— Where’s my car?! — I stood in the hallway, clutching the garage key in my hand, which I had just pulled out of the little drawer. The metal was cold, but inside I was burning.
The garage was empty. I went there for the potatoes we kept in the pit. I opened the gate — and saw only emptiness. An oil stain on the concrete, old tires in the corner.
My red Mazda, which I had bought three years ago with my bonus, was nowhere to be seen.
Oleg sat in the kitchen, sipping tea. Calm, slow, almost not in a hurry at all. Crumbs lay on the table, and the jar of jam he had spilled again left a mark he hadn’t wiped.
The tablecloth stuck to his elbows — I knew that feeling, it was familiar like an old habit.
— Oleg! I’m asking! Where’s the car? Did someone take it?!
He slowly put down the mug. Turned to me. Not a flicker of fear in his eyes. Only tiredness and some dull indifference.
— Don’t shout. The neighbors will hear. Nobody took it. I sold it.
A ringing started in my ears. A thin, annoying sound, like a mosquito buzzing inside my head. I wanted to take a deep breath, loosen the collar, even though I was only wearing a home t-shirt.
I stepped toward the table. My legs felt like cotton.
— You sold it? — I whispered. — How? It’s in my name!
— With a power of attorney. You gave me the right when I handled the inspection. Forgot?
Exactly. A year ago. I was abroad, and the insurance and inspection deadlines were approaching. I wrote a power of attorney so he could handle everything. And I didn’t revoke it. Stupid of me.
— Why? — I sat on the edge of a chair, which creaked under my weight. — Why did you sell my car?
— I closed the loan. — Oleg broke off a piece of cookie. — The one for business. The one I took.
— What business?! — I jumped up. — The bitcoins that went bust? Or that financial pyramid? You promised you’d handle it yourself! That you’d get a second job!
— Didn’t work out, Len. — He shrugged. — The collectors were threatening to freeze accounts. They called your mother. I couldn’t let your mom have a heart attack.
I had to sell it. Don’t worry, we’ll buy another one. Even better.
“Don’t worry.” I looked at him. Calm face, ketchup-stained t-shirt, belly hanging over his belt.
This was the man I had lived with for ten years. Who swore his love. Who lived in my apartment, ate my food, and now… sold my car to cover his debts from yet another reckless scheme.
My nose itched; I rubbed it with my fist. I was thirsty. I went to the sink, poured a glass of water. One gulp, warm, tasteless water.
— Where’s the money? — I asked.
— I told you, I closed the loan. There was 1.2 million. I sold the car for 1.3 million. Kept a hundred for daily expenses.
— Daily expenses? — I laughed bitterly. — And what am I supposed to go to work in? The bus? Two transfers? To the industrial zone?
— Well, you used to go by bus. You’ll manage. We’re family, Len. In sorrow and in joy. My debts are your debts.
— No.
I left the kitchen. Went to the bedroom. Opened the closet, pulled out a thick blue folder. My hands were shaking, but I found what I was looking for. A marriage contract.
We signed it five years ago when I bought the apartment. My mother insisted. She said, “Lenka, men come and go, but the square meters stay. The property must be separate.” Oleg got offended then, but signed. He said he only wanted love from me.
I returned to the kitchen. Placed it on the table, right among the crumbs.
— Read it, Oleg. Clause 4.2.
He frowned, picked up the paper.
— What is this?
— This document states that all property acquired during the marriage belongs to the person in whose name it is registered. And so do the debts.
— So what? — he tossed the paper aside. — We’re family! It’s just a piece of paper! The money went to the family!
— The money went to your personal loan. Taken without my knowledge. For your own games. And the car was mine. Bought with my money.
I took out my phone. Logged into the government portal. Checked fines. Nothing. Logged into the bank app. Accounts empty.
— You’re going to give me back the money, Oleg. 1.3 million.
— Are you crazy? Where would I get it? I already told you, I closed the loan!
— I don’t care. Sell a kidney, take a new loan. Borrow from your mother. The one you protect so much from the collectors. But you will give me the money back. Or I go to the police.
— Police? — He laughed. — On your husband? Report it was stolen? I didn’t steal it, I sold it. With a power of attorney.
— Power of attorney authorizes action in my interest. Selling the car to cover your debt is not in my interest. That’s fraud. Embezzlement. Criminal Code, Article 160. Up to ten years, Oleg.
He fell silent. His face went pale. — You won’t do it.
— I will. Right now. I already drafted the statement.
I showed him the phone. He jumped up; the chair crashed to the floor. — You bastard, Lenka! I did it for the family! So they don’t harass us! And you’re attacking me over a piece of metal!
— Not a piece of metal. Respect. You stole from me. You decided for me. You thought I’d swallow it because “we’re family.” Family is when you consult. Not when one leeches off the other.
He raged in the kitchen. Snatched cups, rearranged them. — I have no money! My mom won’t give! She’s on a pension!
— Then sell your share in the parental apartment. Or go drive a taxi. With a rental car. I don’t care. Deadline — one week.
— And if I don’t?
— If not, the statement goes. And tomorrow I file for divorce.
— Divorce? — he froze. — Over a car?
— Over betrayal.
I left the kitchen. Went to the bathroom. Turned on the water so I wouldn’t hear him cursing and calling his mother.
I looked in the mirror. Gray face, dark circles under my eyes. My nose itched, I sighed. Tears? No. Just anger. Pure, cold fury.
An hour later Oleg left. Packed his things into a sports bag. — Choke on your car! — he shouted from the hallway. — I’m going to my mother! She appreciates me!
I locked the door behind him. Turned the key twice. The apartment became quiet. Only the fridge hummed.
I sat on the stool in the hallway. Picked up the phone. Logged into the bank app. Notification: “Loan application approved, 500,000 rubles.” I declined. Enough with the loans.
A week later Oleg still hadn’t returned the money. I filed a report. They took him through interrogations.
His mother called, cursed. “You want to put your son in prison! Beast!” But the money was found. His mother sold the summer house. He returned it. Every penny. And we divorced.
Now I drive a new car. Bought it myself. I live alone. And you know what? This is the best period of my life. Nobody steals my things. Nobody lies. And nobody eats my cookies, leaving crumbs on the table.
