My ex-husband hadn’t paid child support for five years and laughed: “Sue me until you retire.” I didn’t sue him — I went to the bailiffs with his own post
“Go ahead and sue me until you retire,” Ruslan said, and hung up.
I stood in the kitchen with the phone in my hand. His page was glowing on the screen. A new car, white, parked in front of a dealership. Caption: “Earned it.” Three hearts. Forty-two likes.
For five years, he had not paid a single kopeck. Not one. Three court cases, three rulings, three writs of execution. And zero rubles in my daughter’s account.
I worked as a logistics coordinator at a warehouse. Thirty-eight thousand a month. Fourteen of that went to rent for a one-room apartment. Veronika was growing up; she was already fourteen. Jackets, sneakers, textbooks, an English tutor. Everything was on me. Everything — for five years straight.
And he was posting photos.
I zoomed in on the picture. The car cost, by the most modest estimate, two and a half million. In the background, some woman was holding flowers. Ruslan was smiling. Tanned, well-fed. A gold chain around his neck — he had never had one before.
And there it was, his latest message to the bailiff: “I don’t work, I have no income, I live on help from relatives.”
I sat down at the table. My fingers found the button on their own.
Screenshot.
The first one.
I put the phone down on the table. Then I picked it up again. Opened Notes. Wrote: “Folder. Screenshots. Ruslan.”
That evening, Veronika came home from school. She threw her backpack into the corner and took out her phone. A new one. Not the one I had bought her for her birthday for nine thousand rubles on installment.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“Dad gave it to me,” she said, without even looking up.
“Dad.”
“Yeah. We saw each other on Saturday. He said my old one was embarrassing.”
Embarrassing. The one I had paid off over four months. Embarrassing.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and said nothing. My hands were dry and rough. My nails were short. Eight hours at the warehouse, then the store, then dinner. Every day. Five years.
And Ruslan was giving phones as gifts.
Back then, I was still trying to do things “properly.” The second court hearing was in November of last year. I took time off work, lost a shift day — three thousand two hundred rubles. I arrived at nine and sat there until one. Ruslan didn’t show up. The judge looked at the papers, then at me, and said, “The decision is in your favor. The writ of execution will be sent to the bailiff service.”
I left the courtroom. It was cold in the hallway. The linoleum squeaked under my feet. And I already knew what would happen next. The bailiff would call Ruslan. Ruslan wouldn’t answer. The bailiff would send a request to the tax office. The tax office would reply: no income. The bailiff would send a request to the banks. The banks would reply: account empty. And that would be it.
That was exactly what happened. A month later, the bailiff called me.
“Antonina Sergeyevna, no income or property belonging to the debtor has been found. Enforcement proceedings will continue if new information is received.”
If new information is received.
And that evening, Ruslan posted a photo from a barbershop. New haircut, beard trimmed. Caption: “Refresh.” Seven likes from some girls.
Two weeks later, Veronika came back from her father wearing new sneakers. White, with red soles. I knew the brand. Twelve thousand minimum.
“Nice,” I said.
“Dad bought them. We went to the mall. He wanted to buy me a dress too, but I didn’t want one.”
“Your dad is generous.”
Veronika looked at me. She felt everything, but she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Mom, he’s normal. You two just don’t get along.”
We just don’t get along. Five years of child support, three court cases, one million two hundred thousand according to the bailiff’s calculation — and we “just don’t get along.”
I opened his page. Ruslan had posted a photo from a restaurant. A steak, a glass of wine, sunset sky beyond a panoramic window. Caption: “You only live once.” I took a screenshot.
The second one.
Then the third.
The fourth.
The fifth.
He posted everything himself. As if he was showing off. New rims for the car — screenshot. Dinner at a karaoke bar — screenshot. A bouquet for three thousand for his “beloved” — screenshot. I wasn’t spying. He was showing the world himself how he lived.
And telling the bailiff he had no money.
One evening, during dinner, Veronika said:
“Dad works for Uncle Kamil. At the auto repair shop. He says they pay well, but they can’t do it officially.”
I nearly dropped my fork.
“What Kamil?”
“Well, Uncle Kamil. He has a repair shop on Promyshlennaya Street. Dad’s been there for a long time, like three years already.”
Three years. Unofficially. No taxes. No child support. And the bailiff couldn’t do anything because on paper, he was unemployed.
I washed the dishes. My hands were shaking, but I washed every last plate. Then I sat down with my phone and found the auto repair shop on Promyshlennaya. “Kamil-Auto.” Three locations, fifteen employees, a social media page. Photos of the mechanics. In one picture, deep inside the workshop, Ruslan was standing in a work jacket, holding a wrench. His face was unclear, but I would have recognized him from his back.
The folder grew.
I filed in court for the third time. My lawyer — a free, court-appointed one — said there was a chance, but the bailiff would again respond: “No income, no registered property, place of employment not established.”
That was exactly what happened.
The court awarded it. The bailiff shrugged. Ruslan sent a message: “So, until retirement?” And a crown emoji.
I didn’t answer.
I opened the folder and counted the screenshots.
Twenty-three.
Zulfiya, my colleague, looked over during lunch.
“Staring at your phone again? Come on, eat.”
“I can’t,” I said, putting my sandwich aside. “Zulya, he’s been working unofficially for three years. He drives a car worth two and a half million. He flies to Turkey. And the bailiff tells me: no income.”
“So what are you waiting for?”
“I’m not waiting. I’m collecting.”
Zulfiya looked at the screen. She scrolled through the folder.
“Twenty-three screenshots. Wow. And what are you going to do with them?”
“I don’t know yet.”
In truth, I already knew.
But I was afraid to say it out loud.
In March, Ruslan flew to Turkey. Veronika showed me a photo he had sent her in a messenger. A pool, a sun lounger, a cocktail with an umbrella.
“Relaxing, daughter! When I come back, I’ll bring you a gift.”
I looked at the photo. Then I opened his page. He had posted an entire album. Twenty-eight photos. A five-star hotel. A room with a sea view. The hotel restaurant. A yacht excursion. And her — the same woman with the flowers in the dealership photo. Blonde. Tanned. In a bikini.
Caption: “A week of happiness. All-inclusive, 280,000 for two.”
He wrote the amount himself.
Himself.
I took a screenshot.
The twenty-fourth.
And the next day, Veronika came and asked for money for programming courses. Eight thousand for two months.
“Nika, I don’t have it,” I told the truth. “Wait until payday. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll ask Dad,” she said calmly, as if it were obvious.
And that was when it hit me.
For five years, I counted every thousand. For five years, I had given up the dentist, the hairdresser, and decent boots. For five years, I had worn the same winter coat.
And he had Turkey. A yacht. All-inclusive.
But I stayed silent.
Because it was still too early.
In April, there was a school event. Open day. I came straight from work and didn’t have time to change. Work boots, warehouse jacket. Ruslan arrived in the white car. He got out wearing a suit. With a bouquet for the class teacher.
Other parents were standing by the entrance. Ruslan saw me and didn’t look away. On the contrary.
“Oh, Tonya! Still at the warehouse? Maybe I should help you find a normal job?”
He spoke loudly. On purpose. Two mothers from the parent committee were looking at us. One of them — Larisa, the mother of Veronika’s friend — looked away. She knew about the child support. I had told her once when I couldn’t contribute money for a school trip. Back then, Larisa paid for Veronika. Twelve thousand. I paid her back over three months.
“I have a normal job,” I said.
“Sure, sure. Thirty-eight thousand. Heroic labor.”
He knew my salary. Veronika had told him.
Larisa stepped forward.
“Ruslan, maybe that’s enough?”
He looked at her in surprise. Then he smiled. Widely. White teeth — probably implants. He used to have a chip on his upper incisor.
“What? I’m just worried. She can’t dress our daughter, can’t sign her up for courses. I’m offering help.”
Help.
One million two hundred thousand.
Help.
I stood in front of him in my work boots. I hid my hands in my pockets so he wouldn’t see them clenched into fists. My fingers dug into my palms. It hurt.
But I said nothing.
Ruslan patted Veronika on the shoulder.
“Come on, daughter. Show Dad the school.”
And they left together. Veronika didn’t even turn around. I stayed at the entrance. Larisa touched my sleeve.
“Tonya, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I lied.
His car stood in the parking lot. White. Clean. Two and a half million.
I took out my phone. Photographed the license plate. The model. The year of manufacture.
It wasn’t a screenshot. It was my own photo. With a date. With geolocation.
That evening, I spread everything out on the table. Not on the phone screen — on paper. I printed twenty-six screenshots. I labeled each one: date, source, what was shown.
Photo of the car at the dealership — January. Restaurant — February. Auto repair shop with Ruslan in the background — March of last year. Turkey — March of this year. Twenty-eight photos from the album, the amount written by the author. Photo of the car at the school — April.
Zulfiya came over after her shift. She looked at the table and whistled.
“Tonya, did you put together a whole case?”
“Yes.”
“For the lawyer?”
“No. For the bailiff.”
“For the bailiff? With photos from the internet?”
“They’re not just photos. They’re evidence of a lifestyle incompatible with the claimed absence of income. That’s how my lawyer explained it. Based on this, the bailiff has the right to request information from banks, the tax office, and the traffic police. If the car is registered to him, it’s property. It can be seized toward the debt.”
Zulfiya was silent.
“And something else,” I said quietly. “I know where he works. At Kamil’s on Promyshlennaya. Unofficially. For three years.”
“And what do you want to do?”
“Write to Kamil. Tell him he has an employee with a child support debt of one million two hundred thousand. That the bailiffs can come with an inspection. That if Kamil registers Ruslan officially or at least fires him, he won’t have problems himself. But if not — a fine for an unregistered worker. Up to fifty thousand.”
Zulfiya sat down.
“Tonya. Are you serious?”
“Five years. Not a kopeck. Three court cases. And he laughs.”
“But what does Kamil have to do with it?”
“Kamil has to do with it because he pays him under the table. And helps him hide money from my child.”
Zulfiya shook her head.
“You’ll cost him his job. Then he definitely won’t be able to pay.”
“He isn’t paying now.”
“But Veronika. She loves her father.”
I froze. That was the only argument that could stop me. Veronika loved him. He bought her phones and sneakers. Took her to the movies. She didn’t know that over five years, he owed one million two hundred thousand. To her, he was the fun dad who picked her up on weekends.
“I know,” I said. “But thirty-eight thousand. Fourteen for rent. Two years without going to the dentist. One winter coat for the fourth winter. And he has Turkey for two hundred eighty thousand. And a crown emoji.”
Zulfiya finished her tea and stood up.
“Do what you think is right. But be careful.”
She left. I remained with the folder on the table.
My fingers were cold. I clenched and unclenched my hands. Three times.
Then I opened the laptop.
I wrote to Kamil. Politely. No threats. Facts: Ruslan works for you unofficially, he has child support debt, the bailiffs have the right to inspect your business. I ask you to take measures.
I sent it.
Then I sat there and stared at the screen. The cursor blinked. The letter was gone.
That was it.
A strange feeling. For five years, I had done everything “the proper way.” Courts, bailiffs, complaints. Papers with stamps. And nothing changed.
Now I had written one letter, and something inside me shifted.
Not joy.
Not relief.
More like fear. But not the kind of fear that paralyzes you. A different kind. The kind that pushes you forward.
Zulfiya had asked, “What if Kamil tells Ruslan?”
Of course he would tell him. And Ruslan would call. And he would yell. And say that I ruined his life.
And I would answer: you ruined it yourself. Five years ago. When you didn’t pay for the first time.
Then I gathered the folder. Twenty-six screenshots, two of my own photos, the debt calculation, copies of three court decisions.
In the morning, I went to the bailiff.
The bailiff — a woman around thirty-five, tired, with dark circles under her eyes — looked at the folder, then at me.
“Is this all from his page?”
“Yes. It’s public. Every screenshot is labeled.”
She flipped through it. Stopped in Turkey.
“He wrote the amount himself?”
“Two hundred eighty thousand for two. In the caption under the photo.”
The bailiff raised her eyebrows.
“And what’s this?” she asked, pointing to the photo from the auto repair shop.
“His workplace. Kamil-Auto repair shop on Promyshlennaya. He has been working unofficially for three years. My daughter told me.”
“That is not proof of employment.”
“I know. But you can send a request. And check.”
She closed the folder. Looked at me for a long time.
“I’ll send requests. To the banks, the traffic police, and the tax office. If the car is in his name, I’ll place it under seizure. The accounts too. As for restricting travel abroad — you have grounds. The debt is more than ten thousand.”
“One million two hundred thousand,” I said.
“All the more so.”
I left the building. My legs felt like cotton. I sat down on a bench by the entrance. Sat there for about ten minutes. My hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From having done it.
For five years, I had waited for the system to work by itself. Three times I went to court. Received papers with stamps. And nothing changed.
But this time — I did it myself.
No court.
No lawyer.
With a folder of screenshots.
That evening, Veronika called.
“Mom, Dad and I went to the movies. The new Star Wars. He bought a large popcorn.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m tired. Go to bed.”
She hung up. I sat in the kitchen in silence. Outside, a light rain was falling. The one-room apartment. Wallpaper I had put up myself three years ago. The table Zulfiya had given me. Chairs from Avito for five hundred rubles each.
And he had large popcorn.
A week later, Ruslan called. Not Veronika. Me.
“What the hell have you done?” he shouted so loudly that I moved the phone away from my ear.
“Hello, Ruslan.”
“Kamil called me! Says some woman wrote to him that the bailiffs were going to come! He kicked me out! Do you understand? Kicked me out!”
“You haven’t paid child support for five years.”
“What child support?! I buy everything for Veronika! A phone, sneakers!”
“A phone for fifteen thousand and sneakers for twelve. Twenty-seven thousand over five years. But according to the court decision, you owe one million two hundred thousand.”
“You’re counting?!”
“I am. I’ve been counting for five years. Every day.”
He went quiet. Then, more softly:
“Tonya, are you going to have my car seized?”
“That’s not me. That’s the bailiff. You have a car worth two and a half million and a debt going back five years. What did you expect?”
“It’s my car! I earned it!”
“You did. Unofficially. Without taxes. And without child support.”
He hung up.
I put the phone down. My hands weren’t shaking.
For the first time in five years.
But two days later, Veronika called. And that was when it became truly hard.
“Mom,” my daughter’s voice was cold. “Is it true that you wrote to Uncle Kamil?”
“It’s true.”
“Why?”
“Because your father hasn’t paid child support for five years. And he works unofficially so he doesn’t have to pay.”
“But he buys me things! He’s normal!”
“Nika, he owes one million two hundred thousand rubles. To you. By law. For five years.”
“I don’t need his money through court! I need my dad!”
She was crying. I could hear her sobbing. And every sob was like a blow.
“You got him fired. Now he has no job. Are you happy?”
“I didn’t fire him. Kamil did. Because he’s afraid of a fine.”
“Because of you!”
She hung up.
I stood there with the phone. Outside, the same rain. The same wallpaper. The same chairs for five hundred rubles.
That evening, a message came from Ruslan:
“Accounts frozen. They’re taking the car tomorrow. Travel ban. Are you happy? Your daughter hates you. Congratulations.”
I read it and turned off the phone.
I lay down. The ceiling was white, with a crack in the corner. I had filled that crack twice. Both times, it came back. Like everything in my life — you cover it up, and it shows through again.
Happy?
No.
But thirty-eight thousand for two. Fourteen for rent. Five years without child support. Three court cases. A crown emoji. “Sue me until you retire.”
I didn’t sue him.
I did it differently.
The next morning at work, I carried boxes to the third rack, as usual. Twelve boxes, fifteen kilograms each. Every day. For four years already in that warehouse.
And Ruslan had been receiving cash under the table for four years and buying himself a car.
Zulfiya came over at lunch.
“So?”
“They seized them. The accounts and the car. Travel ban.”
“And Kamil?”
“A forty-thousand fine. For an unregistered worker.”
Zulfiya pressed her lips together.
“Kamil wasn’t really to blame.”
“Kamil paid him under the table for three years. For three years, my child didn’t receive money because on paper Ruslan had no income. Kamil isn’t an innocent victim. Kamil is part of the scheme.”
“Well, maybe. But Veronika?”
“Veronika isn’t talking to me. Third day.”
Zulfiya said nothing. She only squeezed my shoulder.
Two months passed. Ruslan doesn’t call. The bailiff recovered one hundred twenty thousand from the frozen accounts. The car was put up for auction. He got an official job — as a loader at a depot. Twenty-five thousand. Of that, six thousand two hundred fifty goes to child support. Every month. Automatically.
The first transfer came on May 12.
I looked at the screen: “Credited: 6,250 rubles. Child support.”
Five years.
The first transfer in five years.
Veronika is living with her grandmother now. Ruslan’s mother. It has already been three weeks. She comes by for her things and stays silent. Once she said:
“You destroyed Dad. Because of you, he has nothing left.”
I wanted to say: I had nothing for five years.
But I stayed silent.
Ruslan deleted his social media page. The post about Turkey was the last one.
They say he tells everyone that I “destroyed him financially.” That I set him up. That I cost him his job. He doesn’t mention five years without child support. He doesn’t mention the car for two and a half million either.
And I still live in the same one-room apartment. The same wallpaper. The same chairs. Thirty-eight thousand.
Only now, plus six thousand two hundred fifty.
Veronika doesn’t call.
Did I go too far?
Or was five years without a single kopeck where he went too far first?