Kristina and Nikita bought their apartment with a mortgage a year after they got married. It was a two-bedroom place—not in a new building, but in a good neighborhood. They had spent a long time searching, comparing prices, and calculating what they could afford before finally choosing it.
The mortgage was not enormous, but it still took a noticeable share of their income. They became accustomed to living carefully: watching their spending, saving a little, and avoiding unnecessary luxuries. Kristina treasured the apartment in the particular way people value something they have paid for themselves, without discounts, favors, or expensive gifts from anyone else.
Nikita’s mother, Galina Yuryevna, was sixty years old and lived alone in her own apartment, three tram stops away. They usually saw her on holidays and occasionally on weekends. Everything seemed perfectly normal.
Even before the wedding, however, Kristina had noticed one thing: Nikita never refused his mother. It was not that Galina Yuryevna asked for much. But whenever she did ask, he agreed immediately, without giving it a second thought.
“Mom needs help.” That settled the matter.
 
Kristina had not considered it important at the time. Helping one’s mother was natural. Still, she remembered it.
Their life was comfortable enough. They were neither wealthy nor struggling to survive. Kristina worked as a manager at a small company, while Nikita worked in construction. Both came home tired, and both understood that the mortgage would take years to repay, so they tried not to spend recklessly. The apartment belonged to them, even if the bank still had a claim on it, and that felt important.
One Sunday evening, Nikita called his mother. When he returned to the kitchen, his expression had changed.
“Mom has a fracture. She fell and broke her arm. Let’s have her stay with us for three or four weeks,” he said.
Kristina turned off the water and thought for a moment.
“All right. Of course.”
She meant it sincerely. Of course Galina Yuryevna could stay. She had a broken arm and would find it difficult to manage alone. Their apartment had a bedroom and a living room, and the living room contained a large sofa bed. She could sleep there for three weeks, perhaps four, until she was able to look after herself again. It seemed obvious.
Galina Yuryevna arrived the following Saturday carrying one small bag. Kristina helped her unpack, made up the sofa with clean sheets, and cooked dinner. Nikita was pleased. His mother called Kristina “such a caring girl,” and it sounded like a compliment.
 
For the first few days, everything was fine. Kristina helped whenever necessary. She cooked, brought Galina Yuryevna whatever she needed, and sometimes accompanied her to the clinic. With one arm in a cast, certain tasks genuinely were difficult. Kristina did not regard helping her as a burden. She simply did what needed to be done.
The problem began later, gradually and almost imperceptibly, as problems that are difficult to define often do.
When the cast was removed a little over a month later, Kristina expected them to discuss Galina Yuryevna’s return home. The cast was off, which meant her arm was recovering. She could slowly begin doing things for herself again. Surely she would be leaving soon.
But no conversation took place.
Galina Yuryevna continued sleeping in the living room. The sofa was folded up every morning and opened again every night. She rose late and usually appeared for breakfast just as Kristina was leaving for work. The television played from morning until evening because the living room had effectively become her private room.
Kristina could no longer come home, sit on her own sofa, and watch whatever she wanted. The apartment no longer had a living room for her and Nikita.
“Kristinochka, would you bring me some tea? My throat feels scratchy.”
“Kristinochka, there’s soup left in the refrigerator. Would you heat it for me, please?”
“Kristinochka, could you go to the store? I’ve written a list.”
Kristina went to the store, reheated the soup, and brought the tea. Even after returning from work, she could not simply sit down and rest. Something always needed to be warmed, fetched, or prepared.
Nikita would come home and sit beside his mother to watch the news. Whenever Kristina asked, “When is your mother going home?” he would reply, “Her arm still hurts,” or, “Let her stay a little longer,” or, “We can’t throw her out now.”
Each time, he looked at Kristina as though she had asked something shameful.
Kristina had never suggested throwing anyone out. She had used the word “home.” There was a difference between those two ideas, but Nikita seemed determined not to acknowledge it.
Then Galina Yuryevna began rearranging things around the apartment. They were small changes: cups moved to another cupboard, towels placed on a different shelf, spices transferred closer to the window. She never asked permission. She simply moved them and said the new arrangement was “more convenient.” Several times, Kristina silently returned everything to its original place.
Galina Yuryevna also began commenting on Kristina’s cooking. She was never openly rude. She would simply observe that there was not enough salt, that fried food was unhealthy, that soup would have been better, or that “in our family, we always made it differently.”
Nikita noticed nothing—or pretended not to.
Two months passed after the cast was removed. Galina Yuryevna had now been living with them for three months.
One weekday evening, Kristina tried to have a serious conversation. This time, she did not hint or casually ask when his mother was going home. She spoke plainly.
 
“Nikita, this is becoming too much for me. I never agreed to have three people living here permanently. I work all day, then come home and keep working. I cook, clean, and shop for all three of us. I want you to speak to your mother.”
“Kristina, where is she supposed to go right now? Her arm still isn’t completely—”
“Her arm has healed. The cast came off two months ago.”
“Her joints still hurt. And at her age…”
“Nikita, she is sixty. She is healthy. I want you to talk to her.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to her.”
He did not.
The following week, Kristina asked, “Did you speak to your mother?”
“I hinted at it,” Nikita replied. “She understood.”
Galina Yuryevna continued living in their living room.
At the beginning of the fourth month, she made an announcement over dinner.
“I’ve been thinking. Since I’m comfortable here, perhaps I should rent out my apartment. Extra money is always useful, and I’d be close to both of you.”
Nikita nodded.
“Yes, that might be worth considering.”
Kristina placed her fork on the table and looked at her husband. He stared at his plate, as though he had not noticed what had just happened.
Later, in their bedroom, she tried to discuss it with him.
“Do you understand what she just said?”
“She was only thinking out loud.”
“Nikita, she said she wants to rent out her apartment and remain here. That is a specific proposal, not some vague thought.”
“She said she was thinking about it. She didn’t say she had already decided.”
“You nodded.”
“I simply didn’t want to argue with her over dinner.”
“And what happens next? What will you do when she tells us she has already found tenants?”
 
“Kristina, why do you always assume—”
“Because that is the logical next step. She stays, and we remain silent. She mentions renting out her apartment, and you nod. What happens after that?”
Nikita did not answer.
“All right,” Kristina said. “Now I understand.”
She climbed into bed and switched off the light. Nikita continued talking about his mother being elderly, her aching joints, and how difficult it was for her to live alone. Kristina stared at the ceiling and listened. Four months had passed. They had originally agreed on three or four weeks.
The following morning was no different from any other. Galina Yuryevna came out wearing her robe, complained that it was cold and that her back hurt, and asked for tea. Kristina put the kettle on.
Everything finally became unbearable the next Saturday.
Kristina got up at eight. Nikita was still asleep, and so was his mother. She began cleaning. She washed the floors in the hallway and kitchen, sorted the laundry, and hung the clothes to dry. Then she returned to the kitchen, scrubbed the stovetop, cleared out the refrigerator, discarded some old food, and started making borscht. She never had enough time to cook properly during the week. Work and exhaustion filled her evenings, so the chores had piled up.
Nikita got up around eleven. He entered the kitchen, looked at the spotless stove and the pot of borscht, and asked, “Do you need help with anything?”
“It’s all done,” Kristina replied.
He nodded, poured himself some coffee, and returned to the bedroom.
At noon, Galina Yuryevna emerged in her robe, moving slowly and wearing the expression of someone for whom every morning was unbearably difficult and sorrowful. She washed in the bathroom, walked into the living room, and switched on the television. Kristina could hear another talk show, the sort that played in the apartment almost every day now.
An hour passed.
“Kristinochka, make me some tea, would you? I’m feeling cold.”
Kristina was standing at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes she had used to prepare lunch. Her hands were submerged in soapy water. Outside, the day was bright and beautiful. It was Saturday.
She did not answer immediately.
She stood there for a moment and thought about everything she had already done that morning. She had cleaned the apartment, cooked borscht, done the laundry, and was now washing dishes. From the living room came the sound of the television, which had already been playing for hours.
And now there was tea again.
“Kristinochka?” Galina Yuryevna called a second time, mild irritation entering her voice because she had been forced to repeat herself.
Kristina dried her hands and walked into the living room.
Galina Yuryevna was sitting on the sofa—the same sofa that had to be unfolded for her every night—wrapped in a blanket and watching her talk show. She did not even turn around. She merely glanced sideways when she heard Kristina approach.
“Will you make me some tea?”
“No,” Kristina said.
At last, Galina Yuryevna turned toward her.
“What?”
“I’m not making tea for you right now. The kettle is in the kitchen, and the cups are in the cupboard.”
Nikita, who was sitting in an armchair by the window scrolling through his phone, looked up.
“Kristina.” His voice had taken on a quiet, warning tone she knew very well. “What is this—”
“Everything is fine,” she said. “I work too, and my hands are busy too. Galina Yuryevna’s arm healed two months ago.”
His mother pursed her lips but said nothing. Nikita rose from the chair.
“Come with me. We need to talk.”
 
They went into the bedroom, and Nikita pulled the door almost closed behind them. He spoke in a controlled voice, but with the kind of tension that was worse than shouting. A person could lower his volume while still applying just as much pressure.
He told Kristina that she was openly showing his mother how unwelcome she felt. He said it was disrespectful. His mother was an older woman, and Kristina had no right to treat her that way.
“She is healthy,” Kristina said.
“She’s elderly.”
“Nikita, she is sixty years old. She does not have a disability. Her arm healed two months ago.”
“Her joints hurt.”
“My back hurts, yet I still wash the floors.”
“That’s different.”
“Really? Explain the difference to me. Since this morning, I have cleaned the apartment, cooked borscht, and done the laundry. Now I’m also supposed to make tea for her because she is sitting on the sofa and cannot be bothered to get up? Nikita, am I the maid here?”
“She is my mother.”
“And this is our home. Our home, whose mortgage we are paying. Yet somehow I have become the housekeeper. We do not even have a living room anymore because your mother sleeps there.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Your mother lies on the couch all day, and I’m supposed to bring her tea?” Kristina heard her own voice rise but made no effort to restrain it. “Four months, Nikita. For four months, I haven’t had the use of my own living room. Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”
“Kristina!”
“I’m saying this to you, not to her. Stop allowing this to continue. Stop pretending everything is normal.”
Nikita stared at her.
“You’re talking about my mother.”
“I’m talking about the situation you created. You invited her here for three weeks. Four months have passed. You refuse to tell her it is time to return home. You don’t help me with the housework. Then you reprimand me when I refuse to make tea for a healthy adult. Tell me, where exactly am I wrong?”
“You want me to throw my mother out.”
“I want her to live in her own home. That is not the same thing.”
“So you want me to tell her to get out.”
“Nikita,” Kristina said wearily, “if this is the only kind of conversation you are willing to have, there is no point continuing it.”
She left the bedroom. A cup was already sitting on the coffee table in the living room. Galina Yuryevna had made the tea herself while Kristina and Nikita were arguing.
Kristina silently studied the cup.
So she was capable of making it. When everyone else was busy and there was no one available to order around, she managed perfectly well. She had been capable all along; she had simply chosen not to do it.
Kristina returned to the bedroom, shut the door firmly, and lay down on the bed.
Nikita started the conversation again.
“Couldn’t you have just made the tea? It wasn’t difficult.”
“No,” Kristina said.
“Why did you have to say those things in front of Mom?”
“I was speaking to you.”
“She can hear everything. The walls are thin.”
“Then she knows how I feel. Nothing terrible has happened.”
Nikita stood beside the door.
 
“You could at least have tried for once.”
“Nikita,” Kristina replied without taking her eyes off the ceiling, “I have been trying for four months. I clean, cook, shop, heat her meals, and bring her tea. I asked you to speak to her—twice. That is what trying looks like. And I’ve had enough.”
“She is an elderly woman.”
“She is perfectly healthy. She can carry a cup of tea from the kitchen.”
“So you’re going to keep being rude to her?”
“I’m not being rude. I’m saying no. Those are two different things.”
Nikita left, closing the door behind him.
Even before it shut, Kristina knew that the conversation would change nothing. It was not because Nikita was a bad person. He was not. He had simply settled long ago into the position that his mother was always right and Kristina would endure whatever followed. Perhaps he did not know how to behave differently. Perhaps he simply did not want to see how unfair it was.
How much longer could this continue? Another year? Two? Until Galina Yuryevna rented out her apartment and permanently settled into theirs, exactly as she had suggested?
The next three days were cold and tense. Kristina and Nikita spoke only when necessary. Nikita behaved as though nothing serious had happened—or perhaps he truly believed that. Galina Yuryevna made a point of being quiet. She went into the kitchen, prepared her own food without making a sound, and stopped asking Kristina for anything.
Kristina noticed, and the realization left a bitter taste. So Galina Yuryevna did know how to take care of herself when she had to.
On the fourth day, Kristina opened several rental websites.
She browsed the listings calmly, without tears or anger. Studios, small one-bedroom apartments—anything modest, clean, and closer to her job. Location was the most important consideration. She found several possibilities, called about two of them, and arranged viewings for the weekend.
The following Saturday, exactly one week after the argument in the bedroom, she went to see a studio. It was in decent condition and had everything she needed, without any unnecessary frills. She paid the deposit that same day.
Then she waited several more days. She wanted to be certain she would not change her mind. This could not be an impulsive act, an attempt to punish Nikita, or a scheme designed to force him into action.
She was not trying to force anything.
She was simply making a decision.
Kristina told him on Wednesday evening. Nikita was in the bedroom, and Galina Yuryevna had already gone to bed in the living room. Kristina stepped inside and stopped in the doorway.
“Nikita, I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“I found a studio. I’m moving out on Friday.”
He slowly lowered his phone.
“What do you mean, you’re moving out?”
“Exactly what I said. I’m leaving.”
“Wait. Why?”
“Because this situation is never going to change. I told you how I felt several times. You heard me, but you did nothing. That was your choice, and I accept it. But I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
“Kristina, you’re leaving because of my mother.”
“I’m leaving because of us. Because you don’t believe it is necessary to listen to me. And because I feel like a housekeeper in the home that is supposed to belong to both of us.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
 
“No.” She spoke calmly, without tears or shouting. “I’m not exaggerating. It is simply the truth.”
Nikita was silent for a long time.
“Have you thought this through?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for almost two weeks,” Kristina said. “Since that Saturday. Every single day.”
She packed methodically in the evenings while Nikita watched television in the bedroom. Clothes, documents, her laptop, and books. She took several other belongings that were hers alone rather than things they had bought together.
Kristina moved on Friday. Nikita was at work, and she had deliberately chosen a time when he would not be home. Galina Yuryevna sat in the living room, as usual, watching television. When Kristina carried out her final bag, her mother-in-law did not come into the hallway.
Nikita called that evening. He told her that she had acted rashly, that she needed to come back so they could discuss everything properly. Kristina listened, said she would think about it, and ended the call.
She did think about it, and she realized she had no desire to return.
It was not because she felt offended. That feeling had disappeared earlier, on the night she had lain in bed staring at the ceiling. What remained was certainty: nothing would change. Nikita would never have addressed the situation if her departure had not forced him to react. And if she returned now, he would decide that the problem had somehow resolved itself. Then everything would continue exactly as before.
Three weeks after moving out, Kristina filed for divorce.
Nikita was genuinely shocked. He had clearly expected her to calm down. Perhaps he had assumed her departure was merely a form of pressure—that she wanted him to do something so she would have an excuse to return.
But Kristina neither knew how nor wished to manipulate people that way. She had simply followed through on her decision.
The divorce took several months to finalize. They sold the apartment, paid off the remaining mortgage, and divided what was left. At first, Nikita tried to discuss reconciliation. Kristina responded politely and briefly. Eventually, he stopped asking.
Legally, everything was settled quietly and without a scandal.
 
Galina Yuryevna returned to her own apartment, and Nikita moved in with her. He now cleaned, cooked, and went grocery shopping himself. His mother helped occasionally—whenever she felt like it.
Mutual acquaintances later told Kristina that Nikita disliked living with his mother and was looking for a rental of his own. They said he had regretted what happened a hundred times over.
Kristina listened without any particular emotion. It was merely information.
Eventually, she left the studio and rented a proper one-bedroom apartment closer to work. She chose it herself and arranged everything exactly as she liked. She placed her belongings where she wanted them and hung shelves wherever she pleased. She even bought the coffee machine she had admired for a long time but had kept postponing—sometimes because money was tight, other times because it never seemed like the right moment.
Now it was the right moment.
In the mornings, she made coffee, read, or simply looked out the window without thinking about anything in particular. There was silence, undisturbed by other people’s demands. There was order—the kind she had chosen and created for herself.
It was hers.
Sometimes Kristina reflected on how long she had tolerated the situation. Not with regret, but simply as a fact. It had been a long time. Perhaps she should have acted sooner. Or perhaps not. Maybe she had first needed to make absolutely certain that the situation was exactly what it appeared to be—neither better nor worse.
Now she knew.
And that certainty finally brought her peace.