Yana stood by the window with a cup of coffee and looked out at the city. This apartment was her pride—the result of five years of relentless work and saving. A two-room place in a new building, bright, with a view of the park. Every square meter was bought with her own money—no loans, no credit. Yana worked as a manager at a trading company, took extra shifts, denied herself развлечения. But she reached her goal.
Three years ago, Dmitry moved into this apartment. They met by chance—at a party with mutual friends. Tall, smiling, kind eyes. Yana liked the way Dima joked and how attentively he listened. They started dating. Six months later, he proposed.
Dmitry rented a one-room apartment on the other side of the city. When the talk turned to living together, it naturally worked out that he would move in with Yana. The apartment was spacious—there was enough room. Yana didn’t mind. She loved him and wanted him close.
The first year was good. They set up their life, bought furniture, cooked together in the evenings. Dmitry worked as a programmer, spending a lot of time at the computer. He earned decent money, helped with groceries, sometimes bought something for the home. But the main expenses—utilities, repairs, everything else—were paid by Yana. After all, the apartment was hers.
Dmitry’s mother, Valentina Petrovna, lived in the suburbs in her own house. A widow, alone. Her son was everything to her. At first, the mother-in-law came rarely—once a month at most. She brought pies, asked about their lives, drank tea. Yana treated the visits calmly. A normal mother-in-law, she thought.
But gradually the visits became more frequent. Once every two weeks. Then once a week. Then twice a week. Valentina Petrovna began showing up without warning—coming “just to check how things were going.”
“Dimochka, I made borscht and brought it for you,” the mother-in-law would say, setting a huge pot on the table.
“Thanks, Mom,” Dmitry would smile.
Yana smiled too, though inside she tensed up. She didn’t like anyone invading her space without asking.
Valentina Petrovna started giving advice. At first, casually, as if in passing.
“Yanochka, the windows need washing. See the streaks?”
“Yanochka, there’s dust on top of the cabinet. Do you even wipe it?”
“Yanochka, you’re frying the cutlets wrong. Let me show you how it’s done.”
Yana clenched her teeth and nodded. She didn’t want conflict. It was her husband’s mother, an older person. She had to endure it.
One day Yana came home from work earlier than usual. She opened the door—and Valentina Petrovna was in the apartment, rearranging dishes in the kitchen.
“Valentina Petrovna?” Yana asked, surprised. “How did you get in here?”
“Dimochka gave me the keys,” the mother-in-law answered calmly. “So I can come when needed. I decided to tidy up. You’ve got a mess here, Yanochka.”
Yana froze. Keys? Dmitry gave his mother keys to her apartment—without asking?
That evening, she asked her husband:
“Dima, did you really give your mom keys?”
“Yeah,” Dmitry shrugged. “So what?”
“You could have at least asked me!”
“Yana, she’s my mother. She’s not doing anything bad. She’s just helping us.”
“But this is my apartment!”
Dmitry frowned.
“What do you mean, yours? We’re a family. Everything’s shared.”
“Shared, but the apartment is in my name. And I want to know who comes in here.”
“Yana, don’t make a scene over something stupid. Mom knows better how to run a household. She has experience.”
Yana said nothing. But something inside her tightened.
From that day on, Valentina Petrovna began appearing whenever she wanted. Yana came home from work—her mother-in-law was in the kitchen cooking. She stepped into the living room—her mother-in-law was dusting. She went into the bathroom—her mother-in-law was folding clean laundry.
“Valentina Petrovna, could you warn me when you’re coming?” Yana would say carefully.
“Why, Yanochka? I’m not a stranger. I’m helping here, and you’re unhappy.”
Her mother-in-law started ordering her around. She criticized Yana’s cooking—too much salt, not enough spices. She nitpicked the cleaning—wiped badly, the floors should be washed more often. She moved things wherever she wanted.
“Yanochka, that vase is in the wrong place. It should go here.”
“Yanochka, why did you hang those curtains? Ugly.”
“Yanochka, those flowers need to be thrown out, they’ve wilted.”
Yana tried to object politely.
“Valentina Petrovna, I like my curtains.”
“What do you know? You’re still young.”
Every time, Yana turned to her husband.
“Dima, talk to your mother. She’s here all the time, giving orders. I’m uncomfortable.”
“Yana, she’s trying for us. Don’t be so cold.”
“But this is my apartment!”
“There you go again. We’re a family, Yana. Or does family mean nothing to you?”
Yana understood: her husband wasn’t on her side. And he never would be. For Dmitry, his mother mattered more than his wife.
Two years passed. Yana felt like a stranger in her own apartment. Every day she came home from work afraid she’d find her mother-in-law there. Valentina Petrovna showed up three or four times a week—cooking, cleaning, handing out instructions.
Yana kept working, paying the utilities, buying groceries. And Valentina Petrovna ran everything as if it were her house.
Yana stayed silent. Endured it. She was afraid of ruining the family. She hoped Dmitry would come to his senses, understand. But he didn’t. To him, everything was fine.
Yana’s birthday was approaching—twenty-eight. She decided to celebrate at home with a small group. She invited a few coworkers and two friends. She bought a cake—soft, with strawberries and white chocolate. Her favorite.
Yana set the table, arranged the dishes, lit candles. She wanted, for at least one day, to feel like the mistress of her own home.
Dmitry invited his mother. Yana didn’t object out loud, but inside she tensed up. Valentina Petrovna at the party was a guarantee of a ruined mood.
The mother-in-law arrived before everyone else. She walked in and gave the table a critical look.
“Yanochka, are you seriously setting it like this?”
“What’s wrong?” Yana asked, feeling her fists clench.
“Everything is wrong. The plates should be arranged differently. Forks on the left, knives on the right. Don’t you even know basic rules?”
Valentina Petrovna began rearranging the utensils. Yana stood nearby, jaw clenched. No scandal. Not today.
“And napkins should be folded like this,” the mother-in-law commented, refolding them.
“Valentina Petrovna, please leave it,” Yana said softly.
“Leave what? I mean well. You want the guests to think you’re a lousy hostess?”
Yana bit her lip and stayed silent.
The guests arrived—coworkers, friends. Everyone sat at the table. Valentina Petrovna demonstratively took the seat at the head—the one Yana usually sat in.
“Valentina Petrovna, that’s my seat,” Yana said quietly.
“Oh, come on, Yanochka. I’m older—this is where I should sit.”
Yana looked at her husband. Dmitry looked away. Silent.
Her mother-in-law acted like the hostess of the celebration—serving food, commenting on dishes, telling stories. Yana sat to the side, feeling like a guest at her own birthday.
Her friends exchanged glances but said nothing. Her coworkers pretended everything was normal.
When Yana brought out the cake, Valentina Petrovna grimaced.
“Ugh. What is that?”
“A cake,” Yana replied, setting it on the table.
“I don’t eat cakes like that. It’s tasteless. In our family we buy honey cake, not this nonsense.”
Yana froze with the knife in her hand. Something clicked inside her.
“This is my cake. On my birthday. In my apartment.”
“So what? I’m older—I know what’s good and what’s not.”
Yana slowly set the knife down and looked at her mother-in-law.
“Valentina Petrovna, if you don’t like it, you can leave. My apartment.”
Her mother-in-law’s eyes bulged.
“How dare you?!”
“I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago. This is my home. I bought it with my money. And here I decide what happens and how.”
Valentina Petrovna jumped up from the table.
“Dimochka! Do you hear how your wife is talking to me?!”
Dmitry went pale. He stood up.
“Yana, apologize to Mom.”
“What?”
“I said apologize. Right now.”
Yana laughed—coldly, without joy.
“Are you serious?”
Valentina Petrovna started sniffling.
“Daughters-in-law should know their place! Keep quiet around elders! Respect them! And she… she…”
Yana sprang up.
“She what?! She’s the owner of this apartment?! The one who pays for every centimeter of this home?!”
“Yana, calm down,” Dmitry stepped forward.
“No! I kept quiet for three years! For three years I endured your mother bossing me around in my apartment—humiliating me, criticizing me, running my life!”
“She’s trying for us!”
“For you! For you and her! And who am I here—help? A servant?!”
Dmitry slammed his fist on the table. The dishes rattled. The guests flinched.
“You’re nobody here as long as Mom is at this table!” he shouted.
Silence. Yana stared at Dmitry, unable to believe what she’d heard. Nobody. She was nobody—in her own apartment.
Something inside her finally snapped. All the illusions, all the love, all the hope—collapsed in a second.
Yana slowly stood up, walked to Valentina Petrovna, and picked up her handbag from the chair.
“Leave.”
“What?!”
“I said leave. Right now.”
“Dimochka!”
“Mom, wait,” Dmitry looked at his wife, confused.
Yana opened the door and pushed Valentina Petrovna lightly in the back.
“Out. Of my home. Now.”
The mother-in-law backed away, frightened by the fury in her daughter-in-law’s eyes, and stepped into the hallway, sobbing.
Yana slammed the door shut, then turned to her husband.
“Pack your things.”
“Yana, what are you doing?!”
“Pack. Your. Things. Everything that’s yours. And go to your mother. Right now.”
“You can’t throw me out!”
“I can. This is my apartment. Legally mine. Your name isn’t on any documents.”
Dmitry tried to come closer, to take her hands.
“Yana, calm down. Let’s talk about this calmly.”
Yana jerked her hands away.
“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow. And you’re moving out today.”
“Yana!”
“Today, Dmitry. Or I’ll call the police.”
He looked into her eyes and saw such resolve—such icy anger—that he understood arguing was pointless. It was over.
Dmitry went into the bedroom, took a bag, and began packing. Yana stood in the doorway watching.
“Yana, think. Three years together. Are you really ready to destroy everything because of one conflict?”
“Not because of one. Because of three years of humiliation. Because you never once stood on my side. Because you don’t even consider me the owner of my home.”
“That’s not what I meant…”
“You meant it. You said I’m nobody here while your mother sits at this table. So that’s how it is.”
Dmitry finished packing, picked up the bag, and stopped at the door.
“You’ll regret this, Yana.”
“Maybe. But not as much as I’d regret staying.”
He left. Yana closed the door and leaned against it, shutting her eyes.
The guests had long since gone. Only her two friends—Lena and Katya—remained. They sat in the kitchen, not knowing what to say.
“Yanochka… are you okay?” Lena asked quietly.
Yana nodded.
“Now I am.”
The next morning Yana called a locksmith and changed all the locks on the front door. She threw out the old keys and hid the new ones. That same day she filed for divorce.
Dmitry tried calling. Yana didn’t answer. Then messages came—long ones, full of excuses and promises. Yana deleted them without reading.
Valentina Petrovna came a week later. She rang the doorbell. Yana looked through the peephole and didn’t open.
“Yanochka, open up! We need to talk!”
Yana stayed silent.
“Yanochka, come on! Dimochka is worried! He loves you!”
Silence.
“Open up, I know you’re home!”
Yana turned and walked deeper into the apartment. Put on headphones and turned on music. Valentina Petrovna stood at the door for half an hour, then left.
She never came again.
The court case went quickly. Dmitry showed up—sullen and worn down. He tried to argue, talked about living together, about shared life. But legally everything was clean. The apartment had been bought by Yana before marriage; there were no joint savings.
The judge issued the decision. The marriage was dissolved.
Yana walked out of the courthouse and took a deep breath. Free. Finally free.
Three months passed. Yana returned to ordinary life—went to work, met up with friends. In the evenings she sat at home with a book and tea. Quiet. No one barged in without warning. No one criticized, ordered her around, or tried to teach her how to live.
The apartment became her refuge again—cozy, quiet, peaceful.
Yana rearranged the furniture the way she liked. Hung new curtains—bright, patterned. Bought potted flowers and put them on the windowsills. Everything her way, without anyone else’s commands.
One evening a message arrived from Dmitry. Yana saw his name on the screen and hesitated, then opened it.
“Yana, I’m sorry. I realized I was wrong. Mom really went too far. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. Can we try again?”
Yana read it.
She typed back: “No. You made your choice back then, at that table. Live with it.”
She sent it and blocked his number.
Half a year later, Yana met someone else. They bumped into each other in a bookstore—both reaching for the same book. They laughed, started talking, exchanged numbers.
His name was Maxim. He was an architect. He lived in a rented apartment and was saving for his own place. Maxim’s mother lived in another city; they saw each other rarely but warmly.
Yana didn’t rush. They dated, talked, got to know each other. Maxim didn’t push; he respected her space.
Two years later Maxim proposed. Yana said yes—but set a condition: they would live in her apartment, and no relatives would get keys without her consent. Maxim nodded, understanding.
“Your apartment—your rules. That’s fair.”
Yana smiled. For the first time in a long time, she felt she’d chosen right.
They married quietly, without a big wedding. They registered and celebrated with a small circle of friends. Maxim moved in with Yana, bringing only his personal things.
They lived calmly, respecting each other’s boundaries. They handled everyday matters together. Maxim cooked, cleaned, helped around the house. He didn’t order her around, lecture her, or criticize her.
Maxim’s mother visited once every six months and stayed a week. Yana welcomed her calmly—the woman was tactful and didn’t meddle in other people’s lives.
At last Yana felt at home—in her apartment, with her person. Without pressure, without humiliation, without someone else’s rules.
Sometimes she remembered those three years with Dmitry—how she endured, feared ruining the family, hoped for the best. How much time she’d lost.
But now everything was different. Now Yana knew for sure: she would never let anyone violate her boundaries again. This was her home, her space, her life. And only she decided who would be here—and who wouldn’t.
Yana sat on the couch with a book. Maxim was making breakfast in the kitchen, humming to himself.
A new life. The right life. The one Yana deserved