Anna pulled her keys from her purse and quietly opened the apartment door, careful not to wake Sergey. The hallway was dim, carrying the familiar scent of late-night reheated takeout — spicy pilaf, most likely. His boots were left near the entry, one lying awkwardly as if tossed aside in a hurry. She gently moved them closer to the wall and slipped off her coat.

In the kitchen, dishes were stacked high in the sink. Anna sighed, already knowing it had been his turn to clean up. But as always, saying nothing meant tomorrow would look just the same. The kettle began to boil, and for a moment, she considered making tea — a comforting distraction. “No,” she told herself. “Not tonight. Enough is enough.”

In the bedroom, Sergey was asleep, stretched out across the bed. His phone, resting beside him, blinked repeatedly with notifications. Probably his mother again — reminders about groceries, or gentle scolding about not calling. Anna stood there, watching his peaceful expression, the faint hint of a smile as he slept. How odd, she thought, that he could rest so easily, while her mind raced with what she had just learned.

Earlier that day, as she left work, she found herself in the elevator with a neighbor — a slender woman in a dark coat adorned with shiny buttons. They had passed each other before but never spoken.

“Oh, you’re Sergey’s wife, aren’t you?” the woman asked with a smile.

“Yes, and you are…?”

“Valentina Petrovna, from across the hall. I’ve lived here forever, yet we rarely run into each other.”

Anna nodded politely. The elevator began its slow descent. Valentina continued smiling, clearly waiting to say more.

“It’s nice you and Sergey moved into his mom’s place. It was sitting empty for years. Now, finally, there’s some life in it again.”

Anna froze.

“His mother’s apartment?” she asked.

“Yes, Olga Vyacheslavovna. She bought it in the nineties. First Sergey lived here with his ex. Now it’s you!”

The elevator reached the ground floor. Anna almost forgot to step out. Valentina said something else, but it didn’t register.

One thought rang in her head: she hadn’t been paying rent — she had been paying her husband. Every payment for the past two years had gone directly into his family’s hands.

Back at home, the silence was heavy. She didn’t go to the bedroom. Instead, she opened her laptop and sat on the couch. Navigating to the tax office’s site, she entered the apartment’s address and Sergey’s mother’s full name.

A few minutes later, the screen displayed:

Owner: Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova.

Anna stared at the result.

Everything made sense now.

But confronting him without a plan wouldn’t help.

She closed the laptop and looked around. This was the home she’d helped build — the bookshelves she’d arranged, the cozy blanket she’d picked out, the lamp casting a warm glow. All of it, bought with her own money.

Sergey still slept soundly in the next room.

Anna sat back, her hands clasped.

It was time to think — carefully.

Because some truths couldn’t be ignored.

The next morning, she woke up early. Sergey was still curled up in bed, surrounded by pillows. She walked into the kitchen.

The room was chilly. Crumbs from his late-night snack lingered on the table, next to a half-finished bottle of beer. Anna tossed it into the trash and reached for her phone.

“Hello, I’d like to confirm some details about our apartment,” she said when the management company answered.

The woman on the line replied pleasantly, unaware of anything unusual.

“Yes, the property is under the name of Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova. Payments are up to date.”

Anna thanked her and hung up. Her heart pounded faster. The neighbor had been telling the truth all along.

Back in the bedroom, she opened Sergey’s drawer and sifted through old receipts and junk mail until she found a folder labeled with financial papers. Carefully, she pulled one out.

It listed a “Utility payment” from a card belonging to Olga Vyacheslavovna.

Anna returned it to its place without leaving a trace.

A short while later, Sergey entered the kitchen, yawning.

“Morning,” he said, squinting.

“Good morning,” Anna replied with a smile, acting as if nothing had changed.

She watched him pour water and scroll through his phone while resting his elbows on the table.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said gently. “Maybe we should look into buying a place. We’ve been paying 80,000 every month — wouldn’t it make more sense to invest that into our own apartment?”

Sergey hesitated briefly, then shrugged.

“Well, a mortgage can be complicated. There’s paperwork, interest rates…”

“But in the end, we’d own something. Not keep giving money to someone else,” she said, watching his expression.

He turned his eyes back to his phone.

“Let’s think about it, at least?” she added. “Maybe we can talk to the owner, work something out? You must know who they are.”

His only response was a slight tension in his neck.

“Well, you see…” he began, “it’s not that simple…”

Anna studied him for a moment, then walked to the window.

“No, I understand,” she said. “Perfectly.”

Outside, snow drifted slowly to the ground. Sergey made an excuse about work and left.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Anna called her friend.

“Masha, are you free?”

“Sure, what’s going on?”

“Do you have a private meeting room at the office?”

There was a pause, then laughter.

“Anna, you’re scaring me. Come over.”

Half an hour later, Anna sat across from Maria in a cluttered meeting space. Maria tapped her phone while listening.

“So… the apartment belongs to his mother, and she never signed any lease. Technically, you’re just staying there.”

“But I’ve been paying,” Anna said.

“Yes, and it’s worse than that.” Maria looked up sharply. “You’ve been giving your husband money he had no right to take.”

Anna nodded.

“So what now?” Maria asked.

Anna smiled slightly. “Now, I make sure those two years weren’t wasted.”

“How?”

Anna pulled a sheet of paper toward her, flattened it out, and wrote at the top: Plan of Action.

Maria leaned in.

“I like that smile,” she said.

Anna began writing. She had a plan now.

She spent two weeks pretending everything was normal — cooking, laughing, chatting as usual. But she started watching carefully. Sergey flinched when money was mentioned, shrugged off her rent transfers as he bought new gadgets, and never once brought up the apartment’s ownership.

On day three, he returned with a bag from a fancy store.

“New sneakers?” Anna asked lightly.

“Yeah, there was a sale,” he replied.

She nodded, then added casually, “Maybe we should contact the landlord about a lease. Just in case the price goes up.”

Sergey paused, then brushed it off.

“No need. Everything’s fine.”

Anna took note of every word.

The evening before rent was due, she surprised him with a dinner invitation.

They rarely went to upscale places, but Sergey agreed. Why not? Free meal, right?

The restaurant was elegant. Anna picked a window seat with a city view.

“What should we toast to?” he asked.

“To family,” she said softly.

They ordered. Conversation was light — until she leaned in.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Maybe we should just buy this apartment.”

He froze again but tried to recover.

“Well, a mortgage is a big deal…”

“Maybe the owner would agree to a good price?” she suggested innocently.

He shifted in his seat.

“Why this all of a sudden?”

Anna tilted her head, voice calm.

“Remind me — who exactly have we been sending money to for the last two years?”

Sergey avoided her gaze.

“You send it, right? Who’s the recipient?”

He hesitated. She waited.

“Is it your mother?” she asked softly.

Silence.

“Just be honest.”

After a pause, he muttered, “Well… yes.”

Anna nodded as if finally confirming what she already knew. She reached into her bag and placed an envelope on the table.

“My last payment. You won’t see another cent.”

He didn’t speak. She stood, grabbed her things, and walked out.

He remained at the table, holding the envelope.

She didn’t pack right away. Calmly, she waited, observing how he began avoiding conversations, staying up late, acting as if she might forget everything.

She wouldn’t.

On Friday, Anna visited the bank. She had already moved their funds into her private account. Now, she met with the property manager.

“I’d like a copy of our lease,” she said.

The woman checked her files.

“There is no lease. The apartment isn’t registered as being rented.”

That was all Anna needed to hear.

Back home, her suitcase was ready. It held only personal items. Everything else — the shared furniture, decorations — she left behind.

Sergey entered and saw the suitcase.

“Going somewhere?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m leaving,” she replied.

He blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“I won’t live in a place I’ve been paying rent on to your mother without knowing it.”

He started to respond, but Anna didn’t let him.

“I transferred 960,000 in two years. You could’ve told me the truth. We could’ve shared the bills. But instead, you took advantage.”

“That’s not how it was…”

“It is,” she said firmly.

He stepped closer, unsure.

“I didn’t want it to seem like I was the one supporting you… We agreed to split things evenly.”

“Evenly?” she laughed. “You paid your mother, and I paid you. Some equality.”

She picked up her suitcase.

“Anna, wait!”

He reached out but let go.

“You could’ve just been honest,” she said one last time.

Then she left.

Thirty minutes later, Anna was sitting in a modest studio. No designer finishes. No oversized television. But there was peace. Space. And clarity.

Her phone buzzed.

“Son, where’s Anna?”
It was from Olga.

Anna smiled.

Let them figure it out. It was no longer her concern.