“Put the box down. Right now!” Olya’s voice jumped into a shriek—something she didn’t even expect from herself. Her hands trembled, but she locked her grip around the doorframe, blocking the way to the bedroom.
Anna Viktorovna—a bulky woman with a tight chemical perm the color of overripe eggplant—froze with a cardboard box in her arms. Red blotches crept across her cheeks, yet her gaze stayed cold and arrogant. Behind her, shifting from foot to foot, stood Vova—Olya’s husband of five years. And a little farther away, Svetа—her sister-in-law—leaned against the wall, brazenly chewing gum and studying the wallpaper as if she were picking a new one.
“Olga, don’t you dare raise your voice at my mother!” Sveta snapped, pushing off the wall. “We came for what’s ours. After the divorce, Vova needs somewhere to live, doesn’t he? He does. And look at your place—practically a palace. A three-bedroom downtown! Meanwhile Mom and I are crammed into a two-bedroom, plus my two little monsters. So scoot.”
“Scoot where?” Olya felt a cold rage simmer up her spine. “This is my apartment. Mine. Vova has nothing to do with it.”
Anna Viktorovna dropped the box onto the parquet with a heavy thud. The impact seemed to crack the air in the hallway. She stepped toward her daughter-in-law, looming like a storm cloud.
“Watch your mouth, girl,” the mother-in-law hissed, flecks of spit flying. “My son wasted five years of his life on you! Five years! Did he do repairs here? He did! Did he hang wallpaper? He did! That means he invested. And the law says if you invested, you get a share. We already spoke to a lawyer, so stop being difficult. We’re going to split this place—trade it in and divide it.”
Vova finally lifted his eyes. There was no shame there, no conscience—only fear of his mother and greedy expectation.
“Olya, come on,” he droned. “Mom’s right. I hung the chandelier. And we picked the laminate together. I need a corner too. I can’t go sleep at the train station.”
Olya stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. Where was the man she married? In front of her stood a spineless creature, ready to strip his ex-wife bare on Mommy’s command.
“I hung the chandelier?” Olya laughed, and it sounded frightening. “You bought that chandelier with my money. I kept the receipts—every last one.”
“She kept receipts!” Sveta mimicked, stepping closer and shoving Olya with her shoulder. “Look at her—so calculated! And what about Vova supporting you while you sat on maternity leave for six months? That doesn’t count?”
“I worked from home!” Olya shouted, a hard knot of hurt rising in her throat. “And your precious Vova was lying on the couch ‘finding himself’!”
“Enough!” Anna Viktorovna slapped her palm against the dresser. “I’m not interested in your little female hysterics. Here’s how it’s going to be. We’re taking the electronics right now—the TV, the microwave, and that laptop. Consider it moral compensation. And tomorrow we’re filing in court over the apartment. We’re splitting it. Half and half.”
Like she owned the place, the mother-in-law marched toward the living room where a huge flat-screen hung on the wall. Sveta prowled toward the kitchen.
“Stop!” Olya barked—so sharply that even Anna Viktorovna hesitated. “You’ve got something wrong. There’s nothing to divide here—your son has no rights to this apartment.”
Olya darted to the small cabinet by the front door, snatched up a folder she’d prepared in advance, and slammed it onto the side table right in front of her mother-in-law. Papers fanned out across the surface.
“Read it,” Olya demanded. “If you still remember your letters.”
Squinting, Anna Viktorovna took the top sheet. It was an extract from the state property register.
“So what?” she scoffed. “You’re listed as the owner. But it was bought during the marriage, meaning it’s jointly acquired!”
“Check the date,” Olya stabbed her finger at the document. “The registration date—when ownership was recorded.”
Her mother-in-law leaned in. Her eyebrows climbed, and the red drained from her face to a dull, earthy gray.
“March twelfth…” she muttered. “But your wedding was… in July.”
“Exactly.” Olya folded her arms, steady and triumphant. “I bought the apartment four months before we got married. It’s my premarital property. Article 36 of the Family Code of the Russian Federation: property owned by a spouse before marriage remains that spouse’s property. It can’t be divided.”
A sharp, ringing silence filled the hallway. Sveta, who had already grabbed the toaster from the kitchen, peeked out with a baffled look.
“Mom, what is she even babbling about? What code?”
“That one,” Olya snapped, stepping closer and ripping the toaster out of Sveta’s hands. “Put it back, thief.”
“Who are you calling a thief?!” Sveta shrieked, charging at Olya with her fists. “I’ll—”
“Touch me and see,” Olya didn’t move an inch. “I’ll call the police right now. I’ll say strangers broke into my apartment, threatened violence, and tried to steal my property. And my hallway camera is recording—look, the little light is blinking!”
Sveta froze, glancing up at the small camera lens under the ceiling like a trapped animal.
“Vova!” Anna Viktorovna screeched, spinning on her son. “Why were you silent?! You knew she registered the apartment before the wedding?!”
Vova pulled his head into his shoulders, suddenly looking like a guilty puppy.
“Mom, I thought… We lived here… I’m registered here…”
“Registered?” Olya gave a bitter little laugh. “You’ve got temporary registration, darling. And it expires…” she looked at the clock on purpose, “…in exactly a week. And tomorrow I’m going to the service center and filing to have you removed from the register as a former family member.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” the mother-in-law choked out, outraged. “Throw a living person onto the street?!”
“A living parasite,” Olya cut in. “A man who didn’t lift a finger in five years to buy his own place. He handed all his money to Mommy instead!”
Anna Viktorovna clutched at her chest, rolling her eyes.
“Oh, I feel faint… Svetochka, water… you’ve killed your mother…”
“Don’t bother—ambulances don’t come for performances like this,” Olya said flatly. “And now—out. All three of you. You have exactly two minutes before I dial 112.”
She pulled out her phone and started pressing the buttons, slowly, deliberately.
“Come on, Mom,” Sveta hissed, realizing there was nothing to grab here. She shot Olya a venomous look. “Choke on your precious square meters, you greedy cow. God will punish you!”
“God already rewarded me—He got me rid of you,” Olya shot back.
Anna Viktorovna, instantly forgetting about her “heart attack,” straightened up and hissed with hatred:
“You’ll come crawling back when you’re alone, unwanted by anyone! Vova will find himself a young one, and you’ll rot with cats!”
“Out!” Olya roared, yanking the front door wide.
The family spilled into the stairwell, muttering curses. Vova left last. He paused for a second, looking at Olya with a pathetic, pleading expression.
“Olya… maybe… maybe I can at least take the TV? I love watching football…”
That question said everything about him—petty, small, hollow.
“The TV was bought on credit,” Olya said wearily, “and I’m the one paying it off. Go on, Vova. Go to your mother. You can watch football there.”
She slammed the door in his face. The lock clicked once—then again. Olya leaned her back against the cold metal.
The tears she’d been holding back all this time finally poured out. But they weren’t tears of grief. They were months of pressure leaving her body. She cried and laughed at the same time. She’d done it. She’d defended her home—her fortress—her life.
A year passed.
A sunbeam slid across the freshly painted kitchen walls. Olya sat at the table with a cup of rich coffee, flipping through the pages of a contract.
“Well then, Olga Nikolayevna—congratulations,” the man across from her smiled, slipping his pen back into his suit pocket. It was Andrei, the realtor who had helped her buy a dacha. “The plot is yours. Fantastic place—pines, a river nearby.”
“Thank you, Andrei,” Olya smiled back, and there was no trace of the old exhaustion in it. “I’ve dreamed of a garden for ages. I want to plant roses.”
“Roses are wonderful. And if you ever need some male muscle—digging, fixing a fence…” He tilted his head. “You call me. Not only as your realtor.”
Andrei looked at her with genuine interest—calm, confident, steady. Nothing like Vova.
As for Vova—word reached Olya through mutual acquaintances. Life put everything in its place, the way it tends to.
Back in his mother’s cramped two-bedroom, Vova landed in hell. Sveta, her kids, and her husband—recently fired—turned Anna Viktorovna’s life into a nightmare. In that tight space, arguments erupted nonstop. The beloved son, deprived of the comfort of Olya’s apartment, started drinking. Money was scarce. Anna Viktorovna tried to command everyone, but Sveta quickly shoved her into her place, threatening to dump her in a nursing home if she “kept yapping.”
Now Anna Viktorovna sat on the bench outside the building, complaining to the neighbors about ungrateful children—and every time she mentioned Olya: “We had a daughter-in-law once… pure gold… and we didn’t hold on to her…”
And Vova… he tried calling a couple of times. Begged to borrow money, whined that life had fallen apart. After the second call, Olya blocked his number.
She finished her coffee and went to the window. Below, the city hummed—full of possibility. She was forty. She was beautiful, self-sufficient. She had a home, work she loved, and now a dacha too. And it looked like a date with a charming realtor might be on the horizon.
Olya opened the window wide, letting fresh air rush in.
“Never give up,” she whispered to herself. “Fighting for yourself is allowed. It’s necessary. Always.”
She knew it: the very best part of her life was only just beginning.