— Lena, you don’t understand! Debt collectors have already come to her! They threatened to pour paint all over her door! — Maxim nervously paced around our tiny rented kitchen.
I sat at the table, slowly stirring my cold coffee. Inside, I felt empty. No tears, no hysterics. Only a disgusting feeling, as if I had eaten something spoiled.
“And what does that have to do with me, Maxim?” I asked calmly, watching his restless movements. “Your sister is twenty-five. She’s a grown woman.”
“We’re family!” my husband barked, placing both hands on the table and leaning over me. “Alina just made a mistake. The girl wanted a beautiful life: the latest iPhone, Dubai, designer clothes… She took out microloans, and the interest rates are insane! Now the debt is almost three million.”
He exhaled loudly and then said the thing that made everything go dark before my eyes:
“So here’s what’s going to happen. You have two million eight hundred thousand sitting in your deposit account. Tomorrow you go to the bank, withdraw all of it, and we pay off Alina’s debt. And the apartment… well, we’ll save up again later. It’s not a big deal. We’ll live in rented places for another couple of years.”
The point of no return.
There it was.
And I had earned that money with blood and sweat.
Maxim and I had been married for five years. All those years, I worked myself to the bone at two jobs: during the day as an accountant at a logistics company, and in the evenings I took on reports for individual entrepreneurs remotely. I denied myself vacations and wore a down jacket from two seasons ago. I was saving for the down payment on a three-room apartment. I wanted children, a normal home, stability.
Maxim worked as a manager at a car dealership. He lived casually. “Lenus, why are you rushing so much? We’ll have time.” And his younger sister Alina lived like the grasshopper from the fable — hopping from club to club, changing boyfriends, and constantly draining money from their pensioner mother.
And now my husband had decided that the years of my hard labor should go toward paying for his sister’s silicone lips and Dubai photo shoots.
“I’m not giving away that money,” I said quietly but firmly.
Maxim’s face instantly twisted. The mask of the pleading man disappeared, replaced by an angry smirk.
“Oh, so that’s how it is? You’re hoarding it, then? Let me remind you, dear wife, that according to the Family Code, all savings accumulated during marriage are joint property! Half of that money is legally mine!”
“Yours?” I gave a short laugh. “In five years, you haven’t put a single kopeck into that account. You spent your entire salary on tuning your car and hanging out with friends.”
“The court won’t care!” Maxim shouted. “If you won’t do this the easy way, I’ll file for divorce! And I’ll demand the division of the accounts! Then the bailiffs will take half, and I’ll give it to Alina anyway! And you’ll be left without a husband and without money! Choose!”
The lock clicked in the hallway. Alina appeared in the kitchen doorway. Tearful, with smeared mascara, but with an expensive French bulldog tucked under her arm. Apparently, she had been waiting in the stairwell while her brother “finished off” his greedy wife.
“Lenochka, please!” my sister-in-law whined. “They’ll kill me! And you’ll earn more money anyway, you’re smart…”
I looked at the two of them. And suddenly I laughed. Sincerely, out loud. Maxim stopped short. Alina blinked her false eyelashes.
“Divorce? Wonderful. I agree,” I said, reaching for my bag on the chair beside me.
“You idiot!” Maxim spat. “I’m going to a lawyer tomorrow. Get ready to share, millionaire.”
I took a blue folder of documents out of my bag and pulled out two sheets. The first was a bank statement. I placed it on the table, right under my husband’s nose.
“Look carefully at the balance, Maxim.”
He lowered his eyes.
Account balance: 0.00 rubles.
“What did you do with it?!” he roared, snatching up the paper. “You had no right! I’ll report the theft of marital funds!”
“Read the second paper, my armchair lawyer,” I said, elegantly sliding the second document toward him.
It was a notarized monetary gift agreement. And a statement from a transit account.
“You see, Maxim,” I said, leaning back in my chair and feeling an incredible sense of relief, “three weeks ago, when I accidentally saw a text message on your phone from a microfinance company in Alina’s name, I understood everything. I understood that you would try to get into my little nest egg.”
“And what did you do?!”
“What I should have done a long time ago. My father sold his garage and gave me one million. I saved the rest from the money my grandmother gave me before the marriage, plus my side-job income, which I officially processed through my mother’s account. Three days ago, I combined all those amounts, and my mother and I drew up a notarized gift agreement. My mother gifted me three million rubles in cash. For a specific purpose.”
Maxim turned pale. Even he knew the basics: property gifted or inherited during marriage is not divided.
“And yesterday,” I smiled as broadly as I could, “I transferred that money to the developer’s escrow account. I bought a gorgeous one-bedroom Euro-style apartment in a new building. In my name. But since the money was gifted by my mother, this apartment belongs only to me. It is not subject to division in a divorce. My account is empty. There is nothing for you to divide.”
Alina quietly slid down the wall and began wailing loudly. The bulldog barked in fright.
“You… you calculating bitch!” Maxim hissed, clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “How am I supposed to pay off the debt collectors now?! They’ve switched to me!”
“And that is the most interesting part,” I said, standing up, walking to the coat rack, and taking down my coat. “I saw that loan agreement Alina left on the nightstand. And I saw your signature in the ‘Guarantor’ section.”
Maxim’s eyes grew as round as saucers.
“You knew what you were getting into when you signed for her debts. Your car — the one you tuned with so much love — was purchased during the marriage. But since the debt is your personal obligation, the bailiffs will seize it next week. I called a lawyer I know. He confirmed it.”
“Lena, wait!” my husband’s voice suddenly broke into a pathetic squeak. His arrogance vanished in a single second. “Lena, let’s discuss this! I can’t give up the car. I use it for work!”
“You’re family, Maxim. So solve it together. And I have to get up early tomorrow to go inspect my apartment. I packed my suitcases this morning. The movers will be here in an hour.”
I walked out of the building, breathing in the frosty air. My phone vibrated in my pocket — Maxim was calling nonstop. I silently blocked his number.
Six months later, we were officially divorced. As the guarantor, Maxim lost his car — the bailiffs seized it right from the parking lot of the car dealership where he worked. By the way, he was asked to leave his job because of the scandal. Alina had to get a job as a cashier at a supermarket to somehow pay off the penalties.
And me?
I sit on the balcony of my new, bright apartment, drink hot coffee, and choose the color for the walls in the nursery.
I know for certain that people who saw me as nothing more than a free ATM will never enter this home.
