Irina stood in the middle of the empty living room and slowly turned in place, taking in the room. The light of the autumn sun streamed through the windows, which still had no curtains, illuminating the freshly painted walls. An apartment. Her own apartment. The one she had been working toward for five years.
The road had been long and difficult. Irina worked as a design engineer at a construction company, took extra jobs on weekends, denied herself trips and expensive purchases. Every month she set aside a fixed amount, never allowing herself to stray from the plan. Her husband, Maksim, was skeptical about the savings, saying they could live just fine in a rented place—why strain themselves?
But Irina wanted a home of her own. She wanted to know there was a place that belonged only to her, where no one could throw her out, where she could renovate the way she liked without asking a landlord’s permission.
A year ago she had finally saved enough for a down payment and took out a mortgage. Everything was in her name—the apartment, the loan, the paperwork. By then Maksim was working as a manager at a small firm with an unstable income, and Irina decided not to put him on the documents. It would be simpler, she’d said at the time. Maksim shrugged and agreed.
Now, after a year of renovations and settling in, the apartment was ready. A two-bedroom place on the fourth floor of a panel building in a quiet neighborhood. Irina chose light tones for the walls, bought comfortable furniture, hung up photos. It felt cozy.
“Ir, are you in there?” Maksim’s voice came from the entryway.
“Here!” Irina called back.
Her husband walked into the living room with grocery bags in his hands.
“Brought food for tomorrow. You wanted to throw a housewarming, right?”
“Yes,” Irina nodded. “I invited my parents, Sveta and Olesya, and your mom.”
Maksim set the bags down on the floor.
“Mom’s been saying for a week she wants to see our new apartment.”
“My apartment,” Irina corrected automatically.
“Right, yours,” Maksim agreed, but there was a tightness in his voice.
Irina didn’t pay it any attention. She took the groceries out of the bags and went to the kitchen to put everything away.
The housewarming was set for Saturday. Irina got up early, made appetizers, and set the table. Maksim helped reluctantly—carried chairs, arranged plates—but he kept getting distracted by his phone.
By two o’clock guests began to arrive. Irina’s parents, Viktor Nikolaevich and Elena Ivanovna, came first. Her father immediately inspected the apartment, checked the windows, faucets, and outlets.
“Well done, daughter,” Viktor Nikolaevich said approvingly. “You chose a good place. The renovation is high quality.”
Elena Ivanovna hugged her.
“I’m so happy for you, Irishka. You worked so hard for this.”
Next came her friends, Svetlana and Olesya. They brought flowers and a bottle of champagne.
“Ir, this is like a fairy tale!” Svetlana exclaimed, looking around the living room. “You’re amazing!”
“Thank you,” Irina smiled. “Come in, sit down.”
Last to arrive was her mother-in-law, Tamara Fyodorovna. The woman stepped over the threshold and immediately began looking around. Her gaze slid over the walls, the furniture, the chandelier. Tamara Fyodorovna went into the living room, took off her shoes, and—without being invited—headed for the bedroom.
“Mom, wait,” Maksim tried to stop her. “Let’s sit at the table first.”
“I’m just taking a quick look,” his mother waved him off and disappeared down the hall.
Irina clenched her teeth but said nothing. Tamara Fyodorovna had always been pushy, but it was especially unpleasant now to watch her examine the rooms without asking.
A few minutes later, Tamara Fyodorovna returned to the living room and nodded to her son.
“Nice apartment. Bright.”
Everyone sat down at the table. Viktor Nikolaevich poured champagne into the glasses.
“Well then, let’s drink to the new apartment and to our Irina, who achieved her goal,” her father said, raising his glass.
“To Irina!” her friends echoed.
They clinked glasses and drank. The atmosphere was warm and relaxed. Elena Ivanovna asked about the renovation, Svetlana told funny stories from work, Olesya shared her vacation plans.
Maksim sat next to his mother in silence. Tamara Fyodorovna ate salad and now and then glanced around the room, as if evaluating every detail.
After half an hour, Maksim suddenly stood up and spoke loudly:
“Friends! I want to make a toast!”
Everyone fell silent and turned toward him. Irina looked up at her husband. Maksim held his glass and smiled broadly.
“Today is a special day! My wife and I finally bought an apartment! We saved for a long time, put in the effort, and here’s the result!”
Irina frowned. Bought? We? She opened her mouth to object, but Maksim continued:
“This is our shared achievement! Our apartment, our little nest! I’m proud we were able to do this together!”
Viktor Nikolaevich frowned and looked at his daughter. Irina pressed her lips together but said nothing. Inside, irritation tightened like a fist. Maksim hadn’t put a single ruble into the apartment, hadn’t taken part in the paperwork, hadn’t even gone to viewings—yet now he was presenting himself as a full-fledged owner.
Tamara Fyodorovna nodded approvingly, her face glowing with pride. She was clearly enjoying the moment.
“Maksim,” Irina called softly.
But he didn’t hear her. He lifted his glass higher and went on:
“And of course I want to congratulate the most important person in my life—my mom! Mom, you always supported me, taught me how to build a family the right way. And now that we have our own apartment, I want you to know—you’re always a welcome guest here!”
Tamara Fyodorovna beamed. Maksim paused, then declared solemnly:
“Congratulations, Mom—now you’re the mistress here. Your word is law!”
Silence fell. Svetlana and Olesya exchanged looks. Viktor Nikolaevich set down his fork and stared at his son-in-law. Elena Ivanovna grabbed her daughter’s hand under the table.
Irina slowly put her glass down. Blood rushed to her face. She stood up, not looking at anyone, and left the living room. In the entryway she stopped, leaned her back against the wall, and closed her eyes.
The mistress? Tamara Fyodorovna? In her apartment?
Muffled voices drifted from the living room. Someone tried to smooth over the awkwardness; someone spoke more quietly than usual. Irina heard her father’s voice—firm, displeased.
“Maksim, that’s inappropriate.”
“What’s the big deal?” her husband replied, surprised. “I just showed my mother respect.”
“The apartment belongs to Irina,” Elena Ivanovna cut in. “She bought it with her own money.”
“So what?” Tamara Fyodorovna joined in. “They’re a family, aren’t they? That means the apartment is shared!”
“No,” Viktor Nikolaevich said clearly. “The apartment is registered to Irina. It’s her property.”
“You’re being petty,” the mother-in-law snapped disdainfully. “A real family doesn’t split assets.”
Svetlana coughed loudly, trying to stop the conflict from escalating.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this now? Let’s just celebrate the housewarming.”
But Tamara Fyodorovna couldn’t stop.
“My son has the right to feel like the хозяин—like the master of the house! And Irina is too obsessed with her rights!”
Irina heard her father rise from the table.
“Tamara Fyodorovna, you’re crossing the line. Irina worked five years to buy this apartment. Your son lived in a rental that whole time and didn’t save a single ruble.”
“My son works!” the mother-in-law protested.
“And spends everything on himself,” Elena Ivanovna added coldly. “My husband and I can see who’s carrying this family.”
Maksim finally spoke, but his voice sounded uncertain:
“Mom, Dad, let’s not fight. I just wanted to say something nice to Mom.”
“At the cost of humiliating your wife?” Viktor Nikolaevich shot back.
Irina couldn’t listen anymore. She pushed open the living room door and walked in. Everyone fell silent and turned to her.
“The party is over,” Irina said quietly. “I want everyone to leave.”
“Irishka—” Elena Ivanovna began, but Irina shook her head.
“Mom, Dad—you too. Please. I need to be alone.”
Viktor Nikolaevich stood up and took his wife by the hand. Her parents dressed in silence and left. Svetlana and Olesya followed, hugging their friend goodbye.
Tamara Fyodorovna remained seated, arms crossed over her chest.
“I’m not going anywhere. My son lives here, which means I have the right to be in this apartment.”
“Tamara Fyodorovna, leave,” Irina repeated.
“Maksim!” the mother-in-law called. “Tell her!”
Maksim stood in the middle of the living room, looking lost, shifting his gaze between his mother and his wife.
“Mom, maybe we really should go. Irina’s upset.”
“I won’t leave until you put this girl in her place!” Tamara Fyodorovna snapped.
Irina stepped right up to her and said quietly but firmly:
“This is my apartment. My documents, my mortgage, my money. And if you don’t leave right now, I will call the police.”
Tamara Fyodorovna jumped up, her face turning crimson.
“How dare you threaten me?!”
“I’m not threatening you,” Irina replied calmly. “I’m stating a fact. You are not the mistress here, and you never will be. Leave.”
The mother-in-law grabbed her bag and headed for the door. At the threshold she turned to her son:
“Maksim, are you coming with me?”
He froze. Irina looked at him and waited. Maksim lowered his eyes.
“Mom, I’ll stay. I need to talk to my wife.”
Tamara Fyodorovna snorted with contempt and slammed the door. Silence hung in the apartment.
Irina went to the kitchen and started clearing the table. Her hands were shaking, but she forced herself to move, to do something. Maksim came in after her.
“Ir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Irina didn’t answer. She stacked dirty plates in the sink and wiped the table.
“Are you listening to me?” her husband asked insistently.
“I am,” Irina said shortly.
“Then why are you silent?”
Irina turned and looked at him.
“You called your mother the mistress in my apartment. You said her word is law. In my apartment, Maksim. Mine.”
“They’re just words!” he insisted. “I wanted to say something nice to Mom!”
“At my expense.”
Maksim sighed and rubbed his face with his hands.
“Ir, don’t turn this into a tragedy. We’re family. What difference does it make whose apartment it is?”
“A huge difference,” Irina said firmly. “A very big difference.”
She left the kitchen and locked herself in the bedroom. Maksim remained standing there alone. The celebration ended almost as soon as it began. And the next morning, things got even worse.
Irina woke up early, her head aching from the night before. Maksim had slept on the living room couch—after the fight he hadn’t come to the bedroom. Irina quietly got ready for work, took her bag, and left, putting the keys on the shelf in the entryway as usual.
The workday dragged on endlessly. Irina tried to focus on her drawings, but her thoughts kept returning to the night before. Maksim’s words echoed in her head again and again: Congratulations, Mom—now you’re the mistress here. Your word is law. How could he say that? Did he really not understand he’d crossed every line?
By six o’clock Irina finished up and went home. On the way she stopped by a store and bought groceries. She just wanted to get to the apartment, take a shower, and go to bed. She could put off a talk with Maksim until tomorrow, when emotions cooled.
Irina climbed to the fourth floor and unlocked the door with her key. In the entryway, she immediately noticed someone else’s shoes—women’s low-heeled pumps. Irina froze. They were Tamara Fyodorovna’s.
Sounds came from the kitchen—someone clattering dishes, turning on water. Irina walked down the hall and stopped in the kitchen doorway.
Her mother-in-law stood at the sink washing plates. Tamara Fyodorovna’s hair was tucked under a scarf, and she wore an apron. She hummed to herself and clearly felt at home.
“Tamara Fyodorovna,” Irina said coldly.
The mother-in-law turned and smiled.
“Oh, Irochka! You’re back! I decided to tidy up. I could see after yesterday no one cleaned anything. Maksim’s at work, so I came to help.”
Irina slowly scanned the kitchen. The floor was washed, the table wiped, the dishes put away. But not where she usually kept them. Everything had been rearranged.
“How did you get in here?” Irina asked, forcing herself to stay calm.
“Maksim gave me the keys,” Tamara Fyodorovna replied breezily. “He said you needed help cleaning. You get tired after work.”
Irina clenched her fists. Maksim had given his mother keys. To her apartment. Without asking her.
“Look how neatly I arranged everything,” her mother-in-law went on, opening cabinets. “Plates with plates, mugs with mugs. You had it all set up wrong.”
Irina looked into the cabinet. Sure enough, everything was out of place. And her favorite ceramic pot—a gift from her mother—was gone.
“Where’s the red pot?” Irina asked.
“What pot?” Tamara Fyodorovna didn’t understand.
“The red ceramic one. It was right here.”
The mother-in-law waved toward a trash bag by the door.
“Oh, that! I threw it out. It’s old junk. Chipped, paint peeling. No point keeping clutter.”
Irina went to the bag and looked inside. There was the pot, a cutting board with a burned-in design she’d brought back from a trip to Karelia, and a few wooden spoons she’d bought at a fair.
“You threw out my things,” Irina said softly.
“I cleaned up!” Tamara Fyodorovna declared proudly. “I wasn’t expecting gratitude, of course, but you could show at least a little respect for your elders!”
Irina took out her phone and dialed. Tamara Fyodorovna stared at her, confused.
“Who are you calling?”
“Hello,” Irina said calmly into the phone. “I’d like to report an unlawful entry into an apartment. The address is…”
“What?!” her mother-in-law screeched. “Have you lost your mind?! I’m Maksim’s mother! What unlawful entry?!”
Irina continued speaking with the operator, ignoring Tamara Fyodorovna’s yelling.
“Yes, there’s a stranger in the apartment. No, there’s no threat to life, but the person refuses to leave. Thank you, I’ll wait.”
Irina set the phone on the table and looked at her mother-in-law.
“Yesterday I asked you to leave. You left. Today you came back without my permission, took keys without my knowledge, and threw out my things. That is unlawful entry.”
“Maksim allowed it!” Tamara Fyodorovna shouted.
“Maksim has no right to allow it,” Irina replied coldly. “This apartment belongs to me. Only me.”
Her mother-in-law grabbed at her apron strings, fumbling as she untied them with shaking hands.
“I’ll call my son! He’ll come and explain everything!”
“Call him,” Irina allowed.
Tamara Fyodorovna snatched up her phone and began dialing. A minute later she was speaking, choking on her words:
“Maksim! Your wife called the police! On me! Come immediately!”
Irina went into the entryway and waited. Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang. Irina opened it—on the threshold stood a local police officer, a man around fifty with a tired face.
“Good evening. You called the police?”
“Yes,” Irina nodded. “Come in.”
The officer came in and took off his cap. Tamara Fyodorovna rushed out of the kitchen.
“Comrade officer!” she shouted. “This is a misunderstanding! I’m the mother of the owner of this apartment! I’m not a stranger!”
“Your documents, please,” the officer said.
Irina handed him her passport and the ownership certificate. The officer examined the papers carefully, then turned to Tamara Fyodorovna.
“Your documents.”
With trembling hands the mother-in-law produced her passport. The officer opened it and checked her registered address.
“You’re registered at a different address. Do you have the owner’s permission to be in this apartment?”
“My son lives here!” Tamara Fyodorovna protested.
“Is your son registered here?” the officer asked.
“Temporarily,” Irina answered. “For six months. It ends in a month.”
The officer nodded.
“Temporary registration doesn’t give the right to bring relatives without the owner’s consent. Ma’am,” he said to Tamara Fyodorovna, “I’m asking you to leave the apartment.”
“But I was helping! Cleaning!” the mother-in-law sobbed.
“No one asked you to,” Irina said quietly.
Tamara Fyodorovna grabbed her bag, shoved her feet into her shoes without even fastening them, and ran out. Her sobbing echoed down the hallway.
The officer looked at Irina.
“I’d advise changing the locks. If keys are in other people’s hands, it’s better to be safe.”
“Thank you,” Irina nodded. “I’ll do that.”
The officer left, and Irina latched the door chain. She sank onto the couch and covered her face with her hands. Everything had happened so fast. Just yesterday morning it felt like life was finally settling into place, and now…
Half an hour later the doorbell rang again. Irina went to the door, looked through the peephole—Maksim.
“Open up,” her husband asked tiredly.
Irina unlatched the chain and opened the door. Maksim came in, kicked off his boots, and went into the living room. He sat down on the couch, head lowered.
“Did you really call the police on my mother?”
“Yes,” Irina answered calmly, staying on her feet.
“Why?”
“Because she came into my apartment without permission, rearranged everything, threw out my things, and refused to leave.”
Maksim rubbed his face with his hands.
“She wanted to help.”
“No one asked her.”
“Ir, she’s my mother! Couldn’t you have just asked her to leave—without the police?”
Irina walked closer and sat on the edge of an armchair.
“Maksim, yesterday I asked her to leave. She left. Today she came back. You gave her keys to my apartment without asking me. Do you think that’s normal?”
“Well… Mom wanted to help,” he repeated.
“Help? Or take control?”
Maksim fell silent. Irina stood.
“Yesterday you called your mother the mistress in my apartment. Today you gave her keys. Maksim, do you understand what’s happening?”
“I just wanted Mom to feel needed,” he said quietly.
“At my expense. At the expense of my boundaries, my comfort, my property.”
Maksim got up and looked at Irina.
“So I’m nobody to you? Just a tenant?”
“You’re my husband,” Irina said. “But the apartment is mine. And decisions about who can come here are made by me.”
Maksim clenched his jaw.
“Got it. So I’m not welcome here.”
“You’re welcome. Your mother, who calls herself the mistress, isn’t.”
He turned and went into the bedroom. Ten minutes later he came out with a large bag.
“I’m going to Mom’s,” Maksim said, pulling on his jacket.
“Fine,” Irina nodded.
“You won’t even ask me to stay?”
“Why? You’ve already decided.”
Maksim froze by the door.
“You’re so cold. I don’t recognize you.”
“And I don’t recognize you,” Irina replied softly. “The Maksim I married would never have called a stranger the master of my home.”
He opened the door and left without saying goodbye. The slam echoed through the apartment.
Irina remained standing in the entryway. Inside she felt empty, but strangely calm—as if the weight she’d been carrying for days had finally slipped off her shoulders.
A week passed. Maksim didn’t call or text. Irina learned from her friend Svetlana that he was living with his mother and complaining to everyone that his wife had thrown him out of his own home.
“He says you’ve turned into a tyrant,” Svetlana told her on the phone. “That you won’t let him live in peace.”
“I see,” Irina said shortly.
“Ir, how are you? Holding up?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
On Saturday Irina called a locksmith. The man arrived within an hour and changed the front-door lock in half an hour. Irina threw away the old keys. Then she called a home security company and ordered an alarm system. Two days later installers came and put sensors on the windows and door.
“If anyone tries to break in, the siren will go off and a signal will be sent to our monitoring center,” the technician explained. “You’ll also get a notification on your phone.”
“Thank you,” Irina nodded.
Now the apartment truly was her fortress. No one could enter without permission.
Maksim called two weeks later.
“Ir, we need to talk.”
“Talk,” she replied evenly.
“Not over the phone. Let’s meet.”
“Why?”
“To discuss everything. Decide what to do next.”
Irina thought for a moment.
“Fine. Sunday. The café on Sadovaya. Two o’clock.”
“Agreed.”
On Sunday Irina arrived at the café ten minutes early. She ordered tea and waited. Maksim showed up right at two. He looked worn out—dark circles under his eyes, unshaven, a wrinkled shirt.
He sat across from her and ordered coffee.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Good. You?”
“Fine,” Maksim lied.
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then he finally spoke:
“Ir, I’ve been thinking a lot. Mom says you’ve changed. Not for the better.”
Irina gave a small, humorless smile.
“Your mom says a lot.”
“There you go again,” Maksim sighed. “Why can’t you just accept her?”
“I would, if she didn’t interfere in my life,” Irina said calmly. “But your mother thinks she’s the mistress in my apartment. And you enabled that.”
“I just—”
“You just decided her opinion mattered more than mine,” Irina cut him off. “That I should tolerate anything your mother does because she’s your mother.”
Maksim tightened his jaw.
“So you don’t want to compromise.”
“A compromise is when both sides meet each other halfway,” Irina explained. “And you’re demanding I give in. That’s not compromise.”
“So what now? Are we getting divorced?”
Irina paused.
“That’s up to you. I’m willing to continue the relationship, but only as equals. My apartment is my territory. Your mother doesn’t come there without an invitation. You don’t give her keys without my consent. And you don’t call her the mistress of my home.”
Maksim leaned back in his chair.
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Then goodbye,” Irina said simply.
He stared out the window for a long time. Then he stood up, tossed money on the table, and left without saying goodbye.
Irina finished her tea, paid, and walked out. It was cold outside, but the sun was bright. Autumn painted the city in gold and crimson.
A month later Maksim texted: “I’ll pick up my things on Saturday.” Irina replied: “Okay.”
On Saturday he came with two large bags. He packed clothes, books, CDs. Irina didn’t interfere—just watched. When he finished, he stopped in the entryway.
“Ir, maybe it’s not too late to fix everything?”
Irina shook her head.
“It’s too late, Maksim. You chose your mother. Live with it.”
He nodded and left. They never saw each other again.
Irina lived in her apartment for many years after that. She met with her parents and friends, made new acquaintances. But she never threw another housewarming. She didn’t want to share her space again with people who confused hospitality with impunity.
The apartment remained her fortress—where she could live peacefully, without looking over her shoulder at other people’s expectations. And Irina was happy