I froze in the middle of our spacious kitchen, which in a single instant suddenly felt strange and icy to me. The ladle crashed onto the tiled floor, and greasy splashes of borscht flew onto my favorite light jeans. Vadim stood opposite me, his face blotched red with anger. A little behind him, near the dining table, my mother-in-law, Antonina Vasilyevna, sat with a sorrowful expression, theatrically pressing a lace handkerchief to her chest.
“Vadim, are you out of your mind?” I asked quietly, feeling everything inside me tighten with hurt. “I simply said that we’re not going to dig potatoes this weekend because it’s my only day off in two weeks. And besides, we took out the mortgage on this apartment together. I pay exactly half! What right do you have to say I’m nobody here?”
“My mother devoted her whole life to me!” Vadim burst out shouting. “And it’s too much for you to help in the garden for two days? Selfish woman! All you think about are your nails!”
“Lizochka,” Antonina Vasilyevna spoke from her chair, releasing a tear right on schedule. “I can see how you treat my son. You’re spoiled. My Vadik is golden, he gives you his whole heart, and you… All right, son, don’t argue with her. I’ll manage somehow, with my bad back, dragging thirty sacks by myself. God be with those potatoes.”
“Mom, please be quiet!” Vadim turned to me, his eyes narrowing. “Here’s how it’s going to be. Either you apologize to Mom right now, and on Saturday at six in the morning we’re standing at her dacha, or you pack your things and roll off to your mommy. I don’t need a wife with delicate little hands.”
I looked at the man I had lived with for four years and did not recognize him. Where had that caring, gentle guy gone, the one who brought me flowers for no reason and promised to protect me from every hardship? As soon as his mother moved from the region to our city, it was as if Vadim had been replaced by someone else.
“Apologize?” I repeated, and to my surprise, my voice sounded firm. “To whom? For defending my personal boundaries?”
“You can put your boundaries up behind a fence!” Vadim took a step toward me. “Choose: you’re going, or you’re leaving.”
“I choose a third option,” I said calmly, though my heart was pounding wildly in my chest. “I’m staying home. And you, Vadik, take your mother, take your things, and go dig potatoes. Forever.”
“Have you lost your mind?” my husband stared at me. “This is my apartment!”
“It’s our apartment,” I corrected him, sweeping my eyes over the walls. “And tomorrow I’m filing for divorce and division of property. Now get out of here, both of you.”
When the door slammed shut behind them, a deafening silence settled over the apartment. I sank down onto the floor right where I stood, next to the unfortunate ladle, and burst into tears. It was unbearably painful, humiliating, and frightening. To cross out four years of life because of one stupid argument? But an inner voice kept whispering insistently: it wasn’t about the potatoes. It was about betrayal. They had trampled me in my own home.
In the morning, I woke up with a heavy head but an absolutely clear mind. The first thing I did was call my close friend Katya.
“Kat, hi. I kicked Vadim out. We’re getting divorced,” I breathed into the phone without any preamble.
On the other end, I heard the sound of dishes breaking, followed by my friend’s deafening shout:
“No way! Did that mama’s boy finally push you over the edge? Tell me everything!”
We met at a small café on the corner of our street. Katya listened to me, shaking her head and nervously stirring sugar into her cup.
“Lizok, you did everything right,” Katya said firmly, squeezing my hand. “You understand, this is a classic case. While your mother-in-law lived three hundred kilometers away, she was perfect. Then she came here and decided to show who the real mistress of the house was. And your Vadik turned out to be an ordinary coward who’s more afraid of his mommy’s skirt than of losing the woman he loves.”
“But it’s so hard, Kat…” I complained. “We had so many plans. We were thinking about having a child next year. And we still have years and years of that miserable mortgage to pay.”
“Okay, stop,” my friend interrupted me. “About the mortgage. Whose name is the apartment in?”
“Both of ours, equal shares. And my parents gave us the down payment. I have all the receipts and bank statements saved.”
“Excellent! That means the law is on your side. We’ll hire a good lawyer and divide everything fairly. Let him buy out your share or we’ll sell the apartment. The most important thing is not to give in. He’ll come crawling back, you’ll see. He’ll start apologizing as soon as Mommy finishes eating his brain.”
Katya was absolutely right. Only three days passed before Vadim’s name appeared on my phone screen. I took a deep breath and answered.
“Hi, Liza,” his voice no longer sounded as self-assured as it had on the evening of our fight. “We need to talk. Constructively, without emotions.”
“Hello, Vadim. What is there for us to talk about? I’ve already prepared the divorce petition.”
“What petition?” Panic appeared in his voice. “Liza, come on, are you really making such a move over something so trivial? We both lost our tempers. Mom got carried away, I went too far. These things happen in families!”
“Lost our tempers?” I gave a bitter laugh. “You called me nobody in my own home. You gave me an ultimatum. That isn’t trivial, Vadim. That’s your attitude.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I was on edge. Mom was just upset that we weren’t helping her. Let me come over today, we’ll have a quiet dinner and forget this nonsense.”
“No, Vadim, don’t come. Leave the apartment keys in the mailbox at your mother’s building. I’ll pick them up. From now on, all matters will be handled through a lawyer.”
“You stupid idiot!” he immediately snapped back into his familiar tone. “Who’s going to need you at thirty, with a mortgage dragging behind you? We’ll see how you talk when the debt collectors come!”
He hung up. And I sat there smiling. At that moment, it became absolutely clear to me: there was no way back, and thank God for that. The fear disappeared, replaced by a fierce, competitive anger.
The next month turned into a real marathon. I found an excellent lawyer, a strict, knowledgeable woman named Marina Vladimirovna. When we came to the first official meeting with Vadim and his representative, my still-husband looked pale and worn out. Sitting beside him, of course, was Antonina Vasilyevna.
“We do not agree to selling the apartment,” my mother-in-law declared right away, without even letting the lawyer speak. “My son put his whole soul into that place! He chose every outlet himself!”
“Madam,” Marina Vladimirovna calmly cut her off, “a soul cannot be attached to a court case. We have documents confirming that the down payment of two million rubles was made from the account of Elizaveta’s parents. We also have bank statements for the monthly payments made from my client’s card.”
“So what?” Vadim snorted. “I paid too!”
“Of course. That is why we are offering the following option: you pay Elizaveta for her share, taking the down payment into account, and the apartment remains yours. Or we put the property up for sale, repay the mortgage to the bank, and divide the remaining funds proportionally according to the amounts invested.”
Vadim exchanged glances with his lawyer. The man only sighed heavily and gave a barely noticeable nod, making it clear that they had no chance of getting more in court.
“We don’t have that kind of money to pay her share!” Antonina Vasilyevna exclaimed. “Where would honest people get millions? Liza, have a conscience! You were like family to us!”
I couldn’t help it and laughed.
“Like family? Was that when you called me ‘nobody’ and tried to throw me out of my own home? No, Antonina Vasilyevna. Your ‘family feeling’ ended on the kitchen ladle.”
“Liza, please,” Vadim suddenly said quietly, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Let’s try again. I’ll rent Mom a separate place, she won’t interfere. I love you.”
For a second, my heart clenched. Our happy moments flashed before my eyes: the trip to the sea, our evening conversations on the balcony, the way he warmed my hands in winter. But then I remembered his angry, twisted mouth and the phrase, “You’re nobody in this house.” And the spell broke.
“No, Vadim. Love is about respect and safety. I no longer feel safe with you. We’re selling the apartment.”
The process of selling the apartment and dividing the property took another two months. It was exhausting. I had to endure plenty of nasty messages that Vadim sent me at night, sometimes cursing me, sometimes begging me to come back. I didn’t reply. I simply forwarded everything to Marina Vladimirovna.
Finally, the deal went through. The bank received its money, and a decent sum landed in my account, enough for a down payment on a small but very own one-room apartment.
On the day we had to hand over the keys to the new owners for good, I came to our former apartment to collect the last little things. Echoes wandered through the empty rooms. On the floor in the hallway, I noticed that same ladle. Vadim had never bothered to pick it up when he packed his things.
I picked it up, turned it over in my hands, and threw it into a trash bag. A symbol of my freedom.
Stepping outside, I took a deep breath of fresh autumn air. My phone rang in my pocket. It was Katya.
“Well, Lizka, are you free?” she asked cheerfully.
“Absolutely, Kat. It’s all over.”
“Excellent! Then we’re celebrating tonight. I booked a table at that new little restaurant. And no talking about exes! Only about the future.”
“Agreed,” I smiled, getting into the car. “My future, it seems, is shaping up beautifully.”
I started the engine and drove toward my new life. The residential complex where I had found a new studio apartment was in a very beautiful, green neighborhood. And most importantly, there was no place there for other people’s ultimatums. I knew for certain that from now on, in my own home, I would always come first.
