The apartment had come to Alyona from her parents. A two-room place on the fourth floor of an old brick building. The windows looked out onto the courtyard, where poplar trees grew and benches stood. Her parents had left all the paperwork in order, and six months later Alyona officially entered into the inheritance. She registered everything in her own name, received the ownership certificate, and little by little got used to the thought that this was now her home.
She and Sergey got married a year after she received the inheritance. The wedding was modest, without extra guests. Her husband moved in with Alyona, sold his one-room apartment on the outskirts, and put the money in a deposit account. They lived quietly—without any special joys, but without scandals either. Sergey worked for a construction company and often stayed late. Alyona worked in accounting for a small firm, got home earlier, and cooked dinner.
The first months of living together were calm. Sergey didn’t interfere in household matters and didn’t try to change anything. Alyona arranged the furniture the way she was used to, left her parents’ photos on the walls, kept the old sideboard with the dishes. Her husband didn’t object.
But with time, her mother-in-law began showing up in the home. Raisa Stepanovna came once a week, sometimes more often. She brought bags of groceries, dropped in without calling, and inspected the apartment with a careful eye. Alyona tried to be polite—offered tea, listened to the advice.
“At least one of you should think about my son,” Raisa Stepanovna would say, looking around the living room. “Seryozha is worn out living in this cold apartment. You should hang curtains, put up brighter wallpaper.”
Alyona stayed silent. The apartment was hers—her parents’. She had no intention of changing the wallpaper, the curtains, or anything else. But she didn’t want to argue with her mother-in-law either. It was easier to nod and say nothing.
“You got your own place from your parents, but you can’t make it cozy,” Raisa Stepanovna went on, pulling a jar of jam out of the bag. “Seryozha works till night, and at home it’s cold and empty.”
Alyona clenched her fists under the table, but answered calmly:
“Sergey hasn’t complained.”
“Seryozha never complains—that’s his character,” her mother-in-law sighed. “But a mother can see when her child is unhappy.”
A child. Sergey was thirty-two, but to Raisa Stepanovna he was still a child. Alyona learned to let those words go in one ear and out the other—listen, nod, and go about her business.
Sergey didn’t notice how his mother was gradually poisoning the atmosphere in the home. He even liked it when Raisa Stepanovna came. Care, food, attention—all the things he hadn’t gotten enough of in childhood. His father had left early; his mother raised him alone, worked two jobs, and often left the boy with neighbors.
Now Raisa Stepanovna was making up for lost time. She called her son every evening, asked about his life, gave advice. Sometimes Alyona heard fragments of the conversations:
“Mom, everything’s fine, don’t worry.”
“Seryozha, you know I think only about you.”
“Yes, Mom, I understand.”
Alyona didn’t interfere. Everyone has their own relationship with their parents. The main thing was that those relationships didn’t get in the way of family life.
Autumn was taking over. It was getting colder outside; it rained more and more often. Alyona pulled warm clothes out of the closets, switched the summer throws to winter ones, set candles on the windowsills—little details that created comfort.
December was approaching. Alyona was thinking about New Year’s. She wanted to make a small celebration—invite a few friends, decorate the apartment. Nothing grand, just a cozy evening at home with close people.
Around that time Sergey grew withdrawn. He came home from work silent, stared at his phone. Alyona asked if everything was okay, but he brushed her off.
“Everything’s fine. Just tired.”
One evening at dinner Sergey said:
“Mom and the relatives are thinking of celebrating New Year’s in the city. They don’t have space, but we’re just the two of us—we can fit everyone.”
Alyona lifted her head from her plate. Her fork froze in the air.
“Everyone? How many is that?”
Sergey shrugged without looking up.
“Well… Mom, Aunt Lida, the nephews Andrey and Sveta. Six people, no more.”
“Six people? In a two-room apartment?”
“Yeah, not for long—from the thirty-first to January second. What’s the big deal?”
Alyona set her fork down on the table.
“Sergey, this is my apartment. I’m not going to turn my home into a hostel.”
Her husband frowned.
“My apartment, my apartment,” Sergey mimicked her. “Do I live here or not?”
“You do. But I’m the one who decides who comes here.”
“She’s my mother,” Sergey’s voice turned harsher.
“Your mother is here often,” Alyona replied evenly. “But I’m not agreeing to house six people for the holidays.”
Sergey leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
“Fine. We’ll talk later.”
That ended the conversation. Alyona cleared the dishes, Sergey went into the room and turned on the TV. The rest of the evening passed in silence.
The next day Alyona came home later than usual. A meeting ran long, then she stayed at the warehouse sorting invoices. She got home at dusk. She opened the door, took off her coat, and immediately felt something was wrong.
Sergey stood in the hallway—his face tense, his hands clenched into fists. Alyona froze on the threshold.
“What happened?”
He stepped forward.
“That’s it—pack your stuff! Mom and the relatives are coming to live here until New Year’s, and they’re all not happy to see you.”
Alyona slowly closed the door behind her.
“What did you say?”
“What you heard. Mom called. They’ve already decided, they’re leaving the day after tomorrow. They need a place, and you’ll be in the way.”
“I’ll be in the way? In my own apartment?”
“In mine!” Sergey snapped, his voice breaking into a shout. “I live here—I have rights!”
Alyona dropped her bag to the floor.
“You live here because I allowed it. The apartment is registered to me—before the marriage. It’s my inheritance.”
“I don’t give a damn about your inheritance!” Sergey slammed his fist into the wall. “Mom wants to come, so she’ll come!”
“Without my consent, no one is coming here.”
He moved closer, stopping a single step away.
“You really think you can order me around?”
Alyona lifted her chin.
“I’m not ordering you around. I’m stating facts. The apartment is mine. I make the decisions.”
Sergey turned, walked into the room, and slammed the door. Alyona remained in the hallway, staring at the closed door. Something inside her went cold—not from fear, but from the realization that things had gone further than she’d thought.
The evening passed in silence. Sergey didn’t come out of the room; Alyona stayed in the kitchen. She brewed herself tea, sat by the window, and looked out at the courtyard. The streetlights lit up empty benches; the wind chased fallen leaves across the asphalt.
Closer to night the phone rang. Raisa Stepanovna. Alyona stared at the screen for a long time, then answered.
“Alyona?” her mother-in-law’s voice was dry. “Seryozha told me you’re against our coming.”
“Raisa Stepanovna, I’m not against your visit. I’m against six people living in a two-room apartment.”
“Can’t we squeeze in? Seryozha in the bedroom, my sister and I on the couch, the nephews on the floor. Nothing страшного.”
“For me it’s uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable,” her mother-in-law repeated with emphasis. “Seryozha works himself to the bone, provides for you, and you can’t even take in his mother.”
“Sergey works for himself,” Alyona objected. “And provides for himself. I work too.”
“You work in your little office, earn pennies. And Seryozha tries so you can live well.”
Alyona closed her eyes. Arguing was pointless.
“Raisa Stepanovna, the apartment belongs to me. It’s in my name. The decision is mine.”
“The decision,” her mother-in-law mocked. “Your greed—that’s what it is. Your parents left you an apartment, and you can’t even accept your husband’s family.”
“I want to celebrate New Year’s peacefully. Without a crowd.”
“A crowd! Seryozha’s own blood is a crowd to you?”
Alyona hung up. The conversation was going nowhere. Raisa Stepanovna didn’t hear arguments—she saw only what she wanted.
In the morning Sergey left for work without saying goodbye. Alyona stayed home. Her day off had landed midweek, and she decided to put the apartment in order. She dusted, washed the floors, sorted the closets. The work distracted her from her thoughts.
Around lunchtime her friend called—Katya, whom Alyona had been close with since school.
“Hey, how are you? Haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Fine,” Alyona lied. “Everything’s good.”
“You’re lying. I can hear it. What happened?”
Alyona sighed and told her everything—about her mother-in-law, the New Year plans, the fight with her husband. Katya listened in silence, only occasionally adding short comments.
“So what now?” her friend asked when Alyona finished.
“I don’t know. Sergey isn’t talking to me.”
“And you won’t give in?”
“No,” Alyona said firmly. “It’s my apartment. If I give in now, it’ll be worse later.”
“Right,” Katya supported her. “Don’t back down. It’s your home, your boundaries.”
That conversation calmed her a little. Alyona hung up and went back to cleaning. By evening the apartment was spotless. She cooked dinner, set the table, and waited for her husband.
Sergey came home late. He walked past the kitchen without looking at the laid table and shut himself in the room. Alyona stood in the hallway for a moment, then went back to the kitchen and ate alone.
The next day the same thing happened. Silence. Ignoring. Closed doors. Alyona didn’t try to speak first. If Sergey wanted to pressure her with silence—let him. But she wasn’t going to give in.
On the evening of the third day Raisa Stepanovna called again. This time her voice was softer, almost affectionate.
“Alyonochka, let’s talk calmly. Without emotions.”
“I am calm,” Alyona replied.
“You see, we really have nowhere to go. My sister is selling her apartment—she’s already moved out. The nephews were renting a room, but the owners kicked them out. We just wanted to spend the holiday together.”
“Raisa Stepanovna, I understand your situation. But six people in a two-room apartment is too much.”
“What if not all of us? My sister and the nephews will get a hotel, and I’ll come alone. Is that okay?”
Alyona thought. One mother-in-law was still tolerable—at least it wasn’t a crowd.
“For how many days?”
“Well, three or four days. From the thirty-first to the third.”
“Alright,” Alyona agreed. “But only you. Alone.”
“Thank you, dear!” Raisa Stepanovna’s voice bloomed with happiness. “I knew you were kind.”
Alyona ended the call and leaned against the wall. Something inside told her agreeing was a mistake. But it was too late to step back.
Sergey came home close to midnight. He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water. Alyona sat at the table with a book.
“Your mother called,” she said without looking up from the pages.
“I know,” Sergey grunted. “Thanks for agreeing.”
“I agreed to take only your mother. For three days.”
“Yeah,” he nodded and disappeared into the room.
That was the end of it. But the next day, when Alyona came home from work, Sergey met her in the hallway—tense, arms crossed over his chest.
“Mom says everyone is coming,” he blurted out. “Not just her.”
Alyona slowly took off her coat.
“I agreed only to your mother.”
“So what now? Leave my sister on the street? The nephews?”
“Your family can rent a hotel. I suggested that.”
Sergey stepped forward, blocking her path.
“That’s it—pack your stuff! Mom and the relatives are coming to live here until New Year’s, and they’re all not happy to see you!”
Alyona didn’t shout. She didn’t argue. She simply looked at her husband calmly, the way you look at a stranger.
“If they want to live here that badly, fine,” Alyona said evenly. “But you’re leaving with them.”
Sergey blinked.
“What?”
Alyona walked past him into the bedroom. Opened the closet, pulled out a suitcase, and began neatly packing Sergey’s things—shirts, pants, socks—methodically, without fuss.
“What are you doing?” he stopped in the doorway.
“Packing your things.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No.”
Alyona zipped the suitcase, carried it into the hallway, and set it by the door. Sergey stared at the luggage, then laughed—uncertainly, nervously.
“You’re serious? Over a couple of days?”
“Over the fact that you decide for me. In my apartment.”
“In mine!” Sergey’s voice cracked. “I live here!”
Alyona took his jacket from the closet and held it out to him.
“You’ll spend the holidays together. You’re one team now.”
Sergey didn’t take the jacket. He stepped back, straightened up.
“You don’t have the right to kick me out!”
“I do. The apartment is mine. It’s in my name.”
“We’re husband and wife!”
“Were,” Alyona corrected.
He froze. Then he started talking louder and faster—about family traditions, respect for elders, how his mother had worked her whole life and deserved rest. The words spilled one after another, but Alyona listened in silence. In her eyes there was no irritation, no doubt—only calm certainty.
“You can go to them right now,” Alyona cut in. “But leave the key.”
She held out her hand, palm up. Sergey looked at her hand, then at her face. He searched for signs of a joke, a bluff, but found none.
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed.
“Maybe. The key.”
Sergey ripped the keyring from the hook and threw it on the floor. The keys clinked against the tile and rolled in different directions. He grabbed the suitcase, yanked open the door, and stormed onto the landing. The slam echoed through the stairwell.
Alyona picked up the keys and set them on the dresser. She went to the kitchen, brewed tea, and sat by the window, looking out into the courtyard. The streetlights illuminated empty paths; the wind swayed the bare branches.
An hour later the phone rang. Raisa Stepanovna. Alyona didn’t answer. Then Sergey called. Alyona declined. Messages came one after another:
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Mom is in shock!”
“Open the door right now!”
“I’ll come tomorrow and we’ll talk properly!”
Alyona turned off the sound and put the phone in the desk drawer.
In the morning she called a locksmith company. The technician arrived two hours later—a young guy with a toolbox. He worked quickly, without unnecessary questions. Forty minutes later a new lock was in the door—shiny, solid. He handed Alyona two keys, took payment, and left.
Alyona locked the door with the new lock and went into the room. She took a box of Christmas ornaments from the closet. Her parents had decorated the tree together every year, and Alyona had kept all the decorations—glass baubles, garlands, little deer figurines.
By evening there was a small tree in the apartment—real, smelling of pine. Alyona hung the ornaments and turned on the lights. Colored bulbs blinked in the dim room.
The next day the neighbor called—Tatyana Ivanovna, a woman around sixty who lived one floor below.
“Alyonochka, are you alright?”
“Yes, thank you. Why?”
“It’s just… yesterday evening I saw your husband with some woman by the entrance. They were standing there, talking about something. Then they tried to get in, but the intercom didn’t open.”
“That was his mother,” Alyona said calmly. “Don’t worry—everything’s under control.”
“Well, if anything—call,” the older woman paused. “I’m close by.”
“Thank you, Tatyana Ivanovna.”
Alyona hung up and went back to cleaning. The apartment was gradually returning to its old self—her parents’ home. Without other people’s things, without imposed rules. Only familiar objects, coziness, and silence.
On December 31 Alyona woke up late. Outside the window it was snowing—big flakes drifting slowly down. The city was preparing for the holiday: lights on buildings, decorated trees in windows, bustle in the shops.
Alyona made herself breakfast and sat at the table with a cup of coffee. The phone had been silent for two days—no calls, no messages. Sergey had apparently understood there was no point coming back.
That evening she set the table. Nothing special—salad, baked chicken, fruit. She turned on the TV and watched holiday programs. When the clock struck midnight, Alyona went to the window with a glass of wine.
Outside, lights shimmered. Somewhere fireworks exploded, laughter and music carried through the night. Alyona raised her glass and clinked it against her reflection in the glass.
“Happy New Year,” she said softly to herself.
The apartment was quiet. No shrieking, no чужие voices, no ultimatums. Only peace—real, long forgotten. Alyona sat in her armchair, wrapped herself in a blanket, and closed her eyes.
For the first time in a long while, the home truly felt like it was hers.
January brought cold and blizzards. Alyona returned to work and slipped back into her usual routine. Colleagues asked how the holidays were, and she answered briefly: good, calm.
Sergey called only in mid-January. His voice sounded tired.
“Alyon, let’s talk.”
“About what?”
“Well… about us. Maybe we could meet?”
“Why?”
He was silent.
“I realized I was wrong. Mom… she went too far. Let’s start over?”
Alyona looked out the window. Snow lay in a thick layer; tree branches bent under its weight.
“Sergey, we’re not starting anything. You made your choice. Live with it.”
“Alyon…”
“I’ll file for divorce next week. There’s no jointly acquired property—nothing to divide. We’ll handle it through the registry office quickly.”
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
Sergey tried to say something, but Alyona hung up. The conversation was over.
A month later the divorce was finalized officially. Sergey came to the registry office gloomy, signed the papers in silence, and left without saying goodbye. Alyona received the divorce certificate, put the document into a folder, and went home.
The apartment greeted her with silence—familiar, cozy. Alyona took off her coat, went into the kitchen, brewed tea, and took out some cookies. She sat by the window and watched the courtyard. Where yellow leaves had once lain in autumn, snow now gleamed white. Children sledded down the hill, laughing, falling into drifts.
Life went on—calm, steady, without other people’s ultimatums and pressure. Alyona took a sip of tea and smiled. For the first time in a long time.