The final payment went through on Friday evening. I stared at my phone screen, at the numbers in the banking app, and couldn’t believe it. Eight years. For eight years I’d set aside that amount every month, cut back on everything, worked two jobs for the first three. A two-room apartment on the outskirts, but mine. Completely mine.
— Lena, why are you standing there frozen? — Igor hugged me from behind and looked at the phone. — That’s it, right? It’s done?
— It’s done, — I turned to him, and only then did I feel how the tension of the past years had pressed itself into my shoulders, my neck, my temples. — Igor, I’m free.
He laughed, scooped me up, and spun me around the kitchen of our — now our — apartment. We got married three years ago, when I was still paying the mortgage. Igor didn’t ask stupid questions or demand to be added to the deed. He just said: let’s do it together. And for the last three years we paid together. Two of us made it easier. Much easier.
— We have to celebrate, — he said, setting me down. — Really celebrate. We’ll invite Katya and Dima, and your Natasha. Let’s do it tomorrow evening.
— Let’s, — I nodded, still not believing what was happening. — Just keep it modest. No pomp.
— What pomp, — Igor waved it off. — We’ll just sit, have some wine. You’ve earned it.
We’ve earned it, I wanted to say, but kept quiet. Igor already knew.
Saturday turned out warm, golden in that autumn way. I cooked from morning on, set the table; Igor went to the store for wine. Our friends were supposed to come at six. At half past four the intercom buzzed.
— Someone’s early, — I muttered, wiping my hands on a towel.
Igor frowned and went to the receiver.
— Hello? — A pause. His face went slack. — Mom? Where are you?.. Okay, I’m buzzing you in.
I felt something with claws squeeze my stomach. Svetlana Petrovna. My mother-in-law. She lived in her own city, three hundred kilometers away, and visited us twice a year. And she always warned us in advance.
— She’s here, — Igor said, and I heard confusion in his voice. — With her things.
We stepped out onto the landing. Svetlana Petrovna stood by the elevator, leaning on two huge suitcases. She wore a dark blue coat, a headscarf on her head, and on her face an expression of fatigue and some strange resolve.
— Igoryok, — she reached a hand to her son. — Help me, they’re heavy.
— Mom, what happened? — Igor grabbed the suitcases and dragged them into the apartment. — Are you staying long?
— Where else would I be, — Svetlana Petrovna took off her coat and looked over the entryway with an appraising eye. — Now that you’ve paid off the mortgage.
I froze with the towel in my hands.
— How do you know?
— Igor told me yesterday, — my mother-in-law walked into the kitchen and sat down with the air of someone who had scored a small victory. — He was happy and shared the news. And I thought: well then, there it is. The time has come.
— Time for what? — I glanced at Igor.
Svetlana Petrovna took a pill bottle from her purse and placed it on the table with a show.
— Time to take care of my health. I’m seventy-three, Lenochka. I’m not made of iron. I live alone, every day I’m afraid I’ll feel bad — and who will help me? The neighbors? They’re at work from morning till evening. — She swept us with a look that held something like righteous indignation. — “As soon as I paid off the mortgage, the mother-in-law showed up with her demands,” that’s what you’re thinking now, aren’t you, Lena? But I’m not here with demands. I just want to live. To live normally, you understand?
— Mom, — Igor sat down across from her. — What are you talking about? What’s going on with your health?
— Oh, what health, — she waved a hand. — My blood pressure spikes, my heart misbehaves. The doctor says I need IV drips, massage, physiotherapy. A good course of treatment. Only it’s all expensive, and my pension, you know what it’s like. So I thought: since you’re now free of payments, maybe you can help your mother? Igor, you helped pay off your wife’s mortgage for three years. So now you owe me. Fair’s fair.
A heavy, sticky silence fell. I could feel my temples pounding.
— Svetlana Petrovna, — I began, trying to stay calm. — Of course we’ll help. If you need it, we’ll transfer money for treatment. But why do you have to move in?
— Because I need someone to accompany me, — she looked at me with unexpected firmness. — Someone has to take me to the appointments. And what if I feel bad there? In the line or on the massage table? The heart is unpredictable. No, I need to be supervised. And I won’t be able to live on my pension while undergoing treatment like that. So I’ll stay with you. Not for long. Until I finish the course.
— Mom, — Igor ran a hand over his face. — But we’re expecting guests today. It’s our celebration.
— I know, — she nodded. — But it’s fine, I’ll sit in the room. I won’t get in the way. By the way, which room is mine?
I felt I was about to scream. Or cry. Or both at once.
— We only have our bedroom and the living room, — I managed.
— Then I’ll settle in the bedroom, — Svetlana Petrovna got up. — And you can take the couch. You’re young, you’ll manage. Where are my suitcases?
Our friends arrived, and we celebrated paying off the mortgage. I drank wine and smiled, but inside everything clenched into one big knot of rage and helplessness. Svetlana Petrovna really did sit in the bedroom, only coming out for tea, each time casting meaningful looks at the table, at the bottles, at our faces.
When the guests left, Igor and I lay down on the couch under one blanket.
— It’s just for a little while, — he whispered in the dark. — She’ll finish her procedures and go back. She can’t just take and stay.
— She can, — I said. — You know her.
— Lena, she’s my mother. I can’t throw her out.
— I’m not asking you to throw her out. I’m asking you to set boundaries. To say that this is our apartment, our life.
— I will, — he promised. — I’ll tell her tomorrow.
But he didn’t say it tomorrow. Or the day after.
Svetlana Petrovna settled in thoroughly. She rehung the curtains in the bedroom — she didn’t like the color. She rearranged the furniture — it was more convenient for her that way. Every morning she came to breakfast with the air of a person to whom everyone around is indebted, and started in:
— Lenochka, don’t fry eggs on that heat, they’ll burn. Igor, don’t wear that shirt, it’s wrinkled. Lenochka, what kind of bread did you buy, it’s too bland.
Igor was at work until evening. And I was left alone with her. I worked remotely, from home, and every day turned into a trial.
— Lenochka, don’t bang on the keys like that, I have a headache. Lenochka, what are you making for lunch? I don’t eat that. Lenochka, when did you last mop the floor? There’s dust everywhere.
I mopped the floor. Cooked separately for her. Worked with headphones on so I wouldn’t hear. But she still found a reason to come in, hover over me, say something hurtful disguised as concern.
On Wednesdays and Fridays I took her for IV drips. On Tuesdays and Thursdays — for massage. Monday — the cardiologist. Saturday — the neurologist. Each of these took hours. Sitting in line, waiting, then taking her back, listening as she talked about her ailments, how hard it was, how she suffered.
— Good thing Igor helps with the money, — she would say on the minibus. — A proper son. Not like some people who forget their parents.
I kept silent, my fists clenched.
In the evening Igor came home exhausted. His mother would pounce on him with stories about her procedures, the doctors, what she ate that day. He listened, nodded, hugged her. Then he went to the kitchen, where I stood at the stove, and said:
— I’m sorry. I know it’s hard for you. But she’ll leave soon.
— When? — I asked.
— Soon. The course of treatment isn’t endless.
But the course kept going. A week passed. Then two. Then three.
After a month I realized I couldn’t take it anymore. Svetlana Petrovna had no intention of leaving. She had made herself at home, established herself, turned our apartment into her domain. She dictated what to cook, when to clean, when to go to bed. She demanded silence during the day — her “doctor-ordered rest.” She made remarks if Igor and I laughed too loudly in the evening.
— Don’t you understand there’s a sick person in the house? — she hissed. — I need peace and quiet!
I stopped sleeping. The couch was uncomfortable, hard, and I tossed at night listening to Igor breathe beside me. He’d adapted. He could sleep anywhere. I couldn’t.
One morning I got up at five, sat at the kitchen table, and just looked out the window. Gray dawn, gray buildings, a gray life. I had paid a mortgage for eight years to have a place of my own. My own. And now that place had been seized by a woman who didn’t even think it necessary to say thank you.
That evening I spoke to Igor. Seriously.
— Either your mother leaves, or I do, — I said, my voice calm. — I can’t live like this anymore.
He went pale.
— Lena, don’t say that. I’ll talk to her. Honestly. Tomorrow I’ll tell her it’s time to go back.
— How many times have you promised that?
— Tomorrow. I promise.
The next day Igor really did try. I heard him talking to his mother in the bedroom, heard her raise her voice, heard him making excuses. Then she came out with red eyes, looked at me with cold hatred, and locked herself in the room. And in the evening she announced:
— The doctor said I need another month here. On IV drips. My heart is in critical condition. If I stop treatment now, I’m as good as dead.
Igor stared at the floor.
— Mom, but you’ve already been treating it for a month.
— So what? Illness isn’t a cold that passes in a week. It’s serious. But if you don’t need your mother, if you begrudge me a corner and a piece of bread — say so outright. I’ll leave. I’ll die alone in my apartment, but I won’t trouble your conscience.
She cried. Real tears, with sobs. Igor hugged her and tried to comfort her. And I left the room, because if I’d stayed, I would have said things there was no coming back from.
That night I didn’t sleep at all. I lay there, staring at the ceiling and thinking. For a long time. Coldly. Clearly. By morning, a plan had formed.
On Tuesday, Svetlana Petrovna had massage — a long, two-hour session, plus travel time. She left at ten and never returned before one. Igor was at work until seven. I had time.
At nine in the morning I saw my mother-in-law to the door. I said I had a meeting with the director, and she agreed to go to the massage on her own.
— Lenochka, buy cottage cheese, but not sour. And the bread I like, remember?
— I remember, — I said. — Have a good massage.
When the door closed behind her, I sat on the couch and counted to a hundred. Then I got up and got to work.
First I called a locksmith. I explained that I’d lost my keys and needed an urgent change. He arrived in half an hour and worked quickly. A new lock, new keys. One set for me, one for Igor.
While the locksmith was busy with the door, I packed Svetlana Petrovna’s things. Methodically, neatly. Suitcases, bags, medications, clothes — everything she’d brought with her. I folded it, zipped it up, carried it into the hallway. Two huge suitcases, a bag, packages. All of her stuff that had overrun our bedroom.
The locksmith left. I ordered a taxi — for one o’clock, with a time cushion. Then I put the suitcases out on the landing. Carefully, right by the door. So she’d see them as soon as she came up.
And I closed the door. With the new lock. I sat down on the entryway floor and waited.
She came back at a quarter to one. I heard the elevator stop on our floor, her heels click. Then — the rattle of keys. An attempt to open the door. A second attempt. A third.
— What’s this? — her voice was bewildered. — Igor? Lena? Is the door stuck?
I stood up and went to the door.
— It’s not stuck, Svetlana Petrovna. The lock has been changed.
Silence. Long. Then:
— Have you completely lost it? Open up immediately!
— I won’t. Your things are in the hall. There’s a taxi waiting for you downstairs. You’re going home.
— Lena! — her voice turned piercing. — You have no right! This is my son’s apartment!
— This is my apartment, — I said firmly. — I paid for it for eight years. Alone. Your son helped for the last three, and I’m grateful to him for that. But that doesn’t make the apartment yours. And it doesn’t give you the right to run our lives.
— How dare you! — her fists drummed on the door. — I’m sick! I need treatment! Open up, I said!
— Get treated at home. We’ll transfer money for the procedures. Igor won’t abandon his mother. But you won’t live here anymore.
— Igor! — she screamed. — I’ll call Igor! He’ll throw you out of this apartment! You’ll see!
— Call, — I leaned my back against the door. — I’ve already discussed everything with him.
That was a lie. But I hoped Igor would understand.
My mother-in-law called her son over and over. I heard her lament into the phone, cry, demand. Then my phone vibrated. Igor. I declined and texted: “I’ll explain later.”
She sobbed on the landing for about twenty minutes. Then she sat down tiredly on a suitcase.
— Lena, — her voice grew quieter. — What are you doing? I’m not doing this out of malice. I really am scared to be alone. And I really do need money for treatment.
— Then say that plainly, — I answered. — Ask for help. Like a human being. Don’t move in with suitcases and demands. We’re not refusing to help. But you can’t live with us. We have our own life, our own plans.
— What plans, — she snorted, but the venom was gone from her voice. — Young people. Your whole life is ahead of you.
— Exactly, — I said. — And we want to live it ourselves.
Another long pause. Then:
— Is the taxi still downstairs?
— Yes.
— And all my things are here?
— Everything’s on the landing.
She sighed heavily.
— Well then. So be it. Only remember this, Lenochka: today you threw me out. But when you’re old yourself, your children will do the same to you. You’ll see.
— I’ll see, — I agreed. — Then I’ll have earned it.
I listened to her gather her things, drag the suitcases to the elevator. Grumble under her breath. Call the elevator. Leave.
Only when the sound of the elevator faded below did I let myself exhale. I sat down on the floor right there in the entryway and covered my face with my hands. My whole body shook — from tension, from fear, from relief.
Igor came back at eight. He came in, tried the old key, and was surprised. He rang the intercom.
— Lena, what’s going on?
I opened the door. He stood there with a guilty face, a shopping bag in his hand.
— Mom called. She said you kicked her out. Is that true?
— It’s true, — I stepped aside to let him in. — I’m sorry. I couldn’t take it anymore.
He walked into the apartment and looked around. It was different — spacious, bright. As if some dense fog that had been pressing in all this time had left the rooms.
— She was crying, — Igor said. — She said you changed the locks.
— I did. Here are your keys.
He took the ring and turned it in his hands.
— Lena, she’s my mother.
— I know. And I’m not forbidding you to care for her. Send her money, visit her, call every day. But she can’t live here. Not like that. Not by taking over all the space, every decision, our whole life.
He was silent, and I didn’t know what would happen now. Maybe he’d turn around and leave. Maybe he’d say I was wrong. That I was cruel. That she was right.
But he sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands.
— I know, — he said in a low voice. — I know everything. I just couldn’t… couldn’t refuse her. She’s my mother, Lena. She gave birth to me, raised me alone. And when she cries, I feel like the worst bastard.
I sat next to him and put my hand on his shoulder.
— You’re not a bastard. You’re a good son. But you have a wife. You have your own family. And when a mother tries to run that family, dictate terms, occupy your bedroom and your life — that’s wrong. Even if she’s old. Even if she’s sick. There have to be boundaries.
— She said her heart is acting up.
— Her blood pressure spikes. Like half the women her age. We’ll pay for treatment. We’ll call and check on her. But she’ll live at her place.
Igor lifted his head and looked at me.
— Did you really throw her out? With the suitcases, into the hall?
— I did.
He suddenly smiled. Faintly, wearily, but he smiled.
— You know, it’s probably right. I didn’t have the courage. But you did.
— I just wanted to live in my own apartment, — I admitted. — The one I paid for for eight years. Do you understand?
— I understand. — He hugged me, tightly, for real. — I’m sorry I didn’t protect you sooner. That I let it go this far.
— You protected me by helping with the mortgage, — I said. — By being there. Now let’s just live. The two of us. In our apartment. Without someone else’s curtains in the bedroom.
And that’s how we sat — on the couch, holding each other, in the silence of our apartment. The very silence we hadn’t had for a whole month.
Svetlana Petrovna didn’t call for three days. Then she phoned Igor, and in a matter-of-fact voice said she’d arrived fine, that a neighbor helped carry up the suitcases. That she was going to a local massage therapist. That she didn’t have enough money for the IV drips — if we could, would we transfer some.
Igor transferred it. I didn’t object. It was his money, his mother, his conscience.