Alena loved the quiet of morning. The kind when the kettle only just begins to tremble on the flame, the coffee smells so good it feels like you’re breathing in flavor, and the sun lies softly across the old tiles, lighting up every scratch like a biography of the kitchen.
In those moments she felt like the mistress not only of the apartment, but of her own fate. She herself—without anyone’s help—had saved, skipped vacations, sold her grandmother’s dacha to buy at least some place to live. Yes, the view from the window was of the dumpsters, but she had a registered address, the place was renovated, and best of all—no neighbors behind the wall blasting schlock music all night.
The idyll was broken by the doorbell. On the threshold stood Nina Petrovna. Majestic, like an empress in retirement. In one hand—a box of pastries; in the other—a look that could make even a monk start justifying himself.
“Cozy place you’ve got, Alenochka,” she said, sweeping the kitchen with her eyes. “Just like normal people.”
“Thank you, Nina Petrovna,” Alena said dryly, hiding a half-smile so it wouldn’t show that this smile was anything but joyful. “I did my best.”
The kettle boiled, cups were set out, the pastries transferred to a plate. The conversation flowed along the usual channels: the weather, blood pressure, Sasha’s successes. But under all that chat a viscous something hung in the air, like cooled jelly. And Alena could feel it on her skin.
“My Nastya’s all grown up!” the mother-in-law suddenly breathed out. “She’s applying this year. To law.”
“Good for her,” Alena nodded. “The main thing is, not acting school.”
“Yes, yes…” agreed Nina Petrovna. “Only I think the dorm will be hard for her. Two buses from the suburbs, the crush… A girl needs peace. And a desk to study at.”
“Then you’ll rent a place,” Alena shrugged. “There are tons of listings.”
“Renting is money…” the mother-in-law sighed as if she’d just pawned her last pension.
Alena kept quiet. She knew this move: first pity, then a request wrapped in concern.
A week later the visit was repeated—only this time with Sasha. Her husband looked as if he’d been forced to lug sacks of potatoes at the gym. He came in and silently headed for the shower.
Alena had barely switched on the kettle when Nina Petrovna began fussing with the tablecloth. That was her signature gesture—meaning the main point was coming.
“I keep thinking, Alenochka… Nastya needs housing. Her own. So no one tells her when to wash and how much salt to put in soup.”
“Your own apartment is a miracle,” Alena replied. “But right now it’s sadly out of reach for many.”
Her mother-in-law gave her a look as if the person sitting across from her either had their hands attached wrong or their thoughts.
“You two have a place. Spacious. Close to the university…”
Alena tensed like a cat at the sound of a vacuum cleaner.
“There are two of us here. It’s tight as it is,” she said evenly.
“For two people who live in love, there’s always enough room,” Nina Petrovna declared with a philosopher’s air.
Alena snorted inwardly. Love is love, but cupboards still run on a schedule.
“Mom, let’s not,” Sasha cut in, coming out of the bathroom. “Nastya hasn’t even been admitted yet.”
“She will be,” the mother-in-law said with certainty. “She’s our smart girl.”
Sasha looked like he’d been called in to a parent-teacher meeting about a matter he knew nothing about.
Then came a third visit. This time with a photo album. Nastya in ninth grade, Nastya at the beach, Nastya with a dog, with a balloon, with Nina Petrovna framed by lilacs. Every photo came with commentary—tinged with wistfulness, pride, and the subtle suggestion: “how could anyone refuse such beauty.”
“She’s such a beauty…” the mother-in-law sighed. “And nowhere to live. It all falls on me. And you—you’re young, promising…”
“We’re paying a mortgage too,” Alena reminded her. “And our salaries aren’t exactly gilded.”
“But you already have a foundation. And Nastya has only dreams.”
Alena kept quiet. But inside, something already stirred, like a fly in compote.
That evening Sasha brought it up himself.
“How do you feel about Nastya?”
“What do you mean? Fine. She’s like a sister.”
“It’s just… Mom’s worried. It’ll be hard for her alone in the city. A student…”
Alena set down her fork.
“You’re saying she should move in with us?”
“No, no… Just… maybe temporarily?”
“And ‘temporarily’ is how long? A semester? A year? Five years?”
Sasha shrugged.
Alena felt something sticky growing in her chest—not trouble, but betrayal. Slow, well organized, with pastries at the entrance and suitcases at the exit.
That night she couldn’t sleep for a long time. It seemed to her that there was a thought scratching behind the wall: “they’ve already decided everything. They’re just waiting for the right moment.”
Meanwhile, at home, Nina Petrovna was scrolling through listings, estimating the price of a dacha plot, then closed the laptop and said softly into the dark:
“Everything for the children. Everything for the family…”
In June the apartment began to breathe differently. Not like before. As if a draft had settled near the kitchen—quiet but clingy, seeping into the most hidden corners. Or maybe it wasn’t wind at all, but the calls that pestered the home from morning till night. It was Nina Petrovna. Every day. Always starting the same: “Just for a minute!”—and then forty-five minutes followed, twenty of them complaints, the rest reproaches disguised as care.
“Sasha, she’s run herself ragged,” her husband would tell Alena, rubbing his temples. “Poor mom. She’s carrying everything on her shoulders.”
“Carrying whom?” Alena turned to him, ladle in hand. “Herself and a straight-A daughter who takes selfies more than she opens textbooks?”
Sasha shrugged. He didn’t know how to argue and didn’t like to. He belonged to the soft-agreeable breed: he’d bend before he’d stand up to his mother.
“You’re being unfair,” he muttered.
“Of course,” Alena agreed. “I’m also the evil stepmother. Hand me the broom, I’ll go kick Nastya out of the dorm.”
Sasha shivered but said nothing.
Meanwhile, the mother-in-law followed her tried-and-true scheme: precision pity, a pinch of anxiety, all served under a strategic sauce.
“Alena,” she whispered once over the phone, “I can’t sleep at night. Nastya won’t even have a place to cook! Those dorm stoves are all scaled up! How will she make soup?”
“Let her eat shawarma,” Alena replied coolly. “Very youthful.”
A sigh came through the receiver, so deep it felt like a draft of conscience blowing into Alena’s ear.
“I thought we were family… But you act like strangers. No warmth in you. It’s all about yourselves…”
After that, Alena didn’t pick up for a week. She knew otherwise they’d just grind her down—if not with a knife, then with drama. Endless, sticky, with lines like “nobody needs me,” “bury me without wreaths.”
By mid-month Nastya had finished her exams. The joy in Nina Petrovna was such that it was as if they’d just taken Berlin.
“She got in!” she shouted into the phone so loudly the neighbor’s cat darted under the bed. “My girl! On a state scholarship! Law! Moscow!”
Alena, to be fair, was happy. She even baked a carrot cake—Nastya’s favorite. They drove to the mother-in-law’s and threw a little celebration. Nastya sat quietly, ate cake, and stared at one spot. As if she knew the main act was about to begin.
And it did.
“Now the main thing is housing,” sighed Nina Petrovna, pouring herself half a glass of champagne the way some people take valerian drops. “The dorm isn’t for Nastya. They drink there, they fight, strange men roam around…”
“Mom, drop the stereotypes,” Sasha cut her off. “We’ve already discussed everything.”
“Uh-huh, discussed,” Alena muttered. “Only not in this apartment, apparently.”
The mother-in-law pretended not to hear. Or heard and decided revenge would be served on Sunday.
“You’re a family,” she suddenly declared. “And family means helping. I could’ve said, ‘not my business,’ when Sasha had a fever of nearly forty and I spent nights in the hospital.”
“That was twenty years ago,” Sasha said gloomily. “And it was the flu.”
“Doesn’t matter!” the mother-in-law lifted her chin. “What matters is care. And now I’m the only one worrying about everything! And you—with your apartment… As if you’ve locked yourselves in a bunker!”
Alena stood up silently and went to the kitchen. She needed to catch her breath. Her hands were shaking. Somewhere under her ribs a fear was turning—fear not for the walls and furniture, but that the man she loved was about to betray her. Not for another woman—for his, in his mind, “real” family.
Then came the “hints with packaging.” The mother-in-law started dropping by more often. One day it was a throw blanket, then a pot “for the future apartment,” then a pillow “just in case.”
“Alena, do you have space in the overhead cupboards?” she asked one day. “I’d like to leave Nastya’s suitcase. We’ll be bringing it here anyway.”
“Here—to where?” Alena asked without looking up from the onions.
“Well…” Nina Petrovna lowered her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”
At that moment Alena cut her finger. Blood spattered onto the cutting board—like a symbol that things had gone too far.
“It’s fine, I’ll wash it,” she said when Sasha jumped at the noise.
He tried to hug her, but she pulled away. His touch suddenly felt cold. As if a button had been pressed and everything inside had switched off.
“Mom, I asked you not to decide for us,” he said that evening. “Alena and I need to discuss this. Together.”
“Discuss away,” the mother-in-law sniffed. “Just remember: Nastya is your family. And these ‘wives’ come and go.”
Alena heard this from the hallway. She stood barefoot, a towel around her neck, and suddenly understood: the thing that had long been hanging in the air had now been spoken aloud.
They come and go.
Men almost always belong to their mothers. Or their sisters. Or their past. And wives—well, they’re a temporary inconvenience. A stage between “he’s still mine” and “he’s already someone else’s.”
That night Alena lay down separately. Under the same blanket with the person who was supposedly her husband, but who now felt more like a random fellow traveler in a third-class carriage.
She fell asleep near dawn. And dreamed of a giant suitcase someone was trying with all their might to drag into her apartment. And she couldn’t for the life of her get the door to close.
The morning was suspiciously peaceful. Too peaceful to be true.
Alena woke to the smell of croissants and silence. The kind of silence where you can hear the refrigerator breathing. No phone chirps, no groans into the receiver, no muffled conversations in the hallway. As if someone had muted the movie, leaving only the picture.
She stretched, yawned luxuriously, and through her drowsiness heard Sasha, pulling on his sneakers, say something on the run—about the store or coffee. She purred back something warm, though inside she was already scratching: everything was too smooth. And smooth, as Alena had long known, comes only before an earthquake.
Ten minutes later—the doorbell. Not once, but three times in a row, nervy, like someone who only knows how to count to three was standing outside.
Alena, not even getting her arm fully into her robe sleeve, shuffled to the door. And saw a sight that would have made her laugh in a dream, but in real life made her freeze: Nina Petrovna, Nastya, two suitcases, a backpack, and a grocery bag swollen with supplies.
“Good morning!” the mother-in-law sang out with the cheer of someone who has finally taken a fortress. “We’re here on business!”
Alena blinked.
“On what business, exactly?”
“Nastya’s moving in!” Nina Petrovna announced brightly. “September first is just around the corner. Time to settle in.”
“Moving where?”
“Where else?” The mother-in-law even threw out her hands. “Here, of course. I’ve prepared everything: linens, a lamp, notebooks…”
“Wait,” Alena leaned against the doorframe as her legs suddenly went weak. “Are you saying she’s going to live… here?”
“Yes!” the mother-in-law nodded, as if discussing a week at the dacha. “The university’s nearby, the apartment is spacious, the atmosphere—warm.”
“This is my apartment,” Alena said hoarsely.
“You’re not alone,” the mother-in-law objected. “You’ve got Sasha, a job, everything. And Nastya has nothing.”
“Nastya has a mother who’s lost her sense of measure,” Alena said coldly.
Nastya was silent. She stood with her eyes on the floor like a schoolgirl caught cheating. Her face drawn, pink patches on her cheeks.
And then the door swung wide. Sasha was back—with coffee in one hand, a bag in the other, and still a smile on his face. Until his gaze fell on the suitcases, his mother, his sister, and his pale wife clutching the door handle like a life preserver.
“What is going on here?” he asked slowly.
“A move-in!” the mother-in-law replied brightly. “We already discussed it!”
“No, Mom,” Sasha’s voice suddenly grew heavy. “You said Nastya needed housing. I thought—rent or a dorm. Not that Alena should leave.”
“Why not?” the mother-in-law flared up. “She’s not disabled and not a single mother. A sturdy, capable woman. She’ll find something to rent. Where is Nastya supposed to live?”
“Here?” Sasha looked at his mother as if at a stranger. “You decided everything for us?”
“This is family!” Nina Petrovna thumped her chest. “Don’t you want to help your sister?”
“I don’t, if it means throwing out my wife!” Sasha’s tone had gone icy.
“I gave my life to you!” the mother-in-law gasped. “I sat up with you at night! I—”
“…planned to occupy the apartment?” Alena inserted. “A brilliant move.”
Nastya sniffled.
“I didn’t want to… Mom said you agreed…”
“Alena didn’t agree,” Sasha said. “And you knew it.”
“Sasha!” his mother shrieked. “You’re choosing her? Her, who doesn’t even want to help her little sister?!”
He set the bags on the floor, stepped over, and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“I’m choosing the woman who doesn’t throw people out. Who believes in partnership, not occupations.”
“You’re kicking your mother out?” hissed Nina Petrovna.
“No,” he answered. “I’m asking someone who came not as a guest but as an invader to leave.”
A thick silence hung in the air. Then the mother-in-law lifted her chin.
“Let’s go, Nastya.”
“Sorry, Alena,” Nastya said quietly, and there was something almost genuine in her voice.
Alena nodded. There was no anger—only fatigue. The kind that comes after an illness: you’re no longer mad at the virus, you just want to sleep.
The door closed softly, without a slam.
Sasha sat beside her and took her hand.
“I’m an idiot,” he said.
“A little,” she sighed. “But it’s treatable.”
He kissed her on the temple. Silently, like an apology.
A week later Nastya moved into the dorm. Alena brought her a homemade cake and a set of dishes. Nina Petrovna didn’t come out of her room.
After that the mother-in-law called rarely. On holidays she would sigh into the phone: “I used to have a family…” And add, “Some daughters-in-law keep everything for themselves…”
Alena didn’t argue. Arguing with the past is like waving a broom at a train: lots of noise, no effect.
The apartment was quiet again. Truly quiet. No suitcases. No heavy sighs. No “Mom said.”
And it was a small, but wholly her own, victory.
The end.