did her blood pressure rise from the news?
— Her voice sounded lively.
— That’s what I thought, — Vera was silent for a second. — Katya, I’m proud of you. It’s not enough just to say it — you had to actually do it.
Katya did not answer right away. She stood by the window, watching a sightseeing boat move slowly along the river.
— I was scared, — she finally admitted.
— I know. But you managed.
After talking to her sister, Katya decided not to sit in the empty apartment. She got dressed and went outside.
The district was unfamiliar — she had chosen it deliberately, farther from the part of the city where she had lived for the last five years. New buildings, wide sidewalks, a coffee shop on the corner with large windows and a line of people with thermoses and backpacks.
She went in, got a cappuccino, and sat by the window.
At the next table, two people were animatedly discussing something — a young man and a woman with a laptop, judging by their gestures, arguing about some work matter. They were laughing at the same time. Katya watched them and thought: this is how it should be — arguing and laughing at the same time.
Her phone vibrated. An unknown number.
She answered.
— Ekaterina Sergeyevna? — the voice was male, businesslike, unfamiliar. — This is Pavel, a lawyer. Vera gave me your number. She said you need a consultation about divorce.
Katya almost choked on her cappuccino.
— Vera gave you my number?
— Yes, this morning. She said her sister would be ready by evening.
Katya looked out the window. Then she laughed — quietly, to herself.
Vera had known everything in advance. Of course she had. She always knew — before Katya herself did.
— Yes, — Katya said. — I need a consultation. When are you available?
Artyom wrote at eight in the evening. He did not call — he wrote, which in itself was eloquent.
“We need to talk. You can’t just leave like this. This isn’t serious.”
Katya read the message while lying on an inflatable mattress — the only piece of furniture in the apartment for now. Above her was a white ceiling, beside her stood the mug with the polar bear, tea cooling inside it. It was getting dark outside the window.
She thought about what to answer.
In the end, she wrote simply: “I have already spoken to a lawyer.”
Three dots — he was typing. For a long time. Then the dots disappeared. There was no reply.
About ten minutes passed. Then the phone vibrated again — but it was no longer the chat with Artyom. It was a message in the building’s group chat — the one for the new building, apartment eight.
An unfamiliar contact wrote: “Hello, neighbors! I’m on the third floor, moved in a month ago. If anyone is new — welcome. And sorry if the music was audible — that was my fault.”
Katya smiled.
So the neighbor with the music was on the third floor. Not a bad beginning to getting to know the new building.
She wrote in the chat: “Hi. Apartment eight. I just moved in today.”
The reply came quickly: “Oh, welcome! If you need help with anything, knock.”
Katya put the phone aside. She looked at the ceiling. Outside, in the dark sky, one streetlamp glowed — swaying slightly like a pendulum.
Tomorrow she needed to buy a bed. And a table. And curtains — light ones, definitely.
Life begins with small things, she thought. With a mug with a bear, with an inflatable mattress, with an unfamiliar neighbor who apologizes for music.
And let Raisa Mikhailovna treat her blood pressure.
They would manage without Katya.
Morning in the new apartment began strangely.
Katya woke up at half past six — earlier than usual — and for several seconds lay there, not understanding where she was. A white ceiling, sun through the curtainless window, somewhere below a car honked. Then she remembered. And instead of the familiar heaviness with which she had been waking up for the last three years, she felt something light. Almost forgotten.
She got up and put the kettle on — it was from her bag, old, with a chipped handle, but it was hers. While it boiled, she looked out the window. The river below was quiet, morning-like, and along the embankment a lone person was running in orange sneakers.
I should start running too, Katya thought, and was surprised by the thought herself. Before, she somehow never thought about it.
Artyom appeared at half past ten.
He did not call to warn her — he found out the address through Vera, although Vera later swore she had not told him anything. Katya heard the doorbell, looked through the peephole, and saw her husband — in the same jacket as yesterday, with a rumpled face and his hands in his pockets.
She opened the door.
He came in and looked around. Empty room, inflatable mattress, boxes. His gaze stopped on the mug with the bear on the windowsill — and there was something in that look that Katya could not read.
— Are you serious? — he said at last. — This is your plan?
— Yes.
— Katya. — He took off his jacket, had nowhere to hang it, and simply shifted it from one arm to the other. — Do you understand that we could have talked? Just talked, like adults?
— We talked for seven years.
— So what?! Things happen, everyone has problems. Mom really isn’t feeling well right now, it’s not made up.
Katya poured herself tea. She did not offer any to Artyom — not out of spite, simply because she did not yet have a second mug.
— Artyom, — she said calmly, — yesterday was my birthday. For the third year in a row, you did not notice it. You didn’t congratulate me, didn’t ask how I was. You went to your mother’s in the morning and called only when you found the note.
He was silent.
— This is not about the birthday, — she continued. — It is about the fact that I do not exist in your life. There is an apartment, there is a wife as a fact, there is Mom — and Mom is always more important.
— You’re exaggerating.
— No.
He sat on the windowsill opposite her — the only place to sit. He looked at the floor. Katya saw that he was not angry — he was confused, and that was rare for Artyom. Usually he had a ready answer for everything.
— And what now? — he asked quietly.
— I’ve already spoken to a lawyer.
A pause.
— Mom will be in shock, — he said. And that was the first thing he said. Not “I will be in shock,” not “I don’t want this.” Mom.
Katya looked at him for a long time. Without anger — she simply looked.
— I know, — she answered.
He left half an hour later. No scandal, no slamming doors — he simply left, and Katya closed the door behind him, stood in the hallway for a second, and went to finish her tea.
Vera called her.
— Well?
— He came.
— I know. He called me too — asked for the address. I didn’t tell him, honestly. Maybe he found it through the neighbors or through the realtor.
— Olesya wouldn’t have told him.
— Then somehow he found it himself. — Vera paused. — Katya, are you holding up?
— Yes. I’m fine, Ver. Really fine.
And it was true.
The furniture was delivered on Thursday — Katya had ordered it through an app, simple, without excess: a bed, a desk, two chairs, a small sofa. The assemblers worked for about three hours; she made them coffee, and they thanked her as if it had been unexpected.
When they left, the apartment became different. Alive.
Katya arranged her books on the floor along the wall — there was no shelf yet — and it looked unexpectedly cozy. She hung her towel in the bathroom — blue, her favorite. She placed the mug with the bear on the kitchen table.
That evening, there was a knock at the door.
She opened it. On the threshold stood a man of about thirty-five, holding a paper bag, with a slightly guilty expression on his face.
— Third floor, — he said. — Dmitry. I wrote in the chat about the music.
— I remember. — Katya smiled. — Apartment eight. Katya.
— Here, — he held out the bag, — we have this tradition in the building. Well, not a tradition, I made it up myself — when a new neighbor moves in, I bring something. It’s just coffee and cookies. Silly, probably.
— Not silly, — Katya said and took the bag. — Thank you.
He nodded and turned to leave.
— Dmitry, — she called after him. — I have two chairs now. If you’d like — there’s coffee, as it happens.
He turned around in surprise — and laughed. Simply, without ceremony.
— I’d like that.
They sat for an hour and a half.
It turned out Dmitry worked as an architect — a small firm, private projects, sometimes city contracts. He had moved to this district half a year ago; before that he had lived in the center, but had grown tired of the noise. Divorced — he said it easily, without drama, as a fact of biography.
Katya told him about the studio, about design — he listened attentively, asked questions not out of politeness, but real ones. It was unfamiliar.
When he left, she cleared the cups, washed them, and set them to dry. She stood by the window — the river below shone with the reflection of streetlights.
Nothing special had happened. A neighbor had simply stopped by for coffee.
But for some reason it felt warmer.
Raisa Mikhailovna called on Friday.
This time, without velvet.
— Do you understand that you are taking his apartment away from him?! — she began immediately. — His father and I — may he rest in peace — invested in that apartment, I helped with the renovation, and now you simply leave and want half?!
— Raisa Mikhailovna, — Katya sat down on the sofa, — the apartment is registered in both our names. That is the law.
— The law! — her mother-in-law’s voice grew harsher. — You lived there for seven years, used everything, and now — the law! Artyom is a good person. You broke him!
Katya listened and thought: here she is — the real Raisa Mikhailovna, without blood pressure and without the velvet voice. Quick, angry, precise — like an accountant who has found someone else’s mistake in the ledger.
— The lawyer will arrange everything properly, — Katya said. — Goodbye.
She hung up.
She put the phone in the desk drawer. She went out onto the balcony.
Below, people were walking along the embankment. Someone with a dog, someone with a stroller, someone just walking. In the building opposite, one window was lit — someone was moving there, a silhouette, ordinary life.
Katya thought she needed to buy some kind of flower for the balcony. Or two. And a small table — to sit there in the mornings with coffee.
And running shoes. It was long overdue.
Behind her, from the room, came the sound of a notification. Probably Artyom. Or Raisa Mikhailovna from a new number. Or the lawyer with the documents.
Katya did not go to check.
She stood for a little while longer, holding the railing with both hands. The river below flowed calmly, without hurry — exactly where it needed to go. It had always known where.
And now I know too, Katya thought.
And for the first time in a long time, that did not seem like an exaggeration.
Three weeks passed.
The apartment on the eighth floor began to look like a home — curtains appeared, light ones, almost white; a shelf with books; a rug by the entrance; and two pots of geraniums on the balcony. Small things, but it is precisely from them that the feeling of home is made.
The divorce was proceeding quietly. Artyom did not make scandals — to Katya’s surprise, he simply signed what needed to be signed and kept silent. Once he wrote: “Maybe you’ll still think it over?” She answered briefly: “No.” He did not ask again.
Raisa Mikhailovna called two more times. Katya answered, listened for a minute, and politely said goodbye. The third time, she simply did not pick up — and felt not guilt, but relief. It was unexpected and right at the same time.
On Saturday, she and Dmitry went to the market by the river — he knew a place there where good seedlings and old records were sold in the same row. Katya bought another geranium and a tiny cactus with a red flower. Dmitry took a record — jazz from the fifties, the cover worn.
They walked back along the water. They talked about all kinds of things — about his project, about her new order, about the fact that a proper bakery would soon open in the neighborhood. Nothing important. But that is exactly how it happens — when the important hides inside the ordinary.
At the entrance, he said:
— Next Saturday, an exhibition opens at the museum. Architecture and the urban environment. I’m going. If you want, I wouldn’t mind company.
Katya looked at him.
— I want to, — she said simply.
That evening, Vera called — to congratulate her on finishing all the paperwork.
— So how is it? — her sister asked.
— Normal, — Katya answered. — Even good.
— Aren’t you scared to be alone?
Katya looked at the geranium on the balcony, at the mug with the bear, at the record Dmitry had forgotten on her table.
— No, — she said. — Not scared at all.
And it was true.