“Artyom, bring in two more bags from the car. Take the gray one too—the shoes are in there.”
Larisa froze in the entryway, still wearing her coat.
A large navy suitcase stood against the wall, with a smaller one beside it. On the console beneath the mirror lay a set of keys she did not recognize, attached to a little wooden house keychain. Valentina Stepanovna’s voice came from the bathroom.
“Be careful with the white bag! My bottles are in there!”
Larisa had left for work before her husband that morning. Artyom had still been in bed. Half asleep, he had asked what time she would be home. He had said nothing about a visitor, his mother, or any suitcases.
For the first few seconds, Larisa assumed her mother-in-law had simply stopped by on her way somewhere.
Then she noticed three shopping bags near the stairs, a box containing a hair dryer, and a rolled-up blanket.
People did not bring all that for a short visit.
 
Artyom came in carrying two bags. The moment he saw Larisa’s face, he knew the conversation he had hoped to avoid was about to happen.
“You’re home already?”
“As you can see.”
He set the bags beside the suitcases.
“There was a leak in Mom’s apartment. She needs somewhere to stay until it’s fixed.”
Larisa slowly unbuttoned her coat.
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long is she planning to live here?”
Artyom looked away toward the kitchen.
“Well… about two months.”
Larisa took off her boots and placed them neatly on the mat.
“Two months.”
“Maybe less.”
Valentina Stepanovna emerged from the bathroom wearing a lounge outfit she had evidently brought with her.
“Hello, Larisa, dear. I couldn’t find your towels, so I asked Artyom to get mine. I don’t like using other people’s.”
“Hello.”
Larisa looked at her husband.
“Kitchen.”
Artyom let out a heavy sigh but followed her. His mother stayed in the entryway, sorting through her bags.
Larisa shut the kitchen door.
“When were you going to tell me?”
 
“Today.”
“Before she arrived or afterward?”
He did not answer right away. That was answer enough.
“Artyom.”
“All right. Afterward.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you’d object.”
Larisa stared at him for several seconds. She did not raise her voice or interrupt.
Apparently taking her silence as an invitation to continue, Artyom said, “I figured that once Mom arrived with her things, you wouldn’t make a scene and send her back.”
Larisa tilted her head slightly.
“So you planned this.”
“Don’t make it sound like some conspiracy.”
“I’m not. You just explained exactly what you did.”
 
“She really has nowhere to stay.”
“That’s a separate issue. I’m asking about you right now.”
Artyom rubbed his forehead.
“Lar, what did you want me to say? ‘Sorry, Mom, my wife doesn’t want you here. Figure it out yourself’?”
“I wanted you to call me before bringing someone into our home for two months.”
“And you would’ve said no.”
“Possibly.”
“There you go.”
Larisa gave a brief, humorless laugh.
“So you decided you didn’t need my agreement.”
Artyom shoved a chair aside in irritation.
“Don’t start.”
“This already started. I’m not the one who started it.”
Valentina Stepanovna had stayed with them once before, two years earlier.
That time, it had sounded harmless too. The pipes in her building were being replaced, and she had asked to stay for a few days.
A few days turned into almost three weeks.
On the fourth morning, at half past seven, she switched on the television downstairs so loudly that Larisa woke up in the bedroom above.
It was Saturday.
When Larisa asked why she had turned it on so early, Valentina Stepanovna replied that “normal people have had breakfast by now.”
Then she began inspecting the refrigerator.
 
At first, she merely wondered why there was no cottage cheese. A couple of days later, she was telling Larisa which foods Artyom had eaten every day since childhood. Another week passed, and she asked why Larisa had not packed lunch for her husband when she knew he would be driving between job sites all day.
Larisa let the first remark go. She answered the second. The third time, she said plainly, “Artyom is an adult. If he needs lunch, he knows how to open the refrigerator.”
Valentina Stepanovna took offense. That evening, Artyom asked his wife to “stop picking on Mom.”
After his mother left, Larisa made her position clear.
“She’s welcome for a few hours, for dinner, for a weekend. But if someone is going to live here for weeks, we decide that together.”
Artyom had agreed immediately.
“Okay. I understand.”
They had not revisited the subject in two years.
Until tonight.
The house now filled with Valentina Stepanovna’s luggage had belonged to Larisa long before she met Artyom. She inherited the small two-story cottage from her grandmother.
It was no mansion, but it was solid: three bedrooms upstairs, a living room and kitchen downstairs, a modest yard, a carport, and an insulated storage room.
Once the inheritance was settled, Larisa improved the house bit by bit. She replaced the old wiring downstairs, updated the plumbing, insulated the attic, and later installed new windows.
When she met Artyom, he was renting a one-bedroom apartment. They dated for eight months before he moved in with her. Almost a year and a half later, they married.
For Larisa, the house had always been a place where decisions were made together, not by whoever insisted loudest that something “had to be done.”
Artyom knew that perfectly well.
She opened the kitchen door.
“I understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Everything.”
Larisa went upstairs. Artyom did not follow immediately.
 
She took a travel bag from the top shelf and began packing: two pairs of trousers, three sweaters, clothes for home, underwear, toiletries, her work laptop, chargers, and a folder of documents.
By the time Artyom appeared in the doorway, he looked much calmer. He had apparently assumed she was clearing space for his mother.
“Mom can have the room by the stairs. The closet’s almost empty.”
Larisa zipped the bag.
“She can.”
“Great.”
Larisa picked up her laptop.
“But you’ll be the one giving it to her.”
His smile vanished.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where?”
“Aunt Tamara’s apartment.”
“Isn’t she at her summer house?”
“Exactly.”
Her aunt’s apartment would be empty until mid-autumn. Larisa checked on it from time to time, making sure the plumbing was fine and collecting the mail. She already had the keys in her bag.
Artyom frowned.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“Because of Mom?”
“Because of you.”
“Here we go again.”
Larisa went downstairs. Valentina Stepanovna was spreading the contents of one of her bags across the console table.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’ll stay somewhere else for a few days.”
Her mother-in-law looked at her son in surprise.
Artyom scoffed. “She’ll take a walk, cool off, and come back tonight.”
 
Larisa put on her coat.
“Since you brought your mother here without asking me, you can live with her yourself.”
“Lar, stop being dramatic.”
“I’m not.”
Artyom leaned against the wall.
“What are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re actually leaving your own house?”
“For a few days, yes. I want to see how you feel about the decision you made without me.”
Valentina Stepanovna frowned.
“I don’t understand why you’re making my arrival into a problem.”
Larisa turned to her.
“Your arrival isn’t the main issue.”
She offered no further explanation. Before leaving, she looked at Artyom.
“I’ll pay the utilities. It’s my house, so that makes sense.”
“How generous.”
“Everything else is up to you two.”
“Like what?”
“Groceries. Cleaning. Cooking. Driving. Whatever two adults need.”
Artyom laughed.
“As if I can’t manage without you.”
“Excellent.”
She walked out.
Aunt Tamara’s apartment was a twenty-minute drive away. It was small but clean and warm, with everything Larisa needed: a bed, a refrigerator, a desk, and reliable internet.
She set her bag by the closet, opened the windows for a few minutes, turned up the heat, and ordered dinner.
Her phone lay beside her. She had not silenced it or blocked Artyom. She simply did not want to be the first to call.
Back at the house, Artyom began to understand that his mother had not arrived as an ordinary guest.
“Son, these things need to go upstairs.”
He looked at the two suitcases.
“Mom, we’ll sort them out tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow? I want to unpack tonight.”
“I’m tired.”
“I spent all day packing.”
Twenty minutes later, he was hauling suitcases up the stairs. Ten minutes after that, Valentina Stepanovna called him from her room.
“Larisa’s things are in the closet.”
“So?”
“Where am I supposed to hang mine?”
“Use the free side.”
 
“There isn’t one.”
Without a word, Artyom began moving boxes from the top shelf.
Then his mother remembered a bag of shoes she had left in the car. When he brought it in, she told him she needed a different bag.
Next, she asked him to go to the store.
“Now?”
“Of course. There’s nothing for breakfast.”
“The refrigerator’s full.”
She opened it.
“I don’t eat this.”
“What don’t you eat?”
“I don’t like those yogurts. The cheese is too salty. And that’s dark bread.”
Artyom took out his phone.
“Mom, give me a list.”
Half an hour later, the list filled nearly the whole screen. A particular brand of milk. Different bread. Cottage cheese. Butter. Mineral water. The coffee Valentina Stepanovna usually bought for herself.
“And tomorrow, we need to stop by the dry cleaner’s,” she added.
“Why?”
“To drop off my coat. I brought it specially.”
 
“Mom, you’re staying here for two months. You’re not moving in forever.”
“Does that mean I’m supposed to go without a coat?”
Artyom had no reply.
He went to the store after all and got back close to nine. Valentina Stepanovna was sitting in the kitchen.
“What about dinner?” she asked.
“What about it?”
“Are we going to cook something?”
“Mom, I just got back back from the store.”
“I can see that.” She glanced at the shopping bags. “Make something quick, then. I’ll take a shower.”
Artyom stopped with a carton of milk in his hand.
“Why me?”
His mother looked at him as if the question made no sense.
“Who else?”
Without meaning to, he looked toward the empty chair where Larisa usually sat.
His phone vibrated. For a moment, he was almost relieved.
It was a message from a coworker.
There was nothing from his wife.
The next morning was even worse.
Valentina Stepanovna got up before him and knocked on his bedroom door at half past six.
“Artyom, get up.”
“Mom…”
“We need to reach the home improvement store before traffic builds up.”
He propped himself on an elbow.
“What home improvement store?”
“I need to look at tiles and a faucet.”
 
“What about the contractor?”
“Later.”
“Why later?”
“He’s busy right now.”
Artyom sat up.
“Wait. When does the work actually start?”
“In three weeks.”
He was instantly awake.
“Three weeks?”
“Yes.”
“You told me the repairs were underway.”
“They will be.”
“So nothing’s being done there now?”
“Everything’s damp after the leak.”
“But can you live there?”
“Technically. Why would I want to sit there in that condition?”
Artyom ran a hand over his face.
“You said two months.”
“I said approximately.”
“What does ‘approximately’ mean?”
“If they finish quickly, two months. If they don’t, I’ll stay longer.”
He stared at her.
“How much longer?”
“How should I know?”
Twenty minutes later, he called Larisa. She did not answer at once.
“Yes?”
“Are you at work?”
 
“Getting ready to leave.”
“Could you come back tonight?”
“What for?”
“Come on, Lar. I get it.”
Larisa fastened her watch.
“What do you get?”
“That I should’ve talked to you first.”
“Good.”
“I’ll take care of Mom myself. You won’t have to do a thing.”
Larisa walked to the window. Outside, a woman in a light jacket was settling a child into a car.
“Artyom, I didn’t leave because I don’t want to buy groceries for your mother.”
“I know.”
“You hid her move on purpose. You thought I’d be too uncomfortable to object once she was already inside the house.”
He said nothing.
“That’s what you need to deal with.”
“How long are you going to stay there?”
“Until I know I’m coming home—not returning to a place where people move in without my say.”
“Lar…”
“I have to go.”
She ended the call. It was not an angry gesture. The conversation was simply over.
That same day, Artyom spoke seriously with his mother for the first time. Larisa was not there, and he made no attempt to put the conversation on her shoulders.
At first, Valentina Stepanovna did not understand what he was proposing.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“You told me Zoya Mikhailovna offered you a place to stay.”
His mother looked at him sharply.
“What does Zoya have to do with this?”
“She has a spare room.”
“I don’t want to impose on anyone.”
Artyom could not help himself.
“But you can impose on us?”
“You’re my son.”
“And?”
“Zoya isn’t family.”
“She offered.”
Valentina Stepanovna irritably smoothed her hair.
“Her kitchen is cramped. And the bathroom is old.”
Artyom nodded slowly. Now he understood.
“So this isn’t about having absolutely nowhere to stay.”
“Did I ever say I’d be out on the street?”
 
“You made it sound that way.”
“Don’t make things up.”
“Mom, let’s keep this simple. I’ll drive you to Zoya Mikhailovna’s tomorrow.”
Valentina Stepanovna went still.
“Did Larisa demand this?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“She doesn’t even know we’re having this conversation.”
“Then she pushed you into it by leaving.”
Artyom sat down across from her.
“I’m the one who pushed her into leaving.”
His mother leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.
“Wonderful. Now everything is my fault.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what did you say?”
“That I’ll take you to Zoya’s tomorrow.”
The conversation ended there.
Zoya Mikhailovna was indeed happy to welcome her friend. She was surprised Valentina Stepanovna had not accepted sooner.
“I told you on Thursday that the room was free. You can stay until winter if you like.”
Valentina Stepanovna mumbled something about her son. Artyom unloaded the suitcases in silence.
For the first time in two days, the car was quiet on the way home. There were no requests, no lists, no directions about where he needed to go next.
He parked by the house, went inside, and stood in the entryway for a long time.
The unfamiliar keys were gone from the console. The suitcases were gone. There were no bags by the stairs.
The house looked like it always had.
Except Larisa was not there.
He sent her a message:
I took Mom to Zoya Mikhailovna’s. Come home tonight if you’d like.
Larisa saw it after work. She finished what she was doing, shut down her laptop, gathered her belongings, and only then replied:
I’ll come.
Artyom was waiting at home. He was not watching from the window or standing by the door. He sat in the kitchen.
Larisa came in, set her bag in the entryway, and walked through the first floor. There were no suitcases, no unfamiliar belongings, and no Valentina Stepanovna.
Artyom stood.
“She’s staying with her friend.”
“I see.”
Larisa took off her coat.
“I was wrong.”
She looked at him. He seemed ready to give a lengthy explanation, but she stopped him.
“Keep it short.”
He nodded.
“All right.”
Larisa walked into the kitchen.
 
“Then I’ll say this once. If you ever decide to move someone into this house without my agreement again, I won’t just leave for a few days.”
Artyom frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Next time, the question won’t be about guests.”
He understood. Larisa did not elaborate, and he did not ask her to.
The next morning, Valentina Stepanovna called her son. Artyom went out onto the porch to speak with her and returned five minutes later.
“Mom wants her charger. She left it by the bed.”
“Take it to her.”
“I found it already.”
Larisa poured herself a cup of coffee. Artyom slipped the charger into his jacket pocket.
“She also says Zoya’s sofa is very uncomfortable.”
“That happens.”
“And her television is loud in the evenings.”
Larisa looked at her husband.
“Why are you telling me this?”
He paused for a second, then gave a small laugh.
“You’re right. There’s no reason to.”
He left.
Within a few days, life settled back into its usual rhythm. Larisa worked. Artyom took care of his own affairs. Valentina Stepanovna made no attempt to come back.
She called her son occasionally with updates about the contractor. At first, he was due to arrive in two weeks. Then an earlier opening appeared. A few days later, it turned out that most of the work could be finished much faster than she had expected.
One evening, Artyom came into the kitchen with his phone.
“Mom’s going back to her apartment on Saturday.”
Larisa looked up.
“Good.”
“The repairs are almost done.”
“That’s great.”
He lingered for a moment.
“She said she shouldn’t have dragged so many things around.”
Larisa looked at him.
“She’s only just realized that?”
Artyom laughed.
“Apparently.”
They happened to run into Valentina Stepanovna at the store on Saturday. She was pushing a cart and choosing household cleaning products. When she spotted Larisa, she stopped briefly.
“Well, the repairs are almost finished.”
“Good.”
“I’m sleeping at my own place tonight.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Valentina Stepanovna clearly expected something more: an apology, an explanation, perhaps a debate about who had been right.
Larisa took a pack of sponges from the shelf and placed it in her cart.
“Artyom, we still need dishwasher detergent.”
“I’ll get it.”
They continued down the aisle.
At the checkout, Artyom asked quietly, “You really don’t want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Larisa looked at him.
“Because we already did.”
They never returned to the subject.
Artyom remembered what had happened without needing to hear it again.