Igor was silent. The words stuck somewhere in his throat.
“So,” continued Olga, “I didn’t come back. And I won’t come back. I realized something important this week. My grandmother told me all my life: a woman must have something of her own. Not depend on anyone. I didn’t listen, thought that love and marriage are forever, that they are a support. But you showed me how quickly a support can turn into a cage.”
“I didn’t want…” Igor started, but she raised her hand, stopping him.
“It doesn’t matter what you wanted. What matters is what you did. And I drew conclusions.”
Viktor Petrovich coughed, attracting attention.
“Mr. Morozov, the claim also states a demand for moral compensation. Given the circumstances of the case — eviction from home without means of subsistence, psychological pressure — my client has every ground to demand compensation for moral damage. But,” he paused, “Olga Sergeyevna is ready to waive this demand on the condition that you do not hinder the divorce and sign all documents voluntarily.”
Igor looked at both of them and felt everything inside tightening into a tight knot. This was humiliation. Real, burning humiliation. He stood at the gates of his wife’s house, his ex-wife’s house, like a petitioner, like a beggar. She looked down at him, coldly and aloof, as if he were a stranger.
“Did you find someone else?” he blurted out. “Someone rich, right? Who bought you this house?”
Olga sneered, and in that sneer was so much contempt that Igor cringed.
“No, Igor! I didn’t look for anyone else. I found myself. Turns out, that’s enough.”
“It can’t be that you yourself…” he waved his hand toward the house. “In a week. It’s impossible.”
“It is possible when there is a goal and when you don’t waste energy proving your worth to someone.” Olga stepped closer to the gate, looked him straight in the eyes. “You know what I realized? You haven’t loved me for the last few months. Maybe you don’t love me now. You loved power over me. Loved the feeling that I depend on you, that I would be lost without you. You liked feeling like a big man against the background of a small pathetic wife.”
“That’s not true!” Igor stepped forward, but the lawyer blocked the path again.
“Mr. Morozov, I ask you to keep your distance,” his voice was polite but firm.
“It is true,” Olga didn’t look away. “And when I left, what hurt you wasn’t that you lost a woman you loved. It hurt that you lost control. That someone dared not to obey your will. That’s why you rushed here not to make up, not to apologize. But to check how bad I am without you. Wanted to see me in poverty, right? To make sure you were right.”
Igor was silent. Because she was right. Absolutely right, down to the last word.
“But you were wrong,” continued Olga quieter. “I’m not doing badly without you. I’m doing good. For the first time in a long while, I’m good. I wake up and am not afraid I’ll do something wrong. Not afraid I’ll be reproached for every spent penny. I don’t feel like a burden. I live in my own house, on my own money, by my own rules. And it is wonderful.”
She fell silent, and silence hung. Somewhere in the garden a bird sang, the wind rustled the foliage. Igor stood, head down, and for the first time in many months, maybe years, felt small. Not an important department head, not a breadwinner, not the master of the situation. But just a small, pathetic person who lost something valuable and only now realized it.
“I can change,” he squeezed out. “Olya, give me a chance. I realized I was wrong. I… I miss you.”
“You miss a servant,” she replied without anger, simply stating a fact. “The one who cooked, washed, cleaned, and didn’t object when she was humiliated. But that woman is no more, Igor. She died a week ago when you kicked her out the door. And the one standing before you now is a completely different person.”
Viktor Petrovich spoke again, filling the pause:
“Mr. Morozov, the statement of claim will be filed in court in the coming days. You will receive a summons at your place of registration. I recommend not delaying the process and not creating obstacles. The apartment in which you reside was purchased by you before marriage and will remain yours. Olga Sergeyevna does not claim it. There are no property claims from her side. The divorce will be clean and quick, if, of course, you do not create obstacles.”
Igor nodded mechanically. His head was empty. He came here with the thought that he would bring Olga back. Maybe lightly scold her for running away, maybe magnanimously forgive. And everything turned out the opposite.
“I… I’ll go,” he mumbled, backing toward the car.
“Wait.” Olga stepped to the gate, opened it, pulled a bunch of keys out of her jeans pocket. “Here. Keys to the apartment. I don’t need them anymore.”
Igor took the keys. The metal was warm from her body. He looked at Olga for the last time: at her calm face, steady gaze, proud posture. Wanted to say something, but found no words. Turned around and walked to the car.
Got behind the wheel, started the engine. In the rearview mirror, he saw Olga and the lawyer standing by the gate, watching him go. Then Olga turned and walked toward the house. Just walked, not looking back.
Igor drove onto the road, and only when the village disappeared around the bend did he stop the car on the roadside. Squeezed the steering wheel with both hands, buried his forehead in the plastic. Breathed heavily, in jerks.
What had he done? How could he bring it to this? Olga was a good wife. Kind, patient, loving. And he? He trampled on that. For what? For pride? Because he got a promotion and decided he was better than everyone else? He remembered telling her she was nobody without him. And now she proved the opposite. She not only survived without him, she blossomed. And he remained alone in an empty apartment, with his stupid position and inflated self-importance…
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