“Well, look who finally decided to show up—the lady of the house,” Galina Petrovna’s voice grated against Alice’s nerves like Styrofoam dragged across glass. Her mother-in-law stood in the middle of the living room, thick hands planted firmly on her wide hips, staring at Alice not like the apartment’s owner but like a careless maid who’d arrived late for her shift. “While you were off pampering yourself at salons, I brought some warmth into this place. You live like you’re in an operating room—no heart, no comfort, just plastic and concrete. Look how the room has come alive!”
Alice stopped in the doorway, her bag still hanging from her shoulder. A dense, nauseating smell hit her instantly, drowning out the faint trace of her perfume. It reeked of stale air, compacted dust, old rancid grease, and something sweet and lifeless—mothballs, unmistakable and suffocating. The kind of odor that clings to clothes forgotten for decades in the back of Soviet-era wardrobes. The smell felt heavy, almost solid. It filled her lungs and made her stomach twist.
“What is this?” Alice asked quietly, feeling a cold coil of anger begin to tighten somewhere deep in her chest.
Her gaze darted toward the window—once the pride of the room. The airy graphite linen she had chosen with a designer over three careful weeks to match the walls had been replaced by heavy burgundy monstrosities. They weren’t curtains so much as ancient velvet slabs, faded and worn, with tarnished gold tassels hanging like the tails of mangy cats. Huge, tasteless flowers in a muddy brown shade spread across the fabric like mold. The thick drapes blocked the light, turning the spacious living room into something resembling a stale crypt or an old merchant’s shop from another century.
But worse than that was what lay on the floor.
In the corner, on the parquet, sat a crumpled, filthy bundle. Alice recognized her expensive linen immediately. The fabric that wasn’t meant to be touched without steaming now looked as if it had been used to wipe up spilled soup.
“That, my dear, is called a home hearth,” Galina Petrovna said smugly, noticing Alice’s stare. “They’re from my old apartment—part of my dowry. Real velvet. Not those gauzy rags of yours. I took yours down for you—you’re welcome. Wash them at forty degrees; maybe they’ll make decent dust cloths. These will stay. Vadik needs to see something familiar, not your office-style minimalism.”
Alice inhaled slowly, though the air felt poisoned by the woman and her belongings. There were no trembling hands, no tears of hurt. Only a cold, sharp clarity.
This wasn’t help. It was an invasion. A territorial mark. Like a stray dog lifting its leg against the corner of her home.
“Take them down,” Alice said calmly, meeting her mother-in-law’s small, sharp eyes.
“What?” Galina Petrovna blinked, her chin wobbling. “How dare you speak to a mother that way? I did this for you! I bent my back, climbed a ladder at my age to hang those heavy things!”
“I said: remove this garbage from my windows. Right now. Or I’ll tear them down myself, and they’ll go down the trash chute along with the rod.”
“You… you’re unbelievably rude!” the older woman shrieked, her face flushing red. “Vadim will hear about this! It’s family history! A memory!”
Alice stopped listening. She tossed her bag onto the sofa and strode toward the window. Galina Petrovna tried to block her path, arms spread wide as if defending a fortress, but Alice pushed past her with a firm shoulder. The older woman stumbled back with a gasp.
One hard yank.
The sound of ripping fabric and scraping metal filled the room. Alice pulled the dusty curtain so forcefully that several hooks snapped off and clattered across the floor. The heavy velvet collapsed, coughing up a cloud of fine, biting dust. Sunlight poured in, illuminating swirling particles—tiny fragments of someone else’s unwanted past forced into her home.
“What are you doing?!” Galina Petrovna screamed, lunging toward her “treasure.” “You’ll ruin it! That’s German quality!”
Alice didn’t stop.
Another sharp pull, and the second curtain joined the first in a heap on the floor. Light returned to the room, though the air still felt contaminated.
“German quality belongs in a landfill,” Alice muttered.
She gathered the heavy fabric into her arms. It felt rough and sticky, as if it had absorbed the sweat of generations. Dirt settled onto her clean clothes, but her disgust had been swallowed by anger.
“Don’t you dare! Give that back!” Galina Petrovna grabbed at the velvet, trying to wrest it away. Red blotches spread across her face. “I’ll tell my son! You’ll be out of here, you nobody!”
“Out,” Alice said coldly, shoving the bundle against the older woman’s chest.
Caught off guard, Galina Petrovna instinctively clutched the curtains. Alice seized the moment, spinning her toward the door and pushing her forward.
“You have no right! This is my son’s apartment!” Galina Petrovna screeched, trying to dig her heels into the floor. But the slick parquet and the weight of the fabric worked against her.
“This is my apartment. I bought it before I ever married your son,” Alice said firmly, each word precise. “And you will never set foot here again.”
They spilled into the hallway. Alice moved mechanically—unlock, open, push. Tangled in her curtains, Galina Petrovna stumbled backward into the stairwell, hurling curses but physically unable to resist.
“Take your mothballs with you,” Alice said, giving one final shove.
Her mother-in-law nearly lost her balance on the landing, velvet dragging along the dirty concrete.
“You’ll regret this!” she croaked. “Vadim will crush you!”
“Let him try,” Alice replied.
She closed the door slowly, deliberately. The heavy metallic click of the lock echoed through the stairwell like a gunshot. Then she slid the night latch into place.
Silence.
The apartment still smelled of old age and unwanted intrusion, but its source was gone. Alice looked at her dust-covered hands. Her ruined designer curtains lay on the floor. War had been declared.
The quiet that followed felt dense, thick with lingering mothball stench. Alice stood shaking—not from fear, but from disgust and adrenaline. She scrubbed her hands under scalding water until her skin burned red. Still, the smell seemed embedded in the walls.
She flung open the windows. Cold winter air rushed in, colliding with the stale odor. Her gaze fell on the crumpled graphite linen in the corner. The fabric was wrinkled, snagged, hooks ripped out. Beyond repair.
Not just damaged—violated.
She dropped it onto a chair. Her anger turned cold and calculated. She had done the right thing.
Then the front door lock scraped.
Alice froze. She knew who it was.
Vadim usually opened the door quietly. This time the key twisted harshly, as if he wanted to break it.
The door burst open. Vadim stood there, face flushed, chest heaving, eyes darting wildly. He had clearly just seen his mother downstairs, likely sobbing among her curtains.
He didn’t remove his boots.
He stepped straight onto the pale laminate, leaving muddy tracks. The gesture spoke louder than words: he hadn’t come home. He’d entered enemy territory.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” he growled.
He stared at the empty curtain rod, then at the ruined linen.
“I took out the trash from my apartment,” Alice answered evenly.
“Trash?!” he roared. “That’s my mother! She’s downstairs with blood pressure through the roof, crying! You threw her out like a dog!”
“She invaded my home and destroyed my things,” Alice replied.
He stepped closer, looming. “You’re going downstairs right now. You’ll apologize. You’ll hang those curtains back up. And you’ll thank her.”
“And if I don’t?” Alice asked quietly.
“Then I’ll make your life hell,” he sneered. “This house will run how my mother says. You’re nothing here. Just a freeloader.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “Freeloader? In the apartment I paid off while you ‘found yourself’ changing jobs every year?”
That contempt snapped something in him. Words weren’t enough anymore. He grabbed the metal curtain rod she had leaned against the wall and swung it—slamming it into the mirrored wardrobe door.
The explosion of glass was deafening. The mirror shattered into glittering shards that cascaded onto the floor.
He stood panting amid the wreckage, gripping the bent rod like a weapon.
“You dared to throw my mother out over curtains?!” he shouted. “Pack your things and get out! Mom will come back and hang them!”
Alice lowered her hands slowly. Fear drained away, replaced by something colder.
“Are you finished?” she asked softly.
“I’m just getting started!” he kicked glass across the floor.
“Fine,” Alice said. “You want war? You’ll have it.”
She walked into the bedroom. Vadim followed—and froze.
Alice stood over his prized gaming computer. The tempered glass panel of the case lay shattered. A purple dumbbell—hers—was lodged inside the hardware.
“You…” he gasped.
“I’m adding warmth,” she replied coldly, lifting his curved monitor and dropping it onto the floor.
He lunged at her in blind rage. She swung the keyboard into his face. Plastic cracked against bone. Blood poured from his nose.
“You’re dead,” he hissed.
“Get out,” she said quietly.
He cursed her, grabbed his keys, hurled them at the wall, and stormed out, threatening lawsuits and revenge.
The door slammed.
Silence returned.
The apartment looked like a battlefield. Broken glass, ruined electronics, torn curtains.
Alice picked up the keys from the shards. Her hands trembled slightly—but not from fear. It was the aftermath of adrenaline.
She locked the door, sliding the latch into place.
The click felt like a shot fired at her former life.
The place was wrecked. Repairs would cost money. The marriage was likely over.
But for the first time in three years, the air felt light.
She nudged aside a scrap of velvet dropped during the chaos.
“Cozy,” she said aloud, her voice firm. “Now it will be my kind of cozy.”
She went to the kitchen for a broom.
It would be a long night of cleaning.
Every last trace had to go.