I quietly closed the apartment door behind me. The late visit to the pediatrician had exhausted both of us—me, and my tiny son, Kirill, who was now peacefully asleep in my arms. I crept down the hallway, trying not to wake him, hoping Igor wasn’t asleep yet and could help me transfer the baby to his crib.
The apartment was dim, wrapped in the familiar, comforting twilight of late evening. I was tired, bone-tired, but there was a warmth in my chest—that feeling of home, of family, of safety. I loved these quiet hours when the world was asleep and it was just us.
As I passed the kitchen, I heard voices. Muffled at first. I thought maybe Igor had left the TV on. But then, his voice became distinct. And then, a woman’s laugh.
I froze. My feet felt like they had been nailed to the floorboards. My heart started a frantic, terrified drumming against my ribs. Who could be here this late?
I moved silently to the kitchen doorway and listened.
“Come on, Katya,” Igor was saying, his voice smooth, confident—the voice he used when he was closing a deal. “Everything will be fine. I’ll be divorced soon, and we’ll be together.”
My breath caught in my throat. Katya? Divorced?
“Are you sure?” a woman’s voice purred, coy and sickeningly sweet. “What about Natasha? You know she loves you so much. And the baby…”
I felt bile rise in my throat. I leaned against the wall to keep from falling.
“Natasha?” Igor snorted, a sound of pure contempt. “Please. She’s let herself go completely. She sits at home all day with that kid. She’s turned into a gray mouse. No spark, no life. And the apartment? Don’t worry, babe. I’ll kick her out tomorrow. You’ll be the mistress here. You like it here, don’t you?”
I couldn’t breathe. Each word was a physical blow, a knife twisting in my heart. I stood there, pressed against the cold wall, tears streaming silently down my face. Was this real? Was the man I loved, the man I trusted with my life, really saying these things?
He continued, showering this “Katya” with compliments, promising her a golden future—my future.
I felt hollowed out. Devastated. Humiliated. All my dreams of a happy family, of growing old together, crumbled into dust in seconds. My first instinct was to run. Just grab Kirill and run as far away as I could. But where? I had no money, no job, nowhere to go at 11 PM with an infant.
I forced myself to move away from the door. I couldn’t let him hear me. Not now. I needed to think.
I went to the nursery and gently laid Kirill in his crib. He didn’t even stir. I looked at his innocent, sleeping face, and a fierce new emotion surged through me, pushing aside the despair. Protection. How was I going to protect him from a father who saw us as disposable?
I went to our bedroom. I needed to pack. Just the essentials. I couldn’t stay here tonight. I couldn’t look at him.
As I was throwing clothes into a small suitcase, my hands shaking uncontrollably, I remembered something. My phone. I’d had it in my hand when I walked in. I checked it. It had been recording. I must have hit the button by accident when I froze. I had it all. Every word.
I finished packing in five minutes. I picked up Kirill, wrapped him in a blanket, and slipped out of the apartment as silently as a ghost.
I stood on the street, shivering in the cool night air, and called my best friend, Olya.
She answered on the fourth ring, her voice thick with sleep. “Natasha? What’s wrong? It’s midnight.”
“Olya,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I need help. I don’t know what to do.”
“What happened? Tell me.”
I told her everything, choking on sobs between words.
“Don’t move,” she said instantly, her voice hard and awake now. “I’m calling you a taxi. You’re coming here. Right now.”
The Fortress
Olya’s apartment was warm, safe, and smelled of coffee. She put Kirill to bed in her guest room and then sat me down at the kitchen table with a steaming mug.
“Okay,” she said, her eyes fierce. “Tell me again. Everything.”
I told her. The conversation. The “Katya.” The plan to kick me out tomorrow.
“He thinks he can just throw you out?” Olya scoffed. “Over my dead body. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”
Olya is a paralegal. She knows the law better than some lawyers.
“First of all,” she said, “you own half that apartment. It was bought during the marriage. It doesn’t matter whose name is on the mortgage; it’s marital property. He can’t just ‘kick you out.'”
“But he said…”
“He’s an idiot,” she interrupted. “He’s a confident, arrogant idiot who thinks he can bully you. We’re not going to let him.”
We stayed up all night, formulating a plan. I didn’t sleep anyway. I just kept replaying his words in my head. Gray mouse. Let herself go.
By morning, the sadness had hardened into a cold, sharp anger.
“Today,” Olya said over breakfast, “we change the locks.”
“What? But… can we do that?”
“It’s your apartment too. You have every right to secure your home, especially if you feel threatened. And frankly, a man planning to make you homeless is a threat.”
We waited until Igor left for work. Then we went back.
The locksmith was there in twenty minutes. While he worked, I packed up Igor’s things. His clothes, his shoes, his precious cologne collection. I put it all in boxes by the door.
It felt like I was packing up my life, erasing seven years of marriage in an afternoon. But every time I faltered, I just replayed that recording. I’ll kick her out tomorrow.
By 5 PM, the new locks were installed. I was sitting at the kitchen table, Olya beside me, waiting.
At 7 PM, the key scratched against the lock. It didn’t turn.
I heard him jiggle it. Then pound on the door.
“Natasha! Open the door! What the hell is going on?”
I walked to the door, but I didn’t open it. “You don’t live here anymore, Igor.”
“What are you talking about? Are you crazy? Open this door right now or I’ll break it down!”
“Go ahead,” Olya called out. “We’ve already called the police. They’re on their way.”
He pounded for another ten minutes, screaming threats, calling me names. When the police arrived, he tried to play the victim. “It’s my apartment! She locked me out!”
I opened the door then, just a crack. I showed the officers my ID, the baby. “He’s been threatening us,” I said calmly. “We’re getting a divorce. I don’t feel safe with him here.”
The officers told him it was a civil matter and he needed to leave for the night. He left, furious, promising to “destroy me” in court.
The Court Battle
He filed for divorce the next day, demanding everything. The apartment, full custody (just to spite me, I knew he didn’t want to raise a baby alone), and zero alimony. He claimed I was “unstable” and “unfit.”
My lawyer, recommended by Olya, was a shark. At the first hearing, Igor’s lawyer gave a grand speech about my “erratic behavior” and how I had “stolen” his client’s home.
Then, my lawyer played the recording.
The courtroom went dead silent. Igor’s face turned a color I’d never seen before—a mix of purple and gray. His lawyer actually put his head in his hands.
The judge listened to every word. The insults. The plans to make his wife and newborn homeless. The affair.
When it was over, the judge looked at Igor over her glasses. “Mr. Volkov,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain, “your conduct is reprehensible.”
The ruling was a landslide. I got the apartment. I got full primary custody. He got supervised visitation every other weekend and a massive alimony and child support payment.
He tried to fight it, but the recording was a nail in his coffin.
Katya, by the way? The moment she found out he wasn’t getting the apartment and was now saddled with huge support payments, she vanished. Apparently, her love was conditional on real estate.
Rebuilding
I won the war, but the peace was hard.
Living in that apartment alone, with just Kirill, was strange at first. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was heavy. It was the sound of a life that had ended.
But slowly, it started to feel like healing.
I needed money. The alimony helped, but I didn’t want to rely on him forever.
Olya, my guardian angel, helped me find online courses in marketing—something I’d always been interested in but never pursued because Igor said it was “a waste of time.”
I studied at night while Kirill slept. I learned SEO, social media management, copywriting. I started taking small freelance jobs. It was terrifying, putting myself out there after years of being told I was nothing, but every completed project, every paid invoice, built a little more of my confidence back.
One day, a year later, I got a job offer. A real, full-time position at a small marketing firm. It meant putting Kirill in daycare, which broke my heart a little, but Olya reminded me: “He needs a happy mom more than he needs a mom who’s home 24/7 and miserable.”
She was right.
Kirill loved daycare. He made friends. And I loved my job. I was good at it. I wasn’t a “gray mouse” anymore. I was Natasha, capable, creative, and independent.
Moving On
One evening, two years after the divorce, I was sitting on my balcony with a glass of wine. Kirill was asleep. The city lights were twinkling below.
My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
Hi Natasha. It’s Igor. I just wanted to ask how Kirill is. Can I see him?
I stared at the screen. I hadn’t heard from him in six months. He’d stopped using his visitation rights almost immediately—it was too much “hassle” for him.
I didn’t feel anger anymore. I just felt… nothing. Indifference. He was a stranger who used to know me.
I blocked the number.
A few minutes later, my doorbell rang. I tensed, worried it might be him.
I looked through the peephole. It was Sasha, a colleague from work. We’d been collaborating on a big project, and he’d started finding excuses to give me rides home, to bring me coffee. He was kind, funny, and he never, ever made me feel small.
He was holding a bouquet of simple wildflowers.
“I know you had a rough week with the deadline,” he said when I opened the door, smiling sheepishly. “Thought these might cheer you up.”
I smiled. A real, genuine smile that reached my eyes. “They do,” I said. “Come in.”
We sat and talked for hours. I felt something inside me, something I thought had died that night in the hallway, start to uncurl. Hope.
Kirill is five now. He barely remembers his father, and honestly, that’s a blessing. Sasha is the one who taught him to ride a bike. Sasha is the one who reads him bedtime stories. We’re getting married next spring.
I still live in the apartment, but it doesn’t feel like Igor’s anymore. We painted the walls. We bought new furniture. It’s our home now.
Sometimes, I think back to that night. The pain was so unbearable I thought it would kill me. But it didn’t. It set me free.
If you’re standing in a hallway right now, listening to something that breaks your heart, know this: It is not the end. It might just be the terrible, necessary beginning of the rest of your life.
Grab your baby, grab your dignity, and don’t forget to hit record.