Maria stood motionless by the window. Three weeks had already passed since her husband Andrey left home. Fifteen years of life together had been reduced to two terse words in a note: “Forgive me. I’ll help.”
A sharp ring at the door made Maria tense. On the threshold stood her mother-in-law, Irina Petrovna.
“Come in,” Maria said quietly.
“No need,” Irina Petrovna cut her off coldly. “This will be brief. You’re divorced. You no longer belong to our family. This house belongs to the Sokolovs, and you are a Voronina again.”
Maria tried to object: “On what grounds are you trying to throw me out of my own house? I’ve lived here for fifteen years.”
“Your house?” her mother-in-law asked mockingly. “Don’t be ridiculous. His father and I bought this house for Andrey long before your wedding. You never meant anything here. I’m giving you a month. Exactly one month to pack.”
“No,” Maria answered firmly. “I won’t just leave. If I have to, I’ll defend my rights in court.”
“Very well,” the mother-in-law hissed, “then we’ll see you in court.”
Maria tried in vain to reach Andrey. The public services center couldn’t help— the house was registered to her father-in-law. The lawyer she turned to, spending her last money, confirmed that the situation was complicated, but said receipts for renovations and photos could help. A few days later, Irina Petrovna called and suggested meeting at a café to “settle things peacefully.”
“I’m proposing a reasonable solution,” the mother-in-law began. “I’ll give you time to find a new place and money for the down payment.”
“So you just want to buy me off?” anger simmered in Maria. “Do you remember how you used to say I was like a daughter to you?”
“Stop playing for pity!” Irina Petrovna raised her voice. “You know perfectly well: the house belongs to our family. You are nothing to us. You were our son’s wife—and you aren’t anymore.”
“In that case,” Maria said, “I won’t take your money. And I won’t leave the house. If you want, take it to court.”
She walked home in the rain. On the porch Andrey was waiting for her.
“Hi,” he said softly. “Can we talk?”
In the kitchen he explained: “I talked to Mom. I sold the apartment in Murmansk. We can buy you a one-bedroom or a studio…”
“Good Lord,” Maria laughed through tears. “You still don’t get it. I don’t need your little one-bedroom. Every corner here belongs to me. I built this house with my heart, do you understand?”
“I understand,” he said slowly. “But this is my mother’s house, my father’s.”
“Forgive me,” he whispered, seeing her pain.
“Go, Andrey,” Maria turned to the window. “Just go.”
The next morning the courthouse greeted Maria with a chill. The Sokolovs’ attorney confidently laid out the facts: the house belonged to his clients, and the plaintiff had lived there solely as their son’s spouse.
“Plaintiff, would you like to add anything?” the judge asked.
Maria rose slowly. She looked at Irina Petrovna and at Andrey, who wouldn’t raise his eyes.
“You know what,” she said suddenly, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m withdrawing the suit.”
The room fell silent.
“Do you understand the consequences?” the judge clarified.
“I do. You can’t sue for love, for memories, for fifteen years of happiness. Legally this house is yours. But what I put into it—no one can take away.”
By the exit, Irina Petrovna caught up with her.
“Wait. Why did you do that?” she asked quietly.
“Because you won,” Maria smiled sadly. “The house is yours. But along with it you’re losing a daughter. Forever.”
Later, at home, as Maria had already started to pack, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood Irina Petrovna.
“May I come in?” she asked. “Do you remember how we chose curtains for this room? You insisted on the blue ones… You’re right. It’s impossible to go to court over love.”
“What’s the point of this conversation?” Maria asked wearily.
“There’s no need,” Irina said decisively. “Don’t leave. Stay. This house belongs to you as well. I understand that now. I was angry… I’m sorry.” She took out some documents. “Here. I’ll have part of the house transferred to you today. Officially.”
At that moment Andrey appeared in the doorway.
“Mom, Maria,” he began, “I’ve been thinking… Maybe we could try to start over? I realized… A house isn’t the walls. A house is the people. The ones who make a family.”
Maria walked to the window where the apple trees grew—the ones they had once planted together.
“Do you know what’s hardest?” she asked.
“What?”
“Believing that you can start again.”
Andrey came and stood beside her.
“Shall we try?” he asked softly.
Maria was silent a long time, looking at the darkening garden. Then she slowly nodded.
“Let’s try.”