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Story 05/02/2026 17:36

My husband was secretly copying my apartment papers. I slipped divorce documents to him instead of a power of attorney!

My husband was secretly copying my apartment papers. I slipped divorce documents to him instead of a power of attorney!

“Aren’t you ashamed?” Arina turned from the stove; the skimmer in her hand was trembling. “Seriously, Igor? You’re doing this again?” “Again, not again… we’re supposed to live honestly somehow,” he grumbled. “Are we a family or not?” “A family is trust,” she said evenly, though inside she was seething. “Not one person digging through the other’s papers. The apartment is mine. I bought it before we got married. I’ve explained it to you a hundred times.” “‘My apartment,’ ‘my money,’ ‘my life.’” Igor twisted his mouth. “So what am I here—just some tenant who answered an ad?” Arina exhaled and turned away so she wouldn’t snap. October beyond the window was the color of cooled steel. Dusk came quickly; the kitchen was lit by a dim bulb that flickered now and then. She noted it absently—she should finally replace it—then smirked at herself. “Should” had become one of those forever-words. Just like her talks with Igor: the same loop, on repeat. “You know,” she said, leaning over the pot, “if it’s really that tight for you, you can move in with your mother. Over there nothing’s divided yet—maybe you’ll get your ‘honesty’ there.” Igor slammed his palm down on the table. The crack was loud enough to make a plate jump. “Your mother again!” he barked. “Because at least there, things are done with decency—not like with you, where it’s everyone for themselves!” Arina set the skimmer down hard and turned, staring him straight in the eyes. “Decency? That’s what you call decency—eavesdropping, rummaging in the drawer with my documents, asking where my safe is? That’s ‘honest’ to you?” He looked away but didn’t answer. Silence thickened, heavy and sticky. Somewhere a faucet dripped; the ticking wall clock sounded like thunder. Arina understood—this wasn’t random. He’d prepared it. He’d been waiting for the right moment. For weeks now he’d been… clingy. Always hovering, always cracking little jokes about “our property,” “our capital,” “our future.” Only the longer it went on, the more greed leaked through those jokes. And anxiety, too. She stepped away from the stove, leaned back against the counter, folded her arms. “Alright. No lace, no hints. What do you want? Bullet points.” “Just… well…” Igor scratched the back of his head, stalled, then blurted it out. “I want the apartment to be registered to both of us. We live together anyway—you’re not planning to kick me out.” Arina gave a short laugh.“I’m not planning to—yet. But talks like this are really helping the process move faster.” “There you go, threatening again.” He rolled his eyes theatrically. “I’m just saying what I think. Any normal wife would understand.”
“And any normal wife is supposed to hand over everything she earned just because her husband feels ‘awkward’?” Her voice rang with dry irony. “Maybe I should sign it over to your mother too, so you both sleep peacefully?” He wanted to answer, but nothing came. He just paced the kitchen, back and forth, as if searching for something to lash out at. “You’re like a robot. Everything calculated, spreadsheeted, like a report. Even feelings—scheduled.” “Yeah,” she smirked. “I’m an accountant, what did you expect? Besides, if I hadn’t counted every ruble and every step, we wouldn’t have an apartment, a safety cushion, or a decent life.” Arina fell quiet. For a second she thought she might cry, but she pressed her lips together, drew a breath, and let it out through clenched teeth. “You want the truth? Yes. Mine. I earned it. Years of grinding, no weekends. And yes, I put it in my name. Because I know how fast people change when money enters the room.” He turned away as if offended. “Fine. Don’t be surprised if I start thinking about myself too.” “Think,” Arina cut him off. “Just don’t do it at my expense.” After that, the air in the apartment changed—as if someone third had moved in. Not a person, not an object: distrust. It lived in every phrase, every glance, every “Where are you going?” and “Why do you need to know that?” Igor grew careful, softer—too soft. One day he showed up with roses “just because.” Then he started taking out the trash, washing dishes. Arina got wary. That kind of change doesn’t happen overnight for a man who’d been pounding the table and demanding “equality” a week earlier. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. How he lingered on his phone longer than usual. How he made calls on the balcony. How he would casually ask, “So… where do we keep the copy of the contract?” like it was nothing. Once, opening his laptop, he “accidentally” (or not) left a tab open to the Rosreestr website. Arina noticed and said nothing. Let him keep playing innocent. On Sunday Igor said his mother, Tatyana Pavlovna, was coming “for a couple of days.” Arina sighed. His mother had a temper. Pleasant on the surface, poisonous underneath—every word like a needle dipped in venom. The first time they met, Tatyana Pavlovna had said right away:“Well, at least my son didn’t pick you up off the street. An apartment—that’s already a plus.” Since then, Arina kept her distance. When Tatyana Pavlovna appeared at the door—wool coat, heavy bag, that familiar superior smile—Arina tensed on the inside. “Arishenka, hi,” the mother-in-law drawled sweetly. “How are you lovebirds? Everything the same?” “Yes, everything’s great,” Arina replied with a tight smile. “Come in.”
“And I keep thinking,” Tatyana Pavlovna continued while taking off her shoes, “maybe it’s time you expanded? A two-bedroom is a bit small for a family—especially once children come.” “We’re fine as we are,” Arina said, opening the closet. “Mhm,” the mother-in-law snorted. “Though if you sell this place, you could buy something bigger, renovated. I was looking—there are wonderful options.” Arina turned sharply. “Excuse me—sell this place?” “Sure,” Tatyana Pavlovna shrugged. “Why stay in an old building? Panel block, cramped. You’d sell and buy new. A realtor I know can help, by the way.” Arina froze. She couldn’t believe the conversation had reached its target that fast. It was too smooth. “Thanks,” she said calmly. “But we’re not selling anything.” “As you wish,” the mother-in-law drew out, giving Arina a look she already hated—evaluating, like she was pricing someone else’s property. “It’s just that later it might be too late… prices could drop…”Arina turned away and went to the kitchen just to keep from saying something she’d regret. Her heart was hammering like she’d been running.Kitchen supplies .And for the first time, the thought flashed through her mind: They’re planning something. That evening Igor and his mother sat in the living room watching TV. Arina was making tea when she heard their voices. Tatyana Pavlovna was speaking quietly, but with pressure in every syllable: “You’re too soft, Igoryok. She twists you around her finger. If you were a real man, you’d have gotten everything sorted out long ago.” “Mom, stop,” he whispered. “Not now.” “And why not?” she said without blinking. “She’s not a stranger to you. By law and by decency, the apartment should be shared.” Arina stood behind the door, barely breathing. “Just try it,” she thought. “Just try to get into my papers.” A few evenings later Igor began “casually,” like it meant nothing:“Listen, Arin… where do we keep those… you know, the apartment papers? I wanted to show a friend. He’s messing with a mortgage and asked how yours is оформлено—how it’s registered.” Arina didn’t lift her eyes from the laptop. “Which papers exactly?” “Well—ownership certificate, proof it’s yours, all that.” “And why can’t he use the internet? Everything’s there,” she said dryly. “I could, but it’s easier to show a real example. You don’t mind, right?” Arina looked up. His gaze was too direct. Too calm. “Strange,” she said. “Usually you hate paperwork. Now you’re suddenly interested.” “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Just want to help a friend. What’s the big deal?” Arina slowly closed her laptop.“The papers are in the safe. And they’ll stay there.” “Arin, you’re acting like you don’t trust me.” His voice filled with theatrical hurt. “We’re family.”
“Did I say I don’t trust you? I just don’t see why anyone needs to look at documents for my apartment.” “Our apartment,” he corrected softly. “No,” she cut him off. “Mine.” Igor sighed, stood, walked to the window. “You do realize you’re destroying the relationship like this,” he said, staring outside. “You’re getting suspicious. I just wanted to help someone, and you’re interrogating me.” “Mhm,” Arina hummed. “Only what’s interesting is this: you never cared where any documents were before. And now you suddenly remember.” He went quiet, then muttered:“Do what you want.” The next day Arina went to work with a heavy feeling. Everything inside her warned her: something is wrong. Over the past weeks Igor had become someone else. One minute he joked about how “everything in the house is registered to the wife,” the next he complained that he felt “uncomfortable living in someone else’s place.” Then—roses, tenderness, sweetness. And now—papers again. “I don’t believe in coincidences like that,” she thought on a packed morning bus. “First the interest, then kindness as a mask. This is preparation.” At the office she looked composed, but her mind kept spinning: what could he be plotting? The apartment wasn’t joint property—it had been bought before marriage. But if he somehow got her signature—through a power of attorney, for example… then things could get ugly. Did his mother put him up to it? Arina thought, remembering that evening conversation. That same Tatyana Pavlovna, who lived by one rule: “Everything should be equal—especially when other people have more.” By evening Arina came home ready for a fight. But the apartment was quiet—almost suspiciously so.In the kitchen, dinner was laid out. Igor wore an apron. The oven smelled like roasted meat.“Hi, sweetheart!” he said brightly. “Surprise.” “Uh-huh,” Arina replied cautiously. “What’s the occasion?” “I just want to make peace. You were upset yesterday, and I… well, I was an idiot. I snapped.” He came closer, hugged her, kissed her temple. “I don’t want to fight.” Arina gave a restrained smile. “Sure. You don’t. You just keep doing the opposite.” They sat down to eat. The food was good—he’d clearly tried. They were silent for five minutes, and then he started again: “Listen… hypothetically—purely hypothetically—if you ever decided to sell the apartment… how would you do it?” “Hypothetically?” she narrowed her eyes. “Why do you need to know?” “Just curious. Serёga at work is selling his. Says brokers trick people, slip in shady papers. I want to warn him so he doesn’t get burned.” “Right,” she nodded. “And how are you going to ‘warn’ him if you don’t understand any of it yourself?” He shrugged, but a flicker of irritation passed through his eyes.
“That’s why I’m asking. I want to figure it out.” Arina set her fork down and looked him straight in the face. “Igor, tell me honestly. Is this really about Serёga?” “Yes. Who else would it be about?” he frowned. “Maybe you.” “There you go again…” He pushed back from the table and went to the window. “I’m tired of you turning everything into an interrogation.” Arina watched him without a word, then stood and carried her plate to the sink. “Fine,” she said calmly. “But keep this in mind: if I hear you mention documents one more time, the conversation will be different.” “Are you threatening me?” “I’m warning you.” A couple of days later, in the evening, he called her at work. “Arin, will you be late today?” His voice sounded normal, but there was a strange pressure underneath. “I’ll be home in about two hours. Why?” “Oh, nothing. I just wanted to meet you.” Arina tensed. “Everything okay?” “Of course. I just miss you.” Miss me, sure, she thought. Coming from you, that’s a whole performance. But when she got home, there really was a fruit basket in the hall, candles on the table, dinner—everything perfect. Only sincerity was missing. It all looked too… staged. The next day was Saturday. Arina decided to clean while Igor slept. She opened the cabinet in the living room, pulled out the bottom drawer—and froze. Inside were copies of her documents: her passport, an extract from Rosreestr, a copy of the loan agreement. Neatly arranged in a clear plastic folder. Cold ran down her spine. She pulled the folder out and checked—yes, all real. Just copies, not originals. Which meant he’d made them. Without asking. “So that’s how the fairytale begins,” she muttered. At that moment, a yawn came from the bedroom. Igor was awake. She quickly put the papers back, sat on the couch, and pretended to flip through a magazine. “Morning,” he said, walking into the kitchen. “Why do you look so gloomy?”“Just thinking.” “About what?” “About trust,” Arina said softly, not looking at him. “Funny thing. You live with someone, and then you find something you weren’t supposed to find.” He stopped. “What do you mean?” “Nothing,” she smirked. “Just thinking out loud.” He went to the window and lit a cigarette. You could see it—he’d gone tense. That evening Tatyana Pavlovna showed up again. Unannounced. “So, Igor and I decided,” she said cheerfully the second she stepped inside, “that you two need to discuss something.” Arina crossed her arms. “Like what?” “Future plans,” the mother-in-law said, dropping onto the sofa like she owned it. “You’re young. You should think ahead.” “We already do,” Arina snapped.
“Yeah, I can tell. Old apartment, Soviet furniture, the renovation is crying,” Tatyana Pavlovna rolled her eyes. “I’m thinking maybe you should sell and buy a new-build. Igor said his realtor friend can help.” Arina turned to her husband. “He said that, did he?” Igor hesitated. “Well… I just mentioned it…” “Interesting,” Arina said, looking straight into the mother-in-law’s eyes. “And why am I the last one to hear about it?” “Because you immediately go on the attack,” Tatyana Pavlovna sighed. “Everything feels like someone’s trying to trick you.” “And you are,” Arina said calmly. “You’re just not very good at hiding it.” Tatyana Pavlovna snorted. “Ungrateful. We mean well, and you—” “Thanks, I’ll manage,” Arina cut in. “I can calculate my own ‘well’ without you.” Igor stood between them like a schoolboy at roll call, not knowing where to look. “Mom, enough,” he breathed. “You see it’s not the time.” “I think it’s exactly the time,” she replied without blinking. “While you still have the documents nearby, you can get everything done quickly—before prices collapse.” Arina walked to the door and said coldly: “Tatyana Pavlovna, the exit is the same way you came in.” The mother-in-law stood, adjusted her bag. “You’ll regret this, girl,” she said, and left. The door slammed. Silence. A ringing in Arina’s ears. She stood there, staring at her husband. “Alright, Igor. No mother, no poetry. Tell me honestly: did the two of you decide to sell my apartment?” “Are you insane?” he flared up. “That’s her fantasies!” “Fantasies?” Arina clenched her fists. “Then why were you making copies of my documents?” He flinched. “How do you—” “Doesn’t matter. Answer.” Silence. Long. He lowered his head. “I just wanted to protect myself. In case something happens…” “What?” Arina laughed without humor. “In case I stop trusting you? Too late, Igor. I already have.” He tried to speak, but couldn’t. Arina looked at him for a long moment—hurt, exhausted. “That’s it,” she said quietly. “Now I understand who you really are.” Only she still didn’t know it was just beginning. And that what lay ahead wasn’t a simple scandal—it was a real war for her home, her life, and her right to trust anyone at all. “Arin, wait—don’t do anything rash,” Igor stood in the middle of the room, pale as chalk. “Let’s talk calmly.” “Calmly?” Arina scoffed. “This is what you call ‘calm’? A person digging under me behind my back? Making copies? Bringing your mother into it? And now ‘talk calmly’? No, Igor. Now you’re going to listen.” She stood opposite him, arms crossed, voice steady, no shouting—yet there was ice in it.
“I can see what you were trying to pull,” she continued. “A power of attorney, right? Get my signature, then quickly through a realtor—and boom, the apartment’s gone, the money split with mommy?” Igor blinked like someone with nothing left to say and only whispered: “What are you talking about… that’s nonsense…” “Nonsense?” Arina stepped closer. “Then explain why you made copies. Why Tatyana Pavlovna already knows the realtor’s name and the amount you ‘could get’.” He looked away. “That’s her… she invented it. I just listened.” “Sure,” Arina smirked. “You always ‘just listen.’ And then you do exactly what she says.” For three days she lived like she was on watch. Barely slept, went to work on autopilot, came home and waited for the trap. She checked the safe, counted the documents, moved the keys. Igor acted like everything was “fine,” but his eyes darted like a schoolkid caught cheating. And then he disappeared. No warning. In the morning he left “to run errands” and didn’t come back by lunch, or by evening. His phone didn’t answer. Arina didn’t panic, but inside she already knew: he was up to something. She checked her banking alerts—he’d withdrawn twenty thousand “for car repairs.” Only he didn’t have a car. He’d sold it a month ago. By nightfall, when rain was misting the windows, he returned—smiling as if nothing had happened. “Oh, hey,” he said like it was an ordinary day. “Why do you look like that?” “Where were you?” Arina asked quietly. “Oh, just met up with Serёga. Remember I told you about him?” “The one selling his apartment?” she clarified. He blinked. “Well… yeah.” “And now he’s your business partner?” “What are you talking about?” “About the money you withdrew and clearly spent somewhere.” He lifted his brows. “You’re tracking me now?” “No,” Arina said. “I just don’t like being treated like an idiot.” He exhaled and dragged a hand down his face. “God, you’ve lost it! I just wanted to… to make a surprise!” “What kind, Igor?” Arina asked coldly. “A surprise power of attorney with my signature on it?” He whipped around. “Are you completely out of your mind? Nobody needs you with your stupid apartment!” “Then why are you and your mother always talking about it?” Arina shot back. “Why does she call and ask, ‘So, did it work?’”Family Relationship Counseling He jerked as if struck. “You were eavesdropping?” “No,” Arina said. “You forgot to turn off the call. Speaker was on.” His face twisted. “You’re sick!” he spat. “You imagine things!” “But I’m not stupid,” Arina said quietly. “And you know what I did this morning?” He squinted. “What?” “I went to a lawyer. He explained everything. How to protect my property, how to cancel any powers of attorney—even if someone tries to pull a stunt.” Igor went pale.“You… you really think I could—?” “I don’t think,” she interrupted. “I know.” The next morning Arina left “for errands,” then came back earlier on purpose. Quietly. She unlocked the door, stepped inside—and walked straight into it. Igor was standing by the safe with her folder of documents in his hands. He didn’t notice her come in. “Interesting,” Arina said calmly. “Déjà vu.” He flinched and dropped the folder. “I… I just wanted to look…” “Sure,” Arina smirked. “Just like a maniac who ‘just wanted to talk.’” He lifted his hands. “Wait! I wanted to make sure everything was okay!” “Okay?” Arina laughed. “Yes. Now it is. Because you don’t have the keys anymore. And you don’t have access either.” Igor frowned. “What did you do—change the code?” “Mm-hm. Yesterday. And I installed an alarm too. So if you decide to ‘check,’ the police will arrive faster than your mother can put on her robe.” Igor stepped toward her, but Arina stepped back. “Don’t come closer,” she said firmly. “We’re done talking.” “Arin, I can explain—” “You’ll explain it to my lawyer.” He froze. “You’re serious?” “Completely. I’m filing for divorce tomorrow.” He looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. “And what is all this for? Over some apartment?” “No,” Arina said. “For my dignity.” He packed fast. No arguments. Only right before he left, he threw one last line over his shoulder: “You destroyed everything yourself. I only wanted what was best. I wanted us to have a shared future.” “Shared means both people are honest,” Arina replied. “Not one person building plans at the other’s expense.” He stood in the doorway as if waiting for her to say, Stay. But she stayed silent. “Fine,” he snapped. “Life will be easier without you.” “I’m sure,” Arina said—and closed the door. After he left, the apartment felt oddly quiet. Not instantly lighter—just different. No constant jingle of his keys. No grumbling. No cheap cigarette smell drifting in from the balcony. She sat in the kitchen for a long time, looking out the window. October—gray, wet, like a wrung-out rag. People hurried under umbrellas; someone carried bags; someone laughed. Life kept moving.On the table was his mug, chipped down the side. Arina picked it up, looked at it, and threw it into the trash. The old key to the safe went after it. “That’s it,” she said out loud. “Curtain.” A week later Tatyana Pavlovna called. Her voice was cold and hard. “Arina, I don’t know what you’ve made up in your head, but you acted vilely.” “Vilely?” Arina repeated. “Me?” “Yes! My son is left without a home, without money, without a family!” “He was left without a conscience,” Arina said. “Everything else is his problem.” “You’ll regret it,” the mother-in-law hissed. “Women with principles like yours end up alone.”
“Better alone than with people who betray you,” Arina said—and hung up. Two weeks passed.Arina finalized the divorce, changed the locks, installed an extra deadbolt. In the evenings she brewed tea, turned on music, and for the first time in a long while the apartment felt peaceful. Not perfect, not joyful—just truly calm. She didn’t regret it. Sometimes she only thought about how close she’d come to losing everything—not even the apartment, but her self-respect. Now she knew for sure: trust isn’t a romantic fairytale. It’s something that has to be earned. And if a person wants your signature more than your soul, then he was never yours. One cold evening Arina was walking home from work past shop windows reflecting the city lights. Her mind was quiet. The phone buzzed—Igor’s number. She looked at the screen, then at the rainy street. Her finger hovered… and then she simply tapped “delete contact.” No regret. No drama. She turned toward home, adjusted her scarf, and thought: That’s it. Forward only. She opened the building door, climbed to her floor. The key turned in the lock easily, like it belonged there. Her apartment. Her life. No performances. No lies. No чужие hands in her safe. Silence greeted her like an old friend. She took off her coat, walked into the room, sat down on the couch, switched on the light— and, for the first time in a long time, smiled.
The end.

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