Ol, hang in there. My aunt from St. Petersburg called—same kind of story… only her mother-in-law moved in with a dog.”
“Just don’t freak out, okay?” Pyotr peeked into the kitchen with the look of a cat that’s stolen a chicken leg and is now waiting for someone to chase him with a slipper.
Olga stood at the stove, wearing a robe streaked with tomato sauce and a clump of hair that had escaped her ponytail. In one hand—a spoon, in the other—a pot lid. The pilaf sizzled like an old radio.
“What now?” She didn’t even turn around, but her voice trembled with angry wariness. “I’m telling you straight, Pety—if you say there’s no money again, the pot’s flying at you, not into the sink.”
Pyotr swallowed.
“Mom called.”
“Oh my God…” Olga set the lid down and turned. “So that was ‘don’t freak out’? You deliver ‘Mom called’ like it’s a nuclear threat?”
“She… well… she’s planning to move.”
The silence was so thick you could hang a towel on it. Or Pyotr’s mother.
“Where. Is she. Moving. Pyotr.”
He dropped his eyes. Took a step back. Then another. His eyes begged for mercy.
“To us,” he breathed.
Olga dropped onto the stool as if her legs had gone numb.
“Why don’t you just put her right on my neck while you’re at it? Let’s say it like it is—we’re three now. You, me, and your beloved mommy. We’ll hang a wedding photo over the bed: Olya in the middle, two gravediggers of family comfort on either side!”
“She gave the apartment to Denis,” Pyotr mumbled, “and he’s getting married… they’re young, they need somewhere to live.”
“And what are we—‘Dawn’ Boarding House for abandoned mothers? Did you tell her that too? ‘Mom, come on in, I’ll sleep at my wife’s feet as long as you’re comfortable’?”
“Well, you know what she’s like…” he started, but went quiet under her stare.
Olga sprang up. Started pacing the kitchen in circles like a tigress in a cage.
“So what did she say, by the way? How did she present her ‘decision’?”
Pyotr hesitated.
“She said Denis needs help, so she signed the place over to him. And she’ll stay with us for a while. Until she ‘gets settled.’”
“Ha!” Olga dropped back onto the stool and slapped her palm on the table. “There it is—the golden phrase ‘for a while’! How many times have I heard that. ‘I’ll live with you for a bit, Olechka, don’t mind me!’—and then her toothbrush in the bathroom, her slippers in the kitchen, her rags in the living room. She’s not moving in to live—she’s moving in to resettle us into a Soviet-era communal apartment.”
Pyotr raised his hands like he was surrendering.
“I didn’t know! I’m shocked myself!”
“You’re not shocked, Pety. You’re catatonic. You never know anything until she’s on the doorstep with three bags, a pot, and seedlings for her ficus. You’re always the same: ‘Mom said it, so it’s sacred.’”
She fell silent, dug her fingers into the tablecloth.
“And here’s what I’ll tell you. If she moves in here—I’m moving out. Of the apartment. And out of the marriage.”
Pyotr went pale.
“Why go straight to that?”
“Because we’ve already been through this, Pyotr. When she came ‘for the weekend’ and stayed a month and a half. When she lectured me about burnt cutlets even though she can barely operate a kettle. When she held ‘heart-to-heart talks’ with you in the bedroom and I listened from the living room while she explained how I’m ‘dragging you to the bottom.’ Don’t remember?”
He stayed quiet. Wiped his glasses with the hem of his T-shirt. He knew arguing was pointless.
“And you know what the funniest part is?” Olga went on. “I’m not against helping. I’m not a witch. But it has to be help, not the murder of family life. And your mother—she isn’t coming as a guest. She’s crawling back into the womb. Yours.”
The intercom rang.
Olga froze. Pyotr walked over slowly. Looked at her. Lifted the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Petyenka, open up. I’m here with the suitcases. Just two, really—the rest they’ll bring later.”
Olga didn’t scream. She simply stood up, took a bottle of water from the fridge, drank, and turned to her husband.
“If you press that button, I’ll start packing my own suitcases.”
Pyotr froze, like he’d reached the dead end of a chess game where either move is checkmate.
“Open the door,” he said quietly. “I can’t leave her out on the street.”
“Then you’re leaving me,” Olga said. “Choose, Pety. Right now. Your mom—or your wife.”
The handset in his hand crackled with tension.
From outside came Galina Viktorovna’s voice:
“Petyenka? What, have you gone deaf? Open up, dear. My back is falling off already!”
Olga stared at him without blinking, a dead silence on her face.
Pyotr pressed the intercom button.
Olga set the bottle down, left the kitchen, and closed the bedroom door behind her.
Heels thudded in the hallway. The front door squeaked cheerfully. The air filled with the smell of mothballs, chicken skin, and something cloyingly sweet—like old perfume.
When Olga came out to the kitchen the next morning, Galina Viktorovna was already there. Wearing a robe with roses, knee-high socks, and the death grip of a mistress of the house—one no one had told “don’t meddle” in a long time.
“Olechka, good morning,” her voice was sticky, like jam drips on a jar.
“Morning is good when you wake up in your own apartment,” Olga muttered without looking at her.
“Oh, come on, it’s only for a while.” Galina Viktorovna turned from the stove, frying pan in hand. “Denis and Lenochka are young, they need a start. And I’ll settle in here. We’re family.”
Olga sat at the table, fingers locked together. Silent. Only her eyelids trembled with strain.
Her son, Pyotr, vanished from the kitchen that morning like a mouse when the light comes on. Somewhere in the bathroom he was brushing his teeth down to the seventh layer of enamel so he wouldn’t have to hear.
“I fried something here,” her mother-in-law continued brightly, “no oil—your stomach needs taking care of. Petyenka told me.”
“Oh yeah? And what else did Petyenka tell you? That I’m crawling up the walls with rage because there are three of us in a two-room apartment?”
Galina Viktorovna pretended she hadn’t heard. As always, she did that whenever the conversation stopped being convenient.
“Olechka, yesterday I cleaned everything. Shelves, stove, bathroom. Honestly, it’s shocking how neglected things are…”
“And you have a personal life. I’d clean everything too if I didn’t work ten hours a day.”
“Work comes and goes. But cleanliness in the home—that’s about character,” Galina sneered.
Olga stood up. Slowly. Measured her with a look.
“Your ‘character’ is about to take a dive into a pot if you say that one more time.”
The kitchen turned cold. Even the kettle fell quiet, not daring to boil.
Pyotr appeared an hour later. Tried to joke:
“Oh, two favorite women—and neither is talking. Great morning!”
“Tell me something,” Olga turned to him. “When were you planning to tell me she’s staying for a month?”
“I… well… she said so. Yesterday. Late. I thought you two would… work it out.”
“Work it out?” Olga laughed. “You think you can ‘work it out’ with me too? Sure. Like with the tax office.”
Behind them, Galina Viktorovna suddenly chimed in:
“Petyenka, son, your sofa is old. My back hurts on it. Maybe move your bed from the bedroom into the living room and put the sofa there? You’re young, you don’t care where…”
“Mom,” Pyotr lifted a hand like a schoolboy. “Stop. No.”
Olga snapped around.
“Oh. So you can say ‘no’? I thought your mouth was only for ‘Yes, Mom, of course.’”
Galina Viktorovna threw up her hands.
“Well, would you look at how twisted you’ve become. I’m doing everything for you, for the family…”
“What family, for God’s sake, when you show up with your stuff without asking? Without checking. Like it’s a dorm, not our home!”
“Yeah, ‘our.’ Everything’s in Petya’s name, by the way,” Galina muttered.
And then it all exploded.
“What was that supposed to mean?” Olga turned to Pyotr without even looking at his mother. “Tell me—did you promise her something as inheritance? Or has she already registered herself here?”
“No!” Pyotr waved his hands. “I didn’t promise anything! It’s just… she…”
“…it’s just you have no spine.” Olga’s voice went cold. “You’re a rag, Pety. A rag between two puddles—your mom’s and mine.”
Galina Viktorovna stood up, scraping her chair loudly.
“Well, you know what, I didn’t sign up for this rudeness. I’m his mother! And you, Olya, are like some she-wolf, snapping all the time. Maybe you need a psychologist?”
“Better a lawyer,” Olga shot back. “Or better yet—a realtor. This isn’t a health resort.”
Suddenly Pyotr shouted:
“That’s enough, both of you! I’m being torn apart between two fires here, and you’re fighting like market women!”
“Not ‘between.’ You’ve been on one side a long time. You just froze your balls off there.” Olga rushed to the closet and grabbed a bag. “Enough. I’m moving out. You two live together like you wanted. Watch TV hugging your mom—let her soothe your tonsils with broth.”
“Ol, wait…” Pyotr lunged after her.
“Too late,” she was already throwing underwear and T-shirts into the bag. “I’m not a prostitute to live by conditions that don’t suit me.”
Galina Viktorovna clutched her hands.
“What a mouth you have! Horror. I thought you were a family!”
“You were wrong,” Olga snapped, turning. “You gave up your apartment for the ‘young ones’? Then live with that choice. Just not on my territory.”
The door slammed so hard a plastic orange flew out of the little vase on the shelf.
Only an echo remained in the hallway.
Pyotr stood in the corridor in slippers, eyes like a beaten dog.
Galina Viktorovna was already pulling out a rag to wipe the mirror “for her nerves.”
“So, Petyenka… shall I cook you some porridge?”
Olga stayed with her friend Irka for six days. On the floor, with a laptop balanced on a stool, three meals a day of dumplings, and cat hair stuck to every sock.
On the seventh day Pyotr called.
“I talked to her,” his voice was limp, like yesterday’s tea. “She… seems to agree to move in with Denis. Says she’ll start staying with them.”
“With them—as in with the daughter-in-law she’s never once called by her name without spite? Uh-huh.”
“Well, I offered help. Move furniture, a wardrobe. Denis seems okay with it…”
“And I’m not,” Olga cut him off. “I’m not coming back until you understand one thing: this is our life, not Mom Show.”
“But I’m trying, Ol… I’m between two fires, honestly…”
“Between fires only paper burns, Pety. People make choices. Or they burn.”
He went quiet. A minute. Then:
“Will you come back?”
“I don’t know.”
The next day Olga came home. Keys in hand, heart heavy, determined.
Pyotr opened the door. Rumpled. Barefoot. Wearing a T-shirt with a coffee stain.
“Hi…” he said as if a week hadn’t passed, as if she’d only “run to the store.”
“Where is she?”
“In the room. Packing her suitcase. Denis and Lena will pick her up by lunch.”
“And you think everything’s fine now?”
He looked down.
“Well… at least it’ll be quieter…”
Olga walked deeper into the apartment. In the kitchen—her towel, neatly folded “the mother-in-law way.” On the fridge—a jar labeled “paprika” in handwriting that wasn’t hers. In the bedroom—the smell of someone else’s perfume. That sharp one, just like its owner.
In the living room Galina Viktorovna stood. Still in her robe, but now with makeup on. The suitcase sat at her feet like a dog that hadn’t been let out.
“Well, hello,” she muttered.
“Goodbye,” Olga answered calmly.
“How… rude. Is all this really because I stayed with you for a week?”
“Not ‘stayed.’ Took over. Invaded. Occupied. Pick whichever word you like.”
“I’m his mother,” Galina lifted her brows.
“And I’m his wife. And for now—you lost.” Olga stepped closer. “Look, Galina Viktorovna, you’re a smart woman. Cunning. You like to manipulate, play the ‘victim.’ It used to work. Until me.”
Her mother-in-law blinked, but stayed silent.
“I’m not your former daughter-in-law who cried in the bathroom. I’m the kind who kicks down a door if there’s no air to breathe. And I’m done apologizing for my right to live in peace in my own home.”
“Tsk…” Galina narrowed her eyes. “Feisty. Petya, you hearing this?”
Olga turned to her husband.
“And are you hearing this? Because right now it’s not about the apartment. It’s about everything. Either you finally become a grown man, or you stay an eternal ‘mommy’s boy’ who panics the moment she raises her voice.”
He stood there. Silent. Then he walked to his mother and picked up her suitcase.
“Mom, let’s go. I called a taxi.”
“Yeah… yeah…” Galina nodded. “Of course. Anything for her. Got married—and your brains evaporated.”
“No. They finally showed up. When you walked into my home without asking—I understood who you really are. And who I am if I let you stay.”
Olga sat at the table, took an apple, and started peeling it as if nothing was happening.
Her mother-in-law walked past like she’d lost a chess game. No comments. No scenes. Only at the door she turned and hissed:
“You think you’ve won? We’ll see.”
“We won’t,” Olga said. “I’m not going to watch your life. I have my own.”
When the door slammed behind her, the apartment fell silent.
Pyotr came up to Olga.
“I’m sorry.”
“This is only the beginning, Pety,” she said without looking at him. “Next come the rules. Clear ones. And if there’s even an attempt to repeat this—I’m leaving. No tears. No hysteria. No explanations. With my things and my principles.”
He nodded.
And for the first time—not pitiful, not frightened, but like a man. Confident.
Olga smiled. Crookedly. But that lump that had been stuck between her heart and her throat the whole time was gone.
The mother-in-law left. And with her went the чужое влияние—the fear, the fog.
They were left alone. And now—for real—just the two of them.