“Clear out of the apartment. Neither you nor your mother will be living here anymore.”
Arina set her travel bag beside the hall cabinet and shut the front door. The lock clicked with unusual sharpness. In the kitchen, the clinking of spoons stopped.
Dmitry was sitting by the window in a casual T-shirt, as though his wife had not returned three days early but had merely stepped out to buy bread. Valentina Sergeyevna sat across from him. In front of her lay a sheet torn from a notebook, covered in large handwriting. Beside it were a measuring tape, a pencil, and several flooring samples.
Her mother-in-law was the first to recover.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming back?”
Arina looked at the sheet. Across the top, someone had written, “Valentina’s Room.” Underneath was a list: bed, chest of drawers, mirror, new light fixtures, floor-to-ceiling wardrobe.
“Is that a requirement now?” Arina asked. “Do I have to give notice before returning to my own apartment?”
Dmitry pushed his mug away.
“Don’t start the second you walk in. You’re tired from the journey. Change, eat something, and then we’ll talk.”
“I’ve already seen enough.”
She walked down the hallway and stopped at the doorway of the room that, only a week earlier, had been her home office.
Her desk was gone. So was the chair, and the narrow filing cabinet that used to stand by the window. A wide bed now occupied the middle of the room. A new bedspread had been laid across it. Against one wall stood a heavy chest of drawers Arina had never seen before. Flowerpots crowded the windowsill, and several rolled-up lengths of material lay near the door.
Arina stepped inside and ran her hand over the empty patch of floor where her desk had stood.
“Where are my things?”
Dmitry came in behind her.
“In the storage closet. Some of them are on the balcony.”
“My documents too?”
“We packed everything carefully.”
Arina turned toward him.
“Who gave you permission to touch my office?”
“We decided this would be more practical. Mom can’t keep sleeping on the sofa.”
“And asking me first never occurred to you?”
“You would have argued anyway.”
Arina nodded slowly. Her expression did not change, but her fingers tightened around the handle of her travel bag.
“So you knew in advance that I would object, and you waited until I was gone.”
Valentina Sergeyevna appeared in the hallway.
“Don’t be so dramatic. You only use this office a couple of times a month. I need somewhere to live every day.”
Arina looked at her.
“What made you think you would be living here every day?”
“Dima and I have already discussed everything.”
“You and Dima can discuss his clothes, his car, and how he spends his weekends. I decide what happens in my apartment.”
Her mother-in-law let out an indignant breath and returned to the kitchen. Dmitry remained by the door.
“You’re deliberately making this worse than it needs to be.”
“No. I simply came home earlier than you expected.”
Arina picked up her bag and walked into the bedroom. Two of Dmitry’s sweaters lay on the bed, even though the August heat was so intense that people were still wearing light clothes after sunset. She moved them onto a chair and opened the wardrobe.
Dmitry’s belongings took up almost all the space. Her dresses had been pushed into one corner, and several boxes were missing.
“Where are my shoes?” she asked without raising her voice.
“Mom put them on the top shelf,” Dmitry answered from the hallway. “You hardly ever wear them.”
Arina closed the wardrobe.
Within a few minutes, she had seen enough.
While she was away, they had done more than move a few pieces of furniture. They had divided up the rooms, reorganized the closets, and made plans for renovations. Her presence was no longer part of their calculations. Her husband and mother-in-law were behaving as though Arina were some distant relative who would eventually be informed of decisions already made.
She took out her phone, opened the calendar, and checked the date.
August ninth.
Her business trip was not supposed to end until the twelfth. They had needed only three more days to complete everything they had planned.
Once, this apartment had been the greatest proof that Arina was capable of building a life for herself.
She had bought it before she ever met Dmitry. The building had just been completed. Piles of sand lay in the courtyard where the grass should have been, and the stairwell smelled of cement for months. It was only a two-room apartment, with a small kitchen and a narrow hallway, but it belonged entirely to her.
Arina had paid the mortgage for years. She worked as an engineer at an industrial company, took on difficult projects, and often traveled for work. She never told friends how much she still owed, never complained, and never asked anyone for help. Every month, she simply made the payment, and whenever she had extra money, she paid down the principal early.
When the bank finally issued confirmation that the loan had been repaid in full, Arina placed it in a blue folder with the purchase agreement and the ownership documents.
Six months later, she met Dmitry.
He worked as a technician at a service center and could repair almost any household appliance. He gave the impression of being a man who would not interfere in other people’s affairs. Dmitry never asked how much the apartment had cost, never inspected the rooms, and never told her what ought to be changed.
They dated for two years. Then Arina invited him to move in.
Before he brought over his belongings, she spoke plainly.
“The apartment is mine. I bought it before we met, and I never want to hear that someone else considers himself the owner here.”
Dmitry laughed.
“I’m not after anyone else’s property. It’s enough that you’re letting me live with you.”
At the time, the answer had sounded sincere.
A year later, they registered their marriage. They did not have a lavish wedding. They signed the papers, had dinner with their relatives, and left town for a few days.
During the first years, Valentina Sergeyevna was friendly. She visited on holidays, brought food, and asked Arina about her job. Whenever she stayed overnight, she folded the bedding in the morning and thanked Arina for having her.
That was why Dmitry’s request did not initially alarm her.
His mother had retired and begun complaining that living alone was difficult. Sometimes the upstairs neighbors were too loud. Sometimes the elevator broke. Sometimes the evenings felt unbearably lonely. Almost every day she called her son to talk about her blood pressure, her insomnia, or the fact that there was no one to help her carry shopping bags.
One evening in June, Dmitry paced around the kitchen for a long time before finally speaking.
“Mom wants to stay with us for a week. Maybe ten days. She needs a change of scenery.”
Arina was chopping vegetables for a salad and did not answer immediately.
“Is something wrong with her apartment?”
“No. She’s just tired of being alone.”
“All right. She can stay for a while.”
Valentina Sergeyevna arrived the following day with a large suitcase and two bags.
“I brought only the essentials,” she announced.
A week later, her son brought another bag. Then a box of shoes appeared in the entryway. A few days after that, Valentina Sergeyevna asked Arina to clear two shelves in the wardrobe for her.
Arina did not argue. It seemed petty to count someone else’s belongings when an older woman might genuinely need support.
At the end of the second week, her mother-in-law announced that she would return home after the weekend.
Then her back began to hurt.
Then the hot water in her building was shut off.
Then a distant relative was expected to visit, and Valentina Sergeyevna did not want to see her.
Every week brought a new reason to stay.
By the middle of July, she had stopped mentioning going home.
The changes began with small things.
One day Arina could not find the colander. Valentina Sergeyevna had moved it to a lower drawer because, as she put it, “that’s where any sensible person would keep it.”
Another time, a box containing screws, tools, and fittings disappeared.
“The storage closet was already overcrowded,” her mother-in-law explained. “I gave it to Dima so he could take it to the garage.”
“Those are my tools.”
“What does a woman need screwdrivers for?”
Arina brought the box back.
Two days later, she discovered that the shelves in the kitchen cabinet had been reorganized again. The jars stood in a different order, the containers had been stacked together, and several dishes were sitting in a box beside the outdoor trash bins.
Arina managed to retrieve them before the box was taken away.
“Why are you throwing out my things?” she asked that evening.
Valentina Sergeyevna did not even look away from the television.
“They were old plates.”
“They weren’t broken.”
“But they were ugly.”
“They weren’t yours.”
“I was putting the place in order. Instead of thanking me, you complain again.”
Dmitry, who was lying on the sofa, asked his wife not to start an argument over a few plates.
Arina looked at him but did not continue. She washed the dishes and put them back where they belonged.
A few days later, two unfamiliar women came to the apartment. They talked loudly in the kitchen, opened cupboards, and discussed where grains and cereals should be stored.
Arina came home from work and found one of them standing by the refrigerator.
“Hello,” the woman said. “Valya and I decided to have a little get-together.”
Her mother-in-law waved from the kitchen.
“Come meet my friends. I’ve been promising to invite them for ages.”
“Why wasn’t I told they were coming?”
“Dima didn’t mind.”
The guests left late. Dirty plates remained on the table, the sink was full of dishes, and muddy footprints darkened the floor near the balcony.
Valentina Sergeyevna complained that she was exhausted and shut herself in the room.
Dmitry began collecting the plates.
“You could at least have told me they were coming.”
“Mom lives here. Does she really need to ask permission for every little thing she does?”
“She’s staying here temporarily.”
Dmitry grimaced.
“Not this again.”
“I keep bringing it up because more and more of her things keep appearing.”
“So what? Are they bothering you?”
Arina pointed toward the boxes in the hallway.
“They are now.”
Instead of answering, Dmitry carried the dishes into the kitchen.
The next day, one of the neighbors stopped Arina near the elevator.
“Has your mother-in-law moved in permanently?”
“What makes you ask?”
“She said she lives with her son now. She was also boasting that she would soon start renovating her room.”
Arina thanked the neighbor and entered the apartment.
Valentina Sergeyevna was sitting in the office, sorting through papers on the desk.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for an empty drawer.”
Arina walked over and took the folder from her hands.
“These are my work documents. You’re not allowed to touch them.”
“Everything is forbidden with you. It’s like living in a museum.”
“Because this is not your room.”
Her mother-in-law stood up. Her chin visibly trembled.
“I’m your husband’s mother, not some stranger.”
“That does not give you the right to go through my desk.”
“I wanted somewhere to keep my medical papers.”
“Keep them in your suitcase.”
Valentina Sergeyevna left the room, and within a minute she was telling her son that Arina had practically “thrown her out into the hallway.”
Dmitry came into the kitchen looking angry.
“You could have said it more gently.”
“I’ve asked her several times not to touch my things.”
“She doesn’t mean any harm.”
“Her intentions are irrelevant. She is doing things she has no right to do.”
“She’s behaving perfectly normally. You’re the one looking for faults.”
That evening, Arina realized for the first time that her husband was not merely avoiding conflict. He had already chosen the side that was most convenient for him. His mother could do whatever she wanted, and his wife was expected to stay silent for the sake of peace.
A week later, Arina left on a business trip.
Before leaving, she locked her work folders in the bottom desk drawer and took the key with her. Her monitor, printer, and several unfinished drawings remained in the office.
Valentina Sergeyevna saw her off almost affectionately.
“Don’t worry. We’ll manage just fine here.”
The words struck Arina as strange, but the car was already waiting downstairs.
During the trip, she spoke with Dmitry every evening. His replies were brief. He said everything at home was calm and that his mother was feeling well.
On the fourth day, the meeting with the client was rescheduled, and the trip ended earlier than planned.
Arina bought a ticket and decided not to announce her return. She wanted to come home quietly, take a shower, and go to bed.
The station was stifling. The August sun reflected off the asphalt, and people crowded into the few patches of shade. Arina reached home near evening.
A small moving truck was parked outside the building.
Two men were unloading a chest of drawers.
Arina walked past them without connecting the furniture to her apartment. Only in the elevator did she notice a delivery label on the side bearing Valentina Sergeyevna’s surname.
She opened the front door with her key.
The hallway was filled with rolls of flooring, boxes of fittings, and a package containing a new bedspread. Her desk had been taken apart and leaned against the wall on the balcony. The monitor stood on the floor, covered with a towel. Boxes of documents had been shoved beside cleaning supplies.
Voices came from the kitchen.
“The bed should stay against the far wall,” Valentina Sergeyevna was saying. “And we’ll put a small table by the window.”
“Arina might object,” Dmitry said.
“She’ll get over it. You’re her husband. You’re not a guest here.”
“She thinks the apartment belongs only to her.”
“Let her think whatever the documents say. You live together, which means decisions should be made together.”
Arina entered the kitchen just as her mother-in-law was circling “replace flooring” with a pencil.
She listened to her husband’s explanation, saw the office that had been turned into a bedroom, and then said the words that left them both speechless.
“Clear out of the apartment. Neither you nor your mother will be living here anymore.”
Now Dmitry stood in the middle of the room, trying to push the conversation back into its usual pattern.
“You can’t make a decision like that in five minutes.”
“I didn’t make it in five minutes. The two of you have been helping me make it for months.”
“You’re going to destroy our marriage over a desk and a bed?”
Arina opened the storage closet. Her work folders were lying on top of the toolboxes. One had been crushed, and the corner of another had torn.
She took them out and placed them on the chest of drawers.
“This isn’t about a bed. It’s about the fact that you waited until I left, removed the furniture from my room, and took control of the space without asking me.”
“We were trying to make things more comfortable.”
“For yourselves.”
“Mom is elderly.”
“She has an apartment of her own.”
From the kitchen came Valentina Sergeyevna’s voice.
“I’m alone there.”
Arina returned to the table.
“You came for one week. Nearly two months have passed.”
“Am I really bothering anyone?”
Arina looked at the measuring tape, shopping list, and flooring samples.
“You threw away my things, invited guests, rearranged the cupboards, touched my documents, and now you’ve taken over a room. Yes, you are bothering me.”
Her mother-in-law threw up her hands.
“I was trying to turn this place into a proper home!”
“This is my home. I liked it the way it was before you arrived.”
“Dima lives here too.”
“Lived.”
Her husband shoved his chair back sharply.
“You don’t even understand what you’re saying.”
“I understand perfectly.”
Arina went into the bedroom, opened the top shelf of the wardrobe, and took out the blue folder. She had begun keeping the ownership papers there after her mother-in-law started going through the office.
Back in the kitchen, Arina placed the purchase agreement, the mortgage repayment certificate, and a recent ownership extract in front of her husband.
“I bought this apartment before we met. There is one owner, and that owner is me. You are not registered here, and you have no share in it. Your mother has even less claim.”
Dmitry did not look at the documents.
“I already know the apartment is yours.”
“Then why are both of you behaving as though it isn’t?”
“Because I’m your husband.”
“Being my husband does not give you the right to secretly convert my office into a bedroom for your mother.”
“It isn’t someone else’s apartment. It’s our home!”
Arina turned the ownership extract toward him.
“No. Our family life may have been shared. This apartment is my separate property.”
Valentina Sergeyevna stepped closer to the table.
“So you’re saying my son is nobody here?”
“I’m saying he lived here with my permission. As of today, that permission is withdrawn.”
“Where are we supposed to go?”
“You will return to your apartment. Dmitry can decide for himself where he wants to live.”
Her mother-in-law straightened.
“I rented my apartment out.”
Arina frowned.
“When?”
Valentina Sergeyevna looked away.
“Last week.”
“For how long?”
“Eleven months.”
Dmitry intervened.
“Mom doesn’t owe you an explanation.”
Arina closed the folder.
Now she understood why her mother-in-law had been so confident while moving in the furniture. She had no intention of going home and had already decided she would remain in her son’s household.
“So you rented out your apartment knowing that I had never agreed to you living here permanently?”
“Dima said he would take care of it.”
Arina turned to her husband.
“You gave her permission to rent it out?”
“I said she could stay.”
“In my apartment.”
“Stop repeating the same thing!”
Dmitry slammed his palm onto the table. The mug rocked, but Arina caught it before it fell.
“Do not raise your voice,” she said. “It will not change anything.”
“You’re throwing my mother into the street!”
“No. She owns an apartment that she voluntarily rented to tenants. She can decide how to handle the situation. Besides, she can stay with you temporarily.”
“And where am I supposed to live?”
“Not here.”
Dmitry’s face reddened.
“I’ve lived in this apartment for years!”
“And during all those years, you knew who owned it.”
“I contributed to this household.”
“Do you have receipts for renovations or major purchases?”
He fell silent.
During their marriage, Dmitry had occasionally bought groceries and once replaced the kitchen faucet. The furniture, appliances, and all major work had been paid for by Arina, either before he moved in or later when she chose and purchased them herself. She had no intention of arguing over trivial expenses, but she would not allow her husband to invent investments that had never existed.
“Take everything you personally bought for yourself,” she continued. “Your tools, clothes, computer. Everything else stays here.”
Valentina Sergeyevna squeezed the pencil so hard that it snapped.
“I already moved my furniture here. I paid for the delivery.”
“Then take it with you.”
“Where?”
“That is not my problem.”
Dmitry left the kitchen and slammed the bedroom door. A few minutes later, the sounds of wardrobes being opened came from inside.
His mother remained seated at the table.
“You’ll regret this,” she said. “You’re losing a good husband over one room.”
Arina gathered up her documents.
“A good husband does not wait until his wife is away to give her office to his mother.”
“Dima was trying to do what was best.”
“He wanted to avoid arguing with you or with me, so he decided it would be easier to present me with a finished decision.”
Valentina Sergeyevna said nothing more.
No one left that evening. Dmitry announced that he would not search for somewhere to stay in the middle of the night. Arina did not make a scene. She gave them three days to pack.
“The apartment must be empty by the evening of August twelfth.”
“And what if it isn’t?” her husband asked.
“Then I will call the police and report that people who do not own the property are refusing to leave my home.”
“I’m your legal husband.”
“That does not make you an owner.”
Dmitry tried to argue, but he quickly understood that his wife was not going to back down.
Arina locked the documents in her suitcase, moved her belongings into the bedroom, and locked the door. She barely slept that night. On the other side of the wall, her mother-in-law whispered with her son. Occasionally Dmitry’s irritated voice rose, followed by silence.
Arina got up before everyone else the next morning.
She photographed every room, the boxes in the hallway, the dismantled desk, and the rolls of flooring. Then she checked the documents and sent her husband a written message stating the deadline for moving out. She wanted the arrangement recorded in writing, not merely spoken aloud.
Dmitry read the message over breakfast.
“So now you’re collecting evidence?”
“I’m documenting what has happened.”
“Preparing for court?”
“If you refuse to file for divorce by mutual consent at the civil registry office, I’ll file through the court.”
He placed his phone face down.
“So you’ve already made up your mind.”
“You made up your minds before I did. I merely reached the logical conclusion.”
Valentina Sergeyevna did not come into the kitchen. She was making calls from the room, complaining that her daughter-in-law was “throwing an elderly woman out in the middle of the night.”
An hour later, Dmitry’s older sister, Svetlana, arrived.
She entered without greeting anyone and walked straight toward Arina.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I asked your brother and your mother to leave my apartment.”
“Mom rented her place out. She has nowhere to go.”
“She can negotiate with the tenants or stay with you temporarily.”
Svetlana suddenly fell silent.
“I have two rooms and children.”
“I also have two rooms. Your mother has already taken one of them without permission.”
“You’re alone. You and Dima only need the bedroom.”
“Why do you get to decide what is enough for me?”
Svetlana removed her glasses and wiped them with a tissue.
“Surely you can come to some kind of arrangement.”
“The arrangement was that your mother would stay briefly. Then she remained indefinitely, and while I was away, she took over my office. The only matter left to discuss is the date of departure.”
“Let her stay for at least a month.”
“No.”
“Two weeks.”
“No.”
“Until the tenants find somewhere else.”
“No.”
Svetlana put her glasses back on and looked at her brother.
“Dima, say something to her.”
He sat at the table in silence.
“He has already said enough,” Arina replied.
Her mother-in-law came into the hallway with tears in her eyes and began listing everything she had sacrificed for her son, how much she had done for him during his childhood, and why she deserved a peaceful retirement.
Arina did not interrupt her. When Valentina Sergeyevna finished, Arina asked a single question.
“How does any of that give you the right to take over my room?”
There was no answer.
Svetlana left angrily. She did not offer to take her mother home with her.
That afternoon, Dmitry found an apartment belonging to an acquaintance that was available for several days. In the evening, he began packing. He did everything noisily, yanking open wardrobes, throwing clothes into bags, and sealing boxes with unnecessary force.
Arina sat in the kitchen and wrote down what he was taking. When Dmitry reached for the coffee machine, she stopped him.
“I bought that before the marriage.”
“I used it too.”
“Using something does not make it yours.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Are you going to fight over every spoon now?”
“The spoons will stay in the drawer. Take your personal belongings.”
Dmitry took his computer, clothes, tools, and several boxes of books. Arina did not hold on to anything that truly belonged to him.
On the second day, movers arrived for Valentina Sergeyevna’s furniture.
The chest of drawers would not fit through the room’s doorway. When it had been brought in, they had angled it through, but now the bed prevented them from turning the heavy piece of furniture.
The movers suggested dismantling it.
“Be careful,” her mother-in-law ordered. “It was expensive.”
Arina stood nearby, making sure the doorframe was not damaged.
When they finally carried the chest out, deep scratches were revealed on the floor.
“The movers did that,” Valentina Sergeyevna said immediately.
“No,” Arina replied. “They were made when it was brought in. I saw them on the day I returned.”
“And what do you expect me to do about it?”
“You will cover the cost of the repair.”
Her mother-in-law waved her hands in protest.
“I’m not paying for anything.”
Arina took out her phone and photographed the damage.
“Then the matter can be settled in court. I have photographs of the room from before I left.”
Dmitry turned sharply.
“You’re going to sue your own mother?”
“Your mother. And only if she refuses to compensate me for the damage.”
Valentina Sergeyevna opened her mouth to object, but her son pulled her aside. Ten minutes later, they agreed that a friend of Dmitry’s would repair the floor at their expense.
By evening, the room was empty.
Only the bed remained, and the movers promised to collect it the next day.
On August twelfth, Dmitry carried out his final box. Valentina Sergeyevna gathered her bags, flowerpots, and a package containing the dishes she had brought herself.
She paused in the entryway.
“I never thought you were capable of doing something like this.”
“And I never thought you would rent out your apartment and take over mine without asking.”
“Dima will come back to you anyway.”
“That will not be his decision alone.”
Dmitry removed the apartment key from his key ring and placed it on the cabinet.
“Happy now?”
Arina picked up the key.
“No. But at least everything is happening honestly now.”
“You destroyed our family.”
“You made a decision behind my back. Now you’re blaming me for the consequences.”
He opened the door.
“You’ll regret this.”
“You’ve already borrowed that line from your mother. Come up with something new.”
Dmitry jerked the door open and walked onto the landing. Valentina Sergeyevna followed him. Arina waited until they reached the elevator and then closed the door.
The apartment felt unusually empty.
There were no voices coming from the kitchen, no unfamiliar bags in the hallway, and no lingering scent of her mother-in-law’s perfume. The dismantled desk remained on the balcony, dark scratches marked the office floor, and a stack of crushed folders filled part of the storage closet.
Arina did not sit down to dwell on the past few years. She took out a set of screwdrivers and the new lock cylinder she had purchased that morning.
The old mechanism did not come out easily. One of the screws kept turning uselessly, so she had to fetch a flashlight and pliers. Forty minutes later, Arina removed the old cylinder, installed the new one, and tested the key several times.
The door opened smoothly.
She placed the old lock cylinder in a bag and stored it out of sight.
Dmitry called that evening.
“I left my electric razor in the bathroom.”
“You can collect it tomorrow at seven. I’ll bring it to the door.”
“I also need to check whether I forgot anything else.”
“Send me a list.”
“Did you change the lock?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“That was fast.”
“I’m not interested in wondering whether you made spare keys.”
“I didn’t have a spare.”
“That no longer matters.”
The following day, Arina gave him the electric razor, its charger, and a jacket. She did not let him enter the apartment.
He tried to talk about reconciling.
“Mom will stay with Svetlana for now,” he said. “I understand everything. Let’s forget this happened.”
“What exactly do you understand?”
“That I should have warned you about the room.”
“Only warned me?”
Dmitry frowned.
“What else?”
Arina closed the bag containing his belongings.
“You still believe you had the right to take over my office as long as you informed me first.”
“It’s an ordinary family matter.”
“No. It’s my property. You refused to hear me for months, and you still refuse to hear me now.”
He reached toward the door handle, but Arina stepped in front of it.
“You are not coming inside.”
“My things are in there.”
“I brought out everything you listed.”
“I lived here.”
“You don’t anymore.”
Dmitry took the bag and left.
For another two weeks, he called almost every day. Sometimes he asked her to start over. Sometimes he accused her of cruelty. Sometimes he offered to leave his mother with Svetlana and return alone.
But not once did he admit that he had no right to make decisions about the apartment without its owner.
At the end of August, Arina filed for divorce in court. They had no minor children, and there was no jointly owned real estate to divide, but Dmitry refused to go with her to the civil registry office. He hoped time would change his wife’s decision.
At the first hearing, Dmitry requested a reconciliation period.
Arina did not object to the legal procedure. She simply stated clearly that they were no longer living together and that she had no intention of restoring the marriage.
After the hearing, he caught up with her near the exit.
“You don’t have any doubts at all?”
“I had doubts when your mother started throwing away my things. I had doubts when she invited guests. I had doubts every time you demanded that I tolerate her behavior. The day I saw a bed where my desk used to be, the doubts ended.”
“I can fix everything.”
“I already restored the office myself.”
In September, a friend of Dmitry’s repaired the damaged flooring. Arina inspected the work, and with that, the matter of her mother-in-law’s furniture was closed.
She reassembled the desk herself. She returned the monitor, sorted the documents, and cleared the wardrobes. Some of the possessions Valentina Sergeyevna had packed into boxes took several weeks to find.
One day, behind a drawer, Arina discovered an old photograph of her parents. Her mother-in-law had intended to throw away the worn frame and had removed the photograph first. Arina held it for a long time, then bought a new frame and placed the picture on her desk.
The apartment became recognizable again.
It was not perfect, and it did not look like a photograph in a design magazine. But it was hers again, with tools in the storage closet, cups on the familiar shelf, and folders arranged in the order that suited the person who actually owned the home.
The divorce became final at the beginning of October.
Dmitry collected the certificate and left first. Arina remained for a few minutes to check the documents.
He was waiting outside the courthouse.
“Mom moved back into her apartment,” he said. “She had to negotiate with the tenants.”
“So a solution was found.”
“She still thinks you were wrong.”
“She is entitled to her opinion.”
“Do you regret anything at all?”
Arina adjusted the strap of her bag.
“I regret not making her name an exact departure date on the very first day.”
Dmitry gave a faint laugh, but the smile quickly disappeared.
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She walked down the steps and headed toward the bus stop.
Arina did not feel victorious. There had been too much to repair after living with people who had spent months insisting that their comfort mattered more than her decisions.
But no one opened her cupboards anymore. No one threw away her belongings or decided which room should be given to whom.
A new key rested on her key ring.
The only spare copy was kept in Arina’s locked drawer.
And from that moment on, no conversation could take place in her kitchen as though the owner of the apartment did not exist.