My mother was probably right. You’re just a small-town girl from Cedar Creek. You’re not my equal. Take your kid and get out,” my husband, Victor, snarled, shoving me into the dimly lit apartment hallway with our infant son in my arms.
I just smiled. A cold, calculating smile that seemed to unnerve him more than any tears ever could. “Fine,” I said, my voice steady. “You asked for it.”
The deafening slam of the door echoed through the entire five-story building. The walls, which remembered the Nixon era, seemed to shudder from the shock.
From the upper floors, two curious old women, the eternal guardians of the building’s peace, peered over the railings. I clutched my son, Max, closer. He, thankfully, didn’t even stir at his father’s shouting. He was already used to the constant turmoil, the raised voices that had become the soundtrack of his short life. He just smacked his lips sleepily and nuzzled into my neck, seeking warmth and protection.
I, a thirty-two-year-old woman, did not cry. Not a single tear escaped to trace a path down my face, which had grown gaunt and tired over the last year. Strangely, I didn’t even feel resentment. Only a profound, liberating sense of relief. It felt as though a crushing weight, a massive bag of cement I’d been hauling on my shoulders for the last three years—the final year with a baby in my arms—had finally tumbled to the ground.
“It’s over, little one,” I whispered, descending the stairs slowly, my hand gliding over the rough banister, painted with countless layers of brown and green over the decades.
The courtyard, once so cozy and welcoming, met me with a cool September evening. The old poplar trees, which had charmed me five years earlier when I first looked at this apartment, were now dropping their first yellow leaves. How symbolic, I thought. Autumn in the air, autumn in my life. But I immediately corrected myself. This isn’t autumn. It’s just a new chapter. I’m only thirty-two. I have a whole life ahead of me. And this life will be exactly what I make it.
On the way to my parents’ house, I mentally replayed the events of the last few months. No, that wasn’t right. The last few years. Victor Davenport, the man I once fell in love with for his cheerful disposition, his self-confidence, and his illusion of reliability, had slowly transformed into an exact copy of his mother. Just as petty, just as resentful, just as empty.
In college, he had seemed so promising. The star of the campus improv troupe, the life of every party. All the girls had crushes on him, but he chose me, the quiet honors student from a small town who had won a state-wide academic competition and earned a scholarship. I couldn’t believe my luck when he asked me out. We married in our senior year.
I had a job offer in New York City. A classmate had recommended me to a prestigious auditing firm looking for sharp economists. But Victor didn’t want to leave his hometown of Columbus, Ohio.
“Why do we need New York?” he’d argued. “We can get an apartment here, find work, and our parents can help.”
His mother, Tamara Davenport, especially emphasized the help, all while looking at me with poorly concealed contempt. Small-town girls moving in, trying to steal my son away. I gave in. Instead of New York, I stayed in Columbus. I worked for the state revenue department for a year, then moved to a construction firm as an assistant accountant. Two years later, when the senior controller retired, I took his place. I handled the mortgage on our two-bedroom apartment myself. Victor always promised to help, but there was always a new phone to buy, or a fishing trip with his friends. Sales at the car dealership where he worked were plummeting. His commissions became rarer, while his reproaches towards me grew more frequent.
“You’re a senior controller. Get me a job at your company. At least you guys have a stable payroll,” he would whine in the evenings, stretched out on the sofa with a beer and the TV remote.
“You’re thirty-four years old, Victor, and you’re asking your wife to find you a job. Do you want me to pack your lunch for you too?” I would reply, continuing to work on my laptop, compiling a quarterly report while simultaneously rocking Max’s bassinet with my foot.
In those moments, he would get angry, slam the door, and leave “for some fresh air.” He would return from his mother’s house, slightly tipsy and armed with new complaints. “See, Mom’s right. You’ve gotten spoiled. Back in your little town, you’d be slaving away at some factory for minimum wage. Here, you have everything handed to you.”
I would just scoff. My hometown, with a population of 40,000, was hardly a village. It was a normal small city with a park, a movie theater, and even a satellite campus of the university I had graduated from with honors. I also had a magna cum laude degree in economics and five years of experience as an auditor in a New York firm before I returned to Columbus and met him. But arguing was pointless. To Tamara and her son, anyone not born in their glorious city of 500,000 was a country bumpkin.
Tamara was a special force in our small family. She started as a regular nurse at a clinic but married well. Her husband, the director of a logistics company, provided a comfortable existence, a three-bedroom apartment downtown, and a certain social status. Widowed at fifty, Tamara directed all her unspent energy onto her son, and a daughter-in-law from a small town did not fit the image she had planned for him. “He needed a doctor or a lawyer,” she would sigh during our obligatory Sunday dinners, which I attended like a prisoner on their way to the gallows.
Six months ago, I gave birth to Max. The labor was difficult—thirty-six hours of contractions, an emergency C-section, five days in the hospital. Victor only showed up on the third day, citing important negotiations at the dealership. He brought a huge bouquet of roses that had nowhere to be placed, took a picture of me and the baby for Instagram with the caption “My favorite people,” and left after half an hour. “Business, darling, you understand.”
My mother-in-law arrived three days after I was discharged. Her first act was to critically inspect the sleeping infant. “He doesn’t take after you, thank goodness. He looks just like my Victor. Our bloodline.” It was said with an intonation that implied I was some kind of stray and their family was blue-blooded. I stayed silent.
“Do you have enough milk?” she asked, pursing her lips as I tried to nurse a fussy Max. “I had plenty. Victor nursed until he was two.” She then launched into a tirade about modern mothers and formula, once again making a subtle jab at my “country” origins.
I had started working remotely even before the birth. Maternity leave? Too great a luxury with a mortgage and a husband’s meager contribution to the family budget. When Max turned two months old, I was already working full-time. When he slept, I typed. When he woke, I held him in one arm and continued to work with the other. I woke at 5 a.m. to get work done before my husband came home, who invariably demanded attention as if he were a second child.
Every evening, Victor’s first call was to his mother. “Yes, Mom. Yes, I ate. No, she hasn’t changed them yet. Of course, I’ll tell her.” These nightly debriefings were like water torture, drop by drop eroding my patience. After these calls, the complaints would begin: “Why haven’t you changed the curtains? Mom says these are faded.” “Why is the soup from yesterday? What kind of a housewife are you?”
One day, pushed to the brink, I finally snapped. “Victor, are you aware that I make seventy thousand a year? And you make thirty at the dealership?”
“So what?” he sulked. “I get commissions.”
“Sometimes,” I agreed. “Once every six months. I get paid monthly. Who in this family is bringing in the real money, and who is barely contributing? What are you implying? That I’m a bad provider?” he shot back. “Maybe you should find another husband, a rich one? But who would want you, with a kid?”
That was our last serious fight before tonight. Since then, I had decided not to argue. It was better for my own sanity. I moved through the apartment like a robot, fulfilling the duties of a wife, mother, and breadwinner. But inside, a decision was solidifying: to leave. Not immediately, but when everything was ready. I began to meticulously collect and copy all financial documents: mortgage receipts, bank statements, employment contracts, tax returns. I scanned everything, sent it to a separate email address, preparing my retreat.
And then tonight happened. Tamara arrived without warning, carrying a bag of pastries. “Victor must be hungry,” she declared. Then she got to the point. “You need to sell this apartment. It’s too crowded for three of you. Sell it, buy Victor a one-bedroom downtown, and get yourself and the baby a place on the outskirts. It’s cheaper there.”
I stopped typing and slowly turned. “Tamara, are you aware that this apartment is mine? I took out the mortgage before we were married, with my own money, and I’m still paying for it from my salary. Victor hasn’t contributed a single penny.”
“Oh, here we go again. Mine, mine. In a family, everything is shared. And what would you do without Victor? Who would watch the baby while you’re buried in your papers? He gets up with Max at night, you know.”
It was a blatant lie, and both women knew it.
“He watches the baby?” I asked, laughing bitterly. “He only holds him for Instagram photos to portray himself as a caring father.” I knew I shouldn’t have said it, but I’d had enough.
“Don’t you dare talk about your husband like that,” Victor interjected, tearing his eyes from the football game. “It’s your own fault. Always on your computer. A normal wife would have finished decorating this place by now.”
That wasn’t true. I had renovated the apartment before our marriage, and I cooked every day, often with Max sleeping in a sling on my chest while I chopped vegetables. But Victor rarely noticed. He took a clean apartment, a fresh meal, and ironed shirts for granted.
“Have you forgotten that the last time you brought money into this family was three months ago?” I asked quietly. “That I pay for everything in this house? The mortgage, the utilities, the food, and even your car?”
“What does money have to do with it?” he exploded. “My mother is right, and you’re being stubborn! I work a second job to provide for us, but you’re never satisfied!”
Another lie. There was no second job. There was poker with friends on weekends and shady deals at the dealership.
“Victor,” I said wearily, “let’s not do this. Max just fell asleep.”
And then Tamara delivered her crowning blow. “I told you, son. You got involved with a country girl, and now you’re suffering. If you had found a city girl from a good family, like my friend’s daughter, you’d have your own apartment, a car, and a new coat every year.”
That was the last straw. I closed my laptop, picked up the sleeping Max, and headed for the door. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Where are you going at this hour?” Victor yelled. “Who’s going to make dinner?”
But I was already gone, grabbing my jacket, my shoes, and the bag of documents I had prepared in anticipation of just such a disaster. Victor caught up with me in the hallway, blocking my path, smelling of beer.
“Get back inside and apologize to my mother,” he roared.
“For what?” I replied calmly. “For providing for this entire family? For enduring daily humiliation?”
“You…!” He choked on his rage, and then it all came pouring out. “My mother was probably right. You’re just a small-town girl from Cedar Creek. You’re not my equal. Take your kid and get out.” He shoved me. Not hard, but enough to make me stumble. It was a good thing I was holding Max so tightly.
And then, to his clear surprise, I smiled. No tears, no hysterics. Just a cold, calculating smile that made him uneasy. “Fine,” I said. “You asked for it.”
Lost in thought, I didn’t realize I had reached my parents’ house. The light was on in the kitchen. My father, Nicholas Petrov, was probably tinkering with his motorcycle blueprints again. I rang the bell, took a deep breath, and squared my shoulders. A new life was beginning right now.
The door swung open almost immediately. On the threshold stood my father, a sturdy sixty-year-old man with graying temples and the calloused hands of an auto mechanic. His face changed when he saw me with the baby and the bag. “Anna, what happened?”
“Vera, Anna’s back!” he called out.
My mother, Vera Petrov, ran out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Seeing me, she threw her hands up and rushed to hug me. “Honey, Max, my goodness, what happened?”
I stepped inside. Nothing had changed. The same furniture from the nineties, the same photos on the walls, the same smell of my mother’s pies. My home. A sanctuary.
“It’s over, Mom,” I said quietly, placing Max in the old crib they had saved from my childhood. “Victor and I are through. I’m not going back.”
“But what happened?” my mother fretted. “You had a fight? You’ll make up.”
“No, Mom, we won’t,” I said, my voice firm. “This has been coming for a long time. Tonight was just the final straw.”
My father silently put the kettle on and took a bottle of brandy from the sideboard. “Tell us,” he said curtly.
And so I told them everything. My parents listened without interrupting. Only occasionally did my mother sniffle, while my father’s fists tightened.
“I didn’t realize what he’d become right away,” I sighed. “He seemed different in college. Or maybe I just didn’t see it. Blinded by first love.”
“Ah, daughter,” my father shook his head. “I told you then. Don’t rush. Take a closer look at the boy.”
“Nick,” my mother cut him off. “Now is not the time.”
“When will be the time?” my father grumbled. “For three years we’ve kept quiet, watching her suffer. I saw right through that parasite. A mama’s boy who’s spent his whole life riding on someone else’s coattails.”
I couldn’t help but smile. My father was always direct.
“What will you do now?” my mother asked, pouring tea.
“I’ll file for divorce,” I said. “I’m afraid he’ll try to claim a share of the apartment. He’s registered there.”
“What about the papers?” my father asked. “Do you have the documents for the apartment?”
“I have everything, Dad. I prepared for this. All the payment slips, all the bank statements. I’m the only one who’s been paying the mortgage.”
“Then the court will be on your side,” Nicholas said confidently. “And we’ll help you, with money and with Max.”
That evening, neither Victor nor Tamara called. The next morning, I called my work and took a day off. First, I went to the courthouse and filed for divorce. Then to the bank to check the remaining mortgage balance. Finally, to a realtor, an old friend of my father’s named Sam Marcus, who had helped me buy the apartment.
“So, Anna,” Sam said after hearing my story. “The apartment is in your name, you pay for it. Legally, your husband is only entitled to a share of marital property. Since you bought the apartment before the marriage, it’s not marital property.”
“But the renovations were done after the wedding,” I said worriedly.
“Do you have receipts for materials, contracts with workers?” Sam squinted.
“Everything is in my name,” I answered. “I was always careful.”
“Smart girl,” Sam nodded approvingly. “Legally, the apartment is yours. But there’s a nuance. He’s registered there, and to evict him you need his consent or a court order.”
“What should I do?”
“A divorce through the court, and a petition to evict a former spouse,” the realtor listed. “It will take a few months.”
“Do you know a good lawyer?” I asked.
“I have a friend,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Steven Kravitz. Former prosecutor, now in private practice. He cracks cases like these like nuts. He’s not cheap, though.”
“I have money,” I said confidently.
Leaving the realtor’s office, I immediately dialed the number. A raspy baritone answered. “Kravitz.”
“Mr. Kravitz, my name is Anna Petrov. I’m calling on the recommendation of Sam Marcus. I need a consultation on family law.”
“Sam, huh?” A warmth entered his voice. “Good man. Come by today at 4 p.m.”
Steven Kravitz turned out to be a tall, lean man in his sixties with piercing gray eyes and a shock of gray hair. A real old-school investigator. He listened intently as I laid out the facts, jotting down notes.
“So, your husband kicked you out and now wants to divide the apartment,” he summarized. “Do you have written evidence that he didn’t support the family?”
“No,” I shook my head. “Only bank statements showing all payments came from my account.”
“That’s not enough,” the lawyer frowned. “He can claim he gave you cash.” He tapped his pen. “Is your husband dishonest in his work? Kickbacks, under-the-table deals?”
I remembered Victor bragging about a deal where he sold a car at an inflated price and pocketed the difference. “Yes,” I said slowly. “He works at a car dealership and sometimes engages in… not entirely clean transactions.”
“I see.” The lawyer’s eyes gleamed. “Do you remember any details? Dates, amounts, car models?”
“I remember,” I nodded. “I’m an accountant. I have a good memory for numbers. In February, it was a Toyota Camry. In April, a Volkswagen Tiguan…”
“We’ll play offensively,” Kravitz smiled. “If he decides to fight you for the apartment, we’ll have an ace up our sleeve. Believe me, as soon as men like him realize they’re facing real trouble, they become much more agreeable.”
“Are you suggesting I blackmail him?” I frowned.
“God forbid!” the lawyer raised his hands. “No blackmail. Just a defensive strategy. First, we’ll try to resolve this peacefully.”
When I left his office, I felt lighter. For the first time in a long while, I felt I wasn’t alone.
Back home, I told my parents about the lawyer.
“You mean Steve?” my father squinted. “Kravitz?”
“Yes, you know him?” I asked, surprised.
“Of course!” Nicholas chuckled. “We went to driving school together. And by the way, Steve is Max’s godfather.”
“What?” I was stunned. “But Victor invited the godfather.”
“Victor,” my father snorted. “He doesn’t even remember his name. Steve is my old friend. I asked him to be the godfather. I thought it might come in handy someday.”
It was only then that I understood why the lawyer had looked at me so intently. He recognized me. The tiny baby he had held at the font had grown up and become a mother herself.
That evening, I got a call from my boss, Mr. Andrews. “Anna, sorry for the late call. The New York office needs urgent reports. Video conference with investors tomorrow morning. Can you help out?”
Of course, I agreed. I finished the reports late into the night. The next morning, he called again, his voice ecstatic. “You saved me! The investors are thrilled. The New York partners were especially impressed. They’ve offered you the position of Financial Director at the head office in New York.”
I almost dropped the phone. Financial Director in New York City. Double the salary, new prospects, a chance to start over.
“Are you serious, Mr. Andrews?”
“Absolutely. Corporate apartment for the first year, help with daycare, even a signing bonus.”
I told him I needed to think. I immediately called Kravitz.
“An interesting turn of events,” the lawyer mused. “You should take it. We can handle the divorce remotely. We’ll need a power of attorney and your husband’s consent to move the child out of state.”
“And if he doesn’t consent?”
“Then we’ll go to court. But I have another idea. You file for divorce but don’t start a property dispute. You move to New York with the child. When your ex-husband realizes he’s alone, he’ll want to move out himself. The apartment belongs to you. Then you can either sell it or rent it out.”
“But he’s registered there.”
“We can offer him compensation for voluntarily unregistering. And if he refuses, we move to Plan B.” Kravitz smiled predatorily. “Those little schemes at the dealership. A small, anonymous letter to his management, and your husband will find himself in a very unpleasant situation.”
“Isn’t that too cruel?” I hesitated.
“It’s fair,” he cut in. “He threw you and your child onto the street. Consider this a countermove.”
I agreed. I gave my preliminary consent to the New York office. The plan was in motion.
A few days later, Victor showed up at my parents’ door, disheveled and unshaven. “Anna, we need to talk,” he said.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Victor,” I said calmly. “I’ve filed for divorce.”
“What?” He recoiled. “Without consulting me?”
“Your consent isn’t required,” I shrugged. “And the apartment is mine. What is there to divide?”
“The renovations, the furniture! I invested too!” he sputtered.
“Do you have receipts?” I asked, my voice cool. He fell silent, then started making threats. My father appeared in the hallway behind me, and Victor quickly backed down. “I’m just warning you,” he muttered. “My mother knows a good lawyer.”
“I look forward to it,” I smiled. “Goodbye, Victor.”
The day of the court hearing arrived. I wore a conservative navy-blue suit. In the courthouse corridor, we ran into Victor and Tamara, accompanied by a balding, weary-looking lawyer.
The hearing began. I stated my case clearly: divorce, custody of Max, and child support. Victor’s lawyer objected, claiming Victor was a loving, active father.
“Do you have proof?” the judge, a stern woman in her fifties, asked Victor.
He fumbled with his phone, eventually producing a few photos of himself holding a newborn Max.
“Is that all?” the judge asked.
“My wife took all the photo albums,” he lied.
Steven Kravitz then stepped forward. “Your honor, we would like to present the court with hundreds of photos and videos of my client caring for the child, as well as receipts for all child-related expenses, all paid from Ms. Petrov’s personal account.” He handed a thick binder to the judge. “Furthermore, we have witness statements from neighbors and relatives confirming that Mr. Davenport took virtually no part in his son’s upbringing.”
The judge studied the documents. “Mr. Davenport, did you pay for the child’s expenses?”
“Of course,” he huffed. “I gave my wife cash.”
Kravitz presented my bank statements, showing all household expenses, including the mortgage, were paid by me. Victor turned purple.
The judge then moved on to the apartment. Kravitz presented the purchase agreement and the marriage certificate, clearly showing the apartment was acquired before the marriage.
“And the renovations?” Victor insisted. “I paid for those!”
“Do you have receipts?” the judge asked again.
“No, but…”
Kravitz calmly presented a folder containing every single receipt and contract for the renovations, all in my name, all paid from my account. Victor turned white.
The judge’s decision was swift. The marriage was dissolved. I was granted full custody of Max, with child support ordered from Victor. The counterclaim for the division of property was denied.
Leaving the courtroom, Victor cornered me, his face contorted with hate. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed. “I’ll ruin your life.”
Steven Kravitz stepped between us. “Mr. Davenport, I would advise you to refrain from threats. By the way, your employer recently received an anonymous letter regarding certain… non-standard operations at your dealership. An internal investigation has begun. Ms. Petrov may be called as a witness.”
Victor looked like he’d been struck by lightning. He stared at me, speechless, then stumbled away.
A year later, the Moscow morning began with its usual hustle. I stood by the kitchen window of my spacious apartment on the tenth floor, a cup of coffee in my hand. In the past year, everything had changed. I was promoted to CFO. Max was a thriving, happy toddler.
My phone rang. It was my old friend Chloe. “You’ll never guess who I saw yesterday,” she said conspiratorially. “Your ex, Victor. Here, in Moscow.”
“What?” I asked, surprised.
“Working as a stocker at the supermarket near my place. He looked terrible. He asked about you and Max. Said he was happy for you, that he knows it was all his fault.”
I was silent, processing this.
“He also asked if he could see Max,” Chloe added. “He said he misses his son.”
Later that evening, I discussed it with Andrew, the man I’d been dating for three months—a kind, stable architect and a wonderful father to his own teenage son.
“You’re doing the right thing,” he said when I told him I was considering it. “A child needs a father.”
The next day, I called Victor. His voice was hesitant, surprised. I told him he could visit Max at my parents’ house the following weekend.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “You have no idea how much I regret what I said in that hallway.”
“It’s in the past, Victor,” I cut him off. “Just come sober, please.”
That weekend, as I watched from my parents’ window as Victor awkwardly played with a delighted Max in the yard, I felt a strange sense of peace. The man who had thrown me out was broken, humbled. The woman who had been cast out was whole, successful, and happy.
Andrew was right. Fate sometimes gives strange gifts. Victor had shouted, “Take your kid and get out!” He thought he was ending my life. He had no idea he was just opening the door to my real one. He had asked for it, and life, in its infinite, ironic wisdom, had given each of us exactly what we deserved.
