Raisa stood in the middle of the living room, staring at Yuri as if seeing him for the very first time.
The man she had lived with for twelve years was now perched on the sofa, looking at her as though he had merely said he bought some bread, not that he intended to take everything they had built together.
Sunlight filtered through the windows, and every object in the room carried the memories of their shared life: the hand-stitched curtains, the rows of books on the shelves,
the paintings on the walls she had chosen from aspiring artists, and the piano in the corner, Raisa’s pride, purchased and paid for over three long years.
“I have a right to half of this apartment,” Yuri said, adjusting his shirt. “Besides, technically, it belongs to my mother, so…”
“Technically?” Raisa laughed bitterly. “Your mother gifted us this apartment as a wedding present. There’s a deed, and it’s in both our names.”
“Well… my mother changed her mind,” Yuri shrugged. “She says you’re not worthy of it.”
Raisa sank into the armchair, the past months playing back in her mind like a relentless film.
How Yuri had begun spending more time at work, avoiding her gaze, how his phone seemed to live a life of its own, constantly buzzing with calls and messages he always answered on the balcony.
“Not worthy?” Raisa asked, her voice a mix of cold and sorrow.
“After all I paid for your car? Your continuing education? Supporting us while you spent a year searching for something you couldn’t even define?”
“You exaggerate…” Yuri started, but fell silent at Raisa’s piercing gaze. “Alright… I’ve decided it’s better if we separate. And the apartment… the apartment will be mine. I already have a plan.”
“A plan?” Raisa leaned forward slightly. “What plan, Yuri?”
Yuri fidgeted on the sofa, uncertainty flickering across his face.
“I met someone. Someone who truly understands me. Who doesn’t scold, doesn’t demand attention. Alina—she’s different. Young, beautiful, not dull like you.”
Raisa nodded slowly. Alina. The twenty-two-year-old girl he had brought to the company party three months ago, with her long legs and vacant stare, now standing there as the “future partner.”
“And Alina will live in our ‘shared’ apartment?” Raisa asked calmly, though her voice carried tension.
“In MY apartment,” Yuri corrected. “I’ve already discussed it. My mother is ready to challenge the gift. She could say I deceived her, that… it doesn’t matter. The point is, we have a plan.”
“You have a plan,” Raisa repeated bitterly. “Wonderful. And what am I supposed to do? Pack my things and leave onto the street?”
“Well, you have a job,” Yuri gestured. “You could rent somewhere. Or go stay with your parents. You know, there’s plenty of space out in the countryside.”
Raisa walked to the window. Spring sunlight filled the room, children playing in the garden, their laughter drifting clearly inside.
As if life went on outside freely, while her inner world was clouded with anger, hurt, and disappointment.
“You know, Yuri,” she said, turning toward him, “I forgave a lot. Your laziness, your lack of ambition, all the ‘projects’ that led nowhere. But this—I won’t forgive this.”
“What can you do?” Yuri stood, his voice stiff. “My mother has already hired a lawyer. A good, expensive one. And you? Your music teacher salary?”
“I’m a conservatory professor,” Raisa corrected. “And I have an income, from which I’ve supported us for years.”
“Don’t talk about your money!” Yuri snapped. “Don’t think I don’t know that you whisper with your friends behind my back? That I’m powerless, useless? And now you’re shocked I found someone who APPRECIATES me?”
“Appreciates?” Raisa laughed. “She appreciates the central apartment, Yuri. The easy life. Don’t you see?”
“Shut up!” he shouted. “You’re just jealous! Thirty-five, aging, gaining weight! Alina is twenty-two, beautiful! And SHE LOVES me!”
Raisa watched. His face, his trembling hands, the fear and anger swirling in his eyes.
“Fine,” she said calmly. “File for divorce. And try to take the apartment. Let’s see what you can achieve.”
“I’ll succeed!” Yuri shouted. “My mother will handle everything! They know me, they have money! And you’ll be left with nothing!”
Yuri stormed out of the room. Raisa remained alone, not afraid, but resolute. She looked around the living room. Every item was hers.
The curtains, the hand-stitched textiles, the paintings, the piano born from years of saving and installments, a piece of her family’s heart.
She approached the instrument, lifted the lid, and her fingers moved over the keys almost instinctively. A melancholic yet beautiful melody filled the room, as if all her pain and sacrifice had been transformed into music.
