I unlocked the door with a key that had somehow never squeaked on its own, and today decided to show some initiative. It was quiet on the landing, quiet in the apartment too, and I’d already stepped into the hall when a whisper from my husband and my mother-in-law’s brisk voice drifted from the kitchen.
“Here’s what we’ll do, Ilyusha,” she was saying. “We clear out the kid’s room; I’ll put a bed in there. Kolya can live on the couch—won’t kill the boy.”
“Ma, not so abrupt,” Ilya whispered. “We have to break it to Lena gently. And take the money from her stash carefully. It’ll be just enough for the down payment on the Creta.”
I stood there holding my sneakers, thinking that yes, I should’ve bought sneakers without white soles ages ago—then the dirt wouldn’t give away my presence. And also thinking that apparently I have a “stash” I’m supposed to say goodbye to. What joy. Who would’ve thought: I saved for a kitchen window, and they’ll buy a car. A man needs it, after all.
“Lena isn’t going anywhere,” my mother-in-law said confidently. “I’m moving in with you temporarily, for six months. They promised me a renovation over there… well, at least someone promised something somewhere. And we’ve wanted a car for ages. You’re the husband. You decide.”
I quietly took my shoes off, slipped the laces into one pocket and my phone into the other. And I stood another minute, until Ilya added:
“We just have to talk her into it. We’ll say it’s best for everyone. And no arguing with you. You’re the mother.”
Something clicked inside. It wasn’t jealousy. And it wasn’t hurt. It was tiredness that was done pretending to be calm. And yes, I rarely admit it to myself, but choosing between “wife” and “mother” is something Ilya’s been good at for a long time. Guess who he picks more often. Million-dollar secret.
I hung my jacket up with a rustle, deliberately coughed, and walked into the kitchen.
“What are we whispering about?” I asked, setting a bag with bread on the table, as if I’d just been to Pyaterochka and not standing behind the door.
“Lena!” my mother-in-law squeaked. “You’re already back? Oh, we were just… discussing tea.”
“Sure,” I said. “Tea. The thing no one in this family drinks.”
Ilya stared into his phone as if it were a lifebuoy. My mother-in-law exhaled:
“Fine. I’ll be direct. I’m moving in with you. Temporarily. Six months. I’ve got… issues with the neighbors there. So, you don’t mind, right? We’ll convert the kid’s room for me, Kolya gets the couch. And we’re getting the car. And everything will be fine.”
“Just a second,” Ilya cut in. “We’re still discussing the format.”
“Format,” I repeated. “Trendy word of the day. And the money? Where’s the car down payment coming from?”
“We’re one family,” my mother-in-law said. “What other questions could there be?”
“As for us—yes. As for the car—no,” I said. “Ilya, can I have a word without your mom?”
“No secret plotting,” she snapped. “I can hear everything.”
“Get used to it,” I said. “Our walls are thin.”
That was the moment when normal families pretend they love each other. We, in that moment, pretended we understood what we were talking about. That’s more honest.
Plan “Minus the Kid’s Room”
Ilya and I went to the bedroom. My mother-in-law stayed in the kitchen and scraped a chair loudly so we wouldn’t forget who was in charge.
“Len,” he began, nervously tugging at his hoodie zipper. “Here’s the situation. It’s hard for Mom to be alone, you know that. Over there… the neighbors yell, the ceiling leaks. She’ll stay with us for a while. Six months.”
“And the car,” I reminded him. “We’ve got our priorities. Mom, then the car, and then, if anything’s left, Kolya.”
“Don’t start.” He sighed. “Do you seriously want to argue? Can’t you see how tired Mom is?”
“I can,” I said. “And I can see how tired you are of explaining to me that I’m wrong. And where am I in this plan? I’m the person who loses the kid’s room. And the money for the window. And gets told, ‘Don’t argue, it’s family.’”
“We’re not taking anything away,” he waved his hands. “It’s just temporary. The window can wait. And we need the car: to go to the dacha, to drive Mom. It’ll be better for you, too.”
“Of course it will,” I nodded. “Just one tiny question: why does ‘better’ always mean ‘grit your teeth, Lena, you’re the understanding one’?”
He fell silent. Which was an honest answer.
“Listen,” Ilya said, “don’t box yourself in. Money in a family shouldn’t just sit there. We’ll pay it back later.”
“When is ‘later’?” I asked. “After six months? After the loan? After Kolya grows up and keeps sleeping on the couch by habit? Ilya, I don’t agree.”
“You…” He raised his eyebrows. “You’re against my mother?”
“I’m against paving the way with my son. And against buying your toy with my money.”
“A toy?” He was offended. “A car is a necessity.”
“For whom? For a person who comes home by metro?” I asked. “You hardly drive.”
“I’ll learn,” he muttered. “I already signed up.”
“With whose money? Mine?”
He looked away. Which was also an answer.
I looked at our son’s backpack leaning against the wall. A crooked patch from Leroy Merlin was sewn onto it—the one we’d spent an entire evening hunting down, because Kolya “wanted the one with sharks.” We laughed that night. Today wasn’t funny.
“All right,” I said. “Here’s what we’ll do. No decisions today. Tomorrow we’ll talk the three of us, but not like this. Properly. With numbers. With things in their place.”
“And now?”
“Now I need to think.”
“Just don’t escalate,” he pleaded. “Mom’s on edge as it is.”
“I was born on an edge,” I said, and stepped out onto the balcony to make a call.
Calling the neighbor was the practical move. Katya from apartment five knew our building’s analytics better than any property manager.
“Katya, hey. Can you help me out?” I asked. “Take the kid’s boxes of clothes for a couple of days? We’ve got some furniture moving. Temporarily.”
“Are you serious?” she said. “With your mother-in-law?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then bring them right now,” Katya said. “Before ‘temporarily’ turns into ‘forever.’”
Sometimes humor cuts better than any knife. Katya knew how to do that.
The Stash in the Pot
In the evening I sat down with a notebook. Yes, I’m that person—the one with a “stash.” Because if you don’t do the counting, someone will count you. I wrote it out: renting a one-room place near the school—28,000 plus utilities; delivery at first—1,200; taxi for emergencies at night—600. Keep 1,500 for the kid’s club; otherwise he’ll go nuts without his Friday chess. And also—phone insurance, because my phone is basically my passport.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asked, peering over my shoulder.
“Counting,” I said. “You were the one who suggested ‘with numbers.’”
“Hold on, are you going somewhere?” He tensed up.
“I’m not going anywhere yet. But I’m not going to wake up tomorrow cooking for your mother in the room that used to be the kid’s,” I said. “I know how this goes. ‘Temporary’ lasts until it becomes convenient.”
“You’re overdoing it.”
“No, I’m leveling it,” I said. “And let’s pretend we’re adults: tomorrow we meet at the table, no shouting. You can even draft an agenda. You love your ‘formats.’”
He left. I re-hid my “pot”—a metal cookie tin where I kept cash. Naive? Yes. But easier than arguing with someone else’s conscience. And just in case, I moved part of my savings from my card into a separate Tinkoff “savings pocket.” Banks are the one thing that never pretend to love you. I prefer their honesty.
I hardly slept that night. Not from drama—from logistics. What to take first? Documents, chargers, Kolya’s textbooks, spare socks, the first-aid kit. I made a list in Notes. And I woke up with a decision. Not heroic. Just adult.
A Family Council “Like Adults”
In the morning we sat at the table. My mother-in-law took the head of it. Ilya sat beside her. I sat across. Kolya was at school—he had shop class today.
“So,” my mother-in-law said in a TV-host tone. “I’ll live with you. Six months. I’m not asking for luxury. A bed, a wardrobe, decent conditions. A boy needs a woman’s touch around him. And the money will go to the right things. The car. You can’t live without a car nowadays.”
“Mom,” Ilya began, “let’s keep it calm. Lena asked to discuss specifics.”
“Here are the specifics,” she cut him off. “We clear out the kid’s room today. My bed arrives tonight. I hired some mover guys from the neighbors. The car down payment is tomorrow, Ilyusha. Call me at nine to wake me up.”
“Ma, wait…” Ilya scratched his neck. “Lena… you’re okay with this, right?”
“I’m not,” I said. “And let’s do it this way: first we discuss where the child is going to sleep. Second—who’s footing the bill. Third—who does what at home.”
“The bill?” she snorted. “What, you want to count money? A husband’s money is family money.”
“A wife’s is too,” I said. “But we have strange arithmetic: only mine seem to count as ‘family.’ So let’s be honest: not a single ruble of mine goes to that car. The kid’s room stays put. We don’t have room for a live-in. And I’m not going to be a caretaker for an adult just because someone decided so. I have a job and a child.”
“You’re throwing me out?” she raised her voice.
“No,” I said. “I’m saying no to your plan. If you truly have nowhere to live, let’s look at options: a hostel, a clinic-affiliated boarding place for the duration of the renovation, renting a room in the next building—our local VK group is full of ads. I’ll help make the calls. But we’ve got a two-room place in Yekaterinburg, not a sanatorium.”
“That’s how you talk to your husband’s mother?” she flared. “Am I a stranger to you?”
“When it’s about the kid’s room and my money, you get very businesslike,” I said. “Let me be businesslike too. What are your housing options? I’m listening.”
“What’s there to listen to?” she waved it off. “I’m moving in with my son. My blood pressure, you know.”
“Got a doctor’s note?” Katya suddenly asked, poking her head in the kitchen doorway—turns out she’d brought back our baking sheet she’d borrowed for a pie and got stuck in an awkward moment. “Oh, excuse me…”
“Katya, come in,” I said. “You’re right on time. We’re workshopping a family format here.”
“I’ll come back later,” Katya blushed, but my mother-in-law had already latched onto her.
“See? Neighbors walk in, everyone knows. Shame for the whole building,” she started.
“Mom,” Ilya cut her off, “enough. Let’s actually talk numbers. How much to rent a nearby room? How much for storage if we put your furniture in a unit? I’m willing to help. But the kid’s room stays Kolya’s. The car—can wait.”
He wasn’t heroic, just unusually coherent. I was surprised. Apparently, for the first time he weighed not only “Mom” and “me.” There was “Kolya” in there too. And me, by the way.
“So you’re against your own mother?” she turned to him.
“I’m for my son,” he said. “And for the family. The car can come later. Mom, I’ll help with a room. I’ll start looking at listings.”
“You’re whipped,” she spat.
“I’m a father,” he said.
Sounds beautiful? Don’t get carried away. A minute later he was smoothing it over again:
“Mom, seriously. We’ll help. For the renovation period. Just not the kid’s room, okay?”
“My renovation will last a year,” she said. “If it happens at all.”
“Then it’s even better to rent a room nearby,” I put in. “I can front ten thousand for the first month. With an IOU. And I’ll help with the move. But not into our place.”
“Who rents for ten?” she protested.
“Plenty on Avito,” Katya called from the door. “Sorry. I just heard. Nika on the next street has a room for nine.”
“Thanks, Katya,” I said.
My mother-in-law stood up, pushed back her chair, looked at her son and at me.
“I see how it is,” she said icily. “Lena, you’ve pushed me out of the family. And you, Ilya… fine. I’ll text my friend. And as for the car—forget it. I’ll manage on my own.”
“Mom, no theatrics,” Ilya asked. “We’ll help. Really.”
“I don’t need help,” she answered, and went into the hallway to make a call—on speaker, of course.
I saw Ilya’s chin tremble. He’s not a villain. He’s just used to someone else deciding for him. It’s a convenient talent.
Moving Out with Three Backpacks
While my mother-in-law was on the phone, I did what I needed to do. No, I didn’t slam the door (we’re not allowed to). I gathered the documents into a folder, packed Kolya’s textbooks into his backpack, my basics into a gym bag, chargers into a toiletry pouch. Katya helped carry two boxes “temporarily.” I wasn’t running away. I was doing what I should’ve done yesterday.
“Where are you going?” Ilya asked when he saw the bag.
“I’m moving out for a bit,” I said. “I rented a one-room place in Uralmash. Two tram stops away, school nearby. For a month. While you and your mom assemble your construction set of decisions.”
“You’re serious?” He was at a loss. “Len, don’t jump to conclusions.”
“These aren’t conclusions,” I said. “They’re premises. I don’t want my kid sleeping on a couch. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow as a kitchen fairy. When you and your mother decide how you’re going to live—call me. We’ll talk. Properly.”
“Wait, and the money?” he frowned. “You…”
“My money is mine,” I said. “For the child—whatever’s needed, I’ll cover it. Every Saturday—5,000 for Kolyan, like we agreed, for clubs and meals. If you want to contribute more—great. But my money is not buying a car.”
“I’ll pay,” he said quickly. A bit too quickly. “I’ll handle it.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Handle it.”
“Len,” he grabbed my sleeve, “just don’t leave right now. Mom will tear everything apart.”
“I’m not leaving your life,” I said. “I’m moving to the next district.”
My mother-in-law came back into the kitchen just then.
“Oh, moving out, are you?” she asked triumphantly. “Well, off you go. Ilyusha and I will stay. We’ll be fine here.”
“You will,” I agreed. “Especially when the utilities bill arrives and the movers charge three thousand for the bed. And when the neighbors come asking who was yelling in the stairwell at night. By the way, laundry’s yours tomorrow, Ilya’s mom. I’ll take mine with me.”
“I’ve had enough,” Ilya said, looking at the two of us, exhausted. “Mom, stop. Lena, don’t go scorched earth. I’ll sort it out.”
“Sort it out,” I said. “I’m reachable.”
The small apartment by the “Prospekt Kosmonavtov” tram stop turned out to be clean, with a decent mattress and a stove that wasn’t wrecked. The landlady rented to me without a deposit because “you’ve got a kid, I can tell you’re normal.” Kolya and I came over in the evening, checked in with his school, swung by the stationery shop for a battered globe—he’s got “continents” tomorrow. He asked:
“Mom, is Grandma going to live with us now?”
“No, son,” I said. “Grandma at her place. We at ours. Dad at his.”
“Can Dad come visit us?” he asked. “On Saturday. We wanted to go to Citilink to look at a 3D pen.”
“He can,” I said. “On Saturday.”
And yes, I’m cynical. But sometimes simple plans beat any wisdom.
Minor Corrections to Family Math
Two days later Ilya called.
“So,” he said, “Mom didn’t move in. We found her a room at Aunt Galya’s in Sortirovka. Ten thousand. I helped with the money. Told you I’d sort it out.”
“Good job,” I said. “And the bed?”
“Canceled. The movers were miffed, but whatever. We’re putting off the car for now. The exchange rate jumped anyway, prices are weird. I thought… it’s dumb right now.”
“Not dumb,” I said. “Congratulations, you took your first adult step.”
“Only Mom’s mad,” he admitted. “Says I listened to you.”
“You listened to yourself,” I said. “Rare experience—don’t lose it.”
“Len, let’s…” he sighed. “Let’s try doing things together with Kolya on weekends. I… I miss him.”
“Let’s,” I agreed. “Saturday at twelve at our place. Then Citilink.”
“And also,” he added, “I transferred you five thousand. For Kolyan. Next time I can do ten.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s right.”
“You’re not angry?” he asked.
“I’m tired of being angry,” I said. “Let’s build a life.”
I hung up and sat calmly on the floor for the first time in a week. It wasn’t a movie. It was a course correction.
Final Accounting
A week later Kolya and I came back to our “old” kitchen to pick up the remaining textbooks and the construction set. My mother-in-law wasn’t there. Ilya greeted us with the bewildered look of a man who has discovered that empty shelves can live inside a refrigerator.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you mind if I take Kolya to the pool tomorrow? I signed him up for a trial with a coach. He’ll like it—I asked.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “Just take a towel; there’s an old one here. The new one’s with me.”
“I’ll take it,” he nodded. “And… thanks.”
My mother-in-law called that evening. On speaker, naturally.
“Ilyusha,” she announced, “I’m living at Galya’s. She has a cat. I’m allergic, but whatever. When are you coming over? It’s hard for me alone.”
“Mom, I’ll come Sunday,” he said. “I’ll bring groceries. And change the lightbulb.”
“And the money?” she clarified. “I need for meds. Three thousand.”
“I’ll bring it,” he said.
“And the car?” she couldn’t resist. “You’re a man.”
“Mom,” he sighed, “not now. I’ve got plans with Kolya on Saturday.”
“With that…” she began, but I’d already turned off the speaker.
“Sorry,” Ilya said. “You can’t change her.”
“You don’t need to,” I said. “You just need to put her in her place. And that place is not our kid’s room.”
He nodded.
“Will you come back?” he asked honestly, without bravado.
“Maybe,” I answered honestly. “When I’m sure we’re not doing ‘temporary,’ but ‘as agreed.’ When ‘family money’ is actually family money. And when our plans are discussed before the movers get a call.”
“Got it,” he said. “I’ll try.”
“Try in deeds, not words,” I said. “Saturday will tell.”
Saturday told. Ilya showed up on time, took Kolya to the pool, then to Citilink. They came back happy; Kolya showed off a plastic RC robot. I pretended (yes, pretended) not to notice the price on the receipt. Ilya showed me himself:
“Not from your stash,” he grinned. “With my own.”
“Good,” I said.
“And in the evening… maybe we sit for a bit?” he asked. “I bought… uh… mors.”
“Let’s sit,” I nodded. “On the couch that isn’t the kid’s.”
We sat like adults who had suddenly found time to talk. Without whispering. Without “formats.” And without plans involving someone else’s bed.
Results and the Bonus Track
A month later I moved back into our apartment. Not because we “made up” and now everything’s rosy. No. Because we signed, on a sheet of paper, three simple rules: no guests for more than two nights without a discussion among the three of us; no purchases over five thousand without a joint decision; the kid’s room is Kolya’s forever. The paper is stuck to the wall with a dinosaur magnet. Legally worthless. Practically—surprisingly powerful.
My mother-in-law lives with that same Aunt Galya. She’s offended, but she’s getting used to it—especially after Galya showed her how to order groceries through Samokat and pay utilities through Sber. She’s got a circle of neighbor friends now. Even an evening serials club. I won’t say she’s happy. But she’s busy. And when a person is busy, they have less time to meddle in other people’s lives.
“You banished me,” she sometimes tells Ilya on the phone.
“We allocated space,” he answers. “And time.”
“And money,” I occasionally add loudly. Yes, I’m petty. So be it.
Ilya still hasn’t bought the car. But he’s learned to count. In our age, that’s a superpower. On Saturdays he reliably gives Kolya money for his clubs. Sometimes more. Sometimes he buys junk kids adore and parents don’t understand. We argue about who’s putting away the construction set. And that’s the most normal argument in the world.
Kolya sleeps in his own room. In his own bed. There’s a sign on the door: “Do not enter, I’m building a spaceship.” That sign is our entire family philosophy. No metaphysics. Just concrete terms: don’t enter unless we’ve agreed.
And yes, about the “stash.” I don’t hide it in a tin anymore. I opened a separate “Goals” account in my name called “Kitchen Window.” Two thousand goes there every month. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. And no one pretends it’s “ours.”
“Len,” Ilya said one day, “forgive me, okay?”
“For what exactly?” I asked. “For wanting to live more comfortably at my expense? For the habit of putting your mother above everything? Or for trying to hand out other people’s rooms?”
“For everything,” he said. “I’m… learning.”
“Learn,” I said. “I don’t need heroics. I need things to work.”
That, I suppose, is our happy ending. Slippery, everyday, without flowers or fanfare. Just specific bullet points on paper, a child in his own bed, and a mother-in-law we helped find a room. Did the antagonist get punished? She did. Not prison, not cinematic justice. She’s now the mistress of her own life in someone else’s room and learning to live without my refrigerator. And I’ve got a window on the horizon. Not a metaphor. A real one. We’ll buy it. We’ll install it. And no one moves into its place without a conversation.
And yes, the day I came home early and overheard a “conversation not meant for my ears,” I could’ve made a scene, divvied up the pots, slammed doors. I did something worse. I became an adult. And it worked.
Postscript Without the Honey
“Mom,” Kolya said once, “is Grandma not coming to our place anymore?”
“She is,” I said. “For pancakes on Sunday. And she’ll go home in the evening. Because now she has her own life.”
“Good,” he sighed. “Can I sleep over at her place?”
“If you behave like a human,” Ilya cut in, “and don’t argue with the cat at night.”
“I never argue,” Kolya protested. “The cat argues.”
“Hold on,” I laughed. “We’ll negotiate with the cat later.”
And we really will. Because agreements are the only thing that’s mandatory for us now. And no whispering from the kitchen can cancel that.