Lera sat on the floor in the small room, moving baby things from one box to another. At eight months pregnant her back ached, her legs were swollen, but she didn’t want to stop what she’d started. Tiny onesies with bunnies, soft swaddles, rattles—everything lay around her, waiting for its time.
The nursery was small but cozy. Lera had chosen a light blue for the walls, bought a white crib with carved headboards, and hung a mobile with plush bears above it. The changing table stood by the window next to a dresser for baby clothes. Everything had been thought out down to the smallest detail.
Her husband, Artyom, came into the room, leaned against the doorframe, and took in the setup.
“Not bad,” Artyom nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “You put the table in a good spot.”
Lera looked up and smiled.
“Really? I was wondering if maybe I should move it to the other wall…”
“It’s fine. Don’t stress.”
Artyom turned and went back to the living room without even offering to help gather the scattered things. Lera sighed and kept sorting the footed pants by size. She was used to it—her husband never really got into the details; he’d nod approvingly when required, and that would be the extent of his involvement.
Her phone rang while she was going through the crib covers. Her mother-in-law’s name—Tamara Ivanovna—lit up the screen. She called every day, sometimes twice. Lera grimaced but picked up.
“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna.”
“Hello, Lera. Well, how are things? Still sitting in that nursery?”
“Yes, just finishing the last touches. I laid out the toys, put the cover on the mattress…”
“Oh, why do you need all that nonsense?” her mother-in-law cut her off. “Babies grow fast; in six months you’ll throw it all out. Why waste money?”
Lera pressed her lips together. This was far from the first time they’d had this conversation.
“Tamara Ivanovna, I want everything to be pretty and comfortable for the baby.”
“Comfortable!” her mother-in-law snorted. “You’d be better off saving the money. When I raised little Artyom—no toys for a thousand rubles, no designer cribs. And look, he turned out just fine.”
Lera rolled her eyes and stepped away from the crib, settling into the chair by the window. There was no point arguing. Tamara Ivanovna always knew better than everyone how to live, what to buy, and how to raise children.
“I saw those swaddles you bought at the store yesterday,” her mother-in-law continued. “Way overpriced! And why? Get the regular chintz ones—Soviet babies slept in them and they were fine.”
“Okay, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lera answered tiredly. “I’ll think about it.”
“Do think. Otherwise you’ll be complaining later that you don’t have enough money.”
After the call, Lera set the phone on the windowsill and looked outside. The autumn wind chased yellow leaves around the courtyard, the sky was covered with gray clouds. Her mood soured instantly. Her mother-in-law could wipe out all her enthusiasm with a single phone call.
The next day Lera was back at it in the nursery. She arranged shirts on the shelves, hung a terry towel with a duck-hood on a hook, and set jars of powder and cream on the dresser. Everything looked sweet and homey. Lera imagined bathing the baby, changing his diapers, rocking him to sleep—and warmth spread through her.
Artyom peeked into the room closer to evening, glanced at the shelves, and nodded.
“Looks tidy. Good job.”
“What do you think, should I get a night light too?” Lera asked. “So I don’t have to switch on the overhead light when I’m up at night.”
“Go ahead, if you want. You know better what you need.”
Artyom left again. Lera winced. “You know better” was her husband’s stock phrase for anything to do with the baby. As if it was only her concern.
A week later, the doorbell rang. Lera opened it and froze on the threshold. On the landing stood Tamara Ivanovna with a huge bag in one hand and a folder of documents in the other. Her face was glowing, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Lerochka, hello! Well, aren’t you happy to see me?”
“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lera mumbled, taken aback. “You didn’t say you were coming…”
“Why would I? I’m going to be here all the time now!”
Her mother-in-law walked into the apartment without waiting for an invitation, dropped the bag on the hallway floor, and unzipped her coat.
“Where’s Artyom? Still at work?”
“Yes, he’ll be back in an hour.”
“Perfect, then I’ll tell you everything right away. Sit, there’s news!”
Tamara Ivanovna went into the living room, settled on the couch, and patted the spot beside her. Lera slowly perched on the edge, feeling anxiety rise inside her.
“So, listen,” her mother-in-law began, opening the folder. “I sold my apartment! We closed the deal yesterday, I got the money. Now I’m moving in with you—for good!”
Lera blinked a few times, trying to process what she’d heard.
“What do you mean… for good?”
“Just like that!” Tamara beamed. “I’ll live with you and help with the baby. It’s your first, you have no experience. I know everything; I’ll teach you.”
Lera felt her heart start pounding. A two-room apartment. One bedroom for her and Artyom, the other—the nursery. Where would her mother-in-law live?
“Tamara Ivanovna, but we… The apartment is small, two rooms. We’ve already set up the nursery…”
“Exactly!” her mother-in-law cut her off without losing any enthusiasm. “I’ll live in the nursery. The baby will be in your room at first anyway; why does he need his own room in the first months?”
Lera opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. Her mother-in-law went on as if she didn’t notice her shock:
“I’ve thought it all out. We can move the crib into your bedroom for now—there’s enough space. And I’ll put my things in the nursery. Convenient, right?”
“But I spent so much time…” Lera began.
“Oh come on, it’s no big deal! We’ll move things around later when the baby’s older. What matters now is that I’m nearby. You won’t manage on your own; you need help.”
Tamara set the documents on the coffee table and leaned back, clearly pleased with herself.
“And actually, you know what I think?” she added, lowering her voice confidentially. “Maybe you shouldn’t fuss over the baby so much. Give birth and leave him in the hospital for a couple of weeks; let them take care of him there. In the meantime I’ll get settled, prepare everything properly. You’ll be tired after the delivery—you need to rest.”
Lera shot to her feet so fast her head spun. She grabbed the armrest to keep from falling.
“What?!” Lera gasped. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t mean anything bad,” Tamara waved a hand. “I’m thinking of your convenience. The first days are the hardest; why should you deal with a newborn right away? I’ll help—I’m experienced. You don’t know anything about raising kids.”
Lera stood in the middle of the room, staring at her mother-in-law in disbelief. Blood rushed to her face; her fingers curled into fists. Was Tamara seriously suggesting they leave a newborn at the hospital so she could take over the nursery?
“Tamara Ivanovna, this is my child,” Lera said in a low voice. “And I’m not abandoning him anywhere.”
“Who said ‘abandon’?” her mother-in-law protested. “I’m talking about help! You’re young and inexperienced; it’ll be hard for you. And I know how to do things right. I raised Artyom on my own, without all these modern gimmicks. And he turned out just fine.”
Lera turned and left the room, unable to continue. She locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and held her hands under the stream. It was hard to breathe; her thoughts were tangled. Was this really happening?
Her mother-in-law had sold her apartment. She intended to live with them. In the nursery. The room Lera had spent two months preparing. And she was suggesting leaving the baby in the hospital.
Footsteps sounded outside the door.
“Lera, why are you offended?” Tamara’s voice was peevish. “Come out; let’s talk properly.”
“I need to be alone,” Lera said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Oh, here we go. Pregnant women are always so touchy. Fine, I’ll put the kettle on.”
Lera heard her go to the kitchen and exhaled. She had to wait for Artyom. He had to do something. It was his mother; let him explain to her that this was impossible.
When Artyom came home from work, Tamara was already making herself at home in the kitchen. She’d made tea, sliced bread, and taken sausage out of the fridge.
“Mom!” Artyom was surprised. “Where did you come from?”
“Surprise, son!” Tamara hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to live with you now. I sold my apartment; I’m moving in for good.”
Artyom frowned.
“What do you mean, for good? We didn’t talk about this…”
“What’s there to talk about? I’ll help with the baby. Lera can’t manage alone; she has no experience. I know everything—I’ll teach her how to change diapers, feed him, put him down. It’ll be easier for you both!”
“But where are you planning to live?” Artyom looked around as if searching for a trick.
“In the nursery. The baby will sleep with you for the first few months anyway; why does he need a separate room?”
Lera stood in the kitchen doorway, watching silently. Artyom scratched the back of his head, looked at his mother, then at Lera.
“Well… In principle, Mom’s right. The baby really will sleep with us at first. Maybe it would be more convenient…”
Lera couldn’t believe her ears. Artyom was agreeing. Just like that. Without even asking her opinion.
“Artyom,” Lera said quietly, “can we talk?”
“Hang on, wait. Mom, what did you do with the money from the apartment?”
“It’s in a savings account. Don’t worry, I’m not a spendthrift. I’ll help you; I’ll put money aside for my grandson.”
“Okay. Well then, Mom, let’s really discuss how to organize everything.”
Lera felt everything inside her clench. Artyom wasn’t even going to object. He just accepted his mother’s decision as a given.
“Artyom, we need to talk. In private,” Lera repeated, raising her voice.
“Oh come on, don’t make secrets,” Tamara waved her hand. “We’re family; we’ll decide everything together.”
“I don’t want anyone living in the nursery,” Lera burst out. “I’ve been preparing that room for two months!”
“Lerochka, don’t be stubborn,” Tamara said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m not moving in there forever. When the baby grows, I’ll move out. For now I’ll help you.”
“But you sold your apartment! Where will you move out to?”
“Well, I’ll find something. Or I’ll rent. Don’t worry so much.”
Lera looked at Artyom, expecting support. But her husband just shrugged.
“Lera, let’s not start a fight right away. Mom wants to help. How is that a bad thing?”
“It’s bad that no one asked me!” Lera’s voice shook. “It’s our apartment, our baby, and someone just shows up and announces she’s taking the nursery!”
“Oh, how touchy you’ve become,” Tamara sighed. “Pregnant women shouldn’t worry like this; it’s bad for the baby.”
Lera turned and left for the bedroom, slamming the door. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Tears pressed, but she held them back. Crying was the last thing she needed.
A few minutes later Artyom came into the bedroom. He sat beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Lera, come on. Mom really wants to help.”
“Artyom, she said I should leave the baby at the hospital and not bring him home right away,” Lera lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “Did you hear that?”
Artyom scowled.
“What? That can’t be.”
“It can. That’s exactly what she said. Word for word. I should give birth, leave him at the hospital, and she’ll get settled in the nursery in the meantime.”
“Well, Mom sometimes says things like that… She doesn’t mean it.”
“And what if she does?” Lera grabbed his hand. “Artyom, this is our child. I don’t want your mother dictating how I raise him. And I don’t want her living in the nursery!”
“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to her,” Artyom sighed. “But let’s do this without hysterics, okay?”
Lera nodded, though everything inside was boiling. “Without hysterics.” As if she were the one who’d started this circus.
Artyom left the bedroom, and Lera remained sitting on the bed. A strange calm came over her suddenly. Not anger, not resentment—calm. Cold and clear. Lera looked at her mother-in-law through the cracked-open door. Tamara sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea and flipping through a magazine as if nothing had happened.
This woman seriously intended to take the place of her future child. She had suggested leaving the newborn in the hospital. And her husband hadn’t even been truly outraged. He had just asked her not to make a scene.
Lera got up and went to the wardrobe. She opened the top drawer of the dresser and took out a folder of documents. The title to the apartment. In her name. Bought three years ago, before she met Artyom, with the money from selling the room in the communal flat she’d inherited from her grandmother.
The apartment was hers. Entirely. No marital property, no rights for her husband or his mother.
Lera ran her fingers over the seals on the document and suddenly felt the tension ebb. Everything became simpler. Much simpler than it had seemed a minute earlier.
That evening Tamara announced she was going home to pack for the move.
“I’ll come tomorrow with my bags and start settling in,” she said, zipping her coat. “Artyom, help me move the sofa tomorrow, okay? I’ve got a good fold-out one—it’ll fit the nursery perfectly.”
“Yeah, okay, Mom,” Artyom nodded, seeing her to the door.
Lera stood in the hallway and watched in silence. Tamara turned to her:
“Lera, don’t be offended, all right? I really want to help. You’ll see—once you give birth, you’ll thank me for being here.”
Lera didn’t answer. She just nodded. Her mother-in-law left; Artyom closed the door and turned to his wife.
“See? Mom is trying; she wants to be useful.”
“Yes, I see,” Lera said quietly.
“Let’s not fight about this. The baby will be here soon—we need support.”
“Of course.”
Artyom put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. Then he went to watch TV. Lera stayed standing in the hallway, looking at the closed door of the nursery.
The next morning, while Artyom was at work, Lera went downstairs to the concierge. Aunt Vera sat at her desk doing a crossword.
“Hello, Vera Petrovna.”
“Oh, Lerochka!” the concierge looked up and smiled. “How’s the tummy? Soon now, right?”
“In a month. Vera Petrovna, I have a favor to ask.”
“I’m listening.”
“Don’t let anyone into the apartment without my permission. Under no circumstances. Even if they say I asked. Only if I call personally and ask.”
Aunt Vera frowned.
“Did something happen?”
“I don’t want extra visitors. Pregnant women need peace.”
“I see. All right, Lerochka, don’t worry. I won’t let anyone through.”
Lera went back upstairs. She sat in the nursery by the window and looked at the crib, the bear mobile, the neatly folded swaddles. All of this needed to stay here. For the baby. Not for her mother-in-law.
Closer to lunchtime, the doorbell rang. Lera looked through the peephole. Tamara stood there with two huge suitcases and several bags.
“Lera, open up!” her mother-in-law called. “I’m here!”
Lera didn’t open. She just stood behind the door, listening to Tamara knock and ring.
“Lera! Are you deaf? Open the door! I told you I’d move in today!”
Silence.
“Lera, stop this nonsense! Open up immediately!”
Lera picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button, connecting to the speaker on the landing.
“Tamara Ivanovna, the nursery is for the baby. You will not be moving in with us.”
“What?!” her mother-in-law’s voice leapt two octaves. “What kind of behavior is that?!”
“No theatrics. I’m simply not giving the nursery to anyone else. I wish you luck. In your life. Not in mine.”
“How dare you?! I’ll call my son—he’ll set you straight!”
“Call him.”
Lera hung up. She went into the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and placed a hand on her belly. The baby kicked from inside, as if in support. Lera smiled.
Ten minutes later the phone rang. Artyom. Lera answered unhurriedly.
“Lera, what are you doing?!” her husband shouted. “Mom just called and said you didn’t let her in!”
“That’s right. I didn’t.”
“What do you mean, didn’t? You were home!”
“I was. And still am. But Tamara Ivanovna is not.”
“Lera, that’s my mother! You have no right to treat her like that!”
“I do. This is my apartment. It’s in my name. I decide who lives here.”
Artyom fell silent. Then exhaled.
“Listen, let’s talk calmly when I get home. Mom didn’t mean any harm, she just…”
“She just suggested I leave the baby at the hospital so she could take the nursery,” Lera cut in. “Yes, I remember. Artyom, I don’t want to discuss this. The decision is made.”
“You can’t just kick my mother out!”
“I can. And I already did. See you tonight.”
Lera hung up. The phone rang again immediately. Artyom. Lera put it on silent and slid it into the nightstand.
For the next two days her husband tried to change her mind. He called ten times a day, came home from work gloomy, tried to talk, to persuade her, to explain that his mother hadn’t meant anything by it, that Lera was exaggerating, that she needed to be more tolerant.
“Mom didn’t mean it,” Artyom repeated for the third time that evening. “She just has her own view on raising kids.”
“Which includes suggesting we leave a newborn at the hospital?”
“Artyom, look me in the eye. Do you really think your mother was joking?”
He looked away. Was quiet for a moment.
“Okay, maybe she was serious… But we can just ignore her advice. Let her live in the nursery, and you do what you want.”
“No. The nursery is for the baby. Not for your mother.”
“Lera, you understand that Mom has nowhere to live now, right? She sold her apartment!”
“That was her decision. I didn’t ask her to sell it and move in with us.”
“You’ve become unbearable!” Artyom snapped. “Selfish!”
Lera rose from the couch without a word and went into the bedroom. She locked the door. Artyom knocked, demanded she open it, but Lera went to sleep, turning on white noise on her phone so she wouldn’t hear him.
In the morning Artyom left for work, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. Lera had tea, ate breakfast, and then went into the nursery. She straightened the blanket in the crib, spun the mobile. Everything was in its place. No suitcases. No fold-out sofas.
Her phone rang. Mother-in-law. Lera declined. It rang again. Decline. A third time. Lera blocked the number.
A week later Artyom started coming home later and later. He said he was tied up at work, lots of projects. Lera didn’t ask. She just kept getting the nursery ready, buying the last little things, reading books about newborns.
One evening Artyom came home and silently packed a bag. Lera stood in the bedroom doorway and watched him fold his things.
“Are you leaving?”
“To Mom’s. For now. Tamara Ivanovna rented an apartment. It’s hard for her alone; she needs support.”
“I see.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind. Before it’s too late.”
“Artyom, the nursery stays the nursery. If you want to live with your mother, go live with her. I won’t stop you.”
He zipped the bag and went to the hallway. He hesitated by the front door.
“You’re really letting me go just like that?”
“You’re the one leaving.”
“Because of Mom!”
“Because you chose her. Not me. Not our child.”
Artyom shook his head and left. The door closed with a soft click. Lera stood in the hallway for a moment, then went back to the bedroom. She lay down and looked at the ceiling. Oddly, she didn’t feel like crying. She didn’t feel like calling and asking him to come back. Just quiet and calm.
Two weeks later Lera went to the maternity hospital. She gave birth alone. Artyom didn’t come, although Lera sent him a message. He read it and didn’t reply.
The delivery went well. A boy. Three kilos two hundred grams. Healthy, loud cry, tiny fists clenched. Lera couldn’t take her eyes off her son. Tiny. Helpless. Hers.
On the third day after the birth a text came from Artyom: “How’s the baby?”
Lera replied: “All good. Healthy.”
“Did you pick a name?”
“Yes. Maksim.”
“Good name.”
There were no more messages. Lera didn’t write first. She was discharged on the fifth day. She called a taxi and came home with her son in her arms. She went up to the apartment, undressed, and changed Maksim into a clean onesie.
The nursery greeted her with the fresh smell of laundered swaddles and quiet. Lera laid her son in the crib and started the mobile. The plush bears spun to a soft melody. Maksim yawned and closed his eyes.
Lera sat by the window and looked at the sleeping baby. No suitcases. No strangers. Just a nursery where a child lived.
Artyom came a week later. He rang the doorbell; Lera opened it. He looked tired and worn. He stood on the threshold with a bag of toys.
“I brought some gifts for the baby,” Artyom said quietly.
“Come in.”
He took off his shoes and went into the nursery. He stepped up to the crib and looked at sleeping Maksim.
“He looks like me,” he smiled.
“Yes.”
He stood a bit longer, then turned to Lera:
“Mom wants to see her grandson.”
“No.”
“Lera…”
“No, Artyom. Not now. Maybe someday. But not now.”
“She is his grandmother, after all.”
“The grandmother who suggested leaving him at the hospital.”
Artyom pressed his lips together. He nodded.
“All right. I understand.”
He stayed another half hour; they talked about the baby, vaccinations, how Lera was managing alone. Artyom offered help; Lera declined. As he was leaving, he paused at the door:
“Maybe I could come back? We could try again?”
Lera looked at him for a long moment.
“You chose your mother over your family. I’m not offended. But you don’t need to come back. Maksim and I are fine on our own.”
“Lera, that’s ridiculous…”
“No. It’s honest. You’re not ready to protect your family from your own mother. That means we’re not on the same path.”
Artyom wanted to say something, but stayed silent. He left. Lera closed the door and leaned her back against it. Exhaled.
A month later Lera sat in the nursery nursing Maksim. He suckled, snuffling and opening his eyes now and then. It was raining outside; drops slid down the glass. Cozy. Peaceful.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: “This is Tamara Ivanovna. Artyom said you had a boy. I want to see my grandson.”
Lera read it and set the phone face down. She didn’t reply. She didn’t block the number. She just ignored it.
Maksim finished, let go, and burrowed his nose into Lera’s arm, breathing softly as he drifted off. Lera stroked his head and looked at the crib. White, with soft bumpers and a blue-checked blanket. The mobile spun above it with bears. On the dresser stood jars of creams, powder, wet wipes. On the shelves—stacks of shirts, footed pants, socks.
A nursery. A real one. For a child. Not for a mother-in-law with suitcases and demands.
Lera stood, gently laid sleeping Maksim in the crib, and tucked him in. She lingered, watching her son. He snuffled, twitched his little hands in sleep, wrinkled his nose.
The home was quiet. Peaceful. Hers.
And no one would ever again tell her what to do with her own child.