Yulia walked out of the bank with the apartment papers and stopped in the middle of the street. Her hands were shaking. Three years. Three long years of saving, saying no to herself, extra shifts. And now at last—a certificate of ownership in her name. A two-room apartment in a nine-story panel building on the outskirts of the city. Fifty-two square meters. Her very own square meters.
Yulia worked as a math teacher in an ordinary school. A salary of forty-two thousand rubles a month. Plus tutoring in the evenings and on weekends—another twenty to twenty-five thousand. Yulia took three or four students at a time, working with them until late at night. She came home exhausted, but kept going. She saved every single kopeck.
She denied herself everything. She bought clothes only at sales. She never went to cafés. She spent vacations at home or at her parents’ dacha. She bought the cheapest cosmetics. When her friends invited her somewhere, Yulia refused. She said she was busy, though in reality she was just saving money.
She bought a two-room place in an old building. The apartment needed a full renovation—the wallpaper was peeling in places, the floorboards creaked, the plumbing was old. But it was her own home. And that was what mattered.
Yulia met Dmitry a year before she bought the apartment. They met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. Dmitry worked as a sales manager in a furniture store and made fifty thousand rubles a month. He didn’t have his own place; he rented a room in a communal apartment.
Dmitry courted her carefully. He didn’t shower her with flowers or take her to restaurants. He invited her for walks and cooked dinner at his place. Yulia liked that. She didn’t need to spend money on entertainment. She could keep saving.
After six months of dating, Dmitry proposed. Yulia said yes. The wedding was modest, only the closest relatives. No big banquet, no MC. They signed the papers at the registry office and celebrated at home with their parents. Yulia kept saving for the apartment.
Another six months later, Yulia finally bought the two-room flat. Dmitry rejoiced together with his wife, hugged her, kissed her. He said he was proud of her.
“You did great, Yul. You worked your tail off for this for three years. Now we’ll have our own home.”
Yulia nodded. Their own home. At last.
But they didn’t move in right away. The apartment needed renovation. Yulia decided to do everything at once and do it properly. She didn’t want to live in construction dust and redo things bit by bit. She hired a team of workers. Took out a loan for the renovation.
The renovation dragged on for eight months. They replaced the wiring, leveled the walls, put up new wallpaper, and laid laminate. Installed new plumbing and a built-in kitchen. Yulia supervised every stage, coming to the site after work to check the quality.
All this time, Yulia and Dmitry rented a cramped one-room apartment for eighteen thousand a month. They split the rent. They lived modestly and waited for the renovation to end.
In April the renovation was finally finished. The workers removed the construction waste, washed the windows, and wiped the floors. Yulia came to check the finished work. She walked into the apartment and didn’t recognize it. Light walls, new wallpaper with a delicate pattern, warm walnut-colored laminate. A white glossy kitchen with built-in appliances. The bathroom shone with new tiles.
Yulia stood in the middle of the living room and couldn’t believe it. This was her apartment. Her home. Three years of hard work, eight months of renovation. But now you could really live here.
The next day she and Dmitry started moving in. They brought their things from the rental. Set up the furniture, hung the curtains. By evening, the main things were done.
Dmitry went into the second room. He looked around the bright space with its wide window. He stood silently for a moment, then turned to his wife.
“Mom will live here.”
Yulia didn’t understand at first. She tore herself away from the box of dishes she was unpacking in the kitchen.
“What?”
“Mom will live in this room.”
Yulia stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Dima, I don’t understand. What mom?”
“My mom. Lyudmila Vasilievna. She’s moving in with us.”
Yulia froze. The blood drained from her face.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No. She’s living with my sister Olga now. But it’s getting cramped there. Olga’s pregnant with her second child. Mom’s uncomfortable there. I promised her that as soon as we moved into the new apartment, she’d live with us.”
Yulia stared, blinking. Her husband’s words seemed not to reach her brain.
“Dima, we never discussed this.”
“I thought you’d understand. She’s alone. She has nowhere else to go. And here we’ve got plenty of room, two bedrooms. We’ll take one, Mom will take the other.”
Yulia felt her hands start to tremble.
“Dmitry, I bought this apartment with my own money. I saved up for three years. I worked two jobs. I denied myself everything. This is my apartment.”
“So what? We’re a family. My mom is family too.”
“We never discussed living together with your mother!”
Dmitry frowned.
“Yul, why are you getting so worked up? It’s just for a little while. A year, maybe two. Then she’ll figure something out.”
“A year? Two?” Yulia felt everything boiling inside her. “Dmitry, you made this decision for me! You didn’t ask my opinion! You just presented me with a done deal!”
“I thought you’d support me. My mom is lonely. She needs help.”
“Then let your sister help her!”
“My sister’s pregnant. She’s soon going to have two kids. It’s hard for her as it is.”
“And it’s easy for me? I worked myself to the bone for this apartment for three years! I want to live here in peace, not share it with my mother-in-law!”
Dmitry crossed his arms over his chest.
“Yulia, this is fundamentally important to me. My mother can’t stay with my sister. I’m obligated to help her.”
“Then help her! Rent her an apartment! Give her money! But don’t drag her into my home without my consent!”
Dmitry took a step toward his wife.
“This is our home! We’re husband and wife!”
“The apartment is registered to me! I bought it with my money!”
“Oh, that’s how it is?” Dmitry’s face went red. “So you’re selfish now, is that it? You only think about yourself?”
“I’m selfish?” Yulia could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You made a decision for me, and I’m the selfish one?”
“You’re heartless! My mother has nowhere to go, and you’re denying her a roof over her head!”
“Your mother does have somewhere to live!”
“In a one-room place! She’s miserable there!”
“I’ll be miserable too if she moves in here!”
Dmitry spun around and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door. Yulia stayed standing in the hallway. Inside, everything shook with anger and hurt.
How dare he? How dare he make that decision without her? This was her apartment. Her work. Her sacrifices. And Dmitry had just decided for her that his mother would live here?
Yulia went into the living room and sat down on the couch. She tried to calm down, but her thoughts were racing. Did her husband really think she’d just agree? Just like that, without any discussion?
Dmitry came back late at night. He lay down on the bed without undressing and turned to face the wall. Yulia lay with her eyes open. She didn’t sleep at all.
The next day Yulia left for work early. She came back at half past four. Took the elevator up to the seventh floor, stepped out into the hallway—and froze.
Standing by the door was Lyudmila Vasilievna. A woman of about fifty-eight, in a formal coat, with a huge suitcase next to her. Several more bags were piled by the wall.
“Yulia, finally! I’ve been standing here for half an hour. Hurry up and open the door.”
Yulia didn’t move.
“Lyudmila Vasilievna, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean, what? Dimochka said I’m moving in with you. I packed my things. Come on, open up, it’s hard to stand here.”
Yulia took out her keys and opened the door. Lyudmila Vasilievna grabbed the suitcase and dragged it into the hallway. Then she brought in the bags.
“Oh, how beautiful! The renovation turned out great! Dimochka told me you redid everything here.”
Her mother-in-law walked into the second room. She looked around, nodded approvingly.
“Yes, this is good. Spacious. But we need to rearrange the furniture. The bed should go by the window, and the wardrobe—here, by this wall. And we need to hang a mirror. It’s inconvenient without one.”
Yulia stood in the doorway, staring at her and unable to believe what was happening.
“Lyudmila Vasilievna, you need to leave.”
Her mother-in-law turned around.
“What?”
“You need to leave. Right now.”
Lyudmila straightened up.
“Yulia, what kind of joke is this? Dimochka himself invited me. I have every right to be here.”
“You have no rights here. This is my apartment.”
“Ours! You and Dima are husband and wife!”
“The apartment is registered in my name. And I did not give permission for you to live here.”
Lyudmila crossed her arms over her chest.
“So that’s how it is! You’re selfish, then! Dimochka was right!”
“Leave.”
“I won’t! My son invited me!”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Dmitry came into the apartment. He saw his mother in the room and his wife in the doorway. His face hardened.
“What’s going on here?”
“Your wife is kicking me out!” Lyudmila pointed a trembling hand at Yulia. “She says I have no rights!”
Dmitry stepped toward his wife.
“Yulia, stop this right now.”
“I’m not stopping anything. I did not agree to this.”
“I said my mother will live with us!”
Dmitry shouted so loudly that his words echoed off the walls. His face was twisted with rage. The veins in his neck bulged. His fists clenched.
Yulia looked at her husband. Something snapped inside her. A coldness spread through her whole body. Yulia realized—this was it. The marriage was over. This man did not respect her. He didn’t care about her opinion. He simply presented her with a fait accompli and demanded obedience.
“Who do you think you are?” Yulia’s voice was quiet, calm. Icy. “Who are you to give orders in my apartment?”
“I’m your husband!”
“You’re nobody. You’re a guest here. This apartment is mine. Bought with my money.”
“I’m registered here!” Dmitry stepped closer. “I have rights!”
“Registration doesn’t give you the right to decide who lives here.”
“I have the right to invite my mother!”
Yulia held out her hand.
“Give me the keys.”
Dmitry froze.
“What?”
“The keys to the apartment. Give them to me.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Give me the keys. Now.”
Dmitry folded his arms across his chest.
“I won’t.”
“Give them.”
“No!”
Lyudmila stepped into the quarrel.
“Dimochka, look what she’s doing! Shameless! You’re such a caring son, you want to help your mother, and she ruins everything!”
“Mom, don’t worry. She’ll calm down.”
Yulia took out her phone and dialed the police.
“What are you doing?” Dmitry tried to snatch the phone, but Yulia stepped back.
“Hello? Police? Yes, I need help. There are people in my apartment who refuse to leave.”
“Yulia, hang up!”
“The address? Twenty-three Lenin Street, apartment one hundred and five. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Yulia ended the call and looked at her husband.
“The police will be here in ten minutes. Either you hand over the keys and leave on your own, or they’ll escort you out.”
Dmitry turned dark red. His hands shook. Then he abruptly yanked the bunch of keys from his pocket and threw them on the floor. The keys clattered and skittered across the laminate.
“Here! Take your damn keys!”
Dmitry turned, grabbed his mother by the arm.
“Mom, pack your things. We’re leaving.”
Lyudmila tried to protest, but Dmitry was already dragging his mother to the door. He grabbed the suitcase and shoved it into the hallway. He tossed the bags out after it. He slammed the door so hard the glass rattled.
Yulia was left alone. She picked the keys up off the floor, slid all the locks shut, leaned her back against the door, and slowly sank down to the floor.
Silence. Complete, absolute silence.
Yulia sat on the hallway floor and felt tears running down her cheeks. Not from self-pity. From relief. From the realization that she had defended what was hers. Her own space. Her own life.
The next day Yulia went to the registry office. She filed for divorce. In the “reason” box she wrote: incompatibility of characters.
Dmitry called for a week. Yulia didn’t pick up. He sent her messages.
“Yul, let’s talk. You overreacted.”
“She’s my mom. I can’t abandon her.”
“Is it really worth destroying a family over this?”
Yulia read and deleted them. She didn’t answer a single one.
Two weeks later, their mutual friend Marina called Yulia.
“Yul, do you know what’s going on with Dima?”
“No. And I don’t want to know.”
“He’s renting a room in a dormitory. Eight thousand a month. Awful conditions, shared bathroom down the hall.”
Yulia said nothing.
“And his mother refused to live there with him. She went to his sister’s place in a village near Ryazan.”
“I see.”
“They say Lyudmila Vasilievna gave Dima an epic dressing-down over the phone. She screamed that he couldn’t put his wife in her place. That he blew their only chance at decent housing. She called him weak.”
Yulia gave a short laugh.
“Good.”
“Yul, don’t you feel sorry for him?”
“No.”
“At all?”
“Not at all.”
Yulia hung up. She got up from the couch and went into the kitchen. She brewed some tea, sat down at the table by the window, and looked out into the courtyard. Children were playing on the playground. A neighbor was walking her dog. An ordinary spring evening.
Yulia finished her tea, washed the cup, and dried her hands on a towel. She glanced around the kitchen. White glossy cabinet fronts. Built-in appliances. The new countertop. She had chosen all of it herself. Done everything just the way she wanted.
Her apartment. Her space. Her decisions.
The divorce was finalized a month later. Dmitry signed the papers in silence and left. Yulia walked out of the building and sat down on a bench. She took out her phone and texted her mother.
“It’s done. The divorce is final.”
Her mother replied right away.
“Come to us for the weekend. We’ll talk.”
Yulia went to her parents’ place on Saturday. Her mother set the table. Her father silently hugged his daughter.
“How are you?” her mother asked.
“I’m okay.”
“Who could have guessed it would turn out like this!? He seemed like a decent man!”
“Better to be alone than with someone who doesn’t respect you.”
Her mother nodded.
“You’re right.”
Her father poured tea. The three of them sat in the kitchen, talking about work, about plans, about the renovation. No one pitied Yulia. Her parents understood—their daughter had made the right choice.
Yulia went home in the evening. She returned to her apartment. She undressed, took a shower, and went to bed. Silence. No extra sounds. No strangers’ voices.
Her home. Hers alone.
A month later Yulia had Dmitry removed from the registration. She had his residency annulled through the court. She received new documents for the apartment. In the “registered residents” section, there was only her name.
Yulia kept working. School, tutoring. She paid off the loan. She saved up for new furniture. Life went on.
Sometimes Yulia thought about Dmitry. She wondered how he was doing in that dorm room. But the thoughts were fleeting. Yulia did not regret her decision.
Eight months of marriage had turned out to be a mistake. But a short mistake is better than years of living with someone who doesn’t respect your boundaries.
Yulia sat in the kitchen. It was getting dark outside. June, a warm evening, somewhere music was playing. Yulia looked out the window and felt a deep calm.
Yes, the marriage had collapsed. Yes, her plans had fallen through. But Yulia had protected herself. Her space. Her right to decide her own life.
And that was what mattered most.
Yulia stood up, turned off the light in the kitchen, went into the bedroom, lay down in bed, and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be a new day. A new life. Without Dmitry. Without Lyudmila Vasilievna. Without people who believed they had the right to rule her home.
Only her. Her apartment. Her rules. And it was wonderful