“Pack your junk. The apartment belongs to Igoryosha now,” my mother-in-law smirked. But she had no idea what document I had picked up from the notary yesterday.
The scrape of the key in the lock sounded like a gunshot. I had not even managed to finish my morning coffee when Zinaida Pavlovna burst into the entryway. With a dull thud, she dropped two checkered shuttle bags onto the linoleum and, as if she owned the place, shook the snow off her boots. … Read more