— I’ve returned your son to you, Tamara Lvovna. You wanted him by your side so badly. Now he’s all yours.
— You? You have no right!
— I do. It’s my apartment. And yes, there will be no more transfers. Ever. Live however you want.
Olya hung up the phone. She sat down and just breathed. A strange calm washed over her. She had done it. Finally.
Kirill got through that same evening. He called about twenty times. He sent messages ranging from angry to pleading. Olya didn’t answer. Then he arrived. Kirill banged on the door, ringing the bell.
— Olya, open up! Open up immediately! This is my apartment too!
She walked to the door but didn’t open it.
— This is my apartment. Mine alone. The documents are with my lawyer. If you continue, I’ll call the police.
— You’ve gone crazy! We’re married!
— We *were* married. I’m filing for divorce tomorrow.
He fell silent. Then he spoke again, softer, more insinuatingly:
— Olya, come on, don’t do this. We can talk everything over. I understand you’re upset. But this is just some kind of foolishness.
— Foolishness? It’s been three years of supporting both of you and being told I’m heartless.
— Olya, please…
— Go away, Kirill. Go back to your mother. She’ll feed you, pity you. You’ll get by just fine on her couple of thousand.
He left. Olya heard him going down the stairs, muttering something under his breath. Then the main entrance door slammed shut.
That night, Tamara Lvovna sent a long voice message. Her voice trembled with rage:
— You destroyed a family, you filth. You threw my son out on the street. He has no home now. You will answer for this. I will find a way. You will regret this..
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