Lyudmila woke to the sound of a key turning in the lock. She glanced at the clock—7:30 a.m., Saturday. Konstantin had already left for work, even though he’d promised to take the day off. From the kitchen came the gentle clink of dishes—her mother was making breakfast.
Vera Sergeyevna had arrived from Kaluga the day before yesterday and was supposed to spend a week in the capital. Lyudmila had plans: a new exhibition at the Tretyakov Gallery, a theater premiere, a walk along the embankment. Her mother didn’t visit often—three, maybe four times a year at most. Since Lyudmila’s father died, she’d lived alone, surviving on a modest pension and doing everything she could not to burden her daughter with requests.
“Morning, Mom,” Lyudmila said, stepping into the kitchen and tying the belt of her robe. “You’re up early today.”
“Lyudochka, you’re awake!” her mother turned with a smile, holding a frying pan. “I’m making you an omelet. Sit down—just a minute and it’ll be ready.”
“Mom, you’re the guest. You should rest. I could’ve cooked.”
“Nonsense. I’m used to doing things in the morning. Besides, I want to spoil you a bit. You work so much—you must be tired…”
Lyudmila sat at the table, watching her mother work her quiet magic at the stove. Vera Sergeyevna looked younger than sixty-two—trim figure, neat hair, light eyes without a hint of fatigue. Only the fine lines at the corners of her eyes betrayed her age.
“Where’s Kostya?” her mother asked, sliding the omelet onto a plate.
“At work. Some unexpected duty shift. He said he’d be back by lunch.”
“What a pity. I wanted to talk to him too. We haven’t properly seen each other in ages.”
Lyudmila nodded, taking the plate. Konstantin really had been avoiding her mother lately. Not openly rude, not hostile—he simply kept finding excuses to leave the apartment: work, friends, a quick run to the store. Lyudmila blamed it on his naturally closed-off personality, but something in her gut said it was more than that.
She and Konstantin had been married for three years. Lyudmila had bought her one-room apartment long before she met him—she’d saved for five years while working as a clinic administrator, denying herself nearly everything. Once they married, Konstantin moved in with her. He didn’t own anything—he’d been renting a room in a communal apartment on the outskirts.
Lyudmila earned a solid income. Konstantin’s was modest. He worked as a technician for a small computer service company, making a little more than the city average. They didn’t treat their finances as fully shared—each lived on their own salary, splitting only groceries and utilities.
The apartment remained Lyudmila’s property, officially documented as such. She had insisted on that even before the wedding, explaining to Konstantin: it had been purchased with her money, before the marriage, and would remain hers alone. He hadn’t objected; he understood it was fair.
“Lyudochka, how about we go to the park today?” her mother suggested, finishing her tea. “The weather’s wonderful, the sun’s out. We could buy ice cream, sit on a bench…”
“Let’s do it,” Lyudmila agreed. “I actually wanted to take you to VDNKh. It’s beautiful there right now—flowers everywhere, the fountains are running. We can look around the pavilions too.”
“Oh, that would be lovely!” Vera Sergeyevna said, delighted. “I haven’t been there in so long—since I was young…”
They were getting ready to leave after breakfast when Lyudmila’s phone rang. Konstantin.
“Hello, Kostya?”
“Lyuda, listen… there’s something,” he said, his voice tense. “Mom called. She’s really upset. Says we’ve been ignoring her.”
Lyudmila frowned.
“Why would she say that? We were at her place two weeks ago—for her birthday. Everything was fine.”
“Well… she found out your mother is staying with us. And she’s offended that we didn’t invite her too.”
“Kostya, your mother lives ten minutes away. She can drop by anytime. My mother lives three hundred kilometers from here and barely comes to Moscow.”
“I know. But Mom doesn’t see it that way. She thinks you treat her worse than your own mother.”
Lyudmila exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
“Fine. Tell Raisa Fyodorovna she can come over whenever she wants—just let her warn us in advance.”
“She wants to come today.”
“Today? Kostya, Mom and I were going to VDNKh!”
“Please… just for a couple of hours. She’s really asking. I don’t want her to feel hurt.”
Lyudmila closed her eyes and counted to ten.
“Alright. Let her come around three. We’ll be back by then.”
“Thank you, Lyudochka. I’ll tell her.”
He hung up. Lyudmila returned to the kitchen, where her mother was already washing dishes.
“Mom, Raisa Fyodorovna wants to come by today.”
Vera Sergeyevna turned, drying her hands on a towel.
“Oh, how nice! I haven’t seen her in ages. We should bake something for tea…”
“Mom, you don’t have to bake. We’ll just go out and come back by three. She’s only stopping in briefly.”
“Lyudochka, how can a guest come and we have nothing on the table?” her mother protested. “No—I’ll make something. Maybe little pies? Or a cake?”
Lyudmila smiled and hugged her mother’s shoulders.
“Alright, Mom. Do what you want—just don’t overdo it.”
They spent three hours at VDNKh—walking the alleys, taking photos by the fountains, popping into pavilions. Vera Sergeyevna was happy like a child, admiring flower arrangements and architectural details. Lyudmila watched her mother and thought how little a person truly needs to be content.
They returned home exactly at three. Raisa Fyodorovna still hadn’t arrived.
“Mom, rest for a bit. Your legs must be tired.”
“A little,” Vera Sergeyevna admitted. “I’ll lie down on the sofa, if that’s okay.”
“Of course. Rest.”
Her mother went to the room. Lyudmila stayed in the kitchen, put the kettle on, and set out cups. Raisa Fyodorovna liked her tea strong, with sugar and cookies. Lyudmila prepared everything in advance so she wouldn’t have to fuss once the guest came.
3:30. Four. 4:30. Still no Raisa Fyodorovna.
Lyudmila called Konstantin.
“Kostya, is your mom coming? It’s already 4:30.”
“I don’t know, Lyuda. I’m at work. I called her this morning—she said she’d come.”
“Can you call her again? Just check?”
“Alright. I’ll call and then call you back.”
Five minutes later her phone rang.
“Lyuda… Mom says she changed her mind. She doesn’t want to interfere while your mother is there.”
Lyudmila pressed her lips together.
“So she asked to come, we cut our outing short, I set the table—and now she changed her mind?”
“Well… yes. I’m sorry. She got offended about something. I didn’t fully understand.”
“I see. Tell Raisa Fyodorovna that next time she shouldn’t ask to come if she doesn’t actually plan to show up.”
Lyudmila ended the call without waiting for an answer. She sat at the table, staring at the prepared tea and cookies. Anger churned inside her, but she tried not to show it in front of her mother.
Sunday morning began with a harsh ring at the door. Lyudmila opened her eyes and checked the time—7:00 a.m. Who on earth rings someone’s doorbell this early on a weekend?
Konstantin lay asleep beside her, not reacting at all. Lyudmila got up, threw on her robe, and went to the door. She looked through the peephole—and went cold.
Raisa Fyodorovna stood in the hallway. Her face was set like stone, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharp with anger.
Lyudmila opened the door.
“Raisa Fyodorovna? Is something wrong?”
Her mother-in-law marched into the apartment without even saying hello. She took off her coat, hung it on the rack, and headed straight for the kitchen. Confused, Lyudmila followed.
At the kitchen table, Vera Sergeyevna sat in her robe, sipping morning tea. She lifted her head, saw the visitor, and smiled.
“Hello, Raisa Fyodorovna! What a surprise! Sit down—I’ll pour you some tea…”
“I don’t need your tea!” the mother-in-law snapped, stopping in the middle of the kitchen. “I came to find out what’s going on here!”
Vera Sergeyevna blinked, startled, lowering her cup to the table.
“Excuse me, I don’t understand…”
“There’s nothing to understand!” Raisa Fyodorovna stepped closer, planting her hands on her hips. “You’ve settled yourself into my son’s apartment, living here for weeks, and I’m not even invited as a guest!”
Lyudmila froze in the doorway.
“Raisa Fyodorovna, what are you talking about? What weeks? My mom arrived the day before yesterday!”
“I don’t care!” her mother-in-law whirled toward Lyudmila. “This is Kostya’s apartment, and I won’t tolerate strangers camping out here!”
“Strangers?” Lyudmila took a step forward, heat flooding her face. “My mother is a stranger?”
“To Kostya—yes! He’s my son, and who is she to him? Nobody!”
Vera Sergeyevna quietly rose from her chair.
“Lyudochka, I… I’ll pack my things. There’s no need to argue because of me…”
“Mom, sit down,” Lyudmila ordered without taking her eyes off her mother-in-law. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Oh yes, she is!” Raisa Fyodorovna shouted. “I won’t let outsiders take up space in my son’s home!”
“This is not my son’s home!” Lyudmila raised her voice. “This is my apartment. My property.”
“Kostya lives here—so it’s his too!”
“Kostya lives here on my terms. I bought this apartment before marriage with my money. He has no ownership rights here.”
Raisa Fyodorovna’s face flushed purple.
“How dare you talk like that! Kostya is your husband! What’s yours is his!”
“No. Property purchased before marriage remains personal property. And I decide who I invite into my home.”
“And who are you to decide?!” the mother-in-law screeched. “I’m Kostya’s mother! I have more right to be here than your mommy!”
Lyudmila stepped forward; Raisa Fyodorovna instinctively stepped back.
“My ‘mommy,’” Lyudmila said, her voice quiet and dangerous, “raised me alone after my father died. She worked two jobs so I could study. She didn’t beg for help, she didn’t complain. She visits four times a year and always brings treats. She helps around the house, cooks, and asks for nothing. And what do you do? You storm into my home at seven in the morning on a Sunday without warning and start a scandal!”
“I… I have the right! Kostya is my son!”
“Kostya is a grown man. He’s thirty-one. He lives with me, in my apartment. If I invite my mother here, that’s my business.”
Konstantin appeared in the doorway, half-asleep, wearing underwear and a T-shirt.
“What’s going on? Mom? Why are you here so early?”
“Kostya!” Raisa Fyodorovna rushed to him. “Tell this—this—your wife to throw her mother out! Immediately!”
Konstantin froze, looking from his mother to his wife.
“Mom, how can I… She’s my mother-in-law. She’s visiting…”
“What visiting?! I’m your mother! I should be here, not her!”
Lyudmila turned to her husband.
“Kostya, tell your mother this is my apartment and I decide who comes in.”
Konstantin opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again.
“Well… Lyuda’s right, Mom. The apartment really is hers…”
“Traitor!” Raisa Fyodorovna wailed. “I gave birth to you, raised you, and now you’re defending some woman against your own mother!”
“Mom, it’s not like—”
“Silence!” she snapped, then turned on Lyudmila again. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I’m older than you! I’m your husband’s mother! You’re obliged to respect me!”
Lyudmila folded her arms.
“Respect has to be earned. You barged into my home, insulted my mother, yelled at me. What respect are you talking about?”
“How dare you! Kostya! Are you hearing this?!”
Konstantin stayed quiet, staring at the floor.
Raisa Fyodorovna stamped her foot.
“Throw her mother out. Right now! Let her pack and go back to her backwater!”
Vera Sergeyevna gave a soft sob, covering her mouth with her hand. Lyudmila stepped to her mother and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“My mother isn’t going anywhere. She’ll stay as long as she wants.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is?!” Raisa Fyodorovna spun toward her son. “Kostya, tell your wife that I—”
“Tell your mommy,” Lyudmila cut in, her voice icy as she stared straight at Konstantin, “that this is the last night she spends in your apartment. If I see her here again, I’ll handle it personally.”
Silence dropped like a stone. Raisa Fyodorovna’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Konstantin stood rigid, pale.
“You… what did you just say?” the mother-in-law whispered.
“I said,” Lyudmila stepped toward her, and Raisa Fyodorovna retreated instinctively, “that you’ve crossed this threshold for the last time. You will not be here again. Ever.”
“Kostya!” Raisa Fyodorovna shrieked. “Did you hear that?! She’s throwing me out!”
Konstantin shifted from foot to foot, saying nothing.
“Kostya! Say something!”
He raised his eyes to his wife. Lyudmila looked at him with such an expression that he swallowed and looked away.
“Mom… maybe you should… calm down and leave? We’ll talk later…”
“What?! You’re on her side?!”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. It’s just… Lyuda’s right, it’s her apartment, and…”
“Traitor! Scum!” Raisa Fyodorovna snatched Vera Sergeyevna’s cup from the table and threw it onto the floor. It shattered, shards flying across the kitchen. “I gave birth to you! Raised you! And now you’re because of this—this—”
Lyudmila moved so fast that Raisa Fyodorovna jumped back into the wall.
“Leave. Now. While I don’t do something I’ll regret.”
Raisa Fyodorovna pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide. Fear flickered there.
“You… you’re threatening me?”
“I’m warning you. Get out of my apartment. And don’t come back.”
Her mother-in-law darted into the entryway, grabbed her coat, and spun around.
“Kostya! Are you coming with me, or staying with her?!”
Konstantin stood in the middle of the kitchen, shoulders slumped.
“Mom, please… go. We’ll talk later…”
“Later?!” she screeched. “I’ll never forgive you for this! Never! You chose her! You chose some stranger’s old woman over your own mother!”
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windowpanes rattled. Her screams echoed down the staircase:
“Traitor! Scum! I’ll never forgive you!”
Lyudmila closed the door and leaned her forehead against it. Her hands trembled from the flood of emotion. In the kitchen, Vera Sergeyevna cried softly; Konstantin stood like a statue.
“Mom, don’t cry,” Lyudmila returned, wrapping her arms around her. “Don’t pay attention. This isn’t your fault.”
“Lyudochka, forgive me… I didn’t want a fight… Maybe I really should go home…”
“No,” Lyudmila said firmly, squeezing her mother’s shoulders. “You’re staying as long as you planned. This is my home—my apartment. And you are always welcome here.”
Konstantin cleared his throat.
“Lyuda, maybe you went too far? Mom is—”
“Your mother,” Lyudmila interrupted without turning around, “barged in at seven a.m., insulted my mother, demanded I throw her out, smashed a cup, and threw a tantrum. And you think I went too far?”
“Well… she’s just jealous. She feels like we’re ignoring her…”
Lyudmila turned to him.
“Kostya, I’ll be blunt. Your mother will never come into this apartment again. Not ever. I will not tolerate that kind of treatment toward my mother or me. If you don’t like it—pack your things and go live with her.”
Konstantin went pale.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely. Choose. Either you live here and your mother does not come here. Or you leave and go to her.”
He opened his mouth, shut it, rubbed his face with both hands.
“Lyuda… how can I… She’s my mother…”
“And my mother is my mother,” Lyudmila said. “But I don’t let her insult your relatives or start scandals. Because I respect you and our marriage. Does your mother respect anyone but herself?”
Konstantin didn’t answer, staring at the floor.
“Think about that,” Lyudmila said, turning back to Vera Sergeyevna. “Come on, Mom. I’ll make you fresh tea.”
The rest of the week was tense. Konstantin walked around gloomy, often speaking to his mother on the phone behind the closed bathroom door. Raisa Fyodorovna called ten times a day, crying, complaining, demanding her son come over.
Lyudmila ignored it. She still did everything she had planned with her mother—went to the theater, visited the exhibition, strolled along Arbat. Vera Sergeyevna tried to stay cheerful, but Lyudmila could see how much she worried.
On Friday, before her mother’s departure, they sat at the kitchen table drinking tea.
“Lyudochka, don’t worry because of me,” Vera Sergeyevna said softly. “I won’t come visit anymore, so there won’t be problems.”
“Mom!” Lyudmila grabbed her hand. “Don’t you dare say that. You’ll come whenever you want. This is my home, and you’re always welcome.”
“But Raisa Fyodorovna…”
“Raisa Fyodorovna won’t come here again. I mean it.”
Her mother sighed.
“Lyudochka… she’s your husband’s mother. You can’t do this… A family should be together…”
“A family should be where there’s love and respect,” Lyudmila answered. “Not where there’s rudeness and hysterics.”
Vera Sergeyevna fell silent, eyes lowered.
Lyudmila saw her mother off at the station. They hugged goodbye. Vera Sergeyevna boarded the train with tears in her eyes.
When Lyudmila got home, she found Konstantin on the couch with his phone.
“Kostya, we need to talk.”
He set the phone aside and looked at her cautiously.
“About what?”
“About your mother. I said she won’t come here again—and I meant it. If you disagree, say it now.”
Konstantin was quiet, studying the carpet.
“Lyuda… she’s my mom. I can’t just ban her from coming…”
“You can. And you should. Because this is my apartment, and she insulted my mother. I won’t allow it to happen again.”
“But she’s just… She’s jealous. She thinks we abandoned her…”
“We can’t live our lives controlled by her jealousy and tantrums,” Lyudmila said. “We have our own life. And I want peace in it, not constant drama.”
Konstantin rubbed his face with both hands.
“And if I don’t agree?”
Lyudmila held his gaze.
“Then pack your things and go to her. I won’t tolerate a woman who insults my mother and throws fits in my home.”
He was silent for a long time. Then he let out a heavy breath.
“Alright. I’ll talk to Mom. I’ll tell her it’s better if she doesn’t come.”
“Not ‘better.’ She can’t. At all,” Lyudmila corrected. “If she wants to see you, she can invite you to her place. Or you can meet at a café. But she will not step into this apartment again.”
“Okay,” Konstantin nodded, drained. “I understand.”
Raisa Fyodorovna kept calling for three more weeks—crying, yelling, threatening, complaining. Konstantin listened and tried to calm her down, but he didn’t invite her over.
A month later, the calls stopped. She took offense for good and cut off contact with her son. Konstantin suffered, but he didn’t fight it.
Lyudmila carried on with her life. She worked, earned money, invited her mother to visit. Vera Sergeyevna came once every three months, stayed for a week, helped around the house, and cherished the time with her daughter.
Konstantin gradually accepted the situation. Sometimes he visited his mother at her apartment; sometimes they met in cafés. But he never invited Raisa Fyodorovna back to Lyudmila’s home.
Lyudmila got what she wanted—peace and respect in her own home. And her mother-in-law learned the lesson: you don’t get to make the rules in someone else’s apartment.