Nataliya heard the familiar voice in the stairwell even before the doorbell rang. Larisa Nikolaevna always spoke at full volume, as if the entire building had a right to know what was going on in her son’s marriage. Her voice bounced off the concrete walls, mixing with the sharp clack of heels on the steps.
“Andy, open up! I’ve got news—big news!” she called from the other side of the door.
Nataliya dried her hands on a dish towel and went to answer. Her mother-in-law stood there with two oversized bags and a face lit up with barely contained excitement. Expensive perfume hung in the air, along with something sugary—more homemade treats, no doubt.
“My sweet Natusya!” Larisa Nikolaevna squeezed her into a hug without ever letting go of the bags. “Where’s my boy? Is he home?”
“Andrey’s in the shower,” Nataliya replied, helping carry the bags into the kitchen. “How was the trip? Not too exhausting?”
“Oh, nonsense! I’m so worked up I didn’t even notice the road,” Larisa Nikolaevna said, nearly vibrating. “I have news—such news I don’t even know where to begin!”
She sat down and started unpacking. Jars of jam, boxes of cookies, bundles of herbs—an entire pantry’s worth of gifts. Nataliya had always found it odd how Larisa Nikolaevna arrived like this every single time, as if she were slowly moving in one visit at a time.
“Mom, you’re here!” Andrey came out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. “I thought I heard you.”
“My Andryusha!” Larisa Nikolaevna sprang up and wrapped him in a hug. “Sit, sit—quickly. We need to talk. Seriously.”
Nataliya put the kettle on, laid out the cookies, and poured tea. Larisa Nikolaevna kept shifting in her chair, clearly forcing herself not to blurt everything out at once.
“Well?” Andrey said, taking the seat opposite his mother. “What’s the big announcement?”
“Remember that plot of land in Old Gorodishche?” Larisa Nikolaevna asked. “The one right by the lake?”
Andrey nodded. Nataliya remembered the story too: land Larisa Nikolaevna had inherited from some distant relative. Scenic, touristy—yet abandoned for years.
“So!” Larisa Nikolaevna slapped her palms on the table. “I met with Valentina Stepanovna—you know, the one who works at the local administration. She told me they’re running a small-business support program. If you open something for tourists, you can get benefits and discounts.”
“And what exactly do you want to open?” Nataliya asked, though the gleam in her mother-in-law’s eyes made the answer obvious.
“A little hotel!” Larisa Nikolaevna spread her arms wide, as if she were unveiling a finished resort. “Can you picture it? Wooden cottages, traditional style. Tourists come for the lake—and they’ll have somewhere charming to stay. In the summer it’ll be packed!”
Andrey leaned forward, clearly intrigued. He always lit up at new business schemes—especially the kind that sounded like easy money.
“What do we need to start?” he asked.
“Now this is the best part,” Larisa Nikolaevna said, pulling a notebook from her handbag, filled with tight, tiny handwriting. “I’ve already done the math. Valentina Stepanovna introduced me to some builders—honest men, not greedy. And materials are cheaper right now because the season is ending.”
Nataliya watched her flip through the pages and felt the air in the kitchen change. Larisa Nikolaevna never showed up “just because.” She always arrived with a plan—one that somehow dragged them into it.
“How much are we talking?” Andrey asked.
“Four million for everything,” Larisa Nikolaevna answered. “The cottages, the landscaping, the permits. But the profit, Andryusha… just imagine it. In one season you can earn back half the investment. And from the second year on, it’s pure profit!”
Nataliya’s shoulders tightened. Four million rubles was an impossible sum for them. Andrey’s income was inconsistent—he hopped from job to job—and her driving school salary barely covered their everyday life.
“Mom, that’s huge,” Andrey said. “Where would we even get that kind of money?”
“I thought of that too,” Larisa Nikolaevna said, snapping the notebook shut and turning her attention to Nataliya. “We have an apartment.”
Nataliya froze, her cup halfway to her lips. So this was why she’d come.
“Which apartment?” she asked quietly, even though she already knew.
“This one,” Larisa Nikolaevna said, circling the kitchen with her hand. “It’s in the center. Worth a fortune. Sell it—and you’ll have enough for the hotel, with extra left over.”
“Mom,” Andrey said, glancing between the two women. “This is Nataliya’s apartment. Her grandmother left it to her.”
“Andryusha, we’re family,” Larisa Nikolaevna insisted, reaching for his hand. “What’s this ‘yours’ and ‘mine’? If we’re doing something for the whole family, then everyone contributes.”
Nataliya put her cup down. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her voice stayed even.
“Larisa Nikolaevna, I’m not selling my apartment.”
“My dear, you haven’t thought this through,” her mother-in-law said, turning sharply toward her. “This isn’t ‘selling.’ It’s investing in your future. You’re young—you can live anywhere. In a couple of years, when the hotel is running, you’ll buy an even better home!”
Andrey went quiet, studying the pattern on the tablecloth. Nataliya waited for him to step in, to remind his mother this apartment was the one stable thing in their lives. But he only frowned, as if he were weighing the offer.
“And where are we supposed to live until your hotel starts making money?” Nataliya asked.
“With me!” Larisa Nikolaevna threw her hands up. “My house is big, there’s plenty of room. And the air is cleaner there, nature all around. It’ll be good for you.”
“In another city,” Nataliya reminded her.
“And so what?” Larisa Nikolaevna shrugged. “Andryusha will find work here, and you…” She paused, only now realizing the problem. “You’ll find something too. Or you’ll help us run the hotel.”
Nataliya imagined quitting the job she’d held for seven years, moving to a strange city, living under her mother-in-law’s roof, and waiting for a “sure thing” business to maybe—someday—pay off. It looked like a trap, not a dream.
“I’m not moving,” she said.
“Natusya, you’re not thinking clearly,” Larisa Nikolaevna pressed, leaning in. “This is a chance to be independent. Your own business. Your own money. Freedom—no bosses!”
“Freedom without a home,” Nataliya said dryly.
“Oh, don’t talk nonsense,” her mother-in-law snapped. “Housing isn’t the main thing. The main thing is opportunity. You can live anywhere.”
Andrey finally lifted his head.
“Natalya… maybe Mom’s right,” he said. “We don’t really lose anything. The apartment turns into a business, the business turns into money.”
Nataliya stared at him, stunned. Was he truly saying they “lost nothing” by giving up the only roof over their heads?
“And if the hotel fails?” she asked. “If tourists don’t come? If something goes wrong?”
“It won’t,” Larisa Nikolaevna cut in quickly. “I’ve calculated everything. Valentina Stepanovna says the tourist flow grows every year. And our lake is beautiful.”
“But if it still goes wrong?” Nataliya insisted.
Her husband and his mother exchanged a look. And in that look, Nataliya saw what she’d been afraid of: they’d already decided. Without her. Larisa Nikolaevna hadn’t come to ask—she’d come to announce.
“Natalya,” Andrey reached across the table, trying to take her hand. “Let’s not think about the worst. Mom has it planned out—she has connections, experience…”
“What experience?” Nataliya cut him off. “In hotel management?”
“I have life experience,” Larisa Nikolaevna said firmly. “And intuition. Valentina Stepanovna will handle the paperwork.”
Nataliya leaned back. Arguing was pointless—everything had been arranged between them. All that remained was to find out what role they expected her to play.
“So what do you need from me?” she asked.
“Just agree,” Larisa Nikolaevna smiled. “Sign the sale documents and that’s it. We’re family—we support each other.”
“And if I don’t?”
A heavy silence settled. Larisa Nikolaevna’s smile vanished. Andrey dropped his eyes again.
“Natalya,” he said quietly, not looking up, “you understand this is our chance. Maybe our only one.”
“A chance to do what? End up homeless?”
“A chance to change your life for the better,” Larisa Nikolaevna insisted. “You’re young, healthy—your whole life is ahead of you. Stop clinging to the past. Think about the future.”
Nataliya stood and went to the window. Outside were the familiar courtyards, the playground where she’d played as a child, the benches where she used to sit with her grandmother. This apartment wasn’t just square footage—it was history, memory, and the only place that was truly hers.
“Then sell yours if you’re the one who’s so desperate,” Nataliya said without turning around. “I’m not giving up this apartment—not to you, and not to your mother.”
Andrey’s head snapped up. Larisa Nikolaevna opened her mouth, but no words came.
“How can you say that?” Andrey whispered. “She’s my mother.”
“And?” Nataliya turned to face him. “That doesn’t make this apartment any less mine.”
The air in the kitchen felt thicker, harder to breathe. Larisa Nikolaevna slowly rose from her chair, straightening her back, crossing her arms. Her face flushed with anger.
“How dare you speak to me like that!” her voice trembled with outrage. “Am I a stranger to you? We’re family! And you’re acting like—like some petty miser!”
“Mom, calm down,” Andrey tried to step in, but his voice lacked conviction.
“I will not calm down!” Larisa Nikolaevna swung toward her son. “Andryusha, do you hear how your wife talks to me? I raised you, I gave you my whole life—and now some… some—” she stumbled over the insult she wanted, “some possessive woman is stopping us from moving forward!”
Nataliya stayed by the window, watching her own reflection in the glass. Strangely, her face looked unfamiliar—harder, steadier. A version of herself she hadn’t seen before.
“Larisa Nikolaevna,” she said, turning fully toward her, “I’m not stopping anyone from ‘moving forward.’ Go ahead—build, grow, dream. Just not at my expense.”
“At your expense?!” Larisa Nikolaevna threw her hands up. “We’re inviting you to be a partner! To share in the profit! And you’re thinking only of yourself!”
“Of myself?” Nataliya gave a short laugh, not even angry. “Yes. I am. And you know what? I’ll keep doing it. Because no one else here is going to think about me.”
Andrey pushed back his chair so fast his tea sloshed in the cup.
“Natalya, you misunderstood,” he rushed in, stepping toward her. “We just thought… I mean, we didn’t mean…”
“What did you think?” she cut in. “That I’d hand over my apartment and live with your mother until this hotel pays off? Or doesn’t? And then what, Andrey? We’ll have no home—but plenty of experience in failed business?”
“You see everything in black,” Larisa Nikolaevna snapped. “The hotel will be profitable! I can feel these things!”
“Your ‘feeling,’” Nataliya repeated. “Do you have documents? A business plan? Payback calculations?”
“What documents?” Larisa Nikolaevna scoffed. “This isn’t a bank loan! It’s a family project!”
“Exactly,” Nataliya nodded. “A family project—with my money.”
Andrey came closer, hands half-raised, awkwardly unsure whether to touch her shoulder or pull her into a hug.
“Natalya, we can talk through the details,” he said. “Maybe we don’t sell the apartment—maybe we take a loan against it instead. Use it as collateral.”
Nataliya stepped back. For the first time in seven years, her husband felt like a stranger.
“A loan?” she repeated. “Against my apartment? For your mother’s hotel?”
“Well… I mean… in theory…” Andrey hesitated. “It’s not as risky as selling.”
“Andrey,” Nataliya said slowly, as if tasting his name for the first time, “do you understand that if the hotel fails, the bank takes the apartment anyway? To cover the debt?”
“It won’t fail!” Larisa Nikolaevna erupted again. “Why are you so negative? Where’s your faith in this family?”
“My faith ended the moment you decided to sell my apartment without me,” Nataliya said evenly.
“We didn’t decide anything!” Andrey protested. “We were just discussing options!”
“Discussing. Without me. About my apartment.” Nataliya moved to the table and began collecting the cups. Her motions were neat, practical—like someone cleaning up after a mess that wasn’t hers. “I understand.”
Larisa Nikolaevna sat back down and pulled a handkerchief from her purse. Her eyes reddened, though no tears fell yet—more like she was preparing to perform them.
“I’ve dreamed my whole life of leaving my children something serious,” she said in a shaking voice. “Not just a little apartment—but a real business. Something that feeds the family for decades.”
“Then leave it,” Nataliya agreed, rinsing cups under the tap. “But leave it from your own pocket.”
“I don’t have that kind of money!” Larisa Nikolaevna sniffled.
“And you think I do?” Nataliya turned. “I don’t have four million either. I have an apartment. And I’m not selling it.”
“Greedy,” Larisa Nikolaevna muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Maybe,” Nataliya nodded. “But at least I have somewhere to live.”
Andrey hovered between his wife and his mother, unable to choose a side. Finally he stopped in the middle of the kitchen, palms open in helplessness.
“Maybe there are other options,” he tried. “We could find investors, apply for a bank loan…”
“Sure,” Nataliya said. “Go find them.”
“Banks lend only with collateral,” Larisa Nikolaevna said gloomily. “And we don’t have any collateral.”
“You don’t,” Nataliya corrected. “I do. And I’m not offering it.”
Silence again. Larisa Nikolaevna crumpled the handkerchief in her fists. Andrey stared at the floor. Nataliya dried the dishes with exaggerated care, as if precision could keep her world from splitting.
“Fine,” Andrey said at last. “We’ll think about other ways.”
“Please do,” Nataliya replied.
The next morning Nataliya woke early. Andrey was still asleep, sprawled across most of the bed, arms thrown wide. Normally it irritated her. Today it felt symbolic—he’d always taken up more space than he was entitled to.
She dressed quietly and left the apartment. There were things she needed to do while the house was still asleep.
First stop: the bank. She met with a manager and changed every access point to her accounts. From now on, any major transaction required confirmation from her—and only her.
Second: the notary’s office. She registered a restriction so that no action involving the apartment could be done without the owner present in person.
Third: the management company. She formally notified them that her husband no longer had the authority to sign anything related to the apartment.
By lunchtime, it was done.
Nataliya came home to find Andrey and Larisa Nikolaevna eating breakfast. Judging by their faces, they’d been rehashing the argument all morning.
“Oh, Natash,” Andrey said, looking up. “Mom and I were thinking… maybe we start by selling the dacha?”
“What dacha?” Nataliya asked, genuinely surprised.
“Well… your dacha,” Andrey said uncertainly.
“I don’t have a dacha,” Nataliya replied calmly.
“What do you mean you don’t? The land your grandmother left you—”
“Oh, that plot.” Nataliya sat down. “I sold it two years ago. Remember? I told you we needed to renovate the bathroom.”
Andrey and his mother exchanged a sharp glance.
“You sold it?” Andrey asked. “Where did the money go?”
“Into the bathroom, the kitchen, and the balcony. And I put some aside for emergencies,” Nataliya said, pouring herself coffee. “What—were you counting on the land too?”
Larisa Nikolaevna gave a huff and turned toward the window. Andrey went silent, staring into his plate.
“So your decision is final?” he asked after a moment.
“Which decision?”
“About the apartment. You won’t change your mind?”
Nataliya took a sip of coffee and looked at him. There was hope in his eyes—thin, weak, but still there.
“Andrey,” she said, “do you want to live in your mother’s house?”
“Well… temporarily.”
“Then go,” Nataliya said. “No one’s stopping you.”
“And you?”
“I’ll stay here.”
“What do you mean—stay here?”
“I mean exactly that. I’ll live in my apartment, go to my job, pay my bills.”
“But we’re husband and wife!”
“Yes,” Nataliya nodded. “And that doesn’t mean I have to hand over everything I own for you and your mother’s dreams.”
Larisa Nikolaevna pushed back from the table and stood.
“Now it’s clear,” she said coldly. “Family means nothing to you. Live alone, then, if you’re so independent.”
“I will,” Nataliya said simply.
That same day Larisa Nikolaevna packed and left. At the door she told her son he was always welcome at her place. She didn’t mention Nataliya once.
Andrey stayed another week, still trying to bargain. He suggested selling at least a room, taking a one-year loan, “partially” using the apartment as collateral—anything. Nataliya didn’t budge.
In the end, he packed his suitcase too.
“Maybe you’ll still think about it,” Andrey said in the hallway, hand on the handle.
“Oh, I’ll think about it,” Nataliya promised. “Every evening, sitting in my own kitchen, in my own apartment, I’ll think about how lucky I am that I didn’t hand it over to strangers for their fantasies.”
After he left, the apartment felt unusually quiet. Nataliya moved from room to room, getting used to the new reality. There were fewer things now—but more space. Half the shelves in the closet were empty. Half the cabinet in the bathroom, too.