Raisa sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the suitcase. Two years ago, Arkady had assured her it was temporary. Just a couple of months, until his mother recovered from knee surgery.
“Raya, please,” Arkady had taken her hands then and looked into her eyes. “Mom is lonely. And she’s afraid to be by herself. We’ll live with her for a little while.”
Raisa wanted to object. Everything inside her protested against the idea. But Arkady looked so plaintive, so pleading.
“Alright,” she sighed back then. “But really not for long, Arkasha.”
How wrong she was. Two years turned into endless torment. From the very first day, her mother-in-law, Galina Petrovna, made it clear who ran the house.
“Raisa, you’ve put the pot on the wrong shelf again,” her mother-in-law’s voice cut into her memory like sharp splinters. “How many times do I have to repeat myself? In my house everything has to be in its place.”
In her house. Those two words sounded like a sentence. Every day, every hour, Galina Petrovna found a reason to remind Raisa of her status. A guest. A freeloader. A nobody.
“You’ve oversalted the soup again,” her mother-in-law would grimace over the bowl. “Arkasha, how can you eat this? I taught you something completely different.”
Arkady stayed silent. He was always silent. He lowered his eyes and kept eating as if nothing were happening. And Raisa swallowed her hurt along with the “oversalted” soup that was actually just right.
“Rayechka, dear,” her mother-in-law’s voice turned sickly sweet when guests came. “Why don’t you bring the tea, and Lidochka and I will talk about serious matters. You wouldn’t be interested anyway.”
Raisa obediently went to the kitchen, made tea, sliced the pie. Her hands trembled with humiliation. She wasn’t a maid! She had a university degree, a good job. But in this house all her accomplishments counted for exactly nothing.
At night, lying next to Arkady, Raisa tried to talk.
“Arkash, maybe we could rent an apartment after all?” she whispered in the dark.
“Raya, why start this again? Mom is trying for us. She cooks, she cleans. It wouldn’t feel right to leave her.”
Trying. Raisa closed her eyes and counted to ten. Yes, Galina Petrovna cooked. But only what Arkady liked. She couldn’t care less about her daughter-in-law’s tastes.
“Why aren’t you eating the borscht?” her mother-in-law would ask with feigned innocence. “Don’t like it? Well, if Arkasha likes it, that means it’s made properly.”
Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days of humiliation, digs, and hints that Raisa wasn’t good enough for her precious son.
Today was her birthday. Thirty. A milestone. Arkady had promised to go to Raisa’s parents’ place with her, but in the morning, all of a sudden, Galina Petrovna felt unwell.
“Go by yourself, dear,” the mother-in-law clutched at her heart, settled on the couch. “I need Arkasha more. What if we have to call an ambulance?”
Raisa didn’t argue. She just got ready and left. She knew her mother-in-law was faking.
A strange lightness spread in her chest. A few hours of freedom. A few hours without the caustic remarks and contemptuous looks.
Her parents’ home greeted her with warmth and the smell of her mother’s signature pie. Her father hugged her tightly, like when she was a child. Her mother threw up her hands.
“Daughter, why are you so pale?”
The whole family gathered at the festive table—her parents, her beloved Grandma Zina, who had come especially from another city. For the first time in months, Raisa relaxed. Here, she was loved. Here, she was home.
“Rayechka,” her father stood, raising his glass. “Your mother, your grandmother, and I thought for a long time about what to give you. And we decided…”
He broke off and exchanged a glance with his wife. Her mother nodded, smiling.
“We saved for a long time, put money aside,” her father went on. “Grandma added her savings. In short, Raya, this is for you.”
He handed his daughter an envelope. Puzzled, Raisa took it and opened it. Inside was a bank statement. Ten million rubles.
“Dad…” her voice caught. “This is…”
“For an apartment, honey. Or a house, if you like,” her mother took her hand. “So you’ll have your own place. Your own space.”
Raisa couldn’t hold back her tears. They ran down her cheeks and fell on the festive tablecloth. Freedom. This money meant freedom from Galina Petrovna, from her constant reproaches and barbs.
“Thank you,” she whispered, hugging her parents. “Thank you so much.”
When she got back that evening, Raisa found her mother-in-law and husband at dinner. For someone who’d felt poorly that morning, Galina Petrovna looked strikingly healthy.
“Oh, you’re back,” her mother-in-law didn’t even look up. “There’s soup in the pot—warm it up yourself.”
“My parents gave me a present,” Raisa sat down on the edge of a chair. “They gave me money for a place of my own.”
Arkady raised his eyebrows. “Really? How much?”
“Enough for a good house,” Raisa tried to keep her voice calm, though inside she was singing with joy.
“A house?” Galina Petrovna snorted. “What do you need a house for? An apartment would do just fine.”
But Raisa had already decided. She wanted a house.
A week later she found the perfect place. Four bedrooms, a large living room, a separate kitchen. And a little garden where the previous owners had grown tomatoes. Raisa stood in the middle of her future living room and couldn’t believe it. This would be her house. Hers alone.
Moving day came a month later. Galina Petrovna volunteered to help pack.
“Raisa, you’re folding that wrong!” her mother-in-law snatched a stack of towels out of her hands. “Look, you have to fold them neatly, to size.”
Raisa watched in silence as her mother-in-law repacked things that were already packed. Irritation rose from deep inside like a hot wave.
“And you wrapped the plates wrong,” her mother-in-law unwrapped the packed dishes. “Everything will break during the move like this!”
“Galina Petrovna, I can manage on my own,” Raisa tried to take the box back.
“What do you know about moving?” her mother-in-law brushed her off. “I’ve lived a lifetime; I know how it’s done.”
By evening, Raisa was more exhausted than if she’d packed alone. Even Arkady noticed the tension.
“Mom, maybe that’s enough? Raya’s tired.”
“I’m helping!” Galina Petrovna threw up her hands. “You people are so ungrateful.”
The next day they had to finalize the paperwork. Raisa gathered all the necessary documents, including a deed of gift from her parents confirming that the money was a gift to her personally.
“I’ll go with you,” declared her mother-in-law in the morning. “You never know—you might need help.”
Raisa wanted to refuse, but Arkady was already nodding. “Good idea, Mom. The two of you will get it done faster.”
At the notary’s office, Raisa filled out the forms, trying to ignore her mother-in-law peering over her shoulder.
“So, whose name are you putting it in?” Galina Petrovna asked as Raisa wrote in her details.
“My own, of course,” Raisa didn’t look up from the papers. “Personal property.”
“What do you mean, personal property? The house will be joint!” her mother-in-law’s voice jumped an octave.
People in the office turned to look. Raisa straightened and met her mother-in-law’s eyes. Anger that had built up for two years boiled in her chest.
“Why joint?” Her voice sounded calm, though a storm raged inside. “The money was given by my parents. To me. Not to me and Arkady—to me.”
“But you’re a family!” Galina Petrovna flushed. “How can it be only your house?”
Raisa put down the pen. Memories of the past two years flooded back. All the humiliations, the jabs, the reminders that she was nobody in her mother-in-law’s home.
“Galina Petrovna,” Raisa spoke slowly, enunciating each word, “for two years you never tired of reminding me that I lived in your home. That it was your apartment, your rules, your kitchen. So why should my house be shared now?”
“How dare you!” her mother-in-law gasped with indignation. “I took you in, I fed you!”
“Took me in?” Raisa laughed—bitterly, harshly. “I work; I earn no less than Arkady. I buy the groceries, pay the utilities. You wanted us to move in. What do you mean, ‘took me in’?”
“Arkasha!” her mother-in-law grabbed her phone. “Get here this instant! Your wife has completely lost her sense of shame!”
Arkady rushed in fifteen minutes later—rumpled, anxious.
“What happened? Mom, Raya, what’s going on?”
“Your wife wants to register the house in her name only!” Galina Petrovna jabbed a finger at the papers. “She wants to deprive us of our share!”
“Raya?” Arkady turned to his wife. “Is that true?”
Raisa stood and looked at her husband. For two years she had waited for him to defend her—just once. Even with a word. But he always chose silence.
“Yes, it’s true,” she took the documents. “The money was a gift from my parents. To me personally. This will be my house.”
“But we’re moving there together!” Arkady was at a loss. “How can it be only yours?”
“The same way your mother’s apartment is only hers,” Raisa turned to the notary. “Shall we continue?”
“You have no right!” her mother-in-law screeched. “Arkady, do something!”
Arkady stepped toward his wife. “Raya, let’s talk about this at home. Don’t make any hasty decisions.”
“Two years, Arkady,” Raisa looked him in the eye. “For two years your mother humiliated me in her home. And you were silent. Always silent. And now you want a share of my house?”
“That’s different!” Galina Petrovna stamped her foot. “We’re a family!”
“A family?” Raisa shook her head. “Where was that family when you threw me out of the living room because your girlfriends came over? When you made me eat what I don’t like? When you reminded me every day that I wasn’t worthy of your son?”
Arkady turned pale. “Raya, you’re exaggerating…”
“Exaggerating?” Something snapped inside her. “Name one time when you stood up for me. Just once!”
Silence hung in the air. Arkady opened his mouth and closed it again. Galina Petrovna was breathing hard, fists clenched.
“Go home,” Raisa turned her back on them. “Both of you. I need to finish the paperwork.”
“This isn’t over!” her mother-in-law hissed. “We’ll fight for our rights!”
Raisa didn’t answer. She signed the documents, and a strange calm spread through her soul—as if a heavy stone that had pressed on her chest for two years had finally shifted.
That evening she returned to her mother-in-law’s apartment. Arkady sat in the kitchen, sullen. Galina Petrovna was ostentatiously not speaking to her daughter-in-law.
“Pack your things,” Arkady said. “Go to your house. Alone.”
Raisa nodded. She hadn’t expected anything else. She quickly packed her suitcases—most of it was already boxed up anyway. Arkady watched in silence, his jaw clenched.
“I’ll file for divorce,” he threw out as Raisa rolled the last bag toward the door.
“Alright,” she replied calmly.
Her mother-in-law burst out of the room. “And we’ll take the house! Through the court! Half belongs to Arkasha!”
Raisa turned in the doorway. “Go ahead and try. I have a deed of gift. The money was a gift to me personally. The court will be on my side.”
The door slammed. As Raisa went down the stairs, it became easier to breathe with every step.
The divorce dragged on for three months. Arkady and his mother really did try to claim the house. They hired a lawyer, gathered all sorts of papers. But the deed of gift was an ironclad argument. The money was gifted to Raisa personally; the house was bought with that money and registered in her name only.
“This is unfair!” Galina Petrovna shouted at the final hearing. “For two years my son supported her!”
“That’s not true,” Raisa calmly submitted her bank statements to the court. “Here are my transfers for groceries, utilities, and household appliances. I contributed to the family budget no less than my ex-husband.”
The judge ruled in Raisa’s favor. The house remained hers. Completely. Arkady left the courtroom without saying goodbye. As a parting shot, Galina Petrovna sneered, “You’ll end up alone! No one needs a proud woman like you!”
Raisa said nothing. She turned and walked out. Outside, the sun was shining. The spring air smelled of freshness and the beginning of a new life.
That evening she sat in her living room. In her own house. Photos of her parents and Grandma Zina hung on the wall. Dinner was cooking in the kitchen—exactly what Raisa liked. No one told her how to cut the vegetables. No one criticized her choice of dishes.
The phone rang. Mom.
“Sweetheart, how are you? How’s the new house?”
“Good, Mom,” Raisa smiled. “Very good. You know, I’ve only now realized what true freedom is.”
“And Arkady?”
“We’re divorced. Officially.”
Her mother paused. “Do you regret it?”
Raisa looked out the window. In the small garden, the currant bushes she had planted were already turning green. The jasmine would be in bloom soon.
“No, Mom. Not for a second. For two years I lived someone else’s life in someone else’s house under someone else’s rules. I endured humiliation, kept quiet when I wanted to scream. And now I have my house. Mine alone. Where I decide how to live.”
The sun was setting outside, bathing the room in warm golden tones. Raisa brewed herself a cup of tea—just the way she liked it, not her mother-in-law. She sat in the armchair by the window.
The house was quiet. But it wasn’t the oppressive silence of loneliness. It was peace. The calm of a person who has finally found her home. Her own space. Her own life.
No one would tell her what to do anymore. No one would humiliate her or remind her of her place. In this house, she had only one place—the mistress of the house. Full-fledged, sole, free.
And that was true happiness.