The warm scent of chicken roasting with garlic and rosemary filled the cozy kitchen. Karina set the table at an unhurried pace, laying out plates from their favorite set—the one they’d received as a wedding present. The soft whisper of salad in a bowl and the gentle crackle of a candle painted a perfect scene of evening comfort. Beyond the wide window, the dark autumn sky over Moscow was slowly flickering with city lights, but inside their home there was a different warmth—hard-earned, fragile, almost sacred.
Their apartment—a two-bedroom in a panel building, but one of the newer ones—was not just a place to live. It was a symbol. A symbol of five years together that had begun in a cramped rental, followed by two years of strict saving and endless overtime to scrape together the down payment for their mortgage. Karina ran her hand over the pale oak countertop, remembering how they’d assembled the kitchen units side by side, arguing about the height of the shelves. Every object in the apartment carried a piece of their shared life.
The click of a key in the lock pulled her from her thoughts. Artem walked in. But he wasn’t cheerful and smiling like he usually was after work—he looked weighed down, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Hi, love,” Karina said, hugging him and feeling him tense in her arms. “Long day? Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Hi,” he grunted, hanging up his jacket and taking off his shoes without his usual care.
He went into the kitchen, sat down without a word, and stared at a single point on the table. A quiet, cold тревога slid over Karina’s skin. She poured him tea and sat beside him.
“Artem, what happened? Problems at work?”
He sighed heavily and rubbed his face.
“No, work is fine. It’s… Mom called.”
Karina’s heart gave a small jolt and then sank slowly, like a stone. Again, flashed through her mind. The last visit from Lyudmila Petrovna and her younger son Igor half a year ago still came back like a nightmare: a ruined vacation, constant jabs, mess everywhere, and the feeling that you weren’t the хозяин in your own home—you were a nuisance who happened to live there. It had taken them two more months after that just to get their relationship back on its feet.
“And what is it this time?” Karina asked, forcing her voice not to shake.
“They… they’re coming. On Thursday.”
“For how long?” There was a hint of hope in her tone—maybe only a couple of days.
Artem took a sip, avoiding her eyes.
“Well… Igor supposedly has a promising interview. With a serious company. And Mom wants to support him, help him get settled with housing… Just for a week. No more.”
“A week?” Karina couldn’t stop herself from laughing, but it came out bitter and hollow. “Artem, we’ve been through this! Their ‘week’ last time turned into three! Your brother didn’t wash his dishes, left socks all over the living room, and locked himself in the bathroom for two hours. And your mother rearranged all my spices because their placement ‘drove her crazy’—and she lectured me on how to cook borscht ‘properly.’ It took me a month to feel normal again!”
“Karina, they’re family!” Artem finally looked at her, and she saw that familiar guilty pleading in his eyes. “Where am I supposed to put them? Send them to a hotel? They don’t have spare money. Mom’s a pensioner, and Igor is just getting started…”
“Getting started at what—living off us?” Karina stood up; her patience finally snapped. “He’s twenty-six, Artem! He isn’t ‘getting started’—he’s been ‘getting started’ for seven years! And he always finds a hundred reasons why a job ‘isn’t for him.’ And your mother encourages it. They aren’t looking for housing—they’re looking for a warm place where someone will take care of them!”
“You’re being unfair,” Artem mumbled, dropping his gaze again.
“No, Artem—you’re being unfair. To me. To us.” She swept her hand around their cozy kitchen, their shared, hard-won little world. “This is our home. Our fortress. And every time they come, they act like occupiers. I don’t want to feel like a stranger in my own apartment again. I don’t want to walk on eggshells and brace myself for the next remark.”
She stepped closer, looking him straight in the eyes. Her voice went quiet—but firm as steel.
“Listen carefully. It was you who invited your relatives to come live in Moscow, not me. You decided to help without asking my opinion. So the responsibility is yours.”
Artem opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him.
“So you’ll find them an apartment yourself. Rent one, buy one, find them somewhere with friends—I don’t care. But they will not live here. This is an ultimatum.”
A heavy silence fell, deafening in its weight. Only the clock on the wall ticked, counting off the seconds in which something in their family quietly cracked. Artem stared at her with disbelief and hurt. Karina felt her knees trembling, but she held her ground. She had defended her territory—though the price of that victory was still unknown.
That Thursday arrived with the inevitability of a sentence. All day Karina felt like she was sitting on needles. She went through her work tasks on autopilot, her mind constantly slipping back to that night. Artem had barely spoken for two days. In bed he turned his back to her, sighing in a pointed, theatrical way. But he still hadn’t found them an apartment. In his silence Karina heard a weak hope—maybe they really would come only for a day or two. Or maybe he had actually told them no.
A foolish, naïve hope.
She got home early and tried to make the apartment spotless, as if perfect order could somehow protect her from the invasion to come. But the cleaner and cozier everything looked, the sharper the dread grew—that this comfort would be trampled with dirty boots.
Artem met them at the station. Karina heard Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice explode in the hallway, loud enough to fill the whole apartment.
“Well, finally! We made it, thank God! That train was impossible—no air at all! Dark, stuffy… Karina, where are you?”
Karina took a deep breath and came out of the kitchen. In the entryway stood Lyudmila Petrovna, shrugging off her coat and immediately handing it to Karina like she was a maid. Beside her, Igor shifted from foot to foot, headphones hanging around his neck, a huge backpack on his shoulder.
“Hello. Come in,” Karina said, taking the coat and hanging it in the closet.
“Hello, hello,” Lyudmila Petrovna replied, already walking into the living room and scanning everything like a strict inspector. “Oh! You finally replaced the TV? About time. That old one—honestly, the picture was already swimming. Good for you.”
Igor walked straight into the middle of the room without saying hello, eyes glued to his phone.
“Artem, what’s your Wi-Fi here? Can you send me the password?”
Artem, forcing an apologetic smile, started digging through his settings. Karina watched in silence. Not a single “thanks for letting us stay,” not one “sorry to bother you.” Only demands and practical questions, like this place belonged to them.
She went back to the kitchen to finish dinner. A few minutes later Lyudmila Petrovna followed.
“Ooh, chicken?” she asked, peering into the pot. “How are you making it—just roasting?”
“Yes. With garlic and rosemary.”
“Well, well.” Her mother-in-law picked up a jar of paprika and examined it closely. “I always make it for my Igor with sour cream—slow-cooked longer. He doesn’t like dry meat. It should be softer, richer. Keep that in mind for the future.”
Karina clenched her teeth. For the future. The words landed like a verdict.
“Thanks. I’ll remember,” she said flatly, turning toward the sink.
At dinner, Lyudmila Petrovna kept pushing. She ate the chicken and nodded with approval.
“Well, it’s… not bad. For a first try, it’ll do. Artem, pass the bread, darling. And you, Igor, eat up—you’ve got that interview tomorrow, you’ll need your strength.”
Igor grunted without looking up from his phone.
“You’ll have to forgive him,” Lyudmila Petrovna told Karina, though her gaze stayed adoringly on her son. “He’s always doing ‘smart’ things in that phone of his. The new generation. Not like you and me.”
Karina felt goosebumps rise along her spine. She glanced at Artem, but he was busy poking at his food, pretending he didn’t see anyone’s eyes.
“And you know, Karina,” Lyudmila Petrovna said after sipping her tea with a sweet little sigh, “what a wonderful neighborhood you have. I walked from the metro and noticed—greenery everywhere, benches, even a clinic nearby. For pensioners it’s paradise. Not like our stuffy little town.”
Then her eyes slid to Igor.
“And you’ll like it here too, Igor. You’ll find a good job, get settled. Renting will be expensive at first, of course, but you’ll manage somehow. The main thing is to start.”
Those words—delivered in that calm, homey tone—hung in the air like poisoned fog. It wasn’t even a hint anymore. It was a plan, spoken out loud. They hadn’t come “for a week.” They had come to look around. To judge. To slowly claim the space.
Artem finally raised his eyes and met Karina’s gaze. She didn’t see relief there—only confusion and helplessness. He had heard exactly what she had heard. And, as always, he chose to pretend nothing serious had been said.
“Mom, come on,” he tried weakly. “Let’s at least see how the interview goes.”
“Oh, it will go great!” Lyudmila Petrovna shot back. “My son is smart. How could anyone not hire him?”
Karina pushed her plate away. Her appetite had vanished. She watched her mother-in-law place her cup in the center of the table with the casual authority of an owner, while her husband’s brother leaned back in his chair, eyes on his screen. Karina no longer felt like the хозяин—she felt like an audience member in her own home. And the show, she realized, was only beginning.
The days that followed blended into one another, filled with quiet but methodical domestic aggression. Every evening Karina stepped over the threshold of her own apartment with a heavy heart, never knowing what surprise would be waiting.
Mornings began with Igor locking himself in the bathroom for at least forty minutes. Karina could hear him mumbling at the mirror while blasting music from his phone. Artem paced anxiously outside the door, checking the time so he wouldn’t be late for work. Meanwhile Karina tried to throw together breakfast for everyone in the tight kitchen, where Lyudmila Petrovna was constantly in the way.
“Oh, Karina, what kind of oil do you fry eggs in?” came the voice behind her. “I read butter is bad—cholesterol. You should use vegetable oil, olive oil.”
“We don’t have it,” Karina replied through clenched teeth.
“You should buy some. Health is more important,” her mother-in-law said in a lecturing tone, then started setting the table “her way,” rearranging the plates and moving the salt shaker to the “proper” side.
After they left in the morning, Karina would find crumbs on the clean table, greasy stains on the stove, and an unwashed frying pan that Igor had “forgotten” after heating up sausage. In the living room his socks or a T-shirt always lay on the couch, and on the coffee table there would be a glass of half-finished tea leaving behind a sticky ring.
One evening Karina came home earlier than her husband and found Lyudmila Petrovna in their bedroom. Karina’s heart dropped. Her mother-in-law stood at the dresser, moving Karina’s things from the top drawer to the bottom.
“What are you doing?” Karina breathed, frozen in the doorway.
Lyudmila Petrovna didn’t look embarrassed at all—she simply turned with a smile.
“Oh, you’re home already? I was just thinking—you must be uncomfortable. You keep your underwear up here, and you have to stand on tiptoe to reach it. I’ll move your sweaters down, and we’ll put the underwear up. It’ll be more convenient. I know.”
Heat rushed through Karina’s body. This was beyond anything. This was sacred ground—their private space, their bedroom.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, this is my apartment and my dresser,” Karina said, forcing each word out. “Please don’t touch my things. And don’t go into our bedroom without asking.”
“Oh, why are you getting worked up?” her mother-in-law pouted, but shut the drawer. “I had good intentions. I wanted to help. Don’t get so nervous—it’s bad for women’s health.”
That night, when Artem got home, Karina finally snapped. She waited until he’d showered, then came into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
“Your mother was moving my things around in our dresser today,” she said quietly but clearly. “She said it was because it was ‘inconvenient’ for me.”
Artem sighed, drying his hair with a towel.
“She didn’t mean anything by it. She’s always like that—she just likes to put things in order.”
“Order?” Karina’s voice tightened. “You think it’s normal to dig through someone else’s underwear? To walk into our bedroom? I feel like I’m living on a minefield in my own home—I never know what I’ll step on next! I can’t relax even in my own room!”
“Karina, calm down. They’re only here for a week. Just hang on a bit.”
“They’ve been here five days, Artem! Five! And I haven’t heard a single word about them looking for an apartment. Not one! Your brother drifts around like a shadow, your mother sets her rules, and you… you just close your eyes to all of it!”
Her voice shook with helplessness. She could see he was tired and uncomfortable—but his passivity felt worse than an open fight.
“What do you want me to do?” he snapped, turning away. “Throw them out onto the street? Tell my mother to get the hell out?”
“I want you to act like a man and the хозяин of this home,” she shouted. “Not like a little boy who’s afraid to upset his mother!” And she stormed out, slamming the door.
She went into the kitchen and started washing dishes just to steady herself. Igor appeared in the doorway. Without a word he opened the refrigerator, took out a pack of cottage cheese, dug into it with a spoon, stood there for a minute, then shoved the half-eaten pack back into the fridge.
Karina stared at him, and something inside her began to boil. It was a small thing—just a dirty spoon in the cottage cheese. But that tiny thing was what finally overflowed the cup. She understood she couldn’t live like this. The week was almost over, yet the feeling that it could last forever only grew stronger. They were settling in. And the longer they stayed, the harder it would be to make them leave.
The seventh day arrived. The morning started the same as always: forty minutes of Igor in the bathroom, breakfast under Lyudmila Petrovna’s critical commentary, Artem rushing to work. Karina took her time—she had the day off. She was waiting for the moment the door closed behind her husband so she could finally sit in silence.
After seeing Artem out, she went back to the bedroom and began sorting things. She had agreed to meet a friend and needed to bring her a couple of books. Karina walked to the dresser—the same one Lyudmila Petrovna had “reorganized”—and pulled open the top drawer. Her old notes were supposed to be there. The drawer was empty. Irritation flickered. So her mother-in-law really had moved them, despite everything Karina had said.
Karina crouched and opened the bottom drawer. No notes. Instead, neatly folded men’s clothes—Igor’s—and a stack of papers. Karina’s things had been shoved into a corner, wrinkled and messy. Then her eyes caught a blue folder peeking out from under T-shirts.
Their mortgage documents.
She always kept that folder on the top shelf of the wardrobe in the bedroom. Why was it here?
Karina pulled it out. Her heart started pounding with an ugly, uneasy rhythm. She listened—silence. So Lyudmila Petrovna and Igor were out… probably at that “interview” they’d made such a show of talking about at breakfast.
She was about to stand up when she heard the front door creak and muted voices. They were back. And not alone—there was a man’s voice she didn’t recognize.
Karina froze, still sitting on the floor by the dresser. She didn’t want to go out and take part in yet another performance. Better to wait until they went into their room. The voices came from the hallway, then moved into the living room. Lyudmila Petrovna spoke unnaturally loud, sickly sweet:
“Come in, come in—don’t be shy! This is our living room, nice and spacious. Igor, turn on the light, show him.”
Karina frowned. Our living room? What kind of act was this?
“And this is the kitchen,” Igor’s voice followed—no headphones now, and a surprising businesslike energy. “All the appliances are modern, built-in. Plenty of space.”
The unfamiliar man murmured something in reply. Karina felt as if she’d been jolted by electricity.
They were giving a tour.
To whom?
And then it hit her. A rental agent. Or worse—a potential buyer.
An icy wave rolled through her body. She pressed her ear to the cracked-open bedroom door, forcing herself to breathe quietly.
“So, Andrey Petrovich, what do you think?” her mother-in-law cooed again. “I told you it’s a wonderful apartment. Quiet neighborhood, good infrastructure…”
“Yes, it’s a nice place,” the man answered. “But I don’t quite understand… are you the owners?”
Karina stopped breathing.
“Oh, come now,” Lyudmila Petrovna laughed, and there was a false note in it. “My son is the owner. He’s registered here—this is his home. And that girl… well, his wife. But she’ll be moving out soon—it didn’t work out. So we’ll be freeing up the apartment. You can safely offer it to your clients.”
Karina recoiled from the door as if it were red hot. Her ears rang. She’ll be moving out soon… it didn’t work out…
So that was the plan. Push her out. Declare the apartment Artem’s, then either sell it or rent it out—and keep living here themselves.
Igor’s voice snapped her back.
“Yes, that’s right,” he said, trying to sound solid and important. “We’ll be the full хозяин here soon. So you can start showing it.”
“Alright,” the stranger replied. “I’ll clarify the details with the documents and get back to you. You said your son, Artem Sergeyevich, will be available to sign the agreement?”
“Of course!” Lyudmila Petrovna chirped. “He’ll sign whatever’s needed. He’s an obedient boy—always listens to his mother.”
Footsteps moved toward the exit. Karina heard the door close, and a moment later silence settled over the apartment.
She stood pressed against the wall, unable to move. Her arms and legs felt like cotton. Her head buzzed.
Slowly she stepped into the hallway. Lyudmila Petrovna and Igor were in the living room, whispering excitedly. When they saw Karina, they abruptly fell quiet.
“And why are you home?” Igor asked with annoyance. “We thought you’d be out.”
Karina didn’t answer. She looked at them, and there was something in her stare that made the smile slide off Lyudmila Petrovna’s face.
“Who was that?” Karina asked quietly. Her voice sounded rough and unnatural.
“That… was Igor’s friend,” her mother-in-law blurted quickly. “He just stopped by.”
“A friend?” Karina took a step forward. “Then why did your ‘friend’ need to inspect our apartment like he was buying it? And why did you tell him I’m ‘moving out soon’?”
Lyudmila Petrovna’s face turned to stone. The pretend sweetness dropped away like a mask.
“And what, isn’t that true?” she said coldly. “You can see you’re not welcome here. There isn’t enough space for everyone. A normal woman in your place would have understood she doesn’t belong and would have freed up the living space for her husband’s family.”
Karina listened and couldn’t believe her ears. The nerve. The cynicism. The absolute certainty in every word.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Karina whispered. “This is my apartment. I pay the mortgage just as much as your son does.”
“The documents are in Artem’s name,” Lyudmila Petrovna replied with chilling calm. “I checked. Legally, it’s his home. And we are his family. We have every right to live here. And you… you’re just a temporary mistake.”
Karina looked at Igor. He wore a stupid, satisfied smirk. In that instant, everything became clear. They weren’t just rude relatives. They were enemies. And they had declared war—war for her home. And she had nowhere to retreat.
Karina barely remembered how she got dressed and left the apartment. She walked down the street without seeing or hearing anything. Her mother-in-law’s words rang in her skull like an alarm: temporary mistake… documents in Artem’s name… free up the living space…
She ducked into the first quiet café she saw, ordered a strong coffee, and with trembling hands pulled out her phone.
She needed a lawyer. Now. Right now.
Feverishly she searched: “spouse rights with a mortgage,” “can you remove relatives from an apartment,” “property bought during marriage.”
The articles were packed with complicated terms. Panic rose in her chest. She wasn’t a lawyer. She couldn’t do this alone. And then she remembered her friend Alina, who worked at a large law firm. They hadn’t seen each other for months, but right now Alina was the only person Karina trusted.
Alina picked up on the second ring.
“Karina! Hi! It’s been forever!”
“Alya…” Karina’s voice broke, and she barely held back a sob. “I need help. Legal help. I don’t know what to do.”
She told her everything—quickly, unevenly: the sudden visit, the relatives’ arrogance, the overheard conversation with the agent, Lyudmila Petrovna’s claim about the documents.
“Wait—stop,” Alina said firmly. “Breathe and listen to me. The apartment is under a mortgage that you’ve both been paying?”
“Yes! We both paid—I’ve got statements, transfers!”
“And your marriage is officially registered?”
“Of course. Five years.”
“Then your precious mother-in-law is either lying outright or has no idea what she’s talking about,” Alina said, now in a crisp professional tone. “By law, any property acquired during marriage is joint marital property. It doesn’t matter whose name is on the paperwork. That apartment is yours just as much as it is Artem’s. You have exactly the same rights.”
Karina exhaled as if someone had dumped cold water over her—sharp relief, a first thin beam of hope.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Even if the mortgage agreement and the ownership registration are only in Artem’s name, in a divorce the apartment would be split. And no one can simply ‘kick you out’ or ‘remove you’ just because they feel like it. It’s your legal residence.”
“But they’ve been living there more than a week. Can they register themselves?”
“Now that’s the key,” Alina said. “Without consent from all owners—that means without yours—it’s impossible to register anyone. As for them staying long-term: legally they’re guests. And if you, as an owner, oppose their continued stay, you have every right to demand that they leave.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then you can call the local police officer, and in extreme cases go to court. But you need evidence. Proof that you didn’t just ask—you demanded officially—and that they’re violating your rights. Karina, you need to behave the right way legally. No physical fights, no hysteria that can be turned against you. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Karina said, already feeling a little steadier.
“And one more thing,” Alina continued. “Start collecting proof. If they start fights, record it on your phone. Note dates. Save messages if there are any. Photograph the mess they leave. If there are threats—especially. It can all matter.”
“Thank you, Alya… you have no idea how much you helped me.”
“Anytime. Keep me updated. And remember: you’re not a ‘temporary mistake.’ You’re an owner. Act like one.”
Karina ended the call. The coffee in front of her had gone cold, but something else had appeared inside her—an odd, calm, icy fire. Fear stepped back, replaced by resolve. She was no longer a victim backed into a corner. She had a weapon: knowledge.
She opened her notes app and began typing a simple plan, turning Alina’s words into bullet points:
The apartment is joint marital property. My rights equal Artem’s.
No one can be registered there without my consent.
They are guests. I can demand they leave.
Gather evidence: voice recordings, photos, messages.
She sat for a few minutes, shaping the next step. First: talk to Artem. Quietly. Without theatrics. With facts and legal references. Make him understand his mother wasn’t “a little tactless”—she was committing real violations.
Karina paid and walked outside. The autumn wind slapped her cheeks, but she barely noticed. She was going home.
To her home.
And she was ready to fight for it.
Karina waited until Lyudmila Petrovna and Igor finally retreated into their room after clattering around the kitchen. An uneasy, wavering silence settled over the apartment. She could hear Artem moving in the bedroom, getting ready for bed.
Karina walked in and quietly closed the door behind her, turning the key in the lock. The click sounded painfully loud.
Artem turned around. He was already in pajamas, his face tired, distant.
“What is it?” he asked.
Karina sat on the edge of the bed and placed a few printed pages on the blanket—excerpts from the Housing Code and the Family Code she’d found online, following Alina’s advice.
“We need to talk seriously, Artem. No yelling, no drama. Just facts.”
He sighed and sat down, eyeing the papers suspiciously.
“Again about Mom and Igor? Karina, not tonight. I’m exhausted.”
“Not tomorrow. Now.”
Before they manage to register themselves in our apartment—
and before it gets sold out from under us.
“What nonsense is that?” he grimaced.
“It’s not nonsense. While you were at work today, your mother brought a realtor into our home. She gave him a tour, told him how spacious and bright it is. And she told him, quote, that I’ll be ‘moving out soon—it didn’t work out,’ and that she and Igor will be the rightful owners here.”
Artem stared at her. First confusion. Then a slow, rising disbelief.
“How do you know that?”
“I was home. I heard everything. They thought I was out. Your mother went through our documents, Artem. She found the mortgage folder in our dresser. She’s convinced the apartment is only in your name, that you can deal with it alone. And she plans to use that.”
She watched his face drain of color. He shook his head.
“Mom couldn’t have done that. Maybe she said something wrong—you misunderstood…”
“I understood perfectly,” Karina said, keeping her voice controlled, each word sharpened like a blade. “And so you never tell me again that I ‘misheard’ or ‘overreacted’—here are the facts.”
She picked up the papers and handed them to him.
“Family Code, Article 34: all property acquired during marriage is joint property, regardless of whose name it’s registered under. This apartment is ours. Yours and mine. Equal shares. Your mother has no rights here. None.”
Artem read in silence. His hands trembled.
“And next,” Karina continued, voice icy. “Housing Code: they are here as guests. And I, as an owner, demand their stay ends. If they refuse to leave, we have every right to call the district officer and then take it to court to have them removed. Legally, they have no ground under their feet. This is not their territory.”
She paused to let it sink in.
“Your mother, Artem, isn’t just ‘a bit rude.’ She’s planning to illegally take my home away. She has declared war in my own apartment. And now I’m asking you: whose side are you on?”
He looked up, and a storm churned in his eyes—shame, guilt, anger at her, anger at his mother, anger at the mess of it all.
“Whose side am I on?” he snapped, throwing the pages onto the bed. “You want me to choose between you and my own mother? You want me to throw her out on the street?”
“I want you to protect our family!” Karina’s voice finally cracked; tears rang through it, the ones she’d been choking down for days. “I’m your wife! This is our home! And they came to take it! Are you really ready to trade our life, our plans, that nursery we dreamed about—just so your forever-student brother and your manipulative mother can be comfortable? You’re choosing their convenience over our future!”
“They’re my family!” Artem shouted, jumping to his feet. “I can’t just betray them!”
“And you can betray me?” Karina rose too, standing face to face with him. “You already are—with your silence, your passivity. Every day you let them insult me and act like they own this place, you betray me. You’re either with me or against me. There is no third option.”
They stood there, breathing hard, unable to hold each other’s gaze. Their bedroom—the place that had always been privacy and peace—now had a deep crack running through it, one that might never close.
Artem turned away and went to the window, staring into the dark.
“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, and his voice sounded truly—almost childishly—lost.
“That’s your choice,” Karina said softly. No more shouting. Just truth. “You’re choosing not to know. And not to decide. Which means I’ll have to decide.”
She turned, walked out, and closed the door behind her. This time she didn’t lock it.
A wall had been built between them. And now she would have to act alone.
The next morning was Sunday. Karina had spent a nearly sleepless night on the living-room couch, but it only hardened her resolve. Every minute of thinking had tempered her like steel.
She heard Artem leave the bedroom in the morning but said nothing. The conversation was finished. Now came action.
She waited until everyone gathered in the kitchen for breakfast. The air was heavy. Lyudmila Petrovna grumbled about stale bread, Igor stared at his phone as always, Artem drank coffee without looking at Karina.
When breakfast was nearly done, Karina stood up. Her movements were calm and precise. She turned on the voice recorder on her phone and set it on the table. Then she placed the printed excerpts from the laws in front of herself.
“Lyudmila Petrovna. Igor.” Her voice was clear and loud enough to command attention. “Our arrangement for your temporary stay as guests is over. You have been living in my apartment for eight days, which can be confirmed, among other things, by neighbors.”
Lyudmila Petrovna snorted; Igor looked up, startled.
“What do you mean, your apartment?” her mother-in-law challenged. “This is my son’s apartment!”
“Under the Family Code of the Russian Federation, Article 34, it is joint marital property,” Karina replied coldly. “And I, as an owner, under Article 30 of the Housing Code, demand that you stop staying in this residence. You must leave within twenty-four hours.”
Dead silence. Even Igor’s phone sank toward the table.
“Have you lost your mind?” Lyudmila Petrovna recovered first, her face flushing dark red. “You’re throwing us out on the street? Artem, are you hearing this? Your wife is kicking your mother out!”
Artem said nothing. His fists tightened; his eyes stayed on the table.
“Artem won’t be throwing you out,” Karina said. “I am. And my demand is completely legal. If you don’t leave voluntarily within the stated time, I will contact the district officer—and then file in court for your removal. I have evidence of your unlawful stay and your refusal to leave.” She glanced toward the phone recorder.
“You’re recording me?” Lyudmila Petrovna shrieked. “How dare you! I’ll go to the police—you’re spying!”
“Recording a conversation for self-protection, when I’m a participant, is not prohibited,” Karina said evenly. “And considering yesterday’s visit with a realtor and your plans to dispose of my share without my knowledge, this is exactly self-protection.”
Igor stood up, his face twisting with anger.
“Who do you think you are, telling us what to do? Put your papers away before it gets worse for you.”
He stepped toward her. Karina didn’t move an inch. She looked straight into his eyes.
“I’m recording threats too, Igor. If you take one more step, I will call the police immediately. And you’ll have to explain why you approached the wife of an owner with aggressive intent. Do you think that will help your ‘promising interview’?”
Igor froze, suddenly unsure. His cheap bravado broke against her calm.
Lyudmila Petrovna, seeing her son falter, swung her gaze to Artem.
“Artem! Say something! Defend your mother! Or will you really let this… this witch throw us out like dogs?”
Everyone looked at Artem. Slowly he lifted his head. His face was gray, exhausted. He looked at his mother, his brother, and then at Karina. Pain was written all over him.
“Mom,” he said, his voice breaking, “you… you really do need to move out. I… I’ll get you a hotel for a couple of days.”
It wasn’t a victory. It was a bitter, forced surrender. But to Karina, in that moment, it was the first real result.
Lyudmila Petrovna’s face twisted with hatred and wounded pride. She looked at her son with such contempt that he dropped his eyes again.
“So this is how it is,” she hissed. “Traitor. I raised you, I relied on you… and you… because of a skirt…”
She didn’t finish. She shoved her chair back hard.
“Fine. We’ll leave. But don’t you come crawling back later, Artem. Don’t you dare. Igor—go pack. We’re not wanted here.”
She left the kitchen with her chin high. Igor threw Karina a vicious look and trudged after her.
Karina stood listening to the banging and rustling of packing. She didn’t feel triumphant—only drained. She looked at Artem. He sat hunched over, staring into nothing, as if something inside him had broken.
The battle for the apartment was won.
But the war for their marriage, she realized, was only beginning.
Lyudmila Petrovna and Igor took a few hours to pack. They made a point of slamming doors, dragging suitcases loudly, speaking in raised voices—hoping someone might stop them. No one did.
Artem sat in the bedroom, unable to face his mother during her humiliating retreat. Karina stayed in the kitchen, listening to the sounds in the hallway. She felt a strange emptiness—not relief, but the hollow aftermath of a fight.
Finally, the front door slammed. Loudly. For emphasis. And then there was silence—deafening, unfamiliar, ringing.
Karina walked into the hallway. Empty. The living room was empty too. The door to the room they’d used stood wide open. Inside was the usual mess: a rumpled bed, crumbs on the nightstand, dust on the floor.
But they were gone.
Karina went to the window and pulled the curtain aside. A minute later she saw two familiar figures with suitcases outside. Lyudmila Petrovna walked ahead with stiff pride, never once looking back. Igor followed under his backpack’s weight. Then they turned the corner and disappeared.
Karina let the curtain fall.
She turned—and saw Artem in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, staring at her. Pale, eyes sunken.
“They left,” she said quietly.
He only nodded, unable to say anything.
They cleaned the emptied room in silence: threw out trash, vacuumed the carpet. Everything felt mechanical, pointless—just something to do so they wouldn’t have to talk. Wouldn’t have to think.
That evening they sat at the kitchen table, empty of food. No one cooked. The ticking clock that used to feel comforting now sounded almost threatening.
“I booked them a hotel,” Artem finally said, staring at his hands. “Three nights. After that… I don’t know.”
Karina stayed quiet. She waited for what would come next—his choice, his decision. But he retreated into himself again.
She stood to pour water. Passing him, she brushed his shoulder by accident. He flinched, but he didn’t pull away.
Returning to her seat, Karina looked at him—at the man she loved, the man she’d built a future with, who in the most critical moment hadn’t been able to protect her.
“I don’t regret what I did,” she said very softly. “I defended our home. Our home. Because for me, it was always ours.”
She saw his shoulders tense. He knew where she was going.
“But I don’t know, Artem… whether I defended our family,” she continued. “Trust is so easy to break—and so hard to piece back together.”
He lifted his eyes to her. There was no anger there, no resentment—only real pain and shame.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. No excuses. Just the admission of weakness. “I’m sorry I let it get this far. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you when you were right.”
They weren’t the words she’d been waiting for. Not vows of love, not promises that everything would be fine. But they were honest. The words of someone who had finally seen the situation for what it was.
Karina didn’t answer. She didn’t say I forgive you. Not yet. Too soon. Too painful.
Instead she reached across the table and covered his clenched fist with her hand. At first he didn’t move. Then his fingers slowly loosened and closed around her hand, weakly, as if he was afraid to squeeze too hard.
They sat like that in silence, inside their reclaimed—yet fragile—fortress.
The war was over.
But peace still had to be earned.
And neither of them knew yet whether they had enough strength to build it again.