“Honey, what do you mean by divorce? You’re at stage four! What about the apartment? I wont inherit it!” her husband shrieked hysterically.
Elena slowly wiped the fogged-up bathroom mirror and froze, staring intently at her reflection. Her once-soft features now appeared sharp and angular, her cheeks noticeably hollow, her eyes dull and lifeless. The disease was mercilessly altering her appearance, erasing traces of her former self. *I need to call Katya*, she repeated silently. Her niece had to know the truth, no matter how painful it would be for both of them.
From the living room came the muffled sounds of a football matchPavel sprawled on the couch again, feet propped on the coffee table, undoubtedly surrounded by chip crumbs. Elena sighed heavily, an invisible weight pressing on her shoulders, and closed her eyes, briefly retreating from reality.
This apartment symbolized years of her effort and sacrifice. She had bought it long before meeting Pavel, paying off the mortgage over five grueling yearsworking two jobs, denying herself necessities, surviving on the simplest food, avoiding personal indulgences, returning home late only to leave again at dawn. When the final payment was made, she weptthese walls bore witness to her sleepless nights, endless labor, and determination. She had earned them with her life, and this place was more than just a home.
She and Pavel had met years ago in a coffee line. His charm, easy conversation, and attentiveness won her over. For the first month, he showered her with flowers, romantic dinners, and tender care. Then, abruptly, the light switched off. The perfect man shed imagined vanished, replaced by someone indifferent to her lifeand, most painfully, her feelings.
“Lena, did you pay the internet? Its slow today,” Pavel called from the living room.
“Yes, on Monday,” she answered, stepping out. “Restart the router.”
“Too far,” he drawled lazily. “Youre closer.”
She didnt argue. Silently, she reset the blinking router, long accustomed to such daily irritations. But today, after the doctors visit, every detail of their life took on sharper meaning.
*Stage four*, the doctor had said, avoiding her eyes. *Metastases in the liver and bones. We can try treatment, but be realistic.*
She nodded as if discussing the weather rather than her remaining time. Pragmatic as ever, she began mentally listing taskswill, insurance, talking to Katya. Everything had to be handled methodically.
“Len, whats for dinner?” Pavel called again.
“I didnt cook. Order something,” she replied, sinking into a chair.
“More spending?” he grumbled. “Its your day offcouldve cooked.”
She said nothing. Pavel genuinely believed earning money was a wifes duty while he dabbled in odd jobs or delusional “grand projects.” Initially, she didnt mindshe was used to self-reliance. But eventually, it became clear: he wasnt just lazyhe felt entitled to “find himself” while she provided.
“I saw the doctor today,” she said, watching his profile.
“Mhm,” he muttered, eyes glued to the screen.
“I have cancer.”
He turned, frowning. “What?”
“Stage four, Pasha.”
He set down the remote, stunned. “What does that mean? Can they treat it?”
“They can try, but chances are slim. Months, not years.”
He blinked rapidly, running a hand through his hair. “Butmodern medicine Experimental treatments? Abroad?”
“Too expensive.” She studied his reaction.
“You have good insurance, right?” He paced nervously. “And savings?”
There it was. Even now, his first concern was moneynot her, not support. *She* was responsible for funding her own treatment.
“Yes, I have savings.”
“Great!” he said suddenly bright. “Then well fight this. Youll be fine.”
His awkward hug ended quickly, as if fearing contagion.
“Listen, Ive got to meet Dimawork stuff,” he grabbed his jacket. “Hang in there, okay?”
The door slammed before she could respond. Silence enveloped the apartment, broken only by street noise.
A week later, his late nights beganclaiming “work meetings” despite working remotely for years. Unfamiliar cologne lingered; his phone now always faced down. She didnt confront himwhat was the point? But one night, she overheard him whispering on the balcony:
“Yeah, she wont last long Doctor said months No, the inheritance is minewere married. The apartment, savingsall mine.”
She froze. So, that was it. He was already dividing *her* lifes work, earned through sleepless nights and sacrifice.
That morning, as sunlight pierced the blinds, Pavel announced a weekend trip to a friends dacha. “Need to clear my head,” he said breezily. She nodded silently over her coffee. Inside, a plan had formedcold and precise.
Once he left, she called Katya.
“Come. We need to talk.”
Katya arrived within an hour, alarmed by her aunts tone. When Elena revealed her diagnosis, the girl wept but steadied herself. “How can I help?”
“I need a will. Everything goes to you.”
“But Uncle Pasha?”
“Hes already planning his inheritance,” Elena smiled bitterly. “While Im dying, hes entertaining his mistress.”
That afternoon, they visited a notary. Later, Elena filed for divorceno asset division, just termination of a hollow marriage. Strangely, she felt relief, as if shedding a decades-old weight.
Pavel returned three days later, refresheduntil his phone pinged with the divorce notification. Frowning, he reread it, then exploded.
“Elena! Whats this nonsense?”
Silence. He checked the government portalpending divorce, no marital assets.
“No waythe apartments *mine*!” he muttered, gulping beer.
Another notification: *Property acquired pre-marriageno shared claim.*
Panicked, he noticed her missing belongingshalf her clothes, toiletries, family photos. He called repeatedly. No answer.
That night, the lock turned.
“Finally! Where were you?” he demanded as she walked past him.
“Staying with Katya. Just grabbing the rest.”
“Why? Youre sick! You need care!”
“Really?” She met his gaze. “Before or after telling your girlfriend how soon Id die and leave you everything?”
He paled. “What?”
“I heard you, Pasha. Inheritance is mine. Charming.”
“You misunderstood”
“I understood perfectly. The divorce stands. The apartment was *mine* before we married. You lose nothing except what you never had.”
His knees buckled. “Divorce? At stage four? The apartment” His voice crackednot with grief, but terror at losing comfort.
“You *do* carejust not about *me*,” she said softly. “In all these years, youve never sounded as sincere as you do nowover a *home*.”
“Thats not”
“Lets be honest, Pasha. You loved my *paychecks*, not me.”
“I *loved* you!” he blustered, eyes darting.
“No. You loved the life I built *for* you.”
His frantic pleas faded as she zipped her bag.
“Too late. The wills done. Katya gets everything.”
She walked out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Alone in the empty apartment, Pavel shuddered. The silence suffocated himthe walls, once his shelter, now cold and alien. His parasitic existence crumbled, leaving only fear.
He called Katya, desperate. She opened the door, face icy.
“She doesnt want to see you. Neither do I.”
The slam echoed his defeat.
A month later, the court finalized the divorce. Elena didnt attendher lawyer handled it.
Bankrupt, Pavel moved into a dingy rented room, staring at peeling paint. The comfy life was over. Only now, too late, did he realize what hed truly lostnot just money, but dignity, trust, and the woman whod once loved him.
Meanwhile, Elena lay in a hospital bed, Katya holding her hand.
“I dont regret it,” she whispered. “Even now.”
“Regret what?”
“Leaving. Pretending I had a family. Better to spend my time with someone who truly loves me than with someone waiting for me to die.”
Katya squeezed her hand. “Well face this. Together.”
