The phone rings at half past seven in the morning. Vera is standing by the window with a cup of chicory, watching the janitor on Ilyinskaya gather wet leaves into a pile. The screen lights up with “Zinaida Prokopyevna,” and Vera’s left shoulder tenses out of habit.
“Verotchka, did I wake you?” her mother-in-law’s voice is lively and authoritative, like she’s calling roll at a dorm. “We’re coming on Saturday. Me, Stasik, and Baks. Glebushka knows, he said you’ll set the table.”
“Hello. What’s the occasion?” Vera sets her cup on the windowsill.
“There’s only one occasion, my dear: family. Don’t buy fish—Stasik gets heartburn from it. Get chicken. But not from the store, go to the market and get one with yellow skin.”
The call drops before Vera can reply. She slowly puts the phone down and looks around the kitchen. High ceilings, the molding she scrubbed herself with a toothbrush, the oak table restored by a craftsman from Gorodets.
She inherited this apartment with a bay window in a revenue house from her grandmother, Anna Yefimovna. Honestly, only the walls and some pre-war wiring were left from her grandmother’s legacy. Everything else—pipes, ceilings, windows, furniture—Vera paid for herself, six years before she got married, working in her own dental office from eight in the morning till ten at night.
Gleb comes out of the bedroom in a tank top, an accordion tucked under his arm. He teaches at the music college, and even in the morning, he talks like he’s on stage introducing the next act.
“Did my mother call?” He grins widely. “She called. I can see it in your face. Verunchik, this is wonderful! The family ensemble in full force!”
“Gleb, what’s the reason?” Vera looks him straight in the eyes. “You know something.”
“All I know is that Mom missed us,” he says, kisses her on the temple, and heads to the bathroom, humming something from “Prince Igor.”
On Saturday, the entryway fills with the smell of mothballs and dog hair. Zinaida Prokopyevna, seventy-six years old, former dorm warden at a workers’ residence in Arzamas, is the first to come in, surveying the coat rack like she’s counting beds. Behind her shuffles Stas, Gleb’s younger brother, thirty-one, cap turned backwards. On a leash, their chubby pug Baks wheezes.
“Where do we line up the shoes, in order?” Stas snickers, and without waiting for an answer, kicks off his sneakers right in the middle of the rug.
At the table, mother-in-law sits with dignity, cuts the chicken into equal pieces, and lays them out on plates herself, without asking. Legs for herself and Stas. A wing for Gleb. Vera gets the back.
“That’s the proper way,” Zinaida Prokopyevna nods with satisfaction. “In my dorm, everything was fair. Everyone got what was due to them.”
“Mom, can we get to the point?” Stas says with his mouth full, jabbing his fork toward Vera. “What’s the hold up?”
Mother-in-law dabs her lips with a napkin. Then she folds her hands on the table, just like she used to in her commandant’s office, and looks at Vera over the top of her glasses.
“Vera, Stas needs to get settled. He’s a good-looking, hard-working man. He wants to start driving a taxi, first by renting a car, then he dreams of opening his own deli with smoked meats. But without a permanent registration in the regional center, no garage will give him a car and no bank will approve a loan. So you’ll get him registered at your place. It’s just a formality.”
“A formality,” Vera repeats, setting her fork aside. “Zinaida Prokopyevna, permanent registration isn’t just some stamp on a postcard. It means the right to live in my apartment, and you can only remove someone through the courts. The apartment is mine from before the marriage. I’m not doing it.”
“And you can get a temporary registration anywhere,” she adds more calmly. “Rent a room for Stas, the landlord will take care of the paperwork.”
Stas stops chewing. Under the table, Baks suddenly falls silent, as if he senses something’s wrong too. Gleb starts blushing in red patches, the color creeping from his ears.
“Vera!” He throws up his hands, like a conductor before a big symphonic burst. “Why are you being so formal? He’s my brother! My own flesh and blood, you understand? If he rents a room, he’ll be kicked out in a month, but here—he’d have support, a family, a solid foundation!”
“You build him a foundation with your own money, Gleb,” Vera says quietly, each word sharp and deliberate. “I don’t want my walls involved.”
Zinaida Prokopyevna stands up. Slowly and with dignity, the kind you might imagine she had when she evicted tenants for drinking after eleven.
“I told Glebushka right away,” she declares coldly. “Right away. This woman records every meter in her notebook. No kindness, no heart, just numbers. Stasik, get the dog.”
The door slams. Gleb stays seated at the table, staring for a long time at the unfinished wing.
A week passes in silence. Gleb moves to sleep in the office, on a narrow leather couch, taking his accordion with him like a hostage. In the mornings, he doesn’t say hello; in the evenings, he only answers with “hmm” and “yeah.”
On Thursday, Vera finds him in the kitchen. He’s standing at the stove, stirring buckwheat with determination, even though it’s been ready for a while.
“Gleb, let’s talk,” she pleads. “We can’t go on like this.”
“Can’t?” He sharply turns, spoon in hand. “What about my mom? Yesterday she called, remember? She worked overnight shifts for forty years in that dorm so Stas and I could grow up right! And you couldn’t spare one line in your passport! Just one line!”
“Your mom has a three-room apartment in Arzamas,” Vera folds her arms. “Why doesn’t she register Stas with her? Or give him a room? Because she’s protecting what’s hers. Or she could sell it and give him some money, so he can buy a place and do the paperwork. But I’m not giving away what’s mine.”
“You’re always counting,” Gleb hisses.
“I am counting,” Vera agrees. “Should I remind you who borrowed eighty thousand from me three years ago for that ‘vape shop that would definitely take off’? Where’s that money, Gleb? Did it take off?”
Gleb throws the spoon into the sink. It hits the metal with a clang so loud Vera flinches.
“Fine,” he says, his voice suddenly distant and cold, with no hint of showmanship. “Mom’s right. A wife who puts square meters above her husband isn’t a wife. She’s a landlord. Either tomorrow we go and register Stas, or you move out. Mom says that’s the only fair way.”
Vera doesn’t understand what’s just been said at first. She glances at the oak table, the moldings, then the window where her confused face is reflected. The person who walked in here five years ago with just an accordion, two shirts, and a music folder is now telling her she should leave her grandmother’s apartment.
She can’t help but giggle.
“Me? Leave?” she repeats. “Gleb, do you hear yourself? Whose parquet are you standing on right now?”
“Technically—yours!” he nearly shouts. “But for real—ours! I lived here for five years! I replaced the radiator in the bedroom! I painted the balcony! I paid the electricity bills! I put my soul into this apartment, do you get it?”
“You had a repairman replace the radiator. You just held the flashlight,” Vera points out.
“Think it over until morning,” Gleb snaps and heads out, bumping his shoulder against the doorway.
Vera sits on a stool. Bax isn’t here, her mother-in-law isn’t here, but it feels as if they’re all already sitting in the corners, waiting for her to give in. “You’ll be waiting a long time,” she thinks with a smile.
At 7:40 on Saturday morning, Vera is woken by a loud crash. Someone drops something heavy in the hallway, followed by a dog’s raspy panting and a man quietly swearing.
She walks out in her robe. In the middle of the corridor stand two plaid bags, a rolled up mattress, and a cardboard box labeled “Stas — do not touch.” Gleb, eyes averted, drags in a third bag. Stas walks in holding a pug, and last comes Zinaida Prokopyevna, carrying a three-liter jar of pickles.
“Good morning, Verotchka!” her mother-in-law cheerfully announces. “We’re moving in. Gleb said there’s a little misunderstanding. But what misunderstanding can there be between family? Stasik will stay in the study for now, on the couch. You get your papers ready, we’ll sort things out here ourselves.”
“Gleb,” Vera looks straight at her husband. “What is this?”
“This is my family,” he mumbles, eyes down.
“Don’t put on a show, dear,” her mother-in-law says as she places the jar right on the antique secretary desk. “Gleb is registered here, he’s your lawful husband. That means he has the right to invite people. There’s plenty of room for everyone. Stasik, turn your internet on.”
Stas has already gone to the study in his street jacket. He tosses Bax onto the leather sofa, and the pug immediately starts digging at the upholstery. Gleb’s accordion has been shoved in the corner, like unwanted furniture.
“Hey, Vera, what’s the Wi-Fi password?” Stas yells from the study. “I’ve got bets running.”
Vera silently gets dressed, grabs her bag without a word, and leaves. She steps around the jar of pickles like it’s a landmine. On the stairs, she dials the number of Larisa Tumanova, her school friend who’s now a lawyer specializing in housing disputes.
“Tumanova,” Larisa answers hoarsely, and Vera can hear her exhaling smoke. “Talk, Gornostaeva, I’ve got a hearing in forty minutes.”
“Lara, my mother-in-law, my brother-in-law, and a pug have all moved into my apartment. With all their stuff. My husband says he has the right to invite them.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and then laughter that sounds like a cough.
— Oh, I love this. Listen up. Your husband is officially registered as a family member, so he can live there. But he can’t invite people over. Your mother-in-law and brother-in-law have no rights here. If someone stays in someone else’s home without the owner’s consent, that’s breaking the rules—and if they damage anything, that’s grounds for a police report. Take photos of everything: the couch, the secret cabinet, even the pug if you want. Your husband has a share? — She snorts. — The apartment is from before your marriage, inherited from your grandmother. Don’t even dream about it for him.
— And what if he takes me to court over the renovations?
— Let him bring his paperwork for his precious radiator, I’ll frame it and hang it up, — Larisa inhales again. — Call me tonight. And Vera… stop being afraid that you’ll end up alone. Being alone isn’t the same as loneliness. Loneliness is being with them.
continued in the comments
In the evening, the hallway smells of fried pork fat and dog. Vera opens the door with her key and immediately sees white stains across the parquet: in the kitchen, her mother-in-law is making dumplings, flour flying everywhere. The oak table, which took a restorer half a year to refurbish, is covered in dough, scraps, and bowls.
There’s a special surprise for her waiting in the bathroom. Her sterilizer for instruments and her expensive professional toothpastes have been stuffed into a bag under the sink. In their place are Stas’s deodorant, a razor with hair still on it, and a pack of cheap cigarettes.
Stas is sitting in the kitchen, feet up on the next chair. He’s eating red caviar straight from the jar with a spoon—the same caviar Vera bought to celebrate the anniversary of her clinic.
— Oh, Vera, hey! — He waves his spoon. — This caviar is amazing. Don’t hold back, Mom said everything’s shared now. Listen, can I toss the couch from the office? Baks already chewed it up anyway.
Zinaida Prokopyevna steps out of the hallway in her apron. She looks like she just finished inspecting the whole floor and had everyone lined up.
— Finally, you’re home, — sighs her mother-in-law. — Gleb and I have decided the office is Stas’s permanently now. You just sorted through your papers in there anyway. Gleb can sleep with you in the bedroom for now, since he’s all cramped up on your couch. And you still haven’t given us the password.
At that moment, Gleb appears in the doorway. He’s not holding flowers or an apology—a stack of papers printed out at the teacher’s lounge is all he’s got.
— Look this over, — he announces solemnly, setting the papers right on the dough. — On the forums, lawyers are saying: if a spouse invests personal money into improving a home, they can claim a share. I changed the radiator. Painted the balcony. Bought the hallway chandelier. Mom will back me up—she saw how much work I put in here.
— I will! — his mother booms. — Like a galley slave!
Vera looks at the papers, at the caviar on Stas’s spoon, at the flour on the parquet. She suddenly starts laughing—really laughing—until tears come.
— Gleb, — she manages through the laughter, — do you seriously think a can of balcony paint is enough for you to get a room in a nineteenth-century house? Then I demand a share of your mother’s three-room apartment. I washed her windows and cleaned out her fridge for two days last May.
— Don’t joke around! — Gleb explodes. — You’re just dragging things out! Either we register Stas on Monday, or I file for division. And I’m taking my share—just wait and see!
His mother stands right next to him, hands on her hips. Stas grins and licks his spoon. They’re standing there together, shoulder to shoulder like a choir on stage—absolutely sure the soloist is about to break down and burst into tears.
Vera grabs her phone. First, she takes a picture of the chewed-up sofa, then the writing desk marked with a wet ring from a can, and then the bag with her things under the kitchen sink. After that, she dials a number.
“Lara, hey. Yes, the evening’s in full swing. The guests are staking their claim on the apartment just because they painted the balcony. Get ready to file for divorce and to have my husband removed from registration. I’m calling the police officer now, and I have all the photos as evidence.”
“You’re bluffing,” Gleb goes pale. “What police officer? I’m registered here!”
“You are, yes,” Vera nods. “But they aren’t. And Gleb, Larisa will be writing a letter to your college director tomorrow. She’ll mention how Professor Morozov took matters into his own hands in his wife’s apartment, and brought his mother as a witness. What do you think—does your director like these stories right before the accreditation?”
Gleb opens his mouth with a wet smack, then shuts it again. For the ‘distinguished’ bayan player who’s spent twenty years longing for a title, a scandal like this will ruin him faster than any court.
Officer Ryabinin—with his reddish mustache—arrives thirty-five minutes later. He spends a long time studying Vera’s certificate from the registry, then turns his head slowly toward the mother-in-law.
“Ma’am, are you registered here?” he asks.
“I’m his mother!” Zinaida Prokopyevna flares up. “I’ve been a dorm manager for forty years! I know the rules!”
“Then you know that you can’t be here without the owner’s permission,” Ryabinin says calmly. “Start gathering your things. And you too, young man, and the dog as well. Otherwise, I’ll be writing up a report, filing an act, issuing a fine… Well, you know how that goes.”
Stas jumps up so fast he knocks over the jar of caviar. He tears around the room, frantically stuffing chargers, socks, and a pack of lottery tickets into his bag. Baks whines and gets tangled under his feet.
“Mom, you said you had it all under control!” he whines. “You said she’d cry and sign the papers!”
“Shut up, idiot!” his mother snaps, cramming unfinished dumplings into a bag. “She’s a monster, not a woman! Gleb, how did you live with her? This isn’t a wife, it’s a notary office!”
Gleb packs his things in silence. He puts his bayan into its case with the gentleness of handling a child, though his hands shake. The forum printouts are left sitting on the pastry dough.
At the door, he looks back. There’s no anger or dramatic flair in his eyes anymore, just the hurt look of someone whose mother promised everything would work out.
“You chose a piece of paper over me,” he says quietly. “You never loved me, Vera.”
“I did love you, unfortunately,” she answers, holding his gaze. “I loved you for five years. But I married you, Gleb, not your mother’s dormitory with her beds listed on a roster. Leave the keys on the nightstand.”
The keys clatter on the wood. The door closes.
Vera throws open the window to Ilyinskaya and lets in the cold Volga wind. She sweeps the printouts and dough into a garbage bag, tosses in Stas’s cigarettes and then his razor. She pulls out her sterilizer from under the sink, washes it, and puts it back in its place.
Three months later, their divorce is finalized. Gleb shows up in court with a receipt for a can of paint costing nine hundred rubles and an invoice for a chandelier. Larisa, without missing a beat, counters with her own set of documents: an estimate for reupholstering the chewed-up sofa, a bill for cleaning the parquet floors, and an expert evaluation of the secretary desk.
The judge, wearing glasses, barely manages to hide a smile. Gleb’s claim is denied completely, and he’s even required to cover part of the legal expenses.
Zinaida Prokopyevna and Stas have returned to Arzamas. Stas never got his taxi license, never opened the smoked meats shop, and now lives off his mother’s pension, telling the neighbors that ‘the capital just didn’t accept him.’ Word is, Gleb rents a room near the vocational school and plays at weddings on weekends.
On the very first Sunday after court, Vera changes the locks just in case, buys a new chair for her office, and places a pot of geraniums on the windowsill. In the evening, she sips chicory by the window and watches the janitor gather up leaves again. Now, there’s only one mistress in this apartment, and to Vera, this new arrangement with herself feels like the best deal she’s ever made.