Kristina burst through the door five minutes earlier and was already talking as if she owned the place.
“Wow, living like a queen here, huh?” she snapped. “So much space — but helping your own family? No, that’s too hard for you.”
Anastasia stared at her, stunned, then coldly replied:
“And who exactly told you you’re in charge here?”
Kristina tossed her jacket anywhere she pleased and marched deeper inside, dragging her son, while Denis stood in the doorway with a guilty smile and a bag of tangerines.
Then came his mother — quiet, apologetic, but still part of the invading trio.
Kristina launched into her speech: their tiny apartment was cramped, they were “suffocating,” and since Denis supposedly discussed “living together,” it was only logical that Anastasia should either let them move in or — better yet — sell her apartment to help the whole family.
“Your money will help all of us,” Kristina said with a smirk. “We’re family.”
Something inside Anastasia tightened.
“And my apartment?” she asked.
Kristina shrugged. “We’ll figure out how to use it.”
Denis tried to play peacemaker, but it only made everything worse. He didn’t defend her. He didn’t set boundaries. He just stood there, silently choosing their side.
When Anastasia refused, Kristina exploded, calling her selfish and even claiming Denis “deserved a better wife.”
Denis didn’t deny it.
They stormed out, shouting in the hallway.
Days passed in silence. Denis moved in with them “for a few days until things cooled down.” He didn’t call. Didn’t ask. Didn’t care.
Then on Sunday morning, the whole trio returned — this time with threats.
“If you won’t sell the apartment,” Kristina said, “Denis will take his half legally.”
Anastasia calmly laid a notarized document on the table.
“A lawyer already explained everything,” she said. “The apartment is mine. Bought before marriage. Not subject to division.”
Kristina went pale.
“And one more thing.”
Anastasia opened a folder and slid out a paper.
“My divorce application. I file it tomorrow.”
Denis jumped up, shocked.
“You’re divorcing me over this?!”
“No,” Anastasia said. “I’m divorcing you because you chose them. And because to you, I’m just a resource with walls around it.”
Kristina hissed that Anastasia would come crawling back.
Anastasia smiled — calmly, finally free.
“I’ve already broken once. Not again.”
She asked Denis to pack his things by evening.
He looked at his mother, his sister, and made his choice.
He left with them.
The door closed softly.
The silence that followed wasn’t loneliness — it was peace.
Anastasia walked through her apartment — her own space, her own air, her own life.
She opened a note on her phone and typed:
“Monday. Lawyer. Divorce. New life.”
She set the kettle, wrapped herself in a blanket, and sat by the window.
For the first time in months, she breathed deeply.
And the breath was her own.
