“If It’s Not Your Apartment for My Car, Then It’s Divorce!” His Wife Silently Handed Him a Train Ticket
“Either we sell your studio apartment to buy me a new Chinese electric car, or I’m leaving.”
Boris said this while standing in the middle of the living room in his favorite suede loafers. He had deliberately put them on to make the moment seem more important. He crossed his arms, trying to make his shoulders look broader.
Yana sat on the sofa with invoices from the garden center spread across her lap. Ten pallets of peat, two hundred thuja saplings. The numbers balanced perfectly. She looked up at her husband.
“Suppose we do.”
Without changing her position, she made a note in the margin of an invoice.
“What does my property have to do with your new car?”
“Everything!”
Boris stepped forward, nearly treading on the edge of the papers.
“It’s called scaling up the family’s assets. Your studio apartment is just sitting there and bringing in next to nothing.”
“Thirty thousand a month.”
Yana turned the page.
“Steadily, into a separate account. That ‘next to nothing’ covers our utility bills and your trips to the dentist.”
“That’s pocket change!”
Boris waved her words away.
“You don’t understand current trends. My position at work is changing. I attend negotiations now. All the guys in the logistics department have already switched to crossovers, while I’m still rattling around in my old sedan like some poor relation.”
Yana set down her pen. The man was fifty years old. His temples were gray, his sciatica flared up every spring, yet his arguments belonged in middle school. They had been together for eight years, and with each passing year Boris had become increasingly obsessed with outward symbols of success.
“Boris, your car is four years old. It’s in perfect condition.”
“It’s from the Stone Age!”
He raised his voice, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.
“Everyone’s buying electric cars now. They have displays covering the entire dashboard, an enormous driving range, and status! I’m doing this for us. We’ll be able to drive to resorts like normal people instead of rattling around in that old heap.”
“Excellent.”
Yana gathered the papers into a neat stack.
“If you want status, take out a loan and pay it off with your own salary. What does that have to do with my studio—the one I bought before we even met and spent seven years paying off?”
Boris gave her a crooked smile. That condescending expression always appeared when he had run out of arguments.
“Interest rates on loans are insane right now. It’s a bad investment. We need to think strategically. We sell the studio and buy the car outright. And as for renting it out… who even needs that measly income?”
“I won’t let you touch the apartment.”
She said it calmly but firmly.
“It’s my financial safety net. End of discussion.”
Boris suddenly straightened.
“So that’s how much you value our family. I work myself to the bone for us, while you sit there hoarding your precious square meters.”
He turned around and strode toward the wardrobe. Sliding open one of the doors, he pulled his gym bag down from the top shelf.
“I have no intention of living with a selfish woman who doesn’t believe in her man.”
He announced it loudly as he dragged a stack of T-shirts from the depths of the wardrobe.
“I’m packing my things.”
Yana watched the performance with familiar irritation. Boris was following a routine he had perfected over the years. Three years earlier, he had packed his bag in exactly the same way when Yana refused to pay for his spontaneous fishing trip to Astrakhan. Back then, she had given in after an hour.
But now there was nothing left inside her except the heavy, suffocating exhaustion of watching the same old performance…
The rest of the story is just below, in the first comment.
Either we sell your studio apartment to buy a new Chinese electric car, or I’m leaving.”
Boris said this while standing in the middle of the living room in his favorite suede loafers. He had put them on deliberately to make the moment seem more important. He crossed his arms in a way that made his shoulders look broader.
Yana was sitting on the sofa with work invoices from the garden center spread across her lap. Ten pallets of peat, two hundred thuja saplings. The numbers matched perfectly. She looked up at her husband.
“All right.”
Without changing her position, she made a note in the margin of an invoice.
“And what exactly does my property have to do with your new car?”
“Everything!”
Boris stepped forward, nearly treading on the edge of the papers.
“It’s called scaling up the family’s capital. Your studio apartment is practically sitting idle right now and bringing in next to nothing.”
“Thirty thousand rubles every month.”
Yana turned the page.
“Regularly deposited into a separate account. That ‘next to nothing’ covers our utility bills and your visits to the dentist.”
“Small change!”
Boris waved her words away.
“You don’t understand current trends. My position at work is changing. I attend negotiations now. All the guys in the logistics department have already switched to crossovers. Meanwhile, I’m rattling around in my old sedan like some poor relative.”
Yana put down her pen. The man was fifty years old. He had gray hair at his temples and suffered from sciatica every spring, yet his arguments sounded like they came from a schoolboy. They had been married for eight years, and with each passing year, Boris had become increasingly obsessed with outward symbols of success.
“Boris, your car is four years old. It’s in perfect condition.”
“It belongs in the last century!”
He raised his voice, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Everyone is buying electric cars now. They have a display across the entire dashboard, an enormous driving range, and status! I’m doing this for us. We’ll be able to drive to vacation resorts like normal people instead of shaking around in that wreck.”
“Excellent.”
Yana arranged the papers into a neat pile.
“If you want status, take out a loan. Pay it off with your salary. What does this have to do with the studio apartment I bought before I even met you and spent seven years paying off?”
Boris gave her a crooked smile. That condescending smile always appeared whenever he ran out of arguments.
“Interest rates on loans are insane right now. It isn’t financially sensible. We need to think strategically. We sell the studio and buy the car with cash. And as for renting it out—who needs that pathetic rental income?”
“I’m not letting you touch the apartment.”
She spoke calmly but firmly.
“It’s my financial safety net. End of discussion.”
Boris suddenly straightened up.
“So this is how much you value our family. I work myself to the bone for this family while you sit there hoarding your precious square meters.”
He turned and marched toward the wardrobe. Sliding one of its doors open, he pulled his sports bag from the top shelf.
“I have no intention of living with a selfish woman who doesn’t believe in her man.”
He said this loudly as he began pulling a stack of T-shirts from the wardrobe.
“I’m packing my things.”
Yana watched the performance with familiar irritation. Boris was following a strategy he had tested many times over the years. Three years earlier, he had packed his bag in exactly the same way when Yana refused to pay for his spontaneous fishing trip to Astrakhan. Back then, she had given in after an hour. Now, she felt nothing but a heavy exhaustion from the entire spectacle.
Boris threw a pair of jeans into the bag. Then, with exaggerated determination, he opened a dresser drawer and took out his orthopedic neck brace—the one he couldn’t sleep without, even when staying somewhere overnight.
“I’m going to my mother’s.”
He placed the neck brace on top of the T-shirts.
“Unlike you, she has always understood that I’m meant for bigger things.”
“Fine.”
Yana rose from the sofa.
“I’m going to bed. I have a soil delivery at seven tomorrow morning. Turn off the hallway light when you leave.”
She turned around and walked into the bedroom. Boris remained standing over his half-empty bag, clearly not expecting things to end this way.
The morning began with the usual rush of work. Yana put on heavy jeans and a turtleneck before walking into the living room.
The sports bag stood forlornly beside the armchair. Boris was gone. He had left for work earlier than usual, leaving an unwashed plate from his fried eggs on the table. Yana gave a brief, amused smile. The bag was still at home. That meant his manipulation had entered its second phase—waiting for her to regret her decision.
The working day swept her into a whirlwind of activity. Yana received a truckload of fertilizer. Workers hurried around while a forklift rumbled as it moved heavy sacks onto pallets. Everything here was perfectly clear and honest. There was an invoice, there were goods, and there was payment. No drama and no illusions about “scaling up.”
Around lunchtime, the phone in her work jacket began to vibrate. Her mother-in-law, Valentina Petrovna, was calling. Yana silently counted to three before answering.
“Hello, Yanochka.”
Her mother-in-law’s voice sounded deceptively gentle, carrying the familiar tone that always preceded a lecture.
“Good afternoon, Valentina Petrovna.”
“Borya called me. He was terribly upset. He hasn’t been himself all morning.”
Yana walked away from the noisy forklift and stopped beside the rows of hydrangeas.
“And what happened to Boris?”
“Yanochka, you’re an intelligent woman.”
Her mother-in-law switched to a confidential tone.
“Why are you clipping your husband’s wings? A man needs status. He works with important people. He needs opportunities to grow, but you’re clinging to your precious property. A family means everything goes into one common pot! You have to support each other.”
“Valentina Petrovna.”
Yana brushed some soil from the sleeve of her jacket.
“Then he can take out a car loan and pay it from that common pot. My studio apartment has nothing to do with it. I finished paying for it long before Boris and I went to the registry office.”
“How can you think like that?”
Her mother-in-law’s voice instantly became accusatory.
“He’s doing it for both of you! So you can drive to vacation resorts and won’t be embarrassed in front of other people. But you’re… you’re selfish! He said he would leave you, and he would be right to do it. Who will want you with your little flowers when you no longer have a man?”
“If he has decided to leave, I won’t stop him.”
Yana answered without emotion, as though she were reading aloud from an invoice.
“Thank you for calling, Valentina Petrovna. I have a delivery to unload.”
She ended the call without waiting for a response and put the phone back in her pocket. There were no doubts left. Boris had brought in the heavy artillery, expecting his mother to pressure Yana into accepting what he had failed to force upon her.
An hour later, Boris sent her a message.
“I looked at rental prices. It’s insane. But it’s still better than living somewhere no one believes in you.”
Yana read the message while inspecting the irrigation system. She did not respond. She dismissed the notification and returned to checking the invoices.
A few hours later, a second message arrived.
“Mother said I can stay in her small room. The sofa there is too short, and it will ruin my back completely, but I have no choice. I’ll move my things tomorrow evening.”
Once again, Yana ignored the provocation. Then a notification arrived from the bank. The tenants had transferred the rent for the studio apartment—on the correct day and at the exact same time as always. Thirty thousand rubles in real money, compared with the imaginary status of driving a Chinese crossover.
She opened the railway app and selected a date: tomorrow. The destination was the neighboring region where Valentina Petrovna lived. The only remaining seats were in an open-plan sleeper carriage.
“He’ll survive,” Yana thought as she entered her husband’s passport details, which she knew by heart.
The payment went through immediately. The electronic ticket arrived in her email.
That evening, Yana returned to the apartment. Boris was sitting on the sofa in the same position as the night before. His bag was still beside the armchair and had not moved an inch.
“Hello.”
He muttered the greeting without taking his eyes off the wall.
“Hello.”
Yana removed her shoes and walked into the room.
Boris was clearly waiting for her to begin the conversation. He expected her to apologize for being so cold. He expected her to offer a compromise—perhaps taking out the loan in her name so he wouldn’t have to pay as much interest. He breathed loudly while fiddling with the buttons on the air conditioner’s remote control.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Unable to tolerate the prolonged silence any longer, he finally forced out the words.
“Maybe we both overreacted. If you give me at least half the money from your savings, I’ll cover the rest with a car loan.”
“We didn’t overreact, Boris.”
Yana sat on the edge of the armchair opposite him.
“The fact is, you made a decision. You said you would leave if I refused to sell the studio. I’m not selling it.”
Boris frowned. His usual strategy was seriously malfunctioning.
“Are you serious right now? You’re destroying our family over a piece of concrete?”
“I’m not destroying anything. You packed your bag yourself yesterday.”
She took an A4 sheet of paper she had printed at work from her pocket and placed it on the edge of the table.
“What’s that?”
Boris eyed the paper suspiciously.
“A ticket. For tomorrow at six thirty in the evening. It’s an express train with almost no stops. You’ll be at your mother’s in the morning.”
Boris stared at the printout and then looked at his wife. His eyes showed complete bewilderment. His entire performance as an offended strategist had fallen apart in a single second.
“An open-plan sleeper?”
That was all he managed to say after reading the small print on the ticket.
“A private compartment was expensive, and we need to save money. Besides, you’ll be paying for yourself from now on.”
“You… you’re throwing me out?”
His voice lost all of its confidence from the day before and became thin and squeaky.
“I’m helping you keep your own promise.”
Yana nodded toward the sports bag.
“You were so worried yesterday about your mother’s sofa being too short. Don’t forget your orthopedic neck brace. You put it at the very bottom.”
Boris sat motionless. He had suddenly realized that his blackmail no longer worked—that no one was going to run after him and beg him to stay.
“Yana, come on.”
He tried to force an apologetic smile.
“I was emotional. The guys at work got me carried away with all that car talk…”
“The train leaves at half past six, Boris.”
Yana stood up.
“If you don’t finish packing before I get home from work, just pull the door shut behind you.”
She went into the kitchen to prepare the delivery schedule for the following day. Behind her, there were no loud declarations and no sounds of belongings being thrown around. There was only a quiet rustling as Boris slowly and reluctantly rearranged the clothes in his bag.
Sometimes fate solves our problems far more easily than we expect. All we have to do is accept someone else’s ultimatum.
