Masha stood in the middle of her kitchen, watching Raisa Petrovna calmly sort through the documents on the table. Her mother-in-law was a sturdily built woman with gray hair set in a neat wave and a habit of speaking as if every word she uttered were a final verdict.
“Mashenka, don’t be so dramatic,” Raisa Petrovna said without even lifting her eyes from the papers. “The apartment is, of course, in your name, but let’s be honest. Who bought it? Who saved money their whole life?”
“Andrey saved. Your son. My husband,” Masha’s voice trembled with indignation.
“Andryusha worked two jobs, yes. But where did the down payment come from? Fall from the sky?” Raisa Petrovna finally looked up. Her gray eyes were as cold as a winter morning. “I sold my father’s dacha. My dacha. I watered that garden for thirty years.”
Masha sank into a chair. Through the window she could see the courtyard of the five-story building, where children were playing. Their laughter floated up to the fourth floor, reminding her of a time when everything had been simpler. When Andrey was alive, when they had just bought this apartment and dreamed of children.
“Lena is exhausted with the kids,” Raisa Petrovna went on, neatly stacking the documents. “Renting a place with two children—do you know what that costs? And here you’ve got a perfectly good apartment sitting empty.”
“Empty?” Masha sprang to her feet. “I live here! It’s been two years since Andrey died, I live here!”
“Alone. In a three-room apartment.” Raisa Petrovna stood and walked to the window. “And Lena’s got two children growing up. She needs space. She needs stability.”
Masha looked at her mother-in-law’s back and felt everything inside her turn over. Lena was Raisa Petrovna’s middle daughter, who’d divorced six months earlier and was now raising five-year-old Seryozha and three-year-old Masha on her own. Yes, namesake. Andrey used to joke that if they ever had a daughter, they would name her Masha—after his wife.
“I don’t mind helping Lena,” Masha said quietly. “But I don’t understand why I have to leave my own home.”
“Because you’re young. You’re thirty-two. You can start over. Get a good job, rent a nice place, get married again,” Raisa Petrovna turned to her. “But Lena is already forty. She has children. It’s harder for her.”
“Andrey left me this apartment. In his will.”
“A will is a will, and fairness is fairness,” Raisa Petrovna returned to the table. “We’re civilized people. We can reach an agreement like adults.”
Masha sat down at the table across from her. Between them lay the documents—certificate of ownership, technical passport, some certificates. Everything was in her name, yet she felt like a schoolgirl called in to the principal’s office.
“And if I don’t agree?”
Raisa Petrovna smiled slowly. Nothing good came with that smile.
“Then we’ll have to go through the courts. I have a good lawyer. He says the will can be contested. Andrey was sick for a year before he died, he was taking strong medication. He might not have been in his right mind when he signed the papers.”
“That’s not true!” Masha jumped up so abruptly she knocked over a cup of cold tea. “Andrey was perfectly lucid! He wanted the apartment to go to me!”
“Of course he did. You were newlyweds. You lived together only three years,” Raisa Petrovna’s voice softened, almost sympathetic. “But life is life. He couldn’t have foreseen that Lena would be left alone with the children.”
Masha wiped up the spilled tea and thought about how much had changed over the past two years. When Andrey died, Raisa Petrovna had been completely different. She cried at the funeral, hugged her, called her “daughter.” Said that now they only had each other. And then it began.
Small things at first. Raisa Petrovna started coming every day “to check on her.” She rearranged things, advised what to throw out and what to keep. Then she began bringing Lena and the kids—so they could rest, play in the big apartment. The children ran from room to room while Lena complained about the cramped studio she was renting.
“You know what,” Masha straightened up, “let me think about it. I need time.”
“Of course, dear. Just not too long. Lena has already started packing. And the children are so looking forward to the move,” Raisa Petrovna gathered the documents into a folder. “I understand this is hard for you. But think of the family. Of my son’s children.”
After her mother-in-law left, Masha walked through the apartment. Three rooms, a kitchen, a large bathroom. Andrey had said their family would grow here. He’d shown her where the crib would go, where the playroom would be. They had even chosen the wallpaper together—soft blue in the bedroom, beige in the living room, bright, child-friendly patterns in the third room.
Masha stopped at the bedroom window. Children were playing in the yard—probably the same ones laughing that morning. A boy of about five was chasing a ball, and a younger girl tried to snatch it away. They looked so much like Lena’s kids, Seryozha and Masha.
The phone rang sharply, slicing through the silence.
“Hey, Mash! How are you?” her friend Tanya’s voice sounded unexpectedly cheerful.
“Fine,” Masha lied.
“Listen, is it true you’re selling the apartment? Sveta told me—her mother-in-law lives in our building—she heard people talking.”
“What? What people?”
“Well, that you’ve decided to move. That it’s hard for you here alone, all the memories. And that Lena needs the apartment, you know, because of the kids.”
Masha slowly sank onto the couch. So, Raisa Petrovna had already told everyone. Everything was decided already.
“Tanya, I’m not selling anything. And I’m not moving anywhere.”
“Oh, then your Sveta’s mother-in-law got it mixed up. Happens. Hey, want to meet up? It’s been a while.”
After talking to Tanya, Masha sat in silence for a long time. Then she got up and went to the closet where Andrey’s things were. She still couldn’t bring herself to throw them out or give them away. Shirts, sweaters, jeans—they all smelled of his cologne.
In the pocket of a jacket she found a note. Andrey had always left her notes—on the fridge, in her bag, in the bathrobe pocket. This one was written in his uneven hand: “Mashka, if you’re reading this, it means I can’t say it to you in person anymore. This apartment is yours. You earned it with our love. Mom may not understand, but don’t give in. Love, A.”
Masha pressed the note to her chest and cried. For the first time in two years—not out of self-pity, but out of gratitude. Andrey knew. He had foreseen it.
The next day Lena came. Alone, without the kids. She was a short, slightly plump woman with tired eyes and a habit of biting her lips.
“Masha, I feel awkward,” Lena sat in the kitchen, refusing tea. “Mom said you agreed to give up the apartment. I wanted to say thank you.”
“I didn’t agree,” Masha said softly.
Lena turned pale.
“What do you mean, didn’t agree? But Mom said… I already told my landlady we’re moving out at the end of the month.”
“Lena, this apartment is mine. In law and in conscience. Andrey wanted it to be mine.”
“But the children… I have nowhere to live with the children…”
“And where am I supposed to live?” Masha stood up. “I’m a person too. I have the right to a home as well.”
“You’re young, you can remarry, you’ll have a new family,” Lena began speaking quickly, nervously. “I won’t remarry. Who needs me with two kids?”
“I don’t know. But that’s no reason to take my apartment.”
Lena stood and went to the window. Her shoulders trembled.
“So Mom lied. She said you agreed. What do I do now? Where can I find a place in two weeks?”
“Lena, I’m willing to help. I can give you money toward rent, I can go look with you for something suitable. But I won’t give up the apartment.”
“Help with money?” Lena turned around. Something unpleasant flickered in her eyes. “With what money? You don’t even work. You live on Andrey’s survivor’s pension.”
“I do work. Remotely, I do translations.”
“Probably for peanuts. And the apartment is worth more than four million. You could sell it, buy yourself a studio for two, put the rest on deposit—and live in peace.”
Masha realized the conversation was going the wrong way.
“Lena, let’s end this. I’ve made my decision.”
“Fine,” Lena picked up her handbag. “Just keep in mind—Mom won’t back off. She can make things so unpleasant you’ll want to move out yourself.”
After Lena left, Masha locked the door with every lock and leaned her back against it. What did “make things unpleasant” mean? And why did she feel under siege?
The answer came a week later. In the evening the doorbell rang. Masha opened it to a policeman.
“Good evening. Are you Maria Sergeevna Andreyeva?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“A complaint has been filed against you. Neighbors are complaining about noise, shouting, disturbing the peace.”
“What noise? I live alone, I don’t have the TV loud.”
“Nevertheless, there’s a complaint. Please be more considerate of your neighbors.”
The policeman left, and Masha stood in the hallway with the door open. Which neighbors? An elderly woman lived downstairs who hardly ever left her apartment. Upstairs was a young family with a newborn—they were the ones who made noise at night. And next door…
Next door lived Svetlana Ivanovna—a friend of Raisa Petrovna. The same woman whose daughter-in-law had told Tanya about the apartment being sold.
The next day Masha ran into Svetlana Ivanovna by the entrance.
“Hello, Svetlana Ivanovna.”
“Oh, Mashenka, hello,” the neighbor looked away. “How are you?”
“Fine. Only the police came yesterday. Said someone complained about noise from my apartment.”
“Really? Strange. I didn’t hear anything.”
“Do you happen to know who might have complained?”
Svetlana Ivanovna hesitated, twisted her shopping bag in her hands.
“Mashenka, maybe you really should think about moving? The apartment is big, expensive to maintain. And you’re young, you’ll get your personal life sorted out.”
“Did Raisa Petrovna ask you to talk to me?”
“No, of course not…” Svetlana Ivanovna blushed. “I just think the children need the apartment more. They have their future ahead.”
“And I don’t?”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
Masha understood. She also understood who had filed the police complaint.
The complaints continued. Once a week the police came, the district officer, the building management. Complaints about noise, smells, violations of building rules. Each time Masha explained that she lived quietly and quarreled with no one, but the papers kept coming.
Then the phone calls started.
“Hello,” Masha picked up yet again.
“Mashka, when are you moving out?” an unfamiliar man’s voice.
“Who is this?”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is you don’t belong here. Got it?”
“I don’t. And don’t call again.”
But the calls continued. Every day, at different times. Sometimes the caller stayed silent, sometimes they spewed insults, sometimes they threatened her.
Masha changed her number, but a week later the calls resumed.
One morning she came outside to find her car plastered with flyers: “Urgently selling apartment, cheap.” The flyers listed her phone number—the new one only close friends knew.
Masha tore down the flyers and drove to see Raisa Petrovna.
Her mother-in-law lived in a two-room apartment in a neighboring district. She greeted her calmly, as if she had been expecting her.
“Come in, Mashenka. Tea?”
“No. Raisa Petrovna, this is too much.”
“What is?”
“Police complaints. Phone calls. Flyers on my car.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Raisa Petrovna sat down in an armchair and picked up her knitting. The needles clicked steadily; the yarn laid itself down in an even pattern.
“You know perfectly well. You’re trying to drive me out of the apartment.”
“Mashenka, you’re giving yourself too much credit. I’m an elderly woman living alone. Where would I get the connections to cause you any trouble?”
“You have friends. Neighbors. Lena.”
“Lena is looking for a place. For now she’s renting a room from strangers, the kids are suffering. Maybe your conscience will wake up?”
Masha stood.
“Raisa Petrovna, I’ll say this one last time. I’m not giving up the apartment. If this doesn’t stop, I’ll go to a lawyer.”
“Go. Just remember—I have a lawyer too. And papers in hand.”
“What papers?”
Raisa Petrovna set the knitting aside and took a folder from the cabinet.
“A certificate stating that Andrey was treated by a psychiatrist. He took antidepressants. A certificate that the will was made during an acute phase of illness. Witness statements that he wasn’t in his right mind in the final months.”
Masha went cold.
“Andrey wasn’t treated by a psychiatrist.”
“He was. He got antidepressants from a family doctor. And the family doctor is an old acquaintance of mine.”
“That’s forgery.”
“These are documents. And who are you to contest them? A translator without a university degree, without stable income. And I am the deceased’s mother, the grandmother of his nephews and niece, a person of impeccable reputation.”
Masha left the apartment without a word. Outside, she sat in her car for a long time without starting the engine. What should she do? Who could she turn to?
At home she found the number of a legal advice service online.
“Hello. Can a will be contested if there are certificates about the testator’s mental state?”
“Yes,” the consultant replied. “But you need to prove the certificates’ authenticity and find witnesses willing to confirm the testator’s capacity at the time the will was signed.”
“What if the certificates are forged?”
“You’ll need evidence of forgery. Expert analyses, witness statements.”
“How much could that cost?”
“Depends on the complexity. From a hundred thousand and up.”
Masha hung up. She didn’t have a hundred thousand. Her translation work brought in thirty to forty thousand a month, plus the survivor’s pension—fifty thousand in total. It would take her two years to set aside that much.
And it might not even come to court. If Raisa Petrovna kept up the pressure, if the calls and complaints didn’t stop, Masha simply wouldn’t hold out.
That evening Masha sat in the kitchen thinking. Maybe she really should leave? Sell the apartment, buy a studio, invest the rest? Live peacefully, without war, without stress?
But then they would win. Raisa Petrovna with her scheming, Lena with her kids, Svetlana Ivanovna with her complaints. It would mean you could just walk in and take someone’s home if you had connections and the nerve.
And then there was Andrey. His last will, his note in the jacket pocket. “Don’t give in,” he wrote.
Masha stood and went to the window. The yard lights were on now, the children were home. Quiet and calm. Her yard, her home, her life.
She picked up the phone and dialed Tanya.
“Hey, Tanya. Do you know a lawyer? I need help.”
“I do. What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet. The main thing is he should be good. And not too expensive.”
“I’ll pass along your number. He’ll call you himself.”
The lawyer called the next day. His name was Mikhail Alexandrovich; his voice was calm and professional.
“Maria Sergeevna, tell me about the situation.”
Masha told him everything—about the pressure from her mother-in-law, about the forged certificates, about the phone calls.
“I see,” the lawyer said. “It’s not a simple case, but it’s solvable. First, we need to document the harassment. File police reports for every call, save all paperwork. The certificates can be checked by an expert review. And most importantly—find witnesses who can confirm your husband was competent.”
“How much will it cost?”
“My fee is fifty thousand. Expert examinations and other expenses—another thirty or so.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Then we can try a different route. Settlement. Negotiations.”
“With Raisa Petrovna? She won’t negotiate.”
“She will if she realizes you’re serious about defending yourself.”
That same day Masha filed a police report about the phone threats. The district officer was skeptical, but took the report.
“You’ll need witnesses, recordings of the conversations,” he said. “Otherwise it’s your word against theirs.”
“How do I get recordings?”
“Record them yourself. There are phone apps.”
Masha installed an app and started recording every call. Within a week she had five recordings with threats and insults.
Another week later, Mikhail Alexandrovich called.
“Maria Sergeevna, I spoke with your mother-in-law’s lawyer. They’re willing to meet and discuss a compromise.”
“What kind of compromise?”
“You stay in the apartment but register your sister-in-law and her children there. Temporarily, for a year or two.”
“So they can push me out completely afterward?”
“It’s better than a lawsuit. Court can drag on for years.”
Masha agreed to the meeting. They met at Mikhail Alexandrovich’s office—a small space with two desks and bookshelves.
Raisa Petrovna’s lawyer turned out to be a man of about fifty, in an expensive suit, with a habit of speaking loudly and confidently.
“So, Ms. Andreyeva,” he began without even saying hello, “my clients are willing to avoid going to court. Under certain conditions.”
“What conditions?” asked Mikhail Alexandrovich.
“Ms. Andreyeva registers Elena Viktorovna and her children in the apartment. They receive equal rights to the living space. In two years, when the children are older, the matter will be settled definitively.”
“You mean in two years the apartment will still be taken away?” Masha asked.
“It will be decided based on circumstances.”
“No,” Masha said. “That’s not a compromise. That’s a postponement.”
“Then we’ll go to court,” the other lawyer shrugged. “We have all the documents to get the will declared invalid.”
“And we have recordings of phone threats and witnesses to the document forgery,” Mikhail Alexandrovich replied evenly.
“What witnesses?”
“Your client’s physician is prepared to testify that he prescribed no antidepressants and issued no such certificate.”
The lawyer’s face changed.
“That… that needs to be verified.”
“Please do. Meanwhile, we’ll be filing a complaint with the police about document forgery and psychological pressure on our client.”
The meeting ended without agreement. Masha walked out into the street and felt, for the first time in many weeks, that she could breathe freely.
“Mikhail Alexandrovich, did you really find the doctor?”
“I did. Andrey Viktorovich was indeed his patient, but he didn’t receive antidepressants. And no certificates were issued.”
“So the certificates are fake?”
“Looks like it. But we still have to prove it.”
“And if we can’t?”
“We will. Your mother-in-law doesn’t have the pull she thinks she has.”
Three days later, Raisa Petrovna called herself.
“Mashenka, let’s meet. Let’s talk like human beings.”
“About what?”
“About a compromise. No lawyers, no outsiders.”
They met at a café near Masha’s building. Raisa Petrovna looked tired, older.
“Mashenka, why are you doing this? We’re family.”
“You destroyed that family yourself when you decided to take my home.”
“Not take, share. Lena and the kids will end up on the street.”
“Let her rent. Like normal people.”
“With what money? Her salary’s small, her ex doesn’t pay alimony.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Raisa Petrovna leaned across the table.
“Mashenka, let’s make a deal. You register Lena here, she and the kids live in one room. The other rooms are yours. Utilities split in half. And no lawsuits.”
“And in a year?”
“In a year we’ll see. Maybe Lena will marry and move in with her husband.”
Masha took a sip of cold coffee and looked at her mother-in-law.
“Raisa Petrovna, you still don’t get it. I’m not going to share my apartment with anyone. This is my home. Period.”
“Then there will be a trial. And you’ll lose.”
“We’ll see.”
Masha stood and set money on the table for the coffee.
“And stop the calls. Otherwise the next conversation will be at the police station.”
The trial began two months later. The hearing took place in an old building, a stuffy room with high ceilings. Masha sat beside Mikhail Alexandrovich and listened as the opposing lawyer spoke about her husband’s mental illness.
“Andrey Viktorovich was in a state of deep depression. He was taking powerful medications that affected his ability to make rational decisions.”
“Do you have supporting documents?” the judge asked.
“Yes. A certificate from his attending physician.”
Mikhail Alexandrovich stood.
“Your Honor, we challenge the authenticity of this certificate. The attending physician of the deceased is prepared to testify that he issued no such certificate.”
“Submit the physician’s testimony to the record.”
Doctor Petrov turned out to be a man in his sixties, with a gray beard and attentive eyes.
“Andrey Viktorovich was indeed my patient,” he said, placing his hand on the Bible. “But he did not take antidepressants. And I issued no such certificate.”
“Then where did this certificate come from?” the judge asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps someone forged my signature.”
Raisa Petrovna’s lawyer tried to object, but the judge was firm.
“The certificate is excluded from the case file as unreliable.”
After the hearing, Raisa Petrovna approached Masha in the corridor.
“Think you’ve won?” her voice trembled with anger. “I haven’t said everything yet.”
“What else can you say?”
“That you deliberately didn’t have children. That you starved my son to spend the money on yourself. That after his death you went out with men.”
Masha looked at her mother-in-law and, for the first time in months, smiled.
“Go ahead. Say whatever you like. The court will decide according to the law, not your fantasies.”
At the next hearing the witnesses testified. Neighbors confirmed that Andrey was competent right up to his death, that he spoke with people and handled everyday matters. Colleagues said he worked until the very last day and showed no signs of mental disorder.
Mikhail Alexandrovich read out the note found in the jacket pocket.
“This is the deceased’s last will expressed in his own hand. He understood that his mother might try to contest the will and left his wife this support on purpose.”
The judge examined the note and compared the handwriting with other documents.
“The note is admitted as additional evidence of the testator’s capacity.”
The decision was announced a week later. Masha won on all counts. The will was deemed valid; the apartment remained hers.
“The plaintiff’s claims are denied. The defendant remains the sole owner of the disputed residence.”
Raisa Petrovna sat pale, lips pressed tight. Lena cried, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
After the hearing Masha stepped outside. It was a clear autumn day; yellow leaves swirled in the wind. She got into her car and, for the first time in half a year, felt she could relax.
A surprise awaited her at home. A note was taped to the door: “We’ll drive you out anyway. Don’t celebrate too soon.”
Masha tore down the note and threw it in the trash. Then she took out her phone and called a locksmith.
“I need the locks changed. Today.”
“It’ll be expensive if it’s urgent.”
“I don’t care.”
By evening, the locks were changed. Now only she could get into the apartment.
A month later Masha learned that Lena had found a job in another city and moved there with the kids. Raisa Petrovna sold her apartment and moved in with her elder daughter.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Tanya said when they met at a café. “Now you’re free. You can start a new life.”
“I’m already free,” Masha replied. “Only now I have a home.”
That evening she sat in her kitchen, drinking tea and looking out the window. Children played in the yard, the lamps glowed, life moved along as usual. Calm and unhurried.
On the table lay a folder with documents—the court decision, the certificate of ownership, Andrey’s note. Everything that confirmed her right to this apartment, to this life.
Masha picked up the note and read it one last time. “Don’t give in,” Andrey had written. She hadn’t. She stood her ground. She won.
She could have thrown the note away now, or tucked it into a photo album. But Masha put it back into the folder with the documents. Let it stay. Let it remind her that sometimes you have to fight for your happiness.
And happiness isn’t necessarily something grand and loud. Sometimes it’s simply the right to live in your own home, drink tea in your own kitchen, and not fear that tomorrow someone will come and say, “Pack up, you don’t belong here.”
Outside, the rain began. Masha closed the window, poured herself more tea, and turned on the TV. Home is good. It’s always good in your own home