— Just listen to yourself, Artyom! — Polina’s voice rang so hard it felt like even the teaspoons on the shelf were vibrating. — What are we even fighting about? About the fact that I worked my fingers to the bone for seven years so we’d have a place of our own, and now I’m supposed to sign everything over to you? Do you even hear how insane that sounds?
— Don’t start up again, — Artyom brushed her off, dropping wearily onto the edge of the sofa. — It’s just… it’s the proper way. A husband is supposed to be the one in charge in a family, not some tenant in his wife’s apartment. What’s so hard to understand?
Polina let out a loud breath and turned to the window. The October evening was already laying a cold, thin frost across the glass, and in the smeared reflection she saw it—her lips had gone pale, her eyes were reddened. This wasn’t just an argument. It felt like the ending she’d been dreading.
— In charge, huh… — she echoed quietly, almost under her breath. — And I’m what, then? The maid?
— Don’t twist it, Polin. I’m not against you, I’m for the family! — Artyom raised his voice, but there was more uncertainty in it than anger. — Mom just said the house needs one set of rules. That if everything’s in a woman’s name, it turns into a mess later. And she’s right…
— “Mom said”… — Polina gave a bitter little smile. — It’s always “Mom said.” Funny, you’re thirty-one and your mom still decides everything. Where are you in all of this?
Artyom sprang up, paced the room, then stopped by the wall they’d painted white only this spring—back when they’d rolled paint together, laughing, arguing about shades. Back then, Polina had believed happiness was already here, in every stroke. Now those memories made her feel sick.
— Don’t start with my mom, okay? — Artyom frowned. — She had me, she raised me—alone. She knows how the world works.
— Sure, and I just fell out of space and don’t understand life at all? — Polina snapped, turning sharply. — Listen, Artyom… maybe you should go live with her then?
He shot her a sharp, offended look and, without a word, disappeared into the bedroom.
Polina was left alone in the living room, surrounded by carefully chosen curtains, pillows, lamps. Everything she’d worked so hard for—warmth, order, security—suddenly felt like it was crushing her, like concrete walls closing in.
She sat at the table, clasped her head in her hands, and stayed silent for a long time. Only the clock on the wall kept ticking, measuring out the seconds of her confidence falling apart.
All night Artyom didn’t come back to the bedroom. He slept on the sofa, demonstratively turned toward the wall. In the morning, heading out to work, he threw over his shoulder:
— Don’t wait up tonight. I’m going to my mom’s.
And that was it. No “bye.” No look. Not even the smallest attempt to make things right.
Polina watched him leave, then mindlessly poured herself coffee—but couldn’t drink it. Her throat wouldn’t let it down.
Her head was a mess: love, exhaustion, anger, fear. As if their entire story—from the first time they met to this very moment—had suddenly been erased.
That same evening she went to Lena’s.
Her friend opened the door in a robe, a towel wrapped around her hair.
— Oh my God, Polin… have you been crying? — Lena gasped.
— No, — Polina waved it off, but her voice betrayed her and trembled. — I just… I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s like he’s not my person now. It’s all “Mom this, Mom that.”
Without a word, Lena slid a mug of tea toward her.
— What exactly happened?
Polina told her everything—no sugarcoating. The mother-in-law’s “talks,” the threats, the divorce petition he’d nearly brought home. That ridiculous apartment that now felt like a curse.
Lena listened without interrupting, then shook her head.
— Here’s the thing, Polin. If a man has a mother like that, it’s a disaster. She’s been wiring his brain since he was a kid, and now he won’t take a single step without her prompting.
— But he wasn’t like this before, Len. We lived normally. We fought like everyone does, but… he was mine. You know? My person.
— He was, — Lena nodded. — And now it looks like he’s been rebooted back to his mommy.
Polina exhaled heavily.
— What if she really is turning him against me? Then what?
— Then stand your ground. Don’t you dare play her games. And don’t sign anything over—do you hear me? No paperwork, no concessions. She’s waiting for you to flinch.
Polina nodded. But inside, she felt empty.
The next days passed like fog. Artyom came home late, barely spoke. Every evening he answered his mother’s calls, stepping out onto the balcony. His voice would turn soft and warm—nothing like the voice he used with his wife.
One day Polina walked into the kitchen just as he was on the phone, not realizing she was there.
— Mom, stop pushing, okay… I’ll deal with it myself. Yeah, I know. It’s just that she… she’s not giving in yet.
Polina froze in the doorway. “Not giving in.” So that’s what she was now—an opponent. An enemy.
— I told you, Mom, — Artyom went on. — It’ll happen your way, just not right now. We need everything to go smoothly.
Polina quietly backed into the hallway and closed the bedroom door behind her. Her heart pounded as if it wanted to tear free.
On Saturday, Valentina Petrovna called. Her voice was thick and syrupy, like chilled jelly.
— Polina, good evening. I was thinking… maybe we could talk calmly, woman to woman?
And then everything rolled downhill.
That evening, the doorbell rang.
Valentina Petrovna stood on the threshold in her coat, her face unreadable.
— We need to talk, — she said. — And don’t worry, I’m not here to scold you.
Polina sighed, exhausted, and stepped aside.
— Come in. You wouldn’t have left anyway until you got what you came for.
— Good, you understand, — the older woman said, taking off her gloves. — That means this will go faster.
Polina felt it instantly: this conversation would be the last.
— So you came to settle the question of the apartment? — Polina sat on the sofa with her arms folded. The room no longer smelled of fresh paint and new curtains—it smelled of something heavy, as if the air itself had absorbed their tension.
— You’re misunderstanding me, — Valentina Petrovna said quietly, but firmly. — I’m not against you as a person. It’s just that my son needs something of his own. He’s a grown man, not a boy living by your rules.
— He has me, — Polina shot back, almost too loudly. — And he has an apartment I paid for over seven years! What “his own” are we talking about if he can’t even handle what we already have?
— That’s what you think, — her mother-in-law replied with a faint, knowing smirk. — But he thinks differently. He says, “Mom is right. Mom advises. Mom knows.”
Polina clenched the edge of a throw pillow, her nails digging into the fabric. Every nerve in her screamed, How could he?
— You do realize this is absurd, — she said softly, trying to keep her voice even. — Is a family really supposed to work like this—where a wife has to give up everything just so her husband can feel like the “main one”?
— A family is when there’s order, not chaos, — Valentina Petrovna answered. — And if order requires rearranging a few things… well, so be it.
Polina groaned and covered her face with her hands.
— Are you serious?! — she burst out, her voice shaking with rage and exhaustion. — We built a life, a home, dreamed together—seven years! And you’re telling me “order” matters more than your son’s happiness?
— Polina, calm down, — her mother-in-law said softly, almost tenderly. — You wanted everything to be fair, didn’t you? Fairness isn’t always comfortable.
Polina couldn’t take it anymore. She jumped up.
— I’m tired of your “fairness”! — she shouted, sharp as winter wind. — I’m tired of being hostage to your rules and expectations!
Valentina Petrovna didn’t even blink. Her eyes held the same cold certainty as always.
— Fine, — she said at last. — I understand. But know this: if my son doesn’t take that step—if he doesn’t stop seeing you as the enemy—then tonight will be your last night together.
Polina sank back onto the sofa. Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it might burst.
That evening Artyom came home. His steps were quiet but sure. Polina met his gaze—his eyes carried the same mix of doubt and pain as her own.
— Polin, — he began, — I—
— Don’t, — she cut him off. — I heard everything. Everything Mom said. Everything you really think.
He went still and let out a heavy breath.
— We’re just too different, — he said almost in a whisper. — I know I love you, but… how can you be happy if we live in a constant fight?
— Different? — Polina sat opposite him, her eyes burning. — We were happy—until your mother got involved! Until I became an argument for both of you instead of your wife!
— I know, — Artyom said, looking down. — And I tried… but every time I come back here after visiting Mom, something changes. I can’t be myself. I can’t be the kind of husband she believes is “right.”
Polina stared at him in silence, her heart tightening. Everything they’d built was collapsing like a house of cards.
— So that’s it? — she asked quietly.
Artyom nodded without lifting his eyes.
— I filed for divorce, — he added. — So it’s fair. So no one suffers anymore.
Polina stood and slowly walked to the window. She watched the courtyard where autumn leaves spun in the air. It was all so beautiful, and so empty.
— You know, — she said without turning around, — the apartment stays mine. But I’m losing something bigger than square footage.
Artyom’s fingers settled on the door handle.
— I’m sorry, — he said softly. — But this will be better. Fairer. For both of us.
Polina didn’t answer. She just watched him leave, shutting the door behind him and leaving only silence—heavier than any words.
The days after the divorce felt strangely hollow. She moved through the apartment, set cups in their places, wiped the table, stared at the books on the shelves. Everything was where it had always been, but the home itself was gone.
Lena called every day. She came over with pies, tried to comfort her.
— Pol, — she said one evening, — this isn’t the end. You’re free. You can live for yourself. And believe me, someone will come along who stays because he loves you—not because his mother told him to.
Polina nodded. Hard, painful, exhausting—but somewhere deep inside, a small feeling took shape: life wasn’t over. She could still breathe. She could still love.
A month later she was sitting by the window again. October was nearing its end; cold wind tore the last leaves from the trees. Polina watched the courtyard—kids playing ball, old women on benches trading gossip—and suddenly realized: the world keeps moving, no matter how much it hurts.
She picked up her phone and dialed Lena.
— Len, let’s meet up. I want to talk about a new beginning.
And for the first time in weeks, she felt calm. Not happy—yet. But calm.
The apartment was still hers. The walls were still hers. And her heart… her heart could be rebuilt.
And with that thought, Polina finally let herself smile.
The End.