Do you realize this is already too much?” Dmitry’s voice snapped so sharply that Valentina turned around as if someone had struck glass.
“Too much?” She set the bag down on the floor, feeling her legs go weak. “An hour ago your mother told me I barged into your life without a dowry. And I’m the one who’s too much?”
“Val, why are you blowing this up… She just—”
“Just what?” Valentina gave a hollow laugh. “She practically demanded a spare set of keys to the apartment. And she said it’s her right to control the household. Dmitry, do you even hear what’s happening?”
He didn’t answer. He stood in the entryway of their new apartment, bracing one hand against the doorframe as if he were trying to hold up the ceiling. Valentina looked at him and, for the first time in all this, felt it: he wasn’t pulling his weight. He wasn’t holding the line. He wasn’t taking her side.
Outside, it was December. The fifth floor of an old building on Pushkinskaya Street. Half-darkness, a gray street, snow drifting lazily in big flakes like on old postcards.
Their new apartment still smelled of paint and dust. Boxes were everywhere, the furniture only half assembled. Everything felt unfinished, fragile—like their peace.
Valentina saw all of it and already knew: there would be no silence tonight.
“Listen,” Dmitry began, “I explained to Mom that she can’t—”
“You didn’t explain anything. You mumbled. You stood there smiling and let her lecture me for half an hour—in my own apartment. And then you said, ‘Mom, just tell me how to help.’ Help? With what—carrying suitcases in?”
Dmitry took a breath, gathering his thoughts.
“I wanted to smooth things over…”
“And I want to live normally.”
He looked up at his wife as if he’d only now noticed how exhausted she was. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering with anger and fatigue, her hands trembling.
“Let’s sit down,” he said quietly.
“No. I’ll say it standing up.”
She picked up the grocery bag and went into the kitchen. Dima followed. It was cold in there—the radiators were barely working. Valentina set the bags on the table and gripped the edge with her fingers.
“We just moved in. We’ve barely started settling. And your mother has already decided this is her family estate. Did you see how she walked through the rooms? Like she was trying on the bedroom for size? Tomorrow she’ll demand the keys officially.”
“She won’t.”
“Are you sure?”
He fell silent.
And that silence became the first crack in their new life.
“Fine,” Valentina exhaled. “Let’s go step by step. How do you imagine our life here—with your mother, who thinks every wall is her responsibility?”
“I…” Dmitry scratched his neck. “I want to live with you. Together. Without them. I told you that.”
“You said it. But words are one thing. When it comes to the moment—you’re afraid of them.”
He frowned.
“That’s not fair.”
“But it’s honest.”
She went to the window. A gust of wind rattled the glass. Down below the snow whipped around, a few pedestrians hurried past wrapped in scarves, cars crawled through slushy white muck.
There was so much air in this apartment. But Valentina felt as if her chest had no room for a full breath.
“So what now?” Dima asked.
“Now?” She gave a bitter little smirk. “Now your mother has decided that since the apartment is big, we can all ‘live as one happy family.’ And I’m the obstacle. She told me straight out I’m taking too much on myself—for an orphan with no backing.”
Dima winced.
“I would’ve put a stop to it a long time ago if you… well… were softer with her.”
“Softer?” Valentina turned to him. “Dima, I’m thirty. I’ve worked since I was twenty. I built myself up without anyone’s help. I don’t want someone coming in and running my life. I don’t have to be soft with someone who doesn’t respect me.”
He dropped his gaze.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“When?” Valentina folded her arms. “Now?”
He fell silent again.
Always the same. First he hesitates. Then he waits for the right moment. Then he puts it off. And only when things are on fire does he finally move.
She was tired of it.
And yet some small hope still glowed inside her—that he would make that step on his own.
Dmitry moved closer.
“Val… let’s not fight. We still have to live here. Together. Can we at least get through the first night without an argument?”
She watched him for a few seconds in silence.
And then she felt it: if she backed down now, tomorrow suitcases would be knocking at this door.
“No, Dima. The first night is exactly when we need to put everything in its place.”
She turned away and put the kettle on. The kitchen felt damp. The pipes gurgled as if complaining.
“Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll call Mom. Today. I’ll tell her she can’t come over without warning anymore. And that she won’t be living here.”
She didn’t believe him. But she didn’t say it.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “That’s enough.”
But he hadn’t even dialed yet when the doorbell rang—insistent, impatient.
They looked at each other.
Valentina knew instantly who it was.
Dmitry exhaled like a man who’d already realized the evening wouldn’t end peacefully.
Valentina went to the door first.
She opened it.
Ludmila Yegorovna stood on the threshold.
No smile. No suitcases. But her expression tightened something in Valentina’s chest immediately.
“Good evening, children,” she said in a level, almost icy voice. “I won’t be long. I need to clarify a few things.”
Dima came out into the hall.
“Mom, this isn’t the time—”
“It’s exactly the time,” his mother cut in. “I wanted to talk earlier, but I see without a serious conversation you two don’t understand anything.”
She looked at Valentina.
“May I come in? Or do I have to ask in writing now?”
Valentina stepped aside only enough to let her pass—no more.
At the kitchen doorway Ludmila Yegorovna scanned the room as if checking for cleanliness.
“Yes,” she said. “You can tell the renovation isn’t finished. But that’s fine. Cozy can be arranged.”
“Mom,” Dmitry stepped forward, “let’s get straight to it. You’re not going to live here. Neither you nor Nastya. We’ve already discussed this.”
“No, son,” she turned to him. “You discussed it. I didn’t.”
Valentina pressed her lips together.
“Ludmila Yegorovna, the apartment is mine. My property. I make the decisions.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about,” her mother-in-law leaned in. “Your property.”
A pause. One second. Two.
“I’ve been told,” she continued, “that you registered your inheritance very quickly. Suspiciously quickly. And that the documents were only checked on the surface. I’d like to be sure everything is honest. That neither my son nor his family will become victims of your… secrets.”
Valentina’s breath caught.
“Are you… implying I slipped in forged documents?”
“I’m not implying anything,” Ludmila Yegorovna crossed her arms. “I want to be certain. My blood will be living in this space. And I don’t want you thrown out in a year because some ‘true heir’ shows up.”
Valentina slammed her palm on the table.
“That’s beyond the pale!”
Silence. Gray and sticky.
Dmitry stood between them, lost and helpless, as if he didn’t know where to put himself.
Ludmila Yegorovna stood at the kitchen table with the confidence of a woman who believed she owned the place. But this time Valentina didn’t feel anger—only a strange calm. Cold. Precise.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “Let’s clarify. All the documents were done legally. The apartment belongs to me. That’s a fact. And I’m ready to show the papers—but only to both of you together. So there are no half-truths and twisted stories.”
Her mother-in-law lifted her chin.
“I… didn’t expect you to agree so quickly.”
“I didn’t agree ‘quickly.’” Valentina met her gaze. “I agreed because I’m tired of shadows on the walls. And I want Dmitry to stop being torn between us.”
Dima drew such a deep breath it was like he’d only now realized how tense he was.
“Mom,” he stepped closer, “no one is your enemy. But I really do want you to respect my boundaries. Our boundaries.”
Ludmila Yegorovna looked away for a second, and Valentina saw it for the first time—not iron, but fatigue. Human, ordinary.
“I…” her mother-in-law hesitated. “…I’m afraid for you, Dima. You always slip into the shadows when it’s time to speak. I was afraid you’d go silent again. And then it would turn out you’d been deceived.”
Valentina heard something there—not accusation, but fear.
And that fear let some of her anger out of its cage.
“I understand,” she said more softly. “But if you have questions, you ask them like a normal person. Without hints. Without suspicion. And certainly not by barging into the house in the evening.”
Silence again. Only the kettle hissed as it approached a boil.
Ludmila Yegorovna nodded slowly.
“Alright. Then let’s do it this way: I’ll look at the documents. If everything’s in order… I’ll leave it in the past. And I won’t interfere.”
A pause.
“No keys.”
Valentina let out a breath of relief—almost imperceptible.
Dmitry straightened.
“Thank you, Mom.”
He said it quietly, but for the first time—firmly.
And that mattered more than anything.
Half an hour later, the documents lay on the table. Ludmila Yegorovna studied them carefully, neatly. No displeasure. No barbs.
Sometimes she asked questions—practical ones. Valya answered calmly.
When she finished, she closed the folder.
“Everything’s clean,” she said. “And… I was wrong.”
It didn’t sound like defeat. More like the difficult admission of someone used to controlling everything, who was learning to let go.
“Thank you,” Valentina said softly.
Her mother-in-law looked up.
“I can see Dima is better with you. And if you want to build your home… I shouldn’t be standing in the doorway.”
A pause.
“Forgive my harshness.”
For the first time Valentina answered with a small, sincere smile.
“Peace.”
They shook hands. Awkwardly, but honestly.
When the door closed behind Ludmila Yegorovna, Dmitry came up to Valya and put an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t pull away.
“Thank you,” he said. “For not losing it. For holding on.”
“We both held on,” she corrected him.
He rested his forehead against her temple.
“I really do want you to be the mistress of this apartment. The only one. And for it to be calm here. With just the two of us.”
Valentina smiled.
“Then let’s start with dinner. And the boxes we still haven’t unpacked.”
He laughed.
“Agreed.”
And suddenly everything really did feel lighter: the air warmer, the room brighter, and the new home a little more real.
THE END
Not perfect. Not a fairy tale.
But honest—like a first night where both people chose conversation over noise