— Oh, so that’s how you’re talking now! Artem, do you hear this?
Artem was silent, buried in his phone. Kira went to her room and locked the door. That evening, she made a final decision: to leave. But not just like that. She wanted them to remember.
The preparation took three weeks. Kira rented a tiny studio for fifteen thousand. She found a place through acquaintances. She packed her things in parts, carrying them out of the apartment little by little so as not to arouse suspicion. She found a lawyer and consulted about the divorce. She learned that if there was no jointly acquired property and no children, the court would grant a divorce one month after filing the application, and she would receive the divorce certificate another month after that.
And Kira also found out something interesting. One day, while rummaging through the apartment documents (Zhanna Borisovna kept them in an old chest of drawers in the living room), she discovered that the apartment was registered in Artem’s name. The privatization had taken place ten years ago, and he was listed as the sole owner. Zhanna Borisovna was registered there, but had no ownership rights. Kira photographed the documents and showed them to Artem that evening.
— Did you know?
He nodded guiltily:
— I knew. But Mom always said it was her apartment, and I didn’t argue. You know, it just felt awkward.
— Awkward, — Kira repeated in an icy tone. — And was it convenient for me to tolerate her rudeness?
— Kir, come on, let’s not…
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