“Have you not moved out yet?” the husband asked coldly. “You’re alone, no kids. Free up the apartment for me and her…”
“Oh, I have no strength left,” the beauty exhaled.
Anfisa had spent the whole day at her brother Taras’s. His wife, Larisa, had recently given birth to a lovely little girl, Alina, but had taken ill. The caring sister-in-law took it upon herself to look after the baby.
Her three-month-old niece instantly captured her heart. Tiny fingers, chubby cheeks, mischievous eyes — all filled Anfisa with tenderness. She treated the girl as if she were her own.
“I should buy a new rattle,” she thought.
At home, she was met by a pleasant coolness. Anfisa tossed her bag onto the sofa and sank wearily into a chair. Her thoughts again returned to Alina.
Glancing at the clock, she noticed: it was already six — time to start cooking.
“My husband will be late again,” she said aloud, rising.
After a quick shower, Anfisa looked at her reflection in the mirror and bitterly noted the first signs of fading.
Changing into home clothes (she couldn’t stand robes), she went into the living room and nearly tripped over the toys scattered around by mischievous little Vova — her sister-in-law’s son.
“Damn child,” she muttered, gathering the plastic clutter.
Her five-year-old nephew often came to stay. Artyom adored him, fussing over him as though he were his own.
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes as Anfisa began cooking, when suddenly the front door slammed. She raised her brows in surprise — her husband was home unusually early.
“Darling, I’ve just come back from my brother’s,” she called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s not ready yet. If you’re hungry, we can go to the pizzeria?”
“We need to have a serious talk,” came the reply.
The word “serious” rarely promised anything good. Wiping her hands, Anfisa walked into the living room. Her husband was sitting on the sofa, watching her with a strange look. She silently sat down opposite him in an armchair, raising her brows as a sign she was ready to listen.
“I have another woman,” the man said calmly.
The news didn’t surprise Anfisa — she had suspected something for a while.
“Divorce?” she asked at once, trying to anticipate the next step.
“Her name is Miroslava. She’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations!” Anfisa forced herself not to curse. “You’ve finally achieved your goal — now there’ll be a rightful heir. I hope this time everything works out,” she added with icy politeness.
Anfisa couldn’t have children, and that subject had often torn their family apart. Artyom had seemed like a good man — she had thought herself lucky to fall in love with a smart, attentive husband. People envied them, unaware of the price of that happiness.
“You’ll have to move out,” he said evenly. “You’re alone, no children. Such a big apartment is wasted on you. Free it for me and the baby.”
“And for your mistress,” Anfisa added.
“For Miroslava,” Artyom clarified, lifting his gaze to his wife, awaiting her response.
Tears rolled down Anfisa’s cheeks. She had dreamed of giving the man she once loved madly a baby — one, two, three… But the harsh verdict of doctors had crushed her hopes.
“I’m not to blame for being barren!” she shouted, leaping up and wiping her tears.
“You knew this would happen sooner or later,” her husband retorted, his voice breaking into a yell. “I need my own child. My own, not one from an orphanage!”
Anfisa understood him. She remembered how tenderly Artyom fussed over his nephew. He adored children, but never had his own.
“So, divorce?” she asked, barely holding back sobs.
“Yes. But for now, you need to free the apartment,” he repeated coldly.
“When?” Anfisa asked quietly, lowering her eyes.
“Right now, if you want,” he shrugged. “You can move into my small flat.”
She hated that ground-floor apartment with all her soul because of the perpetually curtained windows — a pedestrian path ran right outside. Yet that was where they had spent the first three years after the wedding, before moving to the spacious place, and the little flat had remained empty.
“Well… I really did know. I just didn’t want to believe it, but I knew,” Anfisa thought as she walked into the bedroom, her heart aching. “Children… Am I really guilty of this?” The sting of her own inadequacy pierced her. “Why me?” she asked herself, pulling out a travel suitcase. “Yes, they need a big home, and a small one is enough for me. What a pity…”
Twenty minutes later, Anfisa came out of the bedroom. There were no tears left on her face. Turning away from her husband, not wanting to see him, she said quietly:
“I’ll come back for the rest later — when you’re not here.”
“Need help?” Artyom asked reluctantly, stepping closer.
“I’ll manage on my own,” she cut him off sharply.
Seven years of marriage — and this is the end, drifted lazily through her mind. “Maybe he’ll get lucky with that…” she refused to say the name — “…that mistress.” Bitterly smirking, she left the once-beloved walls behind.
Cold wind whipped her face as Anfisa approached the car, opened the trunk, and tossed her suitcase inside.
Sitting behind the wheel, she noticed how her fingers trembled. Tears once again streamed down her cheeks.
“I’m not to blame,” she whispered through sobs. “Not to blame…”
Her thoughts were in turmoil. Only yesterday life had seemed settled; today, it had collapsed. Artyom, her beloved husband, had so simply, without apology, thrown her out of their home.
“And for whom? For a mistress!” Her fingers clenched the steering wheel. “Afraid to say it earlier, knowing I’d refuse. But pregnant… Well then, happiness to you both… Although, considering your generosity with housing, I doubt it will last long,” she muttered bitterly.
Turning the key, the old Lada growled to life. Pressing the gas, Anfisa set off. Ahead loomed the rented apartment where she had once been so happy with her husband.
Memories washed over her like a tide. There they were — young, carefree, moving into that tiny flat. Laughing as they unpacked their modest belongings. The road lay open to the unknown.
“We’ll have a big family,” Anfisa had said, gazing into the distance.
“Of course, sunshine,” Artyom had smiled. “A whole football team!”
But reality had been cruel. The doctor’s diagnosis had sounded like a sentence. “Infertility.” The word carved a deep scar in her soul.
Back then, the young woman had thought everything was over. Yet she had found support. Artyom hadn’t abandoned her, insisting that childlessness wasn’t the end of the world, that many lived this way, and they would manage too.
Aunt Nadezhda became her true pillar. Childless herself, she had adopted a girl from an orphanage.
“Don’t give up, my dear,” Aunt Nadezhda would say. “Life goes on. Love isn’t measured by shared genes. Look at me and Liza.”
“But Artyom… he so badly wants his own,” Anfisa had doubted.
“That’s his fear speaking, not his reason,” her aunt had shaken her head. “One’s own is the one you love and raise. Blood is just biology. True fatherhood is in the heart.”
Her faith was contagious. Little by little, Anfisa began to climb out of the darkness. A thought arose: why not adopt, too?
But when Artyom heard the suggestion, he exploded. His words seared into her memory forever:
“I want only my own child! I won’t tolerate a stranger in my home! It’s not the same thing!”
After that, adoption was no longer discussed. Yet doubt settled in Anfisa’s heart. “What if the doctors were wrong? What if it isn’t me? But Artyom won’t even hear of going to the doctor. What should I do?” she tormented herself.
A couple of years after the wedding, the fire of love had not yet burned out, but her longing for motherhood clouded her judgment. The gnawing suspicion of her husband’s infertility ate at her. And so, Mark — a man from her past — returned to Anfisa’s life.
Their secret meetings lasted several months. No miracle happened — no pregnancy. Then came Denis. The story repeated itself.
Anfisa had already considered a third, but came to her senses in time, realizing the futility. She felt disgusted with herself. Why? For the phantom chance of a child? She stopped before losing all dignity.
Her thoughts circled back to Artyom as she drove. Once, she had idolized him. She had cherished his mind, his tenderness, his kindness. Who could have imagined he would do this?
Yet even now Anfisa found excuses for him. She understood why he had taken a mistress. And why that woman now carried his child.
“You wanted a child — you’ll have one. But why didn’t you tell me earlier? I wouldn’t have stood in the way of a divorce…” she whispered, watching the wet asphalt glisten. “Coward. Nothing but a coward.”
Deep inside, she still held gratitude to her husband for the bright moments of their past. But now that gratitude drowned in a sea of pain and betrayal.
Evening had descended on the city, the lights flickered on.
Only the hum of the tires broke the silence. The car glided to a stop at the old five-story building. Parking, Anfisa stared intently at the house where she was to live.
“Strange…” — there was light in the windows of the flat.
She left the suitcase in the car. Frowning, she walked toward the entrance. The peeling walls reeked of damp and old plaster.
At her door she pressed the bell. Quick footsteps sounded inside, then the click of a lock. On the threshold stood a pretty blonde in a fluffy robe.
“Good evening, what can I do for you?” the stranger asked, smiling with pointed politeness…
Anfisa froze.
“Excuse me, and you are… who?” she managed to ask, feeling her fingertips grow cold.
The blonde raised her brows in surprise, as though the question were the height of absurdity.
“I live here. And you are?”
“I’m Anfisa. The wife of the apartment’s owner. And you?” Her voice took on a steely edge.
“Ah, I see…” The blonde faltered, her smile tightening. “Please, come in…”
The narrow hallway was perfectly tidy: unfamiliar clothes hung neatly in the closet, strange shoes stood in order on the floor. Anfisa’s eyes swept the space, lingering on every detail.
“My husband and I rented this place months ago,” the blonde explained quickly, catching her gaze. “Here’s the lease—two years.”
The girl held out the document. Anfisa scanned the main clauses, recognizing her husband’s signature. Controlled fury flashed across her face.
“Damn him!” she hissed through clenched teeth.
The blonde recoiled, startled.
“Something wrong?”
“It’s not your fault. I’m talking about my ‘dear husband,’” Anfisa clarified, sharply handing back the papers.
“Tea?” the girl stepped toward the kitchen, clearly hoping to ease the tension.
“Thank you, no. I’ll go,” Anfisa turned to the door without looking at her.
The clouds closed in thickly, and heavy drops drummed against the roof of her car.
She exhaled hoarsely, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. The day had collapsed completely. “What now? Go home and start a scene?” But screaming had never been her way. Back in her youth she’d even been nicknamed “dough” — not for her figure (she had always been slender) but for her softness and compliance.
“You’ll regret this,” Anfisa’s lips twisted into a cold smile.
The rain lashed harder, streaming down the windshield. Her thoughts tangled, but gradually aligned into a clear line.
She remembered how her father, struggling to hide his emotions, had handed her the keys to this very apartment where she and her husband had lived for four years. It had been a generous gift, his last major investment in her happiness. She knew how dear her father held the family home, but her grandparents were gone, and her parents rarely visited the dacha anymore. So he had sold the property to buy his daughter a three-room apartment in the city center.
Suddenly, realization struck. Starting the engine, Anfisa sped off into the night, knowing exactly where to go.
Soon, a slender figure stepped out of the car, holding a bright cake box, and climbed to the third floor of a familiar building. She rang the bell.
“Who the hell is that?” came a disgruntled voice from behind the door.
The door swung open. On the threshold stood Julia, red-haired and wearing a stretched-out sweater.
“Anfis?! What on earth brings you here?” she exclaimed with a broad smile.
“Hi, Yulya. Will you let me stay the night?” Anfisa’s voice carried a weary plea.
Her friend immediately stepped aside, gesturing her in.
“Of course, come in. What happened? Just look at your eyes…”
Even in the hallway Anfisa caught the warm aroma of fresh tea and something home-cooked.
“Auntie Anfisa!” a joyful child’s voice squeaked.
Little curly-haired Polina dashed to hug the guest. Anfisa gently stroked the child’s head.
“Hello, my dragonfly. How are you?”
The girl clapped her hands at the sight of the box.
“Oh, cake! Can I have a piece? Right now?”
Julia shook her head firmly but fondly.
“Dinner first, little whirlwind. Then dessert. Deal?”
Minutes later the women were sitting in the kitchen. Anfisa sighed, sipping the hot tea.
“Artyom, that brilliant strategist, rented out his flat without even bothering to warn me. The cynical bastard!”
Her friend whistled, setting down her spoon.
“Wow… such fire from our ‘dough’ girl! And how are you holding up?”
Anfisa gave a bitter smile.
“As it turns out, I’m now officially homeless.”
The redhead looked intently into her friend’s eyes.
“Stay as long as you need. There’s plenty of room. My guy ran off—and thank God for it! Life’s much freer without him.”
Anfisa nodded gratefully, then a sudden idea lit her face.
“Listen, could I take Polina tonight? For a sleepover?”
At once, the little girl, busy with her soup, bounced excitedly on her chair.
“Hooray! To Auntie Anfisa’s! Mom, can I? Pleaseee?” She was already slipping off the chair to run pack her things.
Julia scratched her nose thoughtfully, smiling.
“I don’t mind. At least I’ll get a good night’s sleep for once.”
“Perfect!” Anfisa stood, energy returning to her. “Then let’s go, princess! Real adventures await!”
With gleeful shouts Polina dashed to her room.
“Thank you, darling. I’ll explain later,” Anfisa bent down and kissed her friend’s hair.
Ten minutes later, the excited girl hopped into the car and settled into her child seat. Anfisa carefully fastened the belts and pulled her small travel bag closer.
“Remember the rules?” she asked sternly but warmly, glancing in the rearview mirror.
The girl nodded solemnly, eyes wide.
“Yes, Auntie Anfisa! Sit still, don’t unbuckle, and don’t distract the driver. I’ll behave!”
“Good girl,” Anfisa smiled. “Then off we go!”
Half an hour later, they pulled up to the building. Parking the car, Anfisa quickly helped the child unbuckle, and together they dashed through the rain toward the entrance.
On the right floor, Anfisa’s firm hand drew out the key and unlocked the door.
As if on cue, Artyom appeared in the hallway. Tousled hair, a wrinkled shirt, and bare feet betrayed his recent rest.
“What’s this? Why are you back?” he blurted out, panic in his voice, his eyes darting suspiciously toward the little girl clinging to her aunt’s leg, sandals kicked aside.
“I came home, darling,” Anfisa retorted coolly, with exaggerated nonchalance as she slipped off her wet coat. “Does that really require an explanation?”
Little Polina, eyes flashing nervously, darted into the familiar playroom.
“What the hell!” Artyom barked, taking a step forward. “You don’t belong here! Got it? Get out!”
Anfisa ignored his words as though they were nothing more than background noise. With her chin raised proudly, she strode toward the kitchen, where light spilled and the smell of food lingered.
There sat Miroslava — the Miroslava — the woman who had taken her place. Surrounded by dirty dishes, the heavily made-up interloper pretended not to notice the rightful mistress of the home as she devoured a caviar sandwich — clearly from Anfisa’s own supplies.
“How touching,” Anfisa’s voice rang like an icy bell. “Feasting at my expense? Enjoying the caviar? Quite a pricey indulgence for… a temporary guest.”
Miroslava froze for a split second, then deliberately took an even bigger bite.
“How long are you staying?” Artyom finally interjected, shifting uneasily in his chair. “Just to collect your things? Do you need help packing?” His tone tried for businesslike, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
Anfisa slowly turned to him, her gaze a scalpel.
“Charming. You seem to have forgotten whose apartment this is. Mine. Paid for with my money, while you… what was it you were doing? Oh yes, your ‘promising projects.’”
“So what?” Artyom puffed himself up with breath. “You don’t have children, but Miroslava…” he nodded toward her belly, “she’s five months along. It’s hard for her.”
“Really?” Anfisa leaned toward Miroslava with exaggerated interest. “Congratulations. Though honestly? It looks more like she’s just overeaten. But no matter—” she waved her hand dismissively—“I couldn’t care less. Your reproductive achievements are no longer my concern.”
Artyom coughed nervously. Miroslava snorted, crumbs scattering across the table.
“Please, be reasonable,” Artyom stammered. “Surely one room is enough for you? And we’ll soon need more space… for the crib…”
“Shut up,” Anfisa cut him off, her tone so sharp that he instinctively recoiled. She stepped up close, her palm resting on his cheek — a gesture of false tenderness. “How often you reproached me for not giving you an heir. Remember? ‘Incomplete family,’ ‘selfish woman’…” Her voice turned syrupy sweet. “Well then… congratulations on your newfound wholeness.” And with that, she pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.
Miroslava choked on her sandwich, coughing violently.
“I… I’ll help you pack your things!” Artyom gasped, tearing himself free.
“Forever reproaching me about children,” Anfisa no longer looked at him as she pulled out a set of keys. “I don’t care what you think of me now. Here—” she flung the keys at his feet, the jangle echoing sharply. “The keys to your old flat. Clear out of my place. Right now.”
“It’s… it’s occupied,” Artyom muttered, eyes cast down. “Rented out… contract…”
Anfisa’s eyes narrowed to slits. The crack of her slap resounded through the hallway.
“Scoundrel!” Her once even voice thundered. “So you sent me to a flat you knew was already rented? Set me up deliberately? To make me look like a fool, evicting strangers?!”
“Anfis, calm down…” Artyom began, shielding his stinging cheek.
“I don’t care where you go!” she cut him off. “Rent a hole for a night, then find another place. Or head straight to the maternity ward. They’ll give you a bed there.”
Miroslava smirked viciously, finally finding her voice.
“You won’t evict your tenants, though. There’s a contract. You love contracts, don’t you, Artyom? If you throw them out, you’ll pay a penalty. Three months’ rent. Quite a sum, hm?”
Artyom’s face flushed crimson. Miroslava slipped away into the bedroom, pretending to be busy.
“Did you hear your… lover?” Anfisa stood before him, taut as a spring. “Pack your junk. Tonight. Now. Come for the rest on Friday. Don’t be late.”
She shoved him hard in the chest. He barely caught his balance, stumbling back toward the wall.
“If you don’t come, every last thing — all your ‘memories’ of our life together — goes to the trash. You’re not registered here. To me, you’re nothing. Air. Get out!”
Head bowed, Artyom slunk into the bedroom. At once, Mirsolava darted back into the kitchen, shrill and indignant:
“She’s gone completely mad! How did you ever live with her, poor thing? Such a hysteric! And that tone! ‘My apartment’… Ha! Soon we’ll be the real owners here!” She clucked like a hen, trailing after Artyom as he dragged suitcases.
“Mira, for once do something useful instead of flapping your tongue!” he snapped, tossing a few shirts into a bag. “This mess is all because of you!”
“Me?!” Mirsolava screeched. “You’re the one who brought me here, darling! ‘We’ll relax while she’s away!’ That was your idea! And now you blame me? Did I eat the damn caviar too?!”
After half an hour of tense packing and quarrelling, the couple finally vanished.
Silence settled. Anfisa leaned against the doorframe, drawing in a deep breath, trying to still the trembling in her hands. Slowly, she made her way to the kitchen. Absentmindedly, she turned on the water and began scrubbing grease from the dishes — the mechanical movements steadied her nerves. The mess left behind by the uninvited guests irritated her, yet it gave her something solid to hold on to.
A few minutes later came the light patter of small feet.
Polina dashed out of the room, clutching a brightly colored sheet of paper.
“Auntie Fiza! Look what I drew!” she exclaimed, climbing onto a chair and solemnly holding out her picture.
Her blue eyes sparkled with unfeigned pride.
Anfisa started, shaken from her thoughts. The sight of the joyful child, her trust, melted the ice inside. A tender, genuine smile touched her lips.
“Oh, how beautiful! Show me, darling! Who did you draw?”
“This is Mommy,” Polina pointed at a figure with yellow curls. “This is me!” — her finger moved to the little figure beside it. “And this is YOU!” Her tiny finger stopped at the tallest figure, smiling from ear to ear. “This is my family! The very best!”
Anfisa froze. The words “my family” spoken with such innocent warmth washed over her like balm. Something stirred deep within — something fragile, vital. Despite all the bitterness of betrayal, a wave of sudden, pure happiness swept her. She hugged the girl tightly, pressing her close.
“Shall we take a bath?” Anfisa asked, her voice unusually soft. “With bubbles and boats?”
Polina squealed with delight.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! With pink bubbles!”
Her bright laughter rang through the apartment — once emptied, now no longer foreign. Anfisa laughed in return, easily lifting the child into her arms.
“Then let’s go pick the most fragrant bubbles! And we’ll find you the fastest boat of all!”
Together they headed to the bathroom, leaving behind anger and fear. Outside, as though echoing this change of mood, the clouds began to part; the last rays of sunlight timidly touched the wall, painting it in warm tones.
The merry laughter and splash of water filled the space, finally dispelling the heavy tension. Looking at Polina’s happy, trusting face, Anfisa suddenly understood with absolute clarity: everything would be all right. They would manage. The three of them. For now, she truly had a family. A real one.
