“Did you really think your romance would help you get hold of my apartment?” I asked my husband in astonishment.
“Natash, don’t be childish,” Lesha’s voice trembled, though he tried to keep his tone gentle. “It’s just a signature. A formality. We’re family.”
Natasha stood by the window, holding a mug of cold tea. Below the windows was the gray courtyard, the painfully familiar swings, the neighbor’s dog. Everything that had always seemed peaceful and safe to her. Until this conversation.
“A formality?” she turned around. “Putting half of my apartment in your name — that’s a formality to you?”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Lesha took a step forward and held out his hand as if he wanted to calm her down. “We live together, so the property should be shared too. I’m not asking you to transfer everything. Just half. Just in case. So everything is fair.”
He smiled — that signature smile of his, slightly tired but charming. It used to make Natasha feel warm inside. Now it sent a chill down her spine.
Family
“Lesh,” she said quietly, “this is my apartment. From my grandmother. I grew up here. I don’t want to change anything.”
“So what, am I just living here suffering?” he raised his eyebrows, hurt, almost theatrically. “We’ve been married for six months, and you still act like you’re testing me. Do you think I’m some kind of kept man?”
Natasha said nothing. The thought surfaced on its own: Well, aren’t you?
Once, he knew how to speak beautifully. From their very first meeting — confidently, easily, as if they had known each other all their lives. That evening at her friend’s place, she hadn’t been looking for anyone. Three years had passed since her divorce, and Natasha had taught herself to be cautious. But Lesha turned out to be persistent. Too persistent.
Back then, his persistence had seemed like attention. Now it felt like pressure.
“Let’s not argue, all right?” Natasha tried to exhale, to change the subject. “I’ll try on the dress tonight. You worked hard for me, after all.”
“This isn’t about the dress,” he turned sharply. “I want stability, Natash. I want everything to be real. Not just living ‘at your place,’ but being together.”
He spoke, and suddenly she heard a painfully familiar intonation. Her first husband had spoken the same way when he insisted on taking out a loan for a car — “for us.” Then he left, leaving her with the payments and an empty card.
“I’ll think about it,” she answered quietly.
“Just don’t think too long, okay?” Lesha smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “The realtor already has the documents ready.”
“This is obvious manipulation,” Marina cut in, sipping her coffee. “Natash, come on, you’re not a little girl. He’s fixated on your apartment. Why does he need a share if you already live together?”
They were sitting in a café across from the school. Outside the window was the usual bustle: parents picking up children, first-graders shouting in the yard, teachers at the next table discussing tests.
“He says he wants things to be official,” Natasha muttered uncertainly. “So everything is legal.”
“That’s nonsense. Real relationships aren’t built through a notary,” Marina leaned forward. “Remember when you first met? He immediately started asking about your housing. ‘How many rooms, how many square meters’ — remember?”
“Well, he was just interested…”
“Oh, please,” her friend snorted. “My ex was also ‘interested,’ supposedly hinting at visiting. Only later it turned out he just needed registration so he could take out a loan.”
Natasha gave a small smile, but something stabbed inside her — it sounded far too familiar.
“He says he wants children, a house outside the city, a garden, a dog…” Natasha lowered her eyes. “He describes it all beautifully.”
“A country house — at your expense,” Marina said grimly. “Be careful, Natash. I’m begging you. With people like that, everything is beautiful until they get what they want. And then — good luck finding them.”
That evening Natasha came home, quietly turned on the radio — so she wouldn’t hear her own thoughts — and took a box of documents from the closet. Old papers, her grandmother’s will, an extract from the property register, receipts for repairs. She leafed through them carefully, as if checking that everything was still in place.
This is my home. My air. My past and my future.
The thought made her feel calmer.
The door slammed, and Lesha entered the room — in a good mood, with a bouquet of roses and the scent of expensive perfume.
“Hello, my love!” he kissed her on the cheek. “I ordered dinner from a restaurant. And by the way, I talked to a lawyer. Everything can be arranged quickly, literally just a couple of signatures.”
“This again?” Natasha’s voice broke, although she tried to remain calm.
“Well, yes,” he smiled. “I just want everything to be fair. So we can truly be a family.”
Family
She looked at him. Everything in his words sounded right, but behind that correctness was persistence, and behind the persistence — anxiety.
“Lesh, what about your apartment?” she suddenly asked. “You said you sold it and invested in a business. How is that business doing?”
He froze. For a fraction of a second. But Natasha noticed.
“Everything’s fine,” he answered, looking away. “The profits just aren’t what we expected. It’s temporary.”
“What kind of business is it?”
“Trade, supplies. It doesn’t matter, Natash. The important thing is the potential.”
She nodded, but inside, a shadow seemed to pass over her. Something didn’t add up.
A week later, Lesha insisted that they go to see his mother. “She misses you, wants to get to know you better.” Natasha didn’t object: it was better to see everything with her own eyes.
Valentina Pavlovna’s apartment greeted them with the smell of pies and old perfume. The hostess turned out to be a talkative woman.
“Leshenka said you’re a wonderful homemaker,” she chirped. “And your apartment is spacious. My son is lucky!”
“It’s my grandmother’s apartment,” Natasha answered calmly.
“Ah yes, of course,” Valentina Pavlovna waved her hand. “I keep mixing things up. Leshenka used to live in his own place, but it was a bit cramped. Still, he’s a good boy — sold it, invested the money in business. Smart lad!”
“Invested?” Natasha grew alert. “In what business?”
“Oh, I don’t understand those things. Some kind of partnership with a friend. The main thing is, he said it was promising. Only he sold the apartment shortly before the wedding. About two months before, I think. He stayed with me for a while then.”
“Two months before the wedding?” Natasha felt something click inside her. “But he said it was after we met…”
“Did he?” Valentina Pavlovna faltered for a moment. “Well, maybe I’m mixing it up. My memory isn’t what it used to be…”
But Natasha knew the old woman hadn’t lied. And that suddenly made her feel cold.
“Seryozha,” she said to her brother over the phone, “I need your help.”
“What happened?” her brother’s voice became wary.
“I want to check something. About Lesha.”
“Check how?”
“There are strange things with his money. And with his past.”
Sergey, a former military man, was used to acting quickly. A few days later, he invited her to a café and handed her a folder.
“Look, this is his credit history. All official. Three unpaid loans. One for a large amount. The second is a car loan, although he doesn’t have a car. The third is a credit card, almost maxed out.”
Natasha looked at the numbers, but it was as if she couldn’t see them. Only cold under her skin.
“And one more thing,” Sergey added. “Remember he said he was a manager at a trading company? Well. He’s an ordinary sales representative. His salary is just above minimum wage.”
She raised her eyes.
“So… all those restaurants, gifts…”
“On credit,” her brother said briefly. “Natash, he’s using you. And it looks like he’s counting on your apartment to cover his holes.”
That evening Natasha sat by the window for a long time without turning on the light. The city beyond the glass lived its own life — rare cars, teenagers’ voices in the courtyard, the smell of rain.
And inside her — emptiness.
Lesha came home late, cheerful, with a box of sweets and a theater ticket.
“Surprise,” he said. “Just for you.”
She smiled, but felt nothing. No joy, no tenderness.
“Thank you, Lesh,” she said quietly. “But I’m tired.”
“Tired again, in a bad mood again…” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s because of the apartment? You still think I’m going to deceive you?”
She looked up at him.
“And won’t you?”
He chuckled.
“Natash, you’re acting like an investigator. I just want everything between us to be shared.”
She stayed silent.
And then suddenly she understood clearly: he would not stop until he got what he wanted.
The phone call caught her off guard.
“Natalya Alekseevna?” the voice trembled. “This is Olga, from your school. I… I don’t know how to say this… I saw your husband downtown today. With a woman. They were kissing.”
Natasha felt the world tilt slightly.
“Are you sure you weren’t mistaken?”
“No. I’ve seen him more than once. And I heard him saying something about ‘preparing documents.’ About an apartment.”
After the call, she sat in silence for a long time. Then she opened Lesha’s phone when he went to take a shower. There were no messages. But in the gallery — photographs. A blonde woman, well-groomed, in an expensive coat. Kira Rabochaya.
She closed the phone as if she had burned herself.
The next day, Marina arrived in her husband’s car.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked, looking at her friend.
“I’m sure.”
They followed Lesha for two days. He met that woman — hugged her, laughed, took her to a restaurant, spent the night at her place.
On the third day, Natasha photographed them together. With cold determination.
“What now?” Marina asked.
“Now the performance ends,” Natasha said. And for the first time in a long while, her voice sounded calm.
“You thought I wouldn’t notice anything?” Lesha’s voice rang like glass. “You went through my phone, followed me? You think that’s normal?”
Natasha stood opposite him, calm, almost cold. On the table lay photographs — him and that woman, laughing, holding hands, then near the entrance, embracing. Beneath them were printouts of his loans and bank statements. Everything neat, like a dossier.
“No, it isn’t normal,” she finally said. “But marrying someone for an apartment isn’t normal either, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Nonsense!” he exploded. “I loved you! All of this was because of love! Yes, I had debts, so what? I didn’t hide…”
Romantic Relationships
“You did hide it. And you’re lying even now.”
He stepped sharply closer, but Natasha did not move back. In his gaze flashed something she had never seen before — anger. Real, predatory anger.
“You misunderstood everything,” he hissed. “Kira is a business partner.”
“A partner you spend the night with? Interesting business.”
He exhaled and closed his eyes.
“I just wanted us to have a shared life, Natash. So I wouldn’t feel like a guest. So I could be equal.”
“Equal?” she smiled bitterly. “You lie, spend my money, hide your debts, and try to lure me out of my home — and you call that equality?”
He looked away.
“You don’t understand…” he said quietly. “I just needed time. To fix everything.”
“You had time. Six months.”
He looked at her, then at the documents on the table.
“So what now? You’re throwing me out?”
“Already have.” She nodded toward the suitcase by the door. “I packed your things. I’ll change the locks tomorrow.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” he whispered. “You won’t have a penny if I leave.”
“Better without a penny than without a conscience,” Natasha said.
He moved closer, too close.
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed. “Without me, you’re nobody. A teacher with a salary of thirty thousand.”
She lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes.
“And without you, I am a person.”
He wanted to answer, but couldn’t. He took the suitcase and slammed the door.
Silence hung in the air, thick as dust after a storm.
Natasha stood for a long time, looking at the closed door. Then she exhaled, as if after a long dive underwater.
Two days later, she went to see Viktor Stepanovich, her neighbor, a lawyer.
He listened silently, only nodding.
“You did everything right,” he finally said. “The main thing is, you didn’t sign anything?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then he’s no threat to you. But gather everything — correspondence, photos, receipts. Just in case.”
Natasha nodded.
“Do you think he’ll try to come back?”
“Of course,” the neighbor smirked. “People like him only discover their conscience once they’ve been kicked out.”
The divorce went quickly. Lesha didn’t even argue — apparently, he understood there were no options. Through a lawyer, he tried to “claim part of the furniture,” but the court rejected it.
“A strong woman,” Viktor Stepanovich said after the hearing. “It’s rare for someone to act so competently.”
She smiled.
“I just don’t want to be a victim anymore.”
Months passed. Natasha began to breathe more freely. The apartment became quiet — not with that tense silence, but a cozy one. She rearranged the furniture, repainted the walls, threw away everything that reminded her of Lesha. She even redid the wallpaper in the kitchen — bright yellow, sunny.
Marina came by, looked around, and whistled.
“Now it really feels like your home. Not someone else’s — yours.”
“Before, I was trying to make it ‘ours,’” Natasha said. “But ‘ours’ can’t be built on lies.”
One day at school, she received a strange letter — registered mail, from an unknown sender. Inside was a sheet with the words: “I’ve realized everything. Forgive me. Alexey.”
No return address. No signature.
She held the sheet in her hands for a long time, then carefully folded it and threw it in the trash.
You can forgive, but you must not forget.
In spring, she accidentally ran into Lesha at a shopping center. He was unshaven, wearing a cheap jacket. His smile was strained.
“Hi,” he said awkwardly.
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Good. And you?”
“Dragging loans around like suitcases. Working a lot.” He shrugged. “Kira left, by the way. Her husband came back.”
“Husband?” Natasha smirked.
“Yeah. Like that.”
A pause.
“I… wanted something different back then,” he said quietly. “I thought I could start a new life if… if there was someone who believed in me.”
“Did you ever try believing in yourself?” she asked.
He lowered his eyes.
“I ruined everything.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe someday…”
“No, Lesh. Not anymore.”
She turned and walked away.
Not quickly, but confidently.
Six months later, Natasha sat on the balcony with a mug of tea, listening to teenagers singing with a guitar somewhere below. On the small table were books, and on the windowsill — a new orchid.
Her phone vibrated.
Marina:
“Did you hear? They hired a new history teacher at our school. Andrey, single, smart, with a sense of humor. And with an apartment ”
Natasha laughed.
“The main thing is that he has brains, not documents.”
She turned off the phone and looked at the sky. There, between the buildings, a thin moon was glowing — new, like a page on which nothing had yet been written.
From now on, I’ll write it myself, she thought.
August. Warm, smelling of grass and apples. Natasha came to her brother’s dacha to help clean out the attic. Old photo albums, forgotten letters, faded postcards.
And suddenly — a phone call. An unknown number.
“Natasha? This is Sveta Orlova. Do you remember me? We went to school together.”
“Sveta? Of course. So many years have passed…”
“I need help,” there was anxiety in her voice. “My husband wants to take my house from me. I remembered your story. I heard you managed to protect yourself.”
Natasha smiled slightly, though there was sympathy in her voice.
“Come over. We’ll figure it out.”
She put down the phone and looked at an old photo where she and Sveta were standing by the school blackboard.
Back then, both of them had naïve eyes and believed that love was always about trust.
Romantic Relationships
Now Natasha knew: love is about respect, and trust must be earned.
She took a notebook from her bag and wrote on the first page:
“New chapter. Help those who didn’t realize it in time.”
And for the first time in a long while, she felt that everything was only beginning.