When Oksana stopped in front of her mother’s apartment door, she immediately felt something was wrong. The hallway was wrapped in its usual afternoon silence, yet muffled sounds of unfamiliar life drifted from behind the door. A television murmured somewhere inside, someone laughed in a rough, raspy voice, and then a pot slammed loudly onto a stove.
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
The apartment had stood empty for more than a year, ever since her mother passed away. Oksana rarely came here anymore. Every visit reopened wounds that never truly healed. Inside, everything had remained untouched, as if her mother had only stepped out to the store for a few minutes. The lace tablecloth still covered the kitchen table, books remained perfectly lined up on the shelves, and the faint scent of lavender still lingered in the air.
That morning, however, she had received a disturbing phone call from the building management office. A cold female voice informed her that massive unpaid electricity and water bills had accumulated on the apartment. If the debt wasn’t settled within days, the matter would go to court.
Oksana had been stunned. The water valves had been shut off for months, and the only appliance still running was an old refrigerator.
Now, standing outside the apartment, she pressed the doorbell with trembling fingers.
The laughter inside stopped instantly.
Heavy footsteps approached the entrance. Then came the sharp click of a lock she did not recognize.
The door opened.
A large woman in her fifties stood in the doorway wearing a faded peach-colored robe. Draped carelessly over her shoulders was a knitted wool shawl.
Oksana’s breath caught in her throat.
It was her mother’s shawl.
The one she had given her for her last birthday.
— Who are you looking for? — the woman asked irritably while sipping tea from a porcelain mug decorated with a little blue bird.
Her mother’s favorite mug.
For a moment, Oksana could barely breathe. Instead of the familiar smell of lavender and old books, the apartment reeked of grease, stale air, and cigarette smoke.
— This… this is my apartment, — she finally managed to say. — Who are you?
The woman looked her up and down with open annoyance before shouting into the hallway behind her:
— Ilya! Come here! Some woman says this is her apartment!
A few seconds later, a heavyset man appeared wearing stretched sweatpants and a faded undershirt.
Meanwhile, Oksana glanced around the hallway. The wallpaper she and her mother had carefully chosen years ago had been ripped in several places. Dark stains marked the corners. The elegant wooden shelf that once held her mother’s porcelain figurines was gone, replaced by stacks of dirty cardboard boxes.
— Lady, you must have the wrong address, — the man said in a deep voice. — We live here now. Roman gave us the keys.
Oksana felt her heart stop.
Roman.
Her husband.
The same man who had comforted her every evening while she cried over her mother’s death. The man she had trusted completely for seven years.
— What Roman? — she whispered.
— Your husband, obviously, — the woman replied with a smug smile. — I’m Aunt Darya, and this is my husband Ilya. Roman said the apartment was sitting empty anyway, so he let us move in. I thought you knew.
The words hit Oksana harder than a slap.
Without another word, she pushed past the woman and walked inside.
She didn’t even take off her shoes.
She went straight to the kitchen.
And nearly broke down.
The once spotless, bright room had turned into a filthy mess. Greasy dishes towered across the table. Potato peels floated in dirty water inside the sink.
And the corner…
The corner was empty.
That was where the old mahogany cabinet had once stood — a treasured family heirloom passed down for generations. Inside were photo albums, old letters, recipes written in her mother’s careful handwriting, and the only wedding photograph of Oksana’s parents.
Now, in its place, stood a cheap plastic storage shelf packed with instant noodles and empty jars.
— Where is the cabinet? — Oksana asked quietly.
Darya waved dismissively.
— Oh, that old thing? We threw it out. Some local guys took it for firewood. The dusty albums went into the trash too. We needed space for our stuff.
The room spun before Oksana’s eyes.
Her childhood photographs.
Her parents’ wedding picture.
Her mother’s handwritten letters.
Gone forever.
Slowly, she pulled out her phone and called Roman.
— Hey, sweetheart! — he answered cheerfully. — I’m grabbing lunch right now. Want your favorite salad?
— I’m at my mother’s apartment, Roman, — Oksana said in a voice so cold it barely sounded human. — There are strangers living here. They say you let them in.
Silence filled the line.
Then his tone changed immediately.
— Oksana… listen, let’s just talk calmly tonight—
— You changed the locks. They threw away my mother’s photo albums.
Roman sighed impatiently.
— Come on, Oksana, it was all junk. I was trying to help you move on instead of clinging to the past.
At that moment, something inside her froze solid.
All the grief disappeared, replaced by icy clarity.
— You have thirty minutes, — she told Darya and Ilya. — Pack your things and leave my apartment.
Ilya laughed loudly.
— Roman is the head of the family! We sold our house and gave him two and a half million to arrange the paperwork! He promised half this apartment would belong to us!
Oksana stared at them.
— What paperwork?
Darya proudly folded her arms.
— Roman said you wanted to sell the place anyway. He told us he’d convince you later.
Oksana said nothing more.
She called the police.
Twenty minutes later, officers arrived just as Roman came rushing up the stairs with his mother behind him.
— Are you insane?! — Roman hissed. — Why would you call the police?!
The officers examined Oksana’s inheritance documents carefully.
Finally, one of them turned to Roman.
— This property belongs solely to your wife. These people must leave immediately.
Darya’s face turned white.
— What do you mean hers?! Roman, where’s our money?!
Roman stepped backward, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
The truth spilled out quickly after that.
He had invested the relatives’ money into a fraudulent scheme, hoping to get rich fast. Meanwhile, he secretly moved them into Oksana’s inherited apartment, believing she wouldn’t visit for months.
Chaos erupted.
Darya cried while stuffing clothes into giant bags. Ilya screamed threats at Roman. His mother begged Oksana for mercy.
But Oksana simply stood there silently, watching strangers leave her mother’s home.
That evening, she returned to the apartment she shared with Roman.
He sat hunched on the couch, pale and broken.
— Please… don’t destroy our family, — he whispered.
Oksana tossed a large duffel bag at his feet.
— Pack your things.
— This apartment belongs to me too!
— Tomorrow I’m filing for divorce, — she said calmly. — And if you don’t leave now, I’ll give your relatives this address.
Roman went pale instantly.
Ten minutes later, he was gone.
Three years passed.
One evening, Oksana stepped out of an elegant restaurant downtown and noticed a familiar figure standing on a windy street corner.
It was Roman.
He wore an oversized worn-out jacket and handed out cheap pawnshop flyers to strangers passing by. He looked exhausted, older, defeated.
A sudden gust of wind ripped the papers from his frozen hands.
As he bent down to gather them, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
Roman froze, as though he wanted to say something. To apologize. To beg for help.
But Oksana felt absolutely nothing.
No anger.
No satisfaction.
No pity.
Only complete indifference toward a man who had become a stranger long ago.
She adjusted her scarf, turned around, and walked confidently toward her car while the wind scattered Roman’s flyers across the cold pavement behind him.
