Svetа’s new perfume hit me the second I walked in—sharp, syrupy, the kind of scent worn by someone who already feels like she’s won.
“Katyusha—oh my God, I’m so happy!” Svetа, my best friend, squeezed me in a tight hug.
Her movements were quick, almost predatory. The nervous fussiness I’d always mistaken for warmth suddenly looked different.
“Come in. I’ll be right back… I’ll run to the kitchen and make us… something stronger?”
She giggled and disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in the room.
That’s when I heard it.
A low, muffled groan.
It came from the huge wardrobe—one of those heavy old ones in her beloved Stalin-era apartment.
I froze. Plumbing? Noise from the street?
No. It was too… alive. Too irritated. Too human.
I walked up to the wardrobe. The brass handle was warm.
My heart didn’t race—it just stopped.
I yanked the door open.
My husband was staring at me, blinking.
Andrey.
He was crouched between Svetа’s dresses, squeezed in there, wearing only one sock. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat. He wasn’t “at an urgent meeting.”
He was here.
The air inside the wardrobe was thick—sweat, dust, and that same cloying perfume.
“Katia,” he breathed.
And there was no fear in his voice. No guilt. Only irritation—like I’d caught him sneaking candy before lunch, not hiding in my best friend’s closet.
I just stared. Twelve years of marriage. Our son, Egor, was at his grandmother’s.
Svetа flew back in with a tray. She saw me. Saw the open wardrobe. Saw Andrey clumsily trying to climb out.
The tray with the cups crashed to the floor.
“Oh,” she said, sounding stupid. But her eyes were laughing.
Andrey got out. Finally found the other sock and started pulling it on. That normal little domestic gesture looked grotesque.
“Katia, we needed to tell you,” he began, tugging his shirt straight. “The pragmatist.” My “pragmatic” husband.
“Tell me… what?” My voice didn’t sound like mine—dry, creaking. “That you two hold meetings in wardrobes?”
Svetа suddenly laughed—this time out loud.
“Katia, don’t act like a child. Yes. That’s exactly it.”
She stepped over and fixed Andrey’s collar. Like a wife. Not even like a wife—like the woman who owned him.
“How long?” I asked, staring at her hand on his shoulder.
“What do you mean, ‘how long’?” Andrey frowned as if I’d asked something inappropriate.
“How long have you—”
“Longer than you, sweetheart,” Svetа cut in. Her frantic energy vanished, replaced by a slow, satisfied look. “I knew him before you ever showed up.”
“Showed up.” Me.
“We were together. In college. Then you came along—so proper, so convenient. You were perfect for the role…” She paused. “…an incubator.”
Andrey stayed silent, staring at the floor as he pulled on his shoes.
“All twelve years?” I looked only at my husband. “All twelve, Andrey?”
“It’s complicated, Katia,” he finally raised his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“And he never even left,” Svetа added, clearly enjoying herself. “He was always mine. Every single one of your ‘happy’ twelve years was a lie.”
She went up to him and kissed his cheek—possessive, deliberate.
“We just didn’t want to traumatize you.”
“Especially your wallet,” she whispered—loud enough for me to hear.
That “we” made my jaw lock.
“Leave,” I said to Andrey.
“Katia, let’s talk at home—”
“Leave.”
“Katia, where am I supposed to—”
Svetа cut him off:
“Andryusha, are you going to tell her about the dacha now, or should I?”
Andrey turned pale.
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Stay out of it.”
“What dacha?” I barely recognized my own voice.
“Oh, that one,” Svetа smiled. “The one you two were ‘buying together.’ With your ‘shared’ money. Only the money wasn’t exactly yours. And you didn’t buy it exactly ‘together,’ either.”
I looked at my husband. He said nothing.
I picked up my bag.
“Was he… comfortable in there?” I nodded toward the wardrobe. “He was groaning.”
“He’s always comfortable with me,” Svetа cut in. “And he wasn’t groaning—he was impatient. Waiting for you to leave. And then you showed up.”
I turned toward the door.
“It was cramped,” I said. Not a question. A statement.
I walked out. And only on the staircase did I realize I wasn’t even crying.
Cold, wet November air sliced across my face.
I walked without seeing where I was going. The streetlights smeared into dull yellow blurs.
Svetа’s perfume seemed to have seeped into my skin. I scrubbed my wrists, but the sickly sweetness wouldn’t go away.
The dacha.
My thoughts kept snagging on that word.
The dacha Andrey and I had been saving for for three years. The one I—like an idiot—had poured money into, money left over after selling my grandmother’s apartment.
“Katia, it’s more practical,” he’d said. “We put it all into one place—it’ll be our big home.”
“Katia, it’s an investment. Your pre-marriage money is just sitting there dead. This way it’ll work.”
I believed him. I was “convenient.”
“The money wasn’t exactly yours.”
I made it back to our apartment. “Ours.”
My hand shook on the key, but I still managed to get it into the lock.
The hallway. His boots, my shoes. Egor’s photo on the wall.
I walked into the room and sat down on the couch.
Everything looked foreign. Like fake scenery on a stage.
The desk drawer—where all the documents were.
I opened it.
A folder labeled “DACHA.”
I pulled out the purchase contract.
I read slowly, syllable by syllable.
“Buyers: Petrov Andrey Sergeyevich and… Smirnova Svetlana Igorevna.”
Smirnova. Svetа’s surname.
They bought it together. In shares.
And me… where was I?
And then I remembered.
“Katia, don’t come with me. It’ll be mud and paperwork. I’ll handle it. You trust me, don’t you?”
I trusted him.
I started pawing through the drawer like I couldn’t breathe. Bank statements—there.
A transfer. A huge amount, from my account to his. A week before the purchase.
A sum equal to half the house.
I closed my eyes.
The door slammed.
Andrey walked in.
He saw me on the couch. Saw the folder and the statements in my hands.
There was no remorse on his face. Just exhaustion—and irritation.
“Well, there,” he said, tossing his keys onto the shelf. “You already know. That makes things easier.”
“Easier?”
“Katia, let’s skip the hysterics. Let’s sit down like adults.”
He dropped into the armchair across from me. He didn’t look guilty. He looked like a manager at a meeting that had run too long.
“I wasn’t going to lie to you forever.”
“Only for twelve years,” I breathed.
“It wasn’t like that!” He raised his voice. “Svetа and I—we have history. Real history. And you… you were the right one. You fit the role of a wife.”
“A role…”
“You don’t scream. You understand everything. You’re convenient.”
He repeated her word. “Convenient.”
“And Svetа isn’t. She’s… alive.”
“And you decided it would be convenient for both of you to live off my money?” I nodded at the contract. “My grandmother’s money. Mine.”
Andrey winced.
“That’s exactly what I didn’t want to discuss. Katia, it’s business.”
“What?”
“The money wasn’t ‘yours.’ It was ‘ours.’ Shared. Family money. I took it from the family and put it into property.”
“Into YOUR property!”
“It was an investment. Svetа put in her share, I put in mine. The fact that your portion ended up inside my share—that’s just… a technicality.”
He looked at me like I was failing to grasp something obvious.
“So, in your mind,” I said slowly, “you took my personal, pre-marriage money and used it to buy a house with your mistress—who also happens to be my best friend.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds rude,” he frowned. “It was just expense optimization.”
Optimization. Expenses.
“And the wardrobe—was that ‘optimization’ too?”
“That was stupid,” he waved it off. “She didn’t expect you to come. She panicked. I couldn’t exactly greet you like that.”
He talked about my arrival like it was an annoying interruption.
“So what now, Andrey?”
“What do you mean ‘what’?” He genuinely didn’t understand. “Nothing. You’ll stay here. I’ll… I’ll stay with Svetа for now.”
“For now.”
“And Egor?”
“What about Egor? Egor stays with you. That’s logical. He needs his mother.”
He stood up.
“I need to pack a few things.”
He went into the bedroom.
I heard him opening our closet. Not the one he’d been groaning in.
He tossed clothes into a bag.
I stared at the contract. Petrov and Smirnova.
He came back out with a travel bag.
“Katia, just don’t do anything stupid. For Egor’s sake. Don’t start dividing things, don’t make a scandal. Svetа and I are going to be together anyway.”
He looked at me.
“You’ve always been the most reasonable one out of the three of us.”
He was waiting for me to nod. To understand.
“Get out,” I said.
“What?”
“Get. Out.”
He sighed like I’d disappointed him.
“Fine. We’ll talk when you’ve cooled off.”
The door closed behind him.
I stayed alone in our “shared” apartment, with the contract and statements in my hands.
And that sugary, sickening perfume seemed to be hanging in the air here too.
A couple of hours passed, maybe. I sat without moving.
My phone buzzed on the table.
A message from Andrey:
“Egor called, he’s looking for you. Call him back. And don’t forget to water the ficus tomorrow. I left my work boots in the storage closet—don’t throw them out.”
I stared at the screen.
Not “How are you?” Not “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t forget to water the ficus.”
He’d left for another woman, but his routine, his son, his boots, his ficus—he left all of that with me. For maintenance.
Because I’m “reasonable.” Because it’s “logical.”
Something inside me didn’t just turn cold. It burned out.
I stood up.
I looked at the contract again. “Petrov and Smirnova.”
“Expense optimization.”
I grabbed my car keys.
I’d never been to that dacha. Andrey always “protected” me from the dirt and construction.
“I’ll handle it, Katyusha—this isn’t women’s work.”
But I knew the address. It was on the contract.
Forty minutes on the night highway. Rain started to spit against the windshield.
A gated settlement. Dark houses.
There it was. A tall fence. The house I’d only seen in photos on Andrey’s phone.
I got out.
The gate was locked.
But I knew Svetа. Fifteen years of being her “best friend.” I knew she kept the spare key under the mailbox.
I reached under. Cold metal.
I let myself in.
Inside, it didn’t smell like wood and new beginnings.
It smelled like Svetа’s perfume. That same clinging sweetness—mixed with fresh paint.
I turned on the hallway light.
This wasn’t a little weekend cottage.
This was a full-sized, lived-in home. Their home.
In the kitchen stood an expensive coffee machine. In the living room—a massive couch.
On a shelf sat a vase. My mother’s vase. The one Andrey claimed he’d “accidentally” broken during the move three years ago.
I went upstairs.
The bedroom.
A double bed made up with silk sheets.
And in the corner…
In the corner stood it.
My grandmother’s vanity table—carved dark wood, an oval mirror.
I gasped.
Two years ago Andrey told me the movers had dropped it.
“Katia, it shattered. I didn’t want to upset you, so I threw it out right away.”
I cried for a week. It had been the only thing I had left from Grandma.
And it was here. Whole. Untouched.
He hadn’t just taken my money.
He’d stolen my memory piece by piece. He’d stolen what was sacred—and carried it here, into their nest.
I walked up to the vanity and ran my hand over the carved surface.
Mine.
I looked at my reflection in the dusty mirror.
A woman stared back at me—a woman I didn’t recognize.
And that woman knew exactly what to do.
I went back downstairs.
In a kitchen drawer I found what I needed.
A can of expanding foam. Andrey always bought them “for household repairs.”
I returned to the bedroom.
Walked up to the bed.
And slowly, methodically, I began flooding their silk bedding with foam.
Then I went to the living room.
Their huge couch.
The foam spilled out in thick, ugly yellow ropes.
The coffee machine. My mother’s vase.
The cloying perfume mixed with the sharp chemical stench of the foam.
I breathed in deeply.
I wasn’t smashing. I wasn’t breaking.
I was “optimizing.”
I knew the foam would harden like stone. That they’d have to cut it out—along with the silk, along with the upholstery.
It wasn’t vandalism.
It was justice.
I reached the entryway.
I still had half a can left.
The door.
I looked at the keyhole.
And filled it. From the inside.
Let “pragmatic” Andrey try to “optimize” his way back into his new house.
I left through the back door. It wasn’t locked—the key was still in it from the inside.
I took nothing except my phone.
Halfway home, I pulled over on the shoulder and made a call.
“Oleg? Hi. It’s me.”
My cousin.
“Katia? Why are you calling so late?”
“Oleg, you still have that little truck, right?”
“Yeah… why?”
“I need to move a mirror. It’s very heavy.”
Oleg arrived an hour later. He didn’t ask questions.
He just looked at me—pale in the roadside darkness—and nodded.
“Address?”
We drove back to that house.
The two of us, grunting, carried the vanity out through the back door. It was heavier than it looked.
“Valuable?” Oleg asked, strapping it down in the truck.
“Priceless,” I said.
We brought it to my apartment. Mine.
We set it in the living room. Oleg left, only squeezing my shoulder goodbye.
I locked the door—every lock.
Then I called the 24-hour service.
Forty minutes later, a locksmith changed the cylinder. Andrey and his key would never get in again.
I sat across from the vanity.
In its dull mirror the room reflected back at me. My room.
It smelled like old wood and varnish. Not perfume.
In the morning I picked up Egor from Grandma without explaining.
And then it began.
Around noon my phone exploded with calls. Andrey.
I didn’t answer. He called ten times.
Then a message arrived—in all caps:
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?”
“FOAM. THE DOOR. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THIS COSTS?”
I stared at the letters. He didn’t ask where I was. He didn’t ask about Egor. He was calculating losses.
“The pragmatist.”
I typed back:
“Just optimizing my emotional expenses. Sounds rude, but it’s business.”
He called instantly. I put it on speaker.
“You… you…” He was choking on rage. “You ruined expensive things! The couch! The door! Katia, you’re being irrational!”
“At least I’m not convenient anymore,” I said.
“And the vanity?! You stole the vanity!”
“I took back what’s mine, Andrey. What you stole from me.”
“It was… it was shared!”
“No. It was mine. Just like the money you used to buy that couch.”
He went quiet, searching for words.
“We’ll talk when you stop hysterics.”
“We won’t talk anymore, Andrey. Throw your keys away. They won’t work.”
I hung up.
A minute later, Svetа called.
Her voice was high, shrill.
“You’ll regret this! You little gray mouse—who do you think you are?!”
“I can,” I said quietly, “Svetа.”
“I—We—”
“What, ‘you’?” I cut in. “You’ll be peeling foam off together?”
She hissed.
“You were jealous of me! Your whole life!”
“No, Svetа. You wanted what was mine. You wanted it so badly you didn’t even notice—you didn’t win a prize. You got what was hiding in the wardrobe.”
I hung up again—and blocked both numbers.
I went to the window and flung it open.
Cold, clean November air rushed in and swept out the last notes of that cloying perfume.
“Mom?”
Egor stood in the doorway.
“What’s that pretty mirror?”
I pulled him into a hug.
“That, sweetheart, is ours. The real thing. Grandma’s.”
I looked at our reflection—just the two of us.
There was a lot ahead: explaining things to my son, dividing property, paperwork.
But I knew one thing.
I would never be the “reasonable” woman they wanted me to be again.
I would be real.
Two days later Andrey was waiting for me by the entrance. He couldn’t get inside.
He looked awful—yellow, drawn.
“Katia,” he grabbed my sleeve. “What do you want?”
“Me? Nothing, Andrey. I want you gone.”
“You don’t understand,” he hissed. “You ruined—You ruined everything!”
“You ruined everything when you climbed into that wardrobe,” I said, trying to pull my arm free.
“She…” He faltered. “Svetа… she’s furious. You—do you even understand what you’ve dragged me into? I have to fix all of it now!”
I stopped.
“Sorry—what?”
“This house… the foam… you think it’s funny? That’s money!”
“And?”
“And I don’t have it!” he blurted. “It’s all tied up! Katia, be—”
“Reasonable?” I finished for him.
He nodded, missing the irony completely.
“Katia, let’s do it pragmatically,” he said, slipping into business mode. “You understand this apartment is joint property. Same with the dacha.”
“The dacha was bought with my pre-marriage money, Andrey. That’s fraud.”
He flinched.
“You wouldn’t—”
“I’m not going to court,” I said. “I don’t need lawsuits. I need you to disappear.”
“What are you proposing?” He tensed instantly.
“I’m proposing a ‘pragmatic’ trade,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes. “You go to a notary and sign your share of this apartment over to Egor. And I… I ‘forget’ about the money you poured into your dacha with her.”
“But this apartment is worth more!”
“And my freedom—and my vanity—are priceless. You get your ‘alive’ Svetа and your foam-filled house. I get peace.”
He calculated. I could see the numbers running behind his eyes.
“You’re ‘optimizing expenses,’ Andrey. Think about it.”
I pulled my sleeve free and went inside.
The next day he called and agreed.
We met at the notary’s office. He signed without looking at me. Svetа waited in the car—her eyes narrowed with rage.
When it was done, I went home.
I had won.
I sat in the living room, facing the vanity. I’d cleaned it until it shone.
I ran my hand along the carved edge.
My fingertip caught on a tiny knot in the wood—almost invisible. It shifted.
I pressed.
Something clicked softly.
A small hidden panel slid open in the ornament—one I’d never noticed in my entire life.
Inside, on a velvet lining, lay an old leather notebook.
I took it out. It wasn’t my grandmother’s diary.
I opened it.
The handwriting was sharp, angular.
I recognized it.
Svetа’s.
She must have hidden it at my grandmother’s when she used to visit as a teenager—back when we were inseparable. She knew about the compartment. I never did.
I flipped through the pages and stopped at an entry dated thirteen years ago. A year before I met Andrey.
“…Katia is perfect. Soft, believes in ‘being reasonable,’ and she’ll be inheriting soon (the old hag could drop any day…). Andrey’s an idiot. He’ll take the bait if I push him right. Let him ‘court’ her. She’ll be a convenient cover. And he and I… we’ll just ‘stay friends.’”
I kept turning pages.
“…Today that fool Andrey said he’s ‘falling for’ Katia. Had to make a scene. Reminded him who’s in charge. He thinks he’s the ‘pragmatist.’ Hilarious.”
“…The wedding. What a circus. Katia’s glowing. Andrey keeps looking at me. He’s mine. He’s just temporarily rented out. And the money will be ours soon…”
I sat perfectly still.
The vanity I’d rescued as a symbol of memory…
Had been the hiding place for her betrayal.
Now I understood why they’d wanted it. Andrey didn’t steal it out of sentiment. He stole it because Svetа told him to. She wanted her leverage back. She wanted the diary she’d foolishly left behind as a girl.
But she was too late.
I stared at the last entry.
“He thinks it’s his plan. Idiot.”
I closed the notebook. My hands didn’t shake.
I picked up my phone, unblocked Svetа’s number, and called.
She answered immediately, as if she’d been waiting.
“What do you want now, Katia? Decided to finish me off?”
“I found your diary,” I said flatly.
On the other end, silence—heavy, sticky.
“What?” she whispered.
“I know everything. The ‘incubator.’ The ‘cover.’ The ‘rental.’”
“You’re lying—” But there was terror in her voice.
“‘Katia is the perfect option… inheritance soon…’” I started reading aloud.
“Shut up!” she shrieked. “What do you want?! Money?”
“Me?” I let out a small laugh. “I don’t want anything anymore. You wanted my vanity table. You were terrified I’d find this.”
“Give it back. Give it back, Katia!”
“Why? So you can keep thinking you’re the genius? The puppet master?”
“You can’t prove anything! It’s just words!”
“I don’t need to prove anything,” I said, standing and walking toward the kitchen. “I just wanted you to know: you spent thirteen years building your plan. You got the idiot husband you called an idiot. You got a house filled with expanding foam. You got debt.”
I turned on the gas burner.
“You got exactly what you earned.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, hearing the hiss.
“I’m optimizing expenses, Svetа. Emotional ones.”
I held the leather cover to the flame.
“Don’t you dare!” she screamed. “Katia!”
Fire grabbed the yellowed pages greedily.
“You know,” I said, watching her words curl and blacken, “you calculated everything. Except one thing.”
“What?!”
“That ‘reasonable’ and ‘convenient’ aren’t the same.”
I dropped the burning notebook into the sink.
“Goodbye, my friend.”
I hung up and blocked her again—this time for good.
It smelled like smoke. I opened the window.
I looked at the vanity. Now it was just a mirror. A beautiful old mirror.
The ghosts were gone.
Egor walked into the room.
“Mom, what’s that smell?”
“The past,” I said, pulling him close. “It’s burned out.”
