A long, heavy pause. Then, coldly, curtly, in a tone that brooked no argument:
“If you trust me, stay out of it. I told you: I’m sorting things out.”
He hung up, and Yulia was left standing in the middle of the room, clutching the phone so tightly that her fingers ached. The old woman’s words had turned out to be prophetic: he wasn’t just cheating, he was preparing the ground, clearing a path for his retreat, ensuring an exit with maximum benefit. The apartment was bought during the marriage but registered in Gleb’s name—“it was more convenient, easier with the paperwork,” he had said then, and she had agreed without a single objection, because she trusted him. Because the word “family” still meant something. Now that word sounded like a mockery, a jeer at her naivety.
That same day, Yulia found a lawyer with good reviews online and scheduled a free consultation. Sitting in a small office opposite a woman in a prim blouse, she described the situation hypothetically, without naming names, trying to speak detachedly, as if about someone else’s life.
“Property acquired during a marriage is divided equally according to the Family Code,” the lawyer explained patiently, professionally. “Even if the apartment is registered in one spouse’s name. But you need proof of joint payments. Bank statements, utility bills, transfers. Anything that confirms your participation in acquiring and maintaining the property.”
“And what if he… if this person has already taken the documents?”
“That doesn’t change anything from a legal standpoint; ownership rights don’t depend on the location of the papers. But it complicates the process, drags it out. I would advise you to start gathering evidence right now, without delay. Screenshots of bank transactions, copies of any papers you can get, witness testimony if there’s anyone to corroborate. And most importantly: do not warn the other party of your intentions until the last moment.”
Yulia left the office with a steady heartbeat. For the first time in many days, she felt not confusion, but direction, an understanding of what needed to be done. That evening, she took screenshots of all the bank statements from the past year. She saved them in a separate folder on her phone and copied them to cloud storage where Gleb had no access. Vague feelings were turning into a clear picture, and this picture, for all its ugliness, brought a strange sense of relief. Now she knew her enemy’s face.
The next day, Lidia Vasilyevna showed up at the hospital. Her mother-in-law entered the ward with a pot of homemade soup and immediately attacked Yulia without even saying hello:
“What is going on here? Gleb calls me, complaining. His wife is starving him, feeding him hospital slop, while she’s off gallivanting who knows where. Do you even think about your husband or only about yourself, like all you young people?”
“I bring him food every day…” Yulia began, but her mother-in-law was no longer listening, waving away her words like a bothersome fly.
She sat down next to her son on the edge of the bed, and her voice instantly changed to a cooing, honeyed tone, completely unrecognizable:
“Glebushka, my darling son, here’s mommy’s soup, real, homemade, not that store-bought rubbish from packets. What can you expect from the young ones? They can’t do anything, only spend money and chat on the phone.”
Then she turned back to Yulia, her face becoming hard and judgmental again.
“And what are you standing there for like a statue? The house is probably a mess. She’s wandering around the hospital here, running to strange old women with her charity. Gleb told me everything. You neglect your own husband but help strangers, as if they’re going to give you a medal for it.”
Yulia remained silent. Before, she would have started making excuses, apologizing, explaining, trying to prove her case. Now she just listened and memorized every word, every intonation, every contemptuous glance.
That evening, Lidia Vasilyevna called her at home.
“Gleb complains that you’ve become nervous, jumpy, you take offense at every word. Keeping a man is a job, my dear. A daily, thankless job. If you don’t know how, you’d better learn before it’s too late. You know how it is: wives come and go, but the family remains, and no one will even remember your name later.”
“I understand, Lidia Vasilyevna,” Yulia said evenly, without emotion. “Thank you for the advice.”
In the hospital corridor, she accidentally ran into Semyon Viktorovich, a distant relative of Gleb’s who had worked there as an orderly for many years. He looked at her strangely, with sympathy in his eyes, clearly wanting to say something but hesitating, searching for the right words.
“How’s Gleb?” he finally asked, just to break the silence.
“He’s recovering. They’ll be discharging him soon.”
“That’s good, that’s good…” He paused, looked around, and added quietly: “Listen, Yulia, just so you know, don’t count on Aunt Lida. She’d tear anyone’s throat out for Gleb, whether he’s right or wrong, even if you prove it a hundred times. A mother’s love is like that, blind.”
Yulia nodded, not asking what he meant, not clarifying how he knew. She understood everything already.
On the day of Vasilisa Nikitichna’s discharge, Alexander arrived early in the morning. He loaded his mother’s few belongings into the car, talked to the doctors about recommendations and medications, and filled out all the paperwork. They were taking the old woman to his place in the region—relatives would help there while her leg fully healed, she would be more at ease.
Before leaving, Vasilisa Nikitichna called Yulia into the corridor, took her hand with her dry, weightless fingers and squeezed it tightly, with all her strength….
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