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You're nothing without me—a penniless housewife!" the husband declared during the divorce. But he didn’t know my “hobby”...
17/09/2025

You're nothing without me—a penniless housewife!" the husband declared during the divorce. But he didn’t know my “hobby” was a company with seven-figure turnover.
— The apartment obviously stays with me. The cars too, — my husband Kirill’s voice cut like a knife, bouncing off the polished walls of the lawyer’s office.
He wasn’t speaking to me but to my representative — a young man in a perfect suit, who until that moment had only been nodding in silence.
— I’ll toss you a bit of money, fine. For a while, — Kirill shot me a look full of contemptuous magnanimity.
— So you don’t starve to death while you look for… well, at least some kind of job.
I looked at my hands resting on my knees. Steady, with short-cut nails stained with soil that no brush could scrub away completely.
— You can take the dacha, — he continued his monologue. — Keep poking around with your flowers out there. I don’t need it anyway.
My lawyer gave a barely audible cough. I raised my eyes to him and gave the slightest nod. Time.
— My client does not agree to your terms, — the young man said evenly.
Kirill froze, then laughed — loud, unpleasant.
— Doesn’t agree? That’s a new one. And what are you, exactly, counting on?
He turned to me, genuine bewilderment sloshing in his eyes, mixed with disdain.
— What can you even do without me?
I kept silent, letting him get it all out. He stood, paced the office, radiating the confidence of a man who owns the world.
— Ten years you hung around my neck. Your dresses, your trips, your stupid floristry courses — I paid for everything! You’re a complete zero, Anya. A penniless housewife who won’t last a day without my money.
He stopped in front of me, looming like a judge.
— So take the dacha and be grateful I’m not throwing you out on the street. But the land stays in my name.
I slowly lifted my head. I looked him straight in the eye. Without hatred, without hurt. I just looked.
— No, Kirill. I won’t take the dacha.
His face went slack.
— What do you mean, “won’t take it”?
— I mean I don’t need a handout, I need everything, — for the first time in the whole meeting, I smiled. — I’m buying it from you — your share. Along with the adjacent three hectares of land.
For several seconds a ringing silence hung in the office. Kirill stared at me as if I’d started speaking an unknown language. His lawyer stopped taking notes.
— Buying it? — Kirill repeated, a hysterical note creeping into his voice. — You? With what money, if I may ask? With the pin money I tossed you?
He turned to my lawyer, seeking support.
— Is she in her right mind? Maybe she needs a doctor, not an attorney?
Without changing his expression, my representative laid a slim folder on the table.
— Here is a preliminary appraisal of the market value of the plot and buildings. As well as a bank statement from my client confirming her full ability to pay.
Kirill pushed the folder away with distaste, without even looking inside. His eyes locked on me again.
— I get it. You’ve found someone. Some sugar daddy who decided to play the gentleman?
He smirked, but the smile came out crooked, mean.
— And what, you think he’ll bankroll your whims for long? Naïve. Women like you are only needed while they’re young. After that you’ll be tossed out just like…
— Kirill, — my voice came out unexpectedly firm, cutting off his filthy stream of words. — Your fantasies have nothing to do with the matter at hand. We’re discussing the division of property.
— Division of property, my ass! — he exploded. — It’s all mine! I earned it! You only spent!
He started pacing the office like a caged animal. His polish, his confidence, were splitting at the seams. I no longer saw a successful businessman, but a baffled, angry man whose favorite toy was being taken away.
— Remember what you were like when we met! — he jabbed a finger at me. — A mousy girl from the biology department! I made something of you! I brought you up in the world!
I said nothing. I remembered. I remembered turning down grad school because he “needed a wife, not a scientist.”
And how, five years ago, I happened to run into my classmate Dima at an exhibition.
He was already a budding entrepreneur then and, after seeing my sketches and herbariums, he said, “Anya, that’s a ready-made business! Your talent needs to be monetized, not hidden within four walls.”
He was the one who helped me register an LLC, where I was the silent founder and he was the CEO.
— Your little flowers… — Kirill hissed. — I always hated that smell of soil in the house. You forever fiddling with your pots like some country bumpkin. It was a pathetic sight.
— It’s to that “pathetic sight” that you owe the fact there were always fresh, original arrangements in your office and in your partners’ homes, — my lawyer replied calmly. — Which, by the way, my client provided entirely free of charge, as promotion.
Kirill stumbled mid-sentence. It was obvious he’d never thought about it. To him, my bouquets were just part of the décor, like the furniture.
Suddenly he changed tactics. He went to the table and sat down. He looked at me almost pleadingly.
— Anya, let’s not do this. We’re not strangers, are we? So many years together… Can it really all be crossed out just like that?
That was his signature move. Turn soft, ingratiating, press on pity. It used to work flawlessly.
But not now.
— It’s already been crossed out, Kirill, — I answered. — And you’re the one who did it.
I stood up.
— My attorney will contact yours to finalize the details of the land-purchase deal. As for the rest of the property — I propose we split everything exactly in half, as required by law.
His face contorted.
— In half? My assets? You won’t get a penny of my money! I’ll prove in court you’ve got nothing to do with them!…
Continued in the comments.

— “Wife, have you lost your mind? Why doesn’t your card work?! I wanted to give your salary to my mom for shopping!” the...
17/09/2025

— “Wife, have you lost your mind? Why doesn’t your card work?! I wanted to give your salary to my mom for shopping!” the husband yelled.
Olga was slowly stirring buckwheat on the stove when the front door slammed so hard that the glass in the china cabinet rattled. The September morning had only just begun, but her husband had already managed to run off somewhere and come back on the verge of a breakdown.
— “Wife, have you lost your mind? Why doesn’t your card work?! I wanted to give your salary to my mom for shopping!” Igor shouted, bursting into the kitchen.
Her husband’s face had turned crimson; his eyes flashed with rage. Olga set the spoon aside and turned to her spouse. Igor was brandishing the bank card as if it were an indictment.
— “What salary?” Olga asked calmly, wiping her hands on the kitchen towel.
— “The one you got yesterday! Mom asked me to buy groceries for the week, and your card is blocked!”
Olga nodded, as if confirming the obvious.
— “That’s right. I withdrew all the money in advance.”
Igor froze in the middle of the kitchen, processing what he’d heard. Then his face twisted even more.
— “What do you mean, ‘in advance’?! Without telling me?! I wanted to give it to Mom for shopping! And you ruined everything!”
He started rushing around the kitchen, waving his arms as if trying to swat invisible flies. Olga watched this performance with growing surprise. In eight years of marriage, Igor had more than once taken money from her card without asking, but this was the first time he’d run into an obstacle.
— “Igor, stop,” Olga said, frowning and tilting her head. “Explain to me why you think my salary should go to your mother?”
— “Because we’re family!” the husband shouted, still pacing. “And family helps each other! Especially elderly parents!”
Olga sat down on a chair, studying her husband closely. Yelena Vasilievna, her mother-in-law, was far from a helpless old lady. At sixty-two she received a decent pension, owned a one-room apartment in the center and a dacha plot. Yet she regularly asked her son and daughter-in-law for financial help.
— “Elderly?” Olga repeated. “Yelena Vasilievna is two years younger than my mother, who still works and doesn’t ask anyone for help.”
— “Don’t you dare compare them!” Igor flared up. “Mom worked all her life and raised me alone after divorcing my father! She’s earned her rest now!”
Olga remembered a recent conversation with a colleague who had complained about a similar situation. Back then, Olga truly couldn’t understand how anyone could let relatives climb onto your back. Now the picture had become clear from the inside…
Continued in the comments.

— “You owe me money for the debt I took from your father,” the husband told his wife. “I gave it to my mother.”“Do you e...
17/09/2025

— “You owe me money for the debt I took from your father,” the husband told his wife. “I gave it to my mother.”
“Do you even realize what this leads to?” the enraged mother asked. “Today is the first, and the fifth is the final deadline! Is your mind capable of grasping that fact?”
Svetlana Viktorovna had been scolding her son for ten minutes already. The reason—his wife, Kira, once again hadn’t transferred the mortgage payment.
Artyom sat with his head down, silent. He looked like a schoolboy who’d been caught misbehaving, not daring to raise his eyes.
“Today she deigned to announce there won’t be any money! What is that supposed to mean?” Svetlana Viktorovna wouldn’t let up, drawing out her words with venom.
“Mom, I’ll sort it out, I’ll talk to her,” the son tried to stem the tide.
“Talk to her?” she snorted. “You trail after her like you’re on a leash! She twists you around her finger, and you, you foolish child…”
“Enough,” her son cut in sharply.
“What do you mean ‘enough’? Don’t you dare shut me up! I need the money tomorrow, do you get that?” Svetlana Viktorovna’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “If I’m late, the bank will press me to the wall instantly! I met you halfway, my darling! So why is it you can’t fulfill the most basic obligations?”
“Mom, I said I’ll handle it,” Artyom repeated wearily.
“He’ll ‘handle’ it!” she mimicked. “And did you hear how your precious wife deigned to speak to me? Your ‘golden fish’ declared there will be no money!”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Artyom finally lifted his gaze.
“Ask your better half—if she’s still your better half!” Svetlana Viktorovna shot back.
She went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water and downed it in one go. She returned, sweeping her son with an icy look.
“The bottom line is simple, son: tomorrow the money is in my account. And now—out!” she snapped.
Like a subject before a fearsome queen, the man got up and shuffled toward the door. He put on his shoes in silence. Yes, she really had met them halfway when he and dear Kira signed the registry office papers…
“Fine, Mom, I’ll talk to her,” Artyom said dryly and left, closing the door carefully behind him.
Artyom sped home. Everything inside him was boiling. He snapped at passersby, unable to fathom Kira’s logic: she had always paid on time, and suddenly—refusal!
An hour later the young man burst into the apartment, slamming the door in anger. Kicking off his shoes, he rushed into the room—Kira wasn’t there. He turned—his wife was calmly drinking tea in the kitchen.
“What is this supposed to mean?” Artyom barked, skipping any greeting.
“Did something happen?” Kira’s voice was as calm as the surface of a lake.
“Something did! I was just at my mother’s! She’s hysterical—you didn’t transfer the money. Is that true?”
“Exactly true. There’s no money,” Kira confirmed.
“What do you mean ‘no’? Today is the first! Payday!” He dropped heavily into the chair across from her.
“And?” the girl parried, topping up the kettle.
“Are you kidding me? It’s the first. The fifth is the payment deadline!”
“I’m tired,” her answer was still icy. “Tired of paying the mortgage.”
“I don’t understand,” Artyom was stunned. “What do you mean ‘tired’?”
“Tired of working. I’ve been grinding for three years without days off or vacations. Every day—a hamster wheel.” She took a sip of tea. “Enough.”
“Everyone works!” he hissed, grabbing his cup.
“I worked too. But now—I’m tired. Ex-haus-ted. I need a break.” She emphasized each syllable.
“A break? For a day? Two? The fifth is almost here! And what does your rest have to do with your salary?” his voice was rising.
“It has to do with the fact that I don’t work anymore.”
Artyom went pale, then crimson; beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“You… quit?” he grated out.
“Listen carefully,” Kira set down her spoon. “I’m tired. Three years of work. Three years of mortgage. Three years of utilities. Enough. I want to rest.”
“But Mom’s mortgage… What about it?”
“You’re her son. You deal with it.” Her tone allowed no argument.
“Here’s how it’s going to be: tomorrow I’ll have the money. I’ll take it to my mother,” he declared, mimicking her intonation.
“No,” Kira cut him off. “There won’t be any money.”
“Then find some!” Artyom shouted so loudly Kira’s ears rang. She winced.
“I’ve said all I have to say. There won’t be any money,” she repeated without looking at him.
“There will be! Tomorrow!” Artyom roared, leapt to his feet, and stormed out of the kitchen like an echo of his mother.
Kira spent that night in the living room. She didn’t want to talk to Artyom. She was out of strength. She went to the bathroom, made herself a modest dinner, and curled up on the couch. But sleep wouldn’t come. Her husband’s barking still rang in her ears. He really did resemble an angry chained dog.
Kira remembered her youth. Once an old man had approached her and her friends:
“Why are you barking?”
“We’re talking!” they laughed.
“For you it’s talking,” he smirked. “While I was walking by, you swore seven times. Swearing is the same as a dog’s bark. Or, more simply, verbal diarrhea. Take your pick.”
The old man left. Now her husband… An exact copy of that vicious mutt.
“I’m tired,” Kira repeated to herself, staring at the ceiling. “Just tired.”
The next day, while Artyom was brushing his teeth, Kira quietly got dressed and left. Not for work—to her friend Miroslava’s place; Miroslava had flown south. Kira fed the cat and watered the plants. She didn’t want to go home. She made breakfast, ate leisurely, and collapsed into Miroslava’s bed. All she wanted was sleep.
Several days went by like that. In the morning—she left; in the evening—she returned. Artyom bored into her with his eyes, demanding answers. Kira silently undressed and went to bed. The walls of their apartment pressed in harder and harder.
The fifth came. Kira returned late. She had barely changed when a wound-up Artyom darted to her.
“I paid the mortgage this month,” he said coldly.
“Good for you,” Kira nodded.
“When will you pay me back?”
“Never,” her calm was frightening. She looked at him as if he were a stranger. Was this the same Artyom she’d loved? No. Over the years he had changed beyond recognition.
“When will you have money?” he asked darkly.
“Not in the coming months,” Kira replied, heading to the kitchen.
“You’re putting me in a hopeless position!” he shouted after her. “My mother’s blood pressure is through the roof—we called an ambulance twice!”
“What’s there to worry about? She has a son. You. So you pay,” Kira took out a yogurt.
“That’s not what we agreed on!” he exploded.
“True, we didn’t,” Kira spun around sharply and planted her fists on the table. “We did not agree that I’d carry everything alone.”
“Mother met us halfway! Thanks to her we have a roof over our heads!” Artyom countered.
“Artyom, your memory is a sieve,” Kira said with acid. “Yes, we signed the papers and lived in a rented hole. Then your mommy proposed a ‘deal’: she gives us her old three-room apartment, and buys herself a new one three times bigger. ‘A good deal,’ right?”
“Yes, a good deal!” he insisted.
“We got a roof. But what changed for me?” her voice rang. “You refused to register me. Your mother put everything in your name. It’s your home. Not ours. Yours.”
“What difference does it make? We’re a family! Shared income, shared expenses!” he shouted hotly.
“Oh, spare me!” Kira sank into a chair, exhausted. “Remember our agreement? We split the mortgage fifty–fifty. You paid for two months. After that—it was me. For three years. I’ve been paying for your mother! For her spacious apartment!”
“Well, consider it our apartment!” he waved it off.
“I repeat: for three years I’ve been paying the mortgage for you and for me. And I pay the utilities here. And you?” She leaned forward. “What do you pay for, besides the loan on your fancy SUV? Enlighten me, please.”
Artyom growled. He saw where the blow was landing.
“The car is necessary! For the family!”
“It is,” Kira agreed. “But you pay six times less for it than I pay for your mother’s mortgage. Where’s the logic? Why should I fund her housing appetites?”
“Because that’s my mother’s condition! Without it we wouldn’t have an apartment!” he barked.
“Brilliant!” Kira laughed without a trace of mirth. “This place is a three-roomer. Your mother also has a three-roomer. But hers is almost twice as big. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious? A mortgage for a place this size would cost me half as much. I’m paying for her luxury. Where’s the fairness, oh genius of family diplomacy?”
“We agreed!” he insisted, but a flicker of doubt crossed his eyes.
“Stop chanting it like a mantra!” Kira stood. “The money for your mother is over. Along with my strength and desire.”
Artyom understood that she had a point, but the thought of his hysterical mother canceled everything out. Where was he supposed to get the money? His pensioner mother couldn’t handle it…
“Fine, leave it. When will you have money?” he asked dully.
“No idea,” she shrugged.
“Borrow some!” he blurted.
“Wonderful,” she smirked. “I’ll borrow, hand it to your mother, and then repay the debt—to her, too. A brilliant financial pyramid. No thanks.”
“I don’t care!” Artyom shouted. “I need the money! Otherwise she’ll kick us out of here!”
“Then let her return everything I’ve transferred already,” Kira replied coolly. “With interest for using it.”
“Figure out where to get it!” he threw over his shoulder as he left the kitchen.
In the morning Kira headed again to Miroslava’s apartment. There she felt true freedom, a lightness absent from her own home, where even the walls seemed to close in. Out of habit the girl slipped into her friend’s soft robe and walked along the windowsills, checking the moisture in the flowerpots’ soil. The old cat, Barsik, padded after her persistently, rubbing against her legs and purring hoarsely. She genuinely loved that shaggy friend. As soon as Kira settled into bed, he nestled at her side, stretched out his paws, and set his loud, soothing motor rumbling.
In the next room Miroslava’s brother, Gleb, had once lived. Kira had had a brief fling with him: kisses, embraces, a feeling of flight. But that was long ago, before the wedding. Back then she’d been as happy and free as never before. Then Gleb suddenly left for another city and eventually vanished from sight. And in any case it had been a fleeting, romantic infatuation, promising no continuation.
She’d slept enough; now she could read, leaf through other people’s photo albums, and think about the future. Sooner or later Artyom would start spinning his record about his mother’s mortgage again, and she was already worn out from carrying both the home and her mother-in-law on her back.
“Barsik, old fellow,” Kira said softly, stroking the cat’s scruff, “where’s the way out of this maze?”
The cat only purred louder in response.
Two weeks flew by like a single moment. At last Miroslava returned. She hugged Kira tight; gratitude shone in her eyes.
“Thank you, my dear!” Mira exclaimed. “Barsik is not only alive but clearly thriving, and my green treasures didn’t dry out. You’re a magician!”
“Oh, come on,” Kira smiled. “I just couldn’t let your garden turn into a herbarium, or Barsik into a skeleton draped in skin. He’s practically family.”
Miroslava looked closely at her friend.
“And how are you? Is your prince in a white Mercedes tormenting you again?” she asked, not hiding a hint of irony…
Continued in the comments.

— “What time are you meeting your mistress today?” the wife asked her husband.— “You’ve always known I’m no saint!” Vikt...
17/09/2025

— “What time are you meeting your mistress today?” the wife asked her husband.
— “You’ve always known I’m no saint!” Viktor threw his keys onto the dresser. “But right now you’re just being hysterical!”
— “Hysterical?” Marina pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m hysterical when your Svetka called me herself?”
— “What Svetka? What are you even talking about?”
Viktor was terrified that his secret had been exposed. Panic shot through his mind like lightning—how could Svetlana be so stupid? They’d agreed to keep quiet!
Three months earlier Viktor had met Svetlana at the Old Square café on Tverskaya. He’d stopped in for a bite after a staff meeting, and there she was, sitting alone at a window table, stirring her cooling coffee.
His heart skipped—a same smile, the same eyes. Time seemed to stop, and he was a twenty-year-old student again, unable to take his eyes off the most beautiful girl in the class.
— “Is this seat taken?” He nodded toward the chair opposite.
— “Vitya?” She looked up. “Well, would you look at that—how many years has it been!”
“He’s aged,” flashed through Svetlana’s mind. “But still the same charming scoundrel.”
— “Five, to be exact. Since Masha’s graduation party.”
Masha—their mutual goddaughter, the daughter of a former classmate who had once stubbornly tried to reconcile them.
— “Is your daughter already married?”
She spoke of Viktor’s daughter evenly, without much warmth—they’d only seen each other a few times at group events.
— “For a year now. And your son?”
Viktor asked about Andrey with cautious tenderness. In his youth he had dreamed they would marry, and that her son would be like his own.
— “The army,” Svetlana looked away. “Andrey hardly writes at all… My husband says that’s how it’s supposed to be.”
At the mention of her husband, Viktor felt a stab of old jealousy. Igor—the same bore who had taken Svetka from him.
— “Your Igor has always been… particular.”
“ You never loved him,” Viktor thought. “And I knew it. So why did you marry him?”
— “Don’t start,” she smirked. “Better tell me about yourself. How’s Marina?”
— “Work, home, waiting for grandkids,” Viktor shrugged. “An ordinary life for ordinary people.”
He talked about the routine, about how the measured everyday bored him, how he longed for something bright. He said it to elicit sympathy, to hint at his dissatisfaction with the marriage.
Their meetings became regular. Cafés, walks, then his friend Kolya’s apartment—a bachelor who handed over the keys without asking questions. They both knew what they were doing, but pretended it was just friendly get-togethers.
— “Why are we doing this?” Svetlana fastened the buttons of her blouse.
“He’s still the same egoist,” she thought of Viktor. “And Igor… God, when was the last time I actually wanted to go home to my husband?”
— “What’s the big deal? Two adults—we’re not hurting anyone.”
Viktor saw nothing improper in it—they were simply filling what was missing in their marriages. No obligations, no one would get hurt.
— “You have a wife, I have a husband.”
— “So what?” Viktor lit a cigarette. “They won’t find out. You’re not the type to blab.”
A thought of Marina flashed—how would she take it if she found out? But he quickly drove the doubt away. She wouldn’t. Why make a tragedy out of nothing?
— “Of course.” She picked up her bag. “I have to go.”
— “Svetka,” he caught her by the hand. “Don’t stress. It’s all under control.”
He wanted to convince her they were being reasonable. Adults have a right to happiness, even if it’s secret.
Svetlana kissed him and left. Viktor stayed by himself, smoking at the window. Being with Svetlana had brought the taste of life back to him. Finally something interesting in this predictable routine.
Svetlana’s husband Igor came home earlier than usual. She was making dinner, humming something.
— “You’re awfully cheerful,” he said, dropping his briefcase.
— “I’m in a good mood.”
— “I can see that. Run into someone?”
There was a note of suspicion in his voice.
— “What?” She turned around.
“Just don’t panic,” she told herself. “Answer calmly.”
— “I asked if you met someone. A girlfriend of yours?”
— “Yeah, I saw Lenka,” Svetlana turned back to the stove.
— “Lenka’s on a business trip,” Igor narrowed his eyes. “I spoke to her an hour ago. She’s in Moscow.”
A cold wave of fear ran down her spine. “How could I be so stupid? I should’ve thought before lying!”
— “I must have mixed it up…”
She said it out of confusion, unable to come up with anything better.
— “Must have,” he walked into the other room. “I won’t be eating.”
Igor didn’t stay for dinner because he felt a growing chill inside. His wife was lying. Which meant she had something to hide.
In the morning Viktor put on his jacket and said to his wife:
— “Marina, I’m off to a meeting.”
— “On Saturday?” she came out of the kitchen.
— “Quarterly report, you know how it is.”
— “I know,” Marina nodded. “There’s a clean shirt in the closet.”
Their daughter came out of her room; she’d moved out a couple of years ago but often dropped by to visit:
— “Dad, can you give me a lift to the center?”
— “Not today, sweetheart. I’ve got things to do.”
— “You always have things to do,” Nadya pouted. “Mom, you?”
“Indeed, he always has things to do,” Marina thought without much bitterness. “And I, like a fool, understand and forgive.”
— “Let’s go,” Marina took the keys. “We’ll stop by the store on the way. Dad’s too busy; the quarterly report is more important than family.”
— “Don’t start,” Viktor kissed his wife on the cheek. “We’ll talk tonight.”
He planned to say something conciliatory in the evening, to buy flowers. He snapped back only because Marina had hit the mark—work really had become his excuse.
Some time later Svetlana sat in the car, drumming her fingers nervously on the steering wheel.
Igor was asking more and more questions, checking up on what she said. It couldn’t go on much longer.
— “You’re late,” she said without looking at Viktor.
— “My wife was asking questions.”
He didn’t want to say Marina’s name—that made the affair too real, too personal.
— “And what did you tell her? Another lie?”
— “Svetka, what’s with you?”
Her sharpness surprised him. She was usually softer, more compliant.
— “I can’t do this anymore,” she turned to him. “Igor suspects.”
Panic was rising in her. Soon everything would come out—then what? A scandal, a divorce…
— “So what? Let him suspect.”
Viktor put on a brave face, but he was uneasy himself.
— “Easy for you to say!” She smacked the steering wheel. “You go home and Marina smiles at you! And I see the way Igor looks at me!”
She remembered his suspicious looks, the check-ups, the coldness.
— “Calm down,” Viktor took her hand. “It’ll all work itself out.”
— “Work itself out? I want a divorce! Do you hear me? I’m filing for divorce!”
Svetlana said it because she realized the secret meetings were no longer possible. And she’d long dreamed of freedom. Igor was a boring, demanding husband. He controlled her every step, criticized her friends, decided how she should dress. With Viktor she remembered what it felt like to be desired.
— “Are you crazy? Over what?”
Viktor was frightened—if Svetlana filed for divorce, she would demand the same from him. And he didn’t want a divorce. He liked things as they were: a stable marriage with Marina and passion with Svetlana.
— “Because of you, idiot!” Svetlana yanked her hand away. “You think I’m seeing you just for fun?…
Continued in the comments.

“Why isn’t the floor mopped? And where’s dinner?” Gleb tossed his briefcase onto the couch and swept the room with an ap...
17/09/2025

“Why isn’t the floor mopped? And where’s dinner?” Gleb tossed his briefcase onto the couch and swept the room with an appraising look. “You’ve completely stopped taking care of yourself!”
Marina froze by the stove, at a loss. It was already past midnight, and she was still waiting for her husband with a hot dinner. He smelled of someone else’s perfume—a subtle, expensive scent, nothing like her favorite vanilla.
“Gleb, I called you all evening. Where were you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Enough with the interrogations!” he grumbled, waving his hand irritably. “Got held up at work. My phone died.”
Marina silently set a plate of casserole on the table. Gleb prodded the food with his fork in disgust.
“Again with this greasy crap. Amazing you haven’t turned into a hippo with a diet like this,” he snorted. “Now, Sofia from our office—she understands how a woman should look.”
“Sofia? The one who messages you every day?” Marina asked, feeling the chill spread inside her.
Gleb rolled his eyes.
“Don’t start. She’s just a colleague. And, by the way, she’s well-groomed. Unlike you—in a robe and slippers, like a little gray mouse.”
Marina swallowed.
“I can lose weight, if that’s so important to you…”
“It’s too late,” he threw over his shoulder and left the kitchen.
She sank at the table, exhausted. Once upon a time, Gleb had said he adored her “curves.” Said she was a real woman.
Gleb’s phone, left on the table, buzzed. A message from Sofia:
“Same time tomorrow? ”
With trembling hands Marina unlocked the phone—her husband’s birthday was the passcode. The thread opened right away. Messages. Photos. Kisses. A bed. And in every one—betrayal.
She turned off the phone. A hollow space in her chest. Three years of marriage. Three years since her parents’ deaths, when Gleb had become her support.
He had insisted on a modest wedding—“not the time for lavish celebrations.” Moved into her apartment—“no need to waste money.” Rejoiced over the dacha her parents had given her: “we’ll sell it—and put it into the business.” Back then it had all felt like care. Now—like a takeover.
Marina slowly walked to the bathroom mirror. A tired face. Puffy eyes. Tousled hair.
“Enough,” she told the reflection. “Enough being a doormat.”
In the morning Gleb was unusually tender. He brought her coffee, like in the early days.
“I was wrong,” he said. “Work, nerves. I’m sorry.”
Marina nodded.
“You’re right about the dacha. Let’s sell it. But I want to go there and take my mom’s things.”
Gleb beamed.
“Of course! I’ll handle the buyers. We’ll pull it off quickly.”
“Too quickly,” Marina thought. But she only nodded.
It was quiet at the cemetery. She laid flowers on her parents’ graves.
“You were right,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to listen.”
Father used to say, “Someone who loves doesn’t look around.” Mother would add, “And doesn’t remake you to their liking.”
A message from Gleb:
“Where are you? I’m showing the dacha tomorrow. Don’t drag it out.”
Marina didn’t reply. Instead, she dialed her father’s friend—an old realtor.
“Sergey Petrovich, I need help. But everything must be confidential.”
“I didn’t say I’d sell at that price,” Marina said calmly, looking Gleb in the eye.
“Sweetie, it’s just a shack. We have to grab it while they’re offering!” he tried to smile.
“Our dacha. Or is it not ours anymore?”
“What nonsense is this?” Gleb tensed.
“It’s just odd to hear ‘yours’ from a husband,” Marina replied evenly. “Or were you already planning how you’d leave with the money?”
Gleb froze.
You thought I wouldn’t see? But I see everything, flashed through her mind.
While he was spinning excuses, Marina was already living another life. One where she was the mistress of her home, her choices, and her future.
Continued in the comments.

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