I had always believed that life, in its inevitable course, would be fair. But fairness seemed like a distant dream when I walked into the house that was supposed to be our home—Lesha’s and mine.
“— You found someone else, and now your mother even wants to take my apartment?” I asked, my voice foreign, strained. “— My apartment, the one my parents bought?”
Alexey barely looked at me as he waved my concerns away. “— Well, well, don’t be dramatic,” he sneered. “— Mama is right. You need to calm down and think…”
I stayed at work longer that day. I was sifting through paperwork, numbly staring at old reports. Maybe it was that evening when I felt everything shift. Maybe it was just a coincidence, or maybe it wasn’t.
Returning home was like stepping into a void. The place felt colder than usual. The jacket he always left by the door wasn’t there, and that made my stomach turn. I mindlessly put on the kettle and reached for his tablet—his habit of leaving it on the table when he went out. A new message flashed on the screen: “Sweetie, shall we meet at seven tonight?”
I froze. My heart lurched in my chest, each beat like an echo in my ears. My fingers trembled, but somehow, I unlocked the screen. Lesha had never set a password. We had no secrets, or so I thought.
The messages were unmistakable—”Kitten,” “sunshine,” “the most beautiful”—sent to someone named Marina. Photos, hearts, plans for a vacation together. Each message, each photo, felt like a slap across my face. My world, once bright, seemed to close in on me. I felt like I wasn’t even in my own body.
The front door slammed open, breaking my trance. Alexey stood there, completely normal, as though nothing had changed.
“— Lena? Why are you here so early?” His voice was casual, devoid of guilt. No acknowledgment of the truth that had just come crashing down on me.
“— Who is Marina?” I asked, barely able to steady my voice.
He hesitated, then shrugged, walking toward the fridge as though we were just having another normal conversation. “— Oh, so that’s what this is about…” He grabbed a bottle of water. “— And didn’t you think you were to blame? When was the last time you cared about me? Always work, work…”
His words hit me like a wave. Fifteen years of marriage, and now this—just like that. No explanation, no remorse.
My phone rang, interrupting the silence. My mother-in-law’s name flashed on the screen. “— Lenaochka,” she cooed, her voice sweet and syrupy. “— I heard you and Lesha are having problems? Well, you know, the apartment is, after all, family… Maybe you’d be better off living separately until you sort things out?”
It felt like a punch to my gut. I looked at Alexey, but his gaze was distant, staring out the window, indifferent.
“— You found someone else, and now your mother even wants to take my apartment?” I asked again, my voice now empty, dull. I couldn’t recognize the person I had become.
Alexey rolled his eyes. “— Well, well, don’t be dramatic. Mama is right. You need to calm down…”
I stared at the man I thought I knew, and I didn’t recognize him. Where was the Lesha who once promised our home would be our fortress? This man before me, cold and dismissive, seemed ready to throw me aside without a second thought.
I hung up the phone, feeling as though the ground was slipping beneath me. What was I supposed to do now?
The legal consultation was in an old mansion on Sadovaya Street. My hands shook as I climbed the creaky stairs, clutching a folder of documents to my chest. “— Come in,” a deep voice called from the office. “— You must be Elena Sergeyevna?”
The lawyer, Mikhail Stepanovich, was nothing like I had imagined. I had expected a frail old man with glasses, but the man before me was fit and sharp, with clear gray eyes. He motioned for me to sit.
“— Tell me your story,” he said, and I began. But it all felt so distant, as though it were happening to someone else. How my parents had sold everything to help Alexey and me buy this apartment. How my mother-in-law had always grumbled that her son deserved more.
Mikhail Stepanovich quickly skimmed the documents. “— Where is the sales contract?”
I handed him the yellowed copy. “— This is a copy. Where is the original?”
I began to panic, rifling through the papers. “— It must be here…”
“— Without the originals, it’s difficult. But there are other ways,” he said, leaning forward. “We need to prove your parents made the payments.”
His words hit me hard. “— What evidence?” I asked, gripping the armrests of the chair.
“Bank statements, receipts, witnesses. Are your parents still alive?”
“My father passed away three years ago… My mother, after a stroke, is in a nursing home.”
“Then we need to act quickly,” he said. “Your mother-in-law has probably already consulted. She will claim that the apartment was purchased by their family.”
I felt a wave of nausea. Tamara Petrovna always got her way.
“And if I just leave?” I asked, the idea already forming in my mind.
“— You either fight or lose everything. It’s up to you,” Mikhail Stepanovich said, his voice steady.
I remembered my father’s joy when we moved in. How my mother hung the curtains with pride, dreaming of grandchildren. I couldn’t let that go.
I began gathering evidence—bank statements, receipts, witnesses. For the next few days, I barely saw Alexey. He continued with his lies about “working late,” and I pretended to believe him.
Finally, one night, I called him. “— Lesha, we need to talk.”
His face froze, a flicker of guilt flashing across his eyes, then quickly disappearing.
“— About what?”
“— About us. About the apartment. Let’s settle this like adults.”
He rolled his eyes. “— And what is there to settle? The apartment is registered in my name.”
I clenched my fists, anger boiling inside. “— You know it was bought by my parents.”
He sighed dramatically. “— Lena, Mama said you should take a break. If you don’t agree, we’ll go to court.”
“— We?” I sneered. “You and Mama already? And what about ‘us’?”
He merely grimaced.
“— Don’t be dramatic. People drift apart…”
And in that moment, I realized that everything we had—our home, our memories—was at risk. And I wasn’t going to let it slip away without a fight.