Alena opened the door and immediately saw Tamara Viktorovna on the threshold. Her mother-in-law came in without waiting to be invited, took off her shoes, and went straight to the kitchen. Alena closed the door behind her and sighed. Here we go again. The remarks, the advice no one asked for, the disapproving looks.
Tamara Viktorovna ran her hand along the countertop, examined the dishes in the drying rack, and shook her head.
“Alenushka, why is it so damp here? You should’ve wiped it down. And the curtains… couldn’t you have bought something a bit more decent?”
Alena clenched her teeth. She nodded silently. She didn’t feel like arguing. Pointless. Her mother-in-law would always find something to pick at. Always.
She and Igor had been renting an apartment for four years. Tamara Viktorovna came by without warning. She could ring the doorbell on a Saturday morning when Alena was still asleep and start asking why breakfast wasn’t ready, why her son was hungry. She could stand by the stove and reproach her—why the soup was oversalted, why the borscht wasn’t rich enough. Alena tried not to argue. She just endured it. But every visit left behind a heavy, unpleasant aftertaste.
Over time, the nitpicking became the constant background noise of their life. Her mother-in-law called every day—morning, lunchtime, evening. She asked what Alena had cooked, whether she’d done the laundry, whether she’d taken out the trash. She gave advice nobody asked for. She explained how to boil potatoes “properly,” how to iron shirts “properly,” how to speak to a husband “properly.”
Alena caught herself more and more often thinking that their marriage was living under the control of an outsider. Igor didn’t object. He was used to it. Mom had always been like that—what could you do? Alena tried to explain to her husband that she was tired, that she wanted to live calmly, without constant interference. Igor would nod, promise to talk to his mother. But nothing changed.
One day a notary called Alena. A second cousin, Aunt Zinaida—whom Alena remembered only vaguely—had left her an inheritance. Money. A fairly large sum. Alena didn’t believe it at first. She asked again and again, clarified, checked the documents. But it was all true. Aunt Zinaida had lived alone, had no children, and for some reason Alena had become her heir.
After receiving the inheritance, Alena quickly set about buying an apartment. She searched online, went to viewings, consulted a realtor. She dreamed of her own cozy space—quiet, without her mother-in-law’s visits and endless moralizing. A place where she could simply breathe and not keep looking over her shoulder. Igor was formally pleased. He said it was great, of course, good luck. But he didn’t show much enthusiasm, as if he took it for granted.
Alena found an apartment on the outskirts of the city. Not a new build, but in good condition. Bright, with large windows and a balcony overlooking the courtyard. The deal went quickly. Alena put everything in her name. Her money, her apartment. Hers. Only hers.
No renovations were needed. The previous owners had done everything neatly: fresh wallpaper, laminate flooring, new plumbing. Alena only bought furniture and curtains. She moved her things in, arranged everything, and took a deep breath. It felt as if she’d dropped an enormous weight. In her eyes, the apartment became a symbol of freedom—her own space, where no one would come without an invitation.
The first week after the move, Alena enjoyed the silence. In the mornings she drank coffee on the balcony, looked out at the courtyard, and smiled. Igor was mostly at his mother’s place, coming to Alena’s in the evenings. They had dinner, talked, watched movies. Tamara Viktorovna didn’t call. Didn’t come by. Alena decided her mother-in-law was offended—and honestly, that suited her just fine.
But a week later, Tamara Viktorovna appeared at the door. Alena opened it and froze. Her mother-in-law stood there with shopping bags in her hands, smiling.
“Alenushka, why are you standing there? Let me in—these are heavy.”
Alena stepped aside. Tamara Viktorovna walked in, put the bags on the floor, and looked around.
“So what kind of apartment have you got? Come on, show me.”
Without a word, Alena led her through the rooms. Tamara Viktorovna walked around touching the walls, peering into closets, opening windows. She inspected everything like an owner. She ran a hand over the windowsill to check for dust, then nodded with satisfaction.
“Not bad,” she said. “Bright. The kitchen’s small, though—but it’s fine, we’ll manage.”
Alena frowned.
“Manage what, Tamara Viktorovna?”
Her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes, looked at her daughter-in-law, and smiled.
“You bought an apartment? Wonderful—now my son will have somewhere to live!”
For a moment Alena went numb. Her mother-in-law said it so confidently, so naturally, as if it were obvious—like Alena had bought the place specifically for Igor and his mother, not for herself. Outrage rose inside her, but she paused. Don’t snap. Don’t scream. First understand what was even happening.
Meanwhile Tamara Viktorovna had already gone into the bedroom, opened the closet, and started muttering about where to put Igor’s things. Where his desk would go. Where to hang the TV so it would be easier to watch. Her certainty was staggering, as if the apartment belonged not to Alena but to Tamara Viktorovna—like she was the one who decided who lived here and how.
Alena stood in silence, feeling everything boiling inside. Her hands clenched into fists. Breathing became harder.
“Tamara Viktorovna,” Alena began quietly, “this apartment is mine.”
Her mother-in-law turned around, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Of course it’s yours. I’m not arguing. But Igor is your husband—so the apartment is shared.”
“No,” Alena said firmly. “Not shared. Mine. I bought it with inheritance money. It’s my personal property.”
Tamara Viktorovna fell silent and looked her over appraisingly. Then she snorted.
“Ah, is that how it is. So you’ve decided to fence yourself off from your husband? What a wife you are, honestly.”
A shiver ran down Alena’s spine—not from fear, but from anger, from the way her mother-in-law—like always—turned everything upside down, pushed, accused, humiliated.
“Tamara Viktorovna, I decided to fence myself off from you,” Alena said slowly and clearly. “I’ve endured your nitpicking for years. You came without warning. You meddled in our lives. You told me what to cook, how to clean, how to talk to my husband. You never considered me worthy of your son. Never.”
Her mother-in-law went pale. She opened her mouth, but Alena kept going.
“Your younger son, Sergey, didn’t even congratulate me on my birthday—though he’s eaten at my table dozens of times, though I cooked for him, washed, cleaned up after him. You yourself never once said thank you. Not once acknowledged that I was trying. To you I was always nobody. Just Igor’s wife. Convenient.”
Tamara Viktorovna stepped forward, her eyes flashing.
“You’re forgetting you’re part of our family! You’re obligated to think about us, not just yourself!”
“Obligated?” Alena smirked. “Why am I obligated? Because I married your son? That doesn’t give you the right to control my life. My property. My decisions.”
Tamara Viktorovna pressed her lips into a thin line.
“You’re an egoist, Alena. A greedy egoist. Igor is my son. He has the right to live here. Which means I can stay too.”
“No,” Alena shook her head. “You can’t. This apartment is registered in my name—only my name. And I decide who lives here.”
“You’ve lost your mind!” Tamara Viktorovna raised her voice. “Igor! Igor, come here!”
Igor came out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at his mother, then at his wife.
“What happened?”
“What happened?!” Tamara Viktorovna swung around toward her son. “Your wife doesn’t want us to live here! Can you believe it? She bought an apartment and now she doesn’t need you!”
Igor frowned and looked at Alena.
“Is that true?”
Alena stepped forward.
“Igor, I didn’t say I don’t want you to live here. I said it’s my apartment, and I make the decisions—not your mother.”
“A family should stick together,” her husband cut in. “Mom’s right. We’re husband and wife, so the apartment is ours.”
Something inside Alena snapped. The last scraps of trust in Igor vanished—collapsed, melted away. He stood next to his mother, looking at Alena as if she were the guilty one, as if she were behaving wrongly.
“Are you serious?” Alena asked softly. “You’re taking her side?”
“I’m taking the family’s side,” Igor replied. “And you’re being selfish. Cold. Mom came to us, and you made a scene.”
“I made a scene?” Alena laughed—without joy, bitterly. “Igor, your mother declared the apartment is yours now, that she’ll decide how everything is arranged here. Did you hear that?”
“Mom just wants to help,” Igor objected. “You’re overreacting.”
Tamara Viktorovna watched Alena triumphantly. Alena understood the conversation was pointless. Igor wouldn’t hear her. Wouldn’t understand. For him, his mother would always be right. Always.
“You know what, Igor,” Alena lifted her chin. “I’m tired. Tired of your mother meddling in our lives. Tired of you letting her. Tired of being convenient.”
“Alena, you’re talking nonsense,” Igor stepped closer. “Calm down.”
“No,” Alena shook her head. “I won’t. I want both of you to leave. Now. Immediately.”
“What?!” Tamara Viktorovna threw up her hands. “You’re kicking us out?!”
“Yes,” Alena said firmly. “I am. This is my apartment. Mine. And I don’t want to see you here.”
“Igor tried to take Alena’s hand, but she stepped back.
“Leave. Please.”
Tamara Viktorovna shot her a venomous look.
“You’ll regret this,” she hissed. “You’ll be alone. Completely alone.”
“Maybe,” Alena agreed. “But that’s better than living the way I’ve lived until now.”
Igor said nothing. He stood in the middle of the room, stunned. Tamara Viktorovna grabbed her bag, turned, and headed for the door. Igor followed his mother. At the doorway he turned back.
“We’ll talk again,” he said.
“Maybe,” Alena replied. “But not today.”
The door closed. Silence filled the apartment. Alena stood in the middle of the room, listening to the quiet, and for the first time in a long while she felt lightness. Calm. As if the weight she’d carried for years had finally slipped from her shoulders.
That evening Alena sat on the balcony with a cup of tea. She looked at the courtyard, at the lights in the neighbors’ windows, and thought about what would happen next. Divorce? Probably. Igor wouldn’t change. Tamara Viktorovna wouldn’t back off. And Alena no longer wanted to live the way she had before. She didn’t want to endure, stay silent, adjust herself to others.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Igor: “Alena, let’s meet and talk normally. Mom went too far, I get it. But you were also too harsh.”
Alena read the message and put the phone on the table. She didn’t reply. She didn’t want to. Igor was shifting blame again, trying to make it as if Alena was the one at fault—as if she had behaved wrongly, not his mother.
Several days passed. Igor called and wrote. Tamara Viktorovna sent long messages accusing Alena of destroying the family. Alena stayed silent. She didn’t answer. She simply lived—went to work, came home, cooked dinner for herself. Read books, watched series. Enjoyed the quiet.
One evening the doorbell rang. Alena looked through the peephole. Igor stood there. Alone, without his mother. Alena opened the door, but didn’t let him in.
“Alena, please, let’s talk,” Igor begged.
“About what?” Alena asked calmly.
“About us. About our marriage. I don’t want to lose you.”
Alena leaned against the doorframe, folding her arms across her chest.
“Igor, you took your mother’s side. You didn’t protect me. You let her humiliate me for years, control our life. You never told her ‘enough.’ Not once.”
“I know,” Igor lowered his head. “I was wrong. But we can fix everything. I’ll talk to Mom. I’ll explain she’s crossing boundaries.”
“Igor,” Alena shook her head, “you’ve said that before. Many times. Nothing changed. And it won’t change.”
“It will,” he insisted. “I promise. Just give me a chance.”
Alena looked at Igor. She saw pleading in his eyes—but she also saw weakness. Dependence on his mother. An inability to stand up to Tamara Viktorovna. And she understood: nothing would change. Igor would remain a mama’s boy. Always.
“No, Igor,” Alena said quietly. “I won’t give you a chance. Because I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’ll change. I don’t believe you’ll be able to stand up to your mother. I don’t believe our marriage will be different.”
“Alena, please…”
“Go, Igor,” Alena asked. “I’m begging you.”
He stood there a moment longer, then turned and went down the stairs. Alena closed the door, leaned her back against it, and exhaled. Tears rose to her eyes, but she didn’t cry. She just stood there, listening to the silence, knowing she’d made the right choice.
A few weeks later Alena filed for divorce. Igor didn’t fight it. Tamara Viktorovna kept calling, demanding a meeting, threatening her. Alena ignored it. She just continued living—working, setting up the apartment, meeting friends, reading books, taking evening walks.
One day, sitting on the balcony, Alena thought about how she was finally free. Free from nitpicking, from control, from other people’s expectations. Free to be herself. To live the way she wanted. To make her own decisions. And that feeling—light, weightless, joyful—was worth everything she had gone through.
The apartment was no longer just an apartment. It became a home—a place where Alena could breathe deeply, where no one told her how to live, where quiet and peace reigned. And it was better than any marriage in which she had to endure, stay silent, and adapt.
Alena smiled and looked at the sunset. A new life was only just beginning.