Lera sat on the floor in the small room, moving baby clothes from one box to another. The eighth month of pregnancy was making itself known—her back throbbed, her feet were swollen—but she didn’t want to stop once she’d begun. Tiny bunny-print bodysuits, soft swaddles, rattles—everything was scattered around her, waiting for its time.
The nursery was small, but cozy. Lera had chosen a pale sky-blue for the walls, bought a white crib with carved headboards, and hung a mobile of plush teddy bears above it. The changing table stood by the window, next to a dresser for baby things. Every detail had been planned down to the last inch.
Her husband Artyom walked in, leaned against the doorframe, and took in the room.
“It turned out pretty good,” he nodded, sliding his hands into his jeans pockets. “You placed the table well.”
Lera looked up and smiled.
“Really? I was wondering if it would be better against the other wall…”
“It’s fine. Don’t overthink it.”
Artyom turned around and went back to the living room, not even offering to help gather the things scattered across the floor. Lera sighed and kept sorting the little rompers by size. She was used to it—her husband never cared much about details. He’d nod approvingly when required, and that was the end of his participation.
Her phone rang while she was unpacking the crib covers. Tamara Ivanovna—her mother-in-law—flashed on the screen. She called every day, sometimes twice. Lera grimaced but answered.
“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna.”
“Hi, Lera. How are you? Still sitting in that nursery again?”
“Yes, I’m finishing the last touches. I put the toys away, slipped the cover onto the mattress…”
“Oh, why do you need all that nonsense?” her mother-in-law interrupted. “The baby grows fast—you’ll throw most of it out in six months. Why waste money?”
Lera pressed her lips together. This wasn’t their first conversation like this.
“Tamara Ivanovna, I want the baby to have everything nice and comfortable.”
“Comfortable!” her mother-in-law snorted. “You should be saving that money instead. When I raised Artyom, there were no thousand-ruble toys, no designer cribs. And look—he grew up perfectly fine.”
Lera rolled her eyes and moved away from the crib, lowering herself into the chair by the window. Arguing was pointless. Tamara Ivanovna always knew best—how to live, what to buy, how to raise children.
“Yesterday I saw those swaddles you bought,” her mother-in-law continued. “Three times the price! What for? Get plain cotton ones—Soviet babies slept in those and survived just fine.”
“Alright, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lera replied wearily. “I’ll think about it.”
“You’d better. Otherwise you’ll be complaining later that you’re short on money.”
After the call, Lera set her phone on the windowsill and stared outside. The autumn wind chased yellow leaves across the yard, and gray clouds blanketed the sky. Her mood dropped instantly. Her mother-in-law had a talent for draining all enthusiasm with one phone call.
The next day Lera was back in the nursery. She folded little undershirts onto the shelves, hung a hooded towel shaped like a duck on a hook, and lined up jars of powder and cream on the dresser. Everything looked sweet and homey. Lera pictured bathing the baby, changing diapers, rocking him to sleep—and her chest warmed.
Artyom peeked in that evening, glanced at the shelves, and nodded.
“Looks tidy. Good job.”
“Do you think we should get a nightlight too?” Lera asked. “So I don’t have to turn on the overhead light when I get up at night.”
“Sure, if you want. You know best what’s needed.”
Artyom walked away again. Lera winced. You know best—his automatic answer to anything about the baby, as if it concerned only her.
A week later the doorbell rang.
Lera opened the door and froze. On the landing stood Tamara Ivanovna with an enormous bag in one hand and a folder of documents in the other. Her face was radiant, her eyes glittering with excitement.
“Lerochka! Hello! Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lera murmured, confused. “You didn’t say you were coming…”
“And why should I?” her mother-in-law replied. “I’m going to be here all the time now!”
She walked into the apartment without waiting for an invitation, dropped the bag on the hallway floor, and unzipped her coat.
“Where’s Artyom? Still at work?”
“Yes, he’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Perfect. Then I’ll tell you everything right away. Sit down—there’s news!”
Tamara Ivanovna went into the living room, settled onto the couch, and patted the spot beside her. Lera slowly perched on the edge, feeling anxiety rise in her throat.
“Alright, listen,” her mother-in-law began, opening the folder. “I sold my apartment! The deal closed yesterday, I got the money. And now I’m moving in with you—permanently!”
Lera blinked several times, trying to digest the words.
“Permanently…?”
“Exactly!” Tamara Ivanovna beamed. “I’ll live with you and help with the baby. You’re giving birth for the first time, you have no experience. I know everything—I’ll teach you.”
Lera felt her heart racing. A two-room apartment. One bedroom for her and Artyom, the other was the nursery. Where was her mother-in-law going to live?
“Tamara Ivanovna, but our place… it’s small. Two rooms. We already set up the nursery…”
“Which is why!” her mother-in-law cut in, undimmed enthusiasm. “I’ll live in the nursery. The baby will sleep in your room at first anyway—why does he need a separate room in the first months?”
Lera opened her mouth, but the words stuck. Tamara Ivanovna kept speaking as if she didn’t see the shock on Lera’s face.
“I’ve already thought it all through. We can move the crib into your bedroom for now—there’s room. And I’ll put my things in the nursery. Convenient, right?”
“But I spent two months on that room…” Lera started.
“Oh, it’s nothing! We’ll rearrange later when the baby grows. Right now the important thing is that I’ll be close. You won’t manage on your own—you need help.”
Tamara Ivanovna set the documents on the coffee table and leaned back, clearly pleased with herself.
“And another thing,” she added, lowering her voice like she was sharing a clever secret. “Maybe you shouldn’t even fuss so much over the baby. Give birth, leave him at the hospital for a couple of weeks—let them take care of him there. Meanwhile I’ll settle in, get everything organized properly. You’ll be exhausted after giving birth—you’ll need to rest.”
Lera jumped up so fast the room spun. She grabbed the armrest so she wouldn’t fall.
“What?!” she gasped. “What did you just say?”
“Oh, I don’t mean it cruelly,” Tamara Ivanovna waved a hand. “I’m thinking of your comfort. The first days are the hardest—why should you deal with a newborn right away? I’ll help, I’m experienced. You don’t know anything about raising children.”
Lera stood in the middle of the room, staring at her mother-in-law, unable to believe what she was hearing. Heat rushed to her face, her fingers curled into fists. Was Tamara Ivanovna truly suggesting she leave her newborn at the hospital—so she could take the nursery?
“Tamara Ivanovna, this is my child,” Lera said, her voice thick. “And I’m not abandoning him anywhere.”
“Who said anything about ‘abandoning’?” her mother-in-law snapped. “I’m talking about help! You’re young, inexperienced—it’ll be hard for you. But I know how it’s done. I raised Artyom all by myself, without any of these modern gadgets. And look—he turned out fine.”
Lera turned and walked out of the room, unable to continue the conversation. She locked herself in the bathroom, turned on cold water, and held her hands under the stream. Breathing felt difficult. Her thoughts tangled. Was this really happening?
Her mother-in-law had sold her apartment. She was planning to live with them. In the nursery Lera had prepared for two months. And she’d casually suggested leaving the baby at the hospital.
Footsteps sounded outside the door.
“Lera, why are you upset?” Tamara Ivanovna called, annoyed. “Come out, let’s talk normally.”
“I need to be alone,” Lera answered, forcing her voice not to shake.
“There it is—pregnant women are always so nervous,” her mother-in-law muttered. “Fine, I’ll put the kettle on.”
Lera heard her heading to the kitchen and exhaled. She needed to wait for Artyom. He had to do something. That was his mother—he had to tell her this was impossible.
When Artyom came home from work, Tamara Ivanovna was already running the kitchen. She’d made tea, sliced bread, pulled sausage from the fridge.
“Mom?” Artyom stared. “How did you get here?”
“Surprise, sweetheart!” Tamara Ivanovna hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to live with you now. I sold my apartment—I’m moving in for good.”
Artyom frowned.
“For good? We didn’t talk about this…”
“What’s there to talk about?” she waved it off. “I’ll help with the baby. Lera can’t handle it alone—she has no experience. I’ll teach her how to change diapers properly, feed, put him to sleep. It’ll make things easier for you!”
“But where are you planning to sleep?” Artyom glanced around as if looking for the catch.
“In the nursery. The baby will sleep in your room at first anyway—why does he need a separate room?”
Lera stood in the kitchen doorway and silently watched the conversation. Artyom scratched the back of his head, looked at his mother, then at Lera.
“Well… I mean… Mom’s kind of right. The baby really will sleep with us in the first months. Maybe it would be more convenient…”
Lera couldn’t believe her ears. Artyom was agreeing—just like that. He didn’t even ask her what she thought.
“Artyom,” Lera called softly. “Can we talk?”
“Hold on.” He turned back to his mother. “Mom—what did you do with the money from your apartment?”
“It’s in savings,” Tamara Ivanovna said quickly. “Don’t worry, I’m not wasting it. I’ll help you, save for the grandchild.”
“Okay. Well… then we’ll discuss how to organize everything,” Artyom said.
Something clenched hard inside Lera. He wasn’t going to argue. He was simply accepting his mother’s decision as a fact of life.
“Artyom, we need to talk. Alone,” Lera repeated, raising her voice.
“Oh, come here—why the secrecy?” Tamara Ivanovna waved her hand. “We’re family. We’ll decide everything together.”
“I don’t want anyone living in the nursery,” Lera blurted. “I worked on that room for two months!”
“Lerochka, don’t be stubborn,” Tamara Ivanovna said in a falsely soothing tone. “I’m not moving in there forever. The baby will grow, I’ll move out. For now I’ll help you.”
“But you sold your apartment! Where are you going to move out to?”
“I’ll find something. Maybe rent. Don’t worry so much.”
Lera looked at Artyom, waiting for him to back her up. But her husband only shrugged…
“Lera, let’s not start a war right away,” Artyom said. “Mom wants to help. How is that bad?”
“It’s bad that nobody asked me!” Lera’s voice shook. “This is our apartment, our baby—and someone just shows up and announces she’s taking the nursery!”
“Oh, you’ve gotten so jumpy,” Tamara Ivanovna sighed. “Pregnant women shouldn’t get worked up. It’s harmful for the baby.”
Lera spun around and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Tears pressed hard behind her eyes, but she forced them back. Crying was the last thing she needed right now.
A few minutes later Artyom came in. He sat beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Lera, come on… what’s wrong? Mom really does want to help.”
“Artyom, she said I should give birth and leave the baby at the hospital instead of taking him home right away.” Lera lifted her head and stared straight at him. “Did you hear that?”
Artyom frowned.
“What? No way.”
“Yes way. She said it. Word for word. That I should deliver, leave the baby there, and she’d settle into the nursery in the meantime.”
“Well… Mom says things sometimes,” he muttered. “She didn’t mean it seriously.”
“And what if she did?” Lera grabbed his hand. “Artyom, this is our child. I don’t want your mother telling me how to raise him. And I don’t want her living in the nursery!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll talk to her,” Artyom sighed. “But let’s do this without hysterics, alright?”
Lera nodded, though something inside her was boiling. Without hysterics. As if she were the one running the circus.
Artyom left the bedroom, and Lera stayed sitting on the bed. Then a strange calm rolled over her—sudden, sharp, and cold. Not anger. Not hurt. Just clarity.
Through the cracked door she could see her mother-in-law in the kitchen, sipping tea and flipping through a magazine as if nothing had happened.
A woman who was seriously trying to take the place meant for her future child. A woman who’d suggested leaving a newborn behind so she could claim the nursery. And Artyom hadn’t truly been outraged—he’d only asked Lera to stay calm.
Lera stood up, walked to the dresser, and pulled out a folder. Inside were the papers for the apartment.
The ownership certificate.
Her name.
Purchased three years earlier—before she’d even met Artyom—using money left after she sold a room in a communal apartment she’d inherited from her grandmother.
The apartment was hers. Completely. No “shared marital property,” no claims for her husband, and certainly no rights for his mother.
Lera ran her fingers over the stamps and seals, and the tension drained from her body. Everything became simple. Much simpler than it had felt ten minutes ago.
That evening Tamara Ivanovna announced she was going home to pack for the move.
“Tomorrow I’ll come with my bags and start settling in,” she said, zipping up her coat. “Artyom, help me bring my sofa tomorrow, okay? It’s a good fold-out one—will fit perfectly in the nursery.”
“Yeah, sure, Mom,” Artyom nodded, walking her to the door.
Lera stood in the hallway and silently watched them say goodbye. Tamara Ivanovna turned to her.
“Lera, don’t be upset, alright? I really do want to help. Once you give birth, you’ll thank me for being close.”
Lera didn’t answer. She only nodded.
When the door closed, Artyom turned to his wife.
“See? Mom’s trying. She wants to be useful.”
“Yes. I see,” Lera said softly.
“Let’s not fight about this. The baby’s coming soon—we’ll need support.”
“Of course.”
Artyom slipped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple, then went off to watch TV. Lera remained in the hallway, staring at the closed nursery door.
The next morning, while Artyom was at work, Lera went downstairs to the concierge desk. Aunt Vera was sitting there with a crossword.
“Good morning, Vera Petrovna.”
“Oh, Lerochka!” the concierge smiled. “How’s the belly? Not long now, right?”
“One more month. Vera Petrovna, I have a request.”
“I’m listening.”
“Don’t let anyone into my apartment without my permission. Under any circumstances. Even if they claim I told them to come. Only if I personally call and ask.”
Vera Petrovna frowned.
“Did something happen?”
“I just don’t want extra visitors. Pregnant women need peace.”
“I understand. Don’t worry, Lerochka. I won’t let anyone through.”
Lera went back upstairs, sat in the nursery by the window, and looked at the crib, the teddy-bear mobile, the neatly folded swaddles. It all needed to stay here. For the baby. Not for her mother-in-law.
Closer to midday the doorbell rang. Lera glanced through the peephole.
Tamara Ivanovna stood on the landing with two enormous suitcases and several bags.
“Lera, open up!” she shouted. “I’m here!”
Lera didn’t open. She stood behind the door and listened as Tamara Ivanovna knocked and rang again.
“Lera! Are you deaf? Open the door! I told you I’m moving in today!”
Silence.
“Lera, stop this nonsense! Open up right now!”
Lera picked up her phone and pressed the intercom button, connecting to the speaker outside.
“Tamara Ivanovna, the nursery is for the baby. You will not be moving in with us.”
“What?!” her mother-in-law’s voice shot up. “What kind of stunt is this?!”
“No stunt. I’m simply not giving the nursery to anyone else. I wish you luck. In your life. Not in mine.”
“How dare you! I’ll call my son—he’ll put you in your place!”
“Call him.”
Lera ended the connection. She walked into the bedroom, lay down, and placed her hand over her belly. The baby kicked as if in agreement. Lera smiled.
Ten minutes later her phone rang. Artyom. Lera answered calmly.
“Lera, what are you doing?!” he yelled. “Mom just called—she said you wouldn’t let her in!”
“That’s right. I didn’t.”
“What do you mean you didn’t?! You were home!”
“I was. And I still am. Tamara Ivanovna is not.”
“That’s my mother! You have no right to treat her like that!”
“I do,” Lera said evenly. “This is my apartment. It’s in my name. I decide who lives here.”
Artyom went quiet. Then he exhaled.
“Listen, let’s talk calmly when I get home. Mom didn’t mean anything bad, she just—”
“She suggested I abandon our baby at the hospital so she could move into the nursery,” Lera cut in. “Yes, I remember. Artyom, I’m not discussing this. The decision is made.”
“You can’t just throw my mother out!”
“I can. And I already did. See you tonight.”
Lera hung up. The phone rang again immediately. Artyom. She silenced it and slid it into the nightstand drawer.
For the next two days he tried to change her mind—called ten times a day, came home gloomy, pleaded, explained that his mother “didn’t mean it,” that Lera was exaggerating, that she needed to be more tolerant.
“Mom didn’t mean it,” Artyom repeated for the third time that evening. “She just has her own views on raising kids.”
“Views that include leaving a newborn behind at the hospital?”
“Artyom, look me in the eyes. Do you honestly think your mother was joking?”
He looked away. Said nothing.
“Fine—maybe she was serious,” he admitted at last. “But we can just ignore her advice. Let her live in the nursery and you do whatever you want.”
“No. The nursery is for the baby. Not for your mother.”
“Lera, you realize Mom has nowhere to go now. She sold her apartment!”
“That was her choice. I didn’t ask her to sell anything or move in with us.”
“You’ve become unbearable!” Artyom snapped. “Selfish!”
Lera stood up without a word, went into the bedroom, and locked the door. Artyom banged on it and demanded she open up, but Lera fell asleep with white noise playing on her phone so she wouldn’t hear him.
In the morning Artyom left for work, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. Lera drank tea, ate breakfast, and then went into the nursery. She straightened the little blanket in the crib, set the mobile spinning. Everything was exactly where it belonged. No suitcases. No fold-out sofa.
Her phone rang. Her mother-in-law. Lera declined the call. It rang again. Declined. A third time. Lera blocked the number.
A week later Artyom started coming home later and later. He claimed work was busy, confirms projects were piling up. Lera didn’t ask. She simply finished preparing the nursery, bought the last small necessities, and read books about newborns.
One evening Artyom came home and silently packed a bag. Lera stood in the bedroom doorway and watched him fold his things.
“You’re leaving?”
“To Mom’s. For now.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Tamara Ivanovna rented a place. It’s hard for her alone—she needs support.”
“I see.”
“Maybe you’ll come to your senses. While it’s not too late.”
“Artyom, the nursery stays a nursery. If you want to live with your mother—do it. I’m not stopping you.”
He zipped the bag and went into the hallway. At the front door he paused.
“You’re really letting me go that easily?”
“You’re the one walking out.”
“Because of my mother!”
“Because you chose her,” Lera said quietly. “Not me. Not our baby.”
Artyom jerked his head and left. The door closed with a soft click.
Lera stood in the hallway for a moment, then went back into the bedroom and lay down, staring at the ceiling. Strange—she didn’t feel like crying. She didn’t feel like calling him back. Just silence. And peace.
Two weeks later Lera went to the maternity hospital. She gave birth alone. Artyom didn’t come, even though she messaged him. He read it and didn’t answer.
The delivery went well. A boy. Three kilos two hundred grams. Healthy—loud-voiced, fists clenched tight. Lera stared at her son and couldn’t look away. So tiny. So defenseless. Hers.
On the third day after giving birth, Artyom texted: “How’s the baby?”
Lera replied: “He’s good. Healthy.”
“Did you pick a name?”
“Yes. Maksim.”
“Nice name.”
That was the end of the messages. Lera didn’t write first.
She was discharged on the fifth day. Took a taxi. Came home with her son in her arms, changed clothes, changed Maksim into a clean bodysuit.
The nursery greeted her with the fresh scent of washed swaddles and quiet. Lera laid her son in the crib and turned on the mobile. Plush teddy bears circled to a gentle tune. Maksim yawned and closed his eyes.
Lera sat in the chair by the window and watched him sleep. No suitcases. No strangers. Just a nursery where a baby lived.
Artyom came a week later. He rang the bell. Lera opened the door. He looked exhausted, hollow-cheeked, holding a bag of toys.
“Brought some gifts for the little one,” he said softly.
“Come in.”
Artyom took off his shoes and walked into the nursery. He stood over the crib and looked at sleeping Maksim.
“He looks like me,” Artyom smiled.
“Yes.”
He lingered, then turned to Lera.
“Mom wants to see her grandson.”
“No.”
“Lera…”
“No, Artyom. Not now. Maybe someday. But not now.”
“Tamara Ivanovna is still his grandmother.”
“The grandmother who told me to abandon my baby at the hospital.”
Artyom’s jaw tightened. He nodded.
“Alright. I get it.”
He stayed another half hour, asked about vaccinations, how Lera was coping alone. He offered help; Lera refused. When he was leaving, he stopped by the door.
“Maybe I come back? We try again?”
Lera looked at him for a long time.
“You chose your mother over your family. I’m not offended. But don’t come back. Maksim and I are fine on our own.”
“Lera, this is ridiculous…”
“No. It’s honest. You’re not ready to protect your family from your own mother. That means we’re not on the same path.”
Artyom opened his mouth, then closed it. He left. Lera shut the door and leaned her back against it, breathing out.
A month later Lera was sitting in the nursery feeding Maksim. He nursed noisily, snuffling, sometimes opening his eyes. Rain tapped the window, drops sliding down the glass. Cozy. Calm.
Her phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number: “This is Tamara Ivanovna. Artyom said you had a boy. I want to see my grandson.”
Lera read it and set the phone face-down. No reply. No block. Just silence.
Maksim finished, released her, and pressed his nose against her hand, drifting off. Lera stroked his head and glanced at the crib—white, with soft bumpers and a blue-check blanket. The teddy-bear mobile turned above it. On the dresser stood jars of cream, powder, wipes. On the shelves—neat stacks of undershirts, little pants, socks.
A nursery. A real one. For a child. Not for a mother-in-law with suitcases and entitlement.
Lera stood, gently laid her sleeping son in the crib, tucked him in, and paused to watch him. Maksim breathed softly, twitched in his sleep, wrinkled his tiny nose.
The apartment was quiet. Peaceful. Hers.
And no one would ever tell her what to do with her own child again.