Anna turned the key carefully in the lock and pushed the door open, afraid to wake anyone inside. The hallway was dark, washed in a faint amber light spilling from the kitchen. A warm, spicy scent hung in the air — pilaf. He must have reheated leftovers again, probably late at night.

On the floor, Sergey’s boots lay scattered — one toppled over, as if kicked off carelessly. Anna bent down, set them upright, and slipped out of her coat. The fabric whispered softly in the quiet, thick air of the apartment.

In the kitchen, the sink overflowed with dishes crusted in grease and rice. Anna stood for a while, hand gripping the counter, then sighed. Foolish, she thought. It had been his turn to clean. But she also knew that if she stayed silent, tomorrow — and the next day — would look exactly the same.

She turned on the kettle, a reflex born of exhaustion rather than need. When the whistle began to rise, she caught herself. No. Not tonight. No tea, no ritual to smooth things over.

She went to the bedroom. Sergey was sprawled across the bed, sleeping on his side, lips curled in a faint, childish smile. His phone blinked on the nightstand — probably his mother again: “Son, don’t forget bread,” or “Why didn’t you call me? I’m worried.”

Anna lingered by the doorway, studying his face. So peaceful. As if he had never known unrest, while her head still rang from what she’d learned only hours before.

That afternoon, on her way home from work, Anna had shared the elevator with a neighbor — a thin woman in a dark coat with shiny buttons. She’d seen her before but never spoken.

“Oh, you’re Sergey’s wife, aren’t you?” the woman asked pleasantly.

“Yes. And you are?”

“Valentina Petrovna. I live across the hall. We’ve been in this building for years, yet hardly ever meet.”

Anna smiled politely. Silence followed, but the woman’s expression didn’t fade. She seemed to be waiting for something.

“It’s nice you two moved into his mother’s apartment,” she added finally. “She kept it empty for so long. Now it feels alive again.”

Anna froze.

“His mother’s apartment?”

“Of course. Olga Vyacheslavovna bought it in the nineties. Sergey lived here with his ex-wife back then — and now, well, it’s you.”

The elevator doors opened. Anna almost forgot to step out.

His mother’s apartment.

That single thought pounded in her skull.

She wasn’t renting.
She had been paying her husband.

Two years of her salary — handed neatly into his family’s pocket.

At home, the silence pressed close. She didn’t go to the bedroom. She opened her laptop, went to the tax registry, typed in the address, his mother’s surname.

A few moments later, the result appeared:
Owner: Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova.

Anna stared until the letters blurred.
Everything made sense now.

But a fight tonight would be useless.

She looked around the apartment — the so-called cozy nest. Her bookshelf. The soft blanket she’d bought on sale. The lamp glowing warmly by the sofa. All of it hers. All paid for by her hand.

And in the next room, Sergey slept peacefully — as if none of it concerned him.

She clasped her hands together and leaned back.
This lie, she thought, will not pass without consequence.

The next morning, Anna woke early. Sergey was still asleep, buried in his fortress of pillows. The kitchen was cold. Crumbs covered the table. A half-empty beer bottle stood in the corner. She threw it away, then picked up the phone and dialed the building management office.

“Hello, I’d like to confirm some information about my apartment,” she said.

The woman on the other end was cheerful.
“Yes, that unit belongs to Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova. All payments are up to date.”

Anna thanked her, hung up, and sat still. Her pulse raced, but her thoughts had never been clearer.

She went to Sergey’s dresser. Beneath piles of bills and receipts, she found a folder of bank statements. One page read:
Sender: Olga Vyacheslavovna. Payment purpose: utilities.

Anna replaced it carefully, leaving no trace.

Fifteen minutes later, Sergey wandered into the kitchen, yawning.
“Morning,” he mumbled.

“Morning,” Anna said, smiling faintly.

She watched him pour water, scroll through his phone, lost in nothing.

“You know,” she said softly, “maybe we should buy our own place. We pay eighty thousand every month to strangers — might as well pay for something that’s ours.”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Mortgages are a pain. Paperwork, interest… all that.”

“But at least it would be ours,” she said quietly.

He looked away. “Let’s talk about it later.”

“Maybe we could even ask the owner if he’d sell. You know him, don’t you?”

A flicker — barely visible, but enough. His jaw tightened.
“Well… it’s complicated.”

Anna watched him in silence. Then she turned to the window.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I understand.”

Snow was falling outside — steady, silent, pure.

Later that day, she called Maria.
“Masha, do you have a minute?”

“What’s wrong? You sound serious.”

“Can we talk somewhere private? Maybe the conference room?”

“Anna,” Maria sighed, “you’re scaring me. Fine, come over.”

Half an hour later, they sat in a small, cluttered office. Maria flipped through her phone, frowning.

“If the apartment is registered to his mother,” she said, “and no lease exists, then legally, you’re just living with her.”

“But I’ve been paying rent.”

“Yes — to your husband,” Maria said sharply. “Anna, that’s awful. He’s been taking money that should’ve gone to support you.”

Anna smiled faintly. “Then these two years won’t go to waste.”

Maria stared. “What do you mean?”

Anna pulled a sheet of paper toward her and wrote at the top: Plan of Action.

Maria leaned forward, eyes wide.
“You know, I’m starting to like that smile of yours,” she said quietly.

Over the next two weeks, Anna played her part perfectly. She cooked, laughed, told stories from work. Sergey relaxed, certain nothing had changed. But Anna saw everything — the tension in his shoulders whenever money was mentioned, the easy way he spent, the silence when the topic of the apartment or his mother arose.

One evening, he came home with a glossy shopping bag.
“New sneakers?” Anna asked lightly.

“Yeah, big sale,” he said quickly.

“Of course,” she smiled.

Later, she said casually, “Maybe we should ask the landlord for a copy of the lease — in case he raises the rent.”

Sergey froze for a second before shrugging. “No need. Everything’s fine.”

Anna said nothing. She simply noted the reaction.

The night before rent was due, she invited him out to dinner — a rare luxury. Sergey, surprised but pleased, agreed.

The restaurant glowed with soft light and low music. They sat by the window overlooking the city.

“To what shall we drink?” he asked.

“To family,” Anna said with a calm smile.

He nodded, content, and ordered food.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “maybe we should buy the apartment we’re living in.”

He tensed, forced a laugh. “We can’t afford it. Mortgages, rates…”

“What if the owner agreed to sell for less? You could talk to him, right?”

He looked uneasy, eyes darting away.

Anna tilted her head, voice low, deliberate. “Or should I ask your mother instead?”

The words landed sharp and final. Sergey’s face went pale.

“Anna, I just—”

“Tell me the truth.”

He hesitated, hands trembling slightly. “All right… yes. It’s hers. I didn’t want you to think I was living off my mother. I wanted things to be fair.”

“Fair,” she repeated, almost laughing. “You sent my money to your mother. Wonderful symmetry.”

She reached into her bag, took out an envelope, and placed it in front of him.
“My last payment,” she said quietly. “Not a ruble more.”

Then she stood and left.

Sergey didn’t bring it up for days. He thought she would calm down. She didn’t.

On Friday, Anna went to the bank. The joint account had been closed; all funds transferred to her name.

“I need a copy of the lease for my apartment,” she told the clerk.

The woman adjusted her glasses. “Lease? There’s no record of that address being rented.”

Anna nodded. Exactly as expected.

That evening, her suitcase stood ready by the door. Sergey came in, puzzled.
“Business trip?”

“No,” she said, turning. “I’m moving out.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I won’t keep paying your mother just to live with you.”

He stiffened, voice cracking. “Anna, I didn’t mean—”

“You lied,” she cut him off. “Nine hundred sixty thousand rubles in two years. You could have told me the truth. We could have split the bills. But instead, you let me believe I was paying rent.”

He tried to step closer. “I just didn’t want you to feel like I was supporting you.”

“Supporting me?” she laughed softly. “You were living off me.”

She grabbed the suitcase and moved to the door.

“You could have been honest,” she said.

And then she left.

Half an hour later, Anna unlocked the door to her new studio apartment. It was small, bare, and quiet. But it was hers.

She dropped the keys on the table, sat on the floor, and exhaled. The silence felt clean.

Her phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number:
“Son, where is your wife?”

Anna smiled.

Let Sergey explain.
It was no longer her problem.