Nastya took off her boots at the entrance and stayed in just one gray, pilled but beloved wool sweater. The apartment smelled of fresh renovation, dust from the furniture, and slightly of paint. Although it was in a panel building, the apartment was her pride. Her parents, moving to Sochi permanently, had transferred the two-room apartment to her — without any fuss, just leaving the keys on the table: “Live, daughter, make a family nest. It’s time with your husband.”
And she did just that. She renovated it at her own expense. Painted everything in light colors, hung proper shelves in the bathroom, ordered a sliding-door wardrobe and a new kitchen. She took vacation time, went with the foreman herself to Leroy Merlin. Her husband — Ivan — promised to help but was always busy. And then the “we live together” gradually turned into “he just comes to spend the night.”
The silence was broken by a knock on the door. Not a doorbell, but a confident knock — three short raps. Nastya frowned slightly. It could only be her.
“Hello, Galina Petrovna,” she said dryly, opening the door.
“Hey there,” Ivan’s mother was already taking off her shoes. “I brought some fresh cutlets. Made them myself. Looks like you never have time. My son’s losing weight, cheeks sunken. I ask him, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ and he says, ‘Nastya is on one of her diets, cooking some green soups.’ That won’t do!”
Nastya stepped back silently. And she already knew what would come next: “I’ll just put these here,” “Your bathroom smells funny, don’t you think it’s time to change the pipe?” and, most importantly, “Can I sit for a while? My TV is acting up again, but yours has a good screen.”
It had only been three months since she and Ivan moved in. And a month since her mother-in-law had practically occupied half the apartment.
“Please, come in,” Nastya nodded dryly toward the kitchen. “To your little sofa.”
“Thanks,” Galina Petrovna sat down, plopping down as if in her own armchair. “Actually, I didn’t come just like that. I have a talk with you.”
Nastya tensed. Those “talks” always ended with someone needing something or her ending up being blamed again.
“Uh-huh, I’m listening,” she sat down opposite, on a stool.
“You and Ivan,” the mother-in-law began, squinting slyly, “have been together for a long time, right?”
“Five years,” Nastya nodded, sensing where this was going.
“And you still live… like this. Not seriously.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what do you mean? The apartment is yours, right? But my son is there, it turns out, ‘just like that.’ I’m not just saying, Nastya. As a mother, it’s important to me that he has everything. And you, excuse me, your parents are kind, they left you the apartment, but it’s shared. Understand?”
“It’s not shared. It’s mine. My parents put the deed only in my name.”
“Well, that was a mistake,” the mother-in-law snorted. “When my husband and I got our apartment — it was in both our names. Because family means together. But you have… some strange math.”
“I see,” Nastya stood up. “Are you hinting that I should transfer part of the apartment to Ivan?”
“I’m not hinting. I’m saying it straight. That would be fair. He lives here, works here, helps…”
“Helps?” Nastya snapped. “He even takes out the trash only half the time. Zero help with renovations. I did everything. He didn’t even assemble the wardrobe. I hired a furniture assembler myself.”
“Well, you like things your way. Besides, he doesn’t have time. The man works.”
“He sits in the garage with his friends drinking beer. Is that work?”
The mother-in-law sighed and stood up.
“You’re insulting both Ivan and me now. I’m trying to be nice to you. And you act like a stranger. Do you want my son to have nothing if something happens?”
“What — if something happens?” Nastya’s voice grew colder. “This is my apartment. We have no joint property. And I’m not going to change that. If you want, we can talk in front of a lawyer.”
Galina Petrovna was silent. Then she approached closely and, smiling as if it were a joke, said:
“You’re still young, Nastya. You don’t understand. A man must feel like the master. And you are the hostess under him. Not the other way around. You have everything upside down.”
The silence was broken by a knock on the door. Not a doorbell, but a confident knock — three short raps. Nastya frowned slightly. It could only be her.
“Hello, Galina Petrovna,” she said dryly, opening the door.
“Hey there,” Ivan’s mother was already taking off her shoes. “I brought some fresh cutlets. Made them myself. Looks like you never have time. My son’s losing weight, cheeks sunken. I ask him, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ and he says, ‘Nastya is on one of her diets, cooking some green soups.’ That won’t do!”
Nastya stepped back silently. And she already knew what would come next: “I’ll just put these here,” “Your bathroom smells funny, don’t you think it’s time to change the pipe?” and, most importantly, “Can I sit for a while? My TV is acting up again, but yours has a good screen.”
It had only been three months since she and Ivan moved in. And a month since her mother-in-law had practically occupied half the apartment.
“Please, come in,” Nastya nodded dryly toward the kitchen. “To your little sofa.”
“We’re fine here. As long as you don’t come with cutlets and complaints.”
The mother-in-law squinted.
“Aren’t you afraid of being alone?”
Nastya spun around sharply.
“If I’m alone in MY apartment, that will be better than living with someone who hides behind his mother.”
“Uh-huh,” grumbled the mother-in-law, leaving the kitchen. “I’ll be back. And not alone.”
The door slammed with such a sound that it felt like a challenge. Nastya was left alone in the kitchen. With the cutlets. Which didn’t even smell like meat.
Nastya stood by the sink, mechanically washing dishes. One phrase was pounding in her head:
“You’re still young, Nastya.”
No, that was outright rudeness. That’s not a mother-in-law. That’s a life license revocation inspector.
She threw the cutlets into the trash without tasting. They suspiciously looked the same. Like from a store, only fried on the edges so you wouldn’t guess. “Made them myself,” yeah, in the microwave. Portion like in the army: strictly regulated and without salt.
The door slammed — without knocking, without a bell. The key was inserted, turned, and he came in.
Ivan.
“Nastyukha, hi,” he mumbled, dragging a gym bag. “Did your mom come?”
“Yeah, she left greetings. And an ultimatum.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Ivan kicked off his sneakers, went straight to the kitchen, took a mug, poured himself some tea that Nastya had already cooled. Sat down, stretched, yawned. “Tired, huh?”
“Tired. Of both of you,” Nastya wiped her hands on a towel, folded it neatly and, surprisingly, sat opposite him. “Can you explain why she comes here like it’s her own home? This is my house. No one called or asked. She just comes and interrogates. Complains. Lectures. And now demands I transfer the apartment to you.”
Ivan chuckled loudly. Even leaned back in his chair:
“Ha! You women! ‘Demands’ right away. She just suggested. Well, like, you and I are family. So everything should be shared. Where’s the tragedy?”
“The tragedy is that it’s MINE!” Nastya slammed her palm on the table. “My apartment. My parents put it in my name. You moved in as my husband. That’s it! A guest. You and your mother. And now she tells me how to live? Who owes me what?”
“You’re talking like… like an accountant, honestly! Everything by the papers, everything by contract! Where’s love? Where’s trust?”
“Where were you when I was painting the walls? Where’s your trust when your mother decides behind your back who lives here and who should get out?”
Ivan stood up. Threw the mug into the sink — it clanged loudly but didn’t break. Nastya didn’t flinch.
“Are you crazy? She’s my mother! She wants the best for us!”
“She wants your registration!” Nastya jumped up. “Then she’ll file for property division. Then you two will throw me out like a dog from the porch!”
“Nonsense!” Ivan grabbed his hair. “You’re crazy about this apartment! Apartment-apartment! Just hug it already, sleep with it!”
“And you?” Nastya raised her chin defiantly. “Who are you with? Me or your mother?”
He was silent. For a couple of seconds. But that was enough for Nastya.
“I… I can’t choose. She’s my mother. And you…” he faltered. “You’ve become too harsh. Not the one you were.”
“The one I was tolerated. The one who was silent while you lay with beer and I washed the floors. The one who even drank tea with your mother and smiled. But that one is in the past. I found myself. And my apartment, thanks, I haven’t lost it. Yet.”
He stepped closer. For a second she thought he would hit her. But he just leaned over. So close she could smell tobacco and mint — his usual gum after a smoke break in the garage.
“You know, you’ve become like your mother. All ‘me,’ all ‘my way,’ all ‘you mean nothing to me.’ So you’ll be alone. Alone with this apartment of yours.”
“Better alone than with you.”
He stepped back. His eyes were no longer angry — rather empty. Tired.
“My mom says you’ve been selfish since childhood. Now I see — she wasn’t lying.”
Ivan went to the hall, grabbed his jacket and bag. But before leaving, he turned around:
“You think you’re strong? You’re scared. Scared to live alone. Scared without us. We’ll see, Nastya, how you’ll be singing in a month.”
“In a month, I might start a new life,” she threw over her shoulder. “Without slippers in the hallway. Without mother-in-law’s cutlets. Without you.”
He slammed the door so hard that a bottle of perfume fell from the shelf in the hall. Nastya didn’t move. She just sat down. And for the first time in a long time — cried.
The tears were not from hurt. From rage. And from how much she had let him get away with. And how little he appreciated it.
Morning began with silence. No calls, no footsteps outside the door, no jingle of keys in the lock. Just… emptiness.
Nastya woke up late, without an alarm. Without a reason. The bedroom door was ajar, like in movies where a woman is left alone — beautiful, broken, with red eyes and microwave porridge she won’t even eat.
Outside, a June drizzle fell. Sticky, unpleasant. Like those words people say not to you, but just to spite you.
She fell in love with the apartment again. Quiet, calm, smelling of coffee and vanilla. Everything like before. Before slippers, socks under the sofa, and phrases like:
“We’re used to it this way at home. Mom does it that way.”
For the first time in a month, she turned on music. Quietly. So the walls wouldn’t be scared that someone might come again.
But who came was Galina Petrovna.
Without knocking. With a key. As if a monument had already been put up for her here.
“Aha! And I see it’s quiet! I thought — either you’re dead or finally came to your senses,” Galina Petrovna stormed into the hallway like it was her own bathhouse. “Where’s my son?”
Nastya stood from the table. Without a smile. Without words.
“I’m asking, where’s Vanechka?” she said a little more insistently, squinting.
“He left,” Nastya answered calmly. “I hope forever.”
“And why are you happy?” the mother-in-law snorted. “Do you think I’ll let you throw out the family like trash? Do you know how much he invested in you?”
“And how much I invested in him — have you tried to count?” quietly but firmly. “Five years of my life. And I should still be thankful you two didn’t manage to take my apartment from me?”
Galina Petrovna turned pale. Not because she was ashamed — but because she suspected they really hadn’t managed.
“You don’t understand something, Nastya,” she adjusted a strand of gray hair that kept falling in her eyes. “A woman must be wise. Keep the family. Understand her husband. Not scatter everyone, sit alone like a fool. What will you do then when your hair turns gray? When your back hurts? Who will take you to the doctor?”
“I will,” Nastya folded her arms across her chest. “I am nobody’s enemy. And you and your son are strangers to me now. You are not family. You are a mistake.”
“Oh, is that so,” Galina Petrovna stepped closer. “So now we’re to blame? Look at you, saint! How you were silent when he went to Egypt at his expense! How you posted pictures planting potatoes at our village! And now we have an apartment — and we’re ‘toxic’ right away?!”
Nastya smirked.
“Do you hear yourselves? Egypt? Potatoes? He didn’t buy me a single present in five years. Only complained how expensive everything is. How I want too much. And you egged him on. And yes, the apartment is MINE. Because my parents left it to me. Not your village.”
“Aaah!” Galina Petrovna screamed. “May you live alone all your life, got it? With your character, only cockroaches will love you! I told you — you’re not right for my Vanechka! He felt sorry for you! And you threw him out like a puppy!”
“He left himself,” Nastya raised her voice. “Because he’s used to you deciding everything. He’s not a husband. He’s a henpecked man under your skirt.”
Galina Petrovna rushed to the coat rack, grabbed Nastya’s jacket, pulled a bunch of keys from the pocket and picked something out.
“And this we’re taking!” she hissed angrily, proudly putting the keys in her bag. “So there’s no temptation to let just anyone in.”
Nastya approached. Stood close.
Without shouting. Calmly. Like a judge who had already passed sentence.
“Give me the keys, Galina Petrovna. Or I’ll call the police. I have a complaint against you. You entered without permission, made a scandal, threatened. I will document everything. Believe me, I’ve learned to protect myself.”
“You’re threatening me? Me? After everything I’ve done for you?”
“After everything — you’re nobody to me. And if you come again, you’ll be taken to court. No tantrums. No mercy.”
They looked at each other. For several seconds. Nastya’s eyelids didn’t twitch.
Galina Petrovna faltered. Lowered her gaze. Then abruptly turned and went to the exit.
“Well, live then, Nastya. Just don’t call later. When you understand everything. And you will understand. Believe me.”
“I already understand,” Nastya replied. “No one has the right to invade my life. Even those who think they do.”
The door slammed.
This time — forever.
Epilogue
An hour later, Nastya blocked access to the intercom, changed the entrance door code, and a day later ordered a new lock for her apartment. And no one else had the keys to her life anymore.
And Mom and Dad came a week later. With cake, cognac, and the phrase:
“Well, daughter, you’ve finally grown up. Let’s live.”