Svetlana loved her apartment almost as much as normal people love their children. But she didn’t have children, so the comparison was actually quite appropriate. The apartment—a two-room place on the fourth floor of a concrete-panel building, bought before her marriage and renovated with the sweat of her parents’ backs and her own mortgage—was her fortress. White walls, even floors, no peeling paint or blooming mold like in Andrey’s parents’ house. Every corner here had been scrubbed, thought through, paid for with nerves and loans.
At first, Andrey treated the apartment like a blessing from fate: lucky him, his wife already had housing, they could live calmly. But the longer it went on, the clearer it became—he saw it not as her achievement, but as their “shared happiness.” And fine, if he just lived there and tossed socks into corners—Svetlana could still tolerate that. But along with the socks, guests started to appear. More precisely, Andrey’s relatives.
First his mother came “for a couple of days.” A bag, jars of pickles, a booming voice echoing through the stairwell:
“Alright, kiddos, I’ll stay here for a bit—won’t be too cramped!”
Svetlana smiled tightly, telling herself, well, it’s the mother-in-law, after all. Then his father arrived, smelling of tobacco and forever rustling plastic bags with who-knew-what inside. Then Andrey’s brother—“until I sort things out with work.” And after him, the sister—“to apply to university in the capital.”
“You understand, it’s family,” Andrey would shrug, as if Svetlana had no idea he had a family.
She understood. But she understood something else too: family is family, but her apartment was her apartment.
One evening after work, Svetlana came home and found this: an entire delegation was sitting at her kitchen table. Her mother-in-law was slicing boiled potatoes—knife straight on Svetlana’s new cutting board. Her father-in-law was loudly telling a story about how “in their village women are much more compliant.” The brother was glued to his phone, cracking sunflower seeds and spitting husks right onto the floor. The sister, in headphones, was chewing something. Andrey sat there beaming, like he’d hit the jackpot.
Svetlana set her bag by the door and said quietly:
“I feel like I’ve walked into a dorm, not my home.”
“Svet, come on, why start right away,” Andrey stood up and put on an apologetic face. “It’s only for a little while—until they get their stuff sorted.”
“Stuff?” Svetlana narrowed her eyes. “Can you be specific—what ‘stuff’ do your parents have to do in my apartment?”
Her mother-in-law immediately looked up from the potatoes:
“Oh, Svetočka, why ‘my’ right away? You’re family! Everything should be shared. Don’t split it into yours and ours—it’s ugly.”
Svetlana leaned against the doorframe and bit her lip. Ugly. She’d been grinding away at that mortgage for ten years. Her father came after a heart attack to help with renovations. Her mother still paid the utilities when Svetlana’s salary dipped. But ugly—apparently—was reminding them about property rights.
“You know what,” she said calmly, though her voice trembled, “I had a hard day today. I’m not up for family parties.”
“Svet, it’s not a party,” Andrey cut in. “They’ll just have dinner and go to sleep.”
“Where?” Svetlana looked at him. “We have two rooms. Where?”
Andrey hesitated. And without blinking, his mother said:
“So what? Me and my husband on the sofa in the living room, the kids in the bedroom. And you two—young people—you’ll figure it out.”
Svetlana felt something inside her crack.
The next day she found an envelope in the mailbox. Gray, no stamps. She opened it at home while everyone was still asleep. Inside were copies of registration papers. Andrey had filed an application at the government service center, and it listed his parents, his brother, and his sister. Without her consent.
Svetlana’s hands started shaking. Her heart thudded as if she’d been caught committing a crime—though the crime had been committed by her husband.
She went into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law was already there, in a robe covered with roosters, drinking tea and loudly smacking her lips over a bun.
“Natalya Ivanovna,” Svetlana’s voice trembled, but she tried to hold steady, “were you planning to register in my apartment?”
The woman didn’t even blink.
“And what’s wrong with that? We’re family. You against it?”
Svetlana clenched the paper in her fist.
“I’m not just against it. It’s illegal without my consent.”
“Oh, please,” her mother-in-law waved it off. “You’re not a stranger—you’re our son’s wife. One day it’ll all be shared anyway.”
“So what, do you have problems with your house?” Svetlana snapped.
Her mother-in-law frowned.
“Who doesn’t? And what—have you got an extra apartment lying around?”
At that moment Andrey walked in, sleepy in sweatpants, hair sticking up. He saw Svetlana holding the paper and immediately froze.
“Andryusha,” Svetlana held up the envelope, “can you explain what this is?”
He fidgeted, rubbed the back of his head.
“Svet, why are you jumping on it… It’s temporary. Just to make it easier for them with documents—registration, work.”
“Temporary?” She scoffed. “And then forever. Do you even understand you filed papers without my consent? For my apartment?”
Andrey squirmed.
“You wouldn’t understand…”
“You’re right. I won’t,” she cut him off. “Because a normal husband talks to his wife first—and only then runs to the service center.”
Silence fell in the kitchen. Even the mother-in-law shut up. Only the father-in-law, rummaging through the fridge, grumbled:
“Oh, come on, why are you yelling—either way you’ll have to live together.”
“No,” Svetlana said firmly. “We won’t.”
And then she snapped. Papers flew to the floor. A chair slammed against the tile.
“If I ever see you digging into my documents again without asking…” she inhaled sharply, “you’ll all fly out of here like corks!”
Andrey went pale. The mother-in-law flared up like a torch.
“How dare you!” she screamed. “Who are we to you?! We’re family!”
“No,” Svetlana stared her straight in the eyes. “My family is the people who don’t betray me behind my back.”
The evening ended with doors banging and shouting. No one left—yet. But a crack had split everything. Svetlana sat on the windowsill in her bedroom, looked out into the courtyard, and understood: there was no road back.
The next day the apartment no longer felt like hers. The same walls, the same furniture, the tiles still shining—but the air was чужой, чуждый. As if the smells of those “relatives” had soaked into the concrete: tobacco, the brother’s cheap deodorant, her mother-in-law’s greasy cutlets. Sticky, intrusive, unbearable.
In the morning she slipped out earlier than everyone—just to avoid hearing her mother-in-law’s chirpy voice:
“Svetočka, where do you keep your salt? And your sugar is expensive—I brought my own!”
At work her coworkers asked:
“Why do you look like you unloaded train cars all night?”
Svetlana just smirked.
“I live at home with a circus. Only without cheerful clowns—just trainers, all of them.”
By evening it got worse.
Andrey sat in the kitchen with his brother and father, drinking beer, laughing, discussing “how much attitude Moscow women have.” The sister had taken over Svetlana’s room. The mother-in-law sprawled on the living room sofa and barked orders like it was her apartment.
“Svet,” Andrey called when she passed by, “sit down, listen.”
She stopped in the doorway, arms crossed.
“What?”
Andrey shifted and put on a guilty expression.
“Look… It’s really hard for them without registration. My brother needs it for work, my sister for school, my parents for the clinic. What’s it to you? It’s just a formality.”
Svetlana almost laughed—but it would have been hysteria.
“A formality?” She leaned in. “Andrey, do you hear yourself? I’m supposed to add four people to my apartment—people who don’t even take out their trash—and then I’ll never be able to deregister them for the rest of my life. That’s not a formality. That’s a scam.”
Her mother-in-law immediately jumped in:
“Oh, stop it. We’re not strangers. We’re not going to live here permanently!”
Svetlana smirked.
“Of course. You’re already living here—but ‘not permanently.’”
“Svet,” Andrey raised his voice, “you’re selfish! People came, they’re struggling, and you’re only thinking about square meters.”
“They’re my square meters!” she flared up. “And I will think about them.”
The argument escalated into shouting.
“If it weren’t for you,” the mother-in-law yelled, “Andryusha would’ve married a normal girl long ago—one who respects her husband’s parents!”
“If it weren’t for me,” Svetlana shot back, “he’d still be living with you in your village and carrying water from the pump!”
The brother jumped up, his chair skidding aside.
“Don’t raise your voice at my mother!”
“And you don’t tell me to shut my mouth!” Svetlana jabbed a finger at him.
Andrey’s sister, pale but spiteful, snorted:
“Typical Muscovite. Mine, mine, I did it all myself. No respect for family.”
“I respect family. My family,” Svetlana replied.
And then Andrey snapped:
“If you don’t like it—leave!”
Svetlana froze. Her ears rang.
“What?” she asked softly.
“So what?” He lifted his hands. “You’re always saying it’s your apartment, your walls. Fine—live alone.”
Those words hit harder than if he’d raised a hand.
“Alright,” Svetlana said in an icy tone. “Now you’ll see what ‘alone’ looks like.”
She went to the bedroom, pulled out a big suitcase. Not hers—Andrey’s. She threw it onto the bed, opened it, and started stuffing his things inside.
“Hey!” he rushed at her. “What are you doing?”
“Packing your ‘formality.’” She shoved in jeans, T-shirts, socks. “You said: if you don’t like it, leave. So leave.”
Andrey tried to stop her, grabbed her arm.
“Svet, have you lost your mind? Calm down!”
“Let go!” She jerked away so hard her nails left a scratch on his wrist. “This is my home! Mine!”
Tears rose, but she held them back. Not in front of them. Never.
Her mother-in-law burst into the room screaming:
“You’re insane! You’re destroying the family!”
Svetlana spun around sharply.
“The family is destroyed by your son when he goes behind his wife’s back to the service center. And all of you—when you treat someone else’s home like it’s yours.”
And she hurled the suitcase toward the door.
An hour later the apartment was chaos. Andrey yelled that she’d ruined everything, his mother wailed, his brother threatened to “handle it like a man,” his sister slammed doors.
And Svetlana sat on the edge of the bed and felt it: the bridges were burning. She’d taken a step there was no returning from.
The apartment froze in a tense pause. For three days everyone lived like they were walking through a minefield: whispering, slamming doors, passing each other without looking. Svetlana could feel it—the storm wasn’t over.
On the fourth day it blew.
She came home early from work and found Andrey in the kitchen. He sat with a stack of papers and a ballpoint pen. Beside him were his mother and father-in-law, serious as if they were in court.
“What is this?” Svetlana asked.
“Svet,” Andrey began carefully, “we decided… we really need to settle the registration issue.”
She stepped closer and saw an application form on the table. Only now, in the “owner” line, was her last name—along with a forged signature.
Svetlana went numb.
“You… signed for me?” Her voice was quiet, but glacial.
Andrey swallowed.
“You wouldn’t understand anyway. This way it’s faster.”
Her mother-in-law threw up her hands.
“Oh, Svetočka, why are you acting like a little girl? It’s convenient for everyone!”
Svetlana straightened. Rage pulsed in her chest.
“That’s a criminal offense, Andrey. Forging a signature. Do you know what that’s called?”
He went white.
“Svet… why are you going straight to extremes?”
“Because there’s no other way with you,” she said. “You don’t hear me.”
She grabbed the papers, tore them into tiny pieces, and threw them into their faces.
“That’s it. It’s over.”
“Where are you going?!” the mother-in-law shrieked as Svetlana headed for the bedroom.
“To a lawyer,” Svetlana answered. “Tomorrow I’m filing for divorce.”
The room fell silent. Even the brother stopped chewing his sunflower seeds.
Andrey tried to say something, but Svetlana turned to him and looked at him in a way that made him go quiet.
“You betrayed me, Andrey. Worse than if you’d cheated. Pack your things and get out. All of you. Today.”
The scandal was loud—neighbors listened—but Svetlana didn’t care. Suitcases, screaming, doors slamming, the mother-in-law’s hysterics. Andrey swung between pleading and accusing, but Svetlana stood like a rock.
By midnight the apartment was empty.
She sat alone in her kitchen. The white walls looked like hers again. The kettle hummed, rain drizzled outside the window. For the first time in years, Svetlana felt it—she was home. Alone. But home.
She took out her phone, opened the messenger, and typed a short message:
“Mom, Dad, thank you for everything. I protected our apartment.”
And hit “send.