— Today is the seventh day. I will be back late tonight, we have an urgent project. I hope you’ve packed your things by now.
— What’s the rush, my dear? — smiled Vladislava Vsevolodovna gently. — You have plenty of time.
Denis Vadimovich didn’t even pretend to hear.
— What the hell?! — Albina irritably turned the key, but it stubbornly refused to turn in the lock.
The long working Friday ended late, and she finally got home around 11 p.m. The flickering light in the hallway made Albina’s already tired eyes even more swollen. The last thing she wanted was to deal with a jammed lock. She tried again, turning the key cautiously, then more forcefully. No luck.
Looking closer, she noticed that the keyhole seemed completely different. No way!
— They changed the lock… — she whispered in disbelief, suddenly realizing the obvious.
Albina ran her fingers over the metal surface. New! It felt completely different, smoother. How had she not noticed it before?
She rang the doorbell. Long, then second, third ring. She could hear someone moving inside — muffled footsteps, the creak of the parquet in the living room. It wasn’t a cat or an appliance. Someone was in the apartment.
— Denis Vadimovich! Vladislava Vsevolodovna! It’s me, open the door! — Albina’s voice echoed in the stairwell.
Silence. Albina pounded on the door with her fist:
— I hear you! Open the door immediately!
Calls to her former in-laws also went unanswered. A wave of hot indignation mixed with fatigue and helplessness rose in her throat. What to do? Where to go at night?
There weren’t many options. Given the time, distance, and emotional state, there was only one choice.
Twenty minutes later, Albina was standing on the doorstep of her best friend Elizabeth’s apartment. Even at this late hour, her friend was ready to let her in. Although she greeted Albina in a hastily thrown-on robe over her pajamas.
— My God, Alya, it’s almost night! What happened?
— They changed the locks, Liza… Can you imagine? Locks in my own apartment!
Elizabeth silently hugged her and led her to the kitchen. Hot tea calmed Albina’s nerves a little, and she was able to tell the whole story.
A week ago, Denis Vadimovich, her ex-husband’s father, called. His voice unusually confused, asking: “We have a problem, Albinochka, the pipe burst. The whole first floor is flooded! The repairs will take at least a week… Help, we have nowhere to go. We can’t go to Igor’s one-room apartment, they barely fit there with his fiancée and her son.”
— I told them clearly — for seven days, Liza, — Albina clasped her cup with cold fingers. — No matter what happened between me and Ignat, I couldn’t leave them without a roof over their heads.
The first few days were spent in tense coexistence. Denis Vadimovich constantly walked around the apartment, inspecting everything around him, always inserting, “You and Igor did a nice renovation before the divorce, didn’t you? And our money played a significant role in it, didn’t it?” Vladislava Vsevolodovna wrinkled her nose at every detail of the furnishings: “In our family, we don’t do that… We always…”
At the end of the week, before work, Albina reminded them about their agreement.
— Today is the seventh day. I’ll be back late tonight, we have an urgent project. I hope you’ve packed your things.
— Oh, sweetheart, what’s the rush? — smiled Vladislava Vsevolodovna kindly. — There’s still time.
Denis Vadimovich didn’t even pretend to hear.
The workday dragged on endlessly. Albina couldn’t shake the strange unease from their evasive responses. But would they dare to change the locks in someone else’s apartment? She never could have imagined that.
— Oh, Liza, I don’t know what to do… — Albina collapsed into a chair.
— The apartment is yours, it’s easy to prove. Tomorrow morning we’ll call the management company, they can represent your interests, — Elizabeth said decisively. — Then we’ll call the locksmith and break the lock. They have no right to keep you out of your own apartment!
The night passed in a restless half-sleep. Albina felt like she was constantly falling into some kind of whirlpool, only to wake up suddenly with her heart racing. By morning, she had completely given up on trying to sleep and stumbled into the kitchen for tea. To calm herself, she began mentally going over the action plan.
At eight in the morning, Albina was already calling the management company.
— Anatoly Petrovich will be there in an hour, — they told her. — He’ll come to the specified address.
The next call was to the locksmith Mikhalych, who had helped install the lock before. The voice on the phone grumbled something unintelligible but agreed to help.
At 9:45, all three arrived at the building. Anatoly Petrovich, a fit middle-aged man in a strict suit, looked unusually serious for a Saturday morning. Mikhalych, hunched with a work bag over his shoulder, cast a disapproving glance at the expensive SUV parked near the building.
— Is that their car? — he nodded toward the vehicle. — Wealthy relatives.
When they reached the floor, Albina rang the doorbell again. No response.
— The apartment is registered under Albina Dmitrievna, — Anatoly Petrovich confirmed after checking his tablet. — We can file a complaint about illegal entry right away.
Mikhalych whistled, admiring the new lock.
— They didn’t skimp. Modern, with anti-burglary protection… Irony, huh? — he smirked at his joke and got to work.
The struggle with the lock lasted about fifteen minutes. Albina stood nervously next to him, fiddling with her bag strap. Inside, it was silent — no rustling, no sounds.
— Got it! — Mikhalych grunted in satisfaction when the mechanism finally gave way. — Come in, owner.
Albina flung the door open. No one in the hallway. She moved forward and froze in shock: in the living room, holding a newspaper, sat Denis Vadimovich. Next to him, sitting with perfect posture, was Vladislava Vsevolodovna. They both raised their heads in unison, their surprise quickly turning into indignation.
— What do you think you’re doing? — exclaimed Vladislava Vsevolodovna, getting up. — Breaking locks! Bursting in!
— What do you think you’re doing?! — Albina gasped, choking on her indignation. — Who gave you the right to change the locks in my apartment?!
— My dear, — began Vladislava Vsevolodovna with the same tone that always made Albina shiver. — Denis and I thought it over and decided that… Well, since you live here alone, and we’ve invested so much in this apartment…
— What investments?!
— Well, — Denis Vadimovich moved closer, clearly trying to appear reasonable. — When you and Ignat were married, we gave you a significant amount for repairs, which greatly increased the apartment’s value.
— That was a family investment, — Vladislava Vsevolodovna added. — We even have receipts…
Albina stared at them, switching her gaze from one to the other in confusion.
— What receipts? What investments?! — she felt herself boiling with anger. — I’ve been divorced from your son for a year! A YEAR!
— But the apartment is ours… I mean, partially, — Denis Vadimovich seemed increasingly uneasy under Anatoly Petrovich’s intense gaze, who had been silently observing the scene from the hallway.
— The apartment is mine, period! — Albina felt heat rising in her cheeks. — I inherited it from my grandmother before I ever met Ignat. You know that perfectly well!
— But our contribution… — Denis Vadimovich tried to argue.
— The money you gave was enough to renovate the bathroom! — Albina couldn’t hold back anymore, unleashing all her pent-up frustration. — Eighty thousand! That’s your entire contribution! Which you’re now trying to present as… as…
She scanned the living room — foreign belongings, moved furniture, clear signs that her former in-laws were hoping to settle in for the long haul. On the table was a photograph of Vladislava Vsevolodovna and Denis Vadimovich — the same one that used to hang in their living room. There were documents on the couch — she briefly saw the word “contract” and her own name.
— We just wanted to help you, — Vladislava Vsevolodovna raised her hands in mock innocence. — You’re so young, alone… And these days, there are so many crooks, scammers…
— Yes, yes, — Denis Vadimovich chimed in. — We were thinking about your safety. The neighborhood is unsafe. You never know who might…
Albina interrupted him:
— I let you stay for a week, and you turned it into… — Albina choked with indignation, unable to find words for the situation.
Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. Everything inside her was boiling. How long would it take to erase the traces of their presence? To return the apartment to its former look, its comfort, its soul?
The heavy silence was broken by Anatoly Petrovich, who cleared his throat delicately.
— If you allow me, — he stepped forward. — According to the documents, the apartment belongs to Ms. Sokolova. Verbal agreements do not constitute property rights unless there’s an official donation contract. The money invested needs to be proven, which can be done in court. This should have been handled earlier, but you can try now. However, you’ll have to leave the apartment.
Denis Vadimovich grimaced in frustration, and Vladislava Vsevolodovna crossed her arms in front of her chest.
— Therefore, — Anatoly Petrovich continued, — if you’re here against the owner’s will, this could be classified as illegal entry. And replacing locks without authorization…
— Don’t lecture us! — Vladislava Vsevolodovna flared up. — We understand everything. Get ready, Denis.
The next hour passed in tense silence. Albina’s former in-laws packed their things, trying to preserve their dignity. Albina stood silently by the window, unwilling to help but unable to leave them unattended.
— Ignat will find out how you treated us, — Vladislava Vsevolodovna said, pulling on her gloves.
— Let him find out, — Albina answered calmly. — I don’t care. We’re divorced. He has another woman.
When the door closed behind them, Albina slowly sank into the armchair. The apartment felt unusually empty and quiet. Mikhalych was already installing the new lock.
— Are you okay? — Anatoly Petrovich asked, preparing to leave. — If anything, call me, I left my number.
Albina nodded, unable to say a word of thanks. All her emotions had drained away, leaving behind emptiness and strange relief.
In the evening, Elizabeth called, concerned about how things had gone. After hearing the story, she offered to come over, but Albina refused.
— I need to be alone. In my apartment. With the new lock on the door.
Two days later, when life started returning to normal, an unexpected phone call came. The screen showed the name she had tried not to think about for almost a year: “Ignat.”
— Albina, it’s me… — his voice sounded uncertain. — My parents told me everything.
— Really? — she tried to speak evenly. — And how did they present the story?
— They were upset at first. Said you kicked them out. But then my father slipped about the locks… — Ignat sighed heavily. — I realized they… went too far. Sorry, I didn’t know what they were planning.
— I know, — Albina said unexpectedly. — You wouldn’t have participated in something like that.
A pause hung in the air, filled with unspoken words. A year ago, they had parted without shouting or scenes. Just something had broken, and both had realized they couldn’t go on together.
— So… how are you? — Ignat asked.
— Good, — she replied, realizing that for the first time in a long while, that was actually true. — Really good. And you?
— Not bad. Getting married soon, maybe moving to a new apartment.
Another pause. Once, they could talk for hours, but now, they couldn’t find the words.
— Well, I’m glad things are okay with you, — Ignat finally said. — And again, sorry for my parents. It won’t happen again.
— I know, — Albina smiled. — They put in a very reliable new lock. And I won’t let them into my home again.
Ignat quietly laughed, and there was no bitterness in that laugh — only understanding and something like a farewell.
Hanging up, Albina walked over to the window. The spring sky darkened outside, lights flickering on in the neighboring apartments. A strange sense of lightness overtook her — as if an invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
A week later, Elizabeth came to visit, wanting to make sure her friend was okay. They sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and making plans.
— Don’t you think it’s time to change these wallpapers? — Elizabeth asked, looking at the wall. — They’ve been here since your grandmother’s time.
Albina ran her hand over the faded flowers painted on the walls. How many stories did these wallpapers remember? Her grandmother’s celebrations, her own childhood, the first years of independent life, the family happiness with Ignat, and then — the quiet divorce and new solitude.
— You know, I’ve never dared to change them, — Albina said thoughtfully. — It always felt like something important would disappear with them… Memory, maybe? How can you live your whole life in someone else’s décor?
— Exactly! — Elizabeth replied. — Let’s see what we can do about it, — she said, pulling out her laptop.
Soon, they were browsing through catalogs of finishing materials.
— What do you think of these? Light blue, textured.
Albina looked through the catalogs and realized that maybe what she really needed was a complete transformation — a renovation, to truly make this house hers again. To erase even the memories of her former in-laws’ intrusion.