Ksenia stirred the borscht again, glaring at the two sad pieces of beetroot lazily floating on the surface, while her husband had already been glued to his phone on the couch for half an hour.
The kitchen smelled of garlic and irritation.
“Vladimir, I’m begging you,” Ksenia tried to speak calmly, but her tone still broke, “can you finally take out the trash before your mother gets here?”
“Why are you like a broken record?” Vladimir replied lazily without looking up from the screen. “Mom’s going to say the place is a mess anyway. At least this way she’ll be right.”
“Brilliant logic,” Ksenia snorted. “Maybe we should rip off the wallpaper and smear dirt all over the place so we really impress her?”
She hadn’t even finished the sentence when there was a firm, almost commanding knock at the door.
Not the doorbell—a knock.
Ksenia wiped her hands on her apron and went to open.
On the doorstep, as always, stood Tamara Petrovna—coat buttoned up to the throat, hairdo that looked like it had eaten half the store’s supply of hairspray. In her hands, a shopping bag with a loaf of bread and a jar of pickles sticking out.
“Oh, the lady of the house!” her mother-in-law drawled with a caustic squint. “Cooking your signature dish again? That pink soup of yours?”
“It’s borscht, Tamara Petrovna,” Ksenia replied patiently. “Classic, just the way you like it.”
“Borscht…” the older woman drew out the word, peering into the pot. “This looks like onion compote. Who taught you to cook?”
“My mom,” Vladimir cut in, getting up from the couch. “We’ve talked about this—Ksyusha has her own style.”
“‘Style’ is for artists,” snapped Tamara Petrovna. “A housewife should make a proper first course.”
Ksenia bit her tongue so she wouldn’t say something sharp.
But then it got worse. Tamara Petrovna took off her coat, briskly set the bag on the table and announced:
“Right, kids. I’m here for a serious talk.”
Vladimir tensed. So did Ksenia. Usually, a “serious talk” meant someone was at fault, and that someone was most often Ksenia.
“Here’s the thing…” The mother-in-law took out her glasses and started flipping through some papers. “My neighbor let slip that Ksenia’s grandmother died.”
“It’s been a year,” Ksenia answered dryly.
“Exactly!” Tamara exclaimed triumphantly. “Which means there’s an apartment.”
Ksenia froze.
“How do you know that?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I have my own sources,” her mother-in-law said meaningfully. “Anyway, I think it would be right if you immediately put it in Vladimir’s name. So it stays in the family.”
“And what am I, not family?” Ksenia crossed her arms over her chest.
“You… well, you understand,” Tamara pretended to search for words, “wives come and go. But a son is forever.”
“So I ‘come and go,’ and Vladimir is what, part of the furniture?” Ksenia narrowed her eyes. “Great metaphor, thanks.”
“Ksyusha, don’t start,” Vladimir stepped in, scratching the back of his head. “Mom’s right, it’s logical.”
“Logical?!” Ksenia almost laughed, but it came out dry. “Vladimir, she was my grandmother. It’s my apartment. Why on earth should it go to you?”
“Because you’re his wife!” Tamara raised her voice. “You should think about your husband, not yourself.”
“And you should think about your son, not about someone else’s property,” Ksenia was already boiling. “And no, the apartment isn’t some ‘family relic’; it’s my personal property.”
“Exactly—while you’re in our family,” her mother-in-law said venomously.
Ksenia felt something clench inside.
“Vladimir,” she turned to her husband, “are you ever going to take my side?”
Vladimir sighed but looked away.
“Ksyusha, I just think Mom is right. We could use that apartment. We could sell it, buy a little house outside the city…”
“And I’d live there with your mom on the same plot?” Ksenia laughed. “That’s not a house, that’s a correctional facility.”
“There you go, showing how ungrateful you are,” Tamara hissed. “My son and I are only thinking about you, and you…”
“Oh sure, about my happiness!” Ksenia cut her off. “Especially when you come every week to inspect how I wash the dishes.”
“Because you wash them like you’re using your left heel,” the older woman smirked.
Ksenia fell silent. She knew that if she said even one more word, it would explode into a scene the whole building would hear.
Except inside, everything was already bursting.
She abruptly took off her apron, threw it on the table and said coldly:
“Alright. I understand now why you came. Thanks for the pickles. Please go home.”
“What, you’re kicking me out?” Tamara’s eyebrows shot up.
“I’m asking you to leave. And you too, Vladimir,” Ksenia added, looking at her husband. “I need to think.”
“Ksyusha, you’re overreacting,” he started, but Ksenia was already walking to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
From the kitchen she heard an outraged:
“See, son? That’s her true colors!”
And Ksenia stood there, leaning against the door, and for the first time in a long while she realized:
It looked like she was going to have to do more than just defend the apartment—she’d have to change her whole life.
Ksenia woke to the sound of someone loudly slamming a closet door in the hallway.
The fog of sleep melted away, replaced by a heavy sense of dread.
In the kitchen, Vladimir was sitting with a cup of coffee and the face of someone clearly about to say something unpleasant.
Some papers lay on the table, and next to them his phone, screen lit by a blinking message from “Mom.”
“We need to talk,” he said without looking up.
“So dramatic for so early,” Ksenia sat down opposite him. “What is it, the borscht wasn’t the right shade again?”
“Ksyusha, don’t joke,” he pressed his lips together. “You understand that this situation with the apartment can’t just hang in the air.”
“It’s not hanging,” Ksenia replied calmly. “The apartment is mine.”
“You can’t do this,” Vladimir looked up at her. “It’s not right. Mom’s right: we’re a family, everything should be shared.”
“Oh, yes. Shared. Especially if it belongs to me,” Ksenia smirked. “But if it’s something of yours, then it’s suddenly ‘sacred,’ right?”
“Don’t twist my words,” he frowned. “We could sell it, pay off the loan, finally buy a car…”
“A car you can use to drive your mom to the market every morning?” Ksenia leaned back in her chair. “Fantastic investment.”
“You’re deliberately turning everything into a joke,” he said irritably. “But I’m serious. If you don’t sign the apartment over to me, I…”
“You’ll what?” Ksenia narrowed her eyes.
“I’ll file for divorce,” Vladimir blurted, as if dropping a heavy stone.
Silence fell.
Only the wall clock kept ticking lazily, counting down the seconds to the explosion.
“Wonderful,” Ksenia said at last. “Just so we’re clear: you’re willing to destroy our marriage because I won’t give you the apartment my grandmother left me?”
“You’re exaggerating!” he jumped up. “It’s not about the apartment, it’s about you not wanting to think of us as a team.”
“A team?” Ksenia raised her brows. “A team is when both players score into the same goal. Right now I see you playing doubles with your mom, and I’m the one on my own.”
“Because she’s right!” he shouted. “She just wants to help us.”
“Oh yes, I know her ‘help’ very well,” Ksenia gave a bitter chuckle. “First she trashes my cooking, then hints I’m not worthy of her son, and now she’s decided to strip me of my inheritance.”
“You’re going too far,” he repeated, but more quietly.
Ksenia felt anger rising inside her. Not just hurt—an urge to grab a bag and leave without looking back.
“Vladimir,” she stood up, looking down at him, “let’s be honest: if I sign the apartment over to you tomorrow, will your mother finally leave me alone?”
“Well…” he hesitated. “I think so, yes.”
“There’s the truth,” Ksenia said coldly. “You’re ready to trade our marriage for your mother’s peace of mind.”
He turned away, pulled out his phone and started typing something.
“Mum, she doesn’t get it,” Ksenia managed to read on the screen before he put it down.
“Perfect,” her voice trembled, but she pulled herself together. “Tell your mother I’ve figured some things out too.”
She went into the bedroom, pulled out a suitcase and started packing her things.
A couple of minutes later Vladimir appeared in the doorway.
“You’re leaving?” His voice held more confusion than anger.
“Yes,” she answered shortly. “Since you’ve chosen your mom and her advice, I’ll free up some space for your cohabitation.”
“Ksyusha, don’t be so dramatic,” he took a step toward her, but she stepped back.
“This isn’t drama,” she looked him straight in the eye. “This is the end of act one.”
“You’ve lost your mind,” he grabbed her by the hand, but Ksenia pulled away.
“Let go,” she said firmly. “And yes, I’m taking everything. Even the kettle.”
“The kettle?” he stared at her.
“Yep. Symbol of our marriage: supposedly useful, but always hissing,” she tossed the last sweater into the suitcase and snapped it shut.
Vladimir stood there in silence.
Ksenia walked past him without even turning her head.
In the hallway she heard him say quietly, almost in a whisper:
“Mum, she’s gone.”
And suddenly she wanted to laugh.
Laugh at the fact that they honestly believed they could push her around with threats and manipulation.
But somewhere deep inside, the laughter was bitter—because she knew there was still a real war ahead.
The new apartment greeted Ksenia with the smell of old wood and silence.
Her grandmother would have said, “Walls remember everything.”
Ksenia closed the door behind her and, for the first time in a long while, felt: this was her space.
For three days she moved around in a kind of trance: called a locksmith, changed the locks, ordered a new door.
Vladimir called, texted, knocked on her messengers.
She didn’t answer.
On the fourth day, the doorbell rang in real life.
In the peephole—Tamara Petrovna, wearing that same expression that managed to combine offense, contempt, and absolute certainty she was right.
Ksenia slowly opened the door but kept the chain on.
“Do you seriously think you can just walk out like that and that’s it?” her mother-in-law asked with a poisonous smile.
“I can. And I should,” Ksenia replied calmly.
“Ksyusha,” the woman’s voice turned soft, which only made it more disgusting, “we’re family. We have shared interests.”
“You and your son do,” Ksenia kept the chain in place. “I have my own now.”
“You’re obliged to give up the apartment,” Tamara dropped the sweet tone at once. “Otherwise Vladimir will sue for division of property.”
“Let him,” Ksenia shrugged. “We’ll split the kettle too while we’re at it.”
“What?” the older woman blinked.
“Long story,” Ksenia said with a dry smirk.
“Ksyusha, you’re ruining your life!” Tamara raised her voice. “You think it’ll be easy without a husband? You’ll crawl back in a month!”
“You know,” Ksenia looked her straight in the eye, “I’d rather sleep alone in my own place than share a bed with a mama’s boy.”
Tamara flushed crimson.
“That old grandmother of yours put this nonsense in your head?!”
“Yes,” Ksenia suddenly smiled. “She always said: ‘Protect what’s yours. Husbands can be replaced, an apartment—rarely.’”
Door slam.
Tamara was left outside, muttering something about “ungrateful women.”
A week later, Ksenia was sitting in court.
Vladimir came with his mother, and she came with a lawyer.
“The apartment is my client’s personal property,” her lawyer said firmly. “It was received as an inheritance and therefore is not subject to division.”
Vladimir fidgeted with the folder in his hands, while Tamara kept whispering something in his ear.
The judge ruled quickly: the apartment remained with Ksenia, and all jointly acquired property was to be divided equally.
In the hallway after the hearing, Vladimir tried to approach her:
“Ksyusha, we could’ve settled this peacefully…”
“Peacefully?” She turned to him sharply. “You mean when you and your mom tried to drive me out of my own home?”
“I just… wanted us to…”
“Wanted us to what?” she cut him off. “To live by your rules? No thanks.”
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing there with his mother already launching into a new monologue about “shameless women.”
That evening, Ksenia opened a bottle of champagne.
Alone. No toasts, no guests.
She looked out at the city lights and thought that yes, it was going to be hard.
But hard is when you live someone else’s life.
And now she had her own.
Her phone buzzed.
“Mom, she won.”
The message was sent to her… by mistake.
Ksenia burst out laughing.
For a long time, until tears came. Because this was the ending. Loud. Definitive