Again I’ve spilled the salt,” I muttered under my breath as I swept the grains off the table. “The day’s gone to hell since morning.”
The kitchen smelled of coffee, cheap bologna, and yesterday’s soup that Roman hadn’t finished. Now the bowl sat in the sink, staring at me resentfully. Same old story: I cook, he doesn’t eat, then he makes a face. He always has a complaint—“not like that,” “not this,” “Mom’s is better.” If only he’d said thank you once.
“Olya, where are my socks?” came his voice from the bedroom—sleepy, irritated, like I’m supposed to know the location of every item of men’s clothing within the Moscow Ring Road.
“Where they always are,” I snapped. “In the dresser. Second drawer.”
“Not there,” Roman reported after a pause, and I could already hear drawers slamming.
I went to check. Of course they were there. I grabbed them and shoved them into his hands. He didn’t even apologize—just sulked and mumbled something under his breath.
That’s how we live: me, him, and the constant shadow of a third—Nina Petrovna, his precious mommy. She’s like she’s registered here, even though officially she lives in the neighboring district. But her energy… it seeps in like smoke through cracks. Even if the door is locked with every bolt, you still feel her.
And by the way, I’m the owner of this apartment. My grandfather left it to me as an inheritance. A two-room place—not new, the renovation is old, but it’s mine. I was proud that at twenty-eight I had a roof over my head and no one could take it away from me. Naïve.
We had a modest wedding. Roman didn’t put in a single ruble—apart from a couple bottles of champagne and his relatives, who showed up and behaved like they were the ones paying off a bank loan for the banquet. But back then I was in love, and I thought, well, love is what matters—being together. Now I think: “together” is when it’s two people. With us it’s three.
“Mom, hi!” I suddenly heard my husband’s voice from the entryway. “Come in—why are you standing there?”
I dropped my cup.
“Roman!” I yelled from the kitchen. “Have you lost your mind?!”
And sure enough—there she was. In her favorite coat, gray as wet asphalt, bag in hand. Nina Petrovna in the flesh. And she smiled as if she hadn’t walked into her daughter-in-law’s home, but into her own weekend spa.
“Olechka, hello,” she drawled, in a voice with less warmth than a cafeteria cutlet has meat. “What, you’re not happy?”
“It’s our day off. I was actually planning to lie down,” I stretched a smile onto my face. “Why didn’t you call first?”
“Why call?” she narrowed her eyes. “This is our shared home.”
“Our?” I almost stopped breathing. “What do you mean—ours?”
“What’s so hard to understand?” Roman cut in, already taking his mother’s coat. “Mom took a set of keys so she doesn’t have to run around asking every time.”
“What keys?!” I felt my hands start to shake. “Roman! You gave her the keys to my apartment?”
“Olechka, why are you jumping straight to that?” my mother-in-law sighed and marched into the kitchen like she owned the place. “It’s convenient for me too—to come, to help you. You work so much, you don’t have time. At least I can put things in order.”
She opened the refrigerator, stuck her nose in, and immediately began commentating:
“The milk is open—it’ll sour soon. The sausage is cheap; you shouldn’t buy that. Are you feeding your wife properly, Romochka?”
I stayed silent. Because if I opened my mouth, I’d say something I couldn’t take back.
Roman sat at the table, turned on his phone, and buried himself in it—as if everything was fine. As if it’s normal to bring your mother into your wife’s apartment without asking.
“Nina Petrovna,” I finally managed. “You don’t have the right to run things here.”
“Oh, what words!” she flung up her hands. “I’m your husband’s mother. We’re one family. You’re still young—you don’t understand. Family is when you’re together, not when everyone hides in their own corner.”
“In their own corner?” I laughed, jittery. “Sorry, but that corner is mine. And this apartment is mine. And I didn’t give the keys to anyone except Roman.”
“Oh, come on,” she waved it off. “Everything is shared anyway. You’re his wife—so the apartment is a family one.”
“No,” I cut her off. “I inherited this apartment before the marriage. It’s my property only. By law.”
“Well look at you, found yourself a law degree?” Nina Petrovna squinted even harder. “Listen, girl: the law is the law, but life works differently. If my son lives here, then his mother has the right to come.”
That’s when I blew up.
“No, she doesn’t!” I slammed my palm on the table. “Give the keys back. Now.”
“Why are you shouting?” Roman jerked up. “Mom just wanted to help!”
“Help?” I stared at him. “Is it ‘help’ to walk into my apartment without permission? Is it ‘help’ to rummage through my fridge and tell me what to feed people?”
“You’re ungrateful,” my mother-in-law concluded, raising her eyebrows. “I’m trying for you, and you’re throwing me out.”
“Yes,” I nodded. “I am.”
The silence was so thick the wall clock ticked louder than usual.
“What a bitch you are,” Roman hissed. “Throwing out your own mother.”
“Your own mother—back to her apartment,” I said coldly. “This one is mine.”
Nina Petrovna slammed the fridge door, put on her coat, and said ominously:
“You’ll regret this. Women who don’t respect their mothers-in-law don’t stay married for long.”
And she left.
And we stayed. I stood by the window, trembling, my heart pounding. Roman looked at me with hate. And I suddenly understood: this was only the beginning.
After that damned Sunday, a sticky silence hung in the apartment. Not the kind that calms you—more like the silence before a storm: the air thick and oppressive, and you know it’s going to strike. You just don’t know when, or who it’ll hit.
Roman walked around gloomy, like I’d robbed him of his pension. He left for work without saying goodbye, came back in the evening, sat down at his laptop and said nothing. And if he did speak, it was in monosyllables: “uh-huh,” “fine,” “later.” And I knew perfectly well: he wasn’t talking to me—he was talking to Mommy on the phone.
I heard it a couple of times. He’d sit in the bathroom like he wanted privacy and whisper into the receiver:
“Mom, just wait, she’ll cool off… No, she won’t give them back… I told her… Yeah, of course—we’ll do it differently…”
My heart clenched. A grown man, thirty-two, and inside still a little mama’s boy.
At work I got slammed with an audit. I’m an accountant, and August is peak season: the tax office, reconciliations, reports. I worked nights, eyes red, no strength left, dragging myself home like a squeezed lemon. And then—surprise: I open the door, and in the kitchen sits… guess who?
“Well hello, mistress of the house,” Nina Petrovna smiled sweetly, slicing cucumbers.
I even dropped the grocery bag.
“How did you get in here?” My voice jumped into a shriek.
“With the keys, like always,” she answered calmly. “You work late anyway. Roman asked me to make dinner.”
I looked at the table: cutlets, potatoes, salad. Everything fresh and hot. The apartment smelled like we didn’t live in a two-room place on the outskirts, but in a restaurant on Arbat.
And then I understood: this wasn’t a visit. It was an occupation.
“Nina Petrovna,” I said, breathing hard, “give the keys back. Immediately.”
“Olechka,” she sighed and rolled her eyes. “Why are you acting like a child? Is that how you treat family? You’re tired, pale, skinny—I’m trying to help. Why are you clinging to this?”
“I’m not clinging,” I stepped closer, almost whispering. “This is my apartment. Mine. And I decide who walks in here with keys.”
She looked up at me—so icy I nearly flinched.
“Daughter,” she said slowly. “For now, you’re my son’s wife. That makes you part of our family. And in a family, the elder decides.”
“Here, I decide!” I snapped. “Period!”
At that moment the front door slammed. Roman came in. He saw me red-faced, hands shaking. He saw his mother calmly slicing cucumbers—and instantly took her side.
“Another fight?” he threw out tiredly. “Olya, I’m sick of this! You can’t live normally?”
“I’m the problem?” I laughed nervously. “You gave your mother the keys behind my back!”
“And I did the right thing,” he barked. “At least there’ll be order in the house.”
“Order?” I jabbed a finger at the table. “This is ‘order’? A stranger running my home?”
“A stranger?!” he shouted. “That’s my mother!”
“Exactly!” I slammed my palm so hard the plates jumped. “Your mother. Not mine. Let her sit in her own home!”
Nina Petrovna put the knife down with a flourish and sat on a stool.
“You know what, Olechka,” she said coldly. “A woman who throws out her mother-in-law won’t stay a wife for long.”
“Even if it’s five minutes!” I barked. “But I’m not giving my apartment to anyone!”
That’s when Roman snapped. He lunged at me, grabbed my elbow so hard I yelped.
“Shut up!” he screamed in my face. “I’ve had enough! Everything’s always wrong with you! Maybe you should leave?”
“Not a chance,” I hissed, yanking my arm away. “If anyone leaves, it’ll be you.”
I went to the closet. Pulled out his gym bag, unzipped it, and started shoving in shirts, socks, jeans—whatever my hands grabbed.
“What are you doing?!” Roman stood there like he’d been struck by lightning.
“Packing,” I said calmly. “For you and Mommy. Since you two want to live here together.”
He rushed at the bag, yanking things back out. I shoved him. He shoved me back. A plate of cutlets crashed to the floor and exploded into shards.
“You’ve lost it!” he screamed. “I’ll throw you out, not the other way around!”
“Try,” I hissed. “Try throwing out the owner of the apartment.”
And then I saw Nina Petrovna—without blinking—pull her passport from her bag. She waved it in front of my face and said:
“Remember this, girl. You’re nobody here yet. Today you’re a wife, tomorrow you’re an ex. And you won’t be dividing this apartment with my son anyway.”
“You’re mistaken,” I smirked. “There’s nothing to divide. This apartment is mine alone. I have the documents.”
She faltered for a second, then lifted her chin again.
“We’ll see.”
I stood there trembling, but something inside me had already clicked into place. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I knew: either I pull myself together now, or they’ll erase me.
“Roman,” I said firmly. “You take your mother and you leave. Today. Now.”
“I’m not going,” he snapped.
“Then tomorrow I’ll change the locks,” I answered. “And I’ll leave your things out in the hallway.”
He froze. Apparently he realized I wasn’t bluffing. Nina Petrovna only narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, is that how it is? Well, Olechka… you’ve signed your own sentence.”
And I suddenly felt a strange relief. Yes, it was scary. Yes, there would be scandals, fights, court—maybe. But I’d finally said what I should’ve said a long time ago.
That evening they left. The front door slammed so hard the walls trembled. I stayed alone. The apartment fell silent—only the tap dripped.
And for the first time in a long while, I breathed freely. But I knew: this wasn’t the end. They’d come back. And the real battle would begin.
For two days the apartment was quiet as a morgue at night. I was even afraid to turn the water on too loudly—what if the neighbors thought everything was fine? And nothing was fine. A pause hung in the air—before the final chord.
I changed the locks. Called a locksmith, paid two and a half thousand, but now I knew: the key existed only in my hands. New, shiny, smelling of metal like a weapon. I squeezed it in my palm like a knife against their attacks.
And of course, the attack came.
On Thursday evening the door shook like debt collectors were battering it down. I jumped. Roman’s voice:
“Olya! Open up—I know you’re home!”
I took a deep breath and walked to the door.
“Roman, you don’t have keys anymore. That’s not an accident.”
“Are you out of your mind?!” he yelled into the keyhole. “This is my home!”
“No,” I said calmly. “This is my home.”
And then Nina Petrovna’s voice—sharp, sneering:
“Oh, so that’s how it is! You’re throwing us out? Well, daughter, you’re in trouble. I already spoke to a lawyer. We’re going to court. You won’t live here alone!”
I laughed. Actually laughed—nervous and loud.
“Court? Go right ahead! Just try. This apartment is mine by inheritance. Premarital property. Go visit every lawyer in the district—you won’t take a piece of it.”
Silence. Then a fist slammed into the door.
“Traitor!” Roman shouted. “I did everything for you… and you!”
“For me?” I couldn’t hold it in anymore—I started shouting too. “What did you ever do for me? Put in a single penny? Protect me from your mommy even once? No! You’ve always run after her!”
On the other side—snorting, swearing.
“That’s it,” I said firmly. “If you want—file for divorce. I’ll sign tomorrow. But you’re not stepping into this apartment again.”
And I heard them go down the stairs together, stomping and clattering.
I stood by the door with my forehead against the cold metal. And suddenly I understood: I was free.
Yes, there would be court, divorce, a pile of ugly conversations. But it didn’t matter anymore. Because I’d finally kicked unnecessary people out of my life.
They thought I’d bend. That I’d give in, like always. But I didn’t. I didn’t bend.
I’m staying in this apartment. Period