Early Monday morning, just as the eighth minute of August ticked on the clock, Natalia was abruptly awakened by the persistent ringing of her mobile phone. Outside, dawn had yet to break. Next to her, Vitaly groaned in displeasure, pulling a pillow over his head in an attempt to silence the annoying noise.
“Hello?” Natalia answered, her voice trembling with sleep and hoarseness.
“Natalia, it’s Valentina Ivanovna, your mother’s neighbor,” came the anxious voice of an elderly woman through the receiver. “My dear, please be strong… Your mother’s heart gave out last night. They called the ambulance, but it was too late…”
The phone slipped from Natalia’s grasp as the room spun around her. Her mother—gone. Just three weeks ago, Elena Pavlovna was complaining about the heat, chatting about the apple trees and the garden’s harvest.
“What happened?” Vitaly muttered without opening his eyes.
“Mom died,” Natalia exhaled, the words feeling estranged—as if she were a distant witness rather than the bereaved daughter.
Vitaly raised himself on his elbow, briefly casting a glance her way. There was no sorrow or sympathy—only a hint of irritation.
“Well, I see. My condolences,” he grumbled, turning back to face the wall.
Natalia rose slowly with legs weighed down like cotton. Despite the dizziness and shock, she knew she had to act: funeral arrangements, paperwork, packing. Her mind swirled with the urgency of the tasks ahead. Opening her closet, she pulled out a travel bag and began folding clothes—black dresses, shoes, passport.
Meanwhile, Vitaly sat up, scrolling lazily through his news feed on the phone.
“Where are you heading?” he asked indifferently, eyes glued to the screen.
“To the village. For the funeral.”
“Which village? That remote place three hundred kilometers away?”
“Vitaly, my mother died. Don’t you understand?”
He grimaced, as if hearing something distasteful.
“Look, I’ve got an important presentation this week. My bosses from Moscow are coming. I can’t just drop everything and drag myself to that nowhere.”
Natalia froze mid-motion, holding a shirt. Slowly, she turned around.
“I’m not asking you to quit everything. But this is my mother’s funeral.”
“So what? The dead won’t care who attends. I have to think of my career—you know we have a mortgage,” he snapped.
She silently continued packing. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her to endure his temper, stinginess, and indifference to home life. But now, something inside her snapped. The last thread binding them stretched to its limit.
“How long are you going?” Vitaly got up and went to the kitchen.
“Three or four days. I have to handle everything—organize, file documents.”
“Just don’t spend extra. We already have enough expenses.”
Natalia pressed her lips tight. What expenses was he talking about? His new 80,000-ruble smartphone? Endless fishing trips?
Two hours later, she stood at the bus station, bag in hand. Vitaly hadn’t offered to drive her, claiming he was headed the other way. No embrace, no supportive word.
“Let the locals dig the grave,” he said sharply before she left. “I’m not dragging myself into that backwater.”
On the bus, Natalia watched the fields flash by beneath the August sun—golden stubble swaying peacefully. Her mother adored this season, often saying, “August is the most generous month; the earth finally rewards the labour.”
A neighborly woman, full-figured with a kind face, asked sympathetically,
“Are you going for a holiday?”
“To a funeral. My mother passed away.”
“May she rest in peace… Burying parents is the hardest thing,” the woman sighed.
Natalia nodded but didn’t want to talk. Her husband’s words echoed: “I’m not coming.” How could someone be so cold? Her mother had always been kind to Vitaly—sending homemade preserves, knitting socks, nursing him for a month after his leg injury.
The village greeted her with silence scented by fresh-cut grass. The house stood whitewashed with blue window frames—mom repainted them yearly, insisting a home should look as festive as a celebration.
Valentina Ivanovna awaited her by the gate.
“Natalia, dear… Elena Pavlovna never complained; she kept working in the garden, full of energy…”
“Where is Mom?”
“Inside the house. We neighbors prepared her in her favorite blue dress. Petrovich—the craftsman—made the coffin.”
Natalia entered the parlor. The coffin rested on the table, covered with a white cloth. Her mother’s face looked serene, as if asleep—smooth, youthful. Falling to her knees, Natalia wept for the first time that day.
The funeral was set for the next day. She called relatives—a cousin and nephew—all promised to come.
That evening, Alexander Petrovich, the gray-bearded village council leader, arrived.
“Natalia Sergeyevna, please accept my heartfelt condolences. Elena Pavlovna was a rare soul. The whole village respected her,” he said gravely.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“I come with news. A year ago, your mother came to me, asking me to certify a bankbook copy. The deposit was in your name.”
Surprised, Natalia accepted the document. Her mother had never mentioned a savings account, always lived modestly and frugally.
“The sum is substantial—about eight hundred thousand rubles,” the chairman continued. “She saved over the years, including interest. And she left her house to you. The will is with the notary in the district center. A wise woman who planned everything.”
After he left, Natalia sat on the porch, watching the sky glow with pink hues. Cows mooed in the distance, returning from the pastures. Her mother relished these evenings—sipping tea, gazing at sunsets.
The phone remained silent. Vitaly had not called once the entire day. Natalia finally dialed him.
“Yeah?” His voice was curt.
“The funeral is tomorrow at two.”
“So what? I told you, I’m not going.”
“Not that. Mom left a deposit—in my name. Eight hundred thousand.”
Silence. Then a slight cough.
“Eight hundred? Seriously?”
“Yes. And the house was bequeathed to me.”
“That’s… wonderful!” His tone suddenly warmed. “Maybe I should come? Help with the paperwork?”
“No need. I will manage.”
“Natalia, I’m your husband. I should be there.”
She smiled bitterly. In grief, he turned away. But when money came up, his memory sharpened.
“Come if you want,” she whispered. “If not, stay.”
Vitaly did not arrive. Only family and neighbors attended the funeral. Elena Pavlovna was honored with quiet memorial speeches, fond memories, and genuine tears from those who knew her as a kind, hardworking woman devoted to her children and the land.
Four days later, Natalia returned to the city. The key hardly turned in the door—Vitaly had again neglected to oil the lock. His dirty sneakers lay strewn in the entryway, his jacket tossed on the hanger haphazardly. The living room looked like a storm had passed—beer cans on the table, pillows on the floor, an overflowing ashtray. The kitchen housed a pile of unwashed dishes, hardened food scraps, and a garbage bin bursting over. Just four days—and the apartment resembled a home neglected by someone indifferent.
Vitaly lay in bed, wearing a crumpled t-shirt, engrossed in his tablet. Hearing her steps, he lifted his gaze but didn’t rise.
“You’re back? I’m hungry.”
Natalia stood at the doorway, looking at him—his unshaven face, greasy hair, and posture more lazy than weary. Fifteen years beside this man… How did it come to this?
“Have you washed any dishes these days?”
“No time. Work.”
“Today is Sunday.”
“So what? Rest is needed too.”
She moved silently to the kitchen and began cleaning. Her hands moved mechanically, while her thoughts wandered far away—thinking of her mother who had saved every kopeck to give her daughter a better life; of the man who couldn’t even take out the trash while his wife mourned her mother; of a life that should have grown lighter but instead turned into a heavy burden.
That evening brought an unexpected surprise. Vitaly returned from work carrying a large bouquet of scarlet roses and a bag from the bakery—her favorite éclairs.
“Darling, I’ve been thinking… I acted terribly. Your mother died, and I didn’t support you or go. That was cruel of me.”
He placed the flowers in a vase, arranged the pastries on a plate, and brewed tea. His face was tense, attempting to show remorse.
“Forgive me, Natalia. I should have been by your side. Remember how we met? At that fair where you sold cucumbers and squash. Your mother smiled at me like I was family.”
Natalia nodded, remembering the time when Vitaly had been attentive, lively, caring. Where was that man now?
“I thought,” he continued, “about the money. We must handle it properly. I could take a day off and accompany you to the bank and notary. There are so many scammers nowadays, and I worry for you.”
“Thank you, but I’ll manage on my own.”
“But we are family! Decisions about money should be made together. I know someone who understands investments and can help.”
“Vitaly, this inheritance is from my mother. I want to make the choices.”
He frowned but quickly composed himself.
“Of course, dear. But you know, in a family everything is shared. We’ve been together so many years; we pay the mortgage together…”
“Which you registered solely in your name,” Natalia reminded softly but firmly.
“That’s just formality! The apartment is joint property; you’re registered there…”
“Registration isn’t ownership. And inheritance isn’t marital property.”
Vitaly stood abruptly, his mask of remorse slipping.
“What are you implying? You won’t share?”
“I mean I won’t rush decisions. Mom passed just a week ago. I need time.”
“Time?” His voice hardened. “When I needed a car, you didn’t ask for time! You flat out said no money!”
“Because we barely made ends meet.”
“And now there’s money! Eight hundred thousand! We can buy a good car, travel to Europe—not that backwater resort you saved for.”
“That ‘backwater resort’ was all we could afford. I saved for six months.”
“Enough!” Vitaly slammed his hand on the table; the vase shook. “I’m your husband! I’m entitled to half!”
“No, you’re not. The law is clear: inheritance is not divided.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read it on the bus. And I also found out I can file for divorce without your consent.”
Vitaly froze, then sank slowly into a chair.
“You want a divorce?”
“I’m considering it. Vitaly, face the truth: you didn’t come to my mother’s funeral because you didn’t care. Now you suddenly ‘worry’—only after you learned about the money.”
“I really regret it! It’s just… work, stress…”
“Don’t lie. You don’t care that I lost my mother. You only care about the bank account.”
“How dare you! I worked for us for fifteen years!”
“Worked? When was the last time you cooked dinner? Did laundry? Asked how I was? I work just as hard—and manage the household alone!”
“That’s a woman’s job!”
“And a man’s job is what? To be rude, bossy, and lazy? Where were you when I needed you?”
Vitaly grabbed the vase and threw it against the wall. Broken glass and roses scattered on the floor.
“Ungrateful! I pulled you out of the village, gave you a decent life!”
“Village? I graduated university, got a job, earned my own money! You just appeared later and think you did it all!”
The quarrel escalated. Vitaly shouted, gestured wildly, spitting anger. Natalia looked at him and for the first time in years saw a stranger—hostile and selfish. How had she spent years excusing him? Telling herself he was tired, not malicious, would improve with time.
“You know what?” she said quietly, standing up. “Leave.”
“What? This is my apartment!”
“It’s a mortgaged flat I pay half for. If you want, I’ll call the police and report your property damage.”
She took his keys off the hook and held them out.
“Pack your things, take them downstairs. Leave.”
“You won’t dare!”
Just then, the opposite door creaked open. Nina Vasilyevna, a neighbor who had heard the noise, appeared in the stairwell.
“Everything’s fine, Nina Vasilyevna,” Natalia said calmly. “Vitaly is leaving.”
The woman glanced at the man’s distorted face, then at Natalia’s weary but resolute expression and nodded.
“Call me if you need help. Petrovich will assist,” she said.
Realizing he had lost, Vitaly didn’t dare cause a scene in front of a witness. He grabbed his jacket and stormed out.
“You’ll regret this!” His voice echoed from the stairwell.
Natalia closed the door and leaned against it, hands trembling. But inside her, not emptiness or fear, but an unfamiliar, liberating relief—as if freed from a long captivity.
The next day, she packed his belongings into boxes, placed them in the hallway, changed the locks, and informed the concierge.
A week later, Natalia filed for divorce. The petition noted no children or property claims. At trial, Vitaly demanded half of the deposit, but the judge clearly stated inheritance is personal property.
Within a month, everything was finalized. Eight hundred thousand rubles were deposited into her account. The village house became hers. Natalia took leave to go there—to sort through her mother’s belongings, restore order, and breathe the familiar air of her childhood home.
Standing on the porch, she observed the sunset. A warm breeze carried the scent of apples and hay. In the distance, children laughed, cows lowed. Peace. True peace, after years of turmoil.
The phone rang. Vitaly’s number flashed. Calmly, Natalia declined the call and blocked the contact.
The past was behind her. Ahead stretched a new life—free from humiliation, pretense, and the burden of a man who never valued her.
Key Insight: Happiness isn’t measured by wealth, but by the freedom to choose one’s own path. Natalia’s journey reminds us that true contentment comes from self-respect and the courage to embrace change.
Her mother was right: happiness lies not in money but in the power to decide how to live. Now, at last, that choice belonged entirely to Natalia.