Alina stood in the middle of her brand-new two-room apartment with gray walls and windows overlooking an equally gray new building opposite. The apartment still smelled of concrete dust, but she already loved it. Here would be a kitchen with a blue set, a living room with a large sofa, and a bedroom — finally separate, not a walkthrough, not behind a wardrobe or in a corner of her parents’ apartment where she could hear her father sneezing through the wall. Her corner, her silence, her freedom.
Thirty-two years old, a twenty-year mortgage, and zero sentimentality — well, that’s how life seemed to be. But it was just at this point in her independent euphoria that she met Ivan.
As usual, he approached her at the tomato counter. She was weighing Baku tomatoes, and he dropped a net of potatoes next to her and mumbled something like:
“You have such a confident grip… Are you a wrestler by any chance?”
Alina smirked without looking:
“Only with the banks over the mortgage.”
He turned out to be a construction engineer, with hands that knew what a level, a trowel, and real work meant. Not a logistics manager, not an “entrepreneur,” but a real man with calluses. A month later, he was already installing sockets for her and explaining which walls could be knocked down and which shouldn’t if she didn’t want the emergency services over.
Half a year later, they got married. Quietly. Without limousines, rhinestone dresses, or drunken toasts. They just went to the registry office and signed the papers. Alina in jeans, Ivan with a cast on his finger — crushed by a beam at the construction site.
Everything was simple and logical. But, as usual, logic falls apart when a third element enters the equation. Especially if that element is a mother-in-law named Olga Petrovna.
“Alina, you’re a young, smart woman,” Olga Petrovna said with a smile at their very first tea together, “don’t you realize that family needs help?”
“I help however I can,” Alina replied calmly, watching her tea cool.
“Ira, my niece, has kids. Three of them. One is asthmatic. And with these prices now… You’ve seen how expensive rent is?”
Alina nodded. She knew the rent prices. And the mortgage knew her. Every night when she looked at the bank app payment slip.
“I understand, Olga Petrovna. But, well… this is my apartment. I bought it myself. Before Ivan. And…”
“Why are you so hung up on those papers?” Olga Petrovna interrupted, no longer smiling. “A paper today, gone tomorrow. But family — that’s sacred.”
Alina put down her cup. Quietly. But with expression.
“I think I’m family now too. Or not quite yet?”
Ivan, sitting nearby, pushed back his chair and suddenly seemed to shrink. He froze between the two women like a bear cub caught between two fir trees before a hurricane.
“Mom,” he started cautiously, “you know it’s Alina’s apartment. She did everything herself…”
“Exactly, herself!” Olga Petrovna snapped. “She bought it herself, does the repairs herself, went to the registry office herself, goes to work herself, cooks borscht herself, herself, herself! And what do you do, Ivan?”
“For borscht,” he muttered, smiling awkwardly. “And for sockets.”
Alina chuckled. Ivan tried to lighten the mood with a joke. But Olga Petrovna didn’t appreciate the humor.
“Don’t joke. I’m serious. The nephews have no housing. And you have a spacious apartment. Alina can live with us for a while, and you can go on vacation. Gena and I have long wanted you to go with us to Sochi…”
Alina couldn’t believe her ears.
“Excuse me, are you suggesting I give my apartment to your nephews and go on vacation with you?”
“Yes. What’s wrong with that? They can live there for a couple of months, then rent their own place. And you’ll rest in Sochi, get away, relax from everything.”
Alina stood up. Calmly. But her voice rang with glass breaking.
“I don’t need to escape from my apartment. And I definitely don’t want anyone ‘temporarily’ occupying it. Even if it’s your beloved niece with the asthmatic child. I feel sorry for their situation, of course, but I don’t owe anyone anything.”
“So that’s how it is…” Olga Petrovna snorted. “So you’ve just been waiting to get yours and hide away?”
Ivan suddenly stood up sharply.
“Mom, stop. Right now.”
“And you? You’re silent as always. Sitting like furniture. And I fought for you when you had asthma at thirteen and couldn’t go to gym class!”
“Mom, don’t mix everything into one pot. This isn’t about the apartment. It’s a mess of grievances.”
Alina went to the door.
“I think it’s time to end this conversation. We won’t give up the apartment. And we won’t discuss this anymore.”
“So you’re closing the door on family?” the mother-in-law almost shouted. “You, Alina, are selfish. You’re not a wife, you’re an owner. How can the earth even carry people like you?”
Alina stopped in the doorway and calmly replied:
“The earth carries firmly, especially if you’re registered in it. Excuse me.”
They left for home that evening. Olga Petrovna stayed behind — with bags, a samovar, and a look of resentment on her face.
“Listen,” Ivan said while Alina was stirring the salad, “maybe you really are too harsh?”
“Maybe,” Alina answered without looking. “But next time she’ll ask to move the furniture. Then maybe she’ll suggest registering someone there. Then — changing the doors. And you know when a house stops being a home?”
“When?”
“When you’re not the owner in it. But just a temporary resident.”
Ivan sighed.
“You are my home.”
Alina laughed:
“Alright, enough sweetness, go wash the potatoes.”
And they had dinner. No scandals, no guests, no asthmatics.
But the call from Olga Petrovna rang again the very next morning.
The call came on Saturday morning, exactly at 9:02. Alina lay with her nose buried in the pillow, trying to figure out where she was and what day it was. Ivan was already banging the fridge door, apparently looking for cheese he himself had eaten.
The phone on the nightstand flashed like a distress beacon.
“Olga Petrovna.”
Alina sighed. And didn’t answer. She had learned: if you don’t pick up the first time, the mother-in-law calls three more times and then writes a hurt “Fine, if that’s how you are” in WhatsApp.
On the third call, Alina finally answered. Because it was easier to listen to a monologue than read long passive-aggressive messages with passive-aggressive emojis.
“Alena, hi,” Olga Petrovna began in the tone of movie heroines saying, “I’m dying but holding on.” “I kept thinking whether to call or not… But then I decided: since we’re family, we have to speak honestly. Without falseness.”
“Good morning, Olga Petrovna,” Alina sat up in bed and yawned. “Go ahead.”
“I’m not your enemy. I want good for you. I just want you to be happy. And happiness requires conscience. You understand?”
Alina rubbed her face.
“I haven’t stolen anything or killed anyone. So what’s wrong with me now?”
“Everything’s wrong with you! You’re smart, beautiful, modern. Just a little selfish. Just a bit. On the edge. Yours, yours, yours — and where’s ours?”
“Ours?” Alina looked out the window. “Is it the apartment? Or Ivan?”
“You understand, Ira with the kids is really suffering. And you didn’t even let them see the apartment! Like we’re strangers. Like I’m not your mother-in-law, but a stranger.”
Alina was silent. Because if she started talking, she would have to shout.
“Alright,” the mother-in-law sighed. “I’ll come by this evening. We’ll discuss it like adults.”
“No,” Alina said sharply. “Don’t come. I didn’t invite you.”
“Are you serious?!” Olga Petrovna’s voice jumped. “So you forbid me from coming to my son’s apartment?!”
“Which, by the way, isn’t his. It’s mine. Registered to me, bought by me, paid for by me. Ivan is a guest in it. But fortunately, a beloved guest.”
“That’s rude!” the mother-in-law raised her voice. “I didn’t expect this from you! How dare you talk to your husband’s mother like that?!”
“Like this,” Alina answered calmly. “Because otherwise, you don’t listen. Until the evening.”
And she hung up.
“What now, again about the apartment?” Ivan stood in the kitchen doorway wrapped in a towel with a toothbrush in his hand.
“Uh-huh. She says Ira’s kids are suffering. And that I’m selfish because I only think about myself.”
“Well, maybe they are suffering,” Ivan shrugged. “But here’s the thing… You’re not to blame that Ira can’t handle money. And her husband is a drunk with no skills.”
“Why didn’t you tell her that?”
“I already did. She got offended. Said I was ungrateful. That she saved my life and now I’m under her thumb.”
Alina snorted:
“Well, apparently, my thumb is shiny since it holds so well.”
Ivan came over and hugged her shoulders.
“Don’t worry. I’m with you. Even with the mortgage, the repairs, the shadow fights.”
“And if mom shows up?”
“We won’t let her in. We’ll pretend we went to Crimea.”
But Olga Petrovna didn’t just show up. She came with “arguments”: Ira, two of the three kids, and some man who turned out to be the brother of her late husband. It smelled of tobacco, children’s cookies, and dissatisfaction.
“We won’t stay long,” Olga Petrovna said, looking at the hallway wallpaper. “Just look how bright it is here. So much air! Spacious!”
“This isn’t a tour,” Alina said quietly. “And I didn’t invite anyone.”
“But you don’t mind?” Ira interrupted, holding the hand of a kid with a blue runny nose. “We’ll just look. We have a two-room apartment for three. It’s stuffy. Mold.”
“I’m against it,” Alina said firmly.
And then the yelling started.
“Who do you think you are?!” Ira screamed. “Who do you think you are? We’re family!”
“FAMILY?!” Alina raised her voice. “Since when? I barely know you! You’re barging into my apartment like it’s a hallway, and I’m the janitor! You have your own problems — solve them yourselves! This is not a dormitory!”
“You’re nasty,” Ira spat. “You’re not a wife, you’re an owner. You’ve got your husband under your thumb, and you don’t respect his mother…”
“And you’re a manipulator. I see how your mother controls you. But my apartment is no place for your family battles. Go sort it out at home.”
Ivan stood motionless.
“IVAN!” the mother-in-law shouted. “Will you let her treat us like this?!”
“Yes,” he answered tiredly. “I will. Because this is her home. And because I’m her husband, not your tenant.”
Olga Petrovna was stunned. Then, without a word, she turned and left. Ira and the kids followed. The man mumbled something incomprehensible and went after them.
The door slammed. And the apartment became quiet.
“Do you think they’ll sue?” Alina asked an hour later as she and Ivan sat on the floor drinking tea.
“For what?” he shrugged. “For insulting family feelings? Mom will be offended for a month. Then she’ll call again. With cookies. And say she understood everything. And in a week she’ll start again.”
“Well, fine. Now I have new wallpaper and new boundaries. Let them get used to it.”
Ivan smirked:
“And new laws. Alina’s law. About how not to turn your life into a dormitory.”
Alina nodded.
“Yes. Rule number one: don’t let anyone in if they’re not invited.”
And suddenly added:
“And number two… if I ever decide to have a child, I want no one to tell my child that he owes anyone anything just because ‘that’s how it’s done.’”
“Are you serious about having a child?”
“Well, not now. But someday. In an apartment without asthmatics, mold, or relative raids.”
They laughed. Then, without saying a word, began making a renovation plan. Paint, furniture, ceilings. No discounts for “family.” Only for themselves.
When Olga Petrovna stopped calling, it was suspiciously quiet. Days went by, and the quieter she got, the more Alina’s hands itched: she was definitely planning something.
Ivan was calm. Too calm. He assured her that mom was “seriously” offended and they were temporarily dead to her. Alina didn’t quite believe him. Because Olga Petrovna wasn’t the kind of person who retreats. She was like the management company in a building with mold in the basement: seems gone, then suddenly appears demanding extra heating fees.
“I counted,” Ivan said one evening, “we’re short about a hundred thousand for the repairs. Maybe we should postpone the vacation?”
“No,” Alina replied sharply. “We deserve a vacation. And the repairs… we’ll finish them little by little. What matters most is that we’re together. And without guests.”
Ivan hugged her.
“You’re wild… but mine. And you’re doing the right thing. Even if it annoys half my family.”
Then came the summons.
“Court hearing on recognition of actual cohabitation and allocation of share to nephews in residential premises…”
Alina sat frozen in the kitchen. Staring at the paper. Hands shaking. Heart pounding in her temples. The world broke down into syllables: court hearing…
“What the hell?!” she screamed. “They… they’ve gone crazy?!”
Ivan read the paper silently, but his jaw clenched like he was trying to bite off a corner of the table.
“It’s mom. One hundred percent. She didn’t forgive. She found a lawyer. An old friend of her late husband, by the way. They now decided that since you’re ‘wife,’ the apartment is ‘joint property,’ and nephews can get a share. Because, attention! — they have more needs than you!”
“I’ll show them needs!” Alina jumped up, waving her arms. “I bought this apartment WITH MY OWN money. BEFORE marriage. I have all the documents. Am I supposed to share now because they have mold in their bathroom?!”
“Calm down,” Ivan ran his hand over his face. “We’ll hire a lawyer. Explain everything. This is nonsense. They won’t win. But they’ll mess with our nerves.”
The trial was in a month. That was enough time for Olga Petrovna to:
Tell everyone that Alina is a “cold bitch who threw the kids out on the street.”
Send Ivan a letter saying, “You’re not my son if you support this monster.”
Try through a contact at the housing bureau to get the apartment documents (failed, but points for effort).
Alina didn’t sleep at night. She developed a nervous tic in her right eye and a habit of scratching her neck like it was infested with a judicial mollusk. Ivan walked gloomy as a cloud and started thinking about therapy — for his mother.
“What if they win?” Alina asked the lawyer, a fragile woman with gray wolf eyes.
“They won’t win. Zero chance. But you know,” she squinted, “in court, it’s not facts that matter, but who yells louder. So keep your cool. Don’t fall for it.”
The court lasted exactly 43 minutes. During that time Ira managed to:
Shed a tear (fake).
Call Alina “unfeminine and morally indifferent to children’s suffering.”
Say the apartment “smells of loneliness because there are no children.”
Accuse Alina of “first seducing the brother, now squeezing out the relatives.”
Cry again, this time genuinely, because the judge yawned and asked for brevity.
Olga Petrovna looked at everyone with the expression “I am the moral authority here.” When Alina spoke, the mother-in-law theatrically rolled her eyes and took notes. Probably a plan of revenge.
But the judge was dry and extremely calm. He listened to both sides, examined the documents, asked a couple of clarifying questions, and tiredly said:
“Claim dismissed. No grounds for allocation of a share. Hearing concluded.”
Ira ran out of the hall in tears. Olga Petrovna remained seated, staring at one spot. Her lips trembled. Ivan approached, put his hand on her shoulder. She brushed it off as if he were popcorn on her jacket, not her son.
“Well, that’s it,” Alina exhaled, stepping outside.
“Not everything,” Ivan said. “Wait. I’ve decided something.”
He took out keys and placed them in her palm.
“These are from my mother’s old apartment. She registered it to me six months ago. Back then. She said, ‘Let it be, you never know.’ I’ll sell it. And we’ll invest the money in our renovation.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I don’t need her apartment if she’s blackmailing us with family.”
“But you love her,” Alina said softly.
“I do. But you can’t live with such a person. And you are my family. The only one.”
Alina pressed against him.
“Fine,” she muttered. “And we’ll make the apartment so that if mother-in-law comes in, it’ll be only with shoe covers and by appointment.”
They laughed. Heartily. For the first time in weeks.
Two months later, the renovation was finished. Walls painted, floors shining, kitchen like from an ad, and the bathroom could host tours of the “kingdom of coziness and tiles.”
Olga Petrovna never called again. Only once — she sent a text:
“Wishing you happiness. Hope you’re satisfied now.”
Alina didn’t reply. Because it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.
She stood in the middle of her apartment, holding a cup of coffee in a robe, thinking:
“Living isn’t about compromises. It’s about boundaries. And about love that stands on your side. Even when everyone else is against you.”
And let it stay exactly that way.