“Lucy,” Alexander’s voice sounded cold and decisive, “pack your things for tomorrow. The apartment is mine now.”
He adjusted the sleeves of his blue shirt, but his eyes were mercilessly calm. “Before the wedding, everything was under my name. Forget about feminine tears and theatrical scenes.”
Lucy stood by the sink, watching cold water hit a plate. Drops fell onto her apron, but she didn’t even flinch. Slowly, she turned off the tap, wiped her hands with a waffle towel, and carefully hung it on the hook. Only then did she look at her husband.
“All right,” she said calmly. “I won’t be here tomorrow.”
Alexander blinked. He expected a scene: yelling, tears, the drama of sixteen years of shared life, which each of them had considered priceless. But in front of him stood Lucy—composed, quiet, almost impenetrable. She took a sponge and continued wiping the table, avoiding the keys.
Sixteen years ago, things were different.
Lucy was twenty-six and worked at a small copy shop in the basement of an old building. The room always buzzed with printers, mixing the smell of heated machines with the aroma of fresh ink.
One February evening, during a blizzard, Alexander came in. He urgently needed to print a large folder of plans. Tall, with a slight flush on his face, he joked while the old Risograph slowly processed the sheets.
“Do you work here all night?” he asked, handing over warm sheets of paper.
“Tonight, yes,” Lucy replied. “I need to finish early to go to the doctor with my mom tomorrow.”
“Is she unwell?”
“A serious illness,” Lucy said quietly. “She has trouble walking; her right hand barely works.”
Alexander didn’t leave. The next day, he returned with hot tea and a cheese roll and offered to take them to the doctor in his old car. He seemed remarkably solid: sensitive, attentive, yet confident.
He fixed the dripping kitchen tap, listened for hours to Anna—Lucy’s mother—nodding, smiling, and never hurrying.
“Keep him, daughter,” her mother whispered. “A good man.”
The wedding was quiet, almost secret. Alexander’s mother sat upright, looking at everything with disdain: worn linoleum, old chairs, cheap napkins.
“What can you do? A girl without connections, empty as a hawk,” she said. “But if it matters to Alexander, we will raise her.”
Alexander’s parents gave the newlyweds a three-room apartment. The gift was strictly under the son’s name.
“We’ll rent out your dorm room,” Alexander commanded, throwing boxes into the hallway. “The money will come in handy.”
Lucy didn’t object. She managed the house: washed the windows, sewed covers for the sofas, learned to bake the cakes Alexander liked. Soon their daughter, Emma, was born.
Nights became endless: crying, wet diapers, rocking the stroller, warm milk. Meanwhile, Alexander focused on his career, believing that his contribution to the family was paying bills and working.
Everything changed after Lucy’s mother passed away.
One foggy November day, Lucy sat by the empty bed, pressing her mother’s wool sweater to her face, unable even to cry. Inside, there was a void that nothing could fill.
That evening, after the funeral, Alexander took off his black tie and threw it over the back of a chair.
“Finally, it’s over,” he said with relief. “Tomorrow we can sleep peacefully. The apartment always smelled of medicine.”
Lucy looked up. There was not a trace of compassion in Alexander—only irritation and fatigue from recent years.
Years passed. Emma grew up and went to high school. Lucy found out she was pregnant—a test showed two lines.
“Are you joking?” Alexander shouted. “I’m forty-three! What child?! I have to go on a business trip, replace the car! Decide for yourself! I don’t need this!”
“I will have the baby,” Lucy said quietly.
Ilja was born calm, but Alexander barely paid attention to him. Instead, he focused on himself: swimming pool, hairdresser, expensive blazers, the scent of women’s perfume in the closet.
The truth came out in a banal way. An old friend called:
“Lucy, don’t hang up. I saw Alexander with a young woman. They were holding hands. Completely young.”
Lucy did not make a scene. She called Daniel—her former investigator, now a private agent.
They met in a café. Daniel, a strong man, placed a yellow envelope in front of her. Inside—photos: Alexander and the young woman, shopping, kissing, walking up the stairs of a new house.
“What will you do?” Daniel asked. “If court is needed, the material is ready.”
“For now, court is not needed,” Lucy replied. “Thank you for your work.”
Inside her, there was neither anger nor tears. Only cold, crystalline determination.
After a month and a half, Emma finished school and submitted her university documents. Documents, notarial powers of attorney, consents—everything had to be arranged.
Alexander was supposed to go south for two weeks. Officially—a conference. In reality, he had rented an apartment for the young woman.
“Alexander, listen to me,” Lucy said. “We need to handle Emma’s documents. I can’t do it alone.”
“What documents?!” he shouted. “Flight in three hours!”
“Exactly. That’s why. We go to the notary and prepare a power of attorney. I’ll sign everything for you.”
Alexander, annoyed, clicked his tongue.
The notary office smelled of paper and dust. Alexander sat in a chair, writing messages and not lifting his eyes.
“Did you read the text carefully?” the notary asked. “The power of attorney gives the right to manage all assets, including transactions.”
“Yes, yes, I read it, everything’s fine,” Alexander waved his hand. “Where do I sign?”
While he was resting on the southern coast, Lucy was taking action. She sold the dorm room, then the three-room apartment. The price was slightly below market, and the transactions went perfectly. She transferred the money to her account and bought a spacious two-room apartment in her own name.
Alexander returned tanned, full, and noticed nothing.
And evening came.
“Tomorrow I won’t be here,” Lucy calmly repeated.
The next day, Alexander arrived. In the back seat, his mother-in-law fussed, checking if Lucy had taken the TV. In the front seat— a young woman.
They went upstairs. Alexander confidently approached the door, slid his hand under the doormat—empty.
“You forgot to put it, lazy,” he muttered, and rang the bell.
The door opened. Daniel stood on the threshold.
“Good morning,” he said calmly. “Who are you looking for?”
Alexander froze.
“Who are you?! What are you doing in my apartment?! Where’s Lucy?!”
“You’re mistaken. This is no longer your apartment. Lucy doesn’t live here.”
“How is that possible?! I gave the apartment to my son!” yelled the mother-in-law.
“The patrol will arrive in ten minutes. Read this first. The apartment is sold. Here are the new owners.”
Alexander snatched the document. His face went pale.
“I didn’t read… I thought it was for Emma…”
“Lucy asked me to deliver it,” Daniel said.
Inside was a check—the part that belonged to Alexander after debts.
“Sold?! Where will we live?!” screamed the young woman.
“Wait, this is a scam…” Alexander tried to embrace her.
“Lawyers? With what money?” she snapped and left.
Lucy, in another part of the city, spread out groceries in her new kitchen. No expensive renovations, but it was cozy.
Ilja pushed a toy truck, Emma cheerfully reported passing an exam. Lucy put the kettle on the stove and didn’t celebrate. It was enough to reclaim what was hers, close the door, and move on.
Life went on. Only those who appreciated it remained in it.
