“Shh—don’t be loud. She only just lay down after the trip,” Viktor said, greeting his wife not with a kiss, but with a shushing finger pressed to his lips.
His eyes gleamed with that particular, stupid delight you see in kids who’ve done something wrong and are convinced it was actually brilliant. Alina froze in the entryway, still not even unzipped out of one boot. A heavy laptop bag dragged at her shoulder, and a dull, throbbing ache pulsed at her temples after a twelve-hour shift. She wanted one thing: a hot shower and silence.
Instead of silence, she got her husband’s excited whisper. And instead of the smell of dinner, there was a thick, strange odor—so dense it felt like it was leaking through the closed doors.
“Who is ‘she’?” Alina asked, a bad feeling blooming inside her. “Vitya… you didn’t bring home another stray cat, did you? We agreed.”
“What cat, Alina? Think bigger!” He shone like a freshly polished samovar. “I brought my mom here. Surprise!”
Viktor grabbed her hand—ice-cold from the street—and tugged her into the apartment without even letting her take off her coat. Alina followed on autopilot, tripping over her own feet. Her brain refused to accept the words.
His mother. Here. In their two-bedroom apartment—where every square meter had been earned, measured, and paid for with Alina’s sleepless nights over reports.
“Just look how we set everything up,” Viktor babbled, flinging open the door to the room they’d spent the last six months calling only one thing: the nursery. “You know how lonely she is out there in the village. Winter’s coming, hauling firewood is hard, and she says wolves started howling right behind the garden. Here it’s warm, bright, hot water whenever you want. I just imagined her sitting alone in the dark and my heart squeezed up. So I went down for a day and hired a van…”
He shoved the door wide, and Alina’s breath caught.
The room—her favorite room, her project, her dream—was ruined.
That morning it still smelled of new paper from the expensive mint-green eco wallpaper and the lacquer on the parquet boards. Alina had spent two weeks choosing that exact shade, comparing swatches so their future baby would feel calm and safe.
Now a heavy, choking stink hit her: mothballs, dusty wool, old stale fabric—and something sour, like fermented cabbage.
“Here!” Viktor announced proudly, sweeping his arm across the space.
In the middle of the room, right on the flawlessly level oak floor—flooring Alina had forbidden anyone to scrub with a wet rag, only with special cleaner—rose a mound.
Not suitcases.
Bundles.
Huge, shapeless lumps tied up in sheets. Plaid market bags straight from the ’90s, cinched with brown tape. Cardboard boxes—some that looked like egg cartons—bound with twine.
Against the wall, blocking the designer wallpaper with little forest animals, stood a carpet rolled into a tube. Even rolled up it looked menacing: dark burgundy, bald patches, stiff threads sticking out. The smell coming off it was so harsh her throat began to burn. Nearby loomed buckets, brooms with mangy bristles, and—unless she was hallucinating—an old Soviet washboard.
“Vitya…” Alina finally breathed out, fingers going numb from shock. “What is all this?”
“What do you mean what?” her husband chuckled, completely missing her face. “Her things. Her trousseau, so to speak. Mom can’t sleep without her featherbeds—you know that. And this carpet is a family treasure, it was Grandma’s. Pure wool—nobody makes them like this anymore. We’ll lay it down and the room will feel cozy, warm. Right now it’s like a hospital in here—bare, empty.”
Alina stepped forward and saw a dirty boot print—right in the center of the room.
Mud on the new floor.
“This is the nursery,” she said quietly, clearly. “Vitya, we spent six months fixing this room for a baby. We saved for a crib. We chose a dresser. Why did you drag these… these sacks in here?”
Viktor waved her off as if she’d said something ridiculous.
“Oh, come on. Nursery? There isn’t even a baby yet. The room’s just sitting here collecting dust. Should it stay empty? And Mom—she’s right here, a real living person, she needs help. We’ll have a baby someday and then we’ll think about it. A newborn doesn’t need much space. We’ll put a bassinet in our bedroom—babies sleep with their parents at first anyway. And Mom will have plenty of space in here. I already hooked up my old TV for her. I’ll fix the antenna and we’ll be set!”
He walked over to one of the bundles and patted it lovingly, shaking up a puff of sharp dust.
“And can you imagine, Alina—she even brought her jars. Pickles, tomatoes, cherry jam. She said, ‘I can’t come to my daughter-in-law empty-handed, that’s embarrassing.’ She’s looking out for us. And you’re standing there like a stranger. At least smile.”
Alina stared at her husband and saw a man she didn’t recognize.
Three years of marriage, shared plans, evening talks—suddenly it all felt like scenery on a stage, a cardboard house blown down by one gust of village wind. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t called. He had simply turned their future into a storage space for his mother’s junk, honestly believing Alina should be overjoyed.
“Take it out,” she said. Her voice came out rough—foreign.
“What?” Viktor stopped smiling, his face slipping into stupid confusion.
“Take all of it back. Or to a garage. Or to the dump. I don’t care. But in one hour, this stink is gone.”
Viktor frowned, his mouth twisting in offense.
“What are you starting now? Tired or something? What stink? This is the smell of home—of the village! Mom’s old, she needs peace. You want me to throw my own mother out into the cold because you don’t like the smell? Do you even hear yourself?”
At that moment, one of the bundles moved.
More precisely, the heap of clothes on the old couch shifted—the couch they’d kept in the corner temporarily, planning to sell it in a few days. From beneath a pile of gray scarves, a tousled silver head appeared.
Antonina Petrovna had woken up.
The pile of scarves and old sweaters wriggled, and she climbed out into the light. She swung her feet down, and Alina felt a sick jolt: her mother-in-law had already changed into “home” clothes. A washed-out flannel robe that had once been blue but was now a muddy gray, the pocket torn off, and crushed felt slippers flattened at the heels. She looked as if she’d been living in this apartment forever—and Alina was the one who’d walked into the wrong door.
“Oh, Vitenka, you woke me,” Antonina Petrovna rasped, yawning and completely ignoring Alina. “I’d only just dozed off. Long road—shook me all over.”
She scratched her lower back like she owned the place, then finally turned her head toward Alina. Her gaze was measuring, sharp—and, Alina thought, faintly triumphant.
“So, the worker finally showed up,” she tossed out instead of a greeting. “Well hello, if you’re not joking. Why are you stomping around in boots on parquet? I just swept. You’ll drag in sand.”
Alina stared, stunned. She was standing in the hallway of her own apartment—an apartment she paid for every month, giving up vacations and new clothes—and listening to complaints from the woman who had turned a designer nursery into a flea-market warehouse.
“Hello, Antonina Petrovna,” Alina forced out, clinging to politeness while everything in her boiled. “Actually, I’m at home. And by the way, this is the nursery. We renovated it specifically.”
Her mother-in-law snorted and rose from the couch, shuffling her feet across the new floor. The scraping sound was unbearable, like sandpaper on glass. She walked up to the wall and dragged a crooked finger over the mint wallpaper, leaving a faint smudge.
“Renovated…” she drawled with open disdain. “And what kind of color is that? Like a hospital, honestly. Too pale. You’ll see every bit of dirt. And the floor?” She stomped. “Cold, slippery. A child will crack their head in no time. I told Vitya right away—you need carpets. I brought mine. Good ones, wool. We’ll lay them down and the room will look lived in, because right now it’s like a tomb.”
“Mom’s right, Alina,” Viktor chimed in, shrugging off his jacket. “It’s not cozy here. Too empty. With Mom’s things it feels more… homey.”
Without a word, Alina turned and went to the kitchen. She needed water so she wouldn’t scream. But the kitchen held another surprise.
On her spotless artificial-stone countertop—usually not a crumb in sight—was chaos. Jars of cloudy brine with rust-speckled lids stood in a row, leaving wet rings behind. Alina’s towel lay on the floor, and a greasy rag hung from the oven handle.
And then she saw the mug.
Her favorite one: a large handmade ceramic mug she’d brought back from a business trip, the one only she used. Now it sat in front of Antonina Petrovna, who had shuffled in behind her and dropped into a chair. Tea steamed inside it, and a chunk of bread with butter floated right in the cup.
“Pour your husband some tea—why are you standing there?” her mother-in-law ordered, slurping noisily from someone else’s mug. “He’s tired, he moved me. And you only ever think about yourself.”
A lump rose in Alina’s throat. She walked to the counter and gripped the edge until her knuckles whitened.
“Antonina Petrovna, that’s my mug,” she said softly.
“So what?” the older woman said, genuinely surprised, not letting go of it. “Is it made of gold? You’ve got plenty in the cupboard. I grabbed the first one I saw. Everything’s placed inconveniently here—too high. I rearranged a bit, moved your grains down so you can reach. And I threw out that sea salt of yours and poured in proper rock salt, because you can’t salt anything with that stuff.”
Alina opened the cabinet. Her system—her neatly labeled jars—was shoved aside, mixed up, buried under bags of croutons and dried mushrooms that reeked of damp and stale storage.
“You… threw out my salt?” Alina repeated, turning to her husband. “Vitya, did you see this?”
Viktor wandered in already wearing sweatpants and immediately reached for the sandwiches his mother had cut.
“Oh, Alina, don’t start, okay?” he winced like he’d bitten on pain. “It’s just salt. Mom wanted to help. She’s settling in. She’s going to live here now—things need to be convenient.”
“Live?” Alina looked at both of them: her husband chewing, her mother-in-law dropping crumbs directly onto the counter. “Vitya, we didn’t discuss this. We didn’t agree your mother would live here. This apartment isn’t made of rubber. We don’t have an extra room. That room is for a baby.”
Antonina Petrovna set the mug down—leaving a greasy ring—and pressed her lips together.
“Well, well,” she said, acid in every syllable. “So here we are. Raised a son, and now I’m not even allowed on the doorstep. Hear that, Vitya? That’s what your precious wife is saying—she can’t spare space for your mother.”
“Alina, stop,” Viktor’s voice turned harder. He quit chewing and stared at her with reproach. “A mother is sacred. She’s miserable alone out there. And your baby… where is this baby? It’s only a plan right now. It doesn’t exist. Maybe it won’t for a year, maybe two. Should the room just sit empty while we ‘try’?”
“A plan?” Alina repeated. The word hurt worse than a slap. “So our future child is just a plan you can push aside because your mom got bored in the village?”
“Don’t twist it!” Viktor slammed his palm on the counter. “A baby doesn’t need its own room—babies don’t understand anything. We’ll put the bassinet in our bedroom like normal people. Mom will stay in there. She’ll help us—cook, clean. You’re always at work, the house is empty. Now you’ll come home to hot borscht and pies. You should be happy!”
“I didn’t ask for borscht,” Alina snapped. “And I didn’t ask for help. I asked you not to touch my home. This apartment is under a mortgage I pay. You, Vitya, have been ‘finding yourself’ for three years, writing music nobody buys. I’m the one working. And I have the right to come home to a clean place—not a warehouse for old junk and not a communal apartment!”
“Throwing money in his face, are you?” Antonina Petrovna shrieked, flinging up her hands. “Throwing bread in your husband’s face? How can your tongue even say that? I raised Vityusha, I didn’t sleep nights so he’d become what he is, and you… Money matters more to you than people! That’s modern youth—rotten!”
Viktor stepped between them, shielding his mother with his back.
“Shut up, Alina. You’re crossing every line,” he said. “Mom stays here. That’s my decision as a man. Accept it and be kinder. And if you keep pushing— you’ll regret it.”
A heavy silence settled over the kitchen. Alina stared at her husband’s back, at the satisfied face of her mother-in-law peeking over his shoulder, and felt something inside her snap. A thin thread of patience broke with a clean, ringing crack. She understood that talking was over.
Viktor turned away from her theatrically and pulled the plate of sliced meat closer. It was expensive dry-cured sausage Alina had bought yesterday for her birthday—her birthday was tomorrow. Now Antonina Petrovna was devouring it with frightening speed. She ate greedily, grabbing pieces with her fingers instead of a fork, washing it down with her cloudy, sour-smelling pickled tomatoes—brine already spreading into a puddle across the stone countertop.
No one offered Alina a seat. No one even made room for her—on the third chair sat a heap of old newspapers wrapped around jars. She stood in the doorway of her own kitchen like a poor relation, watching them feast.
“Mmm, Vityusha, the tomatoes came out good, didn’t they?” Antonina Petrovna smacked her lips, wiping greasy fingers on the edge of her robe. “Strong! Not like your store-bought chemicals. Eat, son, eat—you need strength. You’ve gotten so skinny on cafeteria food.”
“Delicious, Mom. Really,” Viktor nodded, mouth full, gazing at her with devotion. “You’re the best.”
He reached for the kettle and found it empty.
“Alina, why are you frozen there?” he tossed over his shoulder without even looking at her. “Put the kettle on. Mom’s throat is dry after the trip. And grab the cookies from the top drawer.”
Something clicked inside Alina. Not loud, not hysterical—more like the cold, final sound of a gun being cocked. She looked at the man she’d lived with for three years and understood: he didn’t merely disrespect her. He didn’t see her at all. To him, she was a function—an ATM, a cleaner, a cook. Staff who should feel grateful for the privilege of serving his “sacred” mother.
“The kettle?” she repeated, voice like ice, not moving. “Or maybe your mom can do it herself. She’s the one running the place now. She threw out my salt, rearranged my pantry—let her press the button too. Or will her hands fall off from tomatoes?”
Viktor choked. Antonina Petrovna froze with a slice of sausage halfway to her mouth, her face slowly turning purple.
“How dare you talk to my mother like that?” Viktor hissed, springing up. “A person came here with her whole heart, with gifts! She brought half a trunk of food so we could save money! And you’re turning up your nose?”
“Food?” Alina let out a short, dry laugh. “You call those rotten tomatoes food? Vitya, wake up. I earn enough for us to eat fresh vegetables, not this moldy mess. We’re not saving on food—we’re saving on your ambitions. Who pays for this ‘banquet’? Who pays for the apartment? For the electricity you’re burning right now? For the water your mother runs without a thought?”
“Again with your money!” Viktor punched the table, making the plate jump. “Greedy witch! All you ever think about is cash! You’ve got a meter spinning in your eyes instead of a soul!”
“Yes— I think about money!” Alina barked, stepping into the kitchen. “Because you don’t! You’re ‘finding yourself.’ You’ve spent three years writing your genius album on my back! I pay the mortgage, I buy the groceries, I fund the renovations! And you just bring your mother here and drop her on my head!”
Antonina Petrovna, sensing her star moment, clutched her chest theatrically.
“Oh, Vitenka… I feel faint…” she wailed in a syrupy tone, shooting Alina a sharp, hateful look. “I told you, son, she’s no match for you. Cold, empty. Won’t give you children, doesn’t value her husband. A cursed career woman! All she wants is to wag her tail at work—no comfort at home. She’ll throw you out, son, mark my words. She’s a snake.”
Alina looked at her mother-in-law—at the fake grimace of pain, at the greedy hands still holding a piece of someone else’s sausage. Any pity evaporated. What remained was a clear, cold anger—and a precise sense of what needed to happen.
“A snake, you say?” Alina murmured, stepping right up to the counter. “All right. Listen carefully, dear relatives.”
She drew in a breath and shouted what had been boiling inside her for the last half hour, striking each word like a nail:
“I didn’t work myself to death for ten years to buy this apartment so your mother could come in here and impose her rules! Oh, she’s bored in the village in winter? So what? Let her be bored! If she steps over this threshold with her suitcases, you’ll both be out—along with her jars and her knitting!”
The kitchen fell silent. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the heavy breathing of Antonina Petrovna could be heard. Viktor stared at his wife with bulging eyes, as if he’d only just discovered she could speak.
“You… you won’t dare,” he muttered, but the certainty in his voice was thinner now. “This is my home too. We’re married.”
“This home is under a mortgage in my name,” Alina said sharply. “The prenup, Vitya. Forgot? We signed it because you had debt from old loans and the bank wouldn’t approve a mortgage with you as co-borrower. Legally, you’re nobody here. And your mother is nobody. You have ten minutes.”
“She’s not going anywhere!” Viktor flushed again, trying to reclaim authority. “I said she stays! I’m the man here! I decided! And if you don’t like it, you can leave yourself!”
“Oh, is that so?” Alina narrowed her eyes. “You’re kicking me out of my own apartment?”
“I’m putting you in your place!” he screamed, spittle flying. “Know your perch! Mom will live in that room, end of story! And you’ll accept it if you want to keep this family!”
Antonina Petrovna smirked behind him, delighted.
“That’s right, son,” she purred. “Teach your wife some sense. She’s gotten too bold. Don’t worry—I’ll have her in line fast. Tomorrow we’ll make a chore schedule. I’ll teach her how to wash floors properly—look at the filth she’s let build up…”
Alina stopped listening. She looked at her husband for a long, heavy moment—no love, no hurt—only disgust, like he was a cockroach.
“Family?” she asked calmly. “I don’t have a family anymore, Vitya. You made your choice.”
She spun on her heel and walked out of the kitchen. No tears. No hysteria. In her head, a plan formed—simple and efficient, like a hammer blow. She went straight to the former nursery, where the air reeked of mothballs and the collapse of her illusions.
“What are you doing, you psycho? Put it back!” Viktor burst into the room just as Alina was dragging the biggest plaid bag across the floor—packed so heavy it felt like bricks… or those “priceless” jars.
She didn’t answer. Her breathing was steady, her movements economical and precise. Alina felt not rage, but the icy calm of a surgeon amputating a gangrenous limb. She hauled the bag to the nursery doorway, shoved it hard with her foot, and it scraped down the hallway toward the front door.
“Are you deaf? I’m talking to you!” Viktor lunged and grabbed her shoulder. His fingers dug painfully through her blouse. “You’ve lost your mind! Those are Mom’s things! There’s glass in there!”
Alina jerked her shoulder and threw his hand off like a bug. Then she turned and looked at him in a way that made him step back without meaning to. There was no fear in her eyes, no doubt—only emptiness, and inside it all his threats drowned.
“Glass?” she echoed in a dead voice. “Then it’ll shatter. Open the door, Vitya. Or I’ll throw it straight through the closed one—frame and all.”
“Don’t you dare!” shrieked Antonina Petrovna, rushing up. She stood in the doorway clutching a three-liter jar of pickles like a baby, trembling. “You monster! Barbarian! That’s my dowry! Vitya, do something—she’ll smash everything!”
But Viktor was frozen, stunned by the change in his wife. He was used to Alina tired and accommodating, ready to negotiate. This woman—straight-backed, eyes hard—was a stranger.
While he blinked, Alina had already seized the rolled carpet. The same stinking, dusty monster. She planted her feet and yanked. The heavy roll hit the parquet with a dull thud, throwing up a cloud of biting dust.
“Achoo!” Viktor sneezed loudly, coughing into his elbow.
“Bless you,” Alina tossed over her shoulder, dragging the carpet toward the exit. “You’ll breathe better outside.”
She hauled the carpet into the hallway. Seeing her “treasure” crawling toward the door, Antonina Petrovna wailed like a siren and threw herself in front of the entrance, spreading her arms—still holding the jar.
“Over my dead body!” she screamed. “I won’t let you! This is my home now—my son said so! Vitya, call an ambulance, she’s rabid!”
Alina stopped a step away from her. She didn’t shout. She didn’t wave her hands. She simply walked to the coat rack where Viktor’s jacket and his laptop bag hung.
“Your home?” Alina repeated, pulling down Viktor’s jacket. “You’re mistaken. Your home is where the wolves howl. This—this is my territory.”
She unlocked the door and flung it wide. Cold air from the stairwell rushed in, mixing with the mothball stink.
“Out,” Alina said, pointing to the landing.
“I’m not going!” Antonina Petrovna dug in.
“Fine.”
Alina threw Viktor’s jacket onto the filthy concrete outside. Then his bag. The laptop inside gave a miserable crack as it struck the wall, but Alina didn’t care.
“My computer!” Viktor screamed, forgetting his mother and shooting into the stairwell to rescue the precious machine that held his “genius” unreleased tracks.
The moment he crossed the threshold, Alina grabbed the nearest bundle and slammed it into Antonina Petrovna’s back. The older woman stumbled from the unexpected shove of the soft bag and, by momentum alone, took several steps backward into the hallway, clutching her jar.
“Get out,” Alina said quietly—soft, but terrifying.
Antonina Petrovna ended up on the landing, blinking in confusion—looking from her son on his knees over the bag to her daughter-in-law.
“You… what have you done?” Viktor rasped, rising. His face twisted with fury. “You broke my laptop! You’ll pay for that! Do you even understand what you just did? You destroyed this family! I’ll file for divorce! I’ll ruin you!”
Alina began tossing the remaining things out—methodically. The carpet flew next, nearly knocking Viktor off his feet. Then a box of knitting spilled open and bright yarn balls rolled across the landing. Then a bag of someone’s old leggings.
“Family?” Alina paused in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. Her hair had come loose, her breathing was heavy, but she was smiling—an eerie, relieved smile, like someone who’d finally dropped a sack of stones. “Vitya, you still don’t get it. I’m not just kicking you out. I’m erasing you. I don’t need a husband who’s married to his mother.”
“Alina, think!” Viktor suddenly changed his tone, realizing the door was about to close and he didn’t have the keys—they were still on the little table inside. “We got heated—so what! It happens! Mom will clean everything up! Where are we supposed to go at this hour?”
“To your mom,” Alina said. “Back to the village. Winter’s coming, Vitya. Firewood won’t chop itself.”
“Shameless! Rude!” Antonina Petrovna shrieked, finally grasping what was happening. “May you be cursed! May you die alone and no one bring you a glass of water!”
“Same to you,” Alina nodded.
She noticed the last object that still needed to be returned. That very mug of half-drunk tea with a soggy piece of bread. Antonina Petrovna had left it on the entry table without taking it back to the kitchen. Alina picked it up, stepped out, and set it neatly at her mother-in-law’s feet on the dirty concrete.
“Finish it. And you can keep the mug.”
“Alina!” Viktor lunged toward the door, trying to wedge his foot in the opening. “You can’t do this! It’s illegal! I’ll call the police! Open up!”
Alina shoved the door hard. The heavy metal slab slammed into Viktor’s shoulder and forced him back.
The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot. Then a second turn. Then the harsh clank of the night latch.
Alina leaned her back against the cold metal. On the other side came dull pounding, Viktor’s cursing, and Antonina Petrovna’s shrill, frantic threats. But the sounds already felt far away—like a TV in a neighbor’s apartment with the volume turned down.
She slid down the door and sat on the hallway floor. Around her lay the debris of the “invasion”—bits of tape, scraps of paper, dirt from boots. The air still held mothballs and sour cabbage soup. Alina closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
She’d need to hire cleaners. Tomorrow. Or maybe redo the wallpaper. Yes—she’d redo it. Something else, not mint. Maybe yellow. Sunny.
The apartment was quiet. And in that quiet, for the first time in three years, she heard herself.
She was alone—but she didn’t feel lonely.
She felt… spacious.