At the end of August, Yana was picking out new handles for their kitchen cabinets at the hardware store, while her husband Artyom stood nearby, browsing apartment listings on his phone.
“Have you looked at even one handle?” she asked.
“Just a sec. Hey, how much do you think our apartment is worth?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if we sold it. Do you think we could get sixteen million for it?”
Yana put the handle back on the shelf.
“So, you decided to sell the apartment while I was distracted with furniture?”
Artyom laughed and explained. A coworker had just bought a place, and now everyone at the office was discussing prices. Some believe real estate will get more expensive, others expect a crash. Just the usual conversations.
Yana didn’t think much of it.
A few days later, her husband started checking prices again. He compared three-room apartments in their neighborhood, looked at two-rooms farther from the subway, and was amazed by the cost of studios.
He was especially fixated on one math problem: how many small apartments you could get in exchange for one big one.
The reason for his new obsession only became clear at the end of September. And it didn’t come from Artyom.
Yana had bought their three-room apartment four years before their wedding.
At first, she owned a one-room flat that she’d inherited from her grandmother. Yana saved up for a few years, then sold her grandmother’s place, added her savings, and bought a three-room apartment in Saint Petersburg, within walking distance to the subway.
There were no mortgages, no joint investments, no family gifts in that purchase.
Artyom entered her life later. First they dated, then they moved in together, and two years ago they got married.
Her husband fairly contributed to their shared expenses. They split utilities, bought furniture together, and did minor renovations. For big purchases, they agreed in advance, while their remaining money was kept separate.
Yana worked as a procurement specialist at a trading company. Two days a week she was allowed to work from home, so she set up one of the rooms as her office.
The second room was used as a bedroom, and the third as a living room.
Nothing extra, as long as you actually used the apartment, not just counted the number of doors.
Artyom had a younger sister, Veronika. She turned thirty-two in July, and shortly before her birthday, she broke up with the man she’d lived with for almost five years.
The apartment belonged to him. So Veronika had to pack her things, take her cat Musya, and move back in with their mother.
Lidiya Pavlovna lived alone in a two-room apartment she’d inherited from her parents. At first, she was even happy to have her daughter back.
That happiness lasted about a week.
Then it turned out Veronika was used to forty-minute showers, leaving her cosmetics by the sink, and having dinner after ten at night.
Lidiya Pavlovna, on the other hand, liked order, an early bedtime, and her favorite health TV show—which her daughter called “the daily forecast of which body part will give out next.”
An extra player in the family drama was Musya the cat, who had decided there was no better place to sleep than Lidiya Pavlovna’s clean laundry.
Yana understood Veronika.
One evening, they scrolled through more than twenty rental listings together.
One option was rejected by the husband’s sister because the commute to work was too inconvenient. She didn’t like the kitchen in the second one. The third place seemed pretty decent, but the landlord didn’t allow pets.
“What if Mom keeps Musya for a while?” Yana suggested carefully.
“Mom can’t stand her. Besides, I don’t want to be separated from my cat.”
Yana helped find a few more options. Veronika promised to call the landlords, but nothing progressed beyond those conversations.
After a couple of weeks, the search stopped altogether.
Meanwhile, Lidiya Pavlovna started complaining to her son more and more that living together had become impossible.
It was then that Artyom brought up their extra square meters for the first time.
“Yana, why do we even need three rooms? There are only two of us.”
“So what?”
“Well, lots of people live perfectly fine in a two-room place.”
“Of course. Some families manage in a studio with four people. That’s not a reason for us to join them though.”
Artyom didn’t argue. He just mentioned that the study could be combined with the living room.
Yana replied that sure, it could be done, but she really didn’t get why they should swap a comfortable place for a less comfortable one.
A few days later, her husband unexpectedly asked where their old apartment sale contract was.
“Why do you need it?”
“I’m thinking about refinancing the car loan. Looking at different bank offers, including whether I could use real estate as collateral.”
“My real estate?”
“I’m just exploring options. I’m not planning to actually do anything.”
After that, he asked what the apartment cost when they bought it and whether Yana had ever had it appraised.
That was starting to seem odd.
Yana said directly that she wasn’t going to use the apartment as collateral. Artyom assured her that he hadn’t even suggested it.
They dropped the subject.
At least, that’s what Yana thought.
On the last Sunday of September, Lidiya Pavlovna came over with Veronika.
The day before, she had called herself and suggested lunch together. Yana agreed, not particularly enthusiastic, but without objections either.
Her relationship with her mother-in-law was mostly tolerable. Lidiya Pavlovna loved giving advice, but rarely interfered in the daily lives of her son and daughter-in-law.
Yana made meat with potatoes, salad, and an apple pie. Artyom had done the grocery shopping that morning, and Veronika brought chocolates.
Her husband’s sister was in an unusually good mood.
Just a week earlier, she had complained to Artyom on the phone that their mother kept throwing out her yogurts, supposedly because they took up half the fridge. Now, Veronika was smiling, asking Yana about work, and even complimented the pie.
After the main course, Lidiya Pavlovna started talking about real estate.
“One of our acquaintances just sold her apartment. A big, four-room place. And can you believe it, she bought two apartments instead: one for herself and one for her son.”
Yana was pouring tea, only half-listening.
Her mother-in-law liked sharing stories about acquaintances, gradually turning them into advice for those around her.
She was especially confident when speaking about things she’d never actually done herself.
For example, she advised only taking out a mortgage with minimal interest, though she’d never applied for a housing loan. When Artyom was buying a car, she insisted he pay in cash because, as she put it, banks “just rip people off.”
Where to get the missing money, Lidiya Pavlovna never specified.
“A lot of people are doing this nowadays,” continued my mother-in-law. “Why should one family need so much space? It’s smarter to share it fairly among relatives.”
Yana placed the kettle onto its stand.
“If everyone’s fine with it, why not?”
“Exactly! And you have such a nice apartment. Almost eighty square meters, right next to the metro. Apartments like that sell really well these days.”
Yana looked over at her husband.
Artyom was busy picking out pieces of tomato from his salad.
“I checked some listings,” Lidia Pavlovna announced. “Yours could be put up for sixteen million eight hundred thousand. Artyom says it’s in great condition, so buyers won’t keep you waiting.”
The mood at the table grew noticeably quieter.
“There are some nice two-bedroom apartments a bit farther from the metro for ten million two hundred. Really decent ones. We even found a floor plan that looked good.”
The mother-in-law pulled out her phone.
“And there’s a one-bedroom apartment for five million nine hundred. Of course, it’s in a different neighborhood, but it’ll be very convenient for Veronika to commute to work.”
Yana slowly set her cup down.
Sixteen million eight hundred. Ten million two hundred. Five million nine hundred.
Those are way too specific for a casual conversation.
“And that’ll leave you with seven hundred thousand,” Lidia Pavlovna concluded. “That should cover paperwork, moving, maybe a bit of renovating. And you won’t even need a loan!”
Veronika smiled with satisfaction.
Artyom finally stopped poking at his salad.
“Mom, we were just discussing things…”
But Lidia Pavlovna was already on a roll.
“That’s what I’m saying! It’s a great solution. Yana, we’ll exchange your three-bedroom for a two-bedroom for you and Artyom, and a one-bedroom for my daughter. You won’t really lose out on anything substantial, and Veronika will finally have a place of her own.”
Yana studied her mother-in-law for a few seconds.
Then, unexpectedly calmly, she asked:
“Lidia Pavlovna, could you please repeat that?”
“Repeat what exactly?”
“How are the apartments being divided? I want to be sure I understand.”
Her mother-in-law actually seemed pleased by the question.
“Well, we sell your three-bedroom. Then we buy you and Artyom a two-bedroom, and Veronika gets a one-bedroom. We crunched the numbers, it all adds up. Artyom compared prices himself and even estimated the paperwork costs. He says if we find good options, you’ll hardly feel the difference.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Oh, me, Artyom, Veronika. We’ve been thinking about the best way to do this for a while now.”
Yana nodded.
Now everything made sense.
Her husband wasn’t just idly researching real estate.
He had spent several weeks discussing the sale of her apartment with his mother and sister. He calculated numbers, looked through options, made plans.
The owner of the apartment? They forgot to tell her.
“Artyom,” Yana turned to her husband. “Did you really suggest to your mother to sell my apartment?”
“I didn’t say we should sell. We were just doing the math.”
“Then why has your mom already picked out where we’ll live?”
Artyom set his fork down.
“Veronika’s been going through a hard time. I just wanted to see if we could help somehow. I didn’t think Mom would start talking about it today.”
“And when were you planning on telling me?”
“When we found decent options. I didn’t want to say anything without a plan.”
Lidia Pavlovna jumped in:
“Yana, come on, don’t get upset! No one’s selling anything without you!”
“Alright then. So, we’re not selling—yet. But later?”
Her mother-in-law was at a loss.
“Then you’ll talk it over and decide.”
“So why have you already decided that we get the two-bedroom, and Veronika gets the one-bedroom?”
“Because it’s only fair. You’re a family!”
Yana glanced over at Veronika.
Veronika was sitting with her hands folded on her lap. The box of chocolates in front of her was still unopened.
“Veronika, did you know about this plan too?”
“Artyom mentioned this was one of the options.”
“And that I’d agreed?”
“He said you’re usually against changes at first, but once the money side of things works out, you tend to agree.”
Artyom shot a sharp look at his sister.
“Nika, that’s not exactly what I said.”
“But that’s how you explained it to me! You told me the most important thing was to find good apartments, and then you’d talk to Yana afterwards.”
Veronika fell silent.
Yana no longer had any doubt about where her mother-in-law’s confidence was coming from.
Her husband hadn’t promised outright that she’d agree. He made things more convenient—he just made her objections seem like a temporary formality.
As if there was nothing left to do except get Yana’s agreement just because all the calculations were already made.
“Alright,” she said. “Do you already have a realtor?”
Artyom looked away.
That was all the answer she needed.
“There’s someone I know,” he admitted reluctantly. “I just asked how long it takes to sell an apartment in our neighborhood right now.”
“And what did they say?”
“If the price is right, you can sell pretty quickly.”
“Excellent. So you haven’t contacted any buyers yet?”
“Yana, stop it. I haven’t put anything up for sale!”
“Not yet.”
Lidiya Pavlovna tried to make the conversation more peaceful.
“Let’s just be calm about this. I really don’t see what’s so upsetting. You’ll have a nice apartment. Two rooms for the two of you—more than enough. Veronika will have a place, too. Everybody’s happy.”
“Not everybody,” Yana remarked.
“What are you unhappy about?”
Yana looked at her mother-in-law with something close to curiosity.
She was being asked to give up several million rubles and a room she needed for work—and this was being pitched to her as some kind of great deal.
But Yana wasn’t about to explain why she didn’t owe her husband’s sister a new apartment.
“Lidiya Pavlovna, let me suggest a different option.”
“What option?”
“Sell your two-bedroom. Buy yourself a one-bedroom, and give the leftover money to Veronika for a down payment. She has a job—she can find a mortgage she can manage. And you won’t have to share a bathroom anymore either.”
Her mother-in-law frowned.
“Why would I want a one-bedroom? I like my apartment!”
“So do I.”
“But you’re young. It’s easier for you to move.”
“And for you, it’s harder?”
“Of course! I’ve lived here my whole life. The clinic’s nearby, so are the shops, and I know all the neighbors. Where would I put my furniture? I have a large wall unit!”
“I have a workspace and furniture too.”
“That’s not the same! I’m already sixty-three. At my age, moving is no joke.”
Yana couldn’t help but smile.
“Funny, isn’t it? When it’s my apartment shrinking, we’re being ‘practical’ about the space. But when it’s yours, suddenly it’s about health and how precious that wall unit is.”
Veronika lowered her eyes.
Artyom sat motionless.
“And besides,” Yana added, “you don’t even have to buy two apartments at once out of your two-bedroom. You said yourself, the main thing is to help your daughter.”
“I’m not going to spend my old age living in a single room!”
— I’m not going to pay for Veronika’s apartment out of my own property.
That final sentence finally brought the conversation to a stop.
Lidiya Pavlovna left earlier than she had planned.
As she was leaving, she said she only wanted to help the kids, and that Yana had misunderstood her intentions.
Veronika lingered by the hallway.
— Yana, I really thought you had almost agreed. Artyom said all that was left was to choose the options.
Yana looked at her.
— Veronika, would you honestly want to give away part of your apartment, if you had one?
Veronika stayed silent.
— Probably not.
— Well, I don’t want to either.
Her husband’s sister nodded, pulled on her jacket, and followed their mother out.
Artyom helped his wife clean up the dishes. He stayed silent while Yana put leftovers into containers.
Finally, he spoke:
— I didn’t expect Mom to present it all like this.
— And how should she have done it? Handing out the keys first and then asking me?
— No one handed out anything!
— Artyom, do you know what would’ve happened if I’d said I was willing to consider the option? Your mom would be picking out wallpaper for Veronika tomorrow. And a week later, I’d be the bad guy if I changed my mind.
He wanted to argue, but he said nothing.
Yana closed the refrigerator.
— Tell me one thing. Did you know I wouldn’t agree?
Her husband leaned on the edge of the counter.
— I knew you wouldn’t like the idea.
— That’s why you decided to make everyone happy first, and only then to talk me into it?
— I thought once you saw the numbers, you’d realize it was doable. Mom keeps calling, always complaining. Veronika’s been living with her for months now, they’re driving each other crazy. I wanted to solve the problem.
— At my expense.
Artyom winced.
— Why say it like that? We’re husband and wife.
— That’s exactly why I don’t get why you didn’t talk to me first.
He didn’t have an answer to that.
Yana didn’t start a fight or demand her husband pack his things right away.
But that evening, she told him she wasn’t ready to discuss any major financial decisions with him for now.
They had actually planned to replace some kitchen appliances and furniture in the winter. Yana suggested postponing those purchases.
— Right now, I don’t know which of our conversations stay between us, and which ones turn into a family meeting with your mom.
Artyom was hurt.
For the first few days, he walked around gloomy, speaking in short replies. Then he tried to explain he just wanted to do the right thing, but chose the wrong way to go about it.
Yana listened to him.
But his explanation didn’t restore her confidence in him.
In October, Lidiya Pavlovna complained to her son about the lack of space two more times.
Once, she told him over the phone that Veronika has a real chance to arrange her life, but that some people just don’t know how to care about their loved ones.
At first, Artyom began to calm his mother the way he usually did, promising to come up with something.
Then he stopped himself.
— Mom, we’re not discussing Yana’s apartment anymore. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved at all.
Lidiya Pavlovna was offended and ended the conversation.
This time, Artyom didn’t call her back five minutes later to make peace.
And a week later, he offered to help his sister look for a rental on his own.
Veronika started off by listing all her requirements for her future apartment again. Then her mom lost her temper over someone leaving cat litter next to the bathroom, and suddenly that wish list got a lot shorter.
Turns out, she wanted to live on her own way more than she wanted a brand new kitchen or those floor-to-ceiling windows.
In early December, Veronika found a small studio not far from her work. The owner agreed to let her have a cat—as long as she paid a bigger deposit.
While Veronika was still living with her mom, she managed to save part of her salary, so she had enough for the first month’s rent and the deposit from her own money.
Artyom helped her move. He even paid for the moving truck out of his own pocket.
Yana didn’t help with moving, but in the evening Veronika sent her a photo of Musya the cat, stretched out on the new windowsill.
Under the photo, there was a message:
“We’ve settled in. Mom says it’s unusually quiet at home now. I’m still adjusting too. Thank you for not making any promises back then. Otherwise, I’d probably still be sitting and waiting for another six months.”
Yana smiled.
Turns out, sometimes it’s better not to hand someone a ready-made apartment, but to let them solve their problem on their own.
With Artyom, things got a bit more complicated.
He stopped bringing up the topic of selling the apartment, but Yana knew that silence didn’t mean he’d realized his mistake.
One day in December, she overheard him talking to his mother.
Lidiya Pavlovna wanted to know if they were planning to change their housing after all. Since Veronika had moved out, maybe they could at least buy a two-bedroom and invest whatever was left.
“Mom,” Artyom answered, “that isn’t my apartment. And I’m done trying to decide what Yana should do with it. She’ll figure it out herself.”
“But you’re her husband!”
“Exactly. And I acted like she left the apartment with me just to hold onto it.”
Yana was in the next room and heard everything perfectly well.
But she didn’t go out and thank her husband for saying the right things.
She wanted to make sure that he really wouldn’t make decisions behind her back anymore.
Right before New Year’s, Artyom came back to the conversation himself.
“I finally understood what bothered you the most,” he said one evening while they were unpacking groceries.
Yana stayed silent.
“It wasn’t just the idea of helping Veronika. Or even selling the apartment. I thought I could convince you, if my mom and sister backed me up first.”
“That’s exactly what you did.”
“Yes. I thought I was saving everyone from a problem. But really, I solved my sister’s issue at your expense. And I didn’t even ask you.”
He didn’t ask for instant forgiveness.
He shared that he had already apologized to Veronika for his promises and explained to his mom that they had no right to count on Yana’s apartment.
Yana noticed that, for the first time, her husband wasn’t focusing on how awkward Sunday lunch had been—he was talking about the decision he made that started it all.
“I need time, Artyom,” she said. “I don’t want to keep feeling like you discuss our life with your family first, and only tell me the final plan.”
He nodded.
After the holidays, they got back to the topic of buying new kitchen appliances together. Artyom first checked on their overall budget, then suggested a few options—and didn’t make a single decision without discussing it with Yana.
To an outsider, it looked like typical family business.
But for Yana, this was a small yet important sign that her husband was truly trying to break the habit of making decisions on his own.
They didn’t get divorced. But the trust between them was coming back much more slowly than Artyom had hoped.
Lidiya Pavlovna never mentioned splitting the apartment again. Sometimes she would complain about rising prices, utility bills, or how rarely her daughter visited.
But she still had no intention of selling her own two-room apartment.
One day, as Yana was passing by a home improvement store, she remembered that August conversation about the price of their apartment.
Back then, she even joked that her husband was planning to sell the place while she was still choosing handles for the cabinets.
Now, that joke didn’t seem quite so funny anymore.
Still, they had picked out great handles that time. And the apartment was still theirs.
Over those months, Artyom learned one simple thing: wanting to help family doesn’t give you the right to take charge of someone else’s property. Even if that property belongs to your own wife.
And especially not if your wife is going to be the last to know about your wonderful family plan.