Lyudmila placed a cup of tea in front of her, absentmindedly stirring the now cooling liquid with a spoon. Her hand trembled slightly, and the soft clinking of metal against porcelain was the only sound in the oppressive silence of their kitchen. Their once-shared kitchen.

Thirty-five years of life lived side by side, and now… suddenly, just like that?

— Lyuda, I’ve made up my mind, — Viktor’s voice came out cold and detached, as if he no longer belonged to this home. — I need freedom. To live for myself. You have to understand…

— Understand what, Vitya? — she looked up at him, her eyes filled not so much with pain as with confusion. — Thirty-five years together, and now suddenly you want freedom? Freedom from what?

He shrugged irritably, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose — a small, familiar gesture she had seen countless times, like a mirror image.

— From all of this, — he gestured vaguely around the kitchen, as if blaming the very walls. — From obligations, from routine. I’m sixty-five, Lyuda, not much time left anymore…

— And I’m sixty-two. So what? — her voice was quiet but firm, a rhetorical question hanging between them. — Do I have more time? Am I invisible to you?

The heavy silence was shattered by the doorbell. Alexey and Maria had come over quickly, having rushed as soon as she’d called. Their father had asked to talk with them — about something important. They didn’t know what. Not yet.

— Hi, Mom! — Alyosha, tall like Viktor but with her gentle eyes, embraced Lyudmila warmly. — What’s going on here?

Maria entered cautiously, scanning her parents with worried eyes.

— We’re just having tea, — Lyudmila forced a smile. — Come in.

Viktor straightened up, putting on the “director’s face” she had always dreaded — the expression he wore when delivering bad news to employees.

— I’ve filed for divorce, — he said bluntly, the words dropping like heavy stones. — Your mother and I are separating.

Silence fell. The ticking clock on the wall suddenly sounded deafening.

— Are you out of your mind? — Maria grabbed the back of a chair for support. — Dad, you’re sixty-five! Divorce? Now?

— Age doesn’t matter, — Viktor snapped. — I deserve happiness.

Alexey remained silent, his jaw clenched tight.

— And Mom? — he finally managed to ask. — Doesn’t she deserve happiness too?

— Mom… — Viktor hesitated, glancing away. — Mom will understand. Eventually.

Lyudmila looked down at her hands — the same hands that had cooked his meals, washed his clothes, ironed his shirts, and supported him for thirty-five years. They should have held the strength of the world, but all they did was tremble over the cooling tea.

— Have you already filed the papers? — her voice was unexpectedly calm.

— Yes. And about the property… we need to discuss that too.

— Property? — Maria’s eyes widened. — You’re going to divide everything?

— By law, I’m entitled to half of what we acquired together, — Viktor said sharply.

— Including Mom’s apartment? The one she inherited from her grandmother? — Alexey stood, towering over the table.

Lyudmila raised a hand to stop him.

— Quiet, Alyosha. The papers are probably already in court, right? — she looked at Viktor. — Thirty-five years, and you didn’t even talk to me about it?

— There’s nothing to discuss, — he looked past her, cold and distant. — I’ve made up my mind.

— You know, Vitya, — Lyudmila stood and straightened her shoulders for the first time in years. — Maybe I was a shadow for thirty-five years, but shadows only make sense when you’re hiding from something. And here… — she spread her hands wide — what were you hiding from? Your so-called freedom?

The children exchanged a glance, rarely seeing their mother so strong, so resolute, with unexpected steel in her voice.

— Who is she? — Alexey blurted out suddenly.

Viktor flinched, as if struck.

— Who?

— Don’t fool us, Dad, — Maria crossed her arms. — You didn’t just wake up wanting freedom. Who is she?

— There’s no one, — Viktor answered too quickly. — This is my decision. Personal.

— Nina Sergeyevna? — Lyudmila whispered the name, her voice barely audible. — Your former secretary? I saw how you looked at her at the New Year’s party.

— Nonsense! — Viktor slammed his hand on the table. — She’s forty-three! Why would I need her?

— Oh, so you counted? — Maria’s smile was bitter. — Forty-three… are you sure?

Lyudmila shook her head slowly.

— It doesn’t matter. If you decided, you decided. But you miscalculated with the apartment, Vitya. It’s in my name. An inheritance from my mother.

— Jointly acquired! — Viktor interrupted. — We got it during the marriage.

— No, I did, — Lyudmila quietly replied. — The documents will prove it.

In the days that followed, Lyudmila’s life became an endless stream of paperwork, phone calls, and consultations with Svetlana, a close lawyer friend who worked at a reputable law firm.

Viktor moved out, taking only a few personal belongings and his computer.

— Lyuda, he’s claiming everything, — Svetlana spread out the documents. — The dacha, savings, even the apartment. I checked — we can fight for the apartment, but the rest is complicated…

— What dacha? — Lyudmila frowned. — Our dacha near Moscow? We sold that fifteen years ago. When Vitya had those business troubles.

Svetlana’s brow furrowed.

— According to the documents, the dacha is still pledged to the bank. The loan is still being repaid.

— What? — Lyudmila felt dizzy. — That’s impossible. We sold it. I remember.

— Then what is this? — Svetlana laid down a loan agreement. — A loan in your name, with the dacha as collateral. Monthly payments have been withdrawn from your account for the past fifteen years.

— From mine? — Lyudmila stared at the statements. — But I never… Oh God.

The image of Viktor handing her papers flashed in her mind. “Sign here and here, it’s just for accounting, the pensioners’ aid money will go into your account.” She signed blindly, trusting him. And he...

— He stole my money? — her voice cracked. — For fifteen years?

— Apparently, yes, — Svetlana nodded. — This changes everything. The court will side with us.

The first hearing caught Lyudmila off guard. She had never imagined standing in court not as a supportive wife, but as a plaintiff defending herself against her own husband. Viktor sat opposite her, neat and stern in his suit, accompanied by a sharp-looking lawyer like a predator ready to strike.

— All my life I provided for this family, — Viktor said confidently. — The apartment, the dacha, the savings — all from my work. My wife never worked.

Lyudmila shivered. “My wife.” Not her name, as if she were a stranger.

— And who raised the children? — she asked quietly. — Who built this home so you could work? Who cared for your mother in recent years?

Viktor waved her away like an annoying fly.

— That doesn’t count as income. I’m talking about material contribution.

— Your Honor, — Svetlana stood and presented documents. — I have evidence that radically changes this case.

Lyudmila watched her friend arrange papers with practiced fingers, methodically and precisely. The courtroom was heavy with silence.

— Here is the loan agreement in my client’s name, — Svetlana’s voice was firm. — Fifteen years ago, Viktor Pavlovich mortgaged the family dacha, taking a loan registered to his wife. These are bank statements confirming monthly payments from Lyudmila Sergeyevna’s account, totaling…

She named a sum so large it made Lyudmila’s head spin. Had she really been paying this all these years? How blindly she had trusted him.

— Impossible! — Viktor’s face twisted. — I never mortgaged anything!

— Is this your signature? — the judge asked sharply. — Experts verified it’s authentic.

— The signature… yes, but… — Viktor glanced helplessly at his lawyer, who whispered urgently.

— Your Honor, — Viktor’s lawyer said, — even if the loan exists, it was taken during the marriage, so...

— Meaning both parties are responsible, — Svetlana interrupted. — Yet all payments came solely from Lyudmila’s account. Furthermore, — she pulled out another folder — bank staff confirmed Viktor personally requested the change of debit account to his wife’s without her knowledge.

Murmurs filled the courtroom. Viktor’s face paled, his confident mask cracking.

— Dad, how could you? — Maria, sitting front row, looked at him in disbelief. — You deceived Mom for fifteen years?

Viktor said nothing, only tugged at his tie as if suffocating.

— And that’s not all, — Svetlana added. — We have proof the supposed sale money of the dacha never entered family accounts. Viktor created a false story to explain the disappearance of property.

— Where did the money go, Vitya? — Lyudmila looked straight at him. — You said it was business troubles. What business?

Viktor’s lawyer frantically took notes, but Viktor sat with his head bowed, looking years older in minutes.

— Anything to say, Viktor Pavlovich? — the judge asked.

— I… I wanted to recover it all, — his voice was weak. — Investments failed. Other problems came…

— Like Nina Sergeyevna? — Lyudmila’s whisper cut through the silence like a gunshot.

Viktor lifted his head sharply.

— What does she have to do with it? Yes, we had a relationship, but I didn’t spend family money on her!

— Today’s ruling, — the judge called order with the gavel. — We only discuss property now.

But Lyudmila no longer listened. Her mind replayed fifteen years of lies, fraud, and double life. While she scrimped and saved to pay an unknown loan, Viktor...

— How long, Vitya? — she couldn’t hold back. — Nina Sergeyevna — five years? Ten?

— Two, — he said without looking up. — But it’s not about her…

— Then what, Vitya? — bitterness spilled over. — Freedom? You were free already — free to lie, steal from your wife, live a double life!

Alexey stood and placed a hand on her shoulder.

— Mom, don’t. He’s not worth your tears.

— I’m not crying, son, — Lyudmila touched her dry eyes, surprised. — Imagine that. I’m really not crying.

That realization hit her hardest. Where was the pain of betrayal? The heartbreak? Instead, a strange lightness — as if the heavy burden she’d carried for decades was finally lifted.

— Your Honor, — Viktor’s lawyer began, — despite circumstances, my client still claims part of the joint property...

— What part exactly? — Lyudmila interrupted sharply. — The pension money I paid to cover your mother’s care? Or the apartment I inherited? What else do you want, Vitya?

Viktor stared at the floor, shoulders slumped. For the first time in thirty-five years, she saw him vulnerable, caught, stripped of his facade.

— Lyuda, I didn’t know it would end like this, — he muttered. — Fifteen years ago, money was needed urgently... I thought I’d repay it quickly.

— And you took out a loan in my name? — she said bitterly. — Then why didn’t you tell me? Ten years ago? Five? Yesterday?

— I was ashamed, — he shrugged, the gesture foreign to her, as if a stranger sat before her. — Then time passed, and admitting it became harder.

— It was easier to lie, — Alexey finished for him. — Mom, hear that? He was ashamed. Of himself, not you.

The judge struck the gavel:

— Considering the evidence, the court rules: the apartment, inherited before marriage, remains Lyudmila Sergeyevna’s sole property. The loan on the dacha is Viktor Pavlovich’s personal debt, with compensation to Lyudmila for all payments made, adjusted for inflation...

The words floated to Lyudmila as if through cotton. She looked at her husband — no, ex-husband — and saw herself too: a woman who lived thirty-five years with her eyes closed, afraid to see the truth.

When the session ended, Viktor tried to approach her.

— Lyuda, let’s talk. Alone.

— About what, Vitya? — she looked at him without warmth or hatred. — We had thirty-five years for talks. You chose silence.

— Dad, go away, — Maria stepped between them. — Haven’t you done enough?

— I didn’t want to hurt you, — Viktor said sincerely. Lyudmila felt it was true.

— You know what’s strange? — she smiled bitterly. — I believe you. You didn’t want to hurt me. You wanted it all: a family as a cover, freedom for your affairs. Thirty-five years you almost had it all.

They left the courthouse — Lyudmila, the children, and Svetlana. The April sun blinded her momentarily, and she shielded her eyes. When she lowered her hand, the world seemed brighter than before.

— Mom, come have lunch? — Alexey offered. — Lena baked your favorite apple pie.

— No, son, — she shook her head. — I need to think.

— Alone? — Maria asked worriedly. — Maybe I’ll come with you?

— You know, — Lyudmila hugged her daughter, — I think I was afraid of being alone all my life. Now… I want to try. That’s freedom too, right?

At home, Lyudmila opened all the windows wide, letting fresh spring air fill the rooms. She took down their wedding photo from the wall and looked long at the young, hopeful faces. Then she carefully put the photo away in the closet.

— Freedom, — she said aloud, tasting the word. — So that’s what you wanted, Vitya? Well, I’m going to try it too.

A week later, an envelope arrived in the mailbox. Inside was a check for a large sum and a note.

“This is just the beginning of payments. Sorry, if you can. V.”

She smirked at the familiar handwriting. Apologies and money — so typical of Vitya. She set the check aside — it might help with the repairs she had postponed for years. The note, she crumpled and threw away.

That evening, Maria called.

— Mom, Alexey and I thought... you’ve never been to Europe, though you always dreamed of it. Maybe we should go together? You and me to Paris first, then Alexey and Lena with the kids will join us later.

— To Paris? — Lyudmila laughed. — You know what? Let’s do it! But... I think I’ll settle into my freedom here first.

— Here? — Maria sounded puzzled.

— Yes, here. In my freedom. — Lyudmila smiled softly. — It’s a whole new world, Mashenka. And I’m sixty-two — not too late to explore it.

She hung up and stood by the window, the city spread before her, alive with lights and endless possibilities. Thirty-five years ago, she had chosen to live behind her husband’s back. Now she was choosing herself. It didn’t frighten her — it stirred her blood like the champagne at that distant wedding where it all began.

For the first time in many years, Lyudmila felt not bitterness over her husband’s “freedom,” but gratitude — for his leaving and accidentally giving her a real life. Her own life, earned through decades of sacrifice and dedication. A life that was only just beginning.