Yana opened the door to her apartment and paused on the threshold, as she had gotten used to doing in recent years. A spacious living room with high ceilings, large windows letting in sunlight, parquet floors her parents had laid with their own hands. A three-room apartment in the city center—an inheritance she received after her parents’ death. Every corner held memories of them: shared evenings, laughter, warmth.
When Igor proposed, Yana offered without hesitation that he move in with her. There was plenty of space; the apartment was large. Igor agreed at once—hugged her, kissed her, said it was a wonderful idea. They had a modest wedding, without any fuss. After the honeymoon, they began setting up their home.
Yana worked as an interior designer. Igor worked at an IT company. Together they decided to update the furnishings. They bought a new sofa for the living room, replaced the old curtains with modern blinds, redid the kitchen—light-colored cabinets, built-in appliances. Yana enjoyed every change. The home was transforming, becoming something they shared.
Igor often invited friends over. They would sit in the kitchen, drink beer, talk about football or video games. His friends were always impressed:
“Man, Igor, you’ve got it made! What an apartment, and your wife is a beauty. Lucky guy.”
Igor would smile and not deny it. Yana heard those conversations, but she didn’t take offense. The apartment really was great, and sharing it with her husband felt natural.
The first six months were calm. Yana worked from home, usually in her study at the computer, drawing up projects. Igor came home late, tired but satisfied. In the evenings they ate dinner together, watched series, discussed weekend plans. Life flowed steadily, without conflict.
Everything changed when her mother-in-law started coming by more often. Svetlana Petrovna lived in a neighboring district, in an old two-room apartment she had been renting for years. Before the wedding she rarely visited—on holidays or special occasions. But afterward, her visits became frequent.
At first she came with pies.
“Yanochka, I baked this—try some. My Igoryok loves apple.”
Yana thanked her and put the kettle on. Svetlana Petrovna would sit at the table, drink tea, then stand up and begin walking through the rooms.
“It’s so beautiful here. The layout is convenient, so much light. And the renovation is fresh—you can tell it was done with heart.”
“Thank you, Svetlana Petrovna,” Yana replied politely.
Her mother-in-law would go into the bedroom, inspect the wardrobes, peek into the study.
“And what do you have here—your workspace?”
“Yes, I work from home.”
“Convenient, of course. A whole room just for an office. What a luxury.”
Her tone sounded admiring, but Yana sensed something else behind the words—not envy, more like calculation. As if her mother-in-law was estimating how the space could be used.
The visits continued. Svetlana Petrovna came sometimes with pie, sometimes simply “because she was passing by.” She might drop in during the day when Igor wasn’t home. Yana opened the door and let her in, but unease grew inside her. Her mother-in-law studied the apartment too closely, asked too many questions about the layout, the square footage, and housing prices in the area.
One day Svetlana Petrovna stopped by the window in the study and looked out into the courtyard.
“Nice view. Quiet, green. This place is worth gold.”
“Yes,” Yana said. “My parents really valued this neighborhood.”
“Your parents, you say? So the apartment came from them?”
“Yes.”
“I see. You got lucky, Yanochka. Not everyone inherits something like this.”
Yana stayed silent. The word “lucky” cut her ear. As if getting an apartment after your parents die is good fortune, not loss.
Igor didn’t react to his mother’s probing. When Yana tried to bring up the frequent visits, he brushed it off.
“Come on, Mom drops by—so what? She’s bored alone, that’s why.”
“But she inspects the apartment every time, like she’s evaluating it.”
“You’re imagining things. Don’t make stuff up.”
Yana didn’t push. Maybe she really was imagining it. Svetlana Petrovna was polite, smiled, always thanked her for the tea. Yana didn’t want to start a fight for nothing.
A few months later, Igor’s younger sister, Elena, announced her engagement. She was twenty-four, worked as a manager, didn’t earn much. Her fiancé, Maxim, worked construction. The couple rented a tiny one-room apartment together, and their money barely stretched far enough.
They had a modest wedding at a café—about thirty guests. Svetlana Petrovna beamed, made toasts, hugged her daughter. Igor congratulated his sister; Yana offered warm words too. The celebration was cheerful, and the guests didn’t leave until late.
A week after the wedding, Svetlana Petrovna showed up at their place again—this time without pies. Her face was serious, a handbag in her hands. Igor was home, sitting on the sofa watching TV. Yana was making dinner in the kitchen.
“Igoryok, Yanochka, we need to talk,” her mother-in-law said as she entered the living room.
Yana wiped her hands and came out of the kitchen. Svetlana Petrovna sat at the table and pulled some papers from her bag. Igor moved closer; Yana remained standing.
“What is this about, Svetlana Petrovna?”
“It’s about Lena. She and Maxim have housing problems. Renting is expensive—almost her entire paycheck goes every month. They can’t buy their own place yet; they don’t have money.”
“Well, that’s their business,” Yana said carefully. “They’re adults.”
“Of course they are. But we’re family—we should help each other.”
Yana tensed. The word “help” sounded ambiguous, heavy.
“And how exactly do you want to help?”
Svetlana Petrovna looked at Igor, then at Yana, and smiled.
“You have a lot of space here. Three rooms, and it’s just the two of you. Extra space, you could say.”
“Extra?” Yana frowned. “Svetlana Petrovna, what are you talking about?”
“I just thought you could trade your apartment for two one-room apartments. One for you, one for Lena and Maxim. Everyone would be happy. We already looked at some options—here are photos and details.”
She said it as casually as if she were suggesting they go buy bread. Yana stood there, unable to believe what she was hearing. Trade the apartment? Her apartment?
“Are you serious?” Her voice trembled.
“Of course I’m serious. Each family will live separately. Lena will get her own place, and you’ll still have yours. And if there’s money left over, I’d like to go to a sanatorium, improve my health.”
Svetlana Petrovna spoke confidently, developing her idea—like it wasn’t someone else’s property, but some shared family resource. Yana listened, feeling everything inside her tighten.
“Svetlana Petrovna, this is my apartment,” Yana said slowly.
“Yes, yours. But you’re family with Igor. Everything is shared.”
“No, not shared. I inherited it from my parents before the marriage. It’s my personal property.”
“What difference does it make? You live together; you have to help your relatives.”
Yana looked at her husband. Igor was silent, staring at the floor, his face tense, lips pressed together.
“Igor—are you going to say something?”
He raised his eyes, looked at his mother, then at his wife.
“Overall… it’s not a bad idea,” he said quietly.
Yana froze. She couldn’t believe she’d heard those words.
“Are you kidding?”
“No. Lena really needs help. We could trade—live in a smaller apartment and help my sister.”
“Live in a smaller apartment?” Yana felt her hands begin to shake. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”
“I do. It’s not the end of the world. Trading is normal.”
“Normal?” Yana’s voice rose. “This is my apartment, Igor! My parents left it to me! I grew up here!”
“Yana, don’t shout. Let’s talk calmly.”
“What is there to talk about? You want me to give up my apartment for your sister?”
“Not give up—trade. You’ll still have a place to live.”
“But not this place! Not this apartment!”
Svetlana Petrovna cut in:
“Yanochka, don’t get so upset. We’re offering a reasonable solution. You’ll get your apartment, Lena will get hers. Everyone keeps what they have.”
“No—not everyone! I’ll lose my home!”
“It’s just an apartment,” her mother-in-law waved it off. “Family is what matters. And family should support one another.”
Yana felt herself boiling over. Her face burned; her hands clenched into fists.
“I’m not trading anything! The apartment is mine—end of discussion!”
The words burst out loud and sharp. Yana looked her husband straight in the eyes without looking away. Igor flinched as if struck. Svetlana Petrovna sighed heavily.
“So that’s how it is,” she shook her head. “Selfish. You only think about yourself.”
“I’m protecting my property.”
“Are walls more important than people?!” Svetlana Petrovna stood up. “We’re talking about family, and you’re talking about property! You’re ungrateful, Yana. Igoryok loves you, takes care of you, and you can’t even help his own sister!”
“I’m not obligated to help at the cost of my apartment!”
“You are! You’re a wife! You have to support your husband in everything!”
Igor stood up, trying to intervene.
“Mom, calm down. Yana, let’s not yell.”
“Not yell?” Yana turned to her husband. “You want to take my apartment, and I’m supposed to be quiet?”
“Not take—trade. It’s not the same.”
“For me it’s the same! I don’t want to lose this home!”
“Why lose it? You’ll have a different apartment.”
“I don’t want a different one. I want to live here!”
Svetlana Petrovna grabbed at her head.
“My God, you’re so stubborn! You don’t think about family, only yourself!”
“I think about myself because nobody else does!”
The argument flared. Svetlana Petrovna shouted about ingratitude, selfishness, ruining the family. Igor tried to calm his mother while convincing his wife that everything could be solved peacefully. Yana stood in the middle of the living room and understood—there was no going back.
“This apartment is mine. Earned by my parents. Left to me. I’m not giving it to anyone.”
“Yana, I’m trying to help my sister, and you’re digging in your heels!” Igor looked at her with reproach.
“You want to solve your relatives’ problems at my expense!”
“At our expense! We’re family!”
“Family doesn’t mean I have to sacrifice my home!”
“Not everything. Just trade.”
“I don’t want to trade! How many times do I have to repeat it?”
Svetlana Petrovna stepped closer and jabbed a finger at Yana.
“You’re a bad wife. A real wife always supports her husband. Always helps his family. But you only think about yourself!”
“Svetlana Petrovna, leave,” Yana said quietly but firmly.
“What?”
“Leave my home. Now.”
Her mother-in-law flushed.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“Yes. I am. This is my home, and I won’t let you yell here.”
“Igoryok!” Svetlana Petrovna turned to her son. “Do you hear how she talks to me?”
Igor stood between his mother and his wife, confused—pale, his hands trembling.
“Yana, you shouldn’t do this. Mom meant well.”
“Meant well?” Yana gave a bitter little smile. “For whom? For Lena? For you? And for me?”
“For everyone.”
“For everyone except me.”
Yana went to the door and opened it.
“Svetlana Petrovna—go.”
Her mother-in-law grabbed her bag and shot Yana a furious look.
“You’re a terrible person. You have no heart.”
Svetlana Petrovna left, slamming the door loudly. Yana shut it and leaned against the wall. She was breathing hard; her heart pounded.
Igor stood in the middle of the living room, looking at her.
“Why did you do that to her?”
“Why did she do that to me?”
“She wanted to help your sister.”
“At my expense, Igor. Do you understand? At my expense.”
“We’re family. We should help.”
“Helping doesn’t mean giving up everything.”
“Not everything. Just trade.”
“I’m not trading this apartment! How many times—”
Igor sat down on the sofa and ran a hand over his face.
“Then you won’t help my sister? In that case, maybe we should think about whether it makes sense for us to stay together.”
He said it quietly, but it hit harder than a shout. Yana looked at him and didn’t recognize him. The man she’d lived with for two years suddenly felt like a stranger.
“Is that an ultimatum?”
“It’s a question.”
“Then the answer is no. There’s no point.”
Igor looked up.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely. If you think I have to give up my apartment to keep this marriage, then I don’t need that marriage.”
“Yana…”
“That’s it, Igor. I’ve said everything.”
He got up and went into the bedroom. Yana heard the closet open, bags rustle. Twenty minutes later Igor came out with a duffel bag.
“I’ll stay at Mom’s. For now.”
“For now or forever—decide for yourself.”
Igor looked at her, wanted to say something, but stayed silent. He stepped into the hallway, put on his jacket, took his keys.
“If you change your mind, call.”
“I won’t.”
The door closed. Yana was alone. She walked into the living room and sat on the sofa. She looked at the familiar walls, at the family photos on the shelves, at the parquet her parents had laid.
Silence. Complete, deafening. But inside her there was no fear. No regret. Only a steady certainty that she had done the right thing.
Yana stood up and went to the window. She looked at the evening city, at the lights in the windows of neighboring buildings. The apartment was still hers—the home her parents had built, the place that held their memory. No one would take it. No one would force her to exchange it for someone else’s interests.
Igor was gone. Svetlana Petrovna had been refused. Elena would remain without help. But Yana didn’t feel guilty. Helping doesn’t mean sacrificing what’s most precious.
She took out her phone and texted her friend Oksana:
“Igor left. Long story. Can you come by tomorrow?”
A reply came a minute later:
“Of course. I’ll bring wine. Hang in there.”
Yana smiled. Life goes on. Without a husband who put his family’s interests above his wife. Without a mother-in-law who treated someone else’s property as her own. Without people who didn’t respect her choice.
The apartment remained. The home remained. The memory of her parents remained. And everything else didn’t matter.
She went into the kitchen, sat at the table, and looked at the empty chair across from her. Igor used to sit there. Now he didn’t. And that was okay.
She thought she should change the locks—just in case. Igor might come back and try to pressure her. But the door would be closed. The home would be protected.
Yana went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow was a new day—without arguments, without pressure, without other people’s demands.
Just her and her home. Her fortress. Her life. And no one would take it away. Ever