“Did you really think you could bring another woman home and I’d just walk away quietly? You were wrong,” Galina’s wife said coldly.
Galina had logged off from work earlier than usual. Her head was pounding, and her vision felt blurred. Her boss hadn’t questioned her—she looked pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. For the past three months, she hadn’t been sleeping. She would toss and turn until dawn, listening to Anton breathe beside her. Her husband slept soundly, free of dreams or worries, while Galina lay with her eyes wide open, thinking.
She thought about how much Anton had changed. He used to come home by six, eat dinner, and talk about his day. Now, he stayed out until ten or eleven. He would brush her off: *projects, deadlines, meetings.* He kept his phone face down. Whenever Galina entered the room, he would quickly close his chats and give her a guilty smile.
“Just work emails, you’d be bored.”
Galina didn’t believe it. But she had no proof—only the sinking feeling that her husband was drifting further and further away.
Today, Galina left the office at 3:00 PM. She took the subway to her stop, walked up to the street, and headed the two blocks to her building. It was an old, gray five-story structure with peeling stucco. The apartment on the third floor belonged to her. She had bought it thirteen years ago when she was a manager at a large company. The salary had been good—120,000 rubles. She had saved for three years, and her parents had helped. The two-bedroom apartment in the city center had cost four million. It was worth seven and a half million now, but that didn’t matter anymore.
Galina climbed the stairs. She pulled out her keys and opened the door. The apartment smelled of unfamiliar perfume—sweet, cloying. Galina froze in the entryway. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Laughter drifted from the bedroom. A woman’s laughter—clear and bright.
Galina took off her shoes slowly, set her bag on the floor, and walked silently down the hall. The bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it wider.
Two people were on the bed: Anton and a strange woman. She was a redhead with 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, watching. Everything inside her shattered. There was no screaming, no crying—only an icy void.
Anton finally 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 tone.
Galina opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. The redhead grabbed the sheet to cover herself, looking at Galina in confusion.
“Who is this?” Galina finally forced out.
“Marina,” Anton replied calmly. “My girlfriend.”
*Girlfriend.* Not a mistress, not a one-night stand. 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, huddled under the sheet. Galina stared at them, unable to process the reality of it.
“Don’t make a scene?” Galina repeated slowly. “You bring another woman into my home and 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 pretend?”
“What?”
“We’ve been living like roommates. We share a bed, but nothing has happened for a year. Our only conversations are about work and bills. This isn’t a life, Galya.”
Galina listened, barely recognizing her husband. His tone was cold and clinical, as if they were discussing home repairs rather than infidelity.
“And what do you suggest?” Galina asked quietly.
“Just leave. Pack your things and go. Let’s handle this like civilized adults without the drama.”
Marina flinched, looking at Anton in surprise. Galina laughed—a high, hysterical sound.
“Leave? From my own apartment?”
“Galya, come on, why the…”
“Did you think you could bring another woman home and I’d just walk away quietly?” Galina stepped into the room. Her voice was icy and firm. “You were wrong.”
Anton frowned. Marina tried to stand, pulling her dress on with one hand.
“Maybe I should go…” the redhead muttered.
“No, stay,” Galina said, turning to 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 single inch of it.”
Marina turned pale. Anton clenched his jaw.
“Galina, don’t start.”
“Don’t start? What did you start?” Galina stepped closer. “You brought a strange woman into my apartment. You were with her on my bed. And now you’re demanding that I leave?”
“I’m not demanding. I’m asking you to be reasonable…”
“Reasonable?” Galina laughed again. “After a year of lies and cheating, you’re asking me to be reasonable?”
Anton turned away, buttoning his shirt. Marina quickly put on her heels and grabbed her purse.
“You know what, Anton? I’m leaving,” she muttered. “Call me later.”
“Wait,” Anton stopped her. He turned to his wife. “Galina, enough with the dramatics. Let’s settle this like civilized people. We’ll get a divorce, split our savings, and go our separate ways.”
“We’ll get a divorce,” Galina agreed coldly. “Starting right now. Pack your things and get out of my apartment.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Get out. Right now.”
Anton looked at his wife in disbelief. He was used to Galina being soft and accommodating—someone who kept quiet, tolerated everything, and swallowed her resentment. But the woman standing before him now was different. Her face was stone, and her voice was steel.
“Galya, are you serious?”
“Absolutely. You have ten minutes. Pack your things.”
“This is my apartment too!”
“No. It’s mine. It was bought before the marriage and is registered in my name. You’re registered to live here, but you have no ownership rights. If you want to check, call a lawyer.”
Anton turned pale. Galina turned 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 a commotion from the bedroom. Anton was swearing under his breath; Marina was whispering something. Galina stood by the window and watched the gray sky over the rooftops. Ten years of marriage. Ten years with a man she thought she knew inside and out. It turned out, she hadn’t known him at all.
Fifteen minutes later, Anton walked into the hallway carrying two bags. Marina followed, avoiding Galina’s eyes.
“I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff,” Anton threw over his shoulder.
“Call ahead first. I’ll give you a time,” Galina replied without turning around.
The door slammed shut. Galina closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Silence. For the first time in months, the apartment was completely silent.
The tears came then. She didn’t hold back. She stood by the window and cried for a long time. But with the tears, the pain began to recede. The resentment started to fade. There was still a void, but in that emptiness, there was now room for something new.
In the morning, Galina took the day off work and went to a law firm. A young attorney listened to her story carefully.
“The apartment is yours entirely. It is pre-marital property and is not subject to division.”
“And our savings?”
“Joint savings are split down the middle. How much is in your accounts?”
“About 1.2 million.”
“So, 600,000 for each. What about the car?”
“It’s mine. Also bought before the marriage.”
The lawyer nodded.
“Then it’s simple. We file for divorce and list the division of communal assets. Your spouse might demand more, but by law, he only gets half of the savings. The apartment and the car remain yours.”
Galina signed the documents. The lawyer certified them and sent them to the court. The process was in motion. There was no going back.
Anton called that evening. Galina didn’t pick up. He sent a message: *“We need to talk.”* Galina deleted it without replying. He called three more times, but Galina turned off the ringer.
A week later, Anton received the notice of divorce. He called again. This time, Galina answered.
“Galya, let’s meet and talk this over…”
“There is nothing to discuss. Take all questions to my lawyer.”
“I want my share of the apartment!”
“The apartment is not being divided. It is my pre-marital property.”
“But I’ve lived there for ten years!..”
“I *lived* in the past tense. Now, live wherever you want.”
Anton started shouting, but Galina hung up the phone and blocked his number.
The divorce was scheduled for a month later. Galina arrived at the courthouse feeling calm. Anton sat across from her, looking grim. Marina was nowhere to be seen.
The judge read the statement of claim. Anton demanded half the apartment, citing their ten years of marriage. Galina’s lawyer presented the documents proving the apartment had been purchased before the marriage. The judge reviewed the papers and nodded.
“The apartment is the plaintiff’s pre-marital property and is not subject to division. The joint savings of 1.2 million rubles will be split down the middle—600,000 for each party.”
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 this out, didn’t you?” he spat bitterly.
“You did all the planning yourself when you brought another 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 seeing Marina? When you were sleeping with me and thinking of her?”
Anton remained silent. Galina turned and walked away without looking back.
Back home, Galina changed the locks. She called a locksmith, who arrived an hour later and installed sturdy, new ones. Galina threw all the deadbolts, sat on the sofa, and looked around.
The apartment felt different—empty. Galina stood up, walked into the bedroom, made the bed, and opened the window. Cold air rushed in, sweeping away the staleness.
Methodically, Galina erased the traces of Anton’s presence. She threw out his razor from the bathroom, his toothbrush, and his body wash. She took the photos off the walls, packed them in a box, and moved it to the storage closet. She rearranged the furniture.
Friends called, offering to meet up, but Galina declined. She needed to be alone. To reflect. To accept.
A month later, Tamara, an acquaintance they shared, called. She was a gossip by nature.
“Galya, did you hear the news?”
“What news?”
“About your ex. That woman dumped him.”
Galina froze with the phone against her ear. “She dumped him?”
“Yeah. They were seeing each other for a while, but she kept prying about his income and the apartment. Once she found out the apartment was yours and that he only walked away with half the savings—well, the love just vanished. Anton is renting a studio on the outskirts of town now. I saw him at the store yesterday; he looked pretty miserable.”
Tamara kept talking, but Galina stopped listening. A wave of satisfaction washed over her—not malicious glee, just the quiet satisfaction of knowing that justice exists.
Anton got what he deserved. He lost his family, his home, and a lover who was only there for his money and comfort.
“Thanks, Tamara,” Galina interrupted the flow of words. “I have to go.”
“Sure, sure! Come over for tea sometime!”
Galina hung up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky was gray, and the rooftops were wet. It was October—rain, cold, and slush. But Galina felt warm.
The apartment was hers. Her job was stable. Her salary was decent—she was now earning 90,000 a month as a financial analyst. She had 600,000 in savings, her own car, and her health. At thirty-six, it was an age where she could 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—it was too expensive, he was too busy, *maybe next time*. Now, no one could forbid her.
She picked a tour: Rome, Florence, and Venice. Ten days, 120,000 rubles. She paid with her card without hesitation. The confirmation email arrived shortly after; the flight was in two weeks.
Galina smiled. For the first time in months, it was a genuine smile.
That evening, Galina cooked dinner, turned on some music, and danced in the kitchen while stirring the sauce. The phone rang. An unfamiliar 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. Great. Anything else?”
“Can we meet?”
“Why?”
“I miss you.”
Galina laughed—a short, quiet sound. “You miss me? And what happened to Marina?”
Anton went silent. Galina imagined his face: confused, guilty.
“She left,” Anton said quietly.
“I know. Tamara told me.”
“She used me. She thought I had an apartment and money…”
“And it turned out you didn’t. Unpleasant, isn’t it?”
“Galya, I was a fool. Please, forgive me.”
Galina turned off the stove and sat at the table. “I forgive you. But I’m not going back.”
“Why?”
“Because you betrayed me. Because I don’t trust you anymore. Because I don’t want to live with a man who would trade ten years of marriage for a redhead he barely knew.”
“I’ve changed…”
“In a month? I doubt it.”
“Give me a chance.”
“No.”
Galina hung up, blocked the new number, and returned to the stove. She finished cooking, put the plate on the table, and poured a glass of wine. She sat alone in the silence of her apartment.
She ate slowly, savoring every bite. She drank the wine in small sips. Outside, twilight deepened as the city lights flickered to life. 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 you can quietly stop being an individual and just become someone else’s “better half.” How you can forget your own desires, dreams, and plans.
For ten years, Galina had adapted to Anton. She watched movies he liked, went on vacation where he wanted, and cooked dishes he enjoyed. What did *she* like? She had forgotten.
Now, Galina was getting to know herself again. She rediscovered her own tastes and preferences. She read books she had put off for years. She listened to music Anton used to call “boring.” She planned a trip to Italy.
Two weeks later, Galina boarded a plane. She flew alone. She wasn’t afraid; on the contrary, she was excited. In Rome, she walked the ancient streets, gazed at the Colosseum, and tossed a coin into the Trevi Fountain. In Florence, she stood before the statue of David, head tilted back in awe. In Venice, she rode a gondola, listening to the singer’s songs.
She was alone among crowds of tourists, but she didn’t feel lonely. She felt free.
She returned tanned and rested, arriving home 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. She showed pictures, told stories, laughed, and gestured wildly. Her friends listened and smiled. One said, “Galya, you’re glowing.”
Galina looked at herself in the mirror. It was true. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were rosy, and her smile was wide and sincere.
“It must be happiness,” Galina joked. But inside, she knew it was the truth.
Six months later, Galina was walking down the street after work when she stopped at a bookstore window to look at the new releases. Someone called out to her.
“Galina?”
She turned. Anton was standing there. He had lost weight, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He was dressed sloppily—a crumpled jacket and dirty sneakers.
“Hi,” Galina said neutrally.
“Hi. How are you?”
“Good. You?”
Anton shrugged. “Fine.”
An awkward pause followed. Galina waited. Anton shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“You… you look good.”
“Thanks.”
“Listen, maybe we could grab a coffee? Talk?”
Galina looked at her ex-husband. She saw his fatigue and his desperation. Before, she might have felt pity, agreed, or tried to comfort him. Now, she felt only a calm indifference.
“No, Anton. I have to go.”
“Galina…”
“Good luck.”
Galina turned and walked away. Anton called out once more, but she didn’t look back. She kept moving forward, never glancing behind her.
Back home, Galina brewed some tea and sat on the sofa. She picked up her phone, scrolled through photos from Italy, and smiled. She was planning a trip to Greece in a month, and Spain three months after that.
Life went on. Without Anton, without lies, without pain. It was bright, full, and interesting.
Galina closed her eyes. She remembered that day—the day she walked into the bedroom and saw her husband with another woman. She remembered the shock, the pain, the rage. She remembered her own words: *“Did you think you could bring another woman home and I’d just walk away quietly? You were wrong.”*
She hadn’t left. 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 was sparkling with lights. Somewhere out there, Anton lived in a rented apartment, feeling sorry for himself, suffering, remembering.
But Galina stood in her own home, and she was happy.
