I Kept Quiet and Pretended Not to Understand — Until the Foreign Owner Insulted My Husband

If you’ve never gone apartment hunting with a spreadsheet-obsessed husband in a city where a broom closet costs more than your first car, I envy you.

By the time we stepped out of the Uber in front of the converted warehouse in Seattle’s Belltown district, I’d seen fifteen “cozy” places that were basically glorified shoeboxes, four “up-and-coming neighborhoods” that smelled like weed and wet cardboard, and exactly one condo that didn’t make me want to cry.

We’d lost the condo.

To all-cash, of course.

So now we were here, standing in front of a six-story brick building with black-framed windows and a too-good-to-be-true listing: a two-bedroom loft-style condo with exposed brick, a view of the Sound, and a price tag that seemed at least $100k under market.

“Just… look at this, Em,” my husband, Josh, said, holding his phone up like it was a holy relic. “It’s perfect. Motivated seller. Foreign owner. Already vacant. This is our shot.”

He looked like a labrador who’d just been told he might get to go to the dog park.

I shoved my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. “Or it’s full of black mold and ghosts.”

He grinned. “You love ghosts.”

“I love fictional ghosts,” I corrected. “And only if they help solve murders.”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on. You said yourself, we can’t keep renting. We’re just paying someone else’s mortgage.”

He wasn’t wrong.

We’d been in our one-bedroom in Capitol Hill for five years. My salary as a UX designer kept pace with the rent hikes, barely. Josh, who worked in corporate finance for a tech company, made more than me but spent most of his income attacking his student loans like they’d personally insulted him.

“We could wait a year,” I said, because it was my designated role in this marriage: to be the brakes when he was the gas.

“And watch interest rates creep up more?” he countered. “No way. ‘Buy before you turn thirty’ was the plan.”

“Your plan,” I pointed out.

“Our plan,” he insisted. “You agreed when you were drunk on cheap champagne at twenty-seven.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

Then I remembered that night, two New Year’s Eves ago, when we’d made a list of “Thirties Goals” on a napkin and taped it to the fridge. “Buy a place” was right between “See Paris” and “Stop doom-scrolling after 11 p.m.”

I sighed. “Fine,” I said. “Show me the haunted loft.”

He kissed my cheek, practically bouncing. “That’s the spirit.”

The listing agent was already in the lobby, checking her lipstick in the reflection of the elevator doors.

“You must be Josh and Emily!” she chirped, heels clicking toward us. “I’m Kelsey. So nice to meet you guys in person. Love your pre-approval letter, by the way. Music to a listing agent’s ears.”

Kelsey was the kind of blonde you only find in real estate offices and yoga ads. Everything about her was slightly too bright—smile, blazer, the neon-pink “SOLD” rider clipped to her clipboard.

“Nice to meet you,” Josh said, shaking her hand a little too vigorously.

I gave her my polite, “I am not emotionally invested yet” smile.

“The seller’s already upstairs,” Kelsey said as the elevator dinged. “He doesn’t speak much English, but I’ll translate what I can. His niece might be there too. Her English is better.”

“Where’s he from?” Josh asked.

“Russia,” Kelsey said. “Moscow originally, I think. He’s been renting the place out for a few years but decided to sell before he moves back. They call it a ‘pied-à-terre’ over there.” She laughed like she’d said something hilarious.

Something in my chest tightened.

Russia.

I hadn’t heard anyone speak Russian in years. Not since college, when my dad’s side of the family visited from New Jersey and my grandmother scolded me for my rusty accent.

I hadn’t told Kelsey that.

I’d told Josh, once, in that “fun facts about me” phase of our relationship.

“My dad’s family is from Belarus,” I’d said. “I took Russian in high school because it made my grandma happy.”

He’d filed it away in the same folder as my fear of clowns and my allergy to shellfish.

The elevator opened.

We stepped into a hallway with polished concrete floors and smooth white walls interrupted by oversized black apartment doors.

Kelsey led us to 602 and swung it open with a flourish.

“Welcome home,” she trilled.

For a second, I forgot to be skeptical.

The place was… beautiful.

A wall of windows framed a postcard view: the Puget Sound glittering in the late-afternoon light, ferries cutting white wakes across the water, the Olympic Mountains hazy in the distance. Exposed brick on one side, slick gray cabinetry on the other. Open layout, high ceilings, a lofted second bedroom overlooking the living area.

“This is insane,” Josh breathed.

I had to admit: it was exactly the kind of apartment I’d pinned on Pinterest and then closed my laptop because reality was mean.

“Wow,” I said.

A man stood near the windows, hands clasped behind his back.

He was in his late fifties, maybe, with a thick head of iron-gray hair and the kind of posture you only see on ex-military or ballet teachers. He wore a dark blue sweater and black pants, and he was staring out at the water like it owed him money.

Beside him, a woman in her mid-twenties scrolled on her phone. She wore an oversized beige coat and chunky sneakers, her dark hair pulled into a low bun.

“Yuri!” Kelsey called. “We’re here. This is Josh and Emily.”

The man turned.

His eyes were sharp, ice-blue. He looked us up and down, expression unreadable.

“Zdravstvuyte,” he said.

“Hi,” Josh replied, waving awkwardly.

The woman glanced up from her phone and smiled. “Hello,” she said, accent light. “I am Anya. My uncle, Yuri. I help with… how you say… ‘communication.’”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

Up close, I could hear their accents clearly.

Not cartoonish villain-of-the-week Russian.

Real. Familiar.

A muscle in my jaw twitched.

“We’ll just take a quick look around,” Kelsey said. “Josh and Emily have seen the photos, but it’s so much better in person, right?”

“Depends which photos,” Yuri muttered in Russian.

The words hit me like a splash of cold water.

I hadn’t expected my brain to switch gears that fast.

I froze for a fraction of a second.

Then I smoothed my face into polite blankness.

“Okay if we…?” Josh gestured toward the kitchen.

“Please, please,” Anya said. “Is your home. For now.” She laughed at her own joke, then said something to Yuri in Russian.

“They seem… normal. Not like the last ones.”

Yuri snorted.

“Normal Americans,” he replied. “Means they don’t read the fine print.”

My heart thudded harder.

I forced my gaze away from them and followed Josh to the kitchen.

He darted around, opening drawers, checking under the sink, running his hand along the quartz countertop like it was a cat.

“Look at the storage,” he whispered. “We could actually put our Instant Pot somewhere that isn’t the coat closet.”

“Dream big,” I murmured.

Behind us, Kelsey launched into her script about HOA dues and pet policies.

I tuned her out and listened.

“—we still have time before inspection, yes?” Anya said in Russian, voice lowered.

“Of course,” Yuri replied. “But they won’t look behind walls. No one does. We patch where they patch. We smile. We sell. We forget.”

“And if they ask about flooding?” she pressed.

He shrugged.

“We say, ‘No big problem. We fixed.’ Not lie. Just… not all truth.” He chuckled.

A cold prickle ran down my spine.

Flooding?

I glanced at the baseboards.

They looked fine.

But if you were going to hide water damage, you’d do it before showings.

You’d repaint.

You’d stage.

You’d…

“Babe,” Josh said, popping up beside me. “Washer and dryer in unit. In unit. We can stop sacrificing socks to the building basement gods.”

“Wow,” I said again, but my brain was somewhere else now.

I drifted toward the windows, pretending to admire the view.

Yuri and Anya shifted slightly away from Kelsey, who was showing Josh the nest of wires in the living room where “all your tech can go.”

“Do you think they’ll ask about special assessment?” Anya whispered.

“If they are smart, yes,” Yuri said. “But look at them. The man is excited. The woman will not push. She is quiet. They are young. They see view, they stop thinking.”

Anya followed his gaze.

Her eyes flicked over me, lingering on my boots, my coat, my hair pulled up in a messy bun.

“Americans,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone. “Always the view.”

I felt… strange.

Like I was watching a play from backstage.

Like I was two people at once: Emily, UX designer, occasional overthinker, standing in a gorgeous loft with her husband; and Yelena, the girl my grandmother called by my full Russian name when she was irritated, listening to people assume she didn’t understand them.

It would’ve been easy to say something right then.

To turn, smile, and answer in Russian.

To watch their faces change.

Instead, I did what I’ve always done when I’m not sure of my next move.

I kept quiet and pretended not to understand.

We did the full tour.

Kelsey showed us the second bedroom upstairs (“Perfect for an office slash nursery one day, right?” she said, as if we were a demographic in a brochure). Josh bounced on the bed frame like a kid, peeking over the railing at the living room below.

Anya followed, answering our questions about the building.

Yes, there was a shared rooftop deck.

Yes, the HOA allowed cats and small dogs.

No, there had never been “major issues” with the plumbing.

“Only little ones,” she said, fluttering her hand. “Old building. But it is good. We have… how you say… reserves.”

Her Russian explanation to Yuri as we left that room was less breezy.

“We still haven’t paid for the last pipe burst,” she muttered. “The emails from the board—”

“Will be their problem soon,” he cut in. “If they sign before the next meeting.”

My mouth went dry.

In the bathroom, Kelsey pointed out the “upgraded fixtures,” and Yuri muttered to Anya,

“Make sure to turn fan on before they inspect. Mold smell is worse when it is humid.”

By the time we were back in the living room, my head was buzzing.

All the little red flags that had nagged at me from the listing made too much sense now.

The price.

The urgency.

The “sold as-is” line tucked into the fine print.

“Do you have any other offers?” Josh asked, trying to sound casual and landing somewhere between eager and desperate.

I could feel his math brain working beside me.

Down payment we’d scraped together from savings and a small gift from my parents.

Monthly payments just barely within our comfort zone.

The idea of being done with this exhausting process.

“Several parties interested,” Anya said, glancing at Kelsey. “But you are first to see since we lowered price.”

“Yuri’s very motivated,” Kelsey chimed in. “He needs to be back in Moscow next month, right?”

Yuri nodded, his expression open and earnest now.

“Tell them I want a clean sale,” he said in Russian. “No games. If they offer close to ask, I sign.”

“Are you open to offers under asking?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

Anya’s eyes flicked to Kelsey.

“We… see,” she said. “If offer is reasonable.”

“Do you have the HOA docs?” I asked. “Budget, reserves, board meeting minutes?”

Kelsey blinked.

Then perked up. “Oh! Yes. I can email all of that,” she said. “Or your agent can request it from me.”

We didn’t have an agent yet.

Josh, ever the DIYer, had wanted to “save on commission.”

“We’ll let you know once we’ve spoken to our… person,” I said.

Josh shot me a look.

It said, Since when do we have a person?

I ignored it.

“Just so you know,” Kelsey said, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret, “Yuri already turned down a lowball from an investor. He really wants to sell to, like, a real couple. Not a developer who’s going to Airbnb it to drunk bachelorette parties.”

“I want the money,” Yuri said in Russian. “I don’t care who lives here.”

“We’ll talk,” Josh said.

We shook hands all around.

Anya’s handshake was firm. Her eyes lingered on me, a flicker of something—curiosity?—passing through.

For half a second, I considered leaning in and whispering, “You should tell him to hire someone better at hiding water damage.”

Instead, I smiled.

“Spasibo,” I said.

Thank you.

Barely a whisper.

Her eyes widened.

Just a fraction.

Then I turned and followed Josh out.

Josh didn’t wait until we were home to start in.

The second the elevator doors closed, he spun to me.

“Well?” he asked, eyes shining. “What do you think?”

I exhaled slowly.

“It’s… nice,” I admitted.

“Nice? Nice?” He threw his head back toward the ceiling. “Emily. That place is a movie. That place is where people in Netflix shows live and have dramatic breakups and drink red wine in sweaters.”

“You have very specific aspirations,” I said.

“I’m serious,” he said, grin slipping into pleading. “This is the one. We should put an offer in tonight. We can come in ten under asking and see what happens. They’ll counter. We’ll land somewhere in the middle.”

“We need to see the HOA docs,” I said.

“We will,” he said. “Due diligence period. We can always back out.”

“After paying for inspection. And appraisal. And lawyer fees,” I said. “That’s not nothing.”

He made a face. “When did you become the fun police?” he grumbled.

I chewed my lip.

In the Uber home, he pulled the listing up again, zooming in on photos we’d just seen in real life.

“Look at this,” he said, tapping the screen. “We could put the couch here. Projector there. Get one of those big plant things you like in the corner.”

“Fiddle-leaf fig,” I said automatically.

“Bless you,” he said.

The driver snorted.

We lapsed into silence.

I watched the city slide by outside the window: the cranes, the coffee shops, the new construction blocks of unaffordable apartments with names like “The Junction” and “The Nest.”

I thought about Yuri’s tone when he said “Normal Americans.”

I thought about the way Anya’s mouth had tightened at “special assessment.”

“Hey,” I said.

“Yeah?” Josh looked up from his phone.

“I understood them,” I blurted.

He blinked. “What?”

“Yuri and Anya,” I said. “They were speaking Russian. I understood them.”

He frowned. “Yeah, I mean, I recognized a couple words from TV.”

“No, Josh,” I said. “I understood them. They were talking about hiding flooding issues. About hoping we wouldn’t ask about a special assessment for plumbing. About how ‘young Americans see a view and stop thinking.’”

He stared at me.

“You’re serious,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

He leaned back, exhaling. “Damn,” he said. “Okay. That’s… not great.”

“No,” I said. “It’s really not.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then:

“Are you sure you understood right?” he asked.

Anger flared in my chest, fast and hot.

“I’m not guessing,” I snapped. “I grew up hearing that language at home. I took it for four years in school. I spent a semester in Moscow. I know what ‘pipe burst’ and ‘assessment’ and ‘they’ll never read the fine print’ sound like.”

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay. I’m just… you know. Devil’s advocate.”

“Devil has enough advocates,” I muttered.

He winced.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said. “I just… there could’ve been context you missed. Maybe they were talking about an issue that happened years ago and was fully resolved. Maybe—”

“You sound like Kelsey,” I said.

“Em—”

“They lied,” I said, my voice louder than I meant. The driver glanced at us in the rearview mirror. I lowered it. “Or at least, they strategically omitted some pretty important things.”

Josh rubbed his forehead.

“Okay,” he said. “Say you’re right. Say there’s something off. We still don’t know how bad it is. It could be fixable. It could be a negotiation point. ‘Hey, we know about the plumbing issues, so we’ll lower our offer.’”

I stared at him.

“You want to negotiate with people who called you a stupid American to your face?” I asked.

He flushed.

“They said that?” he asked.

“Not those exact words,” I admitted. “But pretty close.”

He sucked on his teeth.

“Wow,” he said. “Rude.”

We rode in silence for a few blocks.

“This is my dream,” he said finally, so quietly I almost didn’t hear. “Owning a place like that. In the city. With you. We’ve been saving for years. We finally have a shot, and… I just don’t want to walk away because of a maybe.”

“It’s not a maybe,” I said. “It’s a ‘they literally said the word flood.’”

He ran a hand through his hair, the way he always did when he was stressed.

“I hear you,” he said. “I do. But can we… at least get the docs? Maybe have your dad look them over? He’s good at this stuff.”

My dad was a real estate lawyer.

He’d told us, more than once, to be wary of deals that looked too good.

“I’ll send him the listing,” I said. “And I’ll ask him what he thinks. But Josh, I’m not okay with this being ‘our shot’ anymore. Not if it means starting homeownership with a lie.”

“We wouldn’t be lying,” he protested. “They would.”

“We would be knowing,” I said. “And choosing not to care.”

His jaw tightened.

The Uber pulled up in front of our building.

He paid, we got out, and the fight followed us up the stairs like an extra person.

It blew up in the kitchen.

It always did.

There’s something about a sink full of dishes and unpaid bills on the counter that turns regular disagreements into referendum votes on Your Entire Relationship.

“I feel like you’re always looking for reasons to say no,” Josh said, thumping his hand on the table. “First it was ‘the market’s too crazy.’ Then it was ‘we don’t have enough saved.’ Then ‘what if one of us loses our job.’ Now it’s ‘the seller said sketchy stuff in another language.’ It’s like you’d rather stay stuck because at least stuck is familiar.”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “I’m trying to be realistic. We live in a city where half the condos we can afford have a lawsuit attached. I’m not making it up. I’m seeing patterns.”

“You’re making this about you being the rational one and me being the reckless idiot,” he snapped. “Like always.”

“That’s not—”

“Yeah, it is,” he said. “You don’t trust me to make big decisions. You second-guess Everything. I finally find something that checks most of our boxes, and you’re like, ‘Hmm, but what if there’s mold we can’t see. Better burn it all down.’”

My chest tightened.

“It’s not about trusting you,” I said. “It’s about us not getting screwed because someone else decided we’re easy marks. You didn’t hear what they said. I did. I’m asking you to trust me.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

I pressed on.

“You know how many times my grandmother got taken advantage of because she didn’t understand English well enough to read a contract?” I asked. “How many times my parents had to fix something because someone lied to them about what they were signing? I watched that my whole life. I’m not going to walk into the same trap just because the countertops are pretty.”

Josh’s face softened. For a moment, the anger drained away, replaced by something like recognition.

Then it was gone.

“We’re not your parents,” he said. “We’re not some poor immigrants getting scammed on a used car. We have lawyers. We have Google. We have inspections. We’re not going to just sign whatever they put in front of us.”

The words hit me harder than the intent behind them.

“‘Poor immigrants’?” I repeated, my voice ice.

He winced immediately. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I mean—shit. I mean, they had fewer resources—”

“And less power,” I said. “Like we do in this situation. You think because we have a pre-approval letter and a Podcast Knowledge of real estate that we’re immune to being screwed?”

He sighed, running both hands over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I phrased that like an asshole. I just… I want this so badly, Em. I’m tired of feeling like we’re behind. Everyone at work is talking about their second home and their stock options, and I’m like, ‘Well, my landlord fixed the leaky faucet this year, so that’s nice.’”

There it was.

The ugly root.

Comparison.

Insecurity.

I exhaled.

“I know,” I said. “I get it. I feel it too. But rushing into a bad deal won’t magically make us ‘caught up.’ It’ll just give us different problems. More expensive ones.”

He slumped into the chair.

“So what’s your solution?” he asked. “We keep renting forever? We wait for the magical perfect apartment with honest sellers and an HOA that throws in a puppy?”

“Yes,” I said.

He snorted despite himself.

I softened my tone.

“I’m not saying we walk away from everything that has a flaw,” I said. “I’m saying this one has a huge, flashing neon sign that says ‘we are hiding things,’ and I am literally the only person in this equation who can read it.”

He stared at the table.

Finally, he nodded.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. We’ll send your dad the docs. We’ll see what he says. No offers until then.”

Relief washed through me so fast I felt lightheaded.

“Thank you,” I said.

He gave me a small, tired smile.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “My optimism is just in time-out. It’ll come back.”

The docs came the next day.

Kelsey emailed a PDF folder titled “602 HOA Info” that included the budget, reserves, bylaws, and the last 12 months of board meeting minutes.

“See?” Josh said, sliding a beer across the table to me as I opened my laptop. “Transparency. American Dream, baby.”

I forwarded everything to my dad with a brief summary.

Dad — Can you take a look at these when you get a chance? Josh and I are considering an offer but I have a weird feeling. Love, your skeptical daughter.

He responded twenty minutes later.

Got them. Will review tonight. Weird feeling is rarely wrong. Call you tomorrow.

“I love your dad,” Josh said. “He writes emails like he’s in a John Grisham novel.”

“That’s because he wanted to be in one and ended up in Seattle instead,” I said.

We attempted to watch a movie.

I checked my phone every ten minutes anyway, as if my dad would spontaneously decide to text me a Contracts 101 thread at eleven p.m.

He didn’t.

The next morning, he called.

“Morning, Em,” he said, skipping hello. “Got your HOA docs. We need to talk.”

My stomach dropped.

“Bad?” I asked.

“Not good,” he said. “The reserves are low. They’ve had three plumbing incidents in the last fourteen months. Two in the stack directly under that unit. And there’s a vote next month on a special assessment to replace the main pipes. If it passes, each unit’s on the hook for somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five thousand dollars. Minimum.”

I swallowed.

“Could they… not pass it?” I asked.

“They could,” he said. “In which case they’ll patch until someone’s ceiling collapses, and then everyone will pay more later anyway. Either way, whoever buys into that building is signing up for a short-term financial migraine.”

I blew out a breath.

“Yuri and his niece mentioned flooding,” I said. “But they made it sound like it was already dealt with.”

“Of course they did,” Dad said. “Do you think they’re going to put ‘by the way, get ready to pony up another twenty grand next year’ on the listing?”

Josh, who’d been trying to listen without hovering, sank into the chair opposite me, rubbing his temples.

“What about the price?” I asked. “It’s lower than others in the area.”

“It’s low for a reason,” Dad said. “He’s pricing in the upcoming hit. He gets out clean. Buyer eats the plumbing bill.”

“So… walk away?” I said.

“So run,” he said. “Unless you have a secret trust fund you haven’t told me about. Even then, I’d think twice. There’s also some shady stuff in the minutes about a previous contractor doing unpermitted work in that stack. Looks like they’re suing each other.”

“Cool,” I said faintly. “So we’d be buying into a waterlogged lawsuit.”

“Pretty much,” he said. “You made the right call sending me this. I’d tell you and Josh the same thing I tell all my clients: There’s no such thing as a deal that’s too good without a catch. There’s always a catch.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said.

“Let Josh down easy,” he added. “He sounded very excited in his last email. I remember that feeling. It sucks.”

I hung up and looked at Josh.

He’d heard enough to know.

“Twenty grand,” he said, staring at the table.

“At least,” I said.

He laughed once, humorless.

“Yuri really said ‘normal Americans don’t read the fine print’?” he asked.

“Something like that,” I said.

He shook his head.

“We’re not doing it,” he said. “We’re not those people.”

Relief bubbled up again.

I reached across the table and took his hand.

“Thank you,” I said.

He squeezed back.

“I still reserve the right to pout,” he said. “But yeah. We’re not signing up for that.”

For the first time in days, I felt like we were on the same team.

That feeling lasted until Kelsey called that afternoon.

“Hey, you two!” she chirped when I put her on speaker. “Happy almost-weekend. Just checking in about 602. Did you have any thoughts? We’ve had a lot of interest.”

“Yeah,” Josh said. “We got the HOA docs. Emily’s dad looked them over.”

“Oh, awesome,” Kelsey said. “What did he think?”

“He thinks we’d be idiots to buy in right now,” I said.

There was a pause.

“Oh,” she said. “O…kay. Can I ask why?”

“Multiple plumbing incidents,” I said. “An upcoming special assessment of at least twenty grand. A contractor lawsuit. The reserves aren’t great. It’s a lot.”

Kelsey made a sympathetic noise. “Yeah, older buildings can be… tricky,” she said. “But that’s city living, right? There’s always something. The important thing is, this unit has already had the worst of it. That’s why Yuri put in all those upgrades. He paid for the repairs already.”

“He told us there hadn’t been major issues,” I said.

“He said there hadn’t been issues recently,” she corrected smoothly. “And that’s true. Look, assessments sound scary, but they’re really an investment in the building. Plus, prices in that neighborhood are only going up. You could totally refinance when the work is done and—”

“We’re going to pass,” Josh cut in. “Thanks, though.”

“Are you sure?” Kelsey asked, the cheer slipping. “I just want to remind you, deals like this don’t come along every—”

“We’re sure,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, frost creeping into her tone. “I’ll let Yuri know. He’ll be disappointed. He really liked you guys.”

“He liked our money,” I muttered after I hung up.

Josh exhaled.

“Well,” he said. “That’s that.”

It should’ve been the end.

It wasn’t.

Saturday afternoon, we were halfway through folding laundry when my phone buzzed with a number I didn’t recognize.

I hesitated.

Answered.

“Hello?”

“Emily?” a familiar accented voice asked. “This is Anya. From apartment.”

I straightened.

“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”

Josh looked up from a half-folded T-shirt, eyebrows raised.

“I got your number from Kelsey,” Anya said. “She told me you… how you say… ‘pull out’ from buying? Because of building issues?”

“That’s right,” I said cautiously.

“I want to talk to you,” she said. “Just five minutes. In person, maybe. Can you come back to see apartment? Uncle is out. I explain better without Kelsey.”

Every instinct in my body told me this was a bad idea.

“I don’t think that’s—” I started.

“Please,” she said. “You are… only buyers who feel… real. Not investor. Not flipper. Not man who wants to put six students in two bedrooms.” She laughed weakly. “My uncle, he sees money. I see… people. If there is misunderstanding, I want to fix. But not… over phone.”

Josh mouthed, “What?”

I covered the speaker. “It’s Anya,” I whispered. “She wants to talk in person. Without Kelsey.”

He frowned. “Why?”

I shrugged.

“I can come now,” Anya said. “If you say yes. Or you can say no. I understand.”

Curiosity and caution wrestled in my gut.

Curiosity won.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll come. Half an hour?”

“Good,” she said, relief in her tone. “I make tea.”

She hung up before I could change my mind.

Josh stared at me.

“Are we really going back there?” he asked.

“I want to hear what she has to say,” I said.

“What if they try to hard-sell us?” he asked.

“We already decided,” I said. “We can always walk out.”

He sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “But if Yuri shows up with a contract and a pen, I’m diving out the window.”

The building felt different the second time.

Less magical.

More… like a set piece.

We rode the elevator up, the corners of the car smudged with fingerprints I hadn’t noticed before.

Anya opened the door before we could knock.

She was in leggings and a big sweater, hair down around her shoulders. Without Kelsey or Yuri, she looked younger.

And more tired.

“Come in,” she said, stepping back. “Please.”

The apartment was quieter.

No agent chatter. No sales pitch.

Just the hum of the fridge and the faint whistle of the wind outside.

She’d made tea, just like she promised. Two cups on the counter, steam curling.

“I know you are busy,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

“We’re not buying,” Josh said gently. “Just so we’re clear.”

“I know,” she said. “I am not magician. I cannot make assessment disappear.” She smiled without humor. “I just… wanted to say something. To you, Emily.”

My chest tightened.

She switched to Russian.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said. “For what we said. For what you heard.”

Josh blinked.

I answered in Russian automatically.

“I wasn’t supposed to hear anything,” I said. “I was supposed to be a normal American who didn’t read the fine print, remember?”

He flinched.

“Whoa,” Josh said, looking between us. “Okay, plot twist. Full Russian. Cool, cool, cool.”

Anya winced.

“I am sorry,” she said in English now, looking at him. “I did not know she understood. It was… rude. We were… tired. Frustrated. Not excuse, but… explanation.”

“What did you want to tell us?” I asked, still in Russian.

She hesitated.

Then glanced toward the door, as if expecting Yuri to materialize.

“My uncle is not… evil,” she said slowly. “But he is… practical. He believes if someone does not ask question, answer is not his problem. I do not agree.”

“Then why help him?” I asked.

She shrugged one shoulder.

“Family,” she said. “He brought me here. Helped me with visa. Paid for my classes. I help him with English, with tenants, with… American things. I thought this sale would be simple. Take money, go home.”

She rubbed her forehead.

“Then pipes started to break,” she said. “Board argued. Contractor lied. Everything became… messy. Uncle still saw only number in his head. ‘If we wait, we lose money,’ he says. ‘Too much work for old man.’ He wants to sell before assessment because he does not want to pay. He says, ‘Americans who buy will be fine. They are not poor. They fix. They sue.’”

Bitterness colored that last word.

“Sounds familiar,” Josh muttered.

Anya looked at him.

“You are not invisible to me,” she said quietly. “I see you. I see woman who listens because her father taught her. I see man who wants home so much he looks past… cracks.” She smiled sadly. “Literally.”

“Why are you telling us this?” I asked. “Isn’t this… against his wishes?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But you are not buying. What can he do? Fire me?” She laughed softly. “I already quit. He does not know yet.”

I blinked.

“You quit?” I repeated.

She nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “I have job now with software company. Customer support.” She grimaced. “I talk to angry people on phone all day. It is… fun.” Her tone said the opposite. “But it is mine. Not his.”

Something in my chest loosened.

“What do you want from us?” Josh asked, not unkindly.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I swear. I just… wanted you to know you were right to walk away. To trust her.” She nodded at me. “Many men would not.”

Josh looked embarrassed.

“I didn’t… not trust her,” he said. “I just… really wanted to believe it wasn’t that bad.”

“It is that bad,” Anya said. “Maybe worse. At last board meeting, they talked about mold in unit below. Man there has children. They cough.” She shook her head. “Uncle says, ‘Not my problem soon.’ I cannot… be part of that.”

Anger flared anew in my stomach.

“You should tell the board,” I said. “About what he’s hiding.”

She gave me a tired look.

“You think board does not know?” she asked. “They know. They fight. But law is slow. Money is fast. Uncle is not only one like this. In my country, in this one. Different accent, same story.”

Josh whistled softly.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s… depressing.”

She smiled faintly.

“Yes,” she said. “Welcome to adulthood.”

We stood in silence for a moment.

The apartment loomed around us, suddenly oppressive.

“This place will sell,” Anya said finally. “To someone. Maybe to investor. Maybe to couple who cannot afford better. I cannot stop that. But I can make sure it is not you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I meant it.

She shrugged, looking suddenly shy.

“Also,” she said, “I wanted to tell you… your Russian is very good. My grandmother would like you.”

That caught me off guard.

I laughed.

“Spasibo,” I said. “Yours is pretty decent too.”

She grinned.

Josh looked between us.

“I feel very left out,” he said. “But also, weirdly, like this is the first open-house that’s felt honest.”

“That is rare,” Anya said. “You should treasure feeling.”

We said our goodbyes.

As we left, Yuri stepped off the elevator.

He stopped short when he saw us.

His eyes narrowed.

“Ah,” he said. “Americans. You come back. You change mind?”

I met his gaze.

For the first time, I didn’t feel like prey.

“No,” I said, switching to Russian. “We came back to tell your niece goodbye. She’s smarter than you deserve.”

Confusion flickered across his features.

Then comprehension.

His face darkened.

“You understand,” he said.

“Everything,” I said.

Josh shifted, trying to follow.

“We read the HOA docs,” I added in English. “We know about the assessment. The pipes. The lawsuit. You should disclose those things, you know. It’s the law.”

His nostrils flared.

“Everyone here plays this game,” he said in heavily accented English. “You think only foreign man hides bad news?”

“No,” I said. “I think plenty of American men do too. Doesn’t make it right.”

He snorted.

“You walk away,” he said. “Someone else will come. Someone always comes. My conscience is clean.”

“It shouldn’t be,” I said.

Something in my tone must have hit him.

For a moment, his face softened.

Then it hardened again.

He stepped around us, muttering under his breath.

“Sentimental fools,” he said. “They will learn. Or they will pay.”

We walked out.

This time, we didn’t look back.

The fight that “became serious,” as my mom would later describe it when I told her the story, didn’t happen with Yuri.

It happened in our kitchen that night.

But it was different from the last one.

Less about the apartment.

More about us.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Josh said quietly, drying a plate. “At first. When you told me what they said. I didn’t want it to be true. So I tried to… rationalize it away. That wasn’t fair to you.”

I leaned against the counter, watching him.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like the reckless one,” I said. “I know you’re not. You do spreadsheets for fun. That’s not reckless.”

He snorted.

“It’s a weird form of masochism,” he said. “But thanks.”

I took a breath.

“I need you to know,” I said slowly, “that when I push back on stuff like this, it’s not because I don’t believe in us. It’s because I do. I want us to have a solid foundation. Literally and metaphorically. I watched my parents scramble so many times because they trusted the wrong people. I don’t want that for us.”

He put the towel down and stepped closer.

“I get that now,” he said. “I mean, I always kind of got it logically. But seeing Yuri, hearing Anya… it hit different. And yeah, for the record, I’m an idiot for saying ‘poor immigrants.’”

“Yes,” I said. “You really are.”

He winced.

“I’m working on it,” he said. “On… checking my blind spots. On listening when you say, ‘Hey, this smells like bullshit.’ Even if my first instinct is to plug my nose and go, ‘Nope, smells like opportunity.’”

I laughed despite myself.

“It’s going to take time,” he added. “We’re not going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly be perfect at this. But… I want to try. With you.”

I nodded.

“I want that too,” I said. “The house. The stability. All of it. I just… want us to get there without losing parts of ourselves along the way.”

He reached for my hand.

“Deal,” he said.

We stood there for a moment, palms warm against each other, the weight of everything that had almost been pressing against the everything that still could be.

“Also,” he said, “I hereby vow to never again say, ‘She’ll never leave you’ to any of my friends. Or think it about us. People aren’t… guaranteed. They’re choices.”

“Look at you,” I said. “Dropping wisdom in front of the drying rack.”

He grinned.

“I learned from the best,” he said.

We ordered cheap Thai, watched a movie, and went to bed in our too-small rental with the squeaky floor and the leaky bathroom sink and the neighbor who played guitar at odd hours.

It wasn’t a loft with a view.

It wasn’t a Pinterest board.

It was ours.

For now.

The next morning, I took the napkin from our fridge where we’d scribbled our “Thirties Goals.”

I crossed out “Buy a place.”

Underneath it, in smaller letters, I wrote, “Buy a place that won’t collapse on us.”

Josh found it later.

He laughed.

“Goal updated,” he said. “Much better.”

Six months later, we found a condo.

It was smaller, in a less glamorous neighborhood, with laminate countertops and a view of a parking lot instead of the Sound.

The sellers were a retired couple moving to be closer to their grandkids.

They’d lived there for twenty years.

They cried at closing.

We cried a little too.

The HOA docs weren’t perfect.

No building ever is.

But the foundations were solid.

The pipes were newer.

The board minutes read like tedious PTA meeting notes, not the prequel to a lawsuit.

We signed.

Moved.

Painted the walls ourselves.

Argued about whether the couch should face the TV or the window.

Made up.

Over time, the memory of Yuri’s loft blurred.

But every so often, when I saw a too-good-to-be-true listing on Zillow, I felt that prickle in my spine again.

And I remembered:

Sometimes the best money you ever spend is the money you don’t hand to someone who thinks you’re too stupid to see the leak.

And sometimes the most serious argument you have in your marriage is the one that keeps it from flooding later.

Literally.

Figuratively.

All of it.

THE END