— Lena, you don’t mind if my mom stays with us for a bit, do you? — Kirill tried to keep his voice calm, but his eyes gave him away: the decision had been made, and asking your opinion was just for show.
Lena tore herself away from the laptop for a second, looked at her husband over her glasses, and set her cup down on the coaster with such a sound that the cat bolted under the couch.
— What does “for a bit” mean? Kirill, we have a one-room apartment. And I work here. This is my home. Mine. I bought it before you.
— Here we go… — Kirill winced. — It’s just temporary. She’s tired of being alone in the village, my brother’s on another bender, and her blood pressure’s up. We’re not animals, Lena. She’s my mother, for crying out loud!
Lena took a deep breath. Someone had once told her: “If you let people treat you like furniture, don’t be surprised when they start hanging their coats on you.”
— Did you ask her how long “temporary” is? A week? A month? Or until I end up in a psych ward with a facial tic? — She stood up and went to the kitchen, pretending to look for a spoon when in fact she just needed to look away.
— Don’t exaggerate, — he muttered at her back. — You always say you want family close. Well, here you go. Close.
— I said I wanted MY family close. Not you and your mother turning this place into a little commune. And besides, Kirill, I work from home. And she’s, sorry, a woman with… a personality. And a very loud voice.
— So what if her TV blares. Everybody’s mom’s TV blares! You can put on headphones; why are you making such a fuss?
Lena turned. Her eyes were cold; her voice calm but with that dangerous brittleness of a taut string.
— Have you ever asked whether I’m comfortable with any of this? Or have you forgotten that everything we have is mine? My apartment. My car, which you all, by the way, already “loaned” to your brother for two months. My grandmother’s earrings that “accidentally” disappeared after your mother’s New Year’s visit. And now, apparently, it’s my personal space’s turn?
Kirill spread his hands.
— Lena, why are you starting again. It’s always through you. As if we’re running a rental business here and not a marriage. Mom will stay a couple of weeks, we’ll buy her meds, she’ll recover — and go. Want me to write a receipt?
— What I want is for you, just once, to think about what it means for a woman to have someone else’s mother-in-law in her kitchen, my underwear on the drying rack under her nose, my documents in a drawer she’ll now rummage through looking for iodine!
He sighed, dropped onto the stool, stared out the window.
— Lena, you’ve become… well… harsh. On edge. You snap whenever it’s about family. I don’t recognize you.
She laughed — bitterly, silently. As if she’d run out of air.
— Kirill, maybe you never knew me. It was convenient for you to live at my place, drive my car, move your mother into my apartment — and call all of it “ours.” And now that I’ve pushed back, I’m suddenly a stranger. The convenient Lena is over?
He didn’t answer. He just got up and reached for his jacket.
— Mom’s coming anyway. I’m just telling you so you won’t be surprised. And don’t make a scene. You’re an adult.
She watched the door slam for a long time. Then slowly walked into the bedroom and sat on the bed.
Photos hung on the wall. The wedding, a vacation in Greece, a Christmas tree with round baubles — as round as pregnancy, as hope for coziness and family.
Now — just nails in the wall.
She took down one of the frames, looked at herself — young, happy, in a white dress — and slid the photo out. Tore it. Neatly, along the line of the nose.
The next day, Lidiya Petrovna moved in. With two suitcases, a stack of newspapers, and the words:
— Lenochka, you really are the mistress of the house! That’s how I pictured you from the start: strict but fair. Don’t be mad, I brought my own slippers — I don’t like walking around in other people’s stinky ones.
There was no scene. Yet. But the cat climbed under the couch again. And Lena felt something in the house had changed. The air. The smell. The key in people’s voices. Everything was different. Alien.
And that was only the beginning.
At first Lena thought her anxiety had just flared up. It happens — spring, hormones, mom calling with “how are you, Lenochka, not exhausted with her?” Then the utility bills arrived — suddenly higher. Then two pairs of gold earrings disappeared. Then — peace. Peace disappeared.
— Lenochka, I found a little box on the shelf, you know, with monograms. I thought — must be old, probably time to toss it. And inside, can you imagine, earrings! They wouldn’t be yours, would they?
— They’re mine, Lidiya Petrovna, — Lena said, buttoning her robe all the way up. — My grandmother’s. And great-grandmother’s. I didn’t put them anywhere. They were in plain sight. Well, in plain sight for me.
— Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to! I was just tidying up. And you, of course… well, not a mess, but not order either.
Lena clenched her teeth. Smirked. That’s how it goes: first it’s “our home,” then “not a mess,” and a week later your things are in the trash and you’re in a clinic with an anxiety disorder.
Kirill came home late. Ate in silence, stared at his phone. Every other day he went to “help his brother.” The brother, rumor had it, had landed in the drunk tank again. Lena didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know.
On Monday she left work at 19:10. She made her way home slowly — the bus stop, the packed bus, a woman blasting music on a speaker for the whole route, and the smell of pickled herring from someone’s bag. It made her gag.
She dreamed of quiet. Just five minutes when no one would scrub the sink with performative offense, comment on her lunch, or ask, “And why are you drinking coffee at this hour?”
The apartment greeted her with a strange silence.
The kitchen — empty. In the bedroom — someone else’s socks on the windowsill. And… a box. Cardboard. Labeled “Lena’s Jewelry.”
— Kirill! — she called. — Are you home?
Silence.
— Lidiya Petrovna?
— I’m here! — came a voice from the bathroom. — Just don’t come in, I’m dyeing my hair! Sitting here like a fool with dye on my head.
Lena quietly approached the box. Inside — the jewelry case. Only now it was empty. And a receipt. Pawnshop. Silver items — 18,000 rubles. No name. No questions.
She stood there for a long time. Silent. Then the phone rang. Kirill.
— Yes?
— Hey, Len. I told mom — you don’t mind if my brother and I take your car for a couple of days, right? He’s got an interview, and I… well, you understand, I need to help. You don’t drive it anyway. We’ll fill it up later. And clean the mats.
— The car?
— Yeah. Your keys are on the hook, right? We already took them, by the way. You don’t mind?
She sat down. Silent. Her eyes burned. As if someone had lit matches under her nails.
— Kirill… — her voice was calm. Too calm. — Don’t you want to sign the apartment over to your brother while you’re at it? Just to make it all fair and square. We can split everything to the last screw. I’ll wave at you from the balcony — “Good luck, boys!”
— Lena, c’mon… don’t go overboard. It’s temporary. I said we’ll bring everything back. Why are you making a tragedy out of this?
— A tragedy? I’ll make a tragedy, Kirill, when I find out who sold my earrings. My great-grandmother’s. Do you want me to go to the police? Or shall we talk this out nicely?
— God, you seriously think we stole them? Are you out of your mind, Lena?
— That’s right, Kirill. I’m in my right mind. Unlike the rest of you. You’ve been without brakes for a long time now. Everything that’s mine is “ours.” Everything that’s yours is “we need to help.” Only when I’m needed am I suddenly the owner; otherwise it’s always “you don’t mind, do you?”
An hour later there was a showdown at home.
Lidiya Petrovna burst out of the bathroom with a scarf on her head, Kirill — with his phone in hand, wearing the slippers Lena had bought herself for New Year’s.
— I’m tired! — Lena shouted. — Tired of you! You’ve devoured my life! Lived in my apartment, on my money, burned through my nerves — and you still pretend this is normal!
— No, you’re the crazy one! — shrieked Lidiya Petrovna. — You’re obsessed with control, nothing’s ever enough for you, you suspect everyone of everything. You’ll never have a normal husband! Women like you always ruin everything!
— Mom, don’t… — squeaked Kirill, but it was too late.
Lena walked over and opened the door. Wide.
— Out. Both of you. Now. No discussion.
— Lena, are you out of your mind! — shouted Kirill. — That’s my mother!
— This is my apartment, Kirill. And I’m done playing your family. I’ve got anxiety, insomnia, and two pairs of earrings missing. You’ve got a brother driving “my” car and a mother who thinks I’m a lunatic. That’s it. Enough.
They left. With banging. With shouting. With promises that she’d “regret this.”
And Lena sat down on the floor and cried. For real. Without hysterics. Just… worn out.
And suddenly it was so quiet. Even the refrigerator hummed differently.
In the second half of the night she heard footsteps in the stairwell. And in the morning — a strange sound in the door lock.
Monday morning. Rain drummed at the window as if it were angry too. Lena brewed strong coffee, added cinnamon — on autopilot, as always, so she wouldn’t have to think. She didn’t want to think. Only that sticky anxiety was there, like on those days when something’s about to happen and you don’t yet know what.
It was ten to eight. Lena walked up to the door — and froze. Through the peephole — Kirill with a suitcase. Behind him — Lidiya Petrovna. In a housecoat. With a checkered bag.
— Open up! — loud, sharp, like she was in her own home.
Without taking her eyes off the lock, Lena dialed:
— What do you want?
— To come back. Where else? — screeched Lidiya Petrovna. — Where do you think we’re supposed to live at night? Are you even sane?
— Are you really going to shut the door on your own husband? — Kirill’s voice was artificially calm. — By law we have joint property here. It’s not just you living here.
— No, Kirill. I live here. You were a guest. A long-term one. Overstayed.
— Ah, I see… — Lidiya rolled her eyes. — Here we go. Cult nonsense. She needs peace and quiet, you see. And she herself is having a nervous breakdown!
— Step away from the door, — Lena’s voice turned metallic. — Or I’ll call the police.
— Just try it, — Kirill loomed over the door. — You forget I’m registered here? I’ll call the local officer right now. Then court. And then we’ll see who gets thrown out.
Lena fell silent. Her breathing quickened. Inside, everything collapsed. She couldn’t even feel the coffee in her hands anymore — only a ringing in her ears and sticky fear.
And then a voice came from the stairwell.
— Excuse me, are you sure you’ve got the right floor?
A man came up. About twenty-five. A stranger. A jacket with a delivery company logo.
— This is my apartment, — he said. — We moved in yesterday. My wife and I. The realtor gave us the keys.
Silence. Lena slowly cracked the door. Looked. And went cold. He was telling the truth.
— Could you please show me the contract, — she rasped.
He took out a paper. A lease agreement. The signature — Kirill’s.
— This must be some mistake… — Lena whispered, numb. — I… I…
Later, at the bank, they would show her the paperwork. A forged power of attorney. Her signature — faked. The seal — fake.
— Your husband sold the lease rights, — the lawyer would say dryly. — He was probably counting on you not noticing. Or accepting it.
A week later Lena was living with her mother. In a small two-room Khrushchyovka overlooking some sheds. The shelves creaked, the TV hissed, the kettle whistled — but no one touched her cup, rummaged through her underwear, or sold her things.
The next morning she went to the police. Then to a lawyer. Then to a therapist.
— What is it you want? — the therapist asked. — To get everything back? To fight? To forgive?
— No, — Lena looked out the window. — To understand. Why I put up with it for so long.
Two months passed. It was hard. Sometimes she caught herself missing it. Not Kirill, no. The person she’d been before all this. Naive. Polite. Agreeable.
But now — she was different. Strong. Angry. With clear boundaries.
And one evening, already in her new apartment — small, with cheap wallpaper, but hers — the doorbell rang.
Kirill stood on the threshold. Alone. Rumpled. Bags under his eyes and roses in his hand. How banal.
— Lena… I… I get it now. You were right. Mom’s not around anymore — she’s in the hospital. My brother’s inside. Just like you said. I’m an idiot.
She looked at him in silence. For a long time.
— I’m sorry. I can’t. Go.
— Lena… I really understand now. I feel awful. I…
— I felt awful for two years, Kirill. You didn’t notice.
She closed the door. Not loudly. Just — a period.
The apartment smelled of tangerines and silence. Lena made herself tea. Sat on the windowsill. Outside — evening, cars, life.
And inside — for the first time in a long while — it was calm.