My husband threw it in my face that I was “living in his place,” so I reminded him whose home it really was.
“Where are my slippers? Why aren’t they where they’re supposed to be again? Lena, I’m pretty sure I asked you to keep the entryway in order!” Sergey’s voice—sharp and demanding—filled the apartment the moment the front door slammed.
Elena, standing at the stove and stirring a pot of goulash, let out a long, tired breath. Lately, scenes like this had become normal. Sergey came home tense, looking for any excuse to pick a fight, and his mother, Antonina Pavlovna—who’d been “visiting” for the second week—seemed to take real pleasure in turning up the heat.
“Sergey, your slippers are on the shelf, exactly where they belong,” Elena replied calmly, lowering the flame. “Just look a little to the left.”
Antonina Pavlovna walked into the kitchen. She was a big, loud woman who considered it her duty to comment on every move her daughter-in-law made.
“Oh, Lenochka, why argue with your husband?” she cooed. “The man is tired, he works, he provides—and you tell him ‘look to the left.’ You could’ve just brought them to him. It wouldn’t have killed you. I always placed my late husband’s slippers right at his feet.”
Elena didn’t answer. Experience had taught her that arguing with her mother-in-law was pointless. Any word would be twisted and used against her.
Sergey appeared in the kitchen. He’d already changed into his lounge pants, but his face still wore the expression of someone personally offended by the entire world.
“Smells… fine, I guess,” he muttered, peeking into the pot. “But goulash again? Third time this week. Lena, I’m going to grow horns from all this repetition. Or start mooing.”
“Yesterday was fish, the day before was cutlets,” Elena reminded him, setting the table. “I made goulash last Tuesday. You’re mixing it up.”
“I’m not mixing anything up!” Sergey snapped, dropping into his chair and clanging his fork. “You just don’t put in effort. You sit at home, tapping away at your computer, and I’m supposed to choke down the same thing over and over.”
“I don’t just ‘sit,’ Sergey,” Elena said evenly. “I work a full day, same as you. My office is simply in the next room. And I make no less than you do, by the way.”
“Oh, your salary,” Antonina Pavlovna waved dismissively as she sat next to her son. “Pocket change. The main provider in a home is the man. That’s the law of nature. A woman should be grateful she has such a solid stone wall.”
Elena felt resentment rise inside her like boiling water. She worked as a translator and editor—her work was in demand and paid well. More than that, it was her bonuses last year that had funded their vacation and helped replace Sergey’s car. Yet for some reason, in her husband’s family, those facts were conveniently ignored.
Dinner passed in a tight, uncomfortable atmosphere. Antonina Pavlovna talked about how brilliantly she ran her household thirty years ago, Sergey nodded along, and Elena chewed meat that suddenly tasted as bland as paper.
“By the way,” Sergey said, pushing his empty plate aside, “Mom and I talked. It’s hard for her alone in the village. Her health isn’t what it used to be—her pressure jumps, and there’s nobody to chop wood…”
Elena stiffened. She knew where this was headed.
“So what did you decide?” she asked carefully.
“We decided Mom will live with us. For good.”
Elena’s fork slipped from her fingers and clinked against the plate.
“For good? Sergey, we discussed this. We have a two-room apartment. I work from home—I need quiet. Your mother is used to a totally different rhythm. We won’t survive living on top of each other.”
“And who asked you?” Sergey cut in sharply. His eyes narrowed, cold light flashing in them. “She’s my mother. And she’ll live where I say.”
“Sergey, but this is my home too. Decisions like that are made together. We can help her move closer—buy her a small studio with a mortgage we’ll pay down, or rent her something in the neighboring building. But three people in forty square meters… that’s hell.”
“What hell?!” Antonina Pavlovna burst out. “You’re calling me, an old woman, hell? That’s your gratitude! I raised my son, I didn’t sleep nights, and now the daughter-in-law won’t let me step over the threshold!”
She grabbed her chest theatrically and started digging in her robe pocket for heart drops.
“Mom, calm down, it’s bad for you,” Sergey jumped up and poured water. Then he turned on Elena, his face twisted with anger. “Look what you did to her! Selfish! All you think about is your comfort—‘I need quiet,’ ‘I need to work.’ Who needs your work? Counting pennies, but acting like a queen.”
“I’m not counting pennies, Sergey. I cover half the budget—sometimes more. And I have a right to a voice in my own home.”
“In your home?!” Sergey laughed, a nasty, barking sound. “Lena, wake up. You live in my apartment. I’m the boss here. I did the renovation, I changed the wiring, I bought the furniture. You came here with one suitcase. And if you don’t like it—the door is right there. Mom stays.”
A ringing silence settled over the kitchen. The only sound was Antonina Pavlovna slurping her water loudly. Elena stared at Sergey and didn’t recognize him. Five years of marriage. Five years living “in harmony”—or so she’d thought. He’d always been a bit cocky, but he’d never spoken to her like this. Clearly, his mother’s constant whispering had done its work.
“You’re holding housing over my head?” Elena asked quietly.
“I’m not holding anything over your head. I’m stating a fact—so you know your place. You’ve gotten way too bold. Acting like the lady of the house. The lady here will be Mom as long as she’s alive. And you’re the wife. Your job is to keep the home cozy and listen to your husband.”
Elena slowly stood up. She wanted to scream, cry, throw plates—but instead a cool, icy calm washed over her. There was no point arguing now. Sergey was in that stage where a man feels like king of the mountain, and any argument sounds like mutiny.
“Fine,” she said. “I heard you.”
“Good girl,” Sergey nodded smugly, convinced she’d surrendered. “Now clear the table. And make up the couch for Mom in the living room. Tomorrow I’ll bring her things over.”
Elena silently cleared the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. In the living room she unfolded the sofa, laid out clean sheets. Antonina Pavlovna watched from the armchair with a triumphant smile.
“You see, Lenochka, how good it is when there’s peace and agreement in a family. A man is the head—he makes decisions. And we women should be flexible. Don’t sulk, I’m not being mean. There just has to be order. Tomorrow I’ll sort out your kitchen too—right now it’s a mess, spices in the wrong place, pots dirty…”
Elena nodded and went to the bedroom. Sergey was already lying in bed, buried in his phone.
“Well? Calmed down?” he asked without looking at her. “Understand who runs this house now?”
“Good night, Sergey,” she replied, lying on the very edge of the bed.
Inside she was trembling, but her plan was already forming. She wasn’t going to tolerate this humiliation. But she would act coldly—and carefully.
Morning began with the crash of pots. Antonina Pavlovna, as promised, started imposing her “order.” Elena walked into the kitchen and saw her favorite tea jars shoved into a corner, replaced with her mother-in-law’s battered containers.
“Morning,” Sergey grunted, finishing his eggs. “Mom, this is delicious! See, Lena—learn. Just eggs, but it warms the soul. Because it’s made with love.”
“I’m going into the city today,” Elena said, pouring herself coffee. “I need to pick up some documents for work.”
“Go,” Sergey said magnanimously. “Just be back by dinner. You’ll need to help Mom unpack. After work I’ll bring the first boxes. And buy beer. We’ll celebrate Mom moving in.”
Elena didn’t answer. She dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, checked her passport, and left.
Outside, the air was crisp. Elena breathed deeply, trying to clear her head. Sergey was so certain he was right that it never crossed his mind to look at the ownership documents. Or maybe he’d simply forgotten. Memory is selective—especially when forgetting is convenient.
Elena didn’t go to work.
She went to the bank, where she rented a safe deposit box. That’s where she kept the important papers.
She spent the day in the city. She sat in a café, sipped coffee, watched pedestrians pass. It hurt—hurt to realize the betrayal of the man she loved. But self-pity hardened into resolve.
That evening she returned home. Boxes and bundles already crowded the entryway—Sergey had brought his mother’s things. Antonina Pavlovna was seated in the kitchen, barking orders while Sergey mounted a shelf.
“Oh, you’re back,” her mother-in-law greeted her. “And we’ve started improvements. We’re rearranging the living room so it’s more comfortable for me. And those gray curtains of yours—we’ll take them down. I brought mine, with little flowers. It’ll be cozier.”
Sergey climbed down from the step ladder, wiping his hands on his pants.
“Did you buy beer?” he asked.
“No,” Elena stepped into the middle of the room and set her bag on the table. “There won’t be beer. And there won’t be any ‘housewarming’ either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sergey frowned. “Are you starting again? I explained everything yesterday. This is my apartment, and I decide—”
“Sergey, sit down,” Elena cut him off. Her voice was quiet, but there was steel in it—enough that he sat without thinking.
Antonina Pavlovna snorted. “Look at her ordering people around. Sit down, stand up… Who do you think you are?”
Elena opened her bag slowly and pulled out a folder of documents. She took out one sheet and placed it in front of her husband.
“Read it, Sergey. Out loud.”
He stared at the paper, confused. It was an official property registry extract.
“What is this? Why would I—”
“Read the line that says ‘Owner.’”
Sergey skimmed the text.
“Owner: Smirnova Elena Viktorovna… So what? You changed your last name after the wedding, you’re Volkova now.”
“Look at the date of registration,” Elena said.
He looked.
“March 10, 2015… So? We got married in August 2015.”
“Exactly,” Elena said. “This apartment was bought by my father and transferred to me as a gift six months before our wedding. It’s my premarital property. You’re not the хозяин here, Sergey. You’re registered here. Temporarily.”
Sergey lifted his eyes to her. Confusion and fear swirled together on his face.
“But… how? We were together… I did the renovation… I bought furniture…”
“You did a renovation—yes. Cosmetic. Wallpaper and laminate. With money we saved together. Furniture? You bought a sofa and a wardrobe. You can take them. But the walls, the floor, the ceiling—this is mine. Legally and in reality. You got so used to calling it yours that you forgot how it actually was. Or maybe it was convenient for you to forget.”
“This has to be a mistake,” he muttered. “You said—”
“I didn’t say anything,” Elena cut in. “I just stayed quiet when you called it ‘our home.’ I thought families don’t divide square meters. But yesterday you made it clear: to you it isn’t ‘ours,’ it’s ‘yours.’ You threw it in my face that I live here. You pointed me to the door. So now I’m pointing you to the door.”
Antonina Pavlovna, who’d been sitting with her mouth open, sprang up.
“You’re lying! You swindler! You tricked my boy!” she shrieked. “He earned this! He worked like an ox!”
“I have every receipt, every contract, Antonina Pavlovna,” Elena said calmly. “My father gifted me this apartment. Sergey moved in when all he had was an old car and credit debt. I accepted him. I helped him get back on his feet. And now he decided to throw me out of my own home so he could move you in here?”
“Lena, wait…” Sergey began to come back to himself, his tone shifting from aggressive to pleading. “Why are you doing this? I got heated, I said something stupid. I’m a man, I snapped. We’re a family. Are you really going to throw us out? Me? My mother?”
“Family?” Elena gave a bitter smile. “Family is when people protect each other. Yesterday you told me I’m nobody here—that my place is by the door. You humiliated me, crushed my dignity just to please your mother. You thought I was dependent on you, that I had nowhere to go. You were wrong.”
“Lenochka, dear, forgive him, he’s a fool,” Antonina Pavlovna wailed, suddenly terrified. “We didn’t know! We thought it was shared! Let’s live in peace, I won’t interfere, I’ll sit quietly in the corner—”
“No,” Elena said firmly. “Yesterday I offered options. I said we wouldn’t get along. You didn’t listen. You mocked me. Now it’s too late. I want you to leave. Both of you. Today.”
“Where? At night?!” Sergey shrieked. “Have you lost your mind? That’s inhuman!”
“Inhuman was telling me I should know my place, and that my work is worthless,” Elena replied. “Inhuman was planning my life without me. You have a car, Sergey. Your mother has a house in the village. You can take your things later—I’ll give you time. But tonight you’re not staying here.”
“I’m not leaving!” Sergey slammed his fist on the table. “I’m registered here! You can’t kick me out! I’ll call the police!”
“Call them,” Elena nodded calmly. “I’ll show them the ownership papers. And I’ll explain that you’re causing scenes and psychological abuse. I can have you removed from registration through court—it’s only a matter of time. But you won’t live here. Tomorrow I’m changing the locks.”
Sergey looked at his wife as if seeing a stranger. Where was the soft, agreeable Lena who always smoothed things over? In front of him sat a hard, confident woman—fully in control. And he understood he’d lost. His “man of the house” bluff popped like a soap bubble.
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed. “You’ll be alone. Nobody wants a divorced woman… with baggage—actually, no baggage. Just an empty woman! I’ll find someone normal who’ll appreciate me!”
“Go ahead,” Elena said coolly. “Just buy her an apartment first, so you have something to hold over her head. Otherwise it’ll be awkward.”
Packing was fast—and ugly. Antonina Pavlovna cursed Elena to the seventh generation while stuffing her bags. Sergey tore through the apartment grabbing his things—laptop, tools. He tried to take the TV, but Elena reminded him she’d bought it with her bonus and pulled up the receipt from her online bank.
“Cheapskate!” he spat, throwing the remote on the sofa. “Choke on your TV!”
“Your keys,” Elena said when they reached the entryway.
Sergey flung the keyring onto the floor.
“Here! Take them! Enjoy your kennel! Hope you rot here in mold!”
“And all the best to you,” Elena said, picking up the keys and opening the door. “Goodbye.”
When the door slammed behind them, the apartment fell silent. The very silence Elena had been dreaming about for two weeks. Only now it rang in her ears.
Elena slid down the wall to the floor and cried. Not tears of regret—tears of relief and bone-deep exhaustion. The tension finally released, and her body shook with tiny tremors.
How could he? How could a person she shared a bed with—bread, thoughts—do this? It turned out that all these years he’d carried the idea that she lived with him by his generosity. He had claimed her achievements, her property, simply because he was a man. And the moment he had a chance to show power, he did it—with pleasure.
Elena sat on the floor for about an hour. Then she stood, washed her face with cold water, poured herself a glass of wine.
She walked through the apartment. The crooked shelf he hung. The wallpaper they chose together, when he’d grumbled it was too expensive. The couch where her mother-in-law’s rumpled bedding still lay.
Elena gathered the bedding and threw it into the wash. Then she took a trash bag and methodically collected every small thing the “guests” had left behind: Sergey’s old slippers, Antonina Pavlovna’s forgotten comb, little jars of ointment.
With each item tossed away, she felt lighter. She was taking her home back. Her fortress.
The next day she called a handyman and changed the locks. She filed for divorce. Sergey tried calling—first threats, then pleas. He said his mother had left, that he finally understood, that he loved only Elena. But Elena didn’t listen. Respect is a foundation. Once the foundation cracks, the house won’t stand. And she had no intention of living in constant fear of being shamed again over a piece of bread or a square meter.
A month later they were divorced. Sergey tried to claim property, demanded half the value of the renovation, but Elena’s lawyer cooled his ambition quickly: five years of wear and tear had swallowed whatever he’d “invested,” and without receipts he couldn’t prove major spending anyway.
Elena stayed in her apartment. She rearranged the furniture, repainted the kitchen in a light color, and bought new curtains—not gray and not floral, but turquoise—the ones she’d wanted for years.
One evening she sat in her favorite chair with a book. Rain tapped the window. Inside it was warm and calm. No orders, no criticism, no demands for slippers.
She closed the book and looked around.
“This is my home,” she said out loud.
And the walls, it seemed, answered back with a soft, grateful echo.