Elena had always believed in building a secure life before love. In her early thirties, after years of working two jobs and sacrificing vacations, she finally bought her own small apartment in the city. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was hers—every inch earned with sweat and persistence.
Then she met Pavel.
He was kind, attentive, funny—the kind of man who brought flowers just because. For the first time, Elena let her guard down. After two years of dating, they married.
But marriage slowly unraveled the version of Pavel she once knew.
He started complaining about work more often, then eventually quit, saying he needed time to “figure things out.” Elena supported him. But months passed, then years. Pavel never found another job. Instead, he filled his days with video games and naps, while Elena shouldered all financial responsibilities.
Then came the diagnosis: stage four cancer. Doctors gave her limited options. Surgery wasn’t possible. Chemo might give her time, but not hope.
When she broke the news to Pavel, she expected heartbreak, tears, at least some sense of loss.
He was quiet at first. Then he asked, “So… what happens to the apartment?”
Elena blinked. “What?”
“I mean, if anything happens to you,” he continued, “does it go to your family? Or to me?”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
