All Amazing Babies

Irina stood by the window, staring at the gray October clouds. Outside the glass, the first yellow leaves slowly spun down from the poplars in the courtyard. The apartment where she had spent her childhood and youth had now become her only refuge. Three years earlier, her mother had signed it over to her as a gift deed, saying simply at the time:

 

“Let it be yours. So there won’t be any arguments later.”

Back then Irina had brushed it off, unwilling to think about anything bad. Now those words sounded prophetic. Her mother had been gone for two weeks. Cancer had given no chance, though the woman fought to the very end. Irina had spent the last months with her—taking shifts at the hospital, holding her hand when the pain became unbearable.

After the funeral, the home fell empty. Her husband Oleg came twice—helped with the paperwork at the morgue and went to the cemetery to choose a headstone. That was the extent of his involvement. When Irina asked why he wouldn’t stay with her even for one night, he answered shortly:

“I have work. You understand.”

She did understand. Oleg had always been good at finding reasons not to participate in anything that required emotions or effort. They had been married for eight years, and Irina had long since learned not to expect support from her spouse. More often it was formal presence, when propriety demanded it.

Today was the memorial meal. Irina got up early, though she had slept in fragments. All night she replayed her to-do list in her head: order food, set the table, call relatives and her mother’s colleagues. She handled the organization herself, because there was no one else. Oleg promised to come by lunch, and her mother-in-law, Tamara Ivanovna, also confirmed she would be there.

By two in the afternoon, the apartment filled with people. Distant relatives, neighbors, her mother’s coworkers and friends arrived. Everyone spoke in low voices, hugged Irina, offered condolences. She accepted their words of support, trying to hold herself together. Tears choked her, but she wouldn’t let herself fall apart. Not now. Not in front of everyone.

Oleg showed up around three. He walked into the room, nodded to the guests, and sat at the table. Irina noticed he looked tired, but she didn’t ask. This wasn’t the time for выяснения.

The table was set in the large room. Irina arranged plates, laid out cutlery, brought salads and hot dishes from the kitchen. Guests took their seats; someone poured kompot, someone sliced bread. The atmosphere was heavy but restrained. That’s how memorial meals are.

Then the sound of the front door opening came from the entryway. Irina turned, expecting to see someone late. In the doorway appeared Tamara Ivanovna. She wore a dark suit, her hair neatly styled. But in her hands she held not a bag of food or flowers, as was customary, but a large rolling suitcase.

Several people in the room also turned at the sound. The suitcase was so out of place in this setting that everyone fell silent for a moment. Tamara Ivanovna rolled it into the hall, adjusted the collar of her jacket, and said loudly:

“Since your mother is gone, I’ll live here now. There’s enough space.”

Irina froze. Her hand holding the ladle stopped above the pot. Aunt Valya, the neighbor, choked on her kompot. Oleg jerked his head up, but said nothing. Someone gave an awkward little laugh, apparently deciding it was a clumsy attempt to lighten the mood. But Tamara Ivanovna wasn’t smiling.

She took off her shoes, left them by the door, and, ignoring the silence, walked into the room. She dragged the suitcase after her, carefully maneuvering around people. The guests stepped aside, not knowing how to react. She approached the wall where an old chest of drawers stood and placed the suitcase next to it.

“This will be convenient for me,” Tamara Ivanovna said, looking around the room. “We’ll move the bed closer to the window, and we can get rid of that nightstand altogether. It only takes up space.”

Irina blinked, trying to process what was happening. People were sitting around her, having come to honor her mother’s memory. Hot food steamed on the table. In the corner, on a shelf, stood a photo of the deceased in a black frame. And her mother-in-law was talking about rearranging furniture, as if she’d walked into a showroom.

“Tamara Ivanovna,” Irina began quietly, “maybe we can discuss this later? It’s the memorial today.”

Her mother-in-law turned, genuine bewilderment on her face.

“So what? I’m not bothering anyone. I just had a look around. I’m going to live here, so I need to understand how everything’s set up.”

Oleg sat at the table, staring into his plate. Irina shot him a quick look, expecting at least some reaction. But her husband stayed silent. Aunt Valya nervously twisted a napkin. Her mother’s friend Lyudmila Petrovna pressed her lips together and looked away.

Tamara Ivanovna walked up to the table and inspected the dishes with a critical eye.

“I don’t like herring under a fur coat,” she remarked. “You could have made something lighter. Oh well—this will do for the first time.”

Irina squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Inside, everything tightened into a hard knot. She wanted to scream, throw her mother-in-law out, slam the door. But the guests were watching, waiting to see how she would respond. Irina unclenched her fingers, set the ladle back into the pot, and exhaled slowly.

“Please, have a seat, Tamara Ivanovna,” Irina said evenly. “We’re about to begin the remembrance.”

Her mother-in-law nodded and sat on an empty chair beside Oleg. The guests exchanged uncomfortable glances but continued eating. Irina went back to the kitchen, leaned her back against the refrigerator, and closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking. Her heart pounded as if she’d just run a marathon.

What was that? Tamara Ivanovna had always been forceful, but Irina hadn’t expected this. To come to a memorial with a suitcase and announce she was moving in? It went beyond even her idea of shamelessness.

When Irina returned to the room, her mother-in-law was already chatting away with Aunt Valya.

“I’ve been saying for ages that Oleg and Irina should live together,” Tamara Ivanovna declared. “Why maintain two apartments? It’s expensive. And now space has opened up—fate itself decided it.”

Aunt Valya nodded, but her face clearly showed she was shocked. Lyudmila Petrovna set down her fork and stood up.

“Irochka, thank you for the memorial. I should go,” her mother’s friend said, heading to the hallway.

Irina walked her to the door. Lyudmila Petrovna hugged her goodbye and whispered:

“Hold on, dear. Your mother was strong. And you—don’t let anyone hurt you.”

After Lyudmila Petrovna left, other guests began to disperse too. Some cited errands, some said they felt unwell. An hour later, only Irina, Oleg, and Tamara Ivanovna remained in the apartment.

Tamara Ivanovna leaned back in her chair, satisfied.

“Well, now we can talk heart to heart. Oleg, help me carry my suitcase into the room. Irina, you clean up here for now.”

Irina slowly lifted her head. Something inside clicked. Fatigue, grief, the strain of the last weeks—suddenly it all turned into cold anger.

“Tamara Ivanovna,” Irina began quietly but firmly. “Do you understand that this is my apartment?”

Her mother-in-law laughed and waved a hand dismissively.

“Oh, what are you talking about! Yours? Oleg is my son, which means the apartment is ours. A family one. What’s there to divide?”

“The apartment was transferred to me by gift deed three years ago,” Irina replied. “I have all the documents.”

Tamara Ivanovna frowned, clearly not expecting that answer.

“So what? You’re married to Oleg. That means everything is shared.”

“The gift deed was done before the marriage,” Irina clarified. “It’s my property.”

Tamara Ivanovna fell silent, digesting it. Then she turned to Oleg, who had still been sitting there quietly.

“Oleg, are you going to let your wife talk to your mother like that?”

At last her husband raised his eyes. He looked confused, but not eager to intervene.

“Mom, maybe not today? Let’s talk about everything calmly tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Irina cut in. “Tamara Ivanovna, take your suitcase. You won’t be staying here.”

Her mother-in-law sprang up, face flushing red.

“How dare you?! I’m Oleg’s mother! I have the right!”

“You have the right to visit your son. But not to move into my apartment without asking,” Irina said.

Tamara Ivanovna looked at Oleg, expecting support. He stayed silent, staring at the floor. She turned and went out into the hallway. Irina heard the loud zip of a bag, then the door slammed.

Oleg stood up and walked to the window.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly. “Mom wanted to help.”

Irina turned, unable to believe her ears.

“Help? She came to the memorial with a suitcase and announced she was in charge now!”

“She didn’t mean it badly. She just wanted to be closer to us.”

“Oleg,” Irina stepped closer, “do you even understand what happened today?”

He shrugged.

“I do. Mom got carried away. But you could have been gentler.”

Irina stood in the middle of the room where, just an hour earlier, people had sat to see her mother off on her final journey. Uneaten food cooled on the table. A photograph in a black frame stood in the corner. And her husband was defending the woman who had turned the memorial into a circus.

“Leave,” Irina breathed.

“What?” Oleg didn’t understand.

“Leave here. Now.”

Oleg frowned.

“Ira, what are you talking about? Maybe you should calm down?”

“I am calm. I just don’t want to see you. Leave.”

He hesitated, then silently put on his jacket and left. The door closed softly. Irina remained alone. She sat on the couch, hugged her knees, and the tears finally poured out—tears of hurt, exhaustion, helplessness. She cried for a long time, until she had no strength left.

The next morning, Irina woke to the doorbell. Her head split with pain; her eyes were swollen from crying. She looked at the clock—8:30. Who would come so early? The ring was long and insistent. Irina went to the door and peered through the peephole. Oleg and Tamara Ivanovna stood outside. Her mother-in-law was holding the suitcase again.

Irina opened the door, leaving the chain on.

“What do you want?”

“Ira, open up,” Oleg asked. “Let’s talk properly.”

“Talk like this.”

 

Tamara Ivanovna stepped forward.

“Irochka, I understand it’s hard for you right now. Losing your mother is terrible. But life goes on. We’re family—we have to help each other. Let us in and we’ll talk like civilized people.”

Irina looked at her mother-in-law, at the suitcase, at Oleg. Her husband avoided her gaze, studying the toes of his own boots. Tamara Ivanovna smiled—sweetly, that cloying smile she used when she wanted her way.

“Fine,” Irina nodded. “Come in.”

She removed the chain and opened the door wider. Tamara Ivanovna brightened and stepped into the apartment first. Oleg followed. Her mother-in-law left the suitcase in the hallway and took off her coat.

“Good. Now we’ll have some tea and discuss everything. Irochka, do you have any cookies?”

“I do,” Irina replied and went into the kitchen.

Tamara Ivanovna and Oleg sat down at the table in the room. Her mother-in-law glanced around, apparently assessing what changes could be made. Irina returned with the kettle, poured tea into mugs, and silently placed a plate of cookies in front of them.

“Thank you, dear,” her mother-in-law said, taking her mug and sipping. “See how good it is when we do things properly. I’ll tell you right away—I need to stay here for about two weeks. Maybe three. The workers promised it would be quick, but you know how that goes.”

Irina nodded.

“I understand.”

Tamara Ivanovna relaxed, pleased.

“I won’t take up much space. I’ll take that room where your mother lived. The bed is comfortable, and the wardrobe is big. You’re not sleeping there now, are you?”

“I’m not,” Irina confirmed.

“Perfect. Oleg, later help me move the suitcase in there. And the curtains, Irochka—we’ll need to change them. These are old and faded.”

Irina took a sip of tea, set her mug down, and pulled out her phone. She unlocked the screen, found the number she needed, and dialed.

“Hello, police? Good day. I’d like to report an unauthorized person entering my apartment.”

Tamara Ivanovna froze with a cookie halfway to her mouth. Oleg jerked his head up.

“Ira, what are you doing?” he murmured.

Irina continued speaking calmly into the phone.

“Yes, that’s right. The address is Sadovaya Street, building 12, apartment 8. There are belongings of an outsider in the apartment; please come and document the situation.”

Tamara Ivanovna went pale. The cookie slipped from her hand onto the plate.

“What are you doing?!” she shrieked. “Oleg! Say something!”

Oleg sat there with his mouth open, unable to form a word.

Irina set the phone down on the table.

“The patrol will be here in ten minutes. You have time to take the suitcase and leave on your own.”

“I’m your mother-in-law!” Tamara Ivanovna screamed. “How dare you?!”

“I dare,” Irina answered quietly but firmly. “This is my apartment. The documents are in my name. You entered without my permission, brought your things, and intend to stay without the owner’s consent. That’s a violation.”

“Oleg!” her mother-in-law turned to her son. “Are you going to allow this?!”

Oleg said nothing. He looked from his mother to his wife. His lips moved, but he couldn’t find words.

“Time is passing,” Irina reminded her.

Tamara Ivanovna jumped up and grabbed her coat. Her hands trembled; she couldn’t fasten the buttons. Oleg helped her, then picked up the suitcase. Tamara Ivanovna went to the door and turned back.

“You’ll regret this,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Maybe,” Irina agreed.

When the door closed behind them, silence settled over the apartment. Irina walked into the room and went to the window. Down below, in the parking lot, Oleg was helping his mother lift the suitcase into the trunk. Tamara Ivanovna was talking and waving her arms; Oleg nodded, then got into the driver’s seat.

Seven minutes later, the doorbell rang. Irina opened the door. Two police officers stood on the threshold.

“Good evening. You called?”

“Yes,” Irina let them in. “But the situation has been resolved. The person left.”

The older officer glanced around the hallway.

“Are you sure everything is okay?”

“I’m sure. Thank you for coming.”

The officers exchanged a look. The younger one reached for a notepad.

“We’ll record the call-out anyway—for the record. If it happens again, contact us.”

“Alright.”

When the patrol left, Irina locked the door and leaned back against it. Slowly she slid down and sat right on the floor in the hallway, hugging her knees. Everything inside her trembled—from tension, from fear, from relief.

The apartment was silent. Empty and quiet. But now it was her apartment. Her home—the place where her childhood had passed, where her mother had died. There was no place here for outsiders who came with suitcases and demanded residency.

Irina got up and walked into the room. On the table stood her mother’s photograph in a black frame. In the picture, her mother smiled—the same warm smile Irina remembered from childhood.

“Forgive me, Mom,” Irina whispered. “Forgive me that it turned out like this.”

Her mother didn’t answer. But Irina suddenly understood clearly: her mother would be proud of her now. For not giving in. For protecting her home. For not letting herself be trampled.

The next day Oleg called.

“Why did you do that? We’re family.”

“Oleg, family is when boundaries are respected. Your mother came to the memorial with a suitcase and announced she was in charge here. That’s not normal.”

He was silent.

“Maybe you went too far? Mom didn’t mean harm.”

Irina felt something inside snap—finally and irreversibly.

“Oleg, I’m tired. Tired of explaining. Tired of proving things. If you don’t understand what the problem is, then we have nothing to talk about.”

“What are you saying? You mean…”

“Exactly. Come pick up your things. Leave the keys.”

She ended the call. Sat down on the couch and looked out the window. Yellow leaves spun outside the glass. October was ending. Winter lay ahead—cold, snowy. But Irina was no longer afraid.

The home belonged only to her again—and to the memory of her mother, who had signed it over as if she had foreseen her daughter would need that protection. Now Irina knew for sure: she could stand up for herself. Even if she had to do it alone

 

Olga closed the door of the notary’s office and stepped outside. An autumn wind tousled her hair, and yellow leaves rustled beneath her feet. In her hands was a folder of documents—certificates of inheritance rights. Five apartments. Everything her mother had left behind.
Family Relationship Counseling

Four months had passed since the funeral. Four months of paperwork, office visits, applications, and deadlines. Olga had collected statements, filed requests, waited out mandatory time periods. The inheritance had been arranged through a will—her mother had taken care of everything in advance so her daughter wouldn’t have to split the property with distant relatives.

The apartments were in different parts of the city: three one-bedroom units, one two-bedroom, and one three-bedroom. Her mother had bought property little by little, saving money and investing in something reliable. She used to say it was a safety cushion for her daughter—just in case life ever went off track.

Olga got into her car and placed the folder on the passenger seat. She pulled out her phone—there was a message from her husband:

“When will you be home? Dinner’s ready.”

Her husband, Igor, worked remotely and was often home earlier than she was. He cooked, cleaned, never complained about household chores. A good man. Calm. Olga had met Igor three years earlier, and they married six months later. Her mother had approved—she said Igor was dependable, didn’t drink, and worked hard.

Olga started the car and drove home. Along the way she thought about what to do with the apartments. Sell them? Rent them out? Leave them empty? Her thoughts tangled into knots. She just wanted to get home, collapse on the couch, and think about nothing at all.

At home, the air smelled like fried chicken. Igor stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan.

“Hi,” Olga said, taking off her shoes and hanging up her coat. “What are you making?”

“Chicken with vegetables. So—did you get everything done?”

“Yes. I got the certificates.”

Igor nodded without turning around.

“That’s good. So now it’s all official.”

“Yeah.”

Olga went into the living room, tossed her bag onto an armchair, and lay down on the couch. She was exhausted—not physically so much as emotionally. Every document reminded her of her mother. Every signature, every stamp felt like another blow.

Igor brought dinner in on a tray and sat beside her.

“So how are you? Managing?”

“More or less. It’s just… hard. All of this.”

“I get it. But at least it’s over now. No more running around to notaries.”

“I hope so.”

They ate in silence. Igor cleared the dishes and took them to the kitchen. Olga stayed on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Her phone vibrated—her mother-in-law, Valentina Stepanovna.

“Olgushka, how are you? Did you get everything finalized?”

Olga sighed and typed back: “Yes, it’s all done.”

“Well done! If you need anything, reach out—we’ll help. Don’t carry it all alone.”

“Thank you.”

Her mother-in-law had become especially attentive after Olga’s mother died. She called every day, asked how things were going, offered help. At first Olga was even grateful—she thought Valentina Stepanovna simply cared. But over time, the questions grew more specific. How many apartments? Where exactly? What were Olga’s plans?

A week later Igor returned to the inheritance topic. They were sitting in the kitchen having tea.

“Olya, have you thought about what you’ll do with the apartments?”

“Not yet. I’m not ready to make decisions.”

“Sure, but generally… leaving them empty isn’t an option. You could rent them out, get some income.”

“Igor, I can’t deal with that right now. It’s all too fresh.”

“I understand. I’m just saying—property should be used rationally. It’s sitting there doing nothing.”

Olga stayed quiet. Igor went on:

“I can help set up the rentals if you want. I’ll find an agency, they’ll handle everything. You won’t even have to bother.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to change anything yet.”

Igor nodded and didn’t push. But Olga noticed the topic kept resurfacing. One time he asked which neighborhood each apartment was in, another time he wanted the square footage, then he asked whether there was furniture.

Valentina Stepanovna didn’t let it go either. She called a couple days later.

“Olgushka, hello! How are you?”

“Fine, Valentina Stepanovna.”

“Listen, I was thinking—you’ve got several apartments now. Maybe you should rent one out? Or sell one? So the money isn’t just sitting there.”

“I’m not planning to do anything yet.”

“Well, what if you suddenly need cash? Anything can happen. Real estate is great, but liquidity matters too.”

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll think about it.”

“If you need help, we’ll help. Igor is smart—he understands these things. He’ll arrange it properly.”

Olga thanked her and ended the call. A strange feeling lingered—as if her mother-in-law wasn’t simply interested, but probing for information.

Another month passed. Olga gradually returned to something like normal life. She worked, met with friends, tried not to think about the loss. The apartments remained untouched—empty, waiting.

Igor kept bringing up the properties. Not aggressively, but regularly.

“Olya, let’s at least rent out one apartment. So it’s useful.”

“Igor, I don’t need the money. My salary is fine.”

“It’s not about money. It’s just—property should work. Otherwise what’s the point?”

“The point is that it’s my mother’s memory.”
Family Relationship Counseling

“I get that. But memory isn’t about empty walls. You can rent them out and still remember.”

Olga didn’t argue. She just nodded and changed the subject. But anxiety grew inside her. Why was Igor so fixated on the apartments? He had never interfered in her finances before. He’d never advised her about money. And now he talked about real estate constantly.

One evening Olga came home earlier than usual—her boss let her go because there wasn’t much to do. She rode the elevator up and opened the apartment door. Quiet in the hallway. Igor was probably in the other room.

Olga took off her shoes and went to the kitchen for water. As she passed the room, she heard Igor’s voice. He was on the phone. His tone was tense, serious.

“Yes, Mom, I got it. We’ll transfer a couple apartments into my name, then return them. Olga’s soft—she’ll sign if it’s presented the right way.”

Olga froze in the hallway. Her heart began pounding louder.

“No, she won’t find out. I’ll say it’s for tax optimization. Or that it’s just more convenient for renting. I’ll come up with something.”

A pause.

“Mom, don’t worry. I’m telling you—Olga’s trusting. She won’t dig into the details. The main thing is to explain it properly.”

Olga slowly backed toward the front door. Her hands were shaking. Her head buzzed. Igor planned to re-register the apartments under his name—together with his mother. And he meant to trick his wife, dressing it up as taxes or “convenience.”

Olga quietly put her shoes back on, stepped out of the apartment, and went downstairs. She got into her car, started the engine—but didn’t drive anywhere. She just sat there, staring into nothing.

Soft. Trusting. She’ll sign if it’s presented the right way.

Igor thought she was a fool. Valentina Stepanovna thought so too. All the “care,” all the questions, all the attention—it had been about the apartments. About getting their hands on someone else’s property.

Olga took out her phone, opened the contact of the lawyer who had helped with the inheritance, and typed:

“Hello. Can we meet tomorrow? I need a consultation about real estate.”

A reply came a minute later: “Of course. Come at ten.”

Olga put the phone away and exhaled.

No more softness. No more trust.

It was time to protect what her mother had left her.

The next morning Olga told Igor she had errands to run. He nodded, not asking where. Olga drove to the lawyer’s office on the third floor.

The lawyer—a man in his fifties, wearing glasses and a strict suit—greeted her politely.

“Hello, Olga. Have a seat. What happened?”

Olga sat down across from him and pulled out the folder.

“Vyacheslav Petrovich, tell me—if the inheritance is registered in my name, can anyone transfer those apartments without my consent?”

“No. Only the owner can dispose of the property. Any transaction requires your signature and your presence with a notary.”

“And if I sign something without understanding what it is?”

Vyacheslav Petrovich frowned.

“Tell me more.”

Olga told him about the conversation she’d overheard—about her husband’s and mother-in-law’s plan. The lawyer listened closely.

“I see. Olga, if they try to deceive you by slipping you transfer documents disguised as something else, that would be fraud. But it’s better not to let it get that far.”

“What do you recommend?”

“First—never sign anything without reading it carefully. Second—you can issue a power of attorney to a trusted person, for example to me, so no one else can act on your behalf. Third—if you fear pressure from your husband, you can draw up a prenuptial agreement that excludes these apartments from marital property.”

“But the apartments aren’t marital property anyway. They’re inheritance.”

 

“Correct. But an agreement will formally fix that and prevent any claims later.”

Olga nodded.

“And how do I know if they’re trying to slip me something?”

“Always read what you sign. If you don’t understand the wording—don’t sign. Ask for a copy, bring it to me, I’ll check.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Olga, be careful. Real estate is serious. People sometimes do a lot for that kind of property.”

Olga returned home around lunchtime. Igor was working at his computer.

“So, did you go?” he asked.

“Yes. Errands.”

“What kind of errands?”

“Personal.”

Igor looked at her attentively, but didn’t press.

That evening Igor brought up the apartments again.

“Olya, I was thinking… maybe we should transfer a couple apartments into my name. Purely for convenience.”

Olga raised her head from her book.

“Why?”

“Well, if you rent them out, it’s easier when the owner is a man. Easier to deal with tenants. And we can optimize taxes.”

“Igor, the apartments will stay in my name.”

“I don’t mean take them from you. Just for convenience. We’ll transfer them back later if you want.”

“No. There’s no need to transfer anything.”

Igor frowned.

“Why are you getting tense? I’m just trying to help.”

“I’m not tense. I just don’t see any point in re-registering.”

“Olya… you don’t trust me?”

“I do. But the apartments are my inheritance. They should stay in my name.”

Igor fell silent and turned toward the TV. Olga went back to her book, but the words wouldn’t stick. One thought spun in her head: he was trying to do exactly what he’d promised his mother he would.
Family Relationship Counseling

Two days later Valentina Stepanovna called.

“Olgushka, hi! How are you?”

“Hello. Fine.”

“Listen, I wanted to talk. Igor says you don’t want to put the apartments in his name. Why?”

Olga pressed her lips together.

“Valentina Stepanovna, it’s my property. I decide what to do with it.”

“Sure, of course. But think about it—Igor is your husband. You’re together. What difference does it make whose name it’s under?”

“It makes a difference.”

“Oh, Olga dear, don’t be so distrustful. Igor isn’t a stranger. He wants to help you, make life easier.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I’ll manage myself.”

“Well, suit yourself. Just don’t regret it later.”

Olga ended the call and exhaled. Her mother-in-law was pressuring her. Igor was pressuring her. They were trying to convince her to transfer the apartments—exactly what they’d discussed on the phone.

Olga opened her contacts and called Vyacheslav Petrovich.

“Vyacheslav Petrovich, can I come tomorrow? I want to issue a power of attorney and discuss a marital agreement.”

“Of course. Come at two.”

The next day Olga again told her husband she had errands and drove to the lawyer. She executed a power of attorney giving only Vyacheslav Petrovich authority to represent her in real estate matters. They also discussed a draft marital agreement—a document that would confirm her mother’s apartments were not jointly owned.

“Olga, you’ll need to sign this agreement together with your husband in front of a notary,” Vyacheslav Petrovich explained. “Without his consent, it can’t be done.”

“And if he refuses?”

“Then the agreement won’t be concluded. But that refusal will tell you a lot.”

Olga nodded. Yes—refusal would tell her everything.

When she got home, she found Igor in the kitchen cooking dinner.

“Igor, we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“I want to sign a marital agreement.”

Igor froze without turning around.

“Why?”

“To formally state that the apartments from my mother are my personal property, not jointly acquired.”

Igor slowly turned to face her.

“Olga, are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been married three years, and you suddenly decide you need this?”

“Yes. I think it’s the right thing.”

Igor set the knife down.

“You don’t trust me.”

“I want to protect my mother’s inheritance.”
Family Relationship Counseling

“From who? From me?”

“From any claims in the future.”

“What claims?! I’m your husband, damn it!”

Olga didn’t look away.

“If you’re my husband, you’ll sign it. Because you’ll understand why it matters to me.”

Igor stood there breathing heavily, his face reddening.

“You know what? Do whatever you want. I’m tired of this distrust.”

He turned and left the kitchen. A door slammed. Olga remained by the table. Inside, there was no fear, no regret—only cold clarity. Igor had refused. He didn’t even want to discuss it. He got offended and walked away.

Olga sat down, took out her phone, opened her notes, and began listing next steps. Emotions later. Now she needed to act quickly and clearly.

That night Igor slept in the living room on the couch. Olga lay in the bedroom staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. A plan formed in her mind. Tomorrow—to the notary, to formalize the power of attorney. The day after—to the bank to set up alerts for any document requests. Then—to check what other loopholes they might try.

In the morning Olga got up before Igor, got ready, drank coffee, and left for work without waiting for him to wake. During her lunch break she went to the notary.

Vyacheslav Petrovich saw her without a line.

“Olga, how are you?”

“I need to urgently issue a power of attorney. So only you can represent my interests in real estate matters.”

“All right. Sit down, we’ll fill out the paperwork.”

Half an hour later the power of attorney was ready—stamped, certified, official. Now no one except Vyacheslav Petrovich could act on Olga’s behalf regarding the five apartments.

“One more thing,” Olga said. “Is there any way to protect myself so no one can request registry extracts or copies of documents without my knowledge?”

“You can file a request with the property registry to prohibit registration actions. It’s a temporary measure, but it helps. And at the bank you can set up notifications for any requests related to powers of attorney or statements.”

“Let’s do everything.”

Vyacheslav Petrovich drafted the registry application. Olga signed it and submitted it electronically through the government portal. Then she went to the bank.

At the branch, the manager listened and nodded.

“We can enable SMS notifications for any attempts to access information about your accounts and assets. We can also block issuing any certificates to third parties without your personal presence.”

“Please do it.”

 

“Of course. It’ll take a few minutes.”

Olga sat in a chair opposite the manager, watching her enter data into the system. A strange feeling—as if she were preparing for war. But what else could you call it when your husband and mother-in-law were planning to deceive you?

That evening Olga came home. Igor sat at his computer working. He looked at her and nodded in silence. Olga went into the kitchen, reheated dinner. They ate quietly. Igor didn’t speak. Olga didn’t either.

After dinner Igor went out to the balcony to smoke. Olga sat in the bedroom and opened the folder again. She reviewed every certificate of ownership. Five apartments, all in her name. All protected by the power of attorney and the ban on registration actions.

Two days later Igor tried again, this time gently.

“Olya, let’s not fight. I understand you’re upset. But let me at least help with renting them out so you don’t waste time.”

“No need. I’ve already handed everything to the notary. Vyacheslav Petrovich will handle it if needed.”

Igor frowned.

“What notary?”

“The one who handled the inheritance.”

“Why did you do that?”

“So there’s less hassle. He’s a professional. He knows all the details.”

Igor fell silent, then nodded.

“All right. As you say.”

Olga could see he wasn’t happy. But he couldn’t argue. The plan had failed. Now he couldn’t simply grab documents and transfer the apartments.

Valentina Stepanovna called that evening.

“Olga, what are you doing? Igor says you gave everything to a notary!”

“Yes, it’s more convenient.”

“More convenient?! Do you realize you’re complicating everything? Igor just wanted to help!”

“I’m not asking for help. I’ll manage myself.”

“Olya dear, come on—Igor is your husband! Why don’t you trust him?”

“I trust a professional who knows the law.”
Legal Advice Service

“What nonsense! Do you understand how this looks? Like you don’t trust your husband!”

“Valentina Stepanovna, I’m tired. Let’s end this conversation.”

“Olga, wait—”

Olga ended the call and blocked her mother-in-law’s number. She didn’t want to hear lectures or pressure anymore.

A week later what Olga had been expecting happened. Igor got dressed and went to the public services center. He said it was for work—documents to submit. Olga nodded and didn’t ask questions.

That evening Igor came back gloomy. He tossed his keys onto the dresser and went into the room. Olga was cooking dinner in the kitchen. A few minutes later he came out.

“What did you do?” His voice was quiet, but angry.

“What do you mean?”

“I went to the registry. I wanted to get extracts for your apartments. They said access is closed—only the owner or an authorized representative.”

“So?”

“Olya, did you set that up on purpose?”

“I protected my property.”

Igor clenched his fists.

“This isn’t normal! I’m your husband!”

“A husband who planned to transfer the apartments into his name without my knowledge.”

Igor froze. His face went pale.

“What did you say?”

“I heard your conversation with Valentina Stepanovna. A week ago. You said I’m soft and I’ll sign anything if it’s presented the right way.”

Igor looked away. Silent.

“Igor, did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I… it’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

“We just wanted to help. Transfer for convenience, then return them.”

“Return them? Seriously?”

Igor rubbed his face.

“Olya, why are you making this so complicated? They’re just apartments!”

“They’re my mother’s inheritance. The last thing I have from her.”
Family Relationship Counseling

“And you’re ready to destroy our family over some apartments?”

Olga stared at him for a long moment.

“Igor, you’re the one destroying the family—when you plan to deceive your wife for real estate.”

Igor turned away, stood there, then went back into the room. The door slammed. Olga returned to the stove and turned off the burner. She’d lost her appetite.

The next day Valentina Stepanovna called from another number. Olga answered without checking.

“Olga! Finally! Did you block my number?”

“Yes.”

“How could you?! I’m not a stranger to you!”

“Valentina Stepanovna, I don’t want to talk.”

“Wait, don’t hang up! Do you realize what you’re doing? Igor is nervous because of you! You’re ruining the family!”
Family games

“I’m protecting what my mother left me.”

“From who?! From your own husband?!”

“From people who planned to deceive me.”

“What deception?! We wanted to help!”

“Help transfer the apartments to Igor and then not return them. I heard everything.”

Valentina Stepanovna went quiet. Then she snorted:

“So what? You’re married! Everything should be shared!”

“Inheritance is not shared property.”

“What difference does it make! Igor isn’t a stranger!”

“Igor is someone who was going to deceive me. Together with you.”

“Olga, you’re ungrateful! We’ve done so much for you!”

“Goodbye, Valentina Stepanovna.”

Olga ended the call and blocked the new number too. Her hands were shaking. It was disgusting—her mother-in-law didn’t even deny it. She was simply outraged that their plan had been exposed.

That evening Olga came home and saw some of Igor’s things were gone. The wardrobe was half-empty, his toiletries missing from the bathroom shelves. On the kitchen table lay a note:

“I left for my mother’s. We should both think.”

Olga crumpled the note and threw it into the trash. She sat on the couch and looked out the window. An autumn evening, dark early. Streetlights glowed outside, a few passersby hurried home.

Quiet. Calm. No talk about re-registering apartments. No calls from her mother-in-law. Just silence.

Olga took out her phone and texted Vyacheslav Petrovich:

“Thank you for your help. Everything worked out.”

A reply came quickly: “Glad I could help. Reach out if you need anything.”

 

A few days later Igor came to pick up the rest of his things. He called in advance to warn her. Olga opened the door and let him in without a word. He gathered clothes, books, chargers—avoiding eye contact.

“Olya, maybe we can still try?” Igor asked as he zipped his bag.

“No.”

“Why? Because of the apartments?”

“Because you were ready to deceive your wife for real estate. Because you don’t see me as a partner—you see me as someone ‘soft’ you can trick into signing papers.”

Igor grimaced.

“That’s not how I meant it…”

“It doesn’t matter what you meant. It matters what you did.”

He lifted the bag and headed for the door, then stopped.

“Where are the apartment keys?”

“With me.”

“Olya, I’m your husband. I should have access.”

“No. The apartments are my personal property. Only I have access.”

Igor looked like he wanted to say something, then changed his mind. He nodded and left. The door closed softly. Olga leaned against the doorframe and exhaled.

All five sets of keys were in a safe. In the bedroom, behind the bookshelf. Olga opened the safe and looked at the key ring. Five apartments. Everything her mother had left her. Whole. Protected. Hers.
Family Relationship Counseling

A week later a notice arrived from the court: Igor had filed for divorce. Olga wasn’t surprised. She went to Vyacheslav Petrovich and showed him the papers.

“What do I do?”

“Nothing terrible. You’ll file a response. The apartments are your inheritance—your personal property. They aren’t subject to division. Igor can only claim division of assets acquired together during the marriage.”

“We don’t have anything like that. I live in my own apartment, bought before the marriage. He moved in with me.”

“Then there’s nothing to divide. The process will be quick.”

And it was. Three months later, the divorce was finalized through the registry office. Igor didn’t claim the apartments—he understood the law was on Olga’s side. They signed the papers and went their separate ways.

Valentina Stepanovna tried calling a few more times from different numbers. Olga didn’t answer. Eventually the calls stopped.

Half a year passed. Olga sat in one of her mother’s apartments—the three-bedroom in the city center—sorting through boxes. Photos, letters, old postcards. Her mother had kept everything. Olga looked at the pictures: the two of them at the sea, a graduation, a birthday.
Legal Advice Service

Her mother had always been forward-thinking. She bought apartments, saved money, planned for the future. She said her daughter had to be independent. That you couldn’t rely only on a husband. That a woman should always have her own safety net.

Olga hadn’t understood back then. She thought her mother was just being overly cautious. Now she understood. Her mother knew life was unpredictable. That people change. That you can’t trust everyone.

Five apartments. Stability. Independence. The freedom to choose.

Olga closed the photo box and stood up. She walked to the window and looked out over the city—lights, cars, people. Life continued.

Her phone vibrated. A message from a friend: “How are you? Haven’t seen you in ages.”

Olga smiled and typed back: “I’m good. Want to meet tomorrow?”

“Sure!”

Olga put her phone away and looked out the window again. Inside, everything felt calm—truly calm—for the first time in a long time, since her mother’s death.

The apartments stayed with her. The keys were in the safe. Her trust in people had become more careful, but it hadn’t disappeared. Now Olga knew: protecting what’s yours isn’t selfishness. It’s wisdom.

Her mother had left her an inheritance—not just real estate, but a lesson. A lesson in independence, strength, and the right to say no to anyone trying to take advantage.

Olga locked the apartment and drove home—to her own one-bedroom where she’d lived with Igor for three years. Now she lived alone. And that was good.

The keys to five apartments lay in her purse—heavy, solid. A reminder that some things shouldn’t be handed over. Not even to those you once considered close

— The apartment is mine. You’re moving out.

Sergey was standing in the bedroom doorway. One hand on the doorframe. Not drunk—just certain.

Behind him hovered Kristina from his department. About twenty-eight, a short skirt. She was studying the photos of us on the wall, as if deciding what to keep and what to throw away.

When twenty-seven years end in one minute

I sat on the bed with an open suitcase. Folding blouses slowly. Into neat stacks.

Sergey was waiting for tears. Or screaming.

I could see it—he was waiting.

— Alright.

My voice came out calm. My hands froze. As if they’d gone numb—the way they do when you’ve stood too long at a bus stop in winter.

He blinked. Kristina turned her head too.

— Just like that?

I raised my eyes. Looked at him—really looked at him for the first time in these minutes.

— Just like that.

Sergey let go of the doorframe and stepped into the room. Kristina stayed in the hallway. Apparently she understood it was too early to barge in.

— You can stay at Lenka’s for now. Or with your mother. Then we’ll sell the apartment. Split the money. Civilized.

— Uh-huh.

I zipped the suitcase. Took the bag with my documents. Walked past him. He didn’t even move aside. I had to squeeze through with my shoulder.

In the hallway, Kristina was examining my jacket on the hook. She touched the sleeve—checking the fabric.

— Goodbye.

I said it to her, not to Sergey. She flinched.

The door closed softly. The lock clicked.

I stood on the landing, holding the suitcase and the bag, thinking: twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years in one minute.

The elevator arrived. I went down. Stepped outside.

November. Damp. It gets dark by five.

I took out my phone and texted Lena: “Can I stay with you? For a couple days.”

Her reply came thirty seconds later: “Come. The key’s with the neighbors.”

Three years of quiet preparation

Lena came in the morning. She brought cabbage pies and coffee. Sat across from me on the folding cot where I’d slept, watching me closely.

— You’re too calm.

— I’m just tired.

— No. — Lena poured coffee into two mugs. — You’ve got something planned. I’ve known you thirty years. When you’re this calm, it means you’ve already decided everything.

I took the mug and blew on it. It was hot, burning my lips.

— Three years ago, I transferred the apartment into my name.

Lena froze. The pie stopped halfway to her mouth.

— Meaning?..

— Meaning the apartment is mine. Legally. Sergey signed a deed of gift in 2022. He thought it was for “tax optimization.” Like if we ever wanted to sell, we’d pay less. That’s how I explained it.

— And in reality?

— In reality, back then I already knew about Marina from the next building over. I saw them in his car by the mall. He kissed her. He hadn’t kissed me in five years.

Lena set the pie on a napkin and wiped her hands.

— And you stayed silent?

— I stayed silent. Then there was Olya, the intern. Nineteen, plump lips. Looked at him like he was a god. He’d come home and talk about how clueless she was—yet he was glowing.

— Vera…

 

— Don’t. — I took a sip of coffee. — I don’t want pity. I want fairness. After Olya, I went to a lawyer. A good one. An expensive one. He explained: everything bought in a marriage gets split in half. But if one spouse gifts an apartment to the other—it becomes personal property. It doesn’t get divided.

— And Seryozha signed?

— He signed. The notary read him all the consequences. Sergey sat there, nodded. Thinking about taxes. And I was thinking: there it is. My insurance policy.

Lena stood up and went to the window. Outside was gray November fog; through it, the neighboring buildings barely showed.

— Does he know?

— He will. When he decides to “divide” the apartment.

— And when will that be?

— Soon. He said “civilized,” remember? That means he’ll come with an offer.

Lena turned around. Her face was something between admiration and horror.

— Three years. You stayed with him for three years. Knowing he was cheating. Preparing.

— I’m not a saint, Len. I’m just not stupid.

— I’m fifty-three. A methodologist with a salary of forty-two thousand. Renting on that money means keeping ten for food. I can’t afford emotions. I can only afford a plan.

— Damn. — Lena sat back down. — You scare me.

— Really?

— Really. So cold. So collected.

I finished my coffee and set the mug on the floor—carefully, without a sound.

— I’m not cold. I just know tears won’t help. But a deed of gift will.

Negotiations with the loser

Sergey came on Saturday. Lena left for her dacha—on purpose, so she wouldn’t interfere.

I opened the door. He stood there with a pastry shop bag. Éclairs—my favorites. Once.

— Can I come in?

I stepped aside. He walked into the room, looked around: folding cot, suitcase in the corner, jacket over the chair.

— It’s cramped here.

— Temporary.

He put the bag on the table. Sat down. Crossed his arms—negotiator’s pose. I stayed standing.

— Verka, I overreacted. I shouldn’t have done it in front of Kristina. Sorry.

— Okay.

— Let’s talk normally. About dividing things. We’ll sell the apartment. Split the money fifty-fifty. You’ll be able to buy yourself a one-bedroom somewhere on the outskirts. Or a studio. It’ll be enough.

— The apartment isn’t divisible.

He tilted his head like a dog that doesn’t understand a command.

— How is it not divisible? Joint marital property. The law.

— The apartment is registered in my name. Since 2022.

Sergey uncrossed his arms and put his palms on his knees.

— What?

— Do you remember? We went to the notary. We did the deed of gift. You gifted me the apartment. For tax optimization—remember?

His face changed. From pink to gray. Then to red.

— You… are you joking?

— No.

He jumped up and paced the room. Three steps there, three back.

— That’s illegal! I didn’t understand what I was signing!

— You understood. The notary read you all the consequences. You signed. Voluntarily.

— But I thought—

— You thought about taxes. And I thought about Marina. And about Olya. And about Kristina. Back then she wasn’t even around yet. But I knew—there would be someone. Sooner or later.

Sergey stopped and stared at me, like he was seeing me for the first time.

— You… did it on purpose?

— I was careful.

— Three years. You kept quiet for three years. Lived with me. Cooked, washed, smiled. And you knew.

— I knew.

He sat down again, slowly. Like an old man.

— I’ll go to a lawyer. I’ll challenge the deed. I’ll prove you tricked me.

— Try.

My voice was even.

Sergey looked at me—and I saw it: he understood. He understood he’d lost.

— So I’m left with nothing?

— You’re left with Kristina. That’s love, right? Real, big love. You’ll manage. You’ll rent a place together.

He stood up and grabbed the bag of éclairs.

— Leave it, — I said. — I truly did like them. Once.

He left, slamming the door.

I went to the table and opened the bag. The éclairs were pretty—chocolate glaze. I bit into one.

Stale. Yesterday’s.

I threw it into the trash.

The lawyer explains the rules of the game

A week later, an unknown number called. A man’s voice, businesslike:

— Vera Alexeyevna? I represent the interests of Sergey Viktorovich Sokolov. We would like to discuss the deed of gift for the apartment.

— Discuss it.

— In person. Tomorrow at eleven. Office at 23 Sovetskaya. Does that work?

— It does.

I arrived ten minutes early. Third floor. A sign: “Legal Consultation.”

The receptionist led me into a meeting room: a table, six chairs, a window overlooking a parking lot. Sergey was already there. Beside him was a lawyer—young, glasses, a folder of documents.

— Have a seat, — the lawyer nodded to the chair opposite. — My name is Anton Igorevich. I’ve reviewed the situation. We have questions.

I sat down and placed my bag on my knees.

Outside, snow was falling—first of the year, big flakes.

— I’m listening.

The lawyer opened the folder and took out the gift deed. A copy.

— You claim that Sergey Viktorovich voluntarily gifted you the apartment?

— I’m not the one claiming it. The notary is. Here’s his signature.

— But Sergey Viktorovich did not understand the consequences.

I looked at Sergey. He sat staring at the table, fingers interlocked, knuckles white.

— Anton Igorevich, have you read the text?

— There’s a phrase here: “The legal consequences of the gift have been explained to me, namely: the transfer of ownership of the real estate object from the donor to the donee irrevocably.” Sergey signed beneath it. Or does he not know how to read?

The lawyer adjusted his glasses.

— A gift can be challenged if deception is proven.

— Who deceived whom? I told my husband: let’s put the apartment in my name—it’ll be easier with taxes if we ever decide to sell. That’s true. If property has been owned for more than five years, the tax is lower. I didn’t lie. I just didn’t say why I also needed it.

— But you concealed your true intentions.

— My intentions are my business. The law asks about the form of the transaction, not thoughts.

Sergey jerked and raised his head.

— You planned it for three years! Three years you lived with me, knowing you’d throw me out!

— I didn’t throw you out. You left on your own terms. You brought Kristina into our apartment and told me to move out. Or did you forget?

— I… lost my temper.

— You lost your temper. And I kept my documents in order for three years.

The lawyer flipped a page and pulled out another sheet.

— It states that renovation work in the apartment was done with joint funds eight years ago—three hundred and fifty thousand. Sergey Viktorovich may claim compensation.

— The renovation was in 2017. Eight years ago. The statute of limitations is three years. You’re late.

Anton Igorevich took off his glasses, wiped them with a cloth, and put them back on.

— You’re well prepared.

— I prepared for three years.

— And all that time you stayed silent?

— All that time I was a wife.

— I cooked, washed, went to his mother’s dacha. Smiled at his friends. Endured him coming home late, smelling of someone else’s perfume. I did what a wife should do. And he did what a husband shouldn’t.

Sergey slammed his fist on the table.

— What do my weaknesses have to do with it?! We’re talking about the apartment!

— The apartment. My apartment. The one you wanted to split with me in half. And give half to that girl who’s twenty-eight. Who didn’t put a cent into the mortgage.

Who didn’t get up at six in the morning to make it to work and cook you breakfast. Who didn’t sit with your mother in the hospital when she had a stroke.

Silence.

The lawyer stared at the papers. Sergey stared out the window. The snow was falling thicker, covering the cars below in white caps.

— The deed was executed properly, — Anton Igorevich said quietly. — You signed voluntarily, Sergey Viktorovich. The notary recorded the explanation of consequences. It can’t be overturned.

Sergey didn’t answer. He kept looking out the window, as if there was something very important there.

— Could I at least… — He stopped, swallowed. — Could I stay in the apartment until I find a place? A month. Two.

I stood up and picked up my bag.

— No. Lena will bring your things. Where to?

— I… I’ll rent a room. On Zarechnaya. — His voice sounded чужой—strange, worn down.

— Fine. We’ll bring them tomorrow.

I walked out. In the corridor, the receptionist was painting her nails pink. The elevator moved slowly. Music was playing—something about love.

I listened and thought: twenty-seven years. Half a life. And it ended in twenty minutes in an office overlooking snow.

A different life in the old apartment

I packed Sergey’s things myself. Lena offered to help, but I refused. I needed to do it alone.

Three bags, a box of documents. Suits, shirts, his running sneakers—though he hadn’t run in three years. Razor, cologne.

A framed photo—us at the sea, twenty years ago. Back then I still dyed my hair light brown. He had no gray. We were both smiling, arms around each other.

I put the photo in the box and sealed it with tape.

Lena took the things to Zarechnaya. Came back two hours later.

— Did he cry?

— No. Signed for the stuff. Said thank you. That’s all.

— Was Kristina there?

— No. The room’s small. Six square meters. A sofa, a table, a fridge. An old flowered curtain on the window.

We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea.

My kitchen. My tea. My apartment.

— Don’t you feel sorry for him? — Lena asked.

I looked out the window. It was getting dark. Streetlights flickered on. Snow lay on the windowsill in an even layer, untouched.

— I do. Sometimes. When I remember what he used to be like. But then I think of Marina, Olya, Kristina—and I understand: I don’t feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for myself twenty years ago. The one who believed.

— And now?

— Now I know: faith is good. But documents are better.

Lena laughed—then went quiet.

— So what’s next?

— Next, I live. I have an apartment, a job, a friend who brings pies. Not much. But it’s mine.

— And men?

— I don’t know. We’ll see. Maybe I’ll meet someone. Maybe not. The main thing is, I’m not living anymore waiting for someone to betray me. That, you know, is freeing.

Silence as a beginning

Lena left at ten. I stayed alone in the apartment.

I walked through the rooms: bedroom, kitchen, living room. Everything was in place. The photos on the wall—I took down the one of us together and put it in the closet. Hung another instead: me and Lena at the dacha last summer.

I sat on the sofa.

Silence. No footsteps in the hallway. No keys in the lock. No questions like “What’s for dinner?” No smell of чужие духи—someone else’s perfume—on shirts.

Silence. And somehow, it wasn’t scary at all.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through ads: evening Spanish classes, beginner dance lessons, a book club.

Put it down. Too soon.

First, just live. Alone. In my own apartment. Get used to the fact that every decision is mine now. That no one will say, “Why do you need that?” or “You’re too old for that nonsense.”

 

I turned off the light. Lay down in bed—right in the middle, not on the edge.

Closed my eyes.

Twenty-seven years behind me. Ahead—who knows how many. But those years will be only mine.

And maybe that’s enough.

I’m writing honestly—about life after fifty, when you have enough experience, and no patience left for other people’s games

December turned out to be bitterly cold. The snow lay like a heavy blanket, and every morning Olga stared out the window at the white courtyard, unable to force herself to leave the apartment. Two weeks had passed since the funeral, but time seemed to have stopped. The apartment felt too big and too empty—three rooms in which only Olga lived now.

Before, her husband had filled the space with his presence: he’d turn on music, cook something in the kitchen, humming under his breath. Now the silence pressed against her ears. Olga walked barefoot from room to room, trying not to make a sound, as if she were afraid of disturbing someone’s memory.

In the first days after the funeral, neighbors stopped by with little pies and sympathetic looks. Olga thanked them, put the food in the refrigerator, and forgot about it. She didn’t feel like eating. Or sleeping. She simply sat on the living-room sofa, wrapped in a blanket, staring at one spot.

Her mother-in-law—Lyudmila Vasilyevna—arrived the day after the funeral. She brought containers of soup, set the table, and sat down beside Olga.

“You eat, dear,” she said softly, almost tenderly. “You need strength.”

Olga nodded, but never lifted the spoon. Lyudmila Vasilyevna sighed, patted her daughter-in-law’s shoulder, and left—taking the keys to her son’s car with her.

“I’ll drive it over to my place,” she said as she was leaving. “No point in it just sitting here.”

Olga didn’t object. The car, the apartment, the things—none of it seemed to matter anymore. Her husband was dead, and the whole world had shrunk to the size of this empty apartment.

But Lyudmila Vasilyevna started coming more and more often. First once every two days, then every day. She brought food, cleaned, washed dishes. Olga sat off to the side in silence. Sometimes it felt as if her mother-in-law didn’t even notice her—she was so engrossed in going through her son’s belongings.

“This sweater—I gave it to him last New Year,” Lyudmila Vasilyevna said, pressing a gray sweater with reindeer to her chest. “He loved wearing it.”

Olga nodded. Her husband had worn it only once, then said the reindeer looked childish and shoved it onto the far shelf. But there was no point arguing with Lyudmila Vasilyevna.

A week later, her mother-in-law began packing his clothes into boxes.

“We need to sort everything out while it’s still fresh,” she said, standing in the bedroom with bags in her hands. “Otherwise it’ll be even harder later.”

Olga watched as Lyudmila Vasilyevna methodically pulled shirts from the wardrobe, folded trousers, sorted belts. She worked quickly and with focus, as if carrying out an important assignment.

 

“This I’ll donate to the church,” she said, pointing at one box. “And this I’ll keep as a remembrance.”

Olga stayed silent. Let her take it. Let her do whatever she wanted. The main thing was not to pry with questions or comfort.

But Lyudmila Vasilyevna didn’t stop at clothing. A few days later she moved on to documents. She arrived with a large bag, went into her son’s study, and started opening desk drawers.

“I need to deal with the banks,” she explained without lifting her head. “Accounts, deposits—everything needs to be closed.”

Olga stood in the doorway watching her mother-in-law stack papers into neat piles. Lyudmila Vasilyevna found phone numbers for banks, wrote them down on a sheet, and slipped it into her pocket.

“Tomorrow I’ll call and find out what’s left in there,” she finally looked up at Olga. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Olga shrugged. Let her call. She wouldn’t learn anything without a power of attorney anyway.

Lyudmila Vasilyevna took her silence as agreement and kept rummaging through the papers—insurance policy, old receipts, certificates.

“So much has piled up,” she sighed. “We’ll have to sort it all out and throw away what’s unnecessary.”

Olga turned and left the study. She settled in the kitchen with a cup of tea and stared out the window. The snow kept falling, covering the city with a white quilt. She wanted to sink into that whiteness and disappear.

An hour later Lyudmila Vasilyevna came into the kitchen looking pleased.

“All done—I sorted the documents,” she said, sitting across from Olga and placing her hands on the table. “Tomorrow I’ll start calling the banks. We need to understand what’s left.”

Olga nodded without raising her eyes from the cup. The tea had long gone cold, but she kept wrapping her hands around the mug as if warming herself.

“And the car needs to be transferred to my name,” Lyudmila Vasilyevna added. “You don’t drive anyway. Why should it just sit?”

“Do whatever you want,” Olga finally looked up. “I don’t care.”

Lyudmila Vasilyevna nodded in satisfaction and left, taking the folder with the car documents.

Days went by one after another. Olga kept living in a fog—she’d get up, drink tea, stare out the window, lie down again. Sometimes she turned on the TV, but the sounds blended into a single hum and the meaning of what was happening on the screen slipped away.

Lyudmila Vasilyevna came every day. Now she behaved even more confidently—opening the fridge without asking, cooking whatever she pleased, rearranging things.

“You’ve got a mess here,” she declared one morning, looking around the living room. “We need to clean properly.”

She set to work with enthusiasm—dusting, washing floors, putting things in their places. Olga sat on the sofa and watched in silence. Lyudmila Vasilyevna worked as if it were her home.

“Much better,” she said with satisfaction, surveying the result. “Now it’s livable.”

Olga didn’t answer. She simply got up and went to her bedroom, closed the door, and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. Her thoughts tangled, but one stuck like a splinter: Lyudmila Vasilyevna felt like the rightful mistress here.

The next week her mother-in-law arrived with a big bag and announced:

“I’m going to stay the night here. It’s hard for you alone—I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Olga froze. Lyudmila Vasilyevna had already gone into the room that used to be her son’s study and began making up a bed on the sofa.

“It’s quite comfortable,” she said, glancing around. “It’ll be calmer for both you and me.”

Olga stood in the doorway in silence. She didn’t want to argue. Let her stay if she needed to. Maybe it really would be easier—less scary not to be alone.

But by the end of the first day Olga understood: Lyudmila Vasilyevna had come seriously, and for a long time. She took over the study, unpacked her things, hung her clothes in the wardrobe. In the evening she sat in the kitchen with a notebook and began writing something down.

“I need to make a to-do list,” she explained. “There’s so much to settle—banks, documents, property paperwork.”

Olga drank tea and looked out the window. The snow had stopped, and the moon lit the white drifts in the yard. She wanted to go out there, sink into a snowbank, and forget.

Lyudmila Vasilyevna kept scribbling, muttering to herself now and then. Then she raised her head and looked at Olga.

“Tomorrow I’m going to the bank,” she said. “I’ll find out what’s left in the accounts. We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Olga nodded. Let her go. Without a notarized power of attorney they wouldn’t tell her anything.

Another week passed. Lyudmila Vasilyevna lived in the apartment as if it were her own—cooking, cleaning, calling relatives, discussing business matters. Olga stayed quiet and kept to the side. Sometimes it seemed her mother-in-law forgot she existed.

But one evening Lyudmila Vasilyevna came into Olga’s bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her daughter-in-law for a long moment.

“Olya, we need to talk,” she said seriously.

Olga propped herself on an elbow and stared at her. Lyudmila Vasilyevna folded her hands on her knees and paused.

“You understand that this apartment belonged to my son,” she began. “He bought it before the marriage with his own money. I helped him with the down payment.”

Olga said nothing. Lyudmila Vasilyevna continued:

“So legally, the apartment isn’t marital property. And I, as his mother, am entitled to a share of the inheritance.”

Olga sat up and hugged her knees. Lyudmila Vasilyevna spoke confidently, as if reciting a memorized text.

“I’m not going to throw you out,” she softened her tone. “But you have to understand the situation. Now we both have rights to this apartment.”

Olga nodded. Satisfied with the reaction, Lyudmila Vasilyevna rose and headed to the door.

“Good—glad we discussed everything,” she said at parting. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the notary and do it properly.”

The door closed. Olga remained sitting on the bed, arms around her knees. Something inside her shifted, but her face stayed calm. Lyudmila Vasilyevna didn’t know anything. She didn’t know that three months earlier her son had made a will. She didn’t know that the apartment, the car, and the bank accounts were all willed to Olga. She didn’t know that the notary had called several times already, inviting Olga to come in to process the inheritance.

Olga stayed quiet because it was too early to speak. Let Lyudmila Vasilyevna think she was in control. Let her make plans and discuss dividing the property. Time would show who the real mistress was.

A few more days passed. Lyudmila Vasilyevna hinted more and more often that Olga should consider moving out.

“You’re young,” she said over dinner. “Life goes on. Maybe you’ll meet someone, start over.”

Olga ate in silence. Lyudmila Vasilyevna continued:

“And I’ll stay here. I have nowhere to go, and it’s my son’s apartment. It’s logical I’ll live here.”

Olga put down her fork and looked at her. Lyudmila Vasilyevna held her gaze and added:

“Don’t take offense, but it’ll be the right thing. You’ll get settled, and I’ll live out my days in my son’s apartment.”

Olga got up from the table and took her plate to the sink. Lyudmila Vasilyevna stayed in the kitchen, pleased with herself.

Two days later her mother-in-law came with news. She flung open Olga’s bedroom door and announced:

“I went to the notary. I found everything out. I’m entitled to half the inheritance as the only mother. So get ready—we’ll be dividing the apartment.”

Olga lay on the bed with a book in her hands. She raised her eyes to her mother-in-law and said nothing. Lyudmila Vasilyevna took the silence as agreement and left, slamming the door loudly.

Olga set the book on the nightstand and looked out the window. It had started snowing again. Big flakes drifted slowly down onto the windowsill. Beautiful. Quiet. Peaceful.

And in the next room Lyudmila Vasilyevna was talking on the phone with a friend, discussing how best to formalize her share of the apartment. Her voice sounded triumphant.

The next morning Lyudmila Vasilyevna came to Olga again. This time she didn’t circle around it.

“Listen, Olya,” she stood in the middle of the bedroom with her arms crossed. “Let’s be honest. You have no reason to stay here. It’s my son’s apartment, I have rights to it. So pack your things and get out. If not today, then in a week—either way you’ll have to move.”

Olga sat on the bed and looked at her. Lyudmila Vasilyevna stood in the doorway, tall and rigid, waiting for a reaction. But Olga only smiled slowly—quietly, almost imperceptibly. The corners of her lips lifted, and her gaze became perfectly calm.

Lyudmila Vasilyevna frowned, not understanding what was happening. Olga kept smiling silently, and there was something in that smile that suddenly made the older woman feel uneasy.

“Have you lost your mind?” Lyudmila Vasilyevna raised her voice. “I’m having a serious talk with you, and you’re sitting there smiling!”

Olga didn’t answer. She simply got up, walked past her mother-in-law to the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of water. Lyudmila Vasilyevna followed, refusing to back down.

“Do you even hear me?” she stood in the doorway, blocking the passage. “I said: pack your things. This apartment belongs to my son, which means it belongs to me!”

Olga took a sip, set the glass on the table, and turned to her mother-in-law with a calm look.

“I hear everything,” Olga said evenly, without emotion.

“Then why are you silent?” Lyudmila Vasilyevna stepped closer. “Think if you keep quiet I’ll go away? No, dear. I know my rights. My son’s apartment is my apartment. And I have every right to live here.”

Olga walked past her mother-in-law back to the bedroom. Lyudmila Vasilyevna followed, growing louder.

“Who are you even?” she stopped in the middle of the room, spreading her arms. “You lived with my son for only five years! And I raised him, made a man of him, got him on his feet! I gave him money for the down payment!”

Olga opened the wardrobe and took out a folder of documents. Lyudmila Vasilyevna fell silent, watching her daughter-in-law’s movements.

“What’s that?” she asked, but her voice was no longer so confident.

Olga set the folder on the table, sat down in the chair, and opened her laptop. Lyudmila Vasilyevna stepped closer, trying to see what was on the screen.

“What are you doing?” she leaned in over Olga’s shoulder.

Olga pressed a few keys, opened a folder, and clicked one file. A scanned document with stamps and signatures appeared on the screen.

“What is that?” Lyudmila Vasilyevna moved even closer, squinting.

Olga silently turned the laptop so her mother-in-law could see better. Lyudmila Vasilyevna bent over and started reading—first quickly, then more slowly. Her eyes widened; her lips parted.

“A will?” she whispered, as if not believing her own eyes.

Olga nodded. Lyudmila Vasilyevna grabbed the back of the chair and kept reading. On the screen was a clear text, certified with a notary’s seal and her son’s signature.

“I, Andrey Petrovich Sokolov, being of sound mind and memory, bequeath all my property to my spouse, Olga Nikolaevna Sokolova,” Lyudmila Vasilyevna read aloud, stumbling. “Including: the apartment at the address… the automobile… bank accounts…”

She went silent. She sank into a chair beside the desk and stared at the screen as if hoping the words would change.

“This can’t be true,” she muttered. “He couldn’t… He would have told me…”

Olga flipped to the next page. There was the date—three months ago. Her husband’s signature. The notary’s stamp. Everything done according to the law.

 

“Why did you keep quiet?” Lyudmila Vasilyevna looked up at Olga. “Why were you silent all this time?”

Olga closed the laptop and rested her hands on the table. She looked at her mother-in-law calmly, without anger.

“Because I didn’t want to argue,” Olga answered quietly. “I didn’t care. The car, the apartment, the money—none of it will bring my husband back.”

Lyudmila Vasilyevna covered her face with her hands and froze. Her shoulders trembled slightly. Olga sat beside her in silence.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Lyudmila Vasilyevna finally said in a muffled voice. “I thought… I was sure the apartment would go to me. That I had the right…”

“The right belongs to the one it was willed to,” Olga said, standing and walking to the window. “My husband thought it through in advance. He did the paperwork, certified it with a notary. Everything according to the law.”

Lyudmila Vasilyevna slowly stood up. Her face had fallen, her eyes were red. She stood in the middle of the room—confused and crushed.

“So all this time you knew,” she whispered. “You knew the apartment was yours. You knew I’d get nothing. And you kept quiet.”

Olga nodded. Lyudmila Vasilyevna suddenly straightened and stepped toward her daughter-in-law.

“You did it on purpose!” she burst into a scream. “You stayed silent just to watch me walk around here, making plans! Calling banks, gathering documents!”

Olga turned to her. Her face stayed calm, but something hard flashed in her eyes.

“I was silent because I didn’t have the strength for fights,” Olga said, enunciating each word clearly. “My husband died. I didn’t care who managed what. But you decided you could come here and throw me out of my apartment.”

“Your apartment?” Lyudmila Vasilyevna laughed hoarsely. “You lived here five years! And I—”

“And you never moved in here,” Olga cut her off. “This was my husband’s apartment. It was his. Now it’s mine. By will. You won’t be able to contest it.”

Lyudmila Vasilyevna stepped back. Her breathing went uneven; her hands clenched into fists.

“I’m his mother!” she shouted. “I have the right to a share!”

“You would have, if there were no will,” Olga said, placing the laptop on a shelf. “But there is a will. And it’s perfectly clear.”

Lyudmila Vasilyevna stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard. Olga walked past her to the door and stopped in the doorway.

“Now it’s clear,” Olga said evenly. “Now you really can—get out.”

Lyudmila Vasilyevna flinched as if slapped. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Olga went into the hallway, walked to the front door, flung it open, and stood beside it, waiting.

Lyudmila Vasilyevna slowly came out of the room. Her face was pale, her lips trembled. She went to the entryway, grabbed her bag from the hook, and threw on her coat.

“You’ll regret this,” she whispered as she fastened the buttons. “You’ll regret it.”

Olga didn’t answer. She simply stood by the open door, looking at her. Lyudmila Vasilyevna stepped onto the landing, paused, and turned back.

“He was my son,” her voice shook. “My only son.”

“He was my husband,” Olga answered softly. “And he willed everything to me.”

Lyudmila Vasilyevna turned and went toward the elevator. Olga closed the door and leaned her back against it. The apartment became quiet. Completely quiet. It hadn’t been this quiet in weeks.

Olga went into the living room and sank onto the sofa. She looked out the window—the snow was still falling, covering the city with a white blanket. Only now the silence felt different: not crushing and empty, but peaceful.

The apartment belonged to her again. For the first time in all this time, Olga felt she could breathe freely. No need to keep quiet, no need to endure someone else’s presence, no need to listen to orders.

Olga got up and walked through the rooms. She went into the study where Lyudmila Vasilyevna had slept. The bed was sloppily made; her mother-in-law’s things still lay on a chair. Olga gathered them into a bag and placed it by the front door. Let her come and collect them.

Then she opened the window in the study, letting in the frosty air. Snowflakes flew into the room, melting on the windowsill. The cold felt cleansing, driving off the heaviness of the past days.

Olga closed the window and returned to the living room. She sat on the sofa and wrapped her arms around her knees. Only now did it sink in: it was over. Lyudmila Vasilyevna wouldn’t come back. No more rummaging through documents, no more talks about rights to the apartment, no more commanding tone.

The phone rang. Olga picked up—it was the notary’s number.

“Olga Nikolaevna, good afternoon,” a polite female voice said. “I’m reminding you that three weeks have passed since your spouse’s death. You can come in to process the inheritance.”

“I’ll come tomorrow,” Olga replied.

“Excellent. I’ll be expecting you at ten in the morning. Bring your passport, your marriage certificate, and the death certificate.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

Olga set the phone down and looked out the window again. Tomorrow a new life would begin. Without her husband—but also without anyone else’s claims. The apartment, the car, the accounts—everything would be formalized officially. No one would be able to come in and demand rights anymore.

Olga went to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator—there were the food containers Lyudmila Vasilyevna had brought. Olga took them out and threw them into the trash. She didn’t want anything that reminded her of her mother-in-law.

Then she brewed herself fresh tea, sat at the table, and wrapped her hands around the hot mug. Outside, it was getting dark. The streetlights came on, lighting the snowy yard. Children were sledding, laughing and shouting. Life went on.

Olga took a sip of tea and thought of her husband. She remembered how three months earlier he had come home and said:

“Olya, I made a will. Everything goes to you.”

Back then she’d been surprised and asked why. He smiled and replied:

“Just in case. I want you to be protected.”

It had seemed strange—a young, healthy man suddenly making a will. But he insisted, went to the notary, had it all certified. And a month later, he had a heart attack.

Olga closed her eyes and silently thanked her husband. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for protecting me from other people’s claims. Thank you for this silence.

The phone rang again. Her friend’s name flashed on the screen.

“Olya, how are you?” her friend’s voice sounded worried. “You haven’t been in touch for ages.”

“I’m fine,” Olga answered calmly. “Just had a lot to deal with.”

“Is your mother-in-law still living with you?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Thank God!” her friend let out a relieved breath. “I was already afraid it would drag on forever.”

Olga gave a small smile. Her friend didn’t know half of what had happened—didn’t know about the will, Lyudmila Vasilyevna’s claims, or how she’d tried to throw Olga out of her own apartment.

“It’s all okay,” Olga repeated. “Tomorrow I’m going to the notary to process the inheritance.”

“Hang in there,” her friend paused. “If anything—call me. I’ll come and support you.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Olga ended the call and finished her tea. She washed the mug and went to the bedroom. She lay down and pulled the blanket over herself. Outside, the snow kept falling, covering the world in white.

For the first time in a long while, Olga fell asleep peacefully—without anxious thoughts, without fear that Lyudmila Vasilyevna would come again tomorrow with demands. The apartment was hers. By will. By law. Forever.

In the morning Olga woke up early, got dressed, gathered the documents, and went outside. The frost hit her face, making her cheeks flush. Snow crunched underfoot; the sun dazzled her eyes.

The notary greeted her warmly, quickly checked the documents, and began the paperwork. An hour later everything was ready. Olga left the notary’s office with a folder containing the certificates of inheritance.

The apartment, the car, the accounts—everything officially belonged to her. No one could contest that right anymore. No one could come and stake a claim.

Olga walked along the snowy streets and, for the first time in a long time, she was smiling. Her husband had taken care of her. He’d left not just property, but protection—protection from those who might have tried to take advantage of her grief.

That evening Olga sat at home on the sofa with a cup of tea and looked out the window. The snow kept falling, covering the city. Quiet. Peaceful. Truly hers

 Part 1

“Valera, you’ve got visitors!” Irina called out when she heard the doorbell ring on Saturday morning.

She had just sat down to check her eighth-graders’ tests, spreading the exercise books out on the kitchen table. Sunday was tomorrow, and on Monday she had to submit the academic performance report. Off to the side lay a stack of unmarked notebooks that didn’t seem to get any smaller no matter how much Irina worked.

The doorbell rang again, more insistently. Irina sighed, put down her red pen, and went to open the door. On the threshold stood Galina Petrovna, Irina’s mother-in-law, her daughter Natalya with her husband Sergei, and their fifteen-year-old daughter Dasha.

“Surprise!” Galina Petrovna exclaimed with a broad smile. “We were just passing by and decided to drop in for lunch!”

Irina silently stepped aside, letting the guests into the apartment. “We were just passing by” was the standard phrase she’d heard dozens of times in five years of marriage to Valera. For some reason, her husband’s relatives never called in advance. They preferred to “just happen to be nearby” precisely at lunchtime.

“Valera’s in the shower,” Irina said when everyone had entered the hallway. “Go on into the living room, he’ll be out in a minute.”

“And what are you making for lunch today, Irina dear?” asked Galina Petrovna, taking off her coat. “I hope it’s something tasty? We got so hungry on the way!”

Irina took a deep breath, counted to three, and slowly exhaled.

“No, I’m not going to cook for you. If you’d like, I can pour you some water,” she said calmly to her husband’s relatives, who once again had shown up without warning.

A deafening silence fell in the hallway. Galina Petrovna froze with her mouth slightly open. Natalya blinked several times in disbelief, as if she hadn’t heard right. Her husband Sergei suddenly became very interested in the pattern on the wallpaper, and Dasha hid a smile behind her phone.

Valera came out of the bathroom, towel-drying his hair as he walked.

“Oh, Mom! Natasha!” he said happily, then immediately noticed the tension. “What’s going on?”

“Your wife is refusing to feed us,” Galina Petrovna said in an icy tone. “She says she can only offer us water.”

Valera stared at Irina in shock.

“Ira, what are you doing? This is my family who came to visit.”

“Without warning,” Irina replied calmly. “For the third time this month. I’m working, I’m drowning in notebooks and reports. I don’t have time to cook everything.”

“But they’re hungry!” Valera protested.

“There are plenty of cafés along the way,” Irina shrugged. “Or you could have called in advance. I would’ve prepared.”

“So that’s how relatives are treated in this house,” Galina Petrovna muttered loudly, turning to her daughter. “Natasha, you would never behave like this.”

 

Part 2

“Mom, let’s not start,” Valera said unexpectedly. “Maybe we really should have called first?”

Galina Petrovna looked at her son as if he had betrayed his country.

“So now I have to make an appointment to see my own son?” Her voice trembled with hurt. “We’re leaving. We won’t interfere with your… busy life.”

“Wait,” Valera tried to stop his mother, but Galina Petrovna was already marching toward the door, dragging Natalya with her. Sergei and Dasha exchanged glances and followed them.

When the door closed behind the relatives, an oppressive silence settled over the apartment.

“Happy now?” Valera turned to Irina, folding his arms across his chest.

“No, I’m not happy,” she replied. “I’m tired of being a 24/7 canteen for your relatives. They come whenever they feel like it and expect me to drop everything and run to the kitchen.”

“They just wanted to visit us!” Valera raised his voice.

“They wanted to be fed,” Irina shot back. “And why is it always me who has to do it? Why not you?”

“Because you’re a woman!” Valera blurted out, then immediately fell silent, realizing what he’d just said.

Irina gave a bitter little laugh.

“There it is. The truth. For your family I’m just service staff. A cook, a maid, a waitress.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Valera muttered.

“That’s exactly what you meant,” Irina said and went back to the kitchen, to her stack of notebooks. “I’m a math teacher. I have my own job that I need to do. And I am not obligated to drop everything every time your mother feels like sitting at a laid table.”

Valera stared at her silently for a few seconds, then grabbed his jacket.

“I’m going to my mom’s. I need to calm her down after your… stunt.”

“Of course, go,” Irina nodded, not lifting her head from the notebooks. “Just don’t forget to apologize for my behavior.”

The door slammed so hard the glass rattled.

That evening Valera didn’t come back. He didn’t show up the next day either. On Monday morning, as Irina was getting ready for work, the phone rang. It was Marina, a colleague from school.

“Ira, are you okay?” she asked in an anxious voice.

“Yes, why? What happened?”

“The principal got a call from some woman who said you’re a bad wife and unfit to work with children. That you threw your husband’s relatives out of the house hungry and without even offering them water.”

Irina sank down onto a chair. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“That was my mother-in-law,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything to the principal.”

“Don’t stress,” Marina reassured her. “Anna Sergeyevna said she’s not interested in employees’ family dramas as long as they don’t affect their work. She just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

After her lessons, Irina walked home slowly, wondering what awaited her there. Valera had ignored her calls all weekend. Could a five-year marriage really fall apart over one refusal to cook?

Part 3

The apartment was quiet and empty. Irina checked her phone—no messages from her husband. She dialed his number, but it went straight to voicemail. Deciding to keep herself busy, Irina started sorting through the kitchen cabinets—something she’d been meaning to do for a long time but never found the time.

The doorbell rang. Irina’s heart leapt—maybe Valera had come back? But on the threshold stood their neighbor, Zinaida Vasilievna.

“Irochka, is everything all right?” the elderly woman asked. “I saw your Valera leaving on Saturday with a suitcase. Didn’t you two have a fight?”

“Everything’s fine, Zinaida Vasilievna,” Irina replied politely. “Just a small misunderstanding.”

“Because of your mother-in-law, right?” the neighbor asked unexpectedly, and seeing Irina’s surprise, she added, “I saw her car by the entrance. She comes over a lot, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, quite often,” Irina sighed.

“And always without warning, so you don’t have time to prepare?” the older woman asked knowingly. “And then she criticizes your cooking and how you keep house?”

Irina stared at her in amazement.

“How do you…?”

“I had a mother-in-law just like that,” the old woman smiled. “Only back then times were different. I put up with it for thirty years, until my Petya… well, until he passed away. And you did the right thing, showing some backbone right away.”

“And did your husband run off to his mother’s too?” Irina asked hopefully.

“Of course!” Zinaida Vasilievna laughed. “Three times over the course of our life together. But he always came back. Where else could he go? Just don’t give in. You have to set your rules right from the start, otherwise it’ll be too late later.”

After talking to her neighbor, Irina felt a little better. At least she wasn’t the only one who had decided to stand up to “family traditions.”

On Tuesday evening the doorbell rang again. This time it was Valera. He looked crumpled and tired.

“I’m here for my things,” he said, walking into the apartment. “I’ll stay at Mom’s for a while.”

“You’re serious?” Irina could hardly believe it. “Because I refused one time to cook for your relatives?”

“That’s not the point,” Valera started taking clothes out of the wardrobe. “You insulted my family. Mom says you don’t respect our traditions and…”

“Your mom?” Irina cut him off. “You’re a grown man, Valera. You’ve got a head on your shoulders. Can’t you see she’s manipulating you?”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that!” Valera snapped. “She’s always wanted only the best for me!”

“And calling my principal to badmouth me—is that ‘only the best’ too?” Irina asked quietly.

Valera froze.

“What call?”

“Your mother phoned the school and said all kinds of nasty things about me. She wanted me fired.”

“That can’t be,” Valera muttered in confusion. “She wouldn’t…”

“Ask her yourself,” Irina shrugged. “Though I doubt she’ll admit it.”

Part 4

At that moment the doorbell rang again. Irina opened it and saw a tall, gray-haired man of about sixty.

“Good evening,” the stranger said. “I’m looking for Valery Nikolaevich Sokolov. Does he live here?”

“Dad?” Valera peered out of the bedroom, not believing his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see what kind of mess your mother has stirred up,” the man replied calmly. “May I come in?”

Irina stepped aside, letting her father-in-law into the apartment. She had never seen Valera’s father before. All she knew was that her husband’s parents had divorced when he was twelve and that since then Nikolai Ivanovich had lived in another city.

“My name’s Nikolai,” the man introduced himself, holding out his hand to Irina. “Sorry for coming without warning, but apparently that’s our family tradition.”

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and Irina couldn’t help but smile.

“How did you find out what was going on?” Valera still looked stunned.

“Natalya called,” Nikolai Ivanovich replied. “She said you’ve got a family drama unfolding here and your mother is getting ready to ‘rescue’ you from your ‘evil wife.’ I decided to come and see for myself.”

“And you came from another city?” Valera asked skeptically.

“I’ve actually been back for a year,” his father answered calmly. “I work as a consultant at a construction company. I just didn’t want to meddle in your life, son. I thought you’d call when you were ready.”

They sat down in the living room. Nikolai Ivanovich looked around with interest.

“It’s nice here. Cozy,” he remarked. “Now tell me, what happened?”

Irina and Valera started talking at the same time, then stopped.

“Let’s go in order,” suggested Nikolai Ivanovich. “Irina, why don’t you start.”

Irina told him how her husband’s relatives constantly came over without warning, always right at lunchtime, expecting her to feed them despite her workload. How her mother-in-law criticized her housekeeping skills and lectured her on how to run a home properly. And how, the last time, she’d simply had enough and refused to cook.

“And now you, son,” Nikolai Ivanovich turned to Valera.

“Mom says Ira doesn’t respect our family,” Valera began. “That she’s a bad housewife and doesn’t take care of her husband. That if she doesn’t apologize to everyone, it’d be better for us to split up.”

Nikolai Ivanovich sighed heavily.

“And you, of course, took your mother’s side,” he said—not as a question, but as a statement. “As always.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Valera protested. “Ira was rude to Mom!”

“She wasn’t rude,” his father said calmly. “She refused to comply with a demand she considered unfair. There’s a difference.”

Part 5

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that your mother calls your wife’s workplace?” Nikolai Ivanovich went on. “That she turns you against Irina and demands a divorce because she didn’t get a hot meal on command one time?”

Valera stayed silent, staring at the floor.

“Son, you’re repeating my mistake,” his father said gently. “I also always did whatever your mother wanted. I always put her wishes above my own and above those of my family. And do you know where that led? To divorce and to the fact that you and I hardly spoke for twenty years.”

“But Mom said you left her for another woman,” Valera said, bewildered.

Nikolai Ivanovich gave a bitter little smile.

“I left because I couldn’t stand the control and manipulation anymore. And the other woman came into my life much later. But it was easier for Galina to paint me as a traitor than to admit her own mistakes.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Irina didn’t know what to say. She could see Valera digesting the information, his expression changing.

“I’m not saying your mother is a bad person,” Nikolai Ivanovich continued. “She’s just used to controlling everyone around her. It makes her feel safe. But it destroys relationships, Valera. And right now she’s destroying your marriage, and you’re helping her.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Valera asked helplessly.

“That’s up to you,” his father shrugged. “But if you want my advice—start setting boundaries. Tell your mother you love her, but that you and Irina have a right to your own rules in your own home.”

“She’ll be offended,” Valera said quietly.

“Of course she will,” Nikolai nodded. “She’ll sulk, lay on the guilt, maybe even threaten you. But if you don’t do it now, you’ll lose your wife. And then the next one. And in the end, you’ll end up alone, like me.”

Valera raised his eyes to Irina.

“Forgive me. I… I didn’t understand what I was doing.”

“I’m not angry at you,” she replied softly. “I just want our family to have fair rules for everyone. I’m not against your relatives, really. I just want them to respect our time and our home.”

“You know what,” said Nikolai Ivanovich, clapping his hands lightly, “let’s have a big family talk. We’ll invite Galina, Natasha and her family, and discuss everything like adults. What do you say?”

Irina and Valera exchanged glances.

“I’m in,” Irina nodded.

“Me too,” Valera said, looking determined. “It’s time for everyone to grow up—me included.”

Part 6

The following Saturday, everyone gathered in Irina and Valera’s apartment: Galina Petrovna, Natalya with Sergei and Dasha, and Nikolai Ivanovich. Irina had prepared a spread, but this time Valera helped her in the kitchen instead of sitting with the guests, waiting for his wife to serve everyone.

When Galina Petrovna saw her ex-husband, she almost turned around to leave. But curiosity got the better of her, and she stayed, though her entire posture radiated displeasure.

“So,” Valera began when everyone sat down at the table, “we’re here to talk about the situation in our family and find a solution that works for everyone.”

“What solution can there be?” snorted Galina Petrovna. “Your wife needs to apologize for her behavior, that’s all.”

“Mom,” Valera said firmly, “let’s listen to each other first, okay? No accusations.”

Galina Petrovna pressed her lips together, but said nothing.

“Irina,” Valera turned to his wife, “please tell us what’s bothering you.”

Irina took a deep breath.

“I work as a math teacher. I have six classes—over a hundred and fifty students. I teach lessons, check notebooks, prepare materials, write reports. It takes almost all my time. When you come over without warning and expect me to drop everything and cook lunch for six people, it’s… it’s simply impossible. I’m not against family gatherings, truly. I just want them to be planned so I can prepare.”

“Listen to her, how busy she is,” muttered Galina Petrovna. “And what about family values? When I was young, I always found time for my husband’s relatives!”

“Times have changed, Mom,” Valera said gently. “Nowadays women work just as much as men. Ira really does have a lot on her plate. And I should’ve understood that and helped her instead of expecting her to manage everything alone.”

“This is what modern upbringing leads to,” Galina threw up her hands. “In the old days wives respected their husbands and their husbands’ families!”

“Respect has to go both ways, Galina,” Nikolai Ivanovich suddenly interjected. “You can’t demand respect for yourself while not respecting others.”

“Oh, you be quiet!” flared up Galina Petrovna. “You haven’t been around for twenty years, and now you’re here to teach us?”

“Grandma, please don’t shout,” Dasha said quietly. “Let’s really talk calmly.”

Everyone looked at the teenage girl in surprise.

“Aunt Ira is great,” Dasha went on. “She helps me with math when I ask. And she always treats us when we come over. It’s just that this time we came without warning when she was busy. Is it really fair to expect her to drop her work?”

Galina Petrovna was taken aback; she hadn’t expected this from her granddaughter.

“Dasha’s right,” Sergei unexpectedly chimed in, supporting his wife’s sister-in-law. “We wouldn’t be thrilled either if people kept showing up at our place unannounced and demanding to be fed.”

“Sergei!” Natalya exclaimed indignantly. “Whose side are you on?”

“On the side of common sense,” he replied calmly. “We’re the ones being rude, Natasha. Just admit it.”

Part 7

Little by little, the conversation became more constructive. Valera suggested setting clear rules for family visits: agree in advance, at least a day ahead, preferably several. And share responsibilities for cooking—if the gathering is at their place, he and Irina would cook together.

“And it would be nice sometimes to meet at a café or restaurant,” Irina suggested. “So no one has to cook and everyone can just talk and enjoy being together.”

“At a café? To waste that kind of money?” protested Galina Petrovna.

“Mom, we’re not destitute,” Valera said gently. “Once a month we can afford to go out as a whole family.”

“Yes, and I can treat everyone,” Nikolai Ivanovich offered unexpectedly. “After all, I have the right to spend time with my family too.”

Galina pursed her lips but stayed silent. It was clear she didn’t like what was happening but could no longer control the situation as before.

 

“You know,” Natalya said thoughtfully, “Dad is right. We really could meet as a whole family more often. Dasha barely knows her grandfather.”

“I’d like that,” Nikolai smiled at his granddaughter.

By the end of the evening, the atmosphere had noticeably lightened. Even Galina had thawed a little, though she still kept somewhat aloof. When the guests started to leave, Valera walked his parents out.

“You did the right thing, son,” Nikolai said quietly, shaking his hand. “Take care of your family. And don’t repeat my mistakes.”

Hearing this, Galina sniffed indignantly but said nothing. She kissed her son on the cheek and left the apartment without saying goodbye to Irina.

“Don’t worry,” Natalya said, hugging Irina goodbye. “Mom just isn’t used to being contradicted. She’ll get over it.”

When everyone had gone, Irina and Valera were left alone in the suddenly quiet apartment.

“Thank you,” Valera said softly, hugging his wife. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in that closed loop. And I’d never have reconciled with my father.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Irina smiled. “I just wanted us to be respected.”

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Valera stepped back and looked her in the eyes. “Maybe we should move? Rent a place farther from Mom? So she can’t ‘just happen to be passing by’ every week.”

“And you’re ready for that?” Irina asked in surprise.

“I think so,” he nodded. “We need our own space to build our own family. By our own rules.”

Part 8

Three months passed. Irina and Valera moved to another part of the city, renting an apartment not far from the school where Irina worked. This significantly cut down her commute time and gave them more freedom from unexpected family visits.

They established a new tradition—family lunches once a month, agreed upon in advance. Sometimes the gatherings were at their place, sometimes at Natalya and Sergei’s, and sometimes in a café or restaurant. To everyone’s surprise, Nikolai Ivanovich began to appear regularly at these meetings, gradually building relationships with his grandchildren and children. At first, Galina kept her distance and often refused to come if she knew her ex-husband would be there. But gradually, seeing how the family dynamics were changing, she too started to soften.

At one such gathering, when everyone met at a café for Valera’s birthday, Irina noticed Galina and Nikolai having a calm conversation in the corner, without their usual tension.

“Can you believe it,” Natalya whispered, sliding into the seat next to Irina, “they’re discussing how they’ll help Dasha prepare for her exams together. Mom offered to help with Russian, and Dad with physics.”

“Miracles do happen,” Irina smiled.

“And it’s thanks to you,” Natalya said seriously. “If you hadn’t stood your ground back then, everything would still be the same. Mom would be controlling everyone, we wouldn’t be talking to Dad, and Valera would be torn between you and her.”

Irina shook her head.

“I just didn’t want to cook lunch without warning.”

“And in the end you turned our whole family system upside down,” Natalya laughed. “By the way, things are different between me and Sergei now too. He helps more with the housework, and I’ve learned to ask for help instead of waiting for him to magically guess.”

Just then Valera came over with a big cake in his hands.

“Ladies, help me cut this masterpiece,” he grinned. “I can’t handle it alone.”

“Before, you’d just plop it down in front of Irina and go back to the guests,” Natalya pointed out.

“Before—yes,” Valera nodded. “But now I know that a family is a team. Everyone has to pull their weight.”

When the cake was cut and everyone gathered around the table, Nikolai unexpectedly stood up and raised his glass.

“I’d like to make a toast. To my son, who turns forty-one today. To the fact that he turned out wiser than his father and found the strength to change what wasn’t working in his family. To the fact that he wasn’t afraid to go against the usual way of doing things and create new, healthy traditions. And”—he looked at Irina—“to his wonderful wife, who helped him do it.”

“To Valera and Irina!” everyone echoed.

Only Galina stayed silent, but when Irina met her eyes, her mother-in-law gave her the slightest of nods. It wasn’t a full admission of guilt or an apology, but it was a step toward understanding. A small one, but important.

After the celebration, when she and Valera came home, Irina asked:

“Do you regret that everything changed so much?”

Valera thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“No. You know, for the first time I feel like we’re a real family. Not one where everyone plays assigned roles and no one dares step out of line, but one where people respect each other and can be themselves.”

“And all because I refused to cook lunch,” Irina smiled.

“No,” Valera said seriously. “All because you weren’t afraid to break the unspoken rules. Sometimes you just have to say ‘no’ to change what doesn’t work.”

He hugged his wife and added quietly:

“So, how about we cook something together now? I’m hungry.”

Irina laughed and nodded. Cooking together with her husband, by choice and not on demand, was a completely different thing.

Six months later, Nikolai Ivanovich and Galina Petrovna announced they had decided to try to rebuild their relationship. No one had expected such a twist, but everyone was happy. Even Irina, who had already grown used to the fact that her mother-in-law now called before visiting and no longer criticized her housekeeping.

“I never would’ve thought that my phrase, ‘No, I’m not going to cook for you,’ would lead to your parents getting back together,” she said to Valera when they heard the news.

“And I’m grateful you said it,” he replied. “Sometimes you have to stop doing what doesn’t bring anyone happiness so you can start building what really matters.”

And Irina couldn’t disagree. Sometimes a single refusal can change an entire system of relationships. You just have to find the courage to say it out loud.

— “Are you trying to give Mom a heart attack on purpose?” Nikolai flared up, tossing the TV remote onto the table like it was a grenade.

— “Don’t be dramatic,” Elena replied wearily, not pausing from washing the dishes. “Let her at least stop rummaging through my cupboards first.”

— “She wants what’s best for you!” Nikolai pushed into the kitchen, leaning in with his whole body. “She says you’ve got everything in a mess, like some college girl. You’re a grown woman—you have a husband, a family. And you live like… like you’re seventeen, not thirty-five!”

— “Because it’s my apartment, Kolya. And if I want to keep the tea in the bottom drawer instead of the top one, then that’s what I’ll do. Understand?”

He sighed. Long and theatrically pained. Rubbed his forehead.

— “There it is again. Everything is ‘my,’ ‘my.’ Do you even realize you live with other people?”

— “I do. Very much so. Especially when someone barges into the bathroom while I’m showering because ‘the faucet is leaking’ on their end. I notice when random jars of sauerkraut appear in my fridge. And when somebody touches my documents in the drawer. Oh, I notice, Kolya.”

She turned off the water and slowly wiped her hands on the towel. Turned around.

— “Tell me honestly. Was making the apartment over to you your idea?”

He pressed his lips together. Stayed silent.

— “Mom said it was ‘in the interest of the family.’ So everything would be proper. So that, God forbid, if something happens to me—the apartment doesn’t go who-knows-where.”

— “Who-knows-where?” Elena snorted. “I’ve got no brothers or sisters. It’s already mine by will. And even if I fall from the ninth floor tomorrow—it still belongs to me. Not to your mother, Kolya. Sorry.”

— “Mom is suggesting normal things. She’s an elder, she worries. She…”

— “She’s up to her eyeballs in debt, Kolya. I’ve figured that out already.”

Silence. Long.

Nikolai seemed to freeze. He jerked away from the table, braced his hands on the windowsill, and stared out at the May evening chill that was ruffling the leaves in the wind.

— “What are you talking about…”

— “You didn’t know? Or you pretended not to?” Elena crossed her arms over her chest. “The bailiffs came. There was a letter in the mailbox. Your mother even took out some microloan in your name. On paper—you’re the guarantor. She tried to pull it off quietly, dump it all on you. And now that she miscalculated—she wants the apartment. To sell it. Or use it as collateral. My apartment—as collateral! For her ‘treatment,’ ‘renovation,’ and ‘debt obligation,’ as she put it. Very legal-sounding.”

Nikolai stood there like he’d been struck on the back of the head. His shoulders slumped.

— “She said it was just helping the family…”

— “The family? This is her fourth attempt to save her credit score, Kolya. Remember 2021—there was ‘helping the family’ then, too, when she bought an electric scooter on credit and put it in your name. And you paid it off for two years.”

— “I thought she had changed…”

— “She did. For the worse. She’s become even craftier. Her words are sugar laced with poison. Sweet, cloying tone—up until you sign something. And then that’s it, Kolya—you’re the debtor. And I’m out on the street.”

He turned slowly. His eyes had gone a heavy gray.

— “But you can’t just… refuse her. She’s my mother…”

— “And you can’t just betray me,” Elena cut him off. “Otherwise this isn’t a marriage. It’s a deal. And I have no chance in it.”

She went into the living room. It smelled faintly of new laminate flooring—barely perceptible, but like in a cheap hotel where nothing feels real. A place you only stay if you need a bed for the night. The apartment she’d carefully put together after her grandmother’s death was becoming less and less “hers” with every new attempt by Margarita Vasilievna.

Elena sat on the couch, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. Some cooking competition crackled, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t watching.

— “Did you really think I… that I’d agree to this?” she heard Nikolai’s voice behind her.

— “I was hoping till the end that you were an adult,” Elena said tiredly, without turning. “And not a mama’s boy.”

He slammed a cabinet door.

— “That’s enough! You have no right to insult me. You don’t know what it’s like to be between two fires! On one side you—with your complaints; on the other—her, with debts!”

— “Oh, I know. I’m the third fire, Kolya. In this little play of yours, you were planning to

burn me up. Without a safety net.”

— “Elena…”

— “Leave.”

— “What?”

— “Leave. For the night. Go to your mother’s. Think about where you want to live. With me—in my apartment. Or with her—in a rental. That’s all. I have nothing more to say to you.”

She stood and walked past him as if he were furniture. He remained standing in the doorway. Awkward. At a loss. With someone else’s shoes in the background of his reflection in the mirror.

And the door closed behind him softly. As if the apartment itself said, “No. Don’t come in anymore.”

— “Open up, Elena. I know you’re home. Your bathroom light is on.”

Margarita Vasilievna pounded on the door with her palm—heavy, insistent, like a bailiff with an attitude. The sound of her sharp heels echoed up and down the stairwell.

— “I didn’t give birth to a son for you to boss him around. And this apartment—it should be registered to the husband! To the head of the family!”

— “Go home, Margarita Vasilievna,” Elena said through the closed door, surprisingly calm. “Nikolai and I have discussed everything. This is my apartment, and there will be no more discussion.”

— “Oh, there won’t?!” Margarita yanked the handle, but it held. “Kolya will be here any minute—and the three of us will decide who discusses what around here! Don’t flatter yourself—you’re no mistress of the house! The mistress isn’t the one with a paper for the apartment, but the one with experience and common sense!”

— “And you have debts,” Elena threw back. “I know everything.”

Silence. Beyond the door.

And then… a blow. Right against the door.

Elena flinched. The hit wasn’t strong, just demonstrative. As if Margarita wanted the wood to remember who was in charge here.

— “Here’s how it’s going to be,” came the now hoarse voice. “You’re not the boss of me. You’re just… a girl who got lucky. By chance. The apartment isn’t your achievement. And believe me, you’ll be thanking us if we help you keep it. Because if I tell him how you behave—Kolya himself will throw you out on the street. And believe me, he can. Oh yes, he can. Because a husband is a pillar, not a piece of furniture in your bedroom.”

The door jerked again, but this time it was Margarita who faltered.

— “Leave, Margarita Vasilievna,” Elena said coldly. “Or I’ll call the police. Next time—no warning.”

Another twenty seconds passed.

Then—the fading click of heels. And a scent—faint but suffocating: a mix of harsh perfume and mothballs. The kind elementary-school teachers used to wear, only meaner.

Two hours later, Nikolai came back. With a Pyaterochka bag, as if nothing had happened. As if he’d just popped out for kefir and got delayed.

— “So you called Mom after all?” Elena said tiredly from the couch.

— “She came on her own. I was at her place—she was crying. Says you were rude, you threw her out, you yelled. You…”

— “Don’t lie,” Elena said sharply. “I didn’t yell. She barged in here like a market fishwife, with her fists. She pounded on the door. Is that what you want? For her to run this place?”

— “She’s desperate. Debt collectors are outside her window!”

— “Then let her pay up! What do I have to do with it? This is my grandmother’s apartment. My memory. My only one. She comes here with her debt, and you sing backup for her!”

— “I can’t just abandon her, Lena! Do you understand? I’m her son. Do you want me to choose between you?”

— “Yes. I do. Because she already chose. She chose money. And who will you choose?”

He said nothing. Then… he tossed the bag onto the table. The plastic split; a loaf of bread and a crumpled box of tea slid out. He stepped toward Elena. Abruptly.

— “I’m tired. I’m just tired. You always have complaints. Mom—she’s an old woman. Her blood pressure is high. And you—you act like a stranger! You don’t even talk to her like she’s a human being! You…”

— “I talk to her as what she is. A manipulator. A predator. And you’re her prey. And I’m an obstacle.”

— “Who do you think you are to decide?!” Nikolai grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. “Have you forgotten you’re married? That you’re supposed to consider more than just your own opinion?”

— “Let go,” Elena said evenly.

— “You drove my mother to tears!”

— “And she drove me to the notary, Kolya. I was at the notary today. Redid everything. The will, the directive. If anything happens to me—the apartment goes to a charity foundation for women who have survived domestic violence.”

He turned pale.

— “You wouldn’t dare…”

— “Already did. Let her know that if she keeps playing, she’ll lose everything. Even the chance to ‘grab a piece.’”

He stepped back. Slowly. As if someone had shackled him from the inside.

— “You… you’re sick…”

— “No. I got well. From naivety. Starting today—everything is different. I am not obliged to be a victim just because your mother is ‘high society.’ Though her house is shabby and her perfume is from Magnit.”

She walked past him into the bathroom. Closed the door. Slid the latch. He didn’t even move. Stood there in the kitchen among the spilled tea and the softened loaf, like he’d gotten in line for morals and forgotten why he’d come.

And behind the door it was quiet. Like a room where no one will ever share a bed again.

“Divorce is not a tragedy. The tragedy is living with you.”

— “So you’re serious, huh?” Nikolai sat on the edge of the couch, hunched as if he’d suddenly turned ninety-five. “A foundation? Violence? Is that about me now, Lena?”

— “About us,” Elena said calmly, drying the dishes. “Violence isn’t only a fist to the face. It’s when you endure pressure day after day, guilt, anxiety. When it’s hard to breathe in your own home. That’s violence, too. And yes, I want my apartment to help women—not those who drive them under your mother’s veil.”

— “I just don’t understand,” Nikolai stood and stared out the window. “I’m not a bad person. I just… don’t want my mother to die with debts.”

— “Then sell your car. Or give up your share of your parents’ house. Why is my apartment the solution to her crisis?”

He didn’t answer.

The next day, Margarita Vasilievna tried to come into the apartment again. But now there was a new sign on the door:

“Unauthorized entry is prohibited. Any violation of private property will be recorded by the video surveillance system.”

And the camera—cheap, from Citilink—but it worked. The blinking diode scared everyone, even the mailman.

Margarita fumed, but she no longer battered the door; instead she called Nikolai. Fourteen times a day. Saying:

— “Are you completely under her thumb, son? Or did that… that ‘volunteer’ knock the sense out of you?”

— “She’s not a volunteer, Mom. She’s my wife.”

— “Not anymore,” Elena hissed, standing behind him. “I filed. Yesterday.”

He recoiled. Margarita fell silent. Then exhaled softly and venomously:

— “Bravo. You’re good at destroying families. Clap, clap. Go ahead now with your camera and sue me—like all these modern girls. Complainers.”

— “Better a complainer than your slave,” Elena shot back. “And yes—I will file. For emotional damages. For the break-ins. For threats. For drilling into your son’s head that a woman is a debtor by definition.”

— “Do you realize I’m alone now?” Margarita suddenly said, off script. “Everything is collapsing for me. I have nothing left.”

— “Not you,” Elena replied evenly. “Me. But now I’m rebuilding it. My life. My dignity. Myself.”

Two weeks passed.

Elena sat on the windowsill in her apartment. She looked out at the spring street where the wind chased a plastic bag with the Magnit logo. Like an omen.

A folder of papers lay on her knees: the divorce filing, a copy of the new will, receipts for the lawyer.

She didn’t cry. Not anymore. She’d cried earlier—in the bathroom, in the kitchen, when Nikolai called and asked her to “think it over once more.” Now—emptiness. But it was a good emptiness. Like a clean sheet of paper. Or a room where they’ve finally hauled out the old Soviet wall unit and let the air play.

Her phone rang. A message on the screen from the lawyer:

“The hearing is set for May 15. All documents accepted. Good luck to you, Elena Sergeevna.”

She smiled. She really wouldn’t mind some luck. But the main thing was—this was her path now. Without other people’s voices in her head. Without manipulation. Without fear.

The doorbell rang.

She stood up. Walked over. Looked through the peephole.

A young woman, in a baseball cap and holding a tablet.

— “Hello. We’re conducting a survey among neighborhood residents. Would you like to take part in a support program for women after divorce?”

 

Elena opened the door.

— “You know what? I won’t just take part. I want to join the project’s advisory board. I have experience. Bitter. But honest.”

The woman nodded, and Elena walked back inside without looking back, as if she were coming home… only this time for real.

Epilogue

A couple of months later, Elena heard her former mother-in-law’s surname again. On TV. A segment on the local channel: a pensioner owed a large sum to the bank; neighbors complained about fights and scandals. The camera showed a woman in a housecoat with a loud voice, threatening the cameraman with a broom.

— “I recognize you, Margarita Vasilievna,” Elena said quietly, turning off the TV.

Then she took out the kettle. Measured out good green tea—not from Pyaterochka, but from a little shop next to the notary’s office. And sat on the windowsill. In the silence. No calls. No tears. No one else’s decisions.

She simply lived.

— Could you at least warn me for once that she’s coming again? — Ira’s voice was tight, stretched thin like a drawn wire.

Sergey stood with the refrigerator door open, drinking straight from the bottle. He didn’t even glance in her direction.

— Who? — he asked, flat and detached, as if he genuinely had no idea.

— Not the neighbor from the third floor! Your mother, Sergey. She rang my doorbell at six in the morning. You were already gone. I thought there was a fire—or someone had died.

Sergey shut the fridge, turned slowly, and looked at her the way you look at a child having a tantrum.’

 

— Mom brought me vitamins. What’s the big deal?

— Six in the morning, Seryozha. Six! — Ira pressed her hands to her face. — I hadn’t even managed to make coffee, and she was already sitting in the kitchen telling me “everything’s wrong” and that I “look terrible.”

— So? She cares.

— Cares? — Ira gave a short, bitter laugh. — Or controls?

— Here we go again… — Sergey sighed. — She’s just worried about me.

— She’s worried about me! — Ira cut in sharply. — Because she said I’ve “become irritable.”

— You have, — he replied calmly.

Ira stepped back. Something inside her chest seemed to splinter.

He said it with absolute certainty—like it wasn’t him who’d forgotten what it felt like to kiss her before leaving for work, like it wasn’t him who’d spent weeks not noticing she was living beside him like a ghost.

— Listen to yourself, — she said quietly. — You’re excusing the fact that your mother comes into my home without asking, checks the refrigerator, goes through my things, and wipes down the shelves.

— She just wants to help!

— I don’t need her help! — Ira snapped. — I need a husband, not an inspector with a mother-in-law hitched to him like a trailer.

Silence dropped between them. Only the clock on the wall kept clicking.

Sergey turned away, took a jar of coffee from the cupboard, and began pouring grounds into the cezve as if the discussion had ended.

— I don’t have anything against your mother, — Ira said at last, keeping her voice under control. — But I’m not obligated to tolerate her poking into every corner of my life. Let her at least warn us before she comes.

Sergey flicked a brief look at her.

— She’s my mother. She doesn’t need permission to see her son.

— And I’m your wife. So I’m supposed to live with the constant feeling that any moment someone who hates me can walk into my home?

— She doesn’t hate you, — he dismissed it. — It’s just hard for her. You don’t understand.

— I understand perfectly! — Ira’s voice shook. — She’s lonely, she’s bored, but why am I the one to blame because you can’t say no to her?

Sergey turned toward her again. His face held irritation mixed with condescension.

— Ira, Mom is getting old. She has no one but me.

— She has more energy than both of us combined! — Ira blurted out. — Yesterday I saw her at the grocery store making the cashier cry over one ruble of change.

— Don’t start, — Sergey cut her off.

— And you stop pretending you don’t see it! — Ira shouted. — She manipulates you, and you let her.

He set his cup down with a dull, heavy sound.

— You’re just jealous.

— What? — Ira froze. — Jealous… of your mother?!

— Yes. You don’t like that I give her attention.

— God… — Ira whispered. — Are you serious?

Sergey shrugged, as if nothing about that sounded strange.

Ira stared at him and didn’t recognize him. This wasn’t the man she’d once dreamed of children and seaside trips with. This Sergey was cold, convinced his mother was untouchable—and his wife was simply an inconvenience.

— Listen, — Ira exhaled. — I’m not asking you to choose. Just… keep some distance. Let her call before she comes. That’s not a crime.

— For you, maybe, — he said softly. — For her, it’s an insult.

— Then let her be insulted, — Ira nodded. — I’m a human being too. I’m not obligated to be “easy.”

He smirked—bitter and sharp.

— There. You finally said what you really think.

— Have you ever even once thought about what I feel?

— And have you ever thought about what I feel when I see you attacking my mother?

— I’m not attacking her! I’m protecting my home!

— Your home… — Sergey smirked again. — Yes, I remember. The apartment is in your name. No need to remind me.

Heat flooded Ira’s face.

— That’s unfair.

— And you’re ungrateful.

— Ungrateful for what? For your mother watching how I cook and how I clean?

— She just wants to make it easier for you.

— Easier for her, — Ira shot back. — So she can feel in control. So everything goes by her rules.

Sergey said nothing. He just gripped the cup so hard it looked like it might crack.

— I won’t let you talk about her like that, — he said at last.

— And I won’t let her humiliate me in my own home, — Ira answered. — We haven’t been a family in a long time. We’re a battlefield.

He stood up sharply; the chair scraped the floor.

— Stop dramatizing.

— It’s not drama. It’s reality.

Ira turned toward the window. Outside, November was gray: wet snow, gray coats, old women dragging wheeled shopping bags. Everything as usual—except inside her, where a storm was raging.

Sergey’s phone rang in his pocket. He answered.

— Hi, Mom, — his voice instantly softened. — Yeah, I’m home… No, everything’s fine.

Ira closed her eyes. Even his tone said it all: he was ready to drop everything and run.

— Of course, Mom, — he said into the phone. — I’ll come by tomorrow. Or maybe… you can come over to our place.

Ira spun around.

— Sergey! — she exclaimed. — Don’t you dare!

He glanced at her, covered the microphone with his hand.

— Mom, I’ll call you back, — he said quietly, and ended the call.

— Have you lost your mind? — he asked coldly. — I’m talking to my mother and you’re putting on a show.

— A show? — Ira stepped closer. — She already told you I’m “tired” and “mean,” didn’t she?

Sergey stiffened.

— How do you know?

— Because yesterday she said it to my face. Nicely, of course—smiling. And now you’re repeating it. Word for word.

He didn’t respond. He turned away and ran water in the sink, pretending to be busy.

— Sergey, — Ira said quietly. — I can feel her pulling you away from me. And you don’t even notice you’ve already taken her side.

— I don’t have “sides,” — he snapped. — There’s a mother who needs help, and a wife who never stops complaining.

— I understand, — Ira nodded. — Now everything is clear.

She went into the bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed.

No tears came—only emptiness.

She remembered how he used to tell her, “You’re my home.”

And now it turned out his home was his mother.

From the kitchen came the clink of a cup, the refrigerator door, and then a door slamming.

Sergey left—without saying a word.

— Mom, don’t just stand there—come in already, — Sergey said, pulling the front door almost shut behind him.

Ira froze in the hallway. She knew that voice: soft, almost tender. He hadn’t spoken to her like that in months.

— Hello, Irinka, — Valentina Petrovna drawled as she appeared in the doorway. She wore a long puffer coat with a neatly tied scarf, and in her hands were two suitcases. — Don’t worry, I won’t be here long.

— Suitcases mean “not for long”? — Ira asked evenly, staring at the bulky bags.

Sergey looked away.

— Mom, just leave them in the hall for now. We’ll figure out where to put everything.

— “We’ll figure it out”? — Ira repeated. — Are you serious, Sergey?

Valentina Petrovna fluttered her lashes, arranging surprise on her face.

— What do you mean, “serious”? My blood pressure is acting up, and living alone is dangerous, your son said. So I came to stay with you.

Ira let out a dry laugh, though her stomach tightened.

— Blood pressure? Interesting. Yesterday, when you were arguing with the cashier at Magnit, you looked perfectly energetic.

— Me? — her mother-in-law bristled. — Imagine being slandered right on the doorstep!

Sergey stepped between them.

— Enough. Mom, ignore it.

— Sergey, — Ira moved closer. — We talked yesterday. I asked you—

— You forbade it, — he cut her off. — And I’m not a little boy who has to obey.

— This isn’t about obedience. It’s about respect.

— I respect everyone, — he snapped. — Especially my mothe

r.

Ira felt herself shaking—not with anger, but with helplessness.

— Fine, — she said. — Then answer me plainly: is she living here now?

Sergey met her eyes.

— Yes. In the second bedroom.

Silence. Somewhere in the kitchen, water dripped steadily from the faucet.

It felt as if someone had pulled the air out of Ira’s lungs.

— You didn’t ask. You just decided.

— Because otherwise you’d never agree, — he said calmly. — And I’m tired of your “no.”

Valentina Petrovna sighed theatrically.

— Children, don’t fight because of me. If I’m in the way, I can sleep in the entryway. On the doormat.

— Mom, stop it, — Sergey said gently.

— Yes, stop, — Ira echoed coldly. — The martyr role really suits you.

— Ira! — Sergey barked. — Enough!

She said nothing.

She simply went into her room and shut the door.

The next days dragged on like a prolonged nightmare.

Valentina Petrovna didn’t just “stay”—she took over.

Her jars of pickles appeared on the kitchen counter. Strange pots filled the fridge. Her robe hung in the bathroom on the hook where Ira’s used to be.

— Ira, why are you washing whites with colors? — her mother-in-law would ask in passing. — That ruins the fabric.

— I’ve been doing laundry for twenty years. I’ll manage, — Ira answered without looking up.

— Mm-hm, — Valentina Petrovna would sigh. — Young people always think they know better.

Ira counted the seconds until the front door would finally close and her mother-in-law would go somewhere—at least to the pharmacy. But she didn’t go anywhere.

She was everywhere, all the time—like cheap perfume that soaks into the walls.

And Sergey, of course, noticed nothing.

— Mom, don’t pay attention, — he’d say in the evenings. — Ira’s just tired.

And Ira sat in the bedroom listening to their voices, thinking how strange it was: in her own apartment now lived two strangers.

One evening she came home from work and found them both in the kitchen.

Valentina Petrovna was frying cutlets. Sergey was chopping salad. Laughter, the smell of oil, a cozy domestic scene—only without her.

— Oh, the lady of the house has arrived! — her mother-in-law chirped. — Come in, Irisha, sit down, eat with us.

— No thanks. I already ate.

— Where? — Sergey asked.

— At work.

— Ah, — Valentina Petrovna drawled. — At work. Of course. For modern women, career matters more than family.

— Mom, why are you— — Sergey started, but Ira cut him off.

— No, let her talk. It’s true. I’m the guest here now.

— Don’t exaggerate, — Sergey muttered.

— Then explain why I’m not on that kitchen anymore. Why you’re cooking dinner with her instead of with me.

— Because you come home like you’re walking back into prison, — he flared. — Tense all the time. Unhappy.

— Try living under one roof with your mother and see how relaxed you are.

— Stop it, — he snapped.

— No, Seryozha, I won’t stop. You want me to pretend everything’s fine? That your mother is some harmless little accident—with suitcases and remarks about my plates?

Valentina Petrovna froze, spatula in hand.

— Lord, it’s unbearable living with a woman who does nothing but complain…

— And no one promised you it would be easy, Valentina Petrovna, — Ira said coldly. — This is my home, and I want peace in it.

— My son is part of this home too, — her mother-in-law snapped. — And if you don’t like something, then the problem is you.

— Maybe, — Ira said. — Then I’ll solve the problem.

— And how, exactly? — Valentina Petrovna smirked.

— Very simply. Tomorrow you move out.

— What?! — Sergey even set a plate down. — Have you lost your mind?

— No. I just remembered who owns this apartment.

— You can’t— — he started, but Ira was already walking away.

That night was endless.

Sergey didn’t come into the bedroom. He slept on the couch in the living room.

At three in the morning Ira woke to a low murmur—mother and son whispering in the kitchen.

— Mom, just hold on a bit longer, — Sergey said. — I’ll talk to her.

— My boy, — Valentina Petrovna sniffled, — I can’t do this anymore. She looks at me like I’m the enemy. And I’m not doing this for myself… I came here for you.

— I know, Mom.

Ira lay still, listening.

For him.

Always for him.

And he didn’t even notice she simply didn’t want to be alone—and was using him as a lever.

Morning began with suitcases.

Ira was sitting on the couch when she heard the sound—zippers, wheels rolling across the floor.

She stepped into the hallway and stopped short.

Valentina Petrovna stood by the door in her coat. Beside her was Sergey with a plastic bag in his hand.

— Mom, wait… — he said, like he was justifying himself to someone. — We’ll stay at your place for a while, until things calm down.

— At her place? — Ira repeated. — So you’re leaving too?

He nodded.

— Yes. It’ll be better this way.

— Better for whom? — she asked softly.

— For everyone.

— You’re running away, Sergey.

— I’m leaving, — he corrected.

She stepped closer, looking straight into his eyes.

— Do you remember you used to say family is trust?

— Yes.

— Then why did you believe her instead of me?

He didn’t answer. He only shrugged and lifted the suitcase.

Valentina Petrovna said quietly:

— Forgive me, Irinka. I didn’t want this. My heart is old—it can’t handle loneliness.

Ira smiled.

— And mine can.

The door slammed.

Two days passed.

The silence in the apartment was thick—almost tangible.

Without their voices, the walls seemed to exhale.

She didn’t cry. Not once.

She just sat in the kitchen in the evenings, staring at tea that went cold.

Sometimes she caught herself thinking she even missed something—not Sergey, but the habit of being two people in a space, even if being two had been miserable.

Her phone stayed quiet.

 

Sergey didn’t call. He didn’t write.

On Sunday, a message finally came:

“We’re at Mom’s for now. We need time to think everything over.”

Ira smiled.

“Take your time. You’ve got someone to discuss it all with now.”

She turned the phone off.

She went to the window and looked down: old ladies walking dogs in the courtyard, someone hauling grocery bags from the discount store, life moving on.

And for her—there was a new chapter.

Without extra people.

And for the first time in a long while, she breathed freely.

Not a victory—just a return to herself.

Yet deep down, something still pricked:

in every marriage there are three—husband, wife, and the shadow of the one who can’t let go.

The End.

 The final rays of September sun drifted softly across the kitchen, glinting off a copper basin used for making jam. The air was heavy with the sweet, spicy perfume of a cinnamon apple pie, still warm from the oven. Marina wiped her hands on her apron and surveyed the table with quiet pride. Everything was ready: soup steaming, fresh bread sliced, and that golden pie sitting at the center like a reward. It was her small Sunday miracle—one calm patch of life after a punishing week.

“Kiril! Alexey! Food’s ready!” she called toward the living room, where a football match echoed from the TV.

Sixteen-year-old Kirill came running first, smelling of fresh air and that bright, careless joy only teenagers carry. He’d just gotten back from walking around with friends.

“Whoa—pie! Mom, you’re the best!” he reached for it immediately, but Marina smiled and lightly smacked his hand.

“Soup first, bandit. Where’s your father?”

“Coming,” Alexey answered as he stepped out of the living room—her Lyosha. He looked worn out, but pleased. He walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her neck.

“It smells like my childhood,” he murmured. “Mom used to bake like this.”

They sat down and slipped into an easy conversation: weekend plans, Kirill’s school, and the vacation they’d postponed year after year. Marina caught herself thinking how precious these ordinary, peaceful moments were. She and Alexey had been together for twenty years—fifteen married—and only now did it feel like things were finally steady. The mortgage still weighed on them, of course, but they were holding their ground. They both worked relentlessly.

“So next week we go check out that camp for Kirill?” Alexey asked, chasing his soup with a piece of bread. “His break is coming up and we still haven’t decided.”

“Absolutely!” Kirill lit up. “Their robotics program is insane. You can’t even imagine!”

Marina smiled at the fire in her son’s eyes. This was why she did everything—why she pushed through exhaustion. For that light.

The calm shattered when Alexey’s phone rang—sharp, persistent. It lay on the table, and the screen blazed with one word: Mom.

Alexey exhaled. The tired kindness on his face tightened into tension. He set down his spoon.

“One second,” he said, and left the table for the hallway.

Marina and Kirill exchanged a look. Lidia Petrovna—Marina’s mother-in-law—rarely kept calls short these days, and “pleasant” wasn’t a word that applied anymore. Things had always been strained, but lately they’d turned outright ugly. Every time Alexey spoke to his parents, he came back smelling of stress like smoke.

From the hallway, Marina heard Alexey’s clipped fragments:

“Yes, Mom, we’re eating… No, not right now… What happened?… Mom, calm down, talk clearly… What loan?”

The word loan hung in the kitchen like a storm cloud. Marina felt her fingers go cold. She lowered her spoon. Kirill stopped chewing, staring at the doorway.

A minute later Alexey returned. His face had gone gray, his eyes avoiding hers. He sat down like someone had dropped a heavy sack onto his shoulders.

“It’s Mom,” he said hoarsely. “She says we have to come over. Right now. Something’s wrong.”

“What kind of wrong, Dad?” Kirill asked. “Is Grandpa okay?”

“I don’t know, Kir.” Alexey rubbed his face. “It’s about money. They’re both yelling—can’t make sense of it. They want me there immediately.”

“Now?” Marina looked at the barely touched pie, at her half-finished soup. “Lyosh, it’s Sunday evening. Can’t it wait until tomorrow? Maybe they just got into another fight.”

“She says it can’t.” Alexey lifted his eyes, and Marina saw not just fatigue—she saw genuine fear. “She said… she said, ‘If you don’t come, I won’t calm down. This is about us surviving.’”

A lump rose in Marina’s throat. About us surviving sounded melodramatic—and ominous. Every instinct in her screamed not to go. Nothing good ever followed a summons like this. But she could see the state her husband was in.

“Fine,” she gave in, pulling off her apron. “We’ll go. Quickly. Kirill, you stay home, okay? Finish eating and do your homework.”

Fifteen minutes later they drove in silence through the darkening streets of their sleepy residential district. Alexey didn’t speak, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles whitened. Marina watched the passing lights blur by and felt anxiety clamp tighter and tighter around her heart.

They pulled up to the five-story building where Alexey’s parents lived. Even on the stairwell they could hear muffled—but furious—voices. Alexey took a deep breath and rang the bell.

The door swung open almost instantly, as if someone had been waiting with a hand on the handle.

Lidia Petrovna stood there like a sentry of the apocalypse, her face twisted in rage, eyes blazing. She ignored her own son completely and fixed her stare on Marina.

“Well, look who showed up—our generous benefactor!” Her voice was raw from screaming. “So tell me! How do you not have money? And how are we supposed to pay off the loans? We were counting on you!”

She fired it all out in one breath, stabbing a finger toward Marina. Behind her, in the dim hallway, Victor Ivanovich—Alexey’s father—hovered like a frightened shadow.

Marina froze on the threshold. She felt the blood drain from her face; a high ring filled her ears. The cozy world of her Sunday evening—apples, cinnamon, warmth—collapsed in an instant under the force of that furious, unfair assault. She looked at Alexey, waiting—hoping—he would speak up, defend her. But he lowered his eyes like a guilty schoolboy.

That was how it began.

Marina stood pressed against the doorframe, as if the wood could hold her upright. Time felt slowed. She could physically feel her mother-in-law’s heavy, hateful stare. The words “We were counting on you!” hung in the hallway, thick and sticky like tar.

Alexey finally moved. He stepped forward, trying to shield his wife.

“Mom, calm down. Why are you yelling? Let’s talk like adults.”

“Adults?” Lidia Petrovna snorted, but she backed away to let them in. “When you want your money to matter, suddenly we’re all ‘adults.’ Meanwhile we’re losing our minds here and you’re sitting around eating pie!”

The apartment greeted them with familiar scents—lavender sachets from the closet, a faint old-house smell. But today something else tainted it: fear and disorder. Unread newspapers were piled in the entryway. Dust filmed the mirror.

In the living room, beneath the icons, Victor Ivanovich sat on the couch. He looked ten years older than he had a week ago. Gray stubble covered his hollow cheeks. His hands trembled slightly on his knees. He didn’t look up—just stared at one spot on the rug.

“Dad… what happened?” Alexey asked quietly, sitting beside him.

Lidia Petrovna didn’t let her husband answer. She planted herself in the center of the room like a prosecutor, arms crossed.

“What happened? Ask your clever wife why she’s leaving us to drown! We’re old—should we just go die, then?”

“Lida, enough,” Victor Ivanovich rumbled, but his voice was barely a whisper.

“Shut up!” she snapped. “This is your doing, so you keep quiet. Now listen—my grown, smart children. Your father,” she emphasized the word with venom, “decided he was going to be a businessman. He poured in all our savings—and then borrowed more—into one ‘super profitable’ project. Promised us mountains of gold.”

Marina moved slowly to the chair by the window and sat down. She felt like a foreigner in hostile territory. Her heart thumped up in her throat.

“What project?” Alexey asked, forcing calm.

“What does it matter?” Lidia Petrovna shrieked. “It was a pyramid scheme! A scam for idiots! It all collapsed. And the people he borrowed from aren’t waiting politely. Now they call us ten times a day. They’ve already shown up here—asked the neighbors about us. The whole street knows! Shame on us!”

She slapped her palm down on a stack of papers. Printed contracts, calculations—numbers that looked like threats, especially in the line labeled Total Debt.

“Look! Admire your father’s genius! And here’s the best part—those… those people say if we don’t start paying, they’ll sue and take our apartment! Our only home! Do you want us out on the street?”

“Mom, what does any of this have to do with Marina?” Alexey said, pain edging his voice. “Why did you attack her the second she walked in?”

“Because it does!” Lidia Petrovna turned on Marina, eyes narrowed. “You’ve got everything! A place—even if it’s mortgaged, it’s yours. A car. And you—” she jabbed a finger at Marina, “—you got promoted, you earn well, everyone knows it! And we’re here living off my pension. You have to help. We’re family!”

She pronounced family like an oath, heavy with drama. Marina listened and almost couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This woman had never treated her like family—never—had sabotaged her at every step. Now she used that word like a weapon.

The room felt airless. Marina looked at Alexey, begging him with her eyes to stop this madness. But he sat hunched, staring at his father. Victor Ivanovich chewed his lip, fingers fidgeting at the edge of his jacket.

“Lidia Petrovna,” Marina said at last—quietly, but clearly. Her voice trembled, yet she forced it steady. “I’m sorry you’re in this situation. Truly. But I don’t understand one thing. Why did you decide it’s my direct responsibility to solve your financial problems?”

A dead silence fell. Even the wall clock seemed to stop. Lidia Petrovna stared as if Marina had started speaking an alien language. She had expected tears, excuses—anything but a cold, logical question.

Alexey lifted his head. His eyes darted between his mother and his wife. His face showed horror that gentle, usually accommodating Marina had dared to push back.

Lidia Petrovna recovered first. Her face twisted again with rage.

“Oh, so that’s it?” she hissed. “So you’re a stranger, then? Fine. Watch yourself, Marina. Life has a way of spinning the wheel. We’ll see how you sing when disaster hits your house.”

It sounded like a curse.

Marina stood. She couldn’t breathe in that room another second. The air was poisoned with hatred and greed.

“Lyosha, I’m leaving,” she told her husband, not looking at him. “I need to check on Kirill.”

She turned and walked out, not reacting to her mother-in-law’s renewed screams—now aimed at Alexey: “See? See what kind of wife you married? Leaving us to drown!”

Marina stepped into the stairwell and shut the door behind her. She pressed her forehead to the cold glass of the window and closed her eyes, trying to silence the roar in her ears.

She knew this was only the beginning. Worse was coming.

And the hardest blow, she felt it in her bones, wouldn’t come from her mother-in-law at all.

It would come from her husband.

Marina didn’t remember how she got to the car or how she drove away. Alexey’s pale, lost face floated in front of her like an afterimage. And in her ears, his voice—still silent, still not defending her—rang louder than any scream.

When she entered their apartment, she heard the normal, peaceful sounds of home—Kirill playing on his computer. He turned at her footsteps.

“Mom? Why are you back so fast? Where’s Dad?”

“Dad… will come soon,” Marina forced out, taking off her coat. Her hands shook. “Grandma and Grandpa have some problems. Adult problems.”

“Again?” Kirill sighed—and in his voice there was a tired understanding that squeezed Marina’s heart. Kids always feel the tension. “Okay. I finished almost all my homework.”

“Good job,” Marina said, and walked to the kitchen.

The warmth of the evening was ruined beyond repair. The pie sat untouched on the table, like a postcard from happiness—something that had existed only a few hours earlier. Marina began clearing the table automatically, but her movements were sharp, uneven. A plate slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.

At that exact moment, a key turned in the lock.

Alexey came in. He looked wrecked. His steps were heavy.

“Hey, Dad!” Kirill called from his room.

“Hi, son,” Alexey answered, his voice raspy with exhaustion.

He walked into the kitchen, saw Marina picking up the broken pieces, and stopped in the doorway. The silence between them was thick, sticky—like tar.

“Kiril, go to your room,” Alexey said quietly. “Mom and I need to talk.”

When their son’s door closed, Marina straightened, set the dustpan aside, and looked at him.

“Well?” she asked. “What exactly do we need to talk about, Lyosh? About how your mother blamed me for everything under the sun? Or about why you stood there like a statue and didn’t say a single word?”

 

“Marina, don’t start the second I walk in,” Alexey dropped into a chair. “You know what state they’re in. Mom’s hysterical, Dad’s barely conscious. They’re desperate.”

“And I’m thrilled?” Marina’s voice shook, but she kept it low so Kirill wouldn’t hear. “Did you hear what she said? ‘How do you not have money?’ Me. And where were you? Why did you keep quiet? Why did she come for me first?”

Alexey covered his face with his hands, then dragged his palms down hard.

“I wasn’t quiet! I tried to calm her down! And you—why did you snap back? They’re my parents. We can’t just abandon them!”

“We?” Marina took a step closer. She wanted to shake him awake. “Is it you who gave them hope? Is it you who hinted we’d ‘figure something out’? On my back? Without asking me?”

Alexey looked away.

That one gesture said more than a hundred words.

A cold wave ran down Marina’s spine—betrayal, clean and sharp.

“Lyosh,” she whispered. “You know what that money was for. Kirill’s education. That robotics camp he dreams about. Our vacation we’ve postponed for five years. We cut ourselves back to save. And now you want to toss it all in the trash because of your father’s gamble?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Alexey suddenly shouted, springing up. His restraint cracked. “Tell me, since you’re so smart! Let them take their apartment? Let them spend old age bouncing between rented rooms? They’re my parents!”

“And that’s your son!” Marina shot back, pointing toward Kirill’s room. “That’s your family. Are you ready—because your parents are paying for their own mistakes—to ruin our child’s future? To take away his chance? To drown our marriage in their debt?”

Soft footsteps sounded behind the door. It opened slightly.

Kirill stood there, pale and frightened.

“Dad… Mom…” he said quietly. “Is it true my camp is canceled because of Grandpa’s debts?”

The question hung in the air—sharp and merciless like a blade.

Alexey stared at his son. And slowly, awareness spread across his face. He finally understood: his silent agreement with his mother wasn’t about “money” in the abstract anymore. It had already struck the most precious thing in the room—his child’s hopes.

He couldn’t answer.

He just lowered his head.

Marina saw something else in his eyes—not only confusion, but a terrifying split inside him. And she understood: the fight was only beginning.

And her hardest battle wouldn’t be with the shameless mother-in-law.

It would be with her own husband—who, at the worst possible moment, had stood on the wrong side of the barricade.

Three days passed. Three days of heavy, crushing silence in the apartment. Alexey left for work early, came home late. They spoke only in household fragments when Kirill was around. The air was packed with unspoken accusations and raw hurt.

Marina’s phone stayed quiet—her mother-in-law must have realized the frontal attack hadn’t worked and switched strategies. The quiet felt more threatening than screaming.

On Thursday evening, as Marina tried to focus on cooking, someone rang the doorbell—insistent, two long presses. Marina’s heart dropped unpleasantly. Only one person rang like that.

“Who could that be?” Alexey muttered, walking out of the room.

Marina froze at the stove, listening.

She recognized the voice instantly—loud, confident, casual in that overly familiar way.

“Lyokh! Hey, brother! Long time! What are you doing standing there—let us in!”

Igor, Alexey’s younger brother, strode into the kitchen like he owned the space. He was Alexey’s opposite in every way—bright clothes, an expensive phone in his hand, pricey cologne trailing after him. Alexey followed behind, shoulders slumped.

“Marish, hey!” Igor flashed a wide smile, but his eyes were cold, measuring. “Having dinner? We’ll only take a minute. Business.”

“What kind of business, Igor?” Marina asked without turning from the stove. Goosebumps ran down her back.

“Family business,” Igor said, dropping into a chair and nudging a plate aside. “Heard Mom and Dad are in deep trouble. Happens to old folks. We’ve got to help.”

“Help?” Marina repeated, turning to face him. “How?”

“Oh, I’ve already thought it through!” Igor snapped his fingers as if he’d invented electricity. “The problem is the interest. Those… lenders have insane interest. But you and Lyokha—everything’s official: white salaries, clean credit history. Right? Right.

“So you take a normal consumer loan—good amount. Bank interest is way lower. You use it to pay off Mom and Dad’s debts, and then you just pay the bank monthly like normal people, without all that drama. Everybody wins!”

Marina stared, genuinely stunned by the cynicism.

“So,” she said slowly, “your brilliant plan is for us to take on your parents’ debts. To climb into new loans.”

“Not debt—restructuring,” Igor corrected cheerfully. “Look at you, big words. Same idea. It’s easier for you. Gives them air. They’re old, it’s hard.”

Alexey finally lifted his eyes to his brother.

“Igor, what about you?” he asked quietly. “You have your own little company. You could help. Lend money.”

Igor laughed—short and dry.

“Lyokh, come on. I’ve got business, turnover, everything’s invested. Pull cash out, I lose. But you’re wage earners—steady. Easier for you. And besides…” he glanced at Marina with meaning, “I heard Marina’s career is taking off. Manager now, right? Salary must be good. Helping family is sacred.”

Heat flashed behind Marina’s eyes.

“SACRED?” Her voice went low and dangerous. “Where were you when your parents dumped their savings into that gamble? You, the genius businessman—did you warn them? Stop them? Or were you hoping for your cut of the ‘mountains of gold’ too?”

Igor’s smile vanished. His eyes narrowed.

“Not your business. I don’t judge them. Right now we’re talking help.”

“We’re talking about dumping their mess on us!” Marina slammed her palm onto the counter. “You aren’t offering to help—you’re offering to drag us into a pit so we can pay for their stupidity for years. And what about our plans? Kirill’s education?”

“Oh, the kid can wait,” Igor waved it off. “Not like you’re sending him to some conservatory.”

That one sentence was enough.

Marina saw Alexey flinch. For him, Kirill was sacred.

“Igor,” Alexey stood up. His voice—for the first time in days—came out firm. “Enough. Your plan isn’t a solution. It makes it worse.”

“So you’re just abandoning the old people like monsters?” Igor hissed, rising too. “Fine. I’ll tell Mom. Your precious son and his greedy wife—no help from them!”

He spun on his heel and left without a goodbye. The front door slammed like a gunshot.

Marina and Alexey stood in the heavy silence, on opposite sides of the kitchen. The barricade between them had grown taller—but for the first time, Marina saw a flicker in Alexey’s eyes: not confusion, but understanding.

Understanding that his family didn’t see them as loved ones.

They saw them as a wallet.

After Igor’s visit, silence ruled the apartment completely. Alexey disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door too hard. Marina stayed in the kitchen, staring at dinner gone cold. His brother’s suggestion floated in the room like poison: Take a loan… restructure…

She understood then—emotion wouldn’t win this. Her mother-in-law used guilt. Igor used arrogance and fake logic. Marina needed a different language.

Facts.

The law.

The next morning, after sending Kirill to school and waiting for Alexey to leave for work, Marina called her friend Olga—a lawyer at a large firm.

“Olya, I need your help urgently,” Marina said. “Not as a friend. As a professional. I need a consultation.”

An hour later Marina sat in Olga’s neat, glass-walled office, the city moving outside like a distant movie. Here it was quiet, smelling of coffee and old paper.

“Tell me everything,” Olga said, setting down her pen.

Marina explained—messy, emotional, jumping between details: her father-in-law’s debt, her mother-in-law’s demands, Igor’s “brilliant” plan.

Olga listened without interrupting, only occasionally jotting notes. When Marina finished, Olga leaned back.

“Okay. Breathe,” she said. “First and most important: your in-laws’ debts are their personal responsibility. You, Alexey, your minor son—none of you are legally responsible for them.”

Marina clung to each word like a life raft.

“That means,” Olga continued, “if they don’t pay, collection can only target their property. Their apartment, their assets. Not your apartment, not your salaries, not your accounts. Absolutely not. That’s prohibited.”

“But they’re saying they’ll come and take their home…” Marina started.

“That’s fear tactics,” Olga cut in calmly. “And also—there’s a crucial detail. In general, a creditor can’t seize a person’s only home. There are exceptions, like if it’s a mortgage collateral. But your in-laws don’t have a mortgage, right?”

“No,” Marina exhaled. “Their apartment is fully theirs.”

“Good. Then even if someone sues and wins, they won’t be able to take the apartment as an ‘easy trophy.’ They might be able to put restrictions on selling it, but the idea that they can just throw them out is—at minimum—not as simple as your mother-in-law is shouting. The key is: your family’s property is protected.”

“What if they call us? Threaten us?” Marina asked.

“Common tactic,” Olga nodded. “But you’re not a party to their contracts. You can demand they stop contacting you. There are legal ways to document that. I’ll draft you a template statement.”

Olga slid a sheet of paper across the desk with bullet points.

“Remember this,” she said. “If you take a loan in your names, it becomes your obligation. Purely voluntary. And in this situation, it would be a massive mistake. Your job is to protect your child, your home, and yourself. The law is on your side.”

Marina took the paper. It wasn’t just paper. It was a shield.

When she stepped outside into the crisp autumn air, she realized she was breathing properly for the first time in days. Their life—Kirill’s plans, their future—was not a bargaining chip in other people’s reckless schemes.

She pulled out her phone and called Alexey.

“Lyosha,” she said, and her voice surprised even her—steady, calm. “Meet me at your parents’ place. In an hour. We need to talk. This will be the deciding conversation.”

Alexey was waiting outside his parents’ building, smoking one cigarette after another. When he saw Marina, he tossed the butt and crushed it under his heel.

“Marin… maybe we shouldn’t,” he said tiredly. “They’ll scream again. Another scandal…”

“There will only be a scandal if they refuse to listen to reason,” Marina answered firmly, gripping the folder Olga had given her. “But this conversation has to happen. For us.”

She walked into the building without letting him argue. Alexey sighed and followed.

Lidia Petrovna opened the door, face already geared for war—then paused in surprise seeing them together.

“Well? Come in then,” she grunted, stepping aside.

Victor Ivanovich sat in the living room where he always sat. He looked even more crushed than last time. The same papers lay on the table, now joined by bank envelopes.

“So?” Lidia Petrovna began immediately, without offering them a seat. “Did you finally decide? Did you bring money?”

“Mom,” Alexey said quietly but firmly, “sit down. We’re going to talk calmly.”

They sat.

Marina placed the folder on her knees and looked Lidia Petrovna straight in the eyes.

“Lidia Petrovna. Victor Ivanovich. Alexey and I discussed everything. And we’re going to offer you the only realistic options you have.”

“Options?” her mother-in-law scoffed. “There’s one option—give us money!”

“We don’t have the money you want,” Marina said, clear and flat. “We have our own obligations—our mortgage, our son’s education. We cannot and will not take away Kirill’s future to pay for someone else’s mistakes.”

“Someone else’s?” Lidia Petrovna shrieked. “Is my son ‘someone else’ to you?”

Alexey raised a hand.

‘“Mom. Stop. Let Marina finish.”

His voice wasn’t loud—but it carried a firmness that made his mother blink, stunned. Marina felt something shift in her chest. For the first time in weeks, he was standing with her.

Marina opened the folder.

“First,” she said, “you have a dacha. It’s property. You can sell it and cover a large portion of the debt.”

“My dacha?” Lidia Petrovna exploded. “My dacha? That I sweat blood for? No. I’m not giving up my dacha!”

“Then the second option,” Marina continued, unshaken. “You and Victor Ivanovich go to the bank—or to whoever you owe—and request a restructuring plan. Payment schedule based on your pension income.”

“They’ll eat us alive!” Lidia Petrovna waved her hand.

“And we won’t go negotiate for you,” Alexey added. “These are your debts, Mom. You’re adults. You need to deal with them.”

At that moment Igor appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, a family meeting without me?” he smirked. “What genius plan is the clever wife selling today? Sell the dacha? March the old folks through banks?”

Marina turned to him.

“Igor,” she said evenly, “what are you offering? Besides dumping everything on us? Do you have money to help? Or are you only good at advice—using other people’s hands to pull your chestnuts from the fire?”

Igor flushed, thrown off.

Lidia Petrovna lunged into her final attack, stepping close, finger shaking inches from Marina’s face.

“I knew it! From the beginning I knew you’d destroy our family! Selfish snake! You drove a wedge between a son and his mother!”

Marina rose slowly. She was taller. And her calmness looked like strength.

“No,” Marina said. “You’re the one thinking only of yourself. You want to fix your problems by sacrificing our family—by sacrificing your grandson’s future. And family isn’t only you.”

She looked at Alexey.

He stood up and stepped beside her.

“Mom,” he said—and his voice trembled, but he pushed through. “My family is Marina and Kirill. That’s our son. You are my parents, and I love you. But you have to solve your problems yourselves. We can help with advice, with support—yes. But not with money we don’t have. And not by destroying our child’s future.”

Silence filled the room. Somewhere behind the wall, a neighbor turned on the TV.

Lidia Petrovna stared at her son like he’d stabbed her. In her eyes was grief—and a dark realization.

She had lost.

She didn’t answer. She turned and walked into the kitchen without a word.

Marina took Alexey’s hand. His palm was cold and damp—but he didn’t pull away.

They left the apartment without saying goodbye.

The battle had been won.

But the war for their family had just moved into a new, harsher stage.

The silence that followed was different. Not the suffocating, ominous kind—but fragile, hard-earned. Paid for.

The first days were the worst. No calls. No visits. Neither Lidia Petrovna nor Igor. That quiet was more frightening than shouting. Alexey seemed haunted, checking his phone constantly as if waiting for an explosion. Marina understood: he was waiting for punishment—for “betraying” his mother.

A week later, one evening, he finally cracked. Staring into his tea, he asked in a small voice:

“Maybe we should still help them. Just a little. Just so Mom…”

“So Mom what?” Marina interrupted gently. “Stops freezing you out? Forgives you for choosing your wife and son? Lyosh, that’s blackmail. If we give them even a coin now, they’ll smell weakness—and they’ll push until there’s nothing left.”

“But they’re selling the dacha,” Alexey whispered. “Dad called… today. He says Mom won’t get out of bed. She cries all day. It really is hard for them.”

“It is hard,” Marina agreed. “But they’re adults. They made the choice to gamble. Now they live with the consequences. We offered them solutions. They chose the dacha. It’s bitter—but it’s the right choice.”

She came behind him and hugged his shoulders. He was tight as a wire.

“We didn’t abandon them,” she said softly. “We protected our family. Otherwise that debt pit would swallow everyone—them, us, and Kirill’s future. Do you want that?”

Alexey shook his head.

“No,” he breathed. “I don’t.”

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. For the first time in weeks, his touch wasn’t pleading. It was grateful.

The turning point came two weeks later.

On Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. Marina and Alexey looked at each other—same question in both pairs of eyes. But it was Kirill standing there, phone in his hand, excited and confused.

“Grandma… Lidia Petrovna,” he corrected himself, “called me. She congratulated me on my grades. My teacher apparently called her.”

Marina and Alexey froze.

It was the first step—tiny, cautious, but real. From his mother.

“And what did you say?” Alexey asked.

“I said thanks,” Kirill shrugged. “Asked how they’re doing. She said everything’s fine, they’re selling the dacha. Her voice was… normal. Not angry.”

Alexey closed his eyes and breathed out long and slow. The rock of guilt inside him shifted.

And then they made a decision—one that felt like freedom.

“Kiril, pack your things,” Marina said, and her voice held a joy she hadn’t heard in herself for months. “We’re going to see that camp. Today.”

“Seriously?” Kirill’s eyes flared bright.

They went. They toured the buildings, the labs, spoke to instructors. Kirill sprinted ahead, his face glowing. Alexey watched him, and his old, gentle smile finally returned. He took Marina’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For everything. For being weak.”

“I forgive you,” Marina answered. “But let’s agree on something. Never again. Our family is a fortress. And we protect it together.”

“Agreed,” he said, squeezing her fingers.

They signed the camp contract.

They came home late—tired, happy, united again.

Six months passed. Life eased into a new, calmer rhythm. Things with Alexey’s parents stayed cool, but no longer openly hostile. Lidia Petrovna called Kirill sometimes. Marina didn’t forbid it. She understood: losing the dacha and losing the battle had forced the old woman to rethink things in her own way. Bitter medicine, but it worked.

Marina and Alexey finally bought tickets to the sea—first time in five years. The night before they left, their apartment hummed with pleasant chaos. They packed, laughed, made plans.

Then Alexey’s phone rang.

It lay on the nightstand, screen glowing with one name:

Igor.

Alexey looked at Marina. There was no fear now. No confusion. Only tired readiness.

He answered.

“Yes, Igor. Hi.”

Marina couldn’t hear Igor’s words, but Alexey’s face told the story. His brows lifted slowly; a crooked, exhausted smile tugged at his mouth. He listened for a full minute without interrupting.

“I see,” he said at last. “Problems. You need money. Urgently.”

There was not a drop of surprise in his voice. Only bitter inevitability.

“Let me guess,” Alexey went on, glancing at Marina. She gave a small nod—permission to say whatever he needed to say. “Your new ‘super profitable’ scheme crashed, and now you want us to ‘save’ you again. Take a loan. Hand over our last breath.”

‘

He paused, listening to excuses.

“You know,” Alexey said finally, “I’ll tell you what it took me half a year to learn. Nobody owes anybody anything. Not us to you, not you to us. Your problems are your problems. Deal with them yourself.”

Igor’s voice rose, sharper. A few words pierced through the speaker: “…brother…”, “…just this once…”, “…your wife’s a—”

Alexey’s face turned to stone.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Listen carefully. My wife is my choice. My family. And I protect my family—from everyone. Including you. Don’t call again with requests like this. It’s pointless.”

He ended the call and lowered the phone. Silence settled, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock.

Kirill stared at his father with open admiration.

“Dad… that was like a movie,” he whispered.

Alexey sank onto the couch and rubbed his face. But when he looked up at Marina, there was no torment left in his eyes. Just exhaustion—and enormous relief.

“That’s it,” he said simply. “Topic closed.”

Marina sat beside him and took his hand. She looked at him and didn’t see the lost boy his mother used to bully. She saw a grown man who had finally chosen his priorities—and found the strength to say no.

“Never again,” she repeated softly—their pact.

“Never,” he confirmed. “Our fortress. Our rules.”

He wrapped an arm around her, and they sat that way for a moment, listening to Kirill humming while he packed his suitcase. Outside, the sun went down, painting the room in warm gold. Inside, it smelled like peace.

And like the future.

They didn’t gloat. They didn’t ask what happened to Igor’s latest scheme. It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that they survived. They walked through the fire of family pressure, manipulation, and guilt, and came out not broken—but closer.

Alexey looked at the packed suitcases, at his son’s bright face, at his wife—who had been stronger in their hardest moment and had found the wisdom not to crush him, but to help him stand straight.

“Tomorrow,” he said, and hope returned to his voice, “we go to the sea.”

Marina smiled and leaned into his shoulder. They had paid a high price for their calm. But now they understood: it was worth it.

And the lesson was simple:

Family boundaries must be defended—and those boundaries begin exactly where other people’s ambitions and debts end.

 

Raisa was sitting at her desk, reviewing the quarterly reports, when her phone gave a soft vibration. Without thinking, she glanced at the screen and saw a bank alert.

At first she didn’t pay it much attention—most notifications were either her salary being deposited or some useless promotional offer. But then her eyes snagged on the wording, and she went rigid.

“Withdrawal: 50,000 rubles. Card ****4287.”

 

She reread it several times, refusing to believe what she was seeing.

The card ending in 4287 was the one she guarded like a secret treasure—the emergency card kept at home in the dresser, in the far drawer, beneath a stack of laundry. That was where her rainy-day money lived: 230,000 rubles, to be exact. Savings she had built up over three long years. Without that cushion, Raisa felt vulnerable, as if life could shove her off balance at any moment.

Everyone in the family knew the card existed. Raisa never hid the fact that she had a financial safety net. But there was one unbreakable rule: nobody touched that card without her permission. That money was for true emergencies—illness, being laid off, an urgent repair. Not shopping trips. Not entertainment. Not spur-of-the-moment spending.

She grabbed her phone and called her husband. The ringing felt endless before Mikhail finally answered.

“Hello?”

“Misha, fifty thousand was taken from my card!” Raisa tried to keep her voice steady, but it trembled anyway. “Do you know anything about it?”

A pause. Too long.

“Raya, I’m busy right now. I’ve got an important meeting in five minutes. We’ll talk tonight, okay?”

“No, not okay!” Raisa raised her voice, ignoring the surprised looks from her coworkers. “Misha, did you take the card?”

“Raya, I really can’t. I’ll explain tonight.”

He hung up.

Raisa stared at the screen, rage swelling inside her. So he had taken it. Otherwise he would’ve sounded shocked, would’ve started asking questions. Instead, he brushed her off and fled into his meeting.

She checked the time—three in the afternoon. Two more hours until the end of her shift, but she knew there was no way she’d be able to focus. Fifty thousand rubles. Someone had taken fifty thousand without asking.

She went to her manager, blamed sudden nausea, and left for home.

On the way, she ran every possibility through her head. Had the card been stolen? But how? It was in the apartment, in the bedroom dresser. A break-in didn’t make sense—the building had cameras, the door wasn’t damaged. That meant it was someone from inside.

But who? She and Mikhail lived alone.

Unless…

Raisa squeezed her eyes shut as her stomach knotted. Her mother-in-law.

Galina Yegorovna sometimes came by when Raisa wasn’t home. Mikhail had given his mother a spare key. She would drop in “to help”—clean a little, cook something, “put things in order.” Raisa hadn’t minded. If she wanted to be useful, fine.

But to take the card? To take money?

Raisa walked into the apartment without even taking off her shoes. Mikhail was on the couch, scrolling on his phone.

“You’re home already?” he asked, startled. “Early today.”

“Where’s the card?” Raisa stopped in the middle of the room, arms crossed.

“What card?”

“The card fifty thousand was taken from. My card. Where is it?”

Mikhail set his phone aside and stood up.

“Raya, let’s talk calmly—”

“I am calm,” Raisa cut him off, though her hands were shaking. “Just answer me. Did you take the card?”

He paced, rubbing his face.

“Listen, it’s… there was a situation…”

“Yes or no?” she snapped.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I took it.”

Raisa closed her eyes and drew a slow breath.

“Why?”

“Mom needed it,” Mikhail shrugged. “She was at the pharmacy, buying medicine. It was really expensive. She called me and asked for help.”

Raisa lifted her gaze slowly.

“Your mom needed it… so you took my card?”

“Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t mind. She’s my mom. It was urgent,” he said as if it were completely normal.

“Where is the card now?” Raisa went to the dresser and yanked open the drawer. Empty. The card really was gone.

“Raya, don’t get mad—”

“Where is it?” she turned sharply.

Mikhail hesitated and looked away.

“Mom has it.”

Raisa went still. For a few seconds she just stared at him, trying to process the words. Then it landed.

“You gave her my card? With my money on it? With my savings?”

“Well… yes. She said she’d bring it back tonight.”

“Tonight,” Raisa repeated in a voice that sounded чужой, чужой even to herself. “So you handed my emergency card—with over two hundred thousand rubles—to someone else, and she promised to return it later?”

“Raya, my mom isn’t ‘someone else’! She’s my mother!”

“To me, she is!” Raisa shouted. “Those are my savings! Mine! I saved for three years! You had no right to touch that card—let alone hand it to anyone!”

“But Mom needed medicine…”

“Medicine for fifty thousand?!” Raisa shoved her phone toward him with the notification. “What kind of medicine costs fifty thousand?!”

Mikhail turned away.

“Well… not only medicine. Mom bought a few other things. Things she needed.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know. Groceries, probably. Maybe some clothes.”

Raisa laughed—sharp, brittle, almost hysterical.

“Groceries and clothes. With my money. Without asking me. Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

She spun and headed for the door, grabbing her bag without even checking what was inside.

“Where are you going?” Mikhail jumped up.

“To your mother’s. Before she spends the rest.”

“Raya, wait! Maybe don’t go in so hard—Mom will be offended…”

Raisa turned back and looked at him—long and heavy.

“I don’t care about her being offended. Let her think about how offended I am when she takes someone else’s money.”

The door slammed. Raisa flew down the stairs without waiting for the elevator. Inside, everything was boiling—anger, humiliation, hurt.

How could Mikhail do this? Take the card and hand it to his mother without even asking. As if Raisa’s savings were some shared family pot anyone could dip into whenever they pleased. Three years. Three years of denying herself little things, putting away every spare ruble for peace of mind.

And he just gave it away. For groceries and clothes.

Her mother-in-law lived in a neighboring district, about a fifteen-minute walk. Raisa moved quickly, barely noticing the cold spring wind. She reached the familiar building, climbed to the third floor, and rang the bell, counting the seconds as she waited.

The door opened. Galina Yegorovna stood there—around sixty, broad-shouldered, with a permanently dissatisfied look.

“Raisa? What’s going on?”

 

“Give the card back,” Raisa said shortly, stepping into the apartment without being invited.

“What card?” the older woman asked, pulling the door mostly closed behind her.

“Mine. The one Mikhail gave you.”

Galina Yegorovna crossed her arms.

“Oh, that one. I told you—I’ll give it back tonight.”

“I want it now.”

“But I haven’t finished my shopping yet!” her mother-in-law snapped. “I still need to go to the store and buy groceries!”

Raisa stepped closer until they were nearly face to face.

“I don’t care about your shopping. Hand me the card. Now.”

“How dare you talk to me like that?!” Galina Yegorovna flared. “I’m your husband’s mother. You should show some respect!”

“Respect?!” Raisa’s voice cracked into a shout. “You took my money without asking, spent fifty thousand, and you’re demanding respect?”

“I didn’t take it—Mikhail gave it to me!” her mother-in-law shot back. “A son helps his mother. That’s normal!”

“He gave you someone else’s card. Someone else’s money!”

“If you’re his wife, then the money is shared!” Galina Yegorovna jabbed a finger at Raisa. “What, you’re stingy? Can’t a son help his own mother?”

Raisa exhaled slowly, forcing herself not to explode.

“Galina Yegorovna, give the card back. It’s my emergency fund. I saved that money for three years. You had no right to touch it.”

“I’m not giving you anything!” the older woman turned toward the wardrobe as if she might grab the card—then changed her mind. “Mikhail gave it to me, which means I have every right to use it!”

“You don’t have the right!”

“I do! I’m his mother! It’s simple—if a son wants to help his mom, he gives her money. And you don’t get to forbid him!”

“It’s not his money—it’s mine!”

“So what?!” Galina Yegorovna waved her hand. “You earn more than he does. It won’t kill you to share!”

Raisa froze. So that was it. Mikhail had told his mother how much Raisa made—how she earned good money, more than he did. And now Galina Yegorovna believed that gave her permission to rummage through someone else’s pocket.

“Give me the card,” Raisa said quietly, but with steel in her tone. “This is the last time I’m asking nicely.”

“And if I don’t?” the older woman lifted her chin. “What will you do? Run to Misha? He’ll take my side!”

“You’re not giving it back?” Raisa pulled out her phone. “Fine.”

She opened the bank app. A few quick taps. Galina Yegorovna watched, confused.

“What are you doing there?”

“Blocking the card,” Raisa said evenly, and pressed the final button.

A confirmation flashed: “Card ****4287 has been blocked.”

Galina Yegorovna went silent. For two seconds she only stared, and then comprehension crashed into her face.

“What did you do?!”

“I blocked my card,” Raisa slipped the phone into her pocket. “Now it’s just a piece of plastic. Hang it in a frame if you like.”

“Unblock it right now!” Galina Yegorovna screamed. “I have to go to the store! I need to buy food!”

“Use your own money.”

“But there’s still a hundred and eighty thousand left on it!” the older woman grabbed Raisa’s arm. “That’s money!”

“My money,” Raisa pulled her arm free. “And I decide what happens with it. Mikhail had no right to hand my card to anyone, so I have every right to lock it.”

Galina Yegorovna started pacing, flinging her arms around the room.

“Unblock it this instant! I’m your mother-in-law! I’m your husband’s mother! You have to listen to me!”

“I don’t have to listen to anyone,” Raisa said, heading for the door. “Especially not people who steal from me.”

“It’s not stealing—Mikhail gave it to me!”

“Without my permission,” Raisa turned back. “Galina Yegorovna, keep the fifty thousand you already spent. Consider it severance pay.”

“Severance pay? For what?”

“For you. For Mikhail. For this marriage,” Raisa opened the door. “Forget my name. Forget where I live. We’re not family anymore.”

“What?! Have you lost your mind?! Mikhail won’t let you get away with this!”

“Then Mikhail can move in with you—since he loves helping you with my money,” Raisa threw over her shoulder as she walked out and slammed the door.

Behind her, Galina Yegorovna kept yelling, but Raisa didn’t listen. She walked down the stairs with a strange, unexpected lightness. Yes, fifty thousand was gone. Yes, it hurt. But everything finally made sense.

Mikhail had betrayed her. He took her card, gave it away, never asked, and put his mother’s wishes above his wife’s security. That wasn’t family. That was exploitation.

Raisa went home. Mikhail was smoking nervously on the balcony. When he saw her, he rushed forward.

“Well? Did you get the card back?”

“I blocked it,” Raisa said, and walked straight into the bedroom.

“What? Why?!”

“Because your mother refused to give it back voluntarily.”

Raisa opened the closet, pulled out a large travel bag, and started packing Mikhail’s things—shirts, pants, socks, underwear—methodically, one item at a time.

“What are you doing?” Mikhail stood in the doorway, stunned.

“Packing your things.”

“Packing them where?”

“Out of here. To your mom’s. Or wherever you want—I don’t care,” Raisa said without looking at him.

“Raya, are you serious? Over some money?”

Raisa stopped. Straightened up. Looked him directly in the eyes.

“Not over money. Over betrayal. You took my card without permission. You handed it to someone else. You let my savings be spent. That isn’t a marriage, Misha. That’s using me.”

“Mom isn’t ‘someone else’!”

 

“To me, she is!” Raisa’s voice rose again. “I saved that money for three years. I denied myself everything. And you blew through it in a day—when you knew perfectly well nobody was allowed to touch that card!”

“I didn’t think…”

“You did exactly what your mommy wanted, and you didn’t consider me—my boundaries, my feelings, my security,” Raisa cut him off.

Mikhail dropped his gaze.

“I’m sorry. We’ll return the money. I’ll talk to Mom—”

“No,” Raisa zipped the bag shut. “Don’t return anything. Let Galina Yegorovna keep the fifty thousand. It’s my farewell gift to her.”

“Farewell?”

“I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow.”

Mikhail went pale.

“Raya, you can’t just—”

“I can,” she said, carrying the bag into the hallway. “Take your things and leave.”

“But this is my apartment too!”

“The apartment is in my name,” Raisa reminded him. “I bought it before we got married, with my money. You’re just registered here. So pack up.”

“Raya, let’s talk normally—”

“Normally?” Raisa opened the door. “Normally is not stealing someone else’s money. Normally is asking permission. Normally is choosing your wife, not your mother. You chose differently. Now live with it.”

Mikhail stood in the hallway, pale and helpless. Raisa waited. Five minutes passed in silence. Then he picked up the bag and stepped outside.

“You’ll regret this,” he said quietly.

“No,” Raisa shook her head. “I won’t. The only thing I regret is not seeing who you really were sooner.”

The door closed. Raisa was alone.

She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands were shaking, but inside she felt a calm she didn’t expect. The decision was heavy—but right.

That evening, she ordered a new card through the app and permanently shut down the old one. Fifty thousand was gone, but the remaining 180,000 was safe. She transferred the full amount to a new account, added extra security, and made sure no one would ever get access again.

The next day she took time off work and went to a lawyer. The attorney listened, then shook her head.

“A classic case. The husband and mother-in-law think the wife’s money is ‘shared,’ while their own is ‘personal.’ It’s good your apartment was purchased before the marriage. That simplifies things.”

“How quickly can we do the divorce?”

“If both sides agree—about a month. If he fights it, it can drag out to three months.”

“He’ll fight it,” Raisa sighed.

“Then prepare for court hearings. But your situation is clean: the property is yours, there are no joint debts, no children. The court will be on your side.”

Raisa signed the agreement, paid the legal fee, and walked out with a firm decision to see it through. No pleading, no “let’s try again.” Mikhail had shown his true face—and there was no going back.

A week later, Mikhail started calling nonstop. First he apologized and promised he’d never take money without asking again. Then he switched to threats—saying he’d tell everyone how greedy and heartless she was. Then he slipped back into begging.

Raisa didn’t budge. In her world, Mikhail no longer existed.

Galina Yegorovna tried too. She sent long messages about how Raisa had “destroyed the family,” “offended a suffering mother,” and “broken every moral law.” Raisa read them with a smirk and blocked her as well.

A month later, the court issued the decision: the marriage dissolved, the property remained with Raisa, and neither party had claims against the other. Mikhail got his divorce certificate and removed his registration from the apartment. Raisa got the freedom she’d been waiting for.

The first month after the divorce, she came home to an empty apartment, cooked for one, watched movies alone. It felt strange, and sometimes a little sad. But slowly, she began to appreciate it.

No one invaded her space. No one demanded money. No one handed out her bank cards like party favors. She could live at her pace, spend as she chose, and plan her future without bending to anyone else’s opinion.

Raisa returned to saving. She kept setting money aside each month. Six months later, her balance was back where it had been.

Sometimes she thought about the day everything collapsed—Mikhail’s call, the missing fifty thousand, the confrontation with Galina Yegorovna. And every time she reached the same conclusion: she’d done the right thing.

Yes, she could have forgiven him. She could have tried to keep the marriage, hoping he would change.

But why?

Why live with someone who doesn’t respect boundaries? Who believes it’s acceptable to use another person’s money without asking? Who puts his mother’s wishes above his wife’s security?

Raisa didn’t want that life. She didn’t want to spend her days checking whether someone had taken her card again. She didn’t want to fear another demand from Galina Yegorovna. She didn’t want to be a cash cow for someone else’s family.

She chose herself—her money, her freedom, her peace of mind.

And she never regretted it.

Kirill said it without even lifting his eyes from his phone. He sat in the kitchen in his briefs and a tank top, chewing a sandwich and scrolling his feed as if he’d just casually mentioned that it might rain tomorrow.

“Your career can wait! My mom is coming, and you’re going to stay with her. This isn’t up for discussion!”

I froze at the stove, a small coffee pot clutched in my hands.

My first impulse was to hurl the scalding coffee straight into my husband’s smug face. The second was to turn on my heel and leave—slamming the door hard enough to shake the plaster loose.

“Say that again, please,” I said, forcing my voice to stay even.

“Oh, Lena, don’t be such a child,” he finally looked up, irritation flickering across his face. “My mom’s sick. She can’t be alone. And you’re at the office all day. Look at you—some big boss now, huh?”

Outside, an October drizzle smeared the world in gray.

I stared at him… the man I’d been with for seven years. The man I’d had a child with, shared a bed with, shared debts with, shared plans for the future with. And I didn’t recognize him.

“Kirill, I’m the head of marketing at a company turning over half a billion rubles. I manage eight employees and a twenty-million-ruble project.”

“And?” He shrugged like it meant nothing. “They’ll find another manager. But I’ve only got one mom.”

The pot trembled slightly in my hands. The coffee began to rise.

“And you only have one son too, by the way.”

“Sasha’s in daycare all day—he’s not a problem. But my mom needs constant care.”

I took the pot off the burner and poured coffee into two cups as slowly as I could. I needed time to think.

My mother-in-law, Galina Petrovna, really had broken her leg recently. But “sick and helpless” was an absurd exaggeration.

At sixty-five she had more energy than most forty-year-olds: theater nights, meetups with friends, and an unstoppable habit of poking her nose into our family life every time she visited.

“When is she coming?” I asked.

“Next week. Monday.”

So he’d already decided everything. Talked it through with Mommy, built a plan, and then presented it to me as a done deal—like I was hired help being assigned a new shift.

“And what, you can’t work from home? You’re freelance, aren’t you?”

“Lena, you know a man can’t take care of an old woman. That’s not a man’s job.”

Not a man’s job!

But supporting the family while he’s been “finding himself” in design for the third year straight—that’s apparently a woman’s job. Paying the mortgage, covering daycare, buying groceries—also a woman’s job. And losing my job for his mother? Naturally expected.

 

“Kirill, what if I refuse?”

He looked at me like I’d asked what would happen if the sun didn’t rise tomorrow.

“Lena, don’t be stupid. My mom gave birth to me, raised me, devoted her whole life to me. And now I’m supposed to abandon her? You’re not a stranger, after all.”

There it was. “Not a stranger.” Meaning I was obligated to sacrifice everything for his mother. And the fact that I had my own life, my own plans, a career I’d built for ten years—that was just background noise.

I sat down across from him and wrapped my hands around the cup. The coffee burned my fingers, but the sting helped me focus.

“Fine,” I said. “Give me a little time to think.”

“What is there to think about?” Kirill was already turning back to his phone. “You’ll write a resignation letter and work your two weeks. End of story!”

And in that moment it clicked. He truly believed I would simply obey. No discussion. No compromise. Because I’m the wife. Because that’s how it’s “supposed” to be. Because Mommy needs it.

“Of course, darling,” I said in a honey-sweet voice. “Everything will be exactly the way you want.”

He didn’t even notice the sarcasm.

At work I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I sat through the daily meeting, nodded along, discussed layouts for a new campaign—while his words kept echoing in my head: “Your career can wait!”

“Lena, are you okay?” my deputy Oksana asked. “You’re pale. Something happened?”

“Just home stuff,” I waved it off.

By the end of the day, a plan had taken shape. Not the noblest plan—but a fair one. If my husband wanted to play a game where my opinion didn’t matter, fine. But I’d be the one writing the rules.

I knocked on the door of Marina Vladimirovna, our CEO. We’d worked together for five years and built real trust.

“Marina Vladimirovna, can I talk to you? Confidentially.”

“Of course, Lena. Sit down. What’s going on?”

I told her everything—my husband, my mother-in-law, the ultimatum. Then I explained what I wanted to do.

“I need unpaid leave. Two months—maybe a little more, maybe less. We’ll say it’s to care for a sick relative. Officially, I stay on the payroll, but I won’t be working.”

“And where’s the catch?” Marina Vladimirovna narrowed her eyes. She was experienced; she could tell I wasn’t being fully transparent.

“If my husband calls or comes here, I need you to tell him I quit. That I resigned voluntarily.”

Marina Vladimirovna was silent for a second—and then she laughed.

“Lena, you’re clever. You’re going to teach your tyrant a lesson?”

“Something like that. I want him to feel what it’s like when someone decides your life for you.”

“And what are you going to do at home—play housewife?”

“No. I’m going to be the most attentive daughter-in-law in the world,” I smiled. “So attentive they’ll get tired of it faster than they expect.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let the men learn a lesson. But with one condition: in two months you’re back. I’ve got a project that can’t run without you.”

“I think it’ll be sooner,” I assured her. “Thank you so much. I won’t forget this.”

I went home light and happy. For the first time in days, I felt like I was in control.

Kirill, as always, was in the kitchen with his phone. Sasha was building a tower of blocks in his room. A peaceful family evening—if you ignored the fact that my small rebellion was about to begin.

“Kir,” I said, dropping my bag onto the table. “I wrote my resignation.”

He lifted his head, and I immediately saw how surprised he was. Apparently he hadn’t expected me to fold so quickly.

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Absolutely. You’re right—family comes first. Your mom is sick, she needs care. And I can always find another job later.”

Kirill broke into a satisfied grin. His plan was working even better than he’d imagined.

“Good job, Lena. I knew you’d understand. Mom will be very happy.”

“Of course she will,” I said. “By the way, when exactly is she arriving?”

“Monday morning. I told you! The train gets in at eight.”

“Perfect. That gives me the weekend to prepare. I want to meet her fully armed.”

“What do you mean, ‘fully armed’?”

“I mean I’m going to learn everything about caring for someone with a fracture—put together a rehab routine, a meal plan. If I’m responsible for her health now, I’m going to do it professionally.”

Kirill nodded, but I caught a flicker of unease in his eyes. He’d probably expected resistance, not enthusiasm like this.

“Lena… you’re really not upset? I just thought you’d… complain more.”

“Why would I?” I shrugged. “You’re the man, the head of the household. If you think this is best, then that’s how it’ll be. I’ll be the best wife and daughter-in-law you’ve ever seen. You’ll see.”

Now he looked genuinely worried. I’d agreed too smoothly—too brightly for someone who’d been arguing just yesterday.

“Lena, are you sick or something?”

“Why would you ask that?” I feigned surprise.

“I don’t know… this is just weird.”

“Kir, you’re the one who wanted me to be a housewife. So I decided to be the perfect one. Your mother will get care she’s never had in her life.”

And that part was true. Galina Petrovna would absolutely get care—care she would remember with a shudder.

Saturday morning, I woke up at six and got to work. My husband was still asleep while I was already making shopping lists and reading up online about caring for older people with fractures.

“Lena, why are you up so early?” Kirill shuffled into the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing his lounge shorts.

“Preparing for your mom’s arrival, darling,” I chirped. “Look what I found!”

I held up a printed article about therapeutic diets for bone fractures.

“Turns out older people need a special menu. Lots of calcium, vitamin D, protein. No sweets, no fatty food, no salty food. And meals must be strictly scheduled—small portions every three hours.”

“Oh, come on,” Kirill yawned. “Mom’s not disabled. Regular food is fine.”

“Kirill!” I snapped. “How can you say that? Your mother is trusting us with her health. I can’t let her down.”

“But why make it so complicated…?”

“No complications,” I cut him off. “If I’m a housewife now, I’m going to do it properly. And I also read about rehabilitation exercises—every day, thirty minutes minimum, or the muscles start wasting away.”

Panic flashed in his eyes.

 

“Lena, maybe don’t go overboard? Mom came to rest, not to a rehab clinic.”

“To rest?” I widened my eyes. “Kir, she has a fracture! That’s serious. Without proper care there can be complications—blood clots, pneumonia…”

“Where are you even getting all this?”

“Research,” I said proudly. “I read medical articles all night. And I already ordered orthopedic pillows, a massage mat, and a special four-pronged cane.”

Kirill sat down at the table and stared at me.

“Lena, maybe we’re exaggerating?”

“We’re not exaggerating—we’re finally taking your mother’s health seriously,” I lectured. “And by the way, you’ll have to help too.”

“Me? But you said you’d—”

“Darling, I’ll cook, clean, manage her meds. But lifting your mom and helping her to the bathroom—that’s a man’s job. My back is weak; I could injure myself.”

“But you just said you could handle it…”

“And I will. We will—together. Like a real family!”

By Saturday evening, Kirill was visibly on edge. I dashed around the house with the intensity of a factory hero, rearranging furniture to create a “barrier-free environment,” buying half the pharmacy’s supply of supplements for bone strength.

“Lena, stop,” he begged when I moved the armchair in the living room for the third time.

“I can’t stop—your mom arrives tomorrow!” I panted. “By the way, we need to discuss the duty schedule.”

“What duty schedule?”

“Well, someone has to check on her at night. After fractures people get pain, they may need help. We’ll take turns—one hour you, one hour me.”

“Lena, have you lost your mind? What night shifts?”

“Kirill,” I said sternly, “this is your mother. Don’t you care about her well-being?”

He opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him time to argue.

“And I booked her with three doctors next week: an orthopedist, a cardiologist, and an endocrinologist. At her age she needs a full workup.”

“But she didn’t ask for any of that…”

“Whether she asked or not doesn’t matter. We’re responsible for her.”

Sunday, I woke up even earlier and started cooking a “diet borscht” with no sautéing and no salt. Kirill came into the kitchen looking like a storm cloud.

“Listen, Lena… maybe we should rent Mom her own apartment. Or put her in a sanatorium?”

“Kirill!” I threw my hands up. “How can you even say that? Your mother needs family warmth, the care of loved ones. And you want to hand her over to strangers?”

“But all these procedures, schedules…”

“It’s necessary,” I said firmly. “I’m not working anymore—I can devote myself fully to caring for her. By the way, I made a list of things we still need.”

I handed him a sheet: a bedpan, rubber gloves, a blood-pressure monitor, a glucose meter, special underwear, an anti-bedsore mattress…

“An anti-bedsore mattress?” he read aloud. “Lena, she’s not bedridden!”

“Not yet. Prevention is better than treatment.”

By Sunday night, Kirill looked like he wasn’t waiting for his mother—he was waiting for his own funeral.

“Lena… what if we postpone her trip? Say we’re renovating or something…”

“Absolutely not!” I huffed. “That poor woman already packed and bought a ticket. No—we’ll meet her properly. With love and care.”

Kirill let out a doomed sigh.

Galina Petrovna arrived Monday morning with two suitcases and expectations of a quiet vacation at her son’s place. She had no idea she’d walked straight into the arms of the most “caring” daughter-in-law on earth.

“Galina Petrovna, my dear!” I greeted her right in the entryway with open arms. “Finally! We’ve been so worried about your health!”

“Oh, what’s there to worry about, Lena,” she waved it off. “My leg’s almost healed. They’ll take the cast off in a week or two.”

“In a week?!” I gasped. “Mom, you can’t be serious! After the cast comes off, the most important stage begins—rehab. At least a month of recovery, maybe more!”

Kirill stood next to his mother looking like a man on death row.

“Mom… come in, sit down,” he mumbled.

“Do not sit!” I cut in. “You need to lie down. Long trip, stress—it’s terrible for bone tissue.”

I escorted my stunned mother-in-law to the bedroom, where an orthopedic bed I’d ordered the day before already stood waiting.

“What is this?” Galina Petrovna asked, staring at the adjustable medical bed with side rails.

“A special medical bed for injuries of the musculoskeletal system,” I explained. “The angle adjusts, the rails keep you safe. And the mattress is anti-bedsore.”

“Anti-bedsore?” she blanched. “Lena, I’m not bedridden!”

“Not yet,” I agreed darkly. “But at your age complications develop quickly. Better safe than sorry.”

The next days turned into a living nightmare. I had Galina Petrovna up at seven each morning for blood pressure and pulse checks.

“Mom, time to get up—morning exercises!”

“What exercises?” she groaned.

“Therapeutic ones! Without movement, muscles waste away. Breathing drills, joint mobility exercises, foot massage—everything according to medical guidelines.”

At eight: breakfast—plain diet porridge without salt or sugar, plus vitamin boosters.

“Lena, this is impossible to eat,” Galina Petrovna complained.

“But it helps your bones recover,” I replied, unwavering. “And after breakfast—supplements. Don’t forget!”

On the table stood a full battalion of jars and packets: calcium, magnesium, vitamin D3, collagen, chondroitin, omega-3.

“How much is all this costing?” Kirill whispered in horror.

“Health is more important than money!” I said. “And we also need glucosamine and hyaluronic acid—for the joints.”

By the end of the first week, Kirill looked squeezed dry. Night “shifts,” constant pharmacy runs, his mother’s complaints—everything exhausted him more than years of freelancing ever had.

“Lena,” he said Friday evening, “maybe we can loosen the schedule a little? Mom’s tired…”

“Tired?” I snapped. “Rehab isn’t a vacation. If we want your mother healthy, we work. And by the way…”

I pulled out a notebook with calculations.

“We’re running out of money for treatment.”

“Running out?” he blinked. “How?”

“Like this. Special food, supplements, medical equipment, orthopedic supplies—it’s expensive. We spent two hundred thousand in a week.”

“Two hundred thousand?!” Kirill went pale.

“And that’s only the beginning. Tomorrow we need a new round of vitamins, to order a massage chair, to pay for doctor visits. Another hundred thousand at least.”

“Lena, maybe we can skip the massage chair?”

“Kirill!” I gave him a wounded look. “That’s your mother. You want to save money on her health? A massage chair improves circulation and prevents blood clots. Or would you rather deal with a stroke later?”

“But we don’t have that kind of money…”

“Of course we don’t—because I’m not working anymore. We’ll have to spend your savings. But it’s for Mom…”

Kirill buried his face in his hands.

“Lena, maybe you should go back to work after all?”

“How can I?” I said, feigning astonishment. “Your mother needs constant care. Besides, I ‘quit’ because you insisted. They already replaced me.”

“But the money…”

“We’ll find money. Pull out your stash.”

“There isn’t much…”

“How much is ‘not much’?”

“Three hundred thousand,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Perfect,” I said brightly. “That’ll cover about a month. And then we’ll see.”

Galina Petrovna shuffled into the kitchen in her robe, worn out and furious.

“Lena, I can’t eat this grass anymore,” she complained. “And why do I have to swallow pills every two hours?”

“Mom, those aren’t pills—they’re vitamins,” I said patiently. “For recovery. And tomorrow is a very important day: a dietitian and a massage therapist.”

 

“A dietitian? For what?”

“I think our menu needs professional adjustment.”

Kirill watched us with the expression of a man realizing he’s trapped.

The next Monday, I woke Galina Petrovna at six-thirty for breathing exercises.

“Mom, up we go! Big day today: procedures first, then an osteopath, and in the evening—lymph drainage massage.”

“Lena,” she moaned, “I can’t do this anymore. Every day the same thing. I can’t eat what I want, I can’t sleep when I want…”

“It’s temporary,” I chirped, reaching for the blood-pressure cuff. “In a month or two you’ll be good as new! By the way, the doctor said we need to increase your calcium dose. And add another joint supplement.”

“Another supplement?” Kirill appeared in the doorway, looking terrified.

“High-strength glucosamine. A bit pricey—five thousand per box—but the results are incredible.”

“Lena, I don’t have any money left,” he croaked.

“How can you not? The savings?”

“Spent them. Every last bit.”

“Really?” I widened my eyes. “That was fast. Oh well—then we’ll sell something. Mom’s health comes first!”

That was the moment Galina Petrovna sat up in bed and declared, voice sharp and final:

“That’s it. Enough. I’m not disabled and I’m not dying. It’s a simple fracture that’s almost healed. I’m not eating this tasteless food, I’m not swallowing mountains of supplements, and I’m not getting up at dawn for gymnastics!”

“But Mom—”

“No ‘but’!” she snapped. “Kirill, pack my things. I’m going home. Today.”

“Mom, are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Better to be alone at home than in this madhouse. Lena, thank you for your ‘care,’ but this isn’t care anymore—it’s torture!”

I tried to protest.

“But Mom, rehab isn’t finished yet—”

“Finished, finished!” she waved me off. “I’m buying a ticket for the next train.”

Three hours later Galina Petrovna climbed into a taxi with her suitcases, leaving us alone with the medical bed, the pile of vitamins, and the sense that my plan had worked a little too well.

“That’s it. Finally,” Kirill said, watching his mother disappear.

He sank onto the couch and stared at the floor.

“You know,” he went on quietly, “I realized something. I was a complete idiot. I decided everything for you, forced you to quit, never even asked what you wanted.”

I stayed silent, letting him speak.

“It was your career. Your life. And I treated it like you weren’t a person at all—like you were some kind of… maid. I’m sorry. Please.”

His voice carried real remorse.

“If you want, you can start looking for a new job. I’ll never interfere again. I swear.”

I sat down beside him.

“Kir… I have news for you.”

“What now?” he asked, exhausted.

“I didn’t quit.”

He looked up, confused.

“What do you mean you didn’t quit?”

“I took unpaid leave. And I arranged it so that if you called my office or came in, they’d tell you I resigned.”

He sat there for a few seconds, processing it.

“So you… lied this whole time? You set me up?”

“I set you both up,” I admitted. “I wanted you to feel what it’s like when someone decides everything for you. I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

He stared at me, not blinking.

“So you did all that to my mom on purpose?”

“I didn’t torment her. The diet, the exercises, the supplements—those things really can help after fractures. It’s just that this level of care is usually for very serious cases, not a simple break.”

“And the money—you spent it on purpose too?”

“Of course,” I said. “You told me health is more important than money. So I took your words and made them real.”

Kirill rubbed his face with both hands.

“God… I was such an idiot.”

“You were,” I agreed. “But I think you won’t be again.”

“Lena, I’m sorry. For everything. For not valuing your work. For making decisions for you. I truly understand now—you have a right to your own life.”

“And my career?” I asked.

“And your career,” he nodded. “Grow, thrive—do whatever you want. I’ll be proud, not threatened.”

I wrapped my arms around him.

“You know what’s funniest? Your mom is going to tell all her friends what a devoted daughter-in-law she has. She just might also add that it’s better to stay far away from that kind of devotion.”

Kirill finally smiled.

“So what now?”

“Tomorrow I’m back at the office. I’ve got a twenty-million-ruble project waiting. And at home, we’re going to be a normal family—where decisions are made together.”

“Deal. And… Lena, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Can you make a normal dinner? I miss real food.”

I laughed.

“Sure. I’ll even add salt.”

The next morning, I walked into the office feeling like I’d won. The lesson was harsh—but fair. And most importantly, it worked.