— “Katenka, why were you so stingy with the dessert? One little cake for this whole crowd!”
Zinaida Semyonovna’s voice—shrill and acidic, like cheap perfume—cut through the hum of conversation. The guests gathered in the spacious living room of Katya’s three-bedroom apartment fell awkwardly silent. Vitya, Katya’s husband, immediately jabbed her in the side with his elbow and hissed:
— “Seriously, couldn’t you order two? I told you Mom loves ‘Bird’s Milk’!”
Katya slowly turned her head. A polite, icy smile froze on her face.
— “I ordered what I thought was necessary, Vitya.”
She felt that familiar, dull exhaustion creeping along her temples. It was her birthday. In theory. In practice, it was yet another benefit performance starring Zinaida Semyonovna, who was “helping” her daughter-in-law host guests in Katya’s own apartment. The apartment Katya had bought long before her “happy” marriage.
That evening, after the last guest left—and Zinaida Semyonovna, complaining about “indigestion from Katya’s cooking,” retreated to her room (Katya’s former home office)—Vitya started his “debrief.”
— “You could’ve been more polite to Mom!” he began, stuffing the leftovers of that very cake into his mouth. “She’s an elderly woman!”
— “An elderly woman, Vitya, wouldn’t publicly call the homeowner a cheapskate,” Katya said, methodically collecting the dishes. Her hands, decorated with expensive rings—gifts she’d bought herself after successful projects—moved quickly and precisely. She was a CFO at a major company, and her energy seemed to have physical weight.
— “Oh, come on—‘cheapskate’! You’re so sensitive! She was joking!” Vitya smirked and rolled his eyes. “You always take everything the wrong way. You have no sense of humor.”
Katya stopped and looked at her husband. The handsome, well-groomed face she’d once loved now seemed like a mask—hypocritical, weak.
— “No, Vitya. I do have a sense of humor. But my patience, it seems, is running out.”
That night Katya couldn’t sleep for a long time. She stared at the moonlight playing over her framed diplomas—diplomas she’d had to move into the bedroom—and she thought. Thought about how it had come to this.
Zinaida Semyonovna and Vitya had moved in with her three years earlier. First, Zinaida Semyonovna had “suddenly” sold her tiny two-room apartment outside Moscow to “help her son with a mortgage” (which they didn’t even have). The money, naturally, “disappeared”—either invested unsuccessfully or simply evaporated. And Vitya, the “successful freelancer,” had been without orders for a year, yet reliably spent money from Katya’s shared card on “business representation.”
They lived in her apartment, ate her food, used her resources. And yet both of them—mother and son—still managed to look down on her like she was household staff who, for some reason, also earned the money.
“Why am I putting up with this?” The question, which used to smolder dimly at the edge of her mind, now flared with furious clarity. “I’m supporting them. I pay for everything. And in return I get accused of being stingy?”
The inner discipline that helped her at work finally woke up in her home life, too. This wasn’t a decision made in anger. It was a cold, precise calculation.
The next day Katya left for work earlier than usual. And during the day, her aunt, Alla Borisovna, stopped by her office. A short, sharp-tongued woman with eyes like drill bits, Alla was one of the best notaries in the city—and she had exactly the sense of humor Vitya insisted Katya lacked.
— “Allochka, hi! What brings you here?” Katya genuinely brightened.
— “Hi, Madame Director! I was passing by and decided to see how you boss your capitalists around.” Alla flopped into the visitor’s chair. “What’s with your face? Your household bloodsuckers drink you dry again and complain your blood isn’t sweet enough?”
Katya smirked—and suddenly, unexpectedly, told her everything. About the cake. About “cheapskate.” About Vitya’s “freelancing.”
Alla Borisovna listened in silence, only tapping her fingers on the armrest.
— “Got it,” she said at last. “You know, Katyusha, I had a client once. Same ‘saintly simplicity.’ She dragged along a lazy husband and his mommy. They also kept calling her ‘stingy’ when she refused to give them money for a new car. You know what ‘stingy’ means in their language? It’s when you spend your money on yourself instead of on them.”
— “And what did she do?” Katya asked quietly.
— “What did she do? Nothing dramatic. She just… turned on the meter.” Alla smiled slyly. “See, Katyusha, the Civil Code has some wonderful articles. And the Housing Code has even more wonderful ones. Especially when the apartment is your personal, pre-marital property.”
They sat for another hour. When Alla left, Katya felt as if a concrete slab had been lifted from her shoulders. She had a plan—calm, determined, and completely legal.
The emotional whiplash of the past few days—from hurt and helplessness to cold fury—finally settled into one solid point of certainty.
A week later, Katya gathered people again. Not guests, really—a “family council.” Just the three of them: Katya, Vitya, and Zinaida Semyonovna.
On the coffee table in the living room there wasn’t a vase of flowers, but three neat folders of documents.
— “Katyusha, what kind of surprises are these?” Zinaida Semyonovna was in a good mood. She’d already picked out a new fur coat on Katya’s money.
— “An evening of surprises, Zinaida Semyonovna,” Katya said with her most charming “work” smile—the one that gave her subordinates goosebumps. “Let’s get down to business.”
She opened the first folder.
— “This is for you, Zinaida Semyonovna. A rental agreement. For the room you so kindly agreed to live in.”
— “What?!” Zinaida Semyonovna snatched the papers. “Rent?! In my son’s apartment?!”
— “In my apartment,” Katya corrected gently. “Vitya is registered here as my spouse. And you… forgive me, but who are you to me under the Housing Code? Right—no one. So starting on the first,” she pointed to the date, “this is the amount. Trust me—very reasonable. Practically free. Plus half the utilities.”
Zinaida Semyonovna’s jaw dropped.
— “Vitya! Vitya, did you hear that?! She… she’s throwing me out!”
Vitya jumped up, flushing red.
— “Katya! What do you think you’re doing?! That’s my mother!”
— “Exactly, Vitya. Your mother.” Katya took the second folder. “And this, darling, is for you. Our new family budget. Separate.”
— “Separate… what?” Vitya clearly didn’t understand.
— “Separate. I closed our joint card—the one that, for some reason, only my salary went into. Starting tomorrow, we split groceries, household expenses, and everything else fifty-fifty. Your share,” she tapped the figure again, “is here. With your ‘successful freelancing,’ you’ll handle it easily, right?”
She leaned back against the couch.
— “Oh—and I almost forgot.” She took the third folder, the thinnest one. “This is a bill. For the past three years. Housing, food, and other ‘little things.’ Consider it compensation for my ‘stinginess.’ No rush—I’m giving you two weeks to think it all over.”
The silence in the room became deafening.
— “You… you…” Zinaida Semyonovna wheezed. “Shameless! Found yourself a gigolo!”
— “Wrong,” Katya laughed, genuinely this time. “A gigolo, Zinaida Semyonovna, is a man living off a woman. As you can see, I don’t quite fit that definition. But Vitya…” she looked at her husband with mock tenderness, “…Vitya here was getting pretty close.”
— “I—I’ll file for divorce!” Vitya shrieked. “I’ll take half of everything!”
— “Go ahead,” Katya shrugged. “Only I’m afraid the only thing you’ll be splitting is your debt from my bills. The apartment, as you remember, is pre-marital. And the car, by the way, too.”
Two days later, when Katya came home from work, she found suitcases in the entryway.
Zinaida Semyonovna, eyes blazing, was hissing curses. Vitya—pale and furious—was trying to call a taxi.
— “Oh, you’re leaving?” Katya leaned elegantly against the doorframe. “And what about the contract?”
— “Choke on your apartment, you cheapskate!” Zinaida Semyonovna spat.
— “Certainly,” Katya nodded. “Vitya, darling, you won’t forget to send me your share for this month, will you? I’ll text you the amount.”
The door slammed.
Katya walked into the living room. The apartment was unusually quiet. She went to the window and flung it wide open. Spring air rushed in—smelling of dust and new life.
She didn’t feel triumph. No. She felt what a surgeon feels after successfully removing an advanced tumor. It hurt, it was unpleasant—but it was necessary. She felt… relief. And a huge, heady sense of dignity she had returned to herself.
They say another family is a dark forest. But sometimes, to make sense of your own, you just need to turn on the light in time. And not be afraid to send the bill.