After ten long years of tolerating his behavior, I finally picked up the phone and called the police to address the situation.
Perhaps I should have seen the signs coming. All the indicators were there—his increasing absences from work, sudden mood swings, incessant criticisms about everything from my cooking to my appearance. But hearing the flat declaration, “Your belongings are outside,” cut deep.
“Vitya, are you joking?” My voice trembled even though I tried to sound composed.
“No, Sveta. I’m done. I’m tired of this. Come and collect your stuff,” he replied, a chilling tone underlying his words.
As I stood at the metro station, I pressed the phone tightly to my ear, surrounded by hurried bystanders and honking cars. The November wind crept beneath my coat, and in my bag, I clutched a box of chocolates, a silly gesture intended as a peace offering after our argument the previous day.
The taxi ride lasted twenty minutes, and during that time, I reflected on our recent conflicts, replaying every hurtful incident. Ten years of marriage. Ten. Years.
Upon stepping out of the car, the first sight that greeted me was a pile of my belongings by the entrance. My suitcase, boxes filled with books, bags of clothes. Nina Petrovna, my neighbor, sat on a bench, her curiosity evident. Two teenagers from the adjacent building were recording the scene on their phones.
“Look who’s here!” Victor stood at the entrance, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets. His face was pale yet resolute. “Take your things and get lost.”
“Have you lost your mind? Bring my belongings back inside right now,” I managed, trying to keep my tone low but faltering.
“Or what?” he snickered. “This is my apartment. I have the paperwork. I’ve tolerated you for long enough. It’s over.”
Strangely, I felt a wave of calm wash over me. Ten years of humiliation, compromises, and a desperate attempt to hold onto our family. Silently, I pulled out my phone.
“Who are you calling? Your mom to complain?” he scoffed.
“No, I’m calling the police,” I replied, surprised by my own serenity.
“Go ahead! How will the police help you? The documents are in my name.”
“Police department? Hello. My name is Svetlana Sokolova. My husband has thrown all my belongings out and won’t let me back in.”
Victor’s face suddenly shifted—he looked astonished: “What police? Are you out of your mind?”
“Yes, yes, it’s Lesnaya Street, house 17,” I continued into the phone, watching Victor’s expression change. “Yes, my belongings are tossed right onto the street. No, there haven’t been any threats yet.”
I hung up and looked at my husband. Over the past ten years, I had become adept at reading every shade of his irritation—from mild annoyance to explosive rage. Right now, he hovered somewhere in between, with narrowed eyes and a twitching vein in his neck.
“You’ve always been hysterical,” he said with exaggerated calm. “But now you’ve truly outdone yourself. The police? Seriously?”
I approached the heap of items silently. My favorite sweater, adorned with reindeer, lay soaked in a puddle. A box of photographs had been overturned, with the pictures scattered across the pavement. My old laptop, the one I used for my copywriting gigs, was carelessly stuffed into a bag.
“You couldn’t even bother to pack my things with care,” I remarked, picking up a photo from our wedding that had landed on the damp asphalt.
“And why should I?” Victor crossed his arms defiantly. “Be grateful I even gathered them at all. I could have just thrown them out.”
Nina Petrovna leaned forward in her seat, unable to contain her curiosity: “Sveta, what happened? Did you two have a fight?”
“Nina Petrovna, it’s a family matter,” Victor cut in.
“No family matter at all,” I countered. “Victor is kicking me out of the house, that’s all.”
“I have every right to!” he suddenly shouted. “It’s my apartment, and I decide who lives here!”
At that moment, a white car pulled up, and two police officers emerged—a young man and a middle-aged woman. Following behind them was a short man in a gray suit carrying a leather portfolio.
“Sir, do you live here?” the police officer inquired of Victor.
“Yes, this is my apartment,” he replied defiantly. “And this woman doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Sergei Pavlovich Kravtsov, court bailiff,” introduced the man in gray. “Mr. Sokolov, I have a court order prohibiting the eviction of Mrs. Sokolova until the divorce proceedings and property division are finalized.”
Victor’s face drained of color: “What process? What order?”
“Your wife filed a complaint two weeks ago,” the bailiff opened the portfolio. “There’s also a statement regarding physical assault and a medical report.”
“What nonsense?” Victor turned to me. “You filed for divorce behind my back?”
I remained silent and observed him. The bruise under my ribs still throbbed from his “accidental” shove last Thursday when I hadn’t prepared dinner on time.
“Svetlana Andreevna has indeed filed a complaint,” the policewoman confirmed. “According to the law, you cannot prevent her from residing at her registered address until the court reaches a decision.”
Victor paled, then flushed with anger: “She’s lying! There were no injuries!”
“That is for the court to decide,” the bailiff replied calmly. “For now, you need to return Mrs. Sokolova’s belongings to the apartment. Otherwise, a report will be filed for non-compliance with the court order.”
We climbed the stairs—I, the two police officers, the bailiff, and Victor. Every step, every scratch on the walls felt painfully familiar. How many times had I ascended these stairs with heavy bags while he lounged in front of the TV? How many times had I quietly wiped tears before inserting the key into the lock?
The silence was broken only by the sound of our footsteps and Victor’s heavy breathing. He trailed behind us, and I felt his piercing, hateful gaze.
“Sveta, you’ve orchestrated this whole thing,” he hissed when we reached our apartment door. “You’ve set me up.”
“Mr. Sokolov, please refrain from making comments,” the young police officer warned.
Victor grimaced but fell silent. He opened the door with a sharp movement—the key scraped against the lock. The familiar smell hit my senses: a mix of his cologne, stale cigarette smoke, and something sour. Just moments ago, I’d have rushed to air out the place and clean up, but now, I felt indifferent.
The apartment was in disarray: scattered belongings, dirty dishes in the sink, an overflowing ashtray. On the coffee table lay an empty bottle of cognac and two glasses.
“Having fun?” I blurted out.
“None of your business,” he retorted.
“Let’s get the belongings inside first,” the policewoman interjected.
For the next twenty minutes, we silently carried my belongings back into the apartment. Some items were soaked, others irreparably damaged. My laptop appeared to be damaged as well—the lid cracked from a hard knock.
“I’d like to compile a list of the damaged items,” I informed the bailiff once the final box was in the hallway.
“You have the right to do that,” he nodded. “Photograph all the damaged items and compile a list. It can be attached to your claim.”
“What claim?” Victor exploded. “Are you actually planning to sue me after everything I’ve done for you?”
I looked at him—really looked for the first time in a long time. A red face, inflamed eyes, stubble, a bulging beer belly peeking out from a wrinkled t-shirt. This was the man I had spent a decade with. The man I once loved.
“What exactly did you do for me, Vitya?” I asked softly. “Remind me.”
“I put a roof over your head! I fed you! I clothed you!” He began counting on his fingers.
“I work just as hard as you do,” I countered. “I cook, I clean, I wash the clothes—even those disgusting socks of yours. And you… you can’t even take out the trash without a reminder.”
“You ungrateful…”
“Sokolov, one more word, and we’ll draft a report on verbal threats,” warned the bailiff.
Victor fell silent, fists clenched. I could see the fury bubbling within him—the same fury that had been directed at me for years.
“I need to assess the damage,” I told the police officers. “And I want to file a report for property damage.”
“Alright,” the policewoman nodded. “We can do that right now.”
“And what about him?” I nodded toward Victor.
“Given the circumstances,” the bailiff interjected, “Mr. Sokolov is advised to temporarily vacate the apartment until the court rules. Especially after today’s incident.”
“What?!” Victor jumped. “This is MY apartment! I’m not going anywhere!”
“Mr. Sokolov,” the police officer straightened up, “if you refuse to leave voluntarily, we will have to draft a report for non-compliance with the court directive and obstructing the execution of the court’s decision. This may lead to administrative responsibility.”
Victor looked around frantically as if searching for support. I saw something flicker in his eyes—something I had never noticed before—fear. Not anger, not disdain, but genuine fear.
“I’ll pack my things,” he finally muttered. “Give me half an hour.”
While Victor hastily stuffed his shirts and jeans into a sports bag, the bailiff explained the next steps to me. Property division court, a temporary prohibition on selling the apartment, alimony if I pursued it. My mind was spinning.
“I’ve packed my things,” Victor emerged from the bedroom with two bags. “Leaving the keys on the dresser.”
“Mr. Sokolov, you need to provide an address for your temporary stay,” said the bailiff, handing him a form.
“I’ll go to my mother’s,” Victor grumbled, hastily writing down the address. “Hope you’re satisfied, Sveta? You’ve driven me out of my own home!”
I remained silent. What could I say to a man I had lived with for ten years but never truly knew? A man who had deemed it normal to belittle me, control my every move, and had now tossed my things into the street?
“Everything that needs to be said will be addressed in court,” the policewoman stated. “And now it’s best for you to leave, Mr. Sokolov.”
Once the door closed behind Victor and the bailiff, silence resonated in the apartment. The police officers assisted me in compiling a list of damaged items, took my statements, and completed all necessary paperwork.
“Are you alright?” the policewoman asked before leaving. “Do you want me to call someone so you’re not alone?”
“No, thank you,” I shook my head. “I’ll manage.”
Once they departed, I walked through the apartment—our apartment with Victor that now felt utterly alien. Everywhere, there were remnants of his presence: a cigarette pack on the windowsill, dirty sneakers in the corner, beer cans beneath the couch.
I opened the window. The cold November air surged into the room, dispersing the odors of tobacco and stale alcohol. Suddenly, I recalled our first apartment—a rented studio on the outskirts. We had been so happy back then… When did everything change? At what point did our love morph into this grotesque parody?
My phone vibrated—it was my mother calling. “Sveta, how are you?” Her voice sounded concerned. “The lawyer said everything went according to plan.”
“Yes, Mom,” I sighed. “Everything’s fine. Victor has left.”
“You did great, darling,” her voice radiated pride. “I always knew you were strong.”
Strong? I had never thought of myself as strong. In fact, all those years, I believed I had to endure, forgive, and turn a blind eye to humiliation—for the sake of keeping the family together, for the sake of a “love” that had long disappeared.
After my conversation with Mom, I sat in the kitchen and brewed myself tea for the first time in ages, just the way I liked it—with jasmine and a spoonful of honey. Not the strong black tea that Victor preferred.
Somewhere in the neighboring apartment, music played. Cars whirred outside. Life went on. And mine—too. A different life, one without humiliation, fear, and the constant need to conform to someone else’s wishes. A life where I could simply be myself.
I took a sip of the tea. The flavor was unexpectedly vibrant, as if I was tasting it for the first time.
Ahead lay the divorce proceedings, the property division, and possibly more confrontations with Victor. Yet, for the first time in years, I felt a glimmer of hope. And a strange, fragile sense of freedom.