The apartment came to Sofia from the people closest to her—the ones who gave her life and taught her to cherish every moment. The two-room place, on the fourth floor of an old brick building, held within its walls the echo of the past, the whisper of former conversations, and the warmth of parental embraces. The windows always looked out onto the courtyard, where old poplars stretched high into the sky and, at their roots, simple wooden benches had witnessed many fates. Her parents had left every document in perfect order; their care and foresight were their final gift, and in due course Sofia accepted the inheritance. She registered everything in her name, received the coveted certificate of ownership, and gradually, day by day, grew used to the immense and at the same time bitter thought that from now on this was her home, her fortress, and her greatest—if silent—reminder of family.
She and Mark married a year after all the legal formalities were behind them. The wedding was very modest, without pomp or a crowd of guests—only the closest few. Her husband moved in with Sofia, sold his small one-room apartment on the outskirts, and put all the proceeds into their joint savings, talking about a bright future. They lived quietly and steadily, without great emotional upheavals or joys, but also without loud quarrels. Mark worked for a large construction company, and his workdays often stretched well past midnight. Sofia worked in the accounting department of a small but cozy firm, came home much earlier, and always made dinner, hoping that today her husband would return sooner.
The first months of their life together flowed smoothly and serenely. Mark didn’t try to interfere with the household or to radically change the familiar order. Sofia arranged the furniture as she felt comfortable, left her parents’ photos in their old frames on the walls, and kept her mother’s sideboard with the very dishes they used on Sunday tea. Her husband never objected; everything suited him.
But over time her mother-in-law began to appear in their shared space. Irina Petrovna came once a week, sometimes more often. She always brought several bags of groceries, entered without calling first, and looked around the apartment with a keen, appraising gaze, as if searching for something. Sofia always tried to be as polite as possible, offered hot tea and pie, and patiently listened to endless advice and instruction.
“Someone in this house needs to think about my son,” Irina Petrovna would say, her gaze drifting over the living room. “Mark is weary in these cold walls. You should hang cheerier curtains, put up brighter wallpaper—add some life.”
Sofia stayed silent. The apartment was hers—her parents’—a part of her soul. She wasn’t going to change the wallpaper, the curtains, or anything else; that would be a betrayal of their memory. But she also didn’t want to argue with her mother-in-law or start an open confrontation; she valued peace in the family. It was easier just to nod and say nothing, letting the words pass by.
“You got your home from your parents, but you can’t create real coziness,” Irina Petrovna went on, pulling a jar of homemade jam from her bag. “Mark works until night, and what’s at home? Cold and emptiness.”
Sofia clenched her fists under the table, feeling a wave of hurt spread through her body. Still, her voice remained calm and even.
“Mark has never complained.”
“Mark doesn’t complain at all—that’s just his character,” the mother-in-law sighed, shaking her head. “But a mother’s heart always knows when her child is uncomfortable.”
A child. Mark was already thirty-two, but to Irina Petrovna her son would always be a little boy. Sofia learned to let those words go, not take them to heart. Listen, nod, and carry on with her own tasks, keeping her inner balance.
Mark didn’t notice how his mother was gradually, drop by drop, poisoning the atmosphere in their home. He even liked it when Irina Petrovna came. Her care, her food, her constant attention—everything he had lacked in his distant childhood. His father had left very early; his mother raised him alone, worked two jobs, and often left the boy with neighbors, unable to give him enough warmth.
Now Irina Petrovna was trying to make up for what was lost. She called her son every evening, probed into every detail, and gave endless advice. Sometimes, from the next room, Sofia caught snatches of their conversations:
“Mom, I’m fine. Don’t worry so much.”
“Markusha, you know I think only of you—only of you.”
“Yes, Mom, I know. Thank you.”
Sofia never interfered in those talks. She believed everyone has their own unique relationship with their parents. The only thing that mattered was that those relationships not interfere with their own new family life.
Autumn settled in, painting the city in gold and crimson. The air grew colder; long rains came more often, drumming on the windowsills. Sofia took warm throws and wool socks out of the closets, swapped light bedspreads for winter ones, and set scented candles with cinnamon and orange on the windowsills. These were the small, almost weightless details that create the feeling of true coziness, of a home you want to return to.
December was approaching; the air already smelled of tangerines and a coming miracle. Sofia found herself thinking more and more about New Year’s. She wanted to host a small but heartfelt celebration, invite a few of her closest friends, and decorate the apartment with garlands. Nothing grand—just a warm, homey evening among kindred spirits.
Around this time Mark grew oddly withdrawn. He came home from work and sat staring at his phone, not responding to questions. When Sofia gently asked whether everything was all right, he brushed her off, avoiding her eyes.
“Everything’s fine, I’m just really tired. Don’t hassle me.”
One evening at dinner, Mark suddenly spoke without lifting his eyes from his plate:
“Mom and the relatives are thinking of spending New Year’s here in the city. They don’t have their own place, and it’s just the two of us—we can put everyone up, no problem.”
Sofia slowly lifted her head. Her fork, with a piece of fish, froze in mid-air.
“Everyone? How many people is ‘everyone’?”
Mark shrugged, still avoiding her gaze.
“Well, Mom, Aunt Lida, the niece and nephew, Andrei and Sveta. Maybe six, tops. We won’t be stingy.”
“Six people? In our two-room apartment? Are you serious?”
“Only for a short while—just the thirty-first to the second. What’s the big deal?”
Sofia set the fork down carefully, feeling everything inside her tighten.
“Mark, this is my apartment. I’m not turning my home into a hallway or a hostel for your relatives.”
His brow furrowed; his face hardened with displeasure.
“‘My apartment, my apartment,’” he mimicked, and for the first time there was an edge of irritation in his voice. “Do I live here or am I just a guest? You tell me.”
“You live here. But the final decisions about who comes and when are made by me. That’s my right.”
“That’s my own mother,” Mark’s voice grew firmer, harsher.
“Your mother is here often enough as it is,” Sofia replied calmly but firmly. “But packing six people in here for all the holidays—I won’t agree to that. This is my home.”
Mark leaned back, arms crossed in a defensive pose.
“Fine. I get it. We’ll talk later, when you’re in a more adequate state.”
The conversation ended there. Sofia cleared the table in silence; Mark went to the other room and turned the TV up full blast. The rest of the evening passed in heavy, oppressive quiet.
The next day, Sofia came home later than usual. A meeting had run long, then she had to stay at the storeroom to sort out messy shipping slips. Dusk had fully settled by the time she arrived. She opened the door, took off her coat, and immediately felt that something in the air was wrong—charged.
Mark stood in the hallway. His face was drawn tight with tension, his hands balled into fists white with anger. Sofia stopped on the threshold, a chill running down her back.
“What happened? What’s going on?”
He stepped forward, closing the distance.
“That’s it—pack your things and get out! Mom and the family are coming to stay till New Year’s, and none of them want you here. Got it?”
Sofia slowly, as if in slow motion, shut the door behind her, shutting out the rest of the world.
“What did you just say? Repeat that, please.”
“What you heard perfectly well. Mom called. They’ve packed and leave the day after tomorrow. They need space, and you’ll just be underfoot.”
“I’ll be underfoot? In my own apartment? Are you out of your mind?”
“In mine!” Mark’s voice tipped into a full-on shout. “I live here, so I have every right to decide!”
Sofia dropped her bag to the floor, feeling long-suppressed resentment boil up.
“You live here only because I allowed it. This apartment is in my name. From before our marriage. It’s my inheritance, my memory.”
“To hell with your inheritance and your memory!” — Sergei slammed his fist into the wall, and a thin web of cracks crept through the plaster. “If my mother wants to come, she’ll come! Period!”
“Without my consent, no strangers will come in here or step over this threshold. That’s a fact.”
He stepped so close she could feel his breath, stopping a mere inch from her.
“Do you really think you can order me around? Me?”
Sofia lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes; there was not a trace of fear in her gaze.
“I’m not ordering anyone. I’m just stating the facts as they are. The apartment is mine. All decisions concerning it are made by me. Only me.”
Mark spun on his heel, went into the room, and slammed the door so hard the walls trembled. Sofia remained in the hallway, staring at the closed wooden barrier. Inside she went cold—not from fear, but from the sudden, clear understanding that things had gone much farther than she’d imagined, crossing every line.
The evening passed in sepulchral silence. Mark didn’t come out; Sofia stayed in the kitchen. She brewed a strong tea, sat by the window, and looked out at the dark courtyard. Streetlights illuminated empty benches while a cold wind chased the last fallen leaves across the asphalt.
Near midnight the phone rang. The screen read “Irina Petrovna.” Sofia stared at the blinking icon for a long time, then sighed and answered.
“Sofia?” The mother-in-law’s voice was dry and distant. “Mark told me everything. So you’re against our visit. Very ‘family’ of you.”
“Irina Petrovna, I’m not against your visit as such. I’m against six adults living in my two-room apartment for several days. Those are different things.”
“We won’t be any trouble! We’ll fit just fine. Mark in the room, my sister and I on the sofa, the kids on the floor. Nothing terrible will happen.”
“For me it’s inconvenient. It violates my personal space.”
“Inconvenient,” she repeated, dripping sarcasm. “My son works himself to the bone to provide for you, and you can’t take in his own mother for a few days. Selfishness.”
“Mark works for himself,” Sofia countered, feeling fresh waves of fatigue. “And he provides for himself first. I work too and contribute to our budget.”
“You work in your little office and earn pennies. Mark is the one who tries, who toils so you can live well. And you…”
Sofia simply closed her eyes. Arguing with this woman was as pointless as banging her head against a wall.
“Irina Petrovna, the apartment belongs to me. Legally it’s mine. And the final decision is mine. I’ve made it.”
“‘Decision,’” the mother-in-law mocked. “It’s plain stinginess, that’s what. Your parents left you a place and you won’t even take in your husband’s family. Shame on you.”
“I want to spend New Year’s in peace. Without a crowd of people in my home.”
“A crowd! My son’s blood relatives are a crowd to you? Disgrace!”
Sofia hung up without a word, unable to listen to the stream of reproaches any longer. The conversation had hit a dead end. Irina Petrovna didn’t hear and didn’t want to hear any arguments; she saw only her own desire and considered it the only right one.
In the morning Mark left for work without saying goodbye or even looking at his wife. Sofia stayed home. Her day off fell in the middle of the week, and she decided to put the apartment in perfect order. She dusted thoroughly, washed the floors, and cleared out the closets. The monotonous work distracted her a little from heavy thoughts.
Around noon her friend called. Veronika—Sofia’s friend since school, since the days they’d run the halls together between classes.
“So, how are you? We haven’t seen each other in ages. I miss you.”
“Everything’s fine,” Sofia lied automatically. “As always. Good.”
“You’re lying. I can hear it in your voice. What happened? Tell me.”
Sofia took a deep breath and told her everything: the mother-in-law, the New Year’s plans, the recent blow-up with Mark. Veronika listened quietly, not interrupting, only sometimes adding short, supportive remarks.
“And what are you going to do now?” her friend asked when Sofia finished her heavy story.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. Mark won’t talk to me at all—just ignores me.”
“Are you going to give in? Surrender?”
“No,” Sofia said firmly, and for the first time that day there was confidence in her voice. “This is my apartment. If I give in now, it’ll only get worse. They’ll climb right onto my head.”
“Right,” Veronika agreed at once. “Don’t you dare give in. It’s your legal home, your boundaries. You have to defend them.”
The conversation calmed her a little and gave her strength. Sofia hung up and went back to cleaning. By evening the apartment shone with cleanliness and order. She made a light dinner, set the table for two, and waited for her husband, hoping for reconciliation.
Mark came very late. He walked straight past the kitchen, ignoring the laid table, and shut himself in the room. Sofia stood in the hallway for a moment, then returned to the kitchen and ate alone, listening to the ticking clock on the wall.
The next day the same scene repeated with eerie precision: silence, avoidance, closed doors. Sofia didn’t try to start a conversation or force her way into his room. If Mark wanted to pressure her with silence—let him try. But she wasn’t going to back down; her resolve only hardened.
On the evening of the third day, Irina Petrovna called again. This time her voice was much softer, almost tender—a tone that immediately set Sofia on guard.
“Sofiyushka, let’s talk calmly, nicely. No extra emotion, no shouting.”
“I always speak calmly,” Sofia answered, standing at the window.
“You see, we really have nowhere else to go. My sister is selling her apartment; she’s already moved out. The kids were renting a room, but the owners suddenly kicked them out. We just wanted to meet the holiday together, as a family. Is that so wrong?”
“I understand your difficult situation, and I truly am sorry. But six people in a two-room apartment is too much, even for a short time. That’s just a fact.”
“What if not everyone comes? My sister and the kids can get a hotel room, and I’ll come alone. Just for a few days. May I? I’m begging you.”
Sofia thought. One mother-in-law was bearable. Not a crowd, not a noisy company. A few days she could endure.
“How many days are we talking?”
“Well, three or four. From the thirty-first to the third. And that’s all. I give you my word.”
“All right,” Sofia agreed after a short pause. “But only if it’s just you. No one else.”
“Thank you so much, dear!” Irina’s voice blossomed with genuine joy. “I knew you were a kind, understanding girl. Mark and I won’t let you down.”
Sofia ended the call and rested her forehead against the cool windowpane. Something inside—some sixth sense—told her this consent had been a big mistake. But it was too late to retreat; she had given her word.
Mark got home close to midnight. He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a bottle of water. Sofia sat at the table with a book, pretending to read.
“Your mother called,” she said quietly, without lifting her eyes from the pages.
“I know,” Mark grunted. “Thanks for agreeing—finally. I appreciate it.”
“I agreed to take only your mother. And only for three days. That’s important.”
“Yeah, sure,” he muttered and disappeared into the room, leaving her alone.
Their talk ended again before it could begin. But the next day, when Sofia returned from work, Mark was waiting in the hallway. His face was tense again, his arms crossed in an openly hostile pose.
“Mom says everyone’s coming,” he blurted without preamble. “Not just her—everyone. So get ready.”
Sofia calmly took off her coat and hung it on the rack.
“I agreed only to your mother’s visit. Only her. We discussed it.”
“So what—should I leave my sister on the street? The kids? On New Year’s?”
“Your family can get a hotel or a hostel. I suggested that from the start. I’m even willing to help pay.”
Mark stepped forward, completely blocking the doorway to the room.
“That’s it, I said! Pack your junk and clear out! Mom and the family are coming to stay till New Year’s, and you’re just in their way! Got it?”
Sofia didn’t scream back. She didn’t argue or try to prove anything. She simply looked at her husband with a long, steady gaze—the way you look at a stranger—and something inside her finally broke for good.
“If they’re that eager to live here, be my guest,” she said, her voice surprisingly even and quiet. “But you’re leaving with them. Right now.”
Mark blinked, taken aback.
“What? What did you say?”
Sofia walked past him into the bedroom. She opened the wardrobe and took out his big rolling suitcase. Calmly, unhurriedly, she began to pack his things. Shirts, trousers, socks, underwear. She folded everything methodically, without extra movements or emotion.
“What are you doing?” he asked from the doorway, watching her.
“Packing your things. You said to pack.”
“You’re joking, right? This is some stupid joke?”
“No. Not at all.”
Sofia zipped the suitcase, rolled it into the hallway, and set it by the front door. Mark stared at his luggage, then let out a nervous, uncertain laugh.
“You’re serious? You’re staging all this over a couple of days?”
“It’s not about a couple of days. It’s about you constantly deciding for me in my own home. In my apartment.”
“Our home!” Mark’s voice broke into a shout again. “I live here!”
Sofia calmly took his jacket and warm sweater from the closet and held them out.
“You’ll all spend the holidays together. You’re one big happy team now. I don’t want to be part of it.”
Mark didn’t take the jacket. He stepped back, straightening to his full height.
“You have no right to throw me out! None!”
“I do. Every right. The apartment is mine. It’s registered to me. Legally clean.”
“But we’re husband and wife! We’re a family!”
“We were,” she corrected quietly but very clearly. “Once.”
He froze, as if struck. Then he started talking faster and louder, trying to push her back. He spoke about family traditions, about respect for elders, about how his mother had worked hard all her life and deserved a rest. Words poured out of him one after another, but Sofia listened in silence, as if through thick glass. There was no irritation, no anger, no doubt in her eyes—only a calm, crystalline certainty she was right.
“You can go to them right now, if you like,” she cut into his monologue. “But leave the key to my apartment here.”
She held out her hand, palm up, waiting. Mark looked at her hand, then at her face, searching for a sign of a joke, a bluff, a weak spot—but found nothing except firm resolve.
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Bitterly.”
“Maybe. For now—the key.”
He yanked the key ring off the wall hook and flung it to the floor. Metal clinked on the tile and skittered in different directions. He grabbed the suitcase, yanked the door open, and stormed out onto the landing. The slam echoed up and down the stairwell.
Sofia quietly gathered the keys, laid them neatly on the hall console, then went to the kitchen and made herself tea again. She sat by her favorite window and looked out at the dark courtyard. The lamps lit the empty, snow-covered paths; the wind rocked the bare branches of the old poplars.
About an hour later the phone rang. Irina Petrovna. Sofia didn’t pick up. Then Mark called. She declined. Messages began to arrive one after another, their vibrations loud in the silence:
“Are you out of your mind? Come back! Now!”
“Mom is completely shocked by your behavior!”
“Open the door immediately! We’re waiting at the entrance!”
“I’ll come tomorrow morning and we’ll talk it through like adults!”
Sofia simply muted the phone and put it in the farthest desk drawer.
In the morning she called a locksmith to install new locks. The specialist arrived quickly—within two hours. A young guy with a big toolbox. He worked quietly, fast, and professionally, without unnecessary questions. In about forty minutes a new, shiny, reliable lock was in the door. He handed Sofia two brand-new keys, took his payment, and wished her a good day.
Sofia turned the key several times in the lock to test it, then secured the door from the inside and went into the living room. From the back of a closet she pulled out a big cardboard box of Christmas ornaments. Her parents had decorated a live tree together every year, and she had carefully kept all the decorations: glass baubles, garlands dulled a bit by time, little deer and cottage figurines.
By evening a small but full, fragrant tree stood in the apartment, filling the air with the sharp scent of pine. Sofia hung the ornaments, touching each one gently, and switched on the garland. Colored lights winked merrily as darkness gathered in the room, reflected in the window glass.
The next day the neighbor from downstairs called—Tatyana Ivanovna, a kind woman of about sixty who always kept a thoughtful eye on the building.
“Sofiyushka, is everything all right up there? Nothing happened?”
“Yes, thank you, Tatyana Ivanovna, everything’s fine. Why?”
“It’s just that last night I saw your Mark with some older woman at the entrance. They stood there a long time, arguing heatedly. Then they tried to come in, but something went wrong with the intercom.”
“That was his mother,” Sofia said evenly. “Don’t worry, please. Everything is fully under control now.”
“Well, if you need anything—just call, don’t hesitate,” the older woman paused, then added, “I’m right here, any time, happy to help.”
“Thank you so much, Tatyana Ivanovna.”
Sofia hung up and went back to her chores. Day by day, the apartment regained its former, familiar look—the very one it had had with her parents. No other people’s things, no imposed rules, no constant tension. Only familiar, dear objects, genuine coziness, and blessed quiet.
On December thirty-first, Sofia woke late, feeling truly rested. Outside, big, fluffy snow was falling, slowly wrapping the ground in a white coverlet. The whole city was getting ready for the holiday: garlands winked everywhere, decorated trees glowed in windows, and the shops buzzed with festive bustle.
She prepared herself a leisurely, delicious breakfast and sat with a large cup of aromatic coffee. Her phone had been silent for days—no calls, no messages. Apparently, Mark had finally realized he shouldn’t come back, and that his pressure tactics didn’t work.
That evening she set a small but pretty table for herself. Nothing special—her favorite Olivier salad, a piece of roast chicken with a crispy skin, fresh fruit. She turned on the TV, watched cheerful holiday shows, and listened to music. When the chimes on the Spasskaya Tower struck midnight, she went to the window with a thin glass of semi-sweet wine.
Beyond the glass, in the winter dark, thousands of lights twinkled. Fireworks burst in the distance; snatches of laughter and festive music drifted up. Sofia quietly raised her glass and gently clinked it against her own reflection in the dark pane.
“Happy New Year,” she whispered to herself. “To new happiness.”
The apartment was very, very quiet. No shrieks, no strange voices, no endless arguments or ultimatums. Only a deep, soothing silence and long-awaited peace—true, long-forgotten, familiar. Sofia sank into her favorite deep armchair, pulled a soft woolen throw over her, and simply closed her eyes, listening to the beat of her own heart.
For the first time in a very long time, her home felt truly good. Truly hers. Just the way she had always wanted.
January brought bitter cold and long blizzards. Sofia returned to work and gradually slipped back into her steady routine. Colleagues politely asked how she had spent the holidays, and she always answered briefly, with a slight smile: “Well—very peacefully. Just how I wanted.”
Mark called only in mid-January, when snow had firmly blanketed the city. His voice on the phone sounded tired and muffled.
“Sof, let’s meet. Let’s finally talk.”
“What is there for us to talk about, Mark?”
“Well… about everything. About us, our life. Maybe we can start over? With a clean slate.”
Sofia looked out the window in silence. Snow lay in a thick, fluffy layer; the branches bent to the ground under its weight.
“Mark, we won’t be starting over. You already made your choice back then. And I accepted it. Now live with it.”
“Sof, wait…”
“I’ll file for divorce next week. We have no jointly acquired property—nothing to divide. We’ll do it through the registry office quickly and without fuss.”
“You’re serious? It’s come to this?”
“Absolutely serious,” her voice was calm and clear.
Mark tried to say more, to persuade her, but Sofia simply ended the call. That conversation, like their relationship, was finished for good.
About a month later the divorce was officially finalized. Mark came to the registry office dark and taciturn, signed all the necessary papers without a word, and left without saying goodbye. Sofia received her divorce certificate, placed it carefully into the folder with other important documents, and went home.
The apartment greeted her with its usual, cozy quiet—familiar, dear, healing. She took off her coat and shoes and went to the kitchen. She brewed fresh tea and took out a jar of her favorite jam. Sitting by her big window, she looked out at the winter courtyard. Where a carpet of yellow leaves had lain in autumn, now a clean, untouched snow gleamed. Children slid down a little hill, laughing brightly and tumbling into soft drifts.
Life went on—calm, measured, right. No other people’s ultimatums, no constant pressure, no need to prove anything to anyone. Sofia took a small sip of hot tea, and a light, sincere smile bloomed on her lips of its own accord—for the first time in a very, very long while. She was home. In her own home. And that was what mattered most.
Outside, the snow was slowly melting, exposing the frozen ground, and on it the first timid blades of grass were already pushing through. They reached toward the gentle spring sun—just as fragile, but incredibly stubborn. Sofia watched them and understood that sometimes, for something new to be born, the old has to leave without regret. And in the quiet of her room, in every corner of this home, there now lived not sorrow but a light, weightless feeling—the feeling of returning to herself. That is the greatest happiness: to find the strength to close one door and know that somewhere nearby another is already waiting—the one that opens onto your true, new life