“Maybe you’ve had enough of giving orders in someone else’s home? My mother is the mistress here, and she’ll decide whether there will be repairs or not!” her husband shrieked, choking on his own saliva
“Do you even understand what you’re doing?!” Yegor’s voice broke into a shout. “I’m tired of your ideas! Tired of the way you meddle in everything!”
Valeria froze by the window, clutching a cup of cold coffee in her hands. She did not even turn around. She knew what was about to happen. It was starting again.
“Maybe you’ve had enough of giving orders in someone else’s home? My mother is the mistress here, and she’ll decide whether there will be repairs or not!” Yegor choked out the words, his face flushing red.
There it was. The main phrase had been spoken. “Someone else’s home.” Valeria slowly placed the cup on the windowsill and turned around. Five years of marriage, three years living in this apartment — and still it was someone else’s home.
“Yegor, I simply said that the kitchen pipes need to be replaced. They’re leaking. This isn’t a whim, it’s…”
“Shut up!” He stepped toward her, and Valeria involuntarily moved back. “My mother lived here for thirty years without you and somehow managed! And then you show up and start teaching us how to live!”
Raisa Fyodorovna appeared from the hallway. An unpleasant woman with a dissatisfied expression on her face. She was wiping her hands with a kitchen towel, and triumph shimmered in her eyes.
“Lerochka, why are you upsetting Yegor?” her mother-in-law’s voice was sweet, like honey laced with poison. “He gets tired at work, he’s stressed, and here you are with your renovations…”
Valeria felt something snap inside her. Not for the first time, and not for the last. This woman knew exactly where to strike, always taking her son’s side, always making Valeria the guilty one.
“Raisa Fyodorovna, there’s a puddle under the sink. I’m not inventing problems.”
“Oh, a puddle!” her mother-in-law threw up her hands. “I’ll wipe it with a rag, and everything will be fine. There’s no need to waste money on nonsense.”
Yegor lit a cigarette right there in the room, even though he knew Valeria couldn’t stand smoke. He did it on purpose, deliberately blowing a stream of smoke in her direction.
“Mom is right. There’s no money for your fantasies. My salary isn’t made of rubber.”
But there was money for a new phone for your mother. And for her trip to the sanatorium too, Valeria thought, but said nothing. It was pointless. In this house, no one cared about her opinion.
She went into the bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the bed. Her hands were trembling. A lump rose in her throat. But she did not cry — her tears had run out long ago.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Rita, a colleague from work: “Lera, are you coming to the presentation tonight? Management will be there. They might offer a promotion.”
Valeria looked at the clock. Six in the evening. The presentation was at eight, downtown. She worked as a marketer at a small agency, and this promotion could change everything. More money meant more independence.
She quickly changed clothes, put on makeup, and gathered her documents. When she came out of the bedroom, Yegor was sitting on the sofa beside his mother. They were watching some show and laughing.
“I’m leaving,” Valeria said.
“Where to?” Yegor did not even look at her.
“To work. There’s a presentation.”
“At this hour?” Raisa Fyodorovna narrowed her eyes. “And who is going to make dinner?”
“I left everything in the fridge. Just heat it up.”
“Oh, I see,” Yegor finally tore his eyes away from the screen. “So family isn’t important to you? Work matters more?”
Valeria froze in the doorway. She wanted to scream that she cooked every day, cleaned, did the laundry, worked like a horse at two jobs because his salary was only enough for cigarettes and entertainment. But she only said quietly:
“I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”
Outside, the February frost bit at her face, but Valeria felt relief. At least for a few hours, she would be somewhere she was valued. Somewhere she was not a stranger.
The metro was packed. She squeezed into the carriage, took out her phone, and saw three missed calls from an unknown number. She called back.
“Hello, Valeria Sergeyevna?” a businesslike male voice asked. “This is the Mikhailov law firm. We have a matter concerning you.”
“What matter?”
“It concerns an inheritance. Your aunt, Yevgenia Kirillovna, left a will. You are mentioned as the sole heir.”
Valeria was stunned. Aunt Zhenya… She had seen her once in childhood and remembered her vaguely — a tall woman with kind eyes who had brought her a large teddy bear.
“But… I don’t understand. We barely kept in touch.”
“Nevertheless, she left you an apartment in the city center. A two-room apartment. And a small sum of money. Could you come to our office tomorrow to complete the paperwork?”
Valeria listened, and the world around her seemed to blur. An apartment. Her own apartment. A way out.
“Yes, of course. I’ll come.”
She got off the metro in a daze. The presentation passed as if in a fog. She answered on autopilot, but apparently not badly — her boss nodded approvingly.
When she returned home at half past ten, the lights in the apartment were still on. Yegor met her in the hallway, drunk, with red eyes.
“Where were you wandering around?” He grabbed her by the arm.
“I told you. At work.”
“You’re lying!” His fingers dug into her wrist. “Rita called and asked where you were. She said the presentation ended at nine!”
Valeria pulled her arm free. Red marks remained on her skin.
“I went to deal with documents. I inherited an apartment. From my aunt.”
“What apartment?” Yegor was taken aback.
“My apartment,” Valeria said, looking him straight in the eyes for the first time in a long while. “And I’m moving there.”
Raisa Fyodorovna peered out of the kitchen, her face turning pale.
“What are you saying? You can’t abandon your husband!”
“I can,” Valeria was surprised by her own calmness. “And I will. I’m tired of living in someone else’s home.”
“This is outrageous!” her mother-in-law screamed. “I always knew you…”
But Valeria was no longer listening. She walked into the bedroom and began packing her things.
Morning greeted her with a call from an unfamiliar number. Valeria was lying on the sofa in the living room — she had not returned to the bedroom, having locked herself away from the enraged Yegor, who had spent the whole night banging on the door and demanding explanations.
“Valeria Sergeyevna? This is Kirill Mikhailov, the lawyer. We had an appointment today.”
“Yes, I remember. What time should I come?”
“There is a small problem,” the lawyer’s voice became cautious. “Another claimant to the inheritance has appeared. Your aunt’s nephew on her husband’s side. Viktor Gromov. He claims he has more rights to the apartment.”
Valeria sat up, gripping the phone.
“How is that possible? You yourself said I was the only heir!”
“You are named in the will. But Mr. Gromov claims that the will was made under pressure, that your aunt was not mentally competent. He is demanding an expert evaluation. Come to the office, and we’ll discuss the details.”
She dressed quickly, without breakfast. Raisa Fyodorovna was sitting in the kitchen with eyes swollen from lack of sleep, staring at her with open malice.
“You think you’ll get away with this so easily?” her mother-in-law hissed. “Yegor will fall apart without you. He’s weak. He needs support.”
“He needs a servant,” Valeria picked up her bag. “You’ll manage that role perfectly.”
The law firm’s office was located in a prestigious business center on Tverskaya Street. Kirill Mikhailov turned out to be a man in his fifties, with a penetrating gaze and confident manners.
“Please, sit down. The situation is complicated,” he said, taking out a folder of documents. “Viktor Gromov has filed a lawsuit contesting the will. He has a good lawyer.”
“But why did my aunt leave the apartment to me if she has a nephew?”
“Yevgenia Kirillovna and Viktor had not spoken for the last fifteen years. There was a serious quarrel after he tried to trick money out of her for some dubious business. She was deeply disappointed in him. As for you, she remembered you… You made an impression on her as a child.”
Valeria remembered that one visit. She had been about seven, and she and her mother had gone to visit. Aunt Zhenya had been so kind and cheerful, telling stories about her travels.
“What should I do?”
“Prepare for court. Gromov is a dangerous opponent. In certain circles, he is known as a man who does not shy away from dirty methods.”
There was a knock at the door, and the secretary showed in a tall man in an expensive suit. Broad shoulders, cold gray eyes, and a smile that made one feel uneasy.
“Viktor Gromov,” he extended his hand to Valeria, but she did not shake it. “So you’re the very niece who suddenly appeared.”
“I didn’t appear. I was mentioned in the will.”
“The will…” Viktor smirked and sat in the chair opposite her, sprawling comfortably. “You know, my aunt completely lost her mind in her old age. The doctors will confirm it. I have certificates proving her mental abnormalities.”
“That is a lie,” Kirill Mikhailov pressed his lips together. “Yevgenia Kirillovna was absolutely competent until her last day.”
“We’ll see what the court says,” Viktor stood up, his gaze sliding over Valeria appraisingly. “Although… we could settle this amicably. Sell me the apartment for a symbolic price, and I won’t ruin your life. Believe me, I know how to ruin lives.”
“Get out,” Valeria stood up too.
“Think about it, beautiful. I have connections. I found out a few interesting things about you. Living with your mother-in-law, an alcoholic husband… Such a gray little life. I can make it even grayer.”
When Viktor left, Valeria sank into the chair. Her hands were shaking.
“Is he serious?”
“More than serious,” Mikhailov poured her some water. “Gromov works with shady structures. Formally, he’s clean, but everyone knows his methods. Intimidation. Bribing witnesses. I would advise you to be careful.”
She left the office in a daze. The day was sunny and frosty, but Valeria did not notice it. One anxious thought after another raced through her mind.
Her phone rang. Yegor.
“Lera, forgive me,” his voice was pitiful. “I was drunk. I said too much. Let’s start over. I’ll change, honestly.”
“Yegor…”
“Mom regrets it too! She said she was wrong. We want to fix everything. Please come home.”
Valeria heard Raisa Fyodorovna’s voice behind him, prompting her son. A performance. A pathetic, predictable performance.
“No.”
“But Lera…”
“No, Yegor. I’m not coming back. I’m starting divorce proceedings.”
She ended the call and went to work. At least there she could distract herself, immerse herself in projects, and forget everything for a couple of hours.
Rita greeted her with a radiant smile.
“Lera, congratulations! The promotion is yours! You’re a senior manager now!”
At least there was some good news. Valeria smiled for the first time in twenty-four hours.
That evening she rented a room in a cheap hotel. She had no desire to return to Yegor. She lay down on the hard bed and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow a new life would begin. Or a new war. With Viktor Gromov, with Yegor, with Raisa Fyodorovna. But she no longer intended to be a victim.
Her phone vibrated again. A message from an unknown number: “Valeria, this is your last chance. Give up the apartment voluntarily. Or you’ll regret it. V.G.”
She deleted the message and turned off her phone. She was desperately sleepy, but sleep would not come. A battle loomed ahead, and Valeria did not know if she had enough strength to withstand it to the end.
The court hearing was scheduled for two weeks later. Valeria lived in the hotel, went to work, and met with her lawyer. Yegor called every day, shifting from pleading to threats and back again. Raisa Fyodorovna got relatives involved — distant aunts, cousins, all calling in unison, lamenting the destroyed family.
On the fifth day, Viktor Gromov came to the agency office. He walked straight to her desk, ignoring the outraged secretary.
“You’ve settled in nicely,” he said, looking around the open space with designer furniture. “It would be a shame to lose a job like this.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk. You’re having trouble with your husband, aren’t you?” Viktor sat on the edge of her desk. “I can help. A good divorce lawyer, quick and quiet. In exchange, you give up the apartment.”
“Leave. Right now.”
“Stubborn,” he smirked. “Do you know what I found out? Your aunt rewrote her will three times before she died. First she left everything to me, then to some animal charity, then to you. Strange, isn’t it?”
Valeria went cold. What if he was right? What if her aunt really had not been in her right mind?
“I have witnesses,” Viktor continued. “The neighbors will confirm that Yevgenia Kirillovna forgot to turn off the gas and confused day with night. Classic signs of dementia.”
“You’re lying.”
“Check it yourself. The apartment is on Chistye Prudy, building twelve. Go talk to the neighbors. But I’m afraid they’ve already talked to me. And received a generous thank-you for it.”
He left, and Valeria sat staring at the computer monitor. What if he really had bribed witnesses? What if the court believed him?
That evening, she went to Chistye Prudy anyway. The building turned out to be an old Stalin-era apartment block with high ceilings and a shabby entrance. Her aunt’s apartment was on the fourth floor.
An elderly woman with kind eyes opened the door.
“Who are you looking for?”
“I’m Yevgenia Kirillovna’s niece. Valeria.”
The woman’s face lit up.
“Lerochka! Zhenya told me so much about you! Come in, come in! I’m Klavdia Ilyinichna. I lived through the wall from her.”
The small apartment smelled of pies and old books. Klavdia Ilyinichna seated Valeria at the table and poured her tea.
“Zhenya really wanted to meet you. She looked for you, but couldn’t find you — you got married and changed your surname. And then she fell ill…”
“Tell me, was she… of sound mind?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course she was! A very intelligent woman. Until her last day she read books and solved crosswords. That scoundrel Viktor came to her and demanded money. She threw him out. And now, I’ve heard, he wants to take the apartment through court.”
“Did he come to you?”
“He did. He offered money for testimony that Zhenya was supposedly mentally unstable. I threw him out. And Petrovna from the third floor threw him out too. But the Semyonovs…” She hesitated. “They agreed. They have debts, so they were tempted.”
Valeria wrote down the names of the neighbors who had remained loyal to her aunt’s memory. Five people. That should be enough.
At the door, Klavdia Ilyinichna hugged her.
“Zhenya dreamed that you would be happy. She said she felt that you needed this apartment. Don’t give it to that bastard.”
Valeria met the day of the court hearing calmly. Her lawyer had prepared everything necessary, and the witnesses were ready.
Viktor Gromov arrived with an entire team of lawyers. His attorney was smooth, confident, throwing around legal terms. He presented medical certificates and the testimony of the Semyonov neighbors.
But when Valeria’s witnesses were called, the situation changed. Klavdia Ilyinichna, Petrovna, and three other neighbors all spoke with one voice about Yevgenia Kirillovna’s clear mind and her firm decision to leave the apartment to her niece.
The judge carefully studied the documents and listened to both sides. A week later, she issued her ruling: the will was recognized as valid. The apartment would pass to Valeria Sergeyevna.
Viktor Gromov left the courtroom with a stone face. He stopped beside Valeria.
“You won. But this isn’t over.”
“For me, it is over,” she looked him in the eyes. “Leave me alone.”
He walked away, and Valeria felt an enormous weight fall from her shoulders.
A month later, she moved into the apartment on Chistye Prudy. Two bright rooms overlooking the boulevard, tall windows, parquet flooring. Her home. A real home.
The divorce from Yegor was finalized quickly — he did not object once he realized there was no chance. Raisa Fyodorovna sent an angry message, but Valeria did not even read it.
She stood by the window with a cup of hot coffee, looking at the snow-covered boulevard and the people hurrying about their business. Life went on. Her life. New, different, free.
On the shelf lay an old photograph — Valeria at seven years old, hugging Aunt Zhenya. Valeria smiled.
“Thank you, Auntie. Thank you for everything.”