Where did these slippers come from in our entryway?” Alina stopped on the threshold the moment she stepped inside. Her gaze snagged on a pair of worn women’s slippers with faux-fur pom-poms, huddled sadly against the wall. They looked alien there—like a wildflower in a sterile vase.
Egor came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. A slightly guilty yet disarmingly charming smile played on his face.
“Oh, those… Alin, here’s the thing. Mom’s here.”
Alina slowly took off her shoes. Something inside her tightened unpleasantly. Valentina Petrovna’s visits were never spontaneous. They were always planned a month in advance—discussed, coordinated, agreed upon.
“She came? Out of the blue? Did something happen?” Alina walked into the living room, expecting to see her mother-in-law, but the room was empty. Only a neatly folded shawl lay on the sofa—the one Alina had seen on Valentina Petrovna a thousand times.
“You see, a pipe burst in her apartment. Seriously—majorly. She flooded the neighbors, and now they have to rip everything open, repairs… Basically, a disaster. And I thought, it’s not like she can go to a hotel. She’ll stay with us for a week or two until it’s sorted out.”
Alina looked at her husband. He avoided her eyes, fidgeted with the towel, shifted from foot to foot. Egor was a master at creating situations where saying no would seem heartless.
“A week or two? Egor, why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you warn me? I come home and it’s… a surprise.”
“It all happened so fast!” He threw up his hands. “She called me in a panic, I left work, went over—plumbers, neighbors yelling… My head was spinning. I grabbed her things and brought her here. She’s in the bathroom right now, trying to calm down. You don’t mind, do you? Where else could she go?”
What could Alina say to that? Of course you don’t throw your own mother out on the street. She sighed, trying to suppress the irritation rising in her chest. It wasn’t even Valentina Petrovna herself—it was how Egor had presented it: as a done deal, as if Alina’s opinion were secondary. This apartment, inherited from her grandmother, was her fortress—her personal space. And she was fiercely protective of any intrusion.
Her mother-in-law came out of the bathroom: a short, wiry woman with neatly styled gray hair and small eyes that assessed everything with a sharp, appraising look. She was wearing Alina’s terry-cloth robe, which was clearly too big for her.
“Alinochka, hello, dear. Forgive the commotion. I’ve fallen on you like snow on your heads,” she said in a thin, almost apologetic voice—yet her eyes showed not a hint of embarrassment.
“Hello, Valentina Petrovna. It’s fine—things happen,” Alina forced out. “Make yourself comfortable. Egor said you had an accident.”
“Oh, don’t even ask! A flood! A real flood!” her mother-in-law exclaimed theatrically. “Everything’s floating! How I’m supposed to live there now, I can’t imagine. Thank God I have a son—he didn’t abandon his mother in trouble.”
All evening Valentina Petrovna relished describing the scale of the “catastrophe,” repeatedly flicking quick glances at her daughter-in-law as if checking her reaction. Alina listened in silence, cooked dinner, and felt like a guest in her own home. The atmosphere had subtly shifted. The air felt heavier; every sound seemed louder. Egor fussed around his mother—giving her the best pieces of food, refilling her tea—broadcasting filial devotion with every gesture. Alina felt like the third wheel.
When they went to bed, Alina said quietly, “Egor, I understand your mom has problems. But next time, please—let’s decide things like this together. This is my home too.”
“Alin, why are you starting?” he snapped. “It was an emergency. Are you suggesting I leave her on the landing until I receive your highest permission?” He turned his back to her, making it clear the conversation was over.
Alina lay staring at the ceiling. “A week or two,” echoed in her head. She desperately hoped Egor hadn’t lied.
A week passed. Then a second. Talk about repairs in Valentina Petrovna’s apartment grew increasingly vague. First the plumbers were busy; then they couldn’t find the right materials; then it turned out the damage to the neighbors was far worse than expected. Her mother-in-law settled in. She woke up before everyone else and began clattering dishes in the kitchen—quietly, insistently.
“Alinochka, I made you breakfast. You’re always rushing with coffee—won’t be long before you ruin your stomach,” she’d say, setting a plate of steaming semolina porridge in front of Alina—something Alina had hated since childhood.
“Thank you, Valentina Petrovna, I’m not hungry.”
“How can you not be hungry? A man needs to be fed, and you’re all thin, practically transparent. Eat, eat—I made it with love.”
She didn’t impose her rules openly. No—she was subtler. She didn’t move furniture, but she could “accidentally” spill water on Alina’s desk where her sketches were laid out. Alina worked from home as a graphic designer, and the order on her desk was the key to her productivity.
“Oh, these clumsy hands of mine!” Valentina Petrovna would lament, blotting the puddle with a napkin. “I got lost in thought, old woman that I am, and this is what happens. Don’t be angry, dear.”
She rewashed Alina’s dishes, insisting they weren’t “clean enough.” She commented on every purchase.
“Moldy cheese? Ugh, what filth. How can you put that in your mouth? In our day…”
Egor seemed not to notice any of it—or didn’t want to. When Alina tried to talk to him, he waved her off.
“Mom is just taking care of us. She means well. Is it really that hard for you to eat some porridge?”
“It’s not about the porridge, Egor! It’s that I’m losing my personal space! I can’t work calmly, I can’t relax in my own home!”
“You’re exaggerating. She’s an older person—she needs attention. Be more accommodating.”
Alina’s patience melted day by day. Valentina Petrovna began inviting her friends over—older women in modest dresses with razor-sharp tongues. They sat in the kitchen drinking tea and, in half-whispers, discussed Alina, thinking she couldn’t hear them behind the closed door of her room.
“And she works from home… What kind of work is that? Sitting at a computer, drawing pictures. Doesn’t seem serious.”
“And look how skinny she is! Probably doesn’t feed our Egor at all.”
“And still no children. Time’s passing…”
Alina clenched her teeth and turned up the music in her headphones. She tried speaking to her mother-in-law directly—politely, as carefully as possible.
“Valentina Petrovna, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t touch things on my desk. I have my own system there, and then I can’t find anything.”
“Of course, of course, Alinochka,” the older woman replied meekly. “I only meant well—I wanted to dust. I won’t do it again, if you ask.”
But the next day it happened again. It was a quiet, grinding war, and Alina felt like she was losing. Her home—her cozy nest—had turned into a battlefield.
A month passed. Alina realized she couldn’t take it anymore. One evening, while her mother-in-law watched her favorite TV series in the living room, Alina called Egor into the kitchen.
“Egor. It’s been a month. Has your mom’s renovation even started?”
“Alin, it turned out to be complicated,” he began his usual refrain.
“How complicated? Because today I called your management company—just out of curiosity. I said I was the downstairs neighbor from Valentina Petrovna’s building. Want to guess what they told me?”
Egor went pale.
“What?”
“That there hasn’t been any repair request and no pipe burst at that address in the last month. None. At all.”
Egor stood there silent, eyes down.
“Why did you lie to me, Egor?” Alina’s voice trembled with hurt. “What is really going on?”
“I… I didn’t want to upset you,” he mumbled.
“Didn’t want to upset me?! You brought your mother into my home with a lie and thought I wouldn’t be upset? Tell me the truth!”
“Mom sold her apartment,” he blurted. “Do you understand? She sold it.”
Alina recoiled as if struck.
“How… sold it? Why?”
“I had problems. Debts. Big ones. I invested in something… thought it would work out. It crashed. I didn’t know what to do. Mom decided to help. She sold the apartment to cover my debt.”
“Your debt? And what do I have to do with that? Why am I the last to know? We’re a family!”
“I didn’t want to drag you into it! I wanted to handle it myself!”
“Handle it? At my expense? At the expense of my peace and my home? You decided she’d just move in here and I was supposed to accept it in silence?”
“Where else could she go? She helped me! I couldn’t abandon her! It’s temporary, Alina! Once I’m back on my feet, we’ll buy her her own place.”
“Temporary?” Alina gave a bitter laugh. “Egor, do you even hear yourself? You got into debt behind my back. Your mother sold her apartment to save you, also behind my back. And the two of you decided she’d live here—in my apartment. Do you even see me as a person?”
At that moment Valentina Petrovna appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her face was no longer meek—it was combative.
“What’s all this shouting? Egorushka, what happened?”
“Mom, go to the room—we’ll handle it,” Egor tried to stop her.
“Oh no, I’m listening too!” She walked in and stood beside her son, staring at Alina defiantly. “Why are you attacking him? He’s your husband! And I’m his mother! Do I have the right to live with my son or not?”
That question was the last straw. All the accumulated exhaustion, resentment, and anger burst out.
“No, Valentina Petrovna! You do not! Not in my home!” Alina’s voice rang with fury. She looked at Egor—his confused face—then at his mother standing next to him like an unbreakable wall. And in that instant she understood everything. For him, he and his mother were one unit. And Alina—Alina was an outsider.
“Who gave you permission to move your mother into my apartment?” she asked Egor in an icy tone. He was silent, unable to find words.
“I’m asking you. Did you think about me for even one second?”
“Alina, stop… She’s my mom…”
“I’ve said what I needed to say. I’m not going to tolerate this anymore. The deceit, the disrespect. I want your mother out of my home today.”
Valentina Petrovna gasped.
“How dare you! Throwing an old woman out onto the street?”
“You’re not on the street. You have money from selling your apartment. Rent somewhere. Or a hotel. That isn’t my problem.”
Egor snapped, his face twisting with anger.
“Have you lost your mind? I’m not kicking her out! If she goes, I’m going with her!”
Alina looked him straight in the eyes. She had expected it. And to her surprise, she felt nothing but a cold, sobering emptiness. All the love, all the attachment she’d once felt evaporated in an instant—burned away by his betrayal.
“Fine,” she said calmly. “Both of you—out.”
Silence fell—deafening, ringing silence. Egor and his mother stared at her, not believing their ears.
“What?” Egor repeated.
“Pack your things. And leave. Both of you. Right now. This is my apartment, and I don’t want to see you here anymore.”
The packing was quick and ugly. Valentina Petrovna clutched at her heart dramatically, then hissed curses about the “ungrateful upstart.” Egor wordlessly shoved his things into a bag, his face stone-hard. He didn’t apologize or try to persuade her. His silence spoke louder than any words. He had made his choice.
When the front door slammed behind them, Alina leaned her back against it and slowly slid to the floor. She didn’t cry. Inside her was a scorched desert. She sat there a long time—an hour, maybe two—listening to the quiet in her apartment. The silence no longer felt hostile. It was… healing.
She got up and walked through the rooms. She threw the worn pom-pom slippers into the trash. She took her mother-in-law’s shawl from the sofa, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into a bag with the robe she’d forgotten. Then she opened every window, letting in the fresh, cool night air to blow out the last traces of someone else’s presence.
The first weeks were the hardest. The habit of reaching for the phone to call him. The habit of cooking dinner for two. The emptiness on the other half of the bed. Sometimes despair rolled over her and she asked herself if she’d done the right thing. But then she remembered that humiliating feeling—being a stranger in your own home. She remembered her husband’s lies, his refusal to protect her, and she knew there had been no other way.
A month later Egor called. His voice was tired and angry.
“Well, happy now? We’re bouncing around rented rooms. Mom’s blood pressure is spiking because of you.”
“I didn’t hold anyone back, Egor. That was your choice.”
“My choice? You threw us out!”
“I threw out people who lied to me and didn’t respect me. Goodbye.”
She hung up and blocked his number.
Six months later Alina ran into them by chance in the city. They were leaving a small grocery store on the outskirts. Valentina Petrovna had aged, stooped; her face had taken on a sour, bitter look. She shot Alina a glare of undisguised hatred. Egor looked worn down too. The expensive coat was gone, replaced by a simple jacket; a shadow of chronic fatigue lay on his face. He caught Alina’s eyes and immediately looked away, pretending not to recognize her.
Alina walked past without slowing. Nothing stirred in her chest—no pity, no gloating. Only a calm certainty that half a year earlier she had saved herself. She was going home—to her quiet, bright apartment that smelled only of her perfume and freshly brewed coffee. Where no one rewashed her dishes and no one lectured her. She was returning to her fortress. And for the first time in a long while, she felt truly free