Victoria stood by the kitchen window, watching the neighbor children playing in the yard. Sunlight fell onto the wooden countertop where samples of wedding invitations lay. In two months, her wedding with Kirill was scheduled, and each day brought new concerns.
The three-room apartment on the fifth floor of a panel building had been her refuge for three years. Her father had handed over the keys after marrying his new wife, simply saying:
“Live here, daughter. I have no business there.”
The ownership documents were still in her father’s name, but Victoria paid the utility bills, did repairs, and bought furniture. Every corner of the apartment bore the mark of her taste and efforts.
Photos from confectionery courses, where Victoria earned her diploma, hung in the hallway. Her work brought a stable income—wedding cakes were ordered regularly, especially in the summer months. The refrigerator in the kitchen was industrial, specially for storing creams and decorations.
Kirill met Victoria a year ago at a mutual friend’s birthday. The thirty-two-year-old car dealership manager immediately impressed as a well-mannered man. Kirill did not smoke, did not abuse alcohol, and always called when he promised. Though every important decision he discussed with his mother.
His mother, Lyudmila Anatolyevna, worked as an accountant at the district clinic. This energetic fifty-eight-year-old woman never missed a chance to give advice on any matter. At their first meeting, she hugged Victoria and declared:
“At last, my boy has found a good girl!”
Kirill’s sister, Elena, was a year older than him and raised two children. Eight-year-old Gleb and five-year-old Daria required constant attention. The family rented a two-room apartment in an old part of the city; Elena’s husband, Roman, worked in construction.
Victoria was preparing dinner when the doorbell rang. Kirill arrived with a bag of groceries and a bouquet of chrysanthemums.
“How’s it going with the invitations?” the groom asked, kissing the bride’s cheek.
“The layout is ready. I’ll take it to the print shop tomorrow.”
“Mom suggests having the banquet at home instead of a restaurant. She says it will be cheaper and cozier.”
Victoria silently chopped vegetables for the salad. Lyudmila Anatolyevna often voiced opinions on how best to organize the wedding. She criticized the choice of dress, found faults in the menu, and suggested inviting relatives Kirill hadn’t spoken to for years.
“I think the restaurant is still better,” Victoria replied. “They have a host, music, a dance floor.”
“All right, your call.”
After dinner, Kirill washed the dishes while Victoria spread out photos of cakes from her portfolio on the table. She planned to make the wedding cake herself—a three-tiered one, with fresh flowers and lace patterns made of cream.
“It looks beautiful,” Kirill said, examining the pictures. “Mom says the cake can be simpler. Why spend so much time?”
“It’s our wedding. I want everything to be special.”
“Of course, dear.”
In the evening, Kirill left for his place. Victoria took a bath, brewed green tea, and sat in an armchair with a notebook. The to-do list grew daily: take the dress to the dry cleaners, pick up the rings from the jeweler, coordinate timing with the photographer.
Around ten in the evening, the phone rang. It was Elena.
“Vika, hi! Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m still awake.”
“Listen, I was thinking… What if after the wedding we live together for a while? Your apartment is big, and we’re cramped.”
Victoria froze, holding the phone to her ear.
“What do you mean, live together?”
“Well, temporarily, until we find something better. The kids will get to know Uncle Kirill—it’ll be fun. Roman can help with repairs if anything needs fixing.”
“Elena, I… hadn’t thought about that.”
“Think about it. We’re not a burden, really. On the contrary, we’ll help around the house.”
After the call, Victoria couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. The idea of strangers living in her apartment seemed strange. Kids make noise, toys scattered everywhere, daily routines disrupted. How would Kirill feel about such a proposal?
The next day, Victoria worked on an order—making cupcakes for a children’s party. The baking process soothed her, helping her focus on details and forget problems. The cream was whipped to the right consistency when the doorbell rang.
Lyudmila Anatolyevna came in carrying a shopping bag and a thermos.
“I brought some homemade soup,” the mother-in-law announced, entering the kitchen. “And meat cutlets.”
“Thanks, but I already had lunch.”
“Nonsense, homemade food is always better. Look how pale you’ve become. You need to eat more meat; otherwise, you won’t have healthy children.”
Lyudmila Anatolyevna inspected the kitchen, peered into the fridge.
“There’s plenty of space but little food. After the wedding, I’ll teach you how to cook real dishes, not these pastries.”
“Baking is my profession.”
“Good profession, but your husband needs soups and porridges, not sweets.”
The mother-in-law moved to the living room, critically assessing the surroundings.
“The sofa is old, it needs replacing. And the TV is small. Kirill is used to a big screen.”
“Kirill and I rarely watch TV.”
“For now. Married life changes habits.”
Lyudmila Anatolyevna stayed for two hours, telling stories about acquaintances who married happily and those who divorced because they couldn’t manage the household. Upon leaving, she left a list of dishes every wife should master.
That evening Victoria called Kirill.
“Your sister suggests living with us after the wedding.”
“Yeah, she told me. Not a bad idea, right? Elena’s a good housekeeper; she’ll help you settle in.”
“Settle in our own apartment?”
“Well, in married life. The kids will create atmosphere; it won’t be so lonely.”
“Kirill, I’m not lonely. I like living the way I do.”
“Think about it, Vika. This is family. We should support each other.”
“And where will four people sleep? We only have three rooms.”
“We’ll figure it out. The main thing is willingness.”
The conversation ended tensely. Victoria understood: Kirill had already made up his mind and did not intend to consider her opinion.
On the weekend, there was a family dinner at Lyudmila Anatolyevna’s. Everyone gathered—Kirill with Victoria, Elena with her family. The children played in the next room, the adults sat around the set table.
“Finally Kirill will have a proper roof over his head!” Lyudmila Anatolyevna declared, raising a glass of compote.
Victoria raised an eyebrow.
“What, there wasn’t a roof before?”
“Rented housing is no roof. Owning your own place is a whole different matter.”
Elena nodded.
“And we finally won’t be jumping between rentals. The kids are tired of moving.”
“In what sense?” Victoria put down her fork.
“Well, we’ll all live together. Big family, big happiness.”
Roman added:
“We’ll split utility payments in half. Everyone benefits.”
Victoria stayed silent, trying to understand whether the relatives were serious or if it was a bad joke. Kirill ate salad without looking up.
“Vikochka, don’t worry,” Lyudmila Anatolyevna patted her daughter-in-law’s hand. “We’re not freeloaders. We’ll help with the household.”
“Lyudmila Anatolyevna, are you planning to move in too?”
“Of course! A young family without supervision is like a ship without a captain.”
“But I have a three-room apartment…”
“But a big one! There’s enough space for everyone.”
“Six people in three rooms?”
“What, you think like a market vendor!” Elena laughed. “Kids don’t need much space—they’re small.”
After dinner, Victoria went out on the balcony to get some air. Her head spun from what she had heard. Did Kirill’s relatives seriously plan to move into her apartment?
Kirill followed:
“What’s wrong? You’ve been silent all evening.”
“Are they seriously planning to live with us?”
“Temporarily. Until they get on their feet.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t know. A year, maybe two.”
“Kirill, this is my apartment.”
“After the wedding, it’s ours.”
“But I should have a say in housing decisions too.”
“Go ahead, decide. I don’t mind.”
“I’m against strangers living in my home.”
“Strangers? It’s my family!”
“Family that thinks it can manage my home without my consent.”
Kirill sighed.
“All right, let’s talk at home. This is no place for such talks.”
They rode home in silence. Victoria stared out the bus window, thinking over the situation. It seemed the relatives had already decided everything and put her before a fait accompli.
The next day, Victoria worked on the wedding cake for clients. The fondant rolled unevenly—her hands trembled from nervous tension. The phone lay on the table, screen up. Messages came in the family chat Elena created.
“Kiryusha needs the brightest room; he gets up early for work.”
“I’ll take the one closer to the kitchen. I’ll make breakfast.”
“The kids need a play area. Maybe we can convert the living room?”
“Roman can tear down the partition to enlarge the space.”
Victoria read the messages, disbelieving. Even Kirill participated:
“The main thing is to agree peacefully. The apartment is big; there’s enough space for everyone.”
Lyudmila Anatolyevna sent a long list:
“We need a bigger fridge. Let’s put the washing machine in the kitchen. We’ll buy folding children’s furniture.”
Victoria turned off her phone and set it aside. Her hands shook. The groom’s relatives planned a rearrangement in her home without even asking the owner.
That evening Kirill came. Victoria silently served dinner.
“Did you see the chat?” the groom asked.
“I did.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you all have lost your minds.”
“Vika, be reasonable. Family needs help.”
“And I need my home.”
“After the wedding, it will be our home.”
“So decisions should be ours, not a family chat council.”
Kirill put down his spoon.
“You’re selfish.”
“And you’re a weakling who can’t say no to his mother.”
“Don’t you dare insult my mother!”
“Then don’t you dare control my apartment!”
Kirill stood up from the table.
“We’ll talk when you calm down.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m hysterical. I’m calm and thinking clearly.”
“Then think about what’s more important: family or your whims.”
The groom left, slamming the door. Victoria was alone in the kitchen. She understood: Kirill’s relatives didn’t just voice wishes. They had already mentally moved in, divided the rooms, and made renovation plans.
And no one even asked her.
Victoria sat at the table, took a fork. Her hands still trembled. She had to figure out what was happening, understand how it came to this. Kirill had never said in their year of knowing each other: “This is Vika’s apartment” or “We should ask Vika.” It was always: “Ours,” “We’ll decide.” As if ownership rights automatically transferred to the groom along with the ring on his finger.
Kirill never set boundaries between family and bride. He never told his mother, “Wait, this isn’t our decision,” or his sister, “Elena, the apartment isn’t yours.” On the contrary—he supported every initiative, nodded, agreed, made plans.
Victoria turned on her phone. New messages appeared in the family chat. Elena sent photos of children’s furniture from an online catalog. Lyudmila Anatolyevna discussed with Roman the possibility of tearing down the partition between the kitchen and living room. Kirill wrote about buying a bigger dishwasher.
No mention of the apartment owner. As if Victoria did not exist. Everyone planned a new life in a home where someone else was supposed to live.
In the morning, Victoria called her father. Pavel Dmitrievich worked as an engineer at a factory and lived a quiet bachelor life in a one-room apartment.
“Dad, I need advice.”
“I’m listening, daughter.”
Victoria told him about Kirill’s relatives’ plans, the family chat, how rooms were allocated without her participation.
“I see,” her father paused. “And what do you think about this?”
“I think they’ve lost their minds.”
“So what’s the question?”
“Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe families live like this?”
“If you don’t trust people, don’t let them into your home,” Pavel Dmitrievich answered simply. “A home is a fortress. You only surrender a fortress to the enemy.”
After talking with her father, Victoria felt clarity. No more doubts or painful thoughts about being right. Kirill’s relatives behaved like conquerors who had already seized the territory and were now organizing the household.
Victoria muted the family chat but kept reading. Lyudmila Anatolyevna wrote about where to put Elena’s exercise bike. Roman wondered if extra shelves could be hung in the bathroom. The children asked for a cat.
Not a word about Victoria. As if the apartment owner were a ghost who should disappear after the wedding.
Kirill sent a long message about how to properly organize life for a large family. He suggested making a cleaning schedule, dividing chores, buying common groceries. Victoria read it and realized the groom already lived in an imaginary world where the wedding was over and relatives had successfully moved in.
A day of silence passed. Victoria worked, met clients, handled orders. Her hands no longer trembled—peace had come. Not relief, but the peace of someone who has made a decision.
In the evening, Victoria opened her laptop, went to the restaurant website, and canceled the banquet hall reservation. The administrator was surprised:
“The wedding is in a month. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“The deposit is non-refundable.”
“I understand.”
Then Victoria wrote a short message to Kirill: “There will be no wedding. I changed my mind.”
The phone rang five minutes later.
“Vika, what’s going on?” Kirill’s voice sounded confused.
“Nothing’s going on. I just decided not to get married.”
“Because of yesterday’s quarrel? We can work it out!”
“No, Kirill. There’s nothing to work out.”
“But the wedding… the guests… Mom already bought the dress…”
“That’s your problem.”
“Vika, let’s meet and talk calmly.”
“Tell your family they won’t get into the apartment they’ve already divided. Never.”
Victoria turned off the phone. No more explanations were needed. Everything was said clearly.
The next step was deleting the family chat. Victoria blocked Lyudmila Anatolyevna, Elena, and Roman. She left Kirill’s number but didn’t answer his calls. Silence returned to the apartment—the same silence that had been broken by others’ plans and ambitions.
Victoria felt no resentment or disappointment. On the contrary, she felt freed—like a heavy backpack lifted after a long hike.
Her phone kept ringing. Lyudmila Anatolyevna called from morning till night, leaving voice messages:
“Girl, what are you doing! You’re destroying the family! Kirill can’t find peace!”
Elena sent long texts about how upset the children were to hear there would be no wedding:
“Daria already picked out a fancy dress! Gleb wanted to congratulate Uncle Kirill!”
Roman called and stayed silent on the line. Probably didn’t know what to say.
Victoria did not respond to anyone. The conversation was over; the decision was made. Explanations would only prolong the unpleasant story.
A week later, Victoria went to her father. Pavel Dmitrievich welcomed his daughter without questions, put on the kettle, took out cookies.
“Dad, I want to transfer the apartment to my name.”
“Good decision. Tomorrow we’ll go to the notary.”
“What about the documents?”
“All ready. I’ve been waiting for you to ask. It means you’re ready.”
The notary office was downtown. The procedure took an hour. Victoria signed the papers and became the rightful owner of the three-room apartment.
“Now no one can control your home,” her father said as they left the office.
“I know.”
“Change the locks, just in case.”
Victoria nodded. Her father was right—the locks really needed changing.
A locksmith arrived that same day. He installed new locks on the front door and added an extra bolt. Now only those whom Victoria gave keys to could enter.
Kirill came in the evening. He rang the bell, but Victoria didn’t open.
“Vika, I know you’re home! The car is in the yard!”
Victoria sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. She didn’t answer.
“Let’s talk! We’re adults!”
Silence.
“All right, I’ll wait downstairs until you come out!”
Kirill left two hours later. He never came back.
Lyudmila Anatolyevna called every day:
“You ruined everything! Your son won’t eat or sleep because of you!”
“We’ve already told the kids we’ll live in a big apartment!”
“How could you do this to the family!”
Victoria listened to the voice messages and deleted them. The mother-in-law shouted into the void.
Elena sent photos of upset children:
“Look what you did! Daria is crying, Gleb doesn’t want to go to kindergarten!”
Victoria blocked that number too.
After a month, the calls stopped. The relatives of the former fiancé realized: no one was home. The apartment owner disappeared from their lives as suddenly as she had appeared.
Victoria returned to her usual rhythm. Work, orders, client meetings. The apartment was once again a refuge, not an object of other people’s disputes.
One evening, while preparing dinner, Victoria smiled and said aloud:
“How sweet. They divided rooms in my apartment, which they never even got into.”
The new locks reliably protected her peace. The home belonged to its owner again.
And no one ever disturbed that silence again.