With a sharp snap, Zinaida closed her MacBook, as though it bore the responsibility for all her troubles. The day had been unbearable. The client’s specifications had shifted repeatedly, and the doctor’s suggestion over the phone to increase her medication felt like another burden; she already resembled a mobile pharmacy.
Outside, the bleak Moscow sky wore a thick layer of grimy gray, typical for a February evening. The clock read six, the perfect moment to brew her cherished pu-erh tea and wrap herself in a warm blanket. Yet, today was different. The sudden sound of the front door opening three hours earlier than usual unsettled her.
“Anton? Why so early?” she called without facing him, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the dark laptop screen.
For the last year, their dialogue resembled a dissonant radio broadcast, each tuning into separate frequencies, feigning to hear the other.
“We need to talk,” her husband’s voice emerged, husky and strained, suggestive of a cold. Zinaida’s smirk showed her well-practiced understanding of his tone: it meant, “I have erred, but you will be blamed.”
Turning her chair toward him, she saw Anton’s disheveled appearance resembling a mid-level manager awaiting dismissal—dressed yet untidy.
“I am filing for divorce,” he announced abruptly, as if plunging into icy water.
Inside her, something fractured—not her heart, but the fragile hope that things might still fortify.
“I can’t keep living like this,” Anton muttered anxiously, pacing. “Endless hospitals, your constant medications, ceaseless complaints… I’m alive, but at forty-two, I feel like I’m an old man!”
“Forty-three,” she corrected without thought, then asked bluntly, “Who is she?”
Anton halted. “What?”
She chuckled softly, “Don’t bother pretending. New shirts, gym memberships, mysterious weekend ‘business trips.’ Classic. Just tell me her name.”
“Vika,” his voice softened strangely. “She’s twenty-five, vibrant, energetic, and most importantly, healthy.”
“And she can bear you children,” Zinaida responded calmly, stating only facts. Once, they had mutually agreed not to risk her health for a child; or so she believed.
“Yes!” Anton nearly shouted, “I want a normal family, not this endless existence!”
Slowly, Zinaida rose. A peculiar thought crossed her mind—how fortunate she wore her favorite loungewear instead of old sweats. Somehow, maintaining dignity as her fifteen-year marriage crumbled felt crucial.
“Fine,” she declared, her tone resolute. “I agree.”
His surprise was palpable, expecting an emotional outburst. “Just like that?”
“But on a single condition.”
His voice grew cautious. “What condition?”
For the first time, a genuine smile touched her lips, unsettling Anton.
“You’ll learn tomorrow. Give me until morning.”
After Anton left, Zinaida’s trembling fingers dialed with urgency. “Rita? Are you free? I need urgent legal assistance. Your brother—can he come by in an hour?”
Systematically, she laid out years of documentation before her—marriage certificates, property deeds, mortgage papers fully paid off, car titles—her life condensed into files.
“So, he wants someone younger, healthier? Let’s see how this plays out,” she murmured, retrieving a thick folder brimming with medical records.
The doorbell rang precisely an hour later. Pavel, Rita’s brother, arrived—a robust figure clad in an elegant overcoat, a leather briefcase in hand, resembling a successful lawyer from a television drama.
“Tell me everything,” he urged, opening his laptop.
“My husband ‘upgraded’ to a younger, healthier model,” Zinaida stated without humor. “I want him to understand what it means to be sick and dependent.”
Pavel raised his brow. “How do you plan to accomplish that?”
“I have a strategy,” she replied. “I need to ensure its legality.”
For the next hour they discussed the plan in detail. Pavel’s frown turned into a nod before he started typing rapidly.
“Typically, I avoid family cases,” Pavel admitted, closing his laptop. “But this one’s different. I’m in, and I’ll offer you a discount—your sister’s referral.”
“Will it work?” she asked quietly.
“If executed appropriately, yes. We must act swiftly. Expect me at my office in the morning. By the way, good job handling this so calmly.”
“I’m tired of playing the ‘nice one’,” Zina shrugged. “As the joke goes, don’t wake the sleeping beast within me—she already lacks rest.”
After Pavel departed, she poured a glass of red wine but only watched the swirling liquid rather than drinking. Messages flooded her phone—Rita was pressing for updates.
She replied briefly, “Everything is unfolding as planned. Will update tomorrow.”
That night, as she prepared the bed, Zinaida allowed herself silent tears for the first time that day. Years of solitary endurance had shaped her tears—quiet and unseen.
Fifteen years bound by vows of support through sickness felt like an illusion drowning in reality.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, wiping away tears. “Tomorrow brings a new chapter. A new me.”
The next morning, dressing for Pavel’s office, she applied makeup for the first time in a long while and wore her favorite dress. Reflecting in the mirror, she understood this was not an ending but a fresh start—one where illness would no longer mean guilt.
As she stepped into a taxi, her phone rang—it was Anton.
“Will you tell me your terms?” he asked.
“Of course, darling,” she replied, sweetness lacing her voice. “Meet me at the Letnikovskaya office at three. Everything will be discussed then.”
The Expert Law firm’s office was cool and comfortable—a detail Zinaida appreciated as she settled in early to finalize plans with Pavel. Of course, her migraine chose this moment to remind her of its presence.
“Coffee?” Pavel nodded toward the corner machine.
“No, thank you. Let’s begin.”
Spreading documents on the mahogany table, Pavel asked, “Are you sure you want only the house? We could press your husband for more; I have info about shady dealings at his work.”
“I’m certain,” she interrupted. “Just the house inherited from his mother. No blackmail—I won’t stoop that low.”
Flipping through appraisal images, Pavel winced. “The house is a wreck—roof leaks, outdated utilities, a wild garden. Repairs could be costly.”
“That’s my challenge,” Zina smiled knowingly. “Just prepare the documents. And don’t look at me like that—I haven’t lost my mind.”
Leaning back, Pavel confessed, “In fifteen years, I’ve never had a client request an old, dilapidated house over a decent asset share.”
“Guess I’m unique,” she winked, wincing as pain stabbed her temple.
Anton appeared exactly on time: polished suit, confident grin, and the scent of expensive cologne marking his presence. His smile faltered slightly when he saw the lawyer.
“What’s the condition?” he slumped into a chair, dripping disdain. “Hurry up—I have a meeting soon.”
“Simple,” Zinaida met his gaze unapologetically. “The house on the outskirts left to us by your mother. We’ll sell the apartment and split earnings equally. The car remains yours.”
Anton laughed aloud, “That’s all? That old shack? I thought you’d be… God, Zina, you’ve always been strange, but this crosses the line!”
“Exactly,” she answered calmly, suppressing her irritation at his condescension. “You have your father’s apartment, so housing won’t be an issue. Or were you intending to keep everything?”
“Take it!” he waved dramatically. “Honestly, hoped for more drama—tantrums, demands. But you want a rundown house? Vika won’t believe it.”
“Let’s leave the other woman out of the proceedings,” Pavel stated dryly, sliding the papers toward him. “Focus on the matter.”
The room grew silent except for the paper rustling and pen tapping. Anton scrutinized each clause deliberately.
“Before she died, Mom rambled about that house,” he mused mid-signature. “Said it was special, had a good aura. At her age, she believed in mysticism. Said the house gave strength and had to be treasured.”
“Perhaps it was no nonsense,” Zinaida said softly, recalling her first entry into that home years ago.
Back then, migraines were unknown to her, and her mother-in-law was alive—a gentle, wise woman who welcomed her like family.
Once the papers were signed, Anton rose, adjusting his jacket. “So, happy now? Vika’s waiting. Excuse me.”
“We’re done,” Pavel closed the folder. “You’ll receive the house deed in three days.”
Anton tossed over his shoulder, “Good luck with the house,” and left without a glance at his former wife.
Zinaida lingered, stroking the folder. Her mother-in-law’s words about the house’s special aura wove through her thoughts.
“Everything will be fine,” she murmured. “This time, really.”
After receiving the keys, she threw open all the windows. The musty air, dust, and spiderwebs spoke of neglect, turning a once-comfortable home into a scene from a horror film.
“Well then, shall we get reacquainted?” she whispered, running her hand along the aged wallpaper. It rustled gently, as if the house itself greeted its new owner.
- Sale from the apartment arrived at an ideal time.
- Gradually, she began renovating the house room by room.
- A new roof, modern utilities, fresh floors—all necessary improvements.
- Surprisingly, the work invigorated rather than exhausted her.
“What are you doing?” Rita cried during a visit. “You’ll waste all your money on this dump! Renting would’ve been wiser!”
“Not a dump—a house,” Zinaida corrected calmly, tending the overgrown garden. “And it’s worth every penny.”
The small summer house behind the property required minimal repairs and soon transformed into a bright studio. Zinaida had long dreamed of an atelier, but Anton dismissed the idea as frivolous.
“First client!” she cheered when a neighbor brought a dress for mending, followed by a second and third. Word of mouth spread quickly.
After six months, something unexpected happened. The migraines that had haunted her for years began to fade—first sporadic, then mild, eventually disappearing.
“Impossible,” a doctor exclaimed, reviewing test results. “This just doesn’t happen. Are you taking something special?”
“Breathing fresh air and doing work I love,” she smiled.
Time passed—the atelier flourished, the house blossomed, and Zinaida appeared revitalized: youthful, radiant, and straighter in posture.
Anton seldom crossed her mind, except when sorting old pictures. She learned through mutual friends that he married Vika soon after their split, but it no longer touched her.
“Mom was right,” she whispered on quiet evenings in the restored veranda. “The house’s aura isn’t in the bricks or roof, but in what happens inside.”
Clients increased steadily, loyal customers returned, and she even hired an assistant—a young local eager to learn sewing.
“Divorce suits you,” Rita observed once. “You seem… different.”
“Not the divorce,” Zinaida replied. “Finally, I’m pursuing my passion and living where I desire.”
Three years later, while shopping for fabric at a mall, a voice called her name. Turning slowly, she recognized Anton a few meters away.
He had aged noticeably—gray streaks, tired eyes, and a gaunt face replaced the confident man who had demanded divorce.
“Hello,” she said calmly, holding his surprised gaze. “It’s been a long time.”
“I barely recognized you,” Anton said, astonished. “You’ve changed so much…”
“Time doesn’t spare anyone,” Zinaida shrugged, inwardly pleased with her toned, vibrant appearance.
“No, you’ve gotten younger,” he insisted. “And the migraines? Are they still…”
“Gone completely,” she responded with a light smile. “Doctors remain perplexed.”
“How?” he asked, voice faltering. “Did you find a cure?”
“You could say that,” she replied. “I began living my own life in that ‘old shack’ you scorned.”
He nervously adjusted his sleeve; his hands trembled visibly.
“And you… how are you?” she inquired politely.
“Not well,” he answered bitterly. “Last year was a nightmare—hypertension, heart problems, then neuralgia.”
“And Vika?”
“She left,” he glanced away. “Said she didn’t sign up to be a nurse.”
A quiet smile formed on Zinaida’s lips—not mockery, but understanding.
“Life balances itself,” she said, gathering her fabric bag. “You were my headache; I was sick because of you. You left, and so did the illness. It must have followed you along with Vika.”
“Zina…” He stepped closer. “I was wrong back then. Maybe—”
“No,” she shook her head gently. “No ‘maybes.’ Our paths diverged. And I’m thankful. Without that divorce, I’d never have found myself. Thank you.”
“Are you happy?” he asked, surprise mixed with bitterness.
“More than ever!” Zinaida adjusted her bag. “I have my business, my beloved home, and no migraines. Most importantly, no unloving husband as a headache.”
She turned gracefully and walked away, her heels striking confidently across the marble floor—a rhythm marking the start of a joyful new chapter.
Six months later, word came that Anton was hospitalized after a heart attack. Vika never visited. But Zinaida was unmoved, fully absorbed in preparing the debut of her first clothing collection.
Reflection: Zinaida’s story portrays resilience amid turmoil, demonstrating how an ending can herald a fresh start. Through determination and self-love, she transcended pain and found renewal. Her journey encourages embracing change and nurturing one’s own well-being to reclaim hope and happiness.