The tile fell off in the morning, at half past six, while Victoria was showering. First, a pale blue, Soviet-era one with a crack down the middle. It fell into the tub and split in two. A second tile slid off right after.
Victoria turned off the water and stared for a long time at the gray rectangle of cement on the wall. Beneath it, a dark stain of dampness was spreading.
“Sasha,” she called. “Come take a look.”
Alexander came in, still sleepy, wearing only boxers and a t-shirt. He looked at the wall and scratched his head.
“Well, it fell off. It’s old. I’ll glue it back on this evening.”
“Sasha, it doesn’t need to be glued. It needs to be replaced. All of it. And the pipes under it. It’s damp in there. I told you.”
“We’ll replace it,” he said, yawning. “Someday.”
Victoria had wanted to renovate the bathroom since the day she bought the apartment. That was seven years ago. It was a one-bedroom in an old brick building on Mayakovsky Street, thirty-eight square meters, fourth floor. She inherited it with the previous owners’ grandma-style decor: floral wallpaper, linoleum, blue tiles in the bathroom. But it was hers. Her first and only home.
She spent almost seven years saving for the down payment. She started at nineteen, with her first paycheck from working as a bookstore clerk. Then she studied part-time, got a job as a merchandise specialist in a retail chain, and eventually became a senior specialist. Every month, she set money aside. She lived in a dorm, then rented a room from an old lady on Sadovaya. She didn’t go on vacations. She wore the same winter coat for six straight years. When her friends invited her out to cafés, she would decline. By the time she was twenty-six, she had saved eight hundred thousand. The rest she took out as a mortgage, which she paid off over the next three years.
Three years after buying the apartment, she married Alexander.
Alexander was cheerful, easy-going, and had a great smile. He worked as a sales manager at a company that dealt in construction equipment. He didn’t have his own place—he rented a room, sharing it with a friend. After the wedding, he moved in with her on Mayakovsky Street.
On the very first evening, he walked around the apartment, touched the old wallpaper and said:
“Vika, this is our home now. I’m going to take good care of it. You’ll see, we’ll fix everything up just right. Renovations and all that.”
Victoria stood by the window then, thinking that she finally had a real family. Not just a room in someone’s house, not a dorm. Her own home, with her own person in it.
Their first three years together were genuinely happy. On weekends, they’d go to the lake; in the evenings, they’d watch TV series together on the couch, cuddling. On Saturdays, Alexander would bring her coffee in bed. Victoria made him lunches for work in glass containers, writing on the lid with a marker: “For Sasha. Don’t forget to eat.”
She finished paying off the mortgage a year before the wedding. All with her own salary. And she had even started saving for renovations earlier, bit by bit, alongside the mortgage payments.
She dreamed of renovating in a big way. The entire bathroom, with new pipes, new tiles, proper plumbing. The kitchen. The floors. The wallpaper. She calculated she’d need about six hundred thousand. She put aside twenty thousand every month. After three years, she had almost six hundred fifty thousand.
Then Alexander started working late.
At first, he was home by eight. Then nine. Sometimes, it stretched till eleven. He said it was the new boss, high targets, reports. He’d come home exhausted, distracted, heading straight for the shower, then have dinner glued to his phone. When Victoria tried to ask him anything, he’d reply in one word answers.
She chalked it up to fatigue. Everyone goes through it. The job was tough—sales, lots of stress. She tried to make things easier for him. She stopped asking him to take out the trash, did all the shopping herself, paid all the bills. Made his favorite cutlets. Didn’t ask any unnecessary questions.
One day in April, he came home with eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Vika, listen. I need a car—a real one. Right now I’m going to clients by bus, it’s just not serious. They told me at work: don’t expect a promotion without a car. I’ve found the one I want. It’s a crossover, Korean, almost new, just a year old. 1.7 million. I don’t have enough for the loan. I need a down payment. Six hundred.”
Victoria sat at the table, looking at her husband.
“Sasha, I have six hundred fifty. But it’s for the renovations. You’ve seen the bathroom. The tiles are falling off.”
“Vika, the renovations can wait. A year or two. But I need the car now. This is for us. Once I get promoted, my salary will go up and we’ll save up quickly. We’ll do everything. The repairs, and all the rest.”
He took her hands.
“Come on, Vika. Please. This is our future.”
Victoria gave him six hundred thousand. She transferred it from her savings account to his card.
At the dealership, while they were doing the paperwork, Alexander told the manager:
“Register it in my name.”
Victoria was surprised.
“Sasha, why in your name? It’s my money. My down payment.”
“Vika, what difference does it make?” He gave her the smile she loved so much. “Between spouses, there’s no such thing as ‘yours’ or ‘mine.’ Everything’s shared. I’ll be the one driving, getting the insurance, taking it for inspections. Easier if it’s in my name.”
She agreed. Really, what difference did it make.
Alexander paid the remaining credit himself, twenty-nine thousand a month. He never did get that promotion. But he started staying late even more often. Twice over the summer, he went on ‘business trips.’ Once to Kazan, for three days. Once to Sochi, for a week, ‘for an equipment expo.’
Victoria packed his suitcase. She put in shirts, a charger, his antacid medicine. She kissed him goodbye.
Everything came out in October. By accident. Because of some cheesecakes.
On Saturday morning, Victoria was by the stove, looking at a recipe on the old tablet they kept in the kitchen. The tablet was shared—Alexander had bought it, and it was loaded with all his accounts: email, messenger, social media. Victoria only used it for recipes. Alexander was asleep. He’d come home at two a.m. the night before.
She was measuring flour when a notification popped up at the top of the screen.
“Alyona: Good morning, my love 💋 I miss you. When are you going to sort things out with her?”
Victoria froze, spoonful of flour in hand.
Then another one popped up.
“Alyona: I kept thinking about Sochi last night. I want to go to the sea again. You promised.”
Victoria set the spoon on the table. Wiped her hands on the towel. Opened the messenger app.
The chat with Alyona was long. Really long. Victoria kept scrolling up, up, up. Eight months’ worth. It started back in February.
Photos. A girl about twenty-five, blonde, plump lips, sitting in the passenger seat of that Korean crossover. The girl in a swimsuit at the beach in Sochi. The girl at a restaurant with a glass. Alexander next to her, smiling. In Kazan, in front of the Kremlin. The very day he’d called Victoria, telling her he was at a meeting.
Messages about gifts. “Thank you for the earrings, bunny, they’re so beautiful.” “The perfume is amazing, everyone at work is asking about it.” “My love, you’re the best.”
Victoria sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through her device. Her hands were cold. The apartment was silent, except for the ticking clock and the murmur of a neighbor’s TV through the wall.
He bought her earrings. He took her to the sea in a car—paid for with the money Victoria meant for the bathroom renovations. While Victoria packed his suitcase and added antacid tablets for him. While she showered in a bathroom with falling tiles. While she didn’t buy herself a new winter coat, because, ‘the renovation comes first.’
But that wasn’t even the worst part.
Victoria scrolled back to the August messages. Alyona was asking when he was finally going to get divorced. Alexander replied with lengthy messages.
‘Alyon, just be patient a little longer. I need to sort out the apartment situation. You know, I don’t want to walk away with just a suitcase. I’ve lived there for four years and invested a lot. My lawyer friend said if I prove my investments, I can claim a share. Or maybe she’ll just sign over my share if I put enough pressure on her. She’s soft.’
‘Doesn’t she suspect anything?’
‘Vika? Are you kidding? She’s so easy. Predictable as a clock. Coffee in the morning, cutlets at night. Never asks about anything. All she wants is for everything to stay quiet. I tell her I have a “meeting,” she believes me. I say the car is “for work,” she gave me six hundred thousand for it. Don’t worry. As soon as I sort out the apartment, I’ll file right away. And come to you. In the car.’
‘Are you really not leaving her anything?’
‘What’s there to leave her? The place is hers anyway. I’ll just take half, and let her live in her half. Haha.’
Victoria read that message three times. Then she put the tablet face down on the table.
Easy. Predictable. Soft.
She remembered seven years in a dorm, and a room at an old woman’s flat. The winter coat she’d worn for six winters. The vacations she never took. Three years of mortgage payments. Six hundred thousand spent on renovations, three years of paying twenty thousand a month. Glass containers labeled ‘For Sashenka. Don’t forget to eat.’ Shirts in the suitcase. The antacid tablets.
For the past few months, he’d already been planning how to leave without empty hands. Discussing her apartment with his lover, like it was some sort of prize. Her apartment, which she had bought three years before he even appeared. Her years, her sacrifices, her winter coat.
And all this time, she only tried to help him. Never asked tough questions. Just wanted to make things easier for him.
From the bedroom, she heard the creak of the bed. Alexander was awake.
Victoria stood up, grabbed her phone, and quickly snapped photos of the tablet’s screen. Every message. Every photo. Especially the ones about the apartment. Then she put the messenger app back to the main page, closed it, and opened up the cheesecakes recipe again.
When Alexander walked into the kitchen, she was at the stove, flipping cheesecakes on the skillet.
‘Oh, cheesecakes,’ he said. ‘Nice.’
‘Sit down,’ Victoria replied. ‘They’ll be ready in a minute.’
She spent the whole day acting normal. Even she was surprised at how well she managed. Cleaned the apartment. Went shopping. Made lunch. Alexander kept staring at his phone, noticing nothing. Predictable as a clock.
On Sunday, while he was off visiting a ‘friend at the garage,’ she pulled a large black suitcase out of the closet. She packed his things into it—shirts, pants, sweaters, underwear. His razor, his toothbrush, and the cologne she had given him for his last birthday. Chargers. Car documents. Then she set the suitcase down in the hallway by the door.
Alexander came home at eight in the evening. He saw the suitcase and stopped in his tracks.
“What’s this?”
“These are your things, Alexander.”
“What do you mean?”
Victoria handed him her phone. On the screen, there was a photo of Alena in a crossover vehicle. Then she scrolled through. There was a message about someone being ‘convenient and predictable.’ Another message about ‘I’ll take half.’
Alexander stared at the screen. His face slowly changed—from confusion to anger.
“Did you go through my phone?”
“I was looking up a recipe for syrniki. On the tablet. Then Alena texted you ‘good morning.'”
He went silent. Then he pulled out his phone and started dialing someone.
“Who are you calling?”
“My mom.”
Nadezhda Petrovna arrived about forty minutes later. She lived close by, in the neighboring district. She burst into the apartment without taking off her shoes, her purse slung over her shoulder.
“So, what’s going on here? Sasha told me you’re kicking him out. Is that true?”
“It’s true, Nadezhda Petrovna.”
Her mother-in-law looked at the suitcase by the door, then at her daughter-in-law.
“Is that so. And where is my son supposed to go? Out on the street? So, you’re throwing him out and you keep the apartment? Oh no, dear. You’ve been married for four years. Everything you’ve acquired is split in half. The apartment too. You’ll have to divide it.”
“I bought the apartment three years before the wedding,” Victoria said.
“What difference does that make!” Nadezhda Petrovna waved her hand dismissively. “He’s lived here for four years. He’s invested. Want to grab everything for yourself? And my son is just supposed to roll away with one suitcase? Not going to happen!”
Victoria walked into the room, opened the bottom drawer of the dresser where she kept a folder with documents. She took it out and returned to the hallway. She opened it.
“Here’s the purchase agreement. The date. Here’s the ownership certificate. Here’s the statement from the real estate registry. Here’s proof the mortgage was closed. Here’s the marriage certificate. Check the dates, Nadezhda Petrovna. The apartment is mine. I bought it three years before your son. The mortgage was paid off before the wedding.”
Nadezhda Petrovna didn’t even look at the documents.
“I don’t need your papers. I don’t understand that stuff. I know Sasha lived here for four years. Four years! Doesn’t that matter? He lived here as a husband, not a tenant. So he has rights!”
Alexander, who had stayed silent up to this point, suddenly stepped forward.
“Mom’s right, Vika. I lived here four years. I invested in this apartment. I bought the washing machine. The refrigerator. The TV. I put up shelves. Changed the faucet. If you’re kicking me out, you owe me compensation. For everything. For living here, for what I put in. I won’t just leave like that.”
Victoria looked at her husband for a long moment. For the first time, she truly saw him.
He didn’t say sorry. Not a single word. Didn’t say, “I’m sorry.” Didn’t say, “I’m to blame.” Didn’t try to explain. He stood in the hallway of her apartment, next to his suitcase, with the phone that held his messages to his mistress, demanding compensation from her.
“Alexander,” she said quietly. “I paid for the washing machine with my card. The fridge as well. You bought the TV, so you can take it. Thank you for fixing the faucet. And I gave you six hundred thousand for your car’s down payment. That was my money for renovations. You even drove Alyona to Sochi in that car.”
“That car is for work!”
“For work,” Victoria echoed.
“I’ll take this to court!” Alexander shouted. “Do you hear me? I’ll drag you through court! I’ll win half of the apartment! I have a lawyer!”
“Go ahead, Alexander.”
Nadezhda Petrovna grabbed her son by the arm.
“Come on, Sasha. No use talking to her. Tomorrow you’ll take your things. Then, we go to court. She thinks she’s so clever. We’ll see whose apartment it really is.”
Alexander picked up his suitcase. At the door, he turned around. Victoria was waiting, hoping that maybe, just maybe he would finally say something.
He said nothing. He left and slammed the door behind him.
The next day, he came to collect the rest of his things. He took the TV, the game console, a box of tools, and his winter clothes. Victoria stood in the hallway, watching.
When he was at the door with the last box, she held out her hand.
“The keys, Alexander.”
He looked at her and smirked.
“I’m not giving them back. I’m registered here. I have the right to come here. Until the court says otherwise.”
He left.
That same evening, Victoria found a locksmith online. An older man in a blue jacket arrived an hour later. He replaced both locks and handed her two new sets of keys.
The next day, Victoria filed for divorce. A week later, she visited a lawyer.
The lawyer, a woman about fifty with a short gray haircut, looked over the documents and messages, then nodded.
“The apartment is yours. It was bought before marriage, the mortgage was paid off before marriage. If he can’t prove his investments with receipts, then basically, he contributed nothing. The washing machine and fridge are movable property, not the apartment itself. But the car is another matter. It was bought during the marriage, so it’s considered joint property regardless of whose name is on it. You transferring six hundred thousand to his account right before he bought the car makes that clear. We’ll demand half of the car’s value.”
The court process lasted three months. Alexander showed up at the first hearing with his lawyer and his mother. The lawyer argued that Alexander had lived in the apartment for four years, contributed to its upkeep, bought appliances, and did minor repairs. These, he claimed, were significant contributions that increased the property’s value.
Victoria’s lawyer asked for receipts for these expenses. The attorney presented receipts for the washing machine, fridge, and microwave. Victoria’s lawyer shared bank statements: the washing machine and fridge were paid with her card. The microwave Alexander bought himself, for five thousand.
Alexander couldn’t prove any other contributions—no receipts for renovations, pipe replacements, or remodeling.
The verdict was announced in February. Alexander’s request to claim a share of the apartment was completely denied. The apartment was recognized as Victoria’s personal property, bought before their marriage. The car, however, was declared joint property. Its market value was set at one million five hundred and forty thousand. The remaining loan balance at the time of division was nine hundred thousand, which the court took into account. Alexander kept the car, but he had to pay Victoria compensation—three hundred and twenty thousand.
Alexander had hoped he’d get to keep the car entirely. He left the courtroom furious, hissing something to his lawyer. In the hallway, Nadezhda Petrovna was in tears.
There were more negotiations afterward. Alexander didn’t have the money. He offered to pay in installments. Victoria agreed. Through their lawyers, they signed an agreement: thirty thousand each month, for nearly a year.
For several months, Nadezhda Petrovna kept sending Victoria long, angry messages. She blamed her daughter-in-law for breaking up the family, claimed that little Sasha now had to live on his mother’s couch, that Alyona left him when she found out there would be no apartment, that God sees everything. Victoria read the first few, then stopped opening them. Eventually, she blocked the number.
The divorce was finalized in March.
The apartment remained hers. Thirty-eight square meters, fourth floor, floral wallpaper, blue tiles in the bathroom, and a gray rectangle of cement where two had fallen off.
Alexander’s payments arrived every fifth of the month. Victoria didn’t spend them. She saved them in the same account where she used to save for renovation, adding her own money as well. By autumn, she’d saved up enough again.
She started the renovation in October, beginning with the bathroom.
It was harder than she’d imagined—not physically, though. The contractor came recommended by a coworker: good, thorough, with positive reviews. He finished the pipes, waterproofing, and plumbing in two weeks. The hard part was making choices.
Victoria stood in the home improvement store, staring at the tile display, unable to decide: White or gray? Matte or glossy? Large or small? Before, she would’ve asked Alexander—or just done what he liked. Now, there was no one to ask. And suddenly, she realized she didn’t trust herself. At all. What if she chose the wrong thing? What if it turned out ugly? What if she regretted it later?
She walked along the aisles for almost an hour. The saleswoman came over twice to ask if she needed help. Victoria just shook her head.
She remembered how, seven years ago, she bought this apartment on her own. No advice. Saved for seven years, chose it herself, signed the contract herself, and never regretted it once. Then Alexander appeared, and she stopped deciding on her own. She gave him money for the car because he said, “this is our future.” She registered the car in his name because he assured, “between spouses, there are no secrets.” She believed him when he said he had ‘meetings’.
She wasn’t going to do that anymore. Victoria was sure of it. She would never take things at face value again. She would keep every receipt. Double-check every document. Maybe it was a little sad. Something inside her had left for good, and there was no bringing it back. But now she knew exactly where her papers were—and she knew the apartment was hers.
Victoria stopped in front of the display of green tiles. They were a deep, bottle-green shade, with uneven edges, almost as if they were handmade. They cost almost twice as much as the white ones. Alexander would have called them impractical. He’d say a green bathroom looked odd. He would have insisted on white, like everyone else.
Victoria stared at those tiles for a long time. Then she called over the sales assistant.
“These ones. Twelve square meters. And dark grout, please.”
The sales assistant nodded and went to write up the order.
Three weeks later, the bathroom was finished. The worker packed up his tools, got paid, and left. Victoria stood in the doorway, looking at the deep green walls, the white bathtub, the brass faucet. The evening sun from the hallway hit the tiles, making them glow from within, like bottle glass.
Victoria wasn’t sure if it was beautiful or not. But she liked it.
