— “Divorce, Vera. And we split everything down the middle.” He said it as calmly as if he were reading out the weather.
— “What?” Vera let the spoon slip from her hand; tea splashed across the tablecloth. “Say that again.”
— “Divorce. The house is shared. The car is shared. Everything’s fair.”
She lifted her eyes slowly. Sasha sat opposite her, hands laid out on the table—straight and neat, like he was being interrogated. His favorite mug, the one that said “Best Husband in the World,” sat between them. Fitting.
— “Fair?” Vera almost laughed. “And how is that ‘fair’? The house I suffered for—where every penny went after I sold my grandmother’s apartment—this is ‘fifty-fifty’ too?”
— “What do you expect?” His voice sharpened with irritation. “We bought it while we were married. That makes it marital property. That’s how the law works.”
— “The law?” She could barely force the word out. “You’re trying to scare me with it? After fifteen years of marriage? After everything we built together?”
Sasha didn’t answer. He stared past her, as if she weren’t his wife but a notary across a desk.
— “Sash,” Vera’s arms fell to her sides, “do you even realize what you’re doing?”
— “I realize perfectly,” he said flatly. “I want to start over.”
Vera stood up. Her legs trembled so much it was hard to stay upright. She went to the window. October—wet air, puddles, leaves piled ankle-high. A tiny titmouse clung to a branch outside, puffed up against the cold.
There were her “dream” windows: double glazing, German fittings. She’d chosen everything. And the flowerbed beneath them—asters she’d planted herself. And now—“split it down the middle.”
She turned around.
— “Did your mother put this into your head?”
He pressed his lips together and stayed silent.
— “Of course,” Vera smirked. “You never decide anything yourself. Someone always does it for you. First your mom, then your boss, and now—what—your lawyer?”
— “Watch yourself,” he snapped, getting up. “Don’t drag my mother into this.”
— “Watch myself?” Vera laughed, bitter and sharp. “What else is there left for me to touch, Sasha? You’re taking the house, you’ve wrecked my life—and now you’re giving me lectures?”
He stepped toward the door.
— “I filed the petition. In a month it’ll all be decided.”
And he left, slamming the door.
Vera sat in the kitchen until night. She stared at the tiles she’d laid alongside the workers because “they’re doing it crooked.” She remembered planting that maple in the yard. How he’d held her hand and said, “This is our root.” And now he was tearing it out—roots and all.
\
In the morning, Vera dialed her mother-in-law.
— “Hello, Tamara Nikolaevna. Can I ask you directly—was it you who filled his head with this ‘it’s the law’ nonsense?”
— “Verочка,” her mother-in-law’s voice rang with ice, “I didn’t fill anyone’s head. I simply explained to my son that he needs to be sensible. A man should have something of his own.”
— “His own?!” Vera couldn’t hold it in. “I bought that house with the money from selling my grandmother’s apartment. You know that!”
— “Of course I know. But you were married. That means it’s shared. If you chose to marry, you should have understood.”
— “Are you serious right now?”
— “Completely. My first husband threw me out without a single kopek—so what? I learned my lesson. And I told my son: ‘Don’t be a kind fool. Take what’s yours while you still can.’”
Vera listened as if someone were reading her a survival manual after a fire—cold, steady, emotionless.
— “So you want him to do to me what your ex did to you?”
— “I want him not to repeat my mistakes,” Tamara enunciated. “And you’re strong—you’ll manage. You’ve got a job, friends, everything will be fine.”
Then she hung up.
A job? The library, where she earned forty thousand a month and half of it disappeared into utilities. “Strong.” Sure.
A week later, living under the same roof became unbearable. Sasha didn’t leave; he kept saying, “Until the court decides, I have rights.”
He slept in the guest room, ate in silence, and left crumbs in the kitchen as if on purpose.
When Vera washed a mug in the evening, he would walk past and say calmly:
— “Is it normal that the dishwasher is just sitting there? Electricity is shared too, by the way.”
She closed her eyes so she wouldn’t say something she’d regret.
Vera started looking for a lawyer. Her friend Katya helped.
— “I know a guy,” Katya said as she poured coffee. “Young, but vicious. Divorces are his specialty.”
Vera met him in a small café near the train station. His name was Anton—no tie, hoodie on, laptop open, eyes sharp and attentive.
He listened to her story, skimmed the documents.
— “All right,” he said. “No proof of where the money came from? Receipts, bank transfers, anything?”
— “No. It was all cash. We were family…” Vera stopped herself. “We were.”
— “I get it.” He nodded. “Then legally—yes, the house is marital property. But if we can show he played a double game, that he had motives and hid assets, we can tilt the case.”
— “A double game?” Vera frowned.
— “Usually these ‘sudden divorces’ aren’t just about money. They’re about someone. Have you checked?”
— “No,” Vera’s brow tightened. “I don’t snoop through other people’s phones.”
— “That’s a mistake. Sometimes every answer is right there.”
That evening, for the first time in fifteen years, she opened Sasha’s laptop. Her heart hammered like a fist. The password was “072006”—their wedding date. She gave a humorless smile.
The browser showed news, sports, maps… and then one tab: Flowerline.ru.
Order history: a bouquet of twenty-five roses, delivered to Suvorova Street.
The note on the card read: “To my muse. Yours, S.”
— “Muse…” Vera whispered.
She typed the address into a map. A residential building—new, upscale.
Then she opened their shared email. There were payment notifications: the “Ferrum” restaurant, a jewelry store, the “Forest” hotel. The dates lined up with his “business trips.”
Something inside her turned over. Tears came on their own, soundless. But the anger was stronger than the hurt.
The next morning she met him in the hallway.
— “Off to work?” she asked evenly.
— “Yeah,” he answered without looking at her.
— “Good. Then come by this evening. I want to show you something.”
He tensed, but said nothing.
That night Vera spread everything out on the table—printouts, receipts, emails, screenshots.
He went pale.
— “Did you go through my stuff?”
— “How else was I supposed to understand why my husband suddenly decided to take half my life away?”
— “It’s not like that,” he said quietly. “I just… got tired of everything.”
— “Tired of everything? Or of me? Or is it your ‘muse’ who’s tired? What’s her name?”
He said nothing.
— “Tell me, Sasha. I need to know.”
— “Anya,” he muttered. “She’s a designer.”
Vera nodded.
— “Lovely. And romantic. But here’s the thing—you won’t get this house. Not half, not ten percent.”
— “I… I don’t want it anymore,” he stammered. “I’ll leave everything to you.”
— “Too late. You started a war—so we’ll finish it.”
The trial dragged on for three months. Vera came with Anton. Sasha came with some older lawyer wearing a smug expression.
Tamara Nikolaevna sat through every hearing like a guard dog.
Anton spoke calmly, confidently:
— “The presented documents confirm that the defendant engaged in concealed financial activity and attempted to dispose of property before the marriage was officially dissolved.”
The judge nodded.
Sasha frowned, gulped water, his chin trembling. Vera looked at him and couldn’t believe she’d once loved this man to the point it hurt.
At one hearing, Tamara cornered her in the corridor.
— “You destroyed him,” she hissed. “My son is nobody now.”
— “I didn’t destroy him,” Vera replied quietly. “He chose this. You both chose it.”
— “You think you’ve won?” her mother-in-law whispered. “No husband, no family—do you call that victory?”
— “Yes,” Vera nodded. “Because I stayed a human being.”
The decision was read out at the end of January.
The court found that most of the money used for the house came from Vera’s personal savings, and it took into account evidence of the husband’s bad faith.
Sasha was awarded only a token компенсация. The house stayed with her.
After the hearing, he came up to her.
— “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I ruined everything.”
— “Yes,” Vera answered. “But thank you. Now I know who I am.”
In spring she sold the house. She couldn’t stay there—every corner reminded her of how she’d broken. She bought a small apartment in a new building on the outskirts.
She tiled the bathroom herself, chose the curtains herself—green, like fresh grass.
One day she saw Tamara Nikolaevna outside. The older woman walked slowly, a plastic bag in hand, a worn scarf over her shoulders.
— “Hello, Verочка,” she said quietly. “I heard Sasha and that… girl split up. She moved to St. Petersburg, and now he’s alone. Renting a place, drowning in debt. Says his ‘new life’ didn’t work out.”
Vera stayed silent. No anger. No pity.
— “Forgive me,” her mother-in-law suddenly said. “I thought I was doing what was best. And it turned out the way it always does.”
— “Don’t,” Vera replied. “We all did what we could.”
Tamara nodded and walked away.
Vera watched her for a long time, then went upstairs to her apartment.
She switched on the kettle. In the window, April sunlight. Wet asphalt shining.
She poured herself tea, breathed in the steam—and for the first time in a long while, she smiled.
Now it was her home. No “half and half.” No fear. No illusions.
She set the cup on the windowsill and thought: maybe when a person loses everything, it isn’t the end.
Maybe it’s finally the beginning.
The End.