— Well, Irusia, you understand that having so much money in the hands of one person is simply irrational — began Oksana, rolling a lettuce leaf onto her fork with such force that it looked like she wanted to strangle it personally.
— I’ve already found a space to open a beauty studio on the main street. A couple of million from your aunt wouldn’t hurt at all. We’re family, after all!
I took a careful sip of my now-cold tea and looked at my sister-in-law.
Oksana was thirty-three and called herself a “beauty investor,” although in reality she did nails at home and was permanently on the lookout for a sponsor for her “incredible potential.”
We were in my kitchen. Or rather, the kitchen of my pre-marriage apartment, which my husband’s family preferred to elegantly forget.
At the head of the table sat my legitimate husband, Pavel. A sales manager for bathroom equipment, he somehow considered himself a business shark.
That day he wore a burgundy blazer and wore the expression of someone who had just acquired the controlling stake of Gazprom.
— Irina, the girl is right — my mother-in-law, Raisa Sergeevna, weighed in.
She dabbed her lips with a napkin with a dignity that recalled her days running the warehouse at a meat factory, deciding who would get the salami and who would get the bones.
— As a mother, I’ll say: the family must stay together. Aunt Zina, God bless her, had a great apartment near the subway.
Let’s sell it and open a business for Oksana, and Pavlik needs to upgrade his car. It’s not dignified for a leader to drive an old Korean car. Very unseemly.
My father-in-law, Nikolai Petrovich, sitting at the edge of the table, quickly swallowed a piece of ham and muttered into his plate:
— Don’t exaggerate, or the neighbors will hear…
I glanced at my husband. Pavel smiled condescendingly, playing with the stem of a cheap wine glass he proudly called “collectible, from private cellars.”
— You see, darling — Pavel began in his velvety baritone, leaning back in his chair — in the modern economy, assets must work. You can’t just sit on real estate.
You need to diversify the portfolio. I’m willing to manage these resources. We’ll invest, create passive income…
I placed my cup on the saucer. The clink of the porcelain made Oksana flinch.
— Pav, diversify? — I asked softly.
— Like last year, when you bought a batch of expired massage seat covers, claiming it was a “gold mine,” and then we couldn’t sell them on OLX for almost nothing for six months?
Pavel twitched. His hand, elegantly spinning the glass, shook, and a red drop fell directly onto his freshly purchased white blazer, forming a huge stain.
He grabbed a napkin and began rubbing it, spreading it even more. He looked like an inflatable goose in a water park that accidentally ran into a nail.
— That was market analysis! — he squeaked, losing all baritone.
— Analysis — I agreed. — Raisa Sergeevna, you handled Aunt Zina’s apartment so skillfully that I was impressed. But there’s a “but.”
According to the law, specifically Article 36 of the Family Code of the Russian Federation, property received by one spouse during marriage as a gift or inheritance is personal property.
It is not divided in divorce and is not considered joint property.
A pause hung over the table. Only Nikolai Petrovich gave an approving croak — he liked it when everything was by the book, especially if it freed him from making decisions.
— Irina! What are you saying! What divorce? — my mother-in-law exclaimed, her cheeks flushed red. — What code? We’re family! Everything is shared!
Pavel’s salary goes to the household; he supports you while you shuffle your papers!
I am the chief accountant. My salary exceeds Pavel’s threefold, but in Raisa Sergeevna’s mythology, I was a poor orphan taken in by their noble family. I never argued.
It was amusing to watch my husband use my bonuses to buy expensive watches while telling his mother about “successful deals.”
— Exactly! — Oksana chimed in, putting down her fork. — I have a burning business plan! Franchise, expansion! You simply don’t understand how cash flow works! I already have a line of clients for VIP service!
— Oksana, cash flow is wonderful — I said gently, looking at my sister-in-law.
— But how do you plan to open a franchise if you don’t even have a business registration and your personal accounts are blocked by collection agencies for unpaid bills?
Oksana exhaled sharply. Her hand, reaching for bread, knocked over the salt shaker. A beautiful stream of white salt fell directly onto the herring under a fur coat. She froze, mouth open, like a bad actress forgetting her lines on opening night.
— These… these are temporary difficulties! — she stammered. — A bank error!
— Of course — I nodded peacefully. — Banks always make errors in favor of your electricity bill.
Pavel, finally cleaning the blazer (now sporting a huge pink stain), decided to take masculine control of the situation. He straightened, puffed his cheeks, and slammed his fist on the table.
— Enough chatter, women! — he roared, reclaiming his alpha image. — I’m the head of the family, and I make the decisions. Irina, Oksana is right. We will sell the apartment.
The money goes into my account, safely. I will personally give my sister the needed sum. Period.
My sister-in-law smiled triumphantly. My mother-in-law puffed out her chest — see, she raised a real man. My father-in-law, as a precaution, hunched his shoulders.
Oksana brought up my inheritance. I looked at my husband and said:
— Only on one condition.
Pavel smiled condescendingly, clearly expecting me to ask for a fur coat or a trip to Turkey in exchange for two Moscow millions.
— I’m listening, darling.
— We sell Aunt Zina’s apartment and give the money to Oksana on the exact day you, Pavel,
in front of your mother, take out three credit cards from your designer wallet — I continued softly, emphasizing each word — the very ones you used for your “representative expenses” in restaurants and to buy this same burgundy blazer.
And together, with a calculator, we’ll count how many hundreds of thousands from my salary went to cover your minimum payments over the past year, so the collectors wouldn’t reach you.
Pavel’s face turned the color of his ruined blazer.
— And also — I continued, not giving them a chance to react — Raisa Sergeevna, since everything is “shared,” tomorrow we will transfer your dacha to me.
After all, it would be irrational for you to only plant radishes there when I could open a resort. We’re family. I speak as your son’s wife.
Nikolai Petrovich suddenly swallowed loudly and whispered:
— They’ve gotten too carried away…
Raisa Sergeevna gasped, trying to catch her breath. Oksana’s victorious smile slid down toward her cleavage. Pavel sat staring at the pink stain, small beads of sweat appearing on the forehead of a top manager.
— How… how do you talk to your husband? — finally my mother-in-law managed. — He’ll leave you! Leave you with nothing!
— From my house? — I asked, genuinely surprised. — With my money?
Raisa Sergeevna, if Pavel leaves, the only thing left for me is finally being able to buy decent cheese, not the one on sale, because “the alpha-male” needs gas money.
I got up from the table, collected the empty dishes, and headed to the sink.
— The tea is cold — I said calmly over my shoulder. — Whoever wants more, the kettle is on the stove. As for the inheritance — the matter is closed. I will rent out the apartment. The money will go into my personal savings account.
The evening ended surprisingly quickly. Oksana urgently had to go do someone’s eyelashes,
Raisa Sergeevna cited high blood pressure, and Pavel spent the rest of the evening silently fixing the bathroom faucet that had been dripping for six months.
I looked out the window at nighttime Moscow and smiled. Being a smart and independent woman in Russia doesn’t mean fighting. It means knowing the Family Code perfectly and pulling out the calculator at the right moment.
