Vera was twenty-eight. Igor was thirty-one. They got married at the end of September.
Vera walked out of the registry office with a bouquet of white roses. She wore a modest cream dress — she had restored her grandmother’s wedding gown herself, carefully replacing the lace and hemming the skirt to fit her figure. Beside her walked Igor — in a brand new suit, polished shoes, and a perfect smile.
“Well, now we’re husband and wife,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Everything is going to be different now. I promise you.”
Vera believed him. Why wouldn’t she? They had dated for half a year, and he had seemed just right for her: caring, attentive, and always knew the right words to say. Most importantly, he never ran away from her problems. When Grandma Klavdia passed away, Igor was by Vera’s side. He helped with the funeral, traveled to the village, and even stayed overnight at the house after the burial so Vera wouldn’t be alone in the empty home.
That house — a log cabin with ornate window frames, a huge stove, and a garden full of Antonovka apples — her grandmother had left to Vera. Vera’s mother died when she was five, and her grandmother had raised her, becoming a mother figure. The house was their sanctuary, and her grandmother wanted Vera to never give it up. That’s why she left the house to her alone.
“You’re like my own daughter to me,” Grandma Klavdia said a month before she died, squeezing Vera’s hand. “I saw him once, when he stopped by to say goodbye before his business trip. I noticed — his eyes are cold. Be careful, my dear. Take care of my house.”
So Vera was left with the house, a huge plot of land, and the very man her grandmother had warned her about: ‘cold eyes, be careful.’ Now Vera was starting to realize that her grandmother had sensed something wasn’t right.
—
Two months after the wedding.
They lived in the house her grandmother had left to Vera. At first, Igor complained: “It’s cold, you have to deal with the stove, it’s far from the city.” But Vera didn’t want to sell the house — it was her inheritance, and her grandmother had asked her to take care of it. Igor was saving his money for a down payment on a mortgage, so he didn’t want to spend anything on a rented apartment. He took up half the closet, liked to blast music, and criticized her restoration workshop where she brought old dressers and Viennese chairs back to life.
“Vera, how much longer are you going to mess with all this junk?” he snapped one evening, watching her fuss on the balcony over yet another old chair (sometimes she brought small items home and worked on them with the window open — the workshop closed at seven). “Look at yourself. You’re already twenty-eight, and you’re still fussing with all this junk. It’s time to think about a real business.”
She stayed silent. There was no point arguing with Igor — he always knew better, and there was no way to out-debate him. Vera would just get tired and fall silent first.
On Saturday morning, Igor came into the kitchen where Vera was having tea and bagels, and sat down across from her. He looked serious, even solemn.
“Vera, we need to talk,” he began, folding his hands on the table. “I’ve thought this over. It’s always cold in the house, I’m tired of dealing with the stove. Let’s sell it and buy a proper apartment in the city.”
Vera put her mug aside.
“Sell it?”
“Yeah, exactly. We’ll sell this house and get ourselves a decent three-room apartment in the city. Finally live like normal people. No more wood stove, no more firewood—just press a button and it’s warm.”
Vera slowly chewed her bagel.
“Igor, this is my grandmother’s house. I grew up here.”
“I know, I know,” he interrupted, covering her hand with his. “But you have to understand, I’m tired of clearing snow in the yard every winter, tired of dealing with the garden and taking care of the house. Let’s sell it and get an apartment. Nothing to worry about—you just live and enjoy yourself.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
Igor smiled, kissed her on the temple, and went to take a shower. Vera stayed at the table, staring at her cooling tea.
Something inside her resisted. Not because she was greedy. It was just that Grandma Klavdia always said, “Don’t sell. This is our family nest.” And Vera felt a warmth in her chest whenever she pictured that old garden, the creaky gate, the smell of cabbage pies from the old Russian stove.
“I’ll think about it,” she had said, but she was already decided: she wouldn’t sell. She just didn’t want a fight today. She’d tell him later.
—
Three days later.
Vera stayed late in the workshop. A client had brought in an antique mahogany dressing table—the surface was all scratched up, but the shape was still gorgeous. She worked on it until eight in the evening, carefully filling chips with shellac filler.
When she got home, she was exhausted, hungry, and her back ached. The hallway was dark. Only a faint light came from the bedroom, along with Igor’s soft, muffled voice.
Vera didn’t call out to him as soon as she entered—she heard him say, “Alisa, please don’t cry.” She’d never heard that name before. He spoke so softly and gently, in a way he never spoke to her. Vera tensed and froze. She took off her shoes in the hallway and tiptoed down the corridor, careful to step in the middle of the boards so they wouldn’t creak. She quietly shrugged off her jacket and set her bag on the floor.
The bedroom door was ajar. Igor was sitting on the bed, facing the window, talking on the phone. He hadn’t heard Vera approach. She stood still by the crack in the door.
“Alisa, please don’t cry. You know everything I’m doing is for us.”
He paused. He listened, nodding, even though she couldn’t see him.
“Yes, I married her. I had to. Because this stupid house is in her name. Her grandma, Klavdia, left it all to her, you see? To this Vera. If I hadn’t married her, I’d never have touched this house. But now, I’ll convince her to sell, and the apartment will be ours.”
Vera froze. Her heart first plunged, then lept up into her throat. She realized she was about to hear something she’d never be able to forget.
“The plan is simple,” Igor continued. “Convince her to sell the house. With that money, plus a bit of my own, we’ll buy an apartment in the city. I’ve already picked one out, on Vetluzhskaya. We’ll buy it while married, so it’ll be in joint property. Well, almost. Unless she gets a really good lawyer—but she won’t. And in a year or so, I’ll divorce her.”
He laughed. A short, harsh laugh.
“By law, Alisa, all shared property gets split in half during a divorce. Half of the apartment belongs to me. Actually, to both of us. I’ll sell my share, add some more money—and we’ll buy a nice house somewhere else. Somewhere farther away. With you and the baby.”
Vera pressed her hand to her mouth. It felt like the floor was slipping away beneath her feet.
“She’s such a fool,” Igor smirked. “All she needs to hear is, ‘I’ll think about it,’ and then you just push her, yell, blame her for being selfish. She’ll break, she always breaks. In a month or two, the house will be sold. Just hang in there, my love. You’re already four months along, we need the money. You need to give birth in a good clinic, not in that godforsaken hospital.”
Vera stood there, holding her breath. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. She couldn’t feel them—just an icy cold inside, as if someone had shoved a chunk of ice right into her chest.
“That’s it, kisses,” said Igor. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t be jealous, Aliska. I barely even sleep with her. Honestly, it disgusts me. But what can I do? That’s just how things are.”
He ended the call and leaned back against the pillow.
Vera let out a breath. She pushed the door open and walked in.
Igor jumped, startled as if scalded. His phone slipped from his hand and fell onto the bed. He made a grab for it, but Vera was quicker—she snatched it first. Igor was stunned, unable to react. The phone was already in her hand.
“Vera? When…when did you get here?”
She looked him straight in the eyes, having first wiped away her tears. Her voice was even, cold, sounding almost like someone else was speaking.
“I’ve been here a while, Igor. Long enough. I heard everything. About Alisa. About being four months pregnant. About your plan with the house. About the divorce. About how it disgusts you to sleep with me.”
Igor turned pale. He leapt off the bed and stepped toward her, reaching out his hand. “Give me the phone.”
“Vera, it’s not what you think. I… I was just playing along. She’s a coworker, she’s got guy troubles, I was just…”
“Alisa’s pregnant,” Vera cut in. “And you told her ‘I love you.’ I heard it. Twice.”
She stepped closer to him. He backed away until he hit the wall with his back.
“Pack your things,” Vera said. “I want you to leave.”
“Have you lost your mind?” he shouted, trying to go on the offensive. “What Alisa? There’s no Alisa! You made it all up, you’re imagining things!”
“Igor, don’t embarrass yourself,” she said tiredly. “I heard every word. The house on Vetluzhskaya. Splitting everything evenly. The kid in a nice clinic. And ‘that’s just how things are’—that was a special touch.”
He realized it was pointless to deny anything. His face twisted—a mix of fear, anger, and humiliation.
“So what?” he barked, switching tactics. “Yeah, there’s Alisa. Yeah, she’s pregnant. But I’m still your husband! You have no right to kick me out! The apartment is yours, right? But I’m registered here, aren’t I? Oh, wait, I’m not. You didn’t let me, you said ‘I want to make sure we’re serious first.’ So smart of you.”
“Pack your things,” Vera repeated. “I said it.”
She went out into the hallway, opened the closet, took out his jackets and shirts and started throwing them in a big duffel bag. Then she rushed into the bedroom, grabbed his laptop, charger, some old bills from the nightstand—everything into the same bag.
“You wouldn’t dare!” he yelled, grabbing her by the arm.
“Take your hand away,” Vera said quietly.
There was so much steel in her voice that Igor stepped back. He had never seen her like this before. Vera, usually gentle, yielding, always doubtful, had suddenly turned into a stranger—a dangerous woman.
Twenty minutes later, his belongings were in the hallway: two sports bags, a bag with suits, a backpack with documents, and his tablet.
“That’s it,” Vera said as she opened the front door. “Leave.”
Igor stood in the doorway, red-faced and furious. He racked his brain for something to say, some way to stay, but his mind jammed with rage.
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed. “I’ll make you pay. Your house will rot, got it? I’ll take it from you in court.”
“Leave,” Vera repeated.
He left. She slammed the door, locked every lock, and leaned her back against the cold wood.
Inside, it was empty. And quiet.
The next morning, Igor showed up with his mother, Valentina Petrovna. A woman with a hard stare and the scent of expensive tobacco, she demanded Vera open the door. Vera replied she’d call the police. But the police never came.
A week later, a lawsuit arrived from Igor. He demanded recognition that he had invested more than two hundred thousand in the house renovation and deserved a share—or to declare the will invalid, claiming the grandmother was not of sound mind. Vera’s lawyer, Semyon Markovich, explained: “He isn’t an heir, he has no grounds to contest the will. The court will reject the claim.” Vera calmly replied, “Grandma was in her right mind, and we have proof.”
The court dragged on for four months. Igor attended the hearings with his mother and their lawyer. They tried to prove grandma was not competent, but had no real evidence—only the words of distant relatives who saw her once a year.
Vera brought hospital records, her grandmother’s school notebooks, and an audio recording where her grandmother clearly states: “I leave the house to my granddaughter Vera.” The neighbor, Zoya Dmitrievna, confirmed in court that grandma was sharp until her last day.
The judge dismissed the lawsuit completely. The house stayed with Vera.
Vera left the courthouse. Snow was falling. She called Zoya Dmitrievna and said, “We won. The house is ours.”
A month later, Vera filed for divorce. Igor missed two court dates—so the divorce was granted in his absence. The marriage was dissolved.
Igor now rents an apartment, living with Alisa and his son. Money is tight, and Alisa regrets getting involved with him.
Life settled into a new routine. Each morning, Vera left for her workshop and came home to do what she loved. Igor never came back. The house was silent, but now it was a peaceful kind of silence.
One evening she sat on the porch, watching the sun set beyond the garden. Suddenly she realized she hadn’t thought of Igor for days. It felt freeing. Smiling at her thoughts, she went to make herself some tea.
