Yana stood by the window with a cup of coffee, watching the city below. This apartment was her pride—the reward for five years of relentless work and saving. A bright two-bedroom in a new building, with a view of the park. Every square meter had been paid for with her own money—no loans, no debts. She worked as a manager at a trading company, picked up extra shifts, and denied herself entertainment. But she’d done it.
Three years earlier, Dmitry moved into that apartment. They’d met by chance at a party hosted by mutual friends. Tall, smiling, kind-eyed. Yana liked the way Dima joked and how carefully he listened. They started dating, and half a year later he proposed.
Dmitry had been renting a small one-bedroom across town. When they began discussing living together, it simply made sense that he would move in with Yana. Her place was bigger—there was room for both of them. Yana didn’t mind. She loved him and wanted him close.
The first year was good. They built a routine, bought furniture, cooked together in the evenings. Dmitry worked as a programmer and spent long hours at his computer. He earned decent money, helped with groceries, and occasionally bought something for the home. But the major expenses—utilities, repairs, everything else—fell on Yana. After all, the apartment was hers.
Dmitry’s mother, Valentina Petrovna, lived in the suburbs in her own house. A widow. Lonely. Her son was everything to her. At first she visited rarely—once a month at most. She’d bring pies, ask about their life, drink tea. Yana didn’t mind. A normal mother-in-law, she thought.
But gradually the visits became more frequent. Every two weeks. Then weekly. Then twice a week. Valentina Petrovna began showing up without warning, dropping by “just to check how things were going.”
“Dimochka, I made borscht and brought it for you,” she’d say, setting a huge pot on the table.
“Thanks, Mom,” Dmitry would grin.
Yana smiled too, though tension tightened inside her. She hated when someone invaded her space without permission.
Soon Valentina Petrovna started giving advice—first gently, as if casually.
“Yanochka, you should wash the windows. See the streaks?”
“Yanochka, there’s dust on top of the cabinet. Do you wipe it at all?”
“Yanochka, you’re frying the cutlets wrong. Let me show you.”
Yana clenched her teeth and nodded. She didn’t want conflict. This was her husband’s mother—an older person. You were supposed to endure.
One day, Yana came home from work earlier than usual. She opened the door—and Valentina Petrovna was in the apartment, rearranging dishes in the kitchen.
“Valentina Petrovna?” Yana asked, startled. “How did you get in?”
“Dimochka gave me keys,” her mother-in-law replied calmly. “So I can come when needed. I decided to tidy up. It’s a mess here, Yanochka.”
Yana froze. Keys? Dmitry had given his mother keys to Yana’s apartment—without asking?
That evening she confronted him.
“Dima, did you really give your mom keys?”
“Yeah,” Dmitry shrugged. “So?”
“You could’ve asked me first!”
“Yana, she’s my mother. She’s not doing anything wrong. She’s just helping us.”
“But it’s my apartment!”
Dmitry’s face darkened.
“What do you mean, yours? We’re a family. Everything is shared.”
“Shared, sure—but the apartment is in my name. And I want to know who comes in here.”
“Yana, don’t start a scandal over nonsense. Mom knows better how to run a household. She has experience.”
Yana said nothing, but something inside her tightened.
From that day on, Valentina Petrovna came whenever she pleased. Yana returned from work—her mother-in-law was cooking in the kitchen. She walked into the living room—Valentina Petrovna was dusting. She went into the bathroom—Valentina Petrovna was folding clean laundry.
“Valentina Petrovna, could you please warn me when you’re coming?” Yana would say cautiously.
“Why, Yanochka? I’m not a stranger. I’m helping, and you’re unhappy.”
Then her mother-in-law began to take charge. She criticized Yana’s cooking—too much salt, not enough spices. She nitpicked the cleaning—poorly wiped surfaces, floors needed washing more often. She moved things around as she liked.
“Yanochka, that vase is in the wrong place. Put it here.”
“Yanochka, why did you hang those curtains? They’re ugly.”
“Yanochka, those flowers should be thrown away—they’re already wilted.”
Yana tried to resist politely.
“Valentina Petrovna, I like my curtains.”
“What do you know? You’re still young.”
Every time, Yana spoke to her husband.
“Dima, talk to your mother. She’s here all the time, ordering me around. I’m uncomfortable.”
“Yana, she’s trying for us. Don’t be so heartless.”
“But it’s my apartment!”
“There you go again. We’re a family, Yana. Or does family mean nothing to you?”
Yana understood: her husband was not on her side—and never would be. For Dmitry, his mother mattered more than his wife.
Two years passed. Yana felt like a stranger in her own home. Every day she came back from work afraid she’d find her mother-in-law there. Valentina Petrovna showed up three or four times a week, cooking, cleaning, handing out instructions.
Yana kept working, paying the utilities, buying food—while Valentina Petrovna acted as if the place belonged to her.
Yana stayed quiet. Endured it. She was afraid of destroying the marriage. She hoped Dmitry would eventually understand. But he didn’t. To him, everything was normal.
Yana’s birthday was approaching—she was turning twenty-eight. She decided to celebrate at home with a small group. She invited a few coworkers and two close friends. She bought a cake—soft and delicate, with strawberries and white chocolate, the one she’d always loved.
She set the table, arranged the dishes, lit candles. For one day, she wanted to feel like the owner of her own home again.
Dmitry invited his mother. Yana didn’t object out loud, but inside she tensed. Valentina Petrovna at a celebration meant a guaranteed ruined mood.
Her mother-in-law arrived before everyone else. She came in and inspected the table with a critical gaze.
“Yanochka, are you serious? You set it like this?”
“What’s wrong?” Yana asked, feeling her fists tighten.
“Everything’s wrong. Plates should be arranged differently. Forks on the left, knives on the right. Don’t you know basic rules?”
Valentina Petrovna started rearranging the cutlery. Yana stood beside her, jaw clenched. No scenes. Not today.
“And napkins should be folded like this,” her mother-in-law commented, refolding them.
“Valentina Petrovna, please leave it,” Yana said quietly.
“Leave what? I’m trying to help. Do you want guests to think you’re a terrible hostess?”
Yana bit her lip and stayed silent.
The guests arrived—coworkers and friends. Everyone sat down. Valentina Petrovna deliberately took the seat at the head of the table—the very place Yana usually sat.
“Valentina Petrovna, that’s my seat,” Yana said softly.
“Oh, Yanochka. I’m older. That means I should sit here.”
Yana looked at her husband. Dmitry looked away. Silent.
Her mother-in-law behaved like the host of the evening—serving food, commenting on dishes, telling stories. Yana sat off to the side, feeling like a guest at her own birthday.
Her friends exchanged glances but said nothing. Her coworkers pretended everything was fine.
When Yana brought out the cake, Valentina Petrovna grimaced.
“Ugh, what is that?”
“A cake,” Yana answered, placing it on the table.
“I don’t eat cakes like that. It’s tasteless. In our family, we buy honey cake—not this nonsense.”
Yana froze, holding the cake knife. Something inside her clicked into place.
“This is my cake. On my birthday. In my apartment.”
“So what? I’m older. I know what’s good and what’s bad.”
Yana slowly set the knife down and looked at her mother-in-law.
“Valentina Petrovna, if you don’t like it, you’re welcome to leave. This is my apartment.”
Valentina Petrovna’s eyes went wide.
“How dare you?!”
“I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago. This is my home. I bought it with my own money. And here, I decide what happens.”
Valentina Petrovna jumped up from the table.
“Dimochka! Do you hear the way your wife is talking to me?!”
Dmitry turned pale. He stood.
“Yana, apologize to my mother.”
“What?”
“I said apologize. Now.”
Yana laughed—coldly, without joy.
“Are you serious?”
Valentina Petrovna began to whine.
“Daughters-in-law need to know their place! Stay quiet when elders speak! Show respect! And she… she…”
Yana shot to her feet.
“And she what?! The woman who owns this apartment? The woman who’s paid for every inch of it?!”
“Yana, calm down,” Dmitry stepped forward.
“No! I’ve been quiet for three years! I’ve tolerated three years of your mother running my apartment—humiliating me, criticizing me, ordering me around!”
“She’s trying for us!”
“For you—for you and her! And who am I here? A maid?!”
Dmitry slammed his fist on the table. The dishes rattled. The guests flinched.
“You’re nobody here while Mom is sitting at this table!” he shouted.
Silence fell. Yana stared at Dmitry, unable to believe what she’d heard. Nobody. She was nobody—in her own home.
Something inside her finally broke. Every illusion, every piece of love, every hope—collapsed in an instant.
Yana rose slowly. Walked to Valentina Petrovna. Picked up her handbag from the chair.
“Leave.”
“What?!”
“I said leave. Now.”
“Dimochka!”
“Mom, wait,” Dmitry said, looking at Yana in confusion.
Yana opened the door and pushed Valentina Petrovna toward the hallway.
“Out. Of my home. Immediately.”
Her mother-in-law backed away, startled by the rage in Yana’s eyes, and stepped into the corridor, sobbing.
Yana slammed the door shut. Then she turned to her husband.
“Pack your things.”
“Yana, what are you doing?!”
“Pack. Your. Things. Everything that’s yours—and go to your mother. Right now.”
“You can’t throw me out!”
“I can. This is my apartment. Legally mine. Your name isn’t on the documents.”
Dmitry tried to step closer, to take her hands.
“Yana, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”
Yana yanked her hands back.
“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow. And you’re leaving today.”
“Yana!”
“Today, Dmitry. Or I’ll call the police.”
He looked into her eyes and saw such steel, such icy certainty, that he understood—there was no point arguing. It was over.
Dmitry went into the bedroom, pulled out a bag, and started stuffing his clothes inside. Yana stood in the doorway watching.
“Yana, think about it. Three years together. Are you really ready to destroy everything over one conflict?”
“Not one conflict. Three years of humiliation. Three years of you never taking my side. Three years of you not even seeing me as the owner of my own home.”
“That’s not what I meant…”
“It is. You said I’m nobody here while your mother is at the table. That’s exactly what you meant.”
Dmitry finished packing, grabbed the bag, and stopped at the door.
“You’ll regret this, Yana.”
“Maybe. But not as much as I’ll regret it if I stay.”
He left. Yana locked the door behind him, leaned her back against it, and closed her eyes.
The guests had already gone. Only her two friends—Lena and Katya—remained. They sat in the kitchen, unsure what to say.
“Yanochka… are you okay?” Lena asked softly.
Yana nodded.
“Now I am.”
The next morning, Yana called a locksmith and changed every lock—starting with the front door. She threw the old keys away. Hid the new ones. That same day, she filed for divorce.
Dmitry tried to call. Yana didn’t answer. Then came long messages full of excuses and promises. Yana deleted them without reading.
A week later, Valentina Petrovna showed up. She rang the bell. Yana looked through the peephole and didn’t open.
“Yanochka, open up! We need to talk!”
Yana stayed silent.
“Yanochka, come on! Dimochka is suffering! He loves you!”
Silence.
“Open the door—I know you’re home!”
Yana turned away and walked deeper into the apartment. Put on headphones. Turned the music up. Valentina Petrovna stood outside for half an hour, then left.
She never came back.
The divorce went quickly. Dmitry showed up—gloomy, thinner than before. He tried to argue, talking about their life together, the shared household. But legally it was clear. Yana had bought the apartment before the marriage, and there were no joint savings involved.
The judge announced the decision: the marriage was dissolved.
Yana stepped out of the courthouse and breathed in deeply. Free. Finally free.
Three months passed. Yana returned to her ordinary life. She went to work, met friends, spent evenings at home with a book and tea. Quiet. No one barged in without warning. No one criticized, ordered her around, or lectured her.
Her apartment became her sanctuary again—warm, calm, safe.
She rearranged the furniture the way she liked. Hung new curtains—bright, patterned. Bought potted flowers and placed them on the windowsills. Everything her way, with no one else’s instructions.
One evening a message from Dmitry appeared. Yana saw his name on the screen and hesitated. Then she opened it.
“Yana, I’m sorry. I understand now that I was wrong. Mom really did go too far. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. Can we try again?”
Yana read it.
She typed back: “No. You made your choice at that table. Live with it.”
She sent the message and blocked his number.
Half a year later, Yana met someone else. They ran into each other in a bookstore—reaching for the same book at the same time. They laughed, started talking, and exchanged numbers.
His name was Maksim. He was an architect. He lived in a rented place and was saving for his own home. His mother lived in another city; they didn’t see each other often, but their relationship was warm.
Yana didn’t rush. They dated, talked, learned each other slowly. Maksim didn’t pressure her. He respected her space.
Two years later, Maksim proposed. Yana said yes—but with one condition: they would live in her apartment, and no relatives would ever get a key without her consent. Maksim nodded, understanding.
“Your apartment, your rules. That’s fair.”
Yana smiled. For the first time in a long time, she felt she’d chosen right.
They married quietly, without a lavish wedding. They signed the papers and celebrated with a small circle of friends. Maksim moved in with Yana, bringing only his personal things.
Their life was peaceful. They respected each other’s boundaries. They handled everyday issues together. Maksim cooked, cleaned, helped around the house. He didn’t command, didn’t teach, didn’t criticize.
Maksim’s mother visited twice a year and stayed for a week. Yana welcomed her without anxiety—the woman was tactful and never interfered.
At last, Yana truly felt at home. In her apartment, with her person. No pressure, no humiliation, no чужие правила—no one else’s rules.
Sometimes Yana remembered those three years with Dmitry—how she endured, how she was afraid to destroy the family, how she hoped for the best. How much time she lost.
But now everything was different. Now Yana knew she would never let anyone cross her boundaries again. This was her home, her space, her life—and only she got to decide who belonged in it, and who didn’t.
Yana sat on the couch with a book. In the kitchen, Maksim was making breakfast, humming to himself.
A new life. The right life. The life Yana had earned.