The Velvet Noose of the Living Room
Elvira Pavlovna had always considered herself a woman of refined emotional sensitivity. Her apartment, located in an old building with high ceilings and ornate molding, resembled a museum where the exhibits were not so much objects as her own memories of former grandeur. However, over the past three years, that museum had turned into a communal apartment. At least, that was how it seemed to its owner.
She sat in a deep velvet armchair, nervously stroking the armrest. Opposite her, on the sofa, sat her daughter Zoya. Zoya was the complete opposite of her brother: loud, soft-bodied, forever demanding attention and sympathy.
“Mom, this is simply impossible,” Zoya whined, taking a sip of tea from a porcelain cup. “I wanted to bring the twins over for the weekend, but where would we stay? In that little cubbyhole where that ‘veterinarian woman’ sleeps? Artyom took the best guest room. Now we’re like poor relatives, supposed to squeeze into the kitchen while your daughter-in-law takes hour-long baths!”
Elvira Pavlovna pressed her lips together. Her irritation had been building for a long time. When Artyom married Marina, Elvira herself had insisted that the young couple live with her. “Why waste money on rent? The apartment is huge, there’s enough room for everyone,” she had said back then. She thought it would be the right thing to do, and at the same time, she would gain a grateful listener and helper in the form of a daughter-in-law.
Reality turned out differently. Marina, the owner of a veterinary clinic, left early, came home late, tired but always calm. She had no desire to spend hours discussing TV series or complaining about life, which Elvira Pavlovna interpreted as arrogance.
“Yesterday I came over, and she was sitting in the kitchen with her laptop,” Zoya continued, winding her mother up. “I said, ‘Marina, I need to feed the children, let me get to the stove,’ and she looked at me as if I were nothing and said, ‘Zoya, I paid for food delivery for everyone, don’t fuss.’ Can you imagine? She humiliated me with her handout!”
Anger began boiling inside Elvira Pavlovna. She remembered how last week her friend Lidia Sergeyevna had remarked with a sneer that the hallway renovation had not been refreshed in ages. And Marina should have given money for it — she had a business, after all! But the daughter-in-law had merely said that she was currently investing in new equipment.
“Greedy,” Elvira Pavlovna hissed. “Greedy and ungrateful. She lives with everything handed to her, in the city center, and still dares to look down on us.”
“And Artyom?” Zoya chimed in. “He’s a teacher, he’s soft. Mom, if you don’t interfere, she’ll drive you into the grave. What was your blood pressure yesterday?”
“One forty,” Elvira lied, though the monitor had shown a normal reading.
“There! She’ll ruin you! She needs to be thrown out. Let them rent, let them take out a mortgage, but they should live separately. And Artyom can decide for himself: either his mother, or that… cat woman.”
The doorbell rang. Artyom had returned from work. Elvira Pavlovna straightened in her chair, arranging her face into an expression of tragic resolve.
Part II. The Corridor of Broken Mirrors
Artyom entered the apartment, shaking drops of autumn rain from his coat. He looked exhausted. Work at school drained him, but at home he was not greeted by peace, only by the taut string of tension that seemed to vibrate louder with every passing day.
He had not even managed to take off his shoes when his mother appeared in the doorway of the living room. Behind her shoulder hovered his sister’s triumphant face.
“We need to talk, son,” Elvira Pavlovna said, her voice trembling with theatrical drama. “Right now.”
At that moment, the front door opened again. Marina entered silently. She often moved quietly, a professional habit from not frightening animals. In her hands were bags of delicacies she had bought for dinner, knowing her mother-in-law’s love of expensive fish.
Marina stopped in the shadow of the coat rack when she heard her mother-in-law’s voice and froze. She had not meant to eavesdrop, but Elvira Pavlovna’s tone pinned her to the spot.
“I can’t tolerate this anymore, Artyom!” his mother’s voice broke into a shout. “Your wife behaves as if she owns this house! She doesn’t respect me, she despises your sister!”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Artyom tried to speak calmly. “Marina pays all the bills, she buys groceries…”
“I don’t need her handouts!” Elvira Pavlovna shrieked. “She does it to humiliate us! To show that we’re beggars! I demand that you throw her out of the house! She almost gave me a heart attack with that icy calm of hers! Yesterday she looked at me as if I were one of her patients who needed to be put down!”
“Mom, stop…” Artyom began.
“No, I will not stop!” she interrupted. “Either she gets out of here today, or I call an ambulance, and my death will be on your conscience! Zoya will confirm how bad I felt!”
“I confirm it,” his sister said. “Tyoma, are you a man or a rag? Mother can barely breathe because of her.”
Marina, standing in the corridor, remembered how many times she had closed her eyes to their barbs, how much money she had invested in these people’s comfort, how many times she had treated Zoya’s “flea-ridden prince” — her Spitz — completely free of charge.
This was betrayal. Pure and undiluted.
She stepped out of the shadows. Her face was unreadable, like a surgeon’s mask before a complicated operation.
“Good evening,” she said evenly.
Elvira Pavlovna faltered, but immediately, feeling her daughter’s support, lifted her chin.
“You heard everything? Wonderful.”
Marina looked at Artyom. In her eyes, he saw not a plea for protection, but a steely gleam. It was the look of a person who had made a decision and no longer intended to retreat. She did not defend herself. She only gave her husband a slight nod, and that nod contained an entire battle plan.
“You heard your mother, Artyom?” Marina asked, not taking her eyes off her husband. “She demands that you throw me out.”
Artyom looked at his mother’s face, twisted with malice, at his sister’s smug grin, then at his wife.
“I heard,” he answered dryly. “Fine, Mom. I’ll do as you want.”
Elvira Pavlovna smiled victoriously.
Part III. The “Second Life” Clinic
An hour later, while Artyom packed things under his mother’s watchful supervision, Marina went to the clinic.
She sat in her office, lit by a bright lamp. A notebook lay on the desk in front of her. She was not writing a list of belongings, but a list of assets.
Her rage transformed into a precise plan. She would not simply leave. She would take everything that belonged to her. Her mother-in-law had grown used to the comfort Marina created, but considered it something natural, something owed to her. Those “family” parasites believed that money came from a drawer and coziness appeared out of thin air.
The office door opened, and Artyom came in. He did not look broken. Rather, he looked determined and angry.
“I packed my books,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “Mother thinks I’m just seeing you off. She’s already dividing up our room, planning how Zoya will move in there with the kids.”
“Artyom,” Marina said, setting down her pen. “You understand that we’re not just moving out, don’t you? We’re cutting ties. I will not spend another kopeck on that apartment.”
“I understand,” he nodded. “I’m tired, Marina. Tired of being the buffer. Today she screamed… about a heart attack. But I know she’s lying. She’s as healthy as a horse. It was a performance.”
“The performance is over,” Marina said sharply. “We’ll play her game, but by my rules. She wanted you to ‘throw me out’? You’ll do it. Publicly. Loudly. So she believes in her victory. But we’ll take everything. Absolutely everything we bought over these three years.”
Artyom raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Everything? Even the curtains?”
“Especially the curtains. Italian velvet, which I paid for. The new refrigerator. The washer-dryer. The orthopedic mattress. The television from the living room. The furniture set. Everything, Artyom. We’ll leave only what was there before I appeared: the sagging sofa and the Soviet wall unit.”
A malicious spark lit in Artyom’s eyes. He, too, had been accumulating this for years. The disrespect toward his wife, his sister’s consumer attitude, his mother’s tyranny.
“I’ll order a truck and movers for tomorrow morning,” he said. “I know a couple of strong guys from the graduating class who do moving work on the side. They’ll help quickly.”
“Excellent,” Marina smiled, but the smile was frightening. “Let her enjoy her triumph for one night. Tomorrow we’ll show her how much her ‘independence’ costs.”
Anger gave her energy. Marina knew her mother-in-law and sister-in-law understood nothing about documents or ownership rights. They lived in illusions. It was time to smash those illusions with the sledgehammer of reality.
Part IV. The Ruins of the Family Nest
Morning began with a crash.
Elvira Pavlovna woke to the sound of furniture being moved. She stepped into the corridor in her robe, anticipating the sight of a dejected Marina with a small suitcase.
The apartment was in chaos. Two burly young men were carrying a huge plasma television out of the living room.
“What is happening?” the mother-in-law asked. “Artyom!”
Artyom came out of the room, wiping his hands with a rag. His face was stone.
“You asked me to throw Marina out of the house, Mom. I’m fulfilling your request. Marina is leaving. And she is taking her things.”
“The television? But we watch it!” Elvira Pavlovna protested.
“It’s Marina’s television. The receipt is in her name,” Artyom cut her off. “Guys, take the sofa too.”
“The sofa?!” a sleepy Zoya appeared in the corridor. “Have you lost your minds? What am I supposed to sit on when I come over?”
“On the floor, Zoya,” Marina answered calmly, coming out of what used to be their bedroom. In her hands, she carried a stack of expensive curtains. The window behind her shone with bare, unattractive nakedness. The room instantly became uncomfortable, foreign, and hollow.
Elvira Pavlovna gasped for air.
“Take out the refrigerator!” Artyom commanded.
“No! There’s food inside!” his mother screamed.
“We’ll put the food on the table. The refrigerator was bought by Marina six months ago. The old Saratov is on the balcony. You can bring it back in, if it works.”
Within an hour, the apartment turned into ashes. The microwave disappeared, the coffee machine — Elvira Pavlovna’s pride in front of her friends — vanished, the soft Persian wool carpet was taken, even the expensive bathroom faucets were removed. Artyom personally unscrewed them and put back the old rusty taps they had kept in the pantry “just in case.”
This was not merely an eviction. It was a gutting. The apartment, deprived of the gloss Marina’s money had given it, instantly aged twenty years. Without the proper lighting — the chandeliers had been removed too — the wallpaper seemed dirty, and the parquet creaked without the carpets.
“Artyom, how can you?!” Elvira Pavlovna shouted, seeing her beloved orthopedic armchair being carried out — Marina’s gift for her anniversary. “You’re leaving your mother in ruins!”
“I’m leaving you in your apartment, Mom,” Artyom said harshly. “You wanted to live alone? Live. You wanted no trace of my wife here? There is no trace anymore. No spirit, no belongings, no money.”
“And you?” his mother whispered, feeling fear clench her heart with an icy hand.
“I promised you I would ‘throw her out.’ I’m leaving with her to make sure she never comes back,” Artyom snorted. The bitter irony went right over his mother’s head. “I’m a husband, Mom. I’m following my wife. And you can stay with Zoya. Let her buy you appliances and groceries.”
“But Zoya has no money!” Elvira Pavlovna blurted out.
“That is no longer our problem,” Marina said, stopping in the doorway. She looked magnificent: straight back, not a trace of pity in her eyes. “You wanted to get rid of me. Congratulations, your wish has come true.”
The door closed. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot. Elvira Pavlovna and Zoya remained standing in the middle of the corridor, surrounded by bags of thawing food from the refrigerator that had just left.
Part V. Elite-Level Emptiness
A month passed.
Elvira Pavlovna’s apartment sank into silence and semi-darkness. The bulbs in the chandelier had burned out, and there was no one to replace them. Zoya said she could not reach, and calling an electrician was expensive.
Elvira Pavlovna sat on an old, hard chair — the armchair was gone — and looked out the window. The tulle was old and yellow, found on the mezzanine storage shelves.
The situation had turned catastrophic. Elvira Pavlovna’s pension was enough only to pay the utility bills, which, as it turned out, were enormous. Before, Artyom had paid for everything through online banking, and his mother had not even known the amounts. Now every receipt triggered panic.
Zoya stopped visiting after a week.
“Mom, what is there to do at your place?” she said over the phone. “The fridge is empty, the TV doesn’t work, there’s nowhere to sit. And Artyom isn’t there to slip us money. I’d rather go to my mother-in-law’s — at least they feed me there.”
Her friends disappeared too. Before, Elvira Pavlovna had lured them with elite tea, expensive candies, and an atmosphere of prosperity. Now she was ashamed to invite anyone into this misery.
But the worst happened today.
In the morning, a letter arrived. Not just a bill, but a notice. Elvira Pavlovna could not understand the meaning of the bureaucratic language for a long time, but then the meaning reached her, and her knees nearly gave way.
With trembling hands, she dialed her son’s number. The ringing went on for a long time.
“Yes,” Artyom’s voice was cheerful; in the background there was noise — an airport or train station, it seemed.
“Tyoma…” she whispered. “Son, a paper came… Property tax and some debt for major repairs for five years. A huge amount! They write that they’ll take it to court!”
“Ah, that,” Artyom said indifferently. “Well, yes. The apartment is in an elite building, Mom. The cadastral value is high. Marina and I paid all of that this whole time. I was covering the debts that had accumulated even before our wedding. Now we’re not paying. It’s your apartment, your property, your responsibility.”
“But I don’t have that kind of money!” she shouted. “Tyoma, help me! Come back! I’ll forgive Marina, let her live here!”
“Forgive her?” Artyom laughed, and that laughter made Elvira Pavlovna feel terrified. “Mom, you still haven’t understood anything. We’re not coming back. We bought a house. A big, bright house outside the city. As for the debts… ask Zoya. She wanted that apartment so badly.”
“Zoya isn’t answering the phone!”
“What a pity. Well then, sell the apartment. Buy a one-room flat and pay off the debts. At least you’ll be the absolute mistress of your own home.”
“Artyom, how can you?!” she screamed. “I’m your mother!”
“Exactly. You are the mother who wanted to throw my wife out. You got what you wanted: absolute power over your territory. Enjoy it. I have to go, we’re boarding the plane. Marina has dreamed of this vacation for a long time. Goodbye, Mom.”
The connection cut off.
Elvira Pavlovna lowered the phone. She looked around at the empty walls, the stains on the wallpaper where paintings had once hung — which, as it turned out, also belonged to Marina. The silence in the apartment was not merely the absence of sound. It was tangible, heavy, pressing down on her shoulders.
She suddenly realized that she herself, with her own hands, had cut out of her life the only people to whom she had been dear — or who, at the very least, had taken care of her. Her arrogance, greed, and desire to rule had left her the queen of a garbage heap.
She walked up to the mirror in the hallway — the only object that had remained hanging because it was built into the wall. Looking back at her was not a majestic lady, but a frightened, pathetic old woman in a stale robe.
Unexpectedly, even to herself, Elvira Pavlovna began to laugh. It was hysterical, bitter laughter. She laughed at her own stupidity, at her daughter’s betrayal, at the “cruelty” of her son, who in reality had simply allowed her to live exactly as she had demanded.
The doorbell rang. Her heart skipped — had they come back? She rushed to open it.
On the threshold stood the neighbor from downstairs, a nasty old woman.
“Elvira! Are your pipes leaking? My ceiling is wet!”
Elvira Pavlovna remembered the old taps Artyom had installed. The plumbing had not held.
“I don’t have money for repairs…” she whispered.
She was alone. Completely alone. And there was no one to blame except her own reflection in the mirror.