Eleonora slowly put down the book she’d been reading on the balcony. The spring air was cool, but pleasant after a stuffy winter. She looked at her husband standing in the doorway. Svyatoslav looked determined—too determined for a Saturday morning.
“What did you say?” she asked, hoping she’d misheard.
“We’re going to sell your apartment and live with my parents,” he repeated, stepping onto the balcony. “Mom and Dad have already arranged everything. A room on the second floor, a separate bathroom. It’ll be convenient.”
Eleonora stared at him, trying to figure out whether he was joking or serious. Three years of marriage had taught her to read his moods, but now she was at a loss.
“Svyat, this is my grandmother’s apartment. She left it to me.”
“So what? The apartment needs repairs, the utilities are expensive. And my parents have a big house—plenty of space for everyone. We’ll put the money from the sale into a deposit.”
“Whose deposit?” Eleonora clarified.
“The family’s, of course. Mom says it’s the sensible thing to do. She’s always given sound financial advice.”
Eleonora rose from the wicker chair and walked to the balcony rail. Down in the courtyard, children were playing. She remembered running around there herself as a little girl when she came to stay with her grandmother during the holidays.
“Your mother decided what I should do with my apartment?”
“Don’t start, Elia. We’re discussing this calmly.”
“Discussing? You’ve presented me with a fait accompli.”
Svyatoslav stepped closer and tried to take her hand, but she pulled away.
“Listen, it’s logical. Why do we need two properties? My parents are getting older; they need help. And the apartment… what’s so special about it? A typical two-bedroom in a bedroom community.”
“My childhood was there,” Eleonora said quietly. “Grandma left it to me because she knew I would cherish every corner.”
“Sentimentality is sweet, but impractical. Mom’s right—we need to think about the future.”
“Whose future? Your mother’s?”
Svyatoslav frowned. He didn’t like anyone criticizing his parents, especially his mother. Regina Pavlovna had raised him alone for the first ten years of his life, until she met Arkady. Ever since, Svyatoslav considered it his duty to defend her from any attack.
“Elia, enough. The decision’s made. We’re meeting a realtor on Monday.”
“What decision? Made by whom?”
“By me. I’m the head of the family.”
Eleonora laughed—not with amusement, but bitterly.
“The head of the family? Seriously? Svyatoslav, you and I are equal partners. At least, that’s what I thought.”
“Equal partners don’t cling to junk. My mother sold her apartment when she married my father. And they’re fine.”
“Your mother sold a studio on the outskirts and moved into your father’s mansion. There’s a difference.”
Svyatoslav flushed. He couldn’t stand being confronted with obvious things he preferred to ignore.
“Don’t you dare talk about my parents like that!”
“I’m telling the truth. And here’s another truth—I am NOT selling the apartment.”
“We’ll see,” Svyatoslav hissed and left the balcony.
Eleonora stayed where she was. The sun rose higher, warming her face. She thought of Grandma Lida, who had worked her whole life as a doctor and saved up for this apartment. “Elyechka,” she used to say, “a woman must always have a place of her own. Remember that.”
That evening Svyatoslav brought his parents “for tea.” Eleonora knew it wasn’t just a polite visit. Regina Pavlovna entered first, sweeping an appraising gaze over the apartment.
“Yes, no one’s done any renovations here for about twenty years,” she concluded. “The wallpaper’s peeling, the parquet creaks. Imagine how much money it’ll take to make everything presentable!”
Arkady Mikhailovich quietly walked into the living room and sat in an armchair. He rarely interfered in his wife’s conversations, preferring to observe.
“Hello, Regina Pavlovna, Arkady Mikhailovich,” Eleonora greeted them. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Green tea, if you have it,” the mother-in-law replied. “And no sugar. We watch our figure.”
Eleonora went to the kitchen. Svyatoslav followed.
“Don’t sulk,” he said. “My parents want to help.”
“Help with what? Depriving me of my home?”
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s not like you’ll be out on the street.”
“No, I’ll be living in your parents’ house. By their rules, their schedule.”
“What’s wrong with rules? Mom just likes order.”
Eleonora brewed the tea and set cookies on a tray. Her hands trembled slightly with restrained emotion.
In the living room, Regina Pavlovna was already spreading some papers out on the table.
“Eleonora, sit down,” she said in a tone that brooked no objection. “We need to discuss the details.”
“What details?”
“The sale of the apartment, of course. I’ve made inquiries. A property like this can fetch a decent sum. Naturally, we’ll have to lower the price because of the condition, but it’ll still be good.”
“Regina Pavlovna, I am NOT going to sell the apartment.”
The mother-in-law raised her eyebrows.
“Excuse me? Svyatoslav said you agreed.”
“Svyatoslav LIED.”
“Elia!” her husband exclaimed. “We talked about this—”
“You talked. I listened. And I answered—NO.”
Regina Pavlovna straightened in her chair. Her face hardened.
“Girl, you don’t understand the situation. Svyatoslav is my only son. I won’t allow some—”
“Some WHAT?” Eleonora cut in. “Go on, finish.”
“Some girl from who-knows-what kind of family to manipulate him.”
“I’m manipulating him? Aren’t you the one trying to force me to sell my only home?”
Arkady Mikhailovich cleared his throat.
“Regina, maybe don’t—”
“Quiet, Arkady!” his wife snapped. “I know what I’m doing. Eleonora, be reasonable. You’ll be more comfortable in our house. A big kitchen, a garden, a pool. What more do you need?”
“Freedom,” Eleonora replied.
“Freedom? From what? From family?”
“From your CONTROL.”
Regina Pavlovna flushed.
“I’m controlling? I care! About my son, about his future!”
“About his future or about YOURS?” Eleonora asked. “Why do you need the money from selling my apartment?”
A pause fell. Regina Pavlovna and Arkady Mikhailovich exchanged glances. Svyatoslav looked from his parents to his wife.
“What’s with the insinuations?” he protested. “Elia, you’re crossing the line!”
“I’m asking a logical question. If your parents are so well-off, why do they need the money from selling my apartment?”
“Not yours—ours! We’re a family!” Regina Pavlovna cried.
“NO,” Eleonora said firmly. “The apartment is in my name. It’s MY property.”
“Selfish!” the mother-in-law blurted out. “Svyatoslav, do you see who you married?”
“Mom, calm down…”
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! I raised you, devoted my life to you! And you brought this—into our home…”
“That’s enough,” Eleonora stood up. “Please LEAVE my apartment.”
“What?” Svyatoslav was taken aback. “Elia, you can’t throw my parents out!”
“I can, and I AM. Regina Pavlovna, Arkady Mikhailovich—goodbye.”
The mother-in-law rose, trembling with rage.
“Svyatoslav, let’s go. If your wife doesn’t value family, we have no business here.”
“But, Mom—”
“I said let’s go!”
Svyatoslav looked helplessly at Eleonora, then at his mother.
“Elia, apologize. You’re in the wrong.”
“For what should I apologize? For not wanting to give up my apartment?”
“For insulting my mother!”
“She insulted me. But of course you didn’t notice.”
Svyatoslav clenched his fists.
“You know what? Maybe Mom’s right. You only think about yourself.”
“And you only think about your mother. Maybe you should’ve married her?”
Svyatoslav turned pale. Regina Pavlovna grabbed his hand.
“Come, son. Don’t waste time on ungrateful people.”
They left, slamming the door. Eleonora was alone in the living room. Papers the mother-in-law had brought lay on the table—printouts of listings for apartments in the area, realtor contacts, even a draft sales contract.
“They planned everything in advance,” Eleonora realized. “They never doubted I’d agree.”
The next few days passed in silence. Svyatoslav ostentatiously slept in the living room, left early in the morning, and returned late at night. When she tried to talk, he answered in monosyllables.
On Thursday Eleonora came home from work and found a stranger in the apartment. He was walking from room to room, jotting notes in a pad.
“Who are you? How did you get in?” she asked.
“Mikhail Sergeyevich, appraiser,” the man introduced himself. “Your husband gave me the keys and asked me to assess the apartment.”
“My husband had no right to do that. Please leave.”
“But I’m almost finished…”
“LEAVE. Now.”
The appraiser shrugged, gathered his things, and left. Eleonora dialed Svyatoslav.
“How dare you bring in an appraiser without telling me?”
“I just wanted to know the real value. Nothing criminal.”
“Svyatoslav, this is MY apartment. You have no right to dispose of it.”
“You’re my wife. What’s yours is mine.”
“NO. It’s premarital property.”
“Formalities. We love each other.”
“Love doesn’t give you the right to STEAL my apartment.”
“Steal? You’re accusing me of theft?”
“What else do you call TRYING to sell someone else’s property?”
Svyatoslav hung up. He didn’t come home that evening. Eleonora called his friend Maksim.
“He’s with me,” Maksim said. “Elia, what’s going on with you two?”
“Ask him.”
“He says you won’t meet his parents halfway.”
“I don’t want to sell my apartment. Is that a crime?”
“No, but… maybe find a compromise?”
“What compromise? Sell and then be dependent on his mother?”
Maksim hesitated.
“I don’t know. But Svyat is upset. Says his mother is crying.”
“Let her cry. That’s no reason to strip me of my home.”
On Saturday morning the doorbell rang. Eleonora opened it—on the threshold stood an unfamiliar woman in a tailored suit.
“Viktoria Andreyevna, attorney for the Volkonsky family,” she introduced herself. “May I come in?”
Volkonsky—Regina Pavlovna’s maiden name. Reluctantly, Eleonora let the woman in.
“Eleonora Dmitrievna, I’m here to discuss the apartment.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. The apartment is not for sale.”
“I understand your position. But let’s be objective. You’ve been married to Svyatoslav Arkadyevich for three years. In that time, the Volkonsky–Semyonov family has done a lot for you.”
“For example?”
“The wedding at their expense, a vacation in Turkey, gifts…”
“Those were gifts, not investments. Or did Regina Pavlovna expect repayment?”
Viktoria Andreyevna smiled.
“Regina Pavlovna is a generous person. But she has the right to expect reciprocal generosity.”
“So, BLACKMAIL?”
“Not at all—no blackmail. Merely a reminder that family means mutual assistance.”
“Mutual assistance doesn’t mean ROBBERY.”
“You’re exaggerating. No one intends to rob you. The money from the sale will go toward family needs.”
“What needs exactly?”
Viktoria Andreyevna faltered.
“That’s a private family matter.”
“If it concerns my apartment, it’s MY matter too.”
“Eleonora Dmitrievna, don’t make this harder than it is. Regina Pavlovna is willing to compromise. For example, to allocate you a separate room with a balcony in their house.”
“How GENEROUS. A whole room in exchange for a two-bedroom apartment.”
“Plus living with a loving family.”
“With a family that’s trying to BLEED me dry.”
Viktoria Andreyevna sighed.
“You’re being needlessly categorical. Svyatoslav Arkadyevich can file for divorce.”
“Let him FILE.”
“And demand division of marital property.”
“The apartment is premarital property. It’s not subject to division.”
“But the bedroom was renovated during the marriage. Using Svyatoslav Arkadyevich’s money.”
Eleonora laughed.
“Do you mean the wallpapering for five thousand rubles? Seriously?”
“Any improvements to property during marriage can be grounds to deem it joint.”
“Try proving that in court.”
Viktoria Andreyevna stood.
“Eleonora Dmitrievna, think about it. Is it worth destroying a family over real estate?”
“I’m not the one destroying it.”
The lawyer left, placing a business card on the table. Eleonora tore it up and threw it in the trash.
On Monday at work, her colleague Ksenia approached her.
“Elia, is it true you’re getting divorced?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Your husband posted on social media. Says his wife kicked him out and doesn’t value family.”
Eleonora opened her phone. On Svyatoslav’s page was a long post about how he was suffering from his wife’s selfishness, how she valued the material over the spiritual.
“I suggested we live at my parents’ house, where we’re welcomed with open arms,” he wrote. “But she prefers clinging to an old apartment, destroying our marriage.”
Below were dozens of comments. Most supported Svyatoslav and scolded the “mercenary wife.”
Eleonora dialed his number.
“Delete the post.”
“Why? I told the truth.”
“You wrote a LIE. I didn’t kick you out. You left.”
“After you insulted my mother.”
“Svyatoslav, DELETE the post or I’ll write my version.”
“Go ahead. We’ll see who they believe.”
Eleonora hung up. That evening she wrote a response, calmly laying out the facts: the attempt to sell her premarital apartment, pressure from her mother-in-law, a lawyer’s visit with veiled threats.
The scandal exploded. Friends and acquaintances split into two camps. Some supported Eleonora, others—Svyatoslav.
A week later Svyatoslav came home. He looked rough—gaunt, red-eyed.
“Elia, let’s talk.”
“About what?”
“About us. About our future.”
“Do we HAVE a future?”
Svyatoslav sat on the couch and cradled his head in his hands.
“I don’t want a divorce. But Mom…”
“What about Mom?”
“She says if I don’t make you sell the apartment, she’ll cut me out of the inheritance.”
“And what does that inheritance include?”
“The house, accounts, my father’s business.”
“So you’re choosing between me and your parents’ money?”
“It’s not that simple!”
“It’s very simple. Either you love me and respect my property rights, or you love your mother’s MONEY.”
“Don’t oversimplify!”
“Then don’t overcomplicate. Svyatoslav, answer honestly—why does your mother need the money from my apartment?”
Svyatoslav was silent. Then he spoke quietly:
“They have DEBTS.”
“What debts? I thought they were rich!”
“They used to be. Dad made a bad investment. Lost almost everything. The house is mortgaged.”
Eleonora sat down beside him.
“Why didn’t you say so right away?”
“Mom forbade it. Said it’s a family matter.”
“And the solution is to sell my apartment?”
“It’ll buy time. Pay off the most persistent creditors.”
“Svyatoslav, that’s not a solution. That’s plugging HOLES.”
“What do you suggest? Let them lose the house?”
“I suggest honesty. If your parents had told the truth from the start, we could have figured something out together.”
“Like what?”
“For example, rent out the apartment. The income’s small, but steady.”
“Mom will never agree to live off rental money from your apartment.”
“Then she can look for other options.”
Svyatoslav stood and paced.
“You don’t understand. If they lose the house, it’s a disaster. Mom won’t survive it.”
“Svyatoslav, I’m sorry. Truly. But I’m not obliged to pay for other people’s mistakes.”
“Other people’s? They’re my parents!”
“To me, they’re STRANGERS. Especially after how they treated me.”
“You’re vindictive!”
“I’m a realist. Your parents tried to DECEIVE me, intimidate me, humiliate me. And now I’m supposed to hand them my apartment?”
“Not to them, to us! We’re a family!”
“NO, Svyatoslav. Family means trust and respect. Not lies and manipulation.”
Svyatoslav grabbed his jacket.
“You know what? Mom was right. You’re selfish. You only think about yourself.”
“And you only think about your mother. Maybe that’s our real problem.”
He slammed the door. Eleonora was alone again. He’d left his phone on the table. The screen lit up—a message came in.
“Son, how did the conversation go? Did she agree?”
Eleonora didn’t read the thread. She put the phone on the hall shelf and went to bed.
In the morning, his phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Eleonora didn’t answer. Around noon, someone started pounding on the door.
“Eleonora, open up! I know you’re home!” shouted Regina Pavlovna.
Eleonora opened the door but left the safety chain on.
“What do you want?”
“My son’s phone! And don’t pretend you don’t know where it is!”
“It’s on the hall shelf. Svyatoslav forgot it yesterday.”
“Hand it over immediately!”
“He can come and get it himself.”
“He doesn’t want to see you!”
“Likewise.”
Regina Pavlovna turned crimson.
“How dare you! I’ll call the police!”
“Go ahead. Explain to them what you’re doing at my door.”
“It’s my son’s door too!”
“No. He isn’t registered here.”
Over her shoulder, Arkady Mikhailovich peeked out.
“Regina, let’s go. No need for a scene.”
“Be quiet! That girl ruined our son’s life!”
“Your son ruined his own life when he chose Mommy’s money over his wife.”
“What do you know about choosing? You—”
At that moment, the neighbors, the elderly Vorontsovs, appeared on the landing.
“What’s going on here?” Pavel Ivanovich asked sternly.
“Nothing special,” Eleonora replied. “Former relatives came for a phone.”
“Former?” asked Valentina Petrovna.
“Future former,” Eleonora clarified.
Regina Pavlovna wanted to say something, but Arkady Mikhailovich pulled her toward the elevator.
“Let’s go, Regina. Svyatoslav will handle it himself.”
They left. The neighbors looked at Eleonora sympathetically.
“If you need help, just ask,” said Valentina Petrovna.
“Thank you, but I’ll manage.”
That evening Svyatoslav came by. He silently picked up his phone and packed some of his things.
“I’ll come for the rest later,” he said curtly.
“Svyatoslav, wait. We need to talk about the divorce.”
“What’s there to talk about? You made your choice.”
“So did you.”
He paused in the doorway.
“You know, I thought you loved me.”
“I did love you. But that love died when you tried to STEAL my apartment.”
“I didn’t steal anything! I wanted to help my parents!”
“At my expense. That’s theft.”
Svyatoslav left. Eleonora closed the door and leaned her back against it. It hurt, but at the same time she felt relief—as if a heavy weight had been lifted.
The divorce went quickly. Svyatoslav didn’t try to claim the apartment, realizing it was hopeless. Eleonora didn’t ask for alimony or compensation.
A month after the divorce she ran into Maksim at a café.
“How’s Svyatoslav?” she asked, stirring sugar into her coffee.
“No idea,” she said—then corrected herself with a small smile. “We don’t talk.”
“I do,” Maksim said. “The three of them are squeezed into a one-room place on Lesnaya. The house was taken for the debts after all.”
Eleonora nodded silently. The news didn’t surprise her.
“Regina Pavlovna’s working as a sales clerk at a cosmetics shop now,” he went on. “And Svyatoslav’s just an office drone. No money at all.”
“I do feel sorry for them,” Eleonora said, and it was true.
“Svyatoslav asks about you sometimes. Says he was wrong.”
“Too late.”
Maksim finished his coffee and looked at her closely.
“And are you happy?”
Eleonora smiled.
“You know, I finally fixed up the balcony. Got a new chair, planted flowers. In the mornings I sit there with a book and think about how right my decision was.”
“No regrets?”
“Not for a minute. Grandma’s apartment only became a real home after the lies left with it. Now it’s just me here, and that’s enough. For now, it’s enough.”
Eleonora stood, gathered her purse.
“I should go. The workers are coming this evening—I’m changing the bedroom wallpaper. With my own money, in my own apartment, as it should be.”
She walked home with a light step, savoring the spring sunshine—and her freedom.
