The courtroom was stuffy. The scent of old furniture, dusty curtains, and cloyingly sweet chewing gum—loudly chewed by my husband’s new girlfriend—hung in the air.
“Look at her, Sergey! Sitting there as if there are gold bars in her bag,” said Raisa Zakharovna, my mother-in-law, sharply and unpleasantly.
“You’re right to let her go. She’s worthless. She hasn’t earned enough for a fur coat in twenty years.”
Sergey, my still-legal husband for now, lazily scrolled through his phone. He wore that dark blue suit we had picked out six months ago for his company’s anniversary. Back then he called me “my dear Iriska,” now I was just “the defendant.”
“Mom, calm down,” he muttered without looking up. “The judge will sign everything soon, then we’ll go. Karina has a cosmetology appointment in an hour, we’re running late.”
Karina—a girl of about twenty-three with long fake lashes—pouted and loudly popped the bubble of her gum.
“Sergey, how long is this going to take? These chairs are hard, I’ll catch my stockings.”
I sat straight, staring at the stain on the tabletop. My hands rested on my lap. I tried not to show that I was nervous. In my old faux-leather bag lay a folder.
Plain, gray, cardboard. But to me, it was heavier than a concrete slab.
The door opened, and the judge entered—a mustached man with a tired gaze, Pyotr Ivanovich. He plopped heavily into his chair, adjusted his robe, and looked over us through his glasses.
“The court is hearing the case of divorce and property division between Voronov Sergey Andreyevich and Voronova Irina Pavlovna.”
Sergey’s lawyer, a wiry young man in tight pants, immediately jumped up:
“Your Honor! My client, a man of generous spirit, proposes an amicable settlement. Mrs. Voronova will receive the one-bedroom apartment in the small town, inherited from her grandmother, and a 2012 Daewoo Matiz.
All other property, including the country house, the three-room downtown apartment, and commercial premises, belongs to my client’s mother, Raisa Zakharovna, or was acquired solely with Mr. Voronov’s earned income.
The defendant has not worked for the last fifteen years, living a parasitic lifestyle.”
Raisa Zakharovna nodded vigorously, her hat with an artificial flower slipping to the side:
“Exactly! She just sat there, dangling her legs! I told my son: get rid of her! There’s no place for her here! Let her go mop the floors if she has no brains!”
Sergey finally looked at me. He looked down on me as if I were nothing.
“Ira, sign it. Seriously. The lawyer is expensive, you’ll lose. I’ll even pay alimony… for the first six months. Until you find a job. Probably as a cashier somewhere.”
I stayed silent. I remembered a month ago when he came home drunk, threw his briefcase in the hallway, and shouted into the phone:
“I’ll just transfer everything to Irka! She’s dumb, she’ll sign without looking! The tax office won’t sniff, I’ll stay clean!”
He thought I was asleep. I stood behind the bedroom door, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream.
The next morning he shoved a stack of papers into my hands at breakfast:
“Irinka, sign this. It’s for school, permission for the boy’s trips. And there’s the recalculation for utilities.”
I signed, as I always did. But for the first time in fifteen years, I photographed every page while he was in the shower.
“Mrs. Voronova?” The judge’s voice pulled me from my memories. “Do you agree to the terms?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Silence fell over the courtroom. Karina stopped chewing. Sergey looked completely astonished.
“Ira, don’t start a circus. I don’t have time.”
“I have an addition to the case files,” my voice grew firmer. “And a counterclaim.”
I pulled the gray folder from my bag.
“Here are copies of the founding documents of Northern Logistics LLC, and extracts from the Rosreestr dated yesterday.”
Sergey’s lawyer smirked smugly:
“And? My client is a successful businessman. It’s no secret.”
“The secret is who owns it,” I said quietly, handing the papers to the clerk.
The judge took the documents, glanced at the first page, frowned, adjusted his glasses, and turned the page.
“Hm…” he said. “Interesting turn of events.”
“What is it?” Raisa Zakharovna began to panic. “What did this pauper bring?”
“Mr. Voronov,” the judge looked at my husband with a strange expression. “You claim your wife did not conduct any business activities?”
“Of course not! She stayed home, cooked soups!” Sergey yelled.
“Then explain to the court why Northern Logistics LLC, with an annual turnover of one hundred and twenty million rubles, lists…,” the judge paused, staring at the line, “…VORONOVA IRINA PAVLOVNA as the sole founder and general director?”
Sergey jumped up. The chair fell backward with a crash.
“This… this is just a formality!” he shouted, his face flushed crimson. “I just temporarily transferred the assets! To… well…”
“To hide income from the tax office?” I prompted.
“Shut up!” He slammed his palm on the table. “You signed the power of attorney! General! I run everything! You’re just nominal! A puppet!”
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“The power of attorney has been revoked, Sergey. Yesterday morning, at the notary.”
“What?..” He slumped back onto the bench, but missed it—falling to the floor behind the chair.
“And also,” I turned to the judge, “as the director, I initiated an internal audit yesterday. And we discovered a huge shortage. The money was being funneled to Mr. Voronov’s personal accounts and…,” I glanced at the paper, “…Ms. Karina Zolotareva. I’ve already filed a police report for misappropriation of company funds.”
Karina spat out her gum onto her lap.
“What do you mean? Sergey, is that true? My car… they’ll take it?”
“You lied to me!” Raisa Zakharovna shrieked, clutching her chest. Suddenly, she felt terrible. “You said the cottage was mine!”
“Mom, the cottage is on the company’s balance sheet! To avoid paying taxes!” Sergey moaned, sitting on the dirty floor.
Before me sat only a frightened, caught-in-the-act little boy. The shine, the “master of life,” was gone.
“It seems there’s nothing to divide,” the judge concluded, barely containing a smile. “All property belongs to the legal entity. And the apartment and car, which you so generously offered your wife, she already owns.”
“Ira…” Sergey stood, brushing off his pants. His hands trembled. “Irka… why? I overreacted. Let’s talk? Police? I’ll get locked up!”
I stood, zipped up my old bag.
“You won’t be locked up for that, Sergey. For tax evasion. I handed over all the ‘black’ accounting you stored in the cloud. The password was simple—Karina’s birthdate.”
“You… ungrateful!” hissed my mother-in-law, her face blotchy red. “I won’t give you my life! Pauper!”
“Raisa Zakharovna,” I smiled genuinely for the first time in many years. “You’re right. There’s no place here for a pauper. That’s why I’m leaving. You stay. You still have testimony to give.”
I walked out of the courtroom. Karina was shouting at her companion, demanding explanations. My mother-in-law was drinking medicine straight from the bottle. The lawyer quietly gathered his papers, trying to vanish.
Outside, wet snow fell. An ordinary autumn slush. I approached my old Matiz. It started on the third try, sneezing and puffing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from Sergey: “Ira, don’t ruin this. I’ll transfer the house to you. Just withdraw the claim. I’ll leave Karina.”
I tapped “Delete” and “Block.”
Ahead lay the road. Slippery, muddy, difficult. Interrogations, courts, threats awaited. I didn’t become rich overnight; the company’s burdens and my husband’s problems rested on me.
But as I pressed the clutch and moved forward, I realized one thing: now I was my own boss. And only I decide where to go.
