Galina turned off her computer earlier than usual. Her head was pounding, and her vision was blurry. Her boss had let her go without any questions—her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t slept well for the last three months. She would toss and turn until dawn, listening to Anton’s breathing beside her. Her husband slept soundly—no dreams, no worries. But Galina would lie there with her eyes open, thinking.
She thought about how much Anton had changed. He used to come home at six, eat dinner, and tell her about his day. Now, he’d stay out until ten or eleven. He’d brush her off: “A big project, deadlines, meetings.” He started hiding his phone screen-down. When Galina walked into a room, he would quickly close his chats and give her a guilty smile.
“Just work emails. You’d be bored.”
Galina didn’t believe him, but she had no proof. She just had this sinking feeling that her husband was drifting further and further away.
Today, Galina left work at three in the afternoon. She took the subway to her stop, walked the two blocks home. It was an old, gray five-story building with peeling plaster. The apartment on the third floor belonged to Galina. She had bought it thirteen years ago when she was a manager at a large company. The pay was good—120,000 rubles. She saved for three years and her parents helped out. The two-bedroom apartment in the city center had cost four million. Now it was worth seven and a half, but that didn’t matter anymore.
Galina climbed the stairs, pulled out her keys, and opened the door. The apartment smelled of an unfamiliar perfume—something sweet and cloying. Galina froze in the entryway. Her heart sank into her stomach. Laughter drifted from the bedroom—a woman’s, bright and ringing.
Galina took off her shoes slowly. She placed her bag on the floor and walked down the hall in silence. The bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open.
Two people were on the bed: Anton and a strange woman. She had red hair and heavy makeup. They were kissing, oblivious to everything around them. Their clothes were scattered on the floor. The woman laughed, throwing her head back.
Galina stood in the doorway and watched. Everything inside her felt like it was breaking. There were no screams, no tears. Just an icy void.
Finally, Anton noticed his wife. He pulled away from the woman and sat up on the bed. His face showed neither shame nor fear. Only annoyance.
“Why are you home so early?” he asked in an even voice.
Galina opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. The red-headed woman grabbed the sheet and covered herself, looking at Galina in confusion.
“Who is this?” Galina finally managed to choke out.
“Marina,” Anton replied calmly. “My girlfriend.”
*Girlfriend.* Not a mistress, not a random fling. A girlfriend. Galina grabbed the doorframe to steady herself.
“Your girlfriend? In my bed? In my apartment?”
“Galya, don’t make a scene. We’re adults.”
Anton stood up and started getting dressed. Marina sat on the bed, wrapped in the sheet. Galina stared at them, unable to believe what was happening.
“Don’t make a scene?” Galina repeated slowly. “You bring another woman into my house and you tell me not to make a scene?”
“Listen,” Anton pulled on his jeans and turned to his wife. “Things have been over between us for a long time. You know it. I know it. Why keep pretending?”
“What?”
“We live like roommates. We sleep in the same bed, but nothing has happened for a year. We only talk about work and bills. That’s not a life, Galya.”
Galina listened, but she didn’t recognize her husband. That cold, rational tone—it was as if they were discussing a home renovation, not an affair.
“And what are you suggesting?” Galina asked quietly.
“Just leave. Just pack your things and go. No scandals, let’s be civil.”
Marina flinched, looking at Anton in surprise. Galina laughed. It was an hysterical, high-pitched sound.
“Leave? From my own apartment?”
“Galya, come on, why are these…”
“You thought you could bring a new woman home and I’d just walk away?” Galina stepped into the room. Her voice had become icy and firm. “You were mistaken.”
Anton frowned. Marina tried to stand up, pulling her dress up with one hand.
“Maybe I should go…” the redhead muttered.
“No, stay,” Galina turned toward the mistress. “Do you want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into? This apartment belongs to me. It was bought with my money before we were married. Your Anton doesn’t own a thing here. Not a single centimeter.”
Marina turned pale. Anton clenched his jaw.
“Galina, don’t start.”
“Don’t start? What did *you* start?” Galina stepped closer. “You brought another woman into my apartment. You were with her in my bed. And now you’re demanding that *I* leave?”
“I’m not demanding. I’m asking nicely…”
“Nicely?” Galina laughed again. “After a year of lies and cheating, you’re asking nicely?”
Anton turned away, buttoning his shirt. Marina quickly put on her shoes and grabbed her purse.
“You know what, Anton, I’m going,” the woman muttered. “Call me later.”
“Wait,” Anton stopped her, then turned back to his wife. “Galina, enough with the hysterics. Let’s resolve this like civilized people. We’ll get a divorce, divide our savings, and go our separate ways.”
“A divorce,” Galina agreed coldly. “Right now. Pack your things and get out of my apartment.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out. Now.”
Anton looked at his wife in disbelief. He was used to Galina being soft and compliant. She stayed silent, suffered, and swallowed her resentment. But standing before him now was a different woman—with a face like stone and a voice of steel.
“Galya, are you serious?”
“Absolutely. You have ten minutes. Pack your things.”
“This is my apartment too!”
“No. It’s mine. Bought before the marriage, registered in my name. You’re registered here, but you have no ownership rights. If you want to check, call a lawyer.”
Anton turned pale. Galina turned around and walked out of the bedroom. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and downed it in one gulp. Her hands were shaking. Everything inside her was burning, boiling, but her voice remained calm and icy.
There was commotion in the bedroom. Anton was swearing under his breath. Marina was whispering something. Galina stood by the window and looked at the gray sky over the rooftops. Ten years of marriage. Ten years next to a man she thought she knew inside and out. And it turned out, she didn’t know him at all.
Fifteen minutes later, Anton walked into the hallway with two bags. Marina followed behind, avoiding looking at Galina.
“I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff,” Anton threw out.
“Call ahead. I’ll set a time,” Galina replied without turning around.
The door slammed. Galina closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold glass. Silence. For the first time in months, there was absolute silence in the apartment.
The tears finally came. Galina didn’t hold them back. She cried for a long time, standing by the window. But with the tears, the pain began to fade. The resentment was lifting. There was a void left behind, but in that emptiness, there was now room for something new.
In the morning, Galina took time off work and went to a law firm. A young attorney listened to her story carefully.
“The apartment is entirely yours. This is pre-marital property; it is not subject to division.”
“And our savings?”
“Joint savings are split in half. How much is in your accounts?”
“About 1.2 million.”
“That means 600,000 for each. The car?”
“It’s mine. Also bought before the marriage.”
The lawyer nodded.
“Then it’s simple. We file for divorce and state the division of communal property. Your spouse might try to demand more, but by law, he only gets half the savings. The apartment and the car remain yours.”
Galina signed the documents. The lawyer notarized them and sent them to court. The process had begun. There was no turning back.
Anton called that evening. Galina didn’t pick up. He sent a message: “We need to talk.” Galina deleted it without answering. He called three more times. Galina silenced her phone.
A week later, Anton received the divorce notification. He called again. This time, Galina answered.
“Galya, let’s meet up, let’s discuss…”
“There is nothing to discuss. Deal with everything through my lawyer.”
“I want my share of the apartment!”
“The apartment isn’t being divided. It is my pre-marital property.”
“But I lived there for ten years!…”
“You lived there. Past tense. Now, live wherever you want.”
Anton started shouting. Galina hung up and blocked his number.
The divorce was set for a month later. Galina arrived at the courthouse calm. Anton sat across from her, looking gloomy. Marina was not there.
The judge read the statement of claim. Anton demanded half the apartment, citing their ten years of marriage. Galina’s lawyer provided documents proving the apartment was purchased before the marriage. The judge reviewed the papers and nodded.
“The apartment is the petitioner’s pre-marital property. It is not subject to division. The joint savings in the amount of 1.2 million rubles are to be split in half. 600,000 for each.”
Anton clenched his fists. Galina sat motionless.
“The marriage is dissolved,” the judge announced.
Galina walked out of the courtroom. Anton caught up to her on the street.
“You planned all of this, didn’t you?” he spat out angrily.
“You planned everything the moment you brought a strange woman into my home.”
“I loved you!”
Galina stopped and looked at her ex-husband.
“Loved me? When exactly? When you lied about working late? When you were meeting Marina? When you were sleeping with me while thinking of her?”
Anton was silent. Galina turned and walked away without looking back.
Back home, Galina changed the locks. She called a locksmith, and he arrived within an hour to install new, secure ones. Galina locked the door, engaged all the deadbolts, and sat on the sofa. She looked around.
The apartment looked different—empty. Galina stood up and walked into the bedroom. She made the bed and opened the window. Cold air rushed into the room, sweeping away the staleness.
Galina methodically removed the traces of Anton. She threw his razor out of the bathroom, along with his toothbrush and shower gel. She took the photos off the walls, packed them into a box, and carried it to the storage closet. She rearranged the furniture.
Friends called, offering to meet up. Galina declined. She needed to be alone. To think. To process.
A month later, Tamara, a mutual acquaintance and local gossip, called.
“Galya, did you hear the news?”
“What news?”
“About your ex. His little girlfriend dumped him.”
Galina froze, holding the phone to her ear.
“How do you mean, dumped him?”
“Just like that. They were seeing each other for a while, and she kept asking about his income and the apartment. Once she found out the apartment was yours and that he only got half the savings—poof, the love was gone. Anton is renting a studio on the outskirts now. I saw him at the store yesterday. He looked pretty miserable.”
Tamara kept talking, but Galina wasn’t listening. A wave of satisfaction rose within her—not out of spite, but a quiet, calm realization that justice existed.
Anton had gotten what he deserved. He had lost his family. He had lost his home. He had lost the mistress who was only there for the money and the comfort.
“Thanks for the update, Tamara,” Galina interrupted her. “I have to go.”
“Oh, right, sure. Stop by for tea sometime!”
Galina hung up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was gray—it was October. Rain, cold, slush. But Galina felt warm.
The apartment was hers. Her job was stable, and her salary was decent—she was now earning 90,000 as a financial analyst. She had 600,000 in savings. She had her own car. Her health was fine. Thirty-six years old—the perfect age to start over.
Galina opened her laptop and visited a travel agency’s website. She had dreamed of going to Italy for a long time. Anton had always refused—too expensive, no time, maybe later. Now, no one could stop her.
Galina chose a tour: Rome, Florence, Venice. Ten days, 120,000 rubles. She paid with her card without hesitation. The confirmation arrived in her inbox. Her flight was in two weeks.
Galina smiled. For the first time in months, it was a genuine smile.
That evening, Galina cooked dinner. She turned on some music and danced in the kitchen while stirring the sauce. The phone rang—an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Galya? It’s Anton.”
Galina froze.
“What do you want?”
“I… I wanted to talk.”
“We already talked. In court.”
“Galchonok, I realize I was wrong…”
“You realize it. Great. Anything else?”
“Can we meet?”
“Why?”
“I miss you.”
Galina laughed—a short, quiet sound.
“You miss me. And where did Marina go?”
Anton fell silent. Galina imagined his face—confused, guilty.
“She left,” Anton said quietly.
“I know. Tamara told me.”
“She was using me. She thought I had an apartment, money…”
“And it turned out you didn’t. Unpleasant, right?”
“Galya, I was a fool. Forgive me.”
Galina turned off the stove and sat down at the table.
“I forgive you. But I’m not coming back.”
“Why?”
“Because you betrayed me. Because I don’t trust you anymore. Because I don’t want to live with someone who was ready to trade ten years of marriage for a red-haired stranger.”
“I’ve changed…”
“In a month? I doubt it.”
“Give me a chance.”
“No.”
Galina hung up, blocked the number, and went back to the stove. She finished making dinner, plated it, poured some wine, and sat alone in the quiet of her apartment.
She ate slowly, savoring every bite, sipping her wine in small, measured tastes. Dusk gathered outside the window, and the city lights flickered on. Galina looked at the shimmering windows of the neighboring buildings and thought.
She thought about how easy it is to lose yourself in a marriage. How invisibly one stops being an individual and becomes just someone’s “better half.” How one forgets their own desires, dreams, and plans.
For ten years, Galina had adapted herself to Anton. She watched movies he liked, took vacations where he wanted to go, cooked meals he preferred. What did she actually like? She had forgotten.
Now, Galina was meeting herself all over again. She was rediscovering her own tastes and preferences. She read books she had put off for years, listened to music Anton called “boring,” and planned a trip to Italy.
Two weeks later, Galina boarded a plane. She flew alone. She wasn’t afraid; on the contrary, she was full of anticipation. In Rome, she wandered through ancient streets, gazed at the Colosseum, and threw a coin into the Trevi Fountain. In Florence, she stood before the statue of David, her head tilted back in awe. In Venice, she rode in a gondola, listening to the gondolier’s songs.
She was alone among crowds of tourists, but she didn’t feel lonely. She felt free.
She returned tanned and rested, walking into her apartment with a suitcase full of souvenirs. She unpacked, hung up her photos, and called her friends.
“Girls, come over! I’ll show you Italy!”
Her friends arrived in the evening. Galina opened wine, brought out cheese and fruit, and showed her photos, telling stories, laughing, and gesturing wildly. Her friends listened and smiled. Finally, one said:
“Galya, you’re glowing.”
Galina looked at herself in the mirror. It was true. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were rosy, and her smile was wide and sincere.
“Maybe it’s happiness,” Galina joked.
But inside, she knew: it was the truth.
Six months later, Galina was walking down the street after work. She stopped by a bookstore window to look at the new releases when someone called out:
“Galina?”
She turned around. Anton was standing there. He looked thin, with dark shadows under his eyes. He was dressed sloppily—a wrinkled jacket and dirty sneakers.
“Hi,” Galina said neutrally.
“Hi. How have you been?”
“I’m good. You?”
Anton shrugged. “I’m okay.”
An awkward pause followed. Galina waited. Anton shifted from foot to foot.
“You… you look great.”
“Thanks.”
“Listen, maybe we could grab a coffee? Talk?”
Galina looked at her ex-husband. She saw the fatigue and desperation. Before, she might have pitied him, agreed, or tried to comfort him. Now, she felt nothing but calm indifference.
“No, Anton. I have to go.”
“Galina…”
“Good luck.”
Galya turned and walked away. Anton called out once more, but she didn’t look back. She kept moving forward, never glancing behind her.
At home, Galina made some tea and sat on the sofa. She picked up her phone, scrolled through her pictures from Italy, and smiled. Next month, she planned to visit Greece. Three months after that—Spain.
Life went on. Without Anton, without the lies, without the pain. It was a bright, full, and interesting life.
Galina closed her eyes and remembered that day—the day she walked into the bedroom and saw her husband with a strange woman. She remembered the shock, the pain, the rage. She remembered her own words: “You thought you could bring a new woman home and I’d just walk away quietly? You were mistaken.”
She hadn’t walked away. She had stayed. In her apartment, in her life. Anton was the one who had left. And he was right to do so.
Galina opened her eyes and finished her tea. She stood up and walked to the window. The city at night flickered with lights. Somewhere out there, Anton was living in his rented apartment—regretting, suffering, and remembering.
But Galina stood in her own home, and she was happy.
