Ira stood by the window of their rented two-bedroom place on the outskirts, watching the city lights blink on one by one. In the glass, her reflection seemed to smile back—Friday at last, the end of a hard week. Andrey would be home any minute, and tomorrow they could sleep in and spend the whole day together. Just lounge around, go to the movies, forget work.
She set the table, brought out the salad Andrey loved, and brewed fresh tea. The apartment smelled warm and calm. For Ira, that scent was the true meaning of the word home—the home she’d always longed for.
A key clicked in the lock. Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“I’m home!” Andrey called out—exhausted, but affectionate.
She hugged him at the kitchen doorway, pressing into his chest, breathing in winter air and the cologne she knew by heart.
“Tired?”
“As always. We still can’t hand in that project,” he said, kissing the top of her head and reaching toward the plate. “Oh—herring under a fur coat! You angel.”
They sat down to eat, swapping stories and laughing. Ira told him about a funny moment with a coworker; Andrey complained about a stupid remark from his boss. For those few minutes, everything felt perfect.
But Ira kept catching his eyes sliding to the silent phone lying face down on the table—again and again. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone.
And as if on purpose, the phone suddenly buzzed, drowning out their laughter. Andrey jolted, glanced at the screen, and his face changed—his smile dropped away, replaced by a tight, guarded mask.
“My mom,” he muttered, and without waiting for Ira’s reaction, he answered. “Hi, Mom. Yeah, everything’s fine. We’re having dinner.”
Ira pushed her plate away. Her appetite vanished. These calls had become a nightly ritual, as inevitable as sunrise: first the sweet talk, then the careful pivot to complaints and requests.
Andrey listened with one earbud in, but his replies said plenty.
“I understand… Yeah, that’s hard… Of course… Don’t worry.”
Then a pause—his voice lowered, suddenly guilty.
“Okay, I’ll sort it out. Money? I think I can transfer it on Monday. All right, all right—don’t start. Rest. Love you.”
He ended the call and stared down at the table. The air in the kitchen turned thick and heavy.
“Something happened again?” Ira asked, forcing her voice to stay neutral.
“Just little things. Dad’s got problems at work again, utilities went up, Larisa needs money for courses…” He sighed and took a sip of tea. Cold now.
“Andrey, we already sent them almost thirty thousand last month. That’s half your salary. We have a car loan, rent… We’ve been postponing our vacation for two years.”
He looked at her, and in his eyes she saw the familiar mix of fatigue—and accusation.
“Ira, those are my parents. They raised me. They worked themselves to the bone so I could study. I owe them. They can’t handle it on their own. It’s hard for them. You want me to turn my back on my family?”
The word my hit like a slap. As if Ira wasn’t family—just an outsider.
“I’m not asking you to abandon them,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m asking for a little… common sense. Your sister Larisa is healthy. She’s thirty. She can work instead of living off your parents and you. They’ve piled everything onto you, and you… you can’t say no.”
“They’re not strangers!” Andrey snapped. “They’re my family! And I’m not going to explain to them why I bought my wife an expensive phone but sent them ‘only’ ten thousand for medicine!”
“What medicine?” Ira blurted out. “Your mother posted photos yesterday—barbecue at their new dacha!”
Andrey shot up, bumping the table with his knee. The cups clinked.
“Enough! I’m sick of this! It’s the same thing every time! My parents are my responsibility. Or do you want me to choose between you and them?”
He stormed out of the kitchen and slammed the door. Ira stayed at the table in silence, staring at his full plate and the tea gone cold. The evening was ruined beyond repair. She looked out at the city lights—an hour ago they’d seemed cozy, and now they looked distant and icy.
She loved Andrey. But there was a crack in their happiness—deep, almost invisible from the outside, yet eating everything from within. And with dread, she realized that one day that crack could split their fragile world in two.
A week passed after that fight. The tension between Ira and Andrey melted away little by little, the way it always did. They didn’t mention the calls, and both tried to be gentler—as if afraid of tumbling back into the abyss. But something subtle had changed. Ira noticed that when she fell asleep now, she lay with her back to Andrey instead of curled against him.
She was thinking about that, standing at the stove and stirring soup, when her phone rang. An unfamiliar number.
“Hello?” Ira answered carefully.
“Irina? Good afternoon. This is attorney Sergey Petrovich Zaytsev. We met with your mother, Elena Viktorovna, regarding some paperwork.”
Ira’s heart lurched. Her mother had never gone into detail about legal matters.
“Yes… I remember you. What happened?”
A heavy pause filled the line.
“Irina, please accept my condolences. Your mother… Elena Viktorovna was in a car accident. This morning. Doctors fought for her, but… unfortunately…”
The attorney’s voice became a far-off hum. Ira sank slowly into a chair. The world narrowed to a point, to the crackle of the call. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t breathe. Her hand tightened around the spoon until her knuckles turned white.
The funeral passed in a terrifying haze. Andrey stayed close, held her hand, handled the logistics. His family sent a brief condolence text—said they couldn’t come because it was too far to travel. Ira wasn’t even surprised. At that moment, nothing mattered.
A month later, when sharp grief had turned into a quiet, aching emptiness, Ira met attorney Zaytsev again in his warm office that smelled of old books.
Sergey Petrovich, an elderly man with kind, intelligent eyes, handed her a stack of documents.
“Irina, Elena Viktorovna was a wise woman,” he said. “She came to me six months ago. She said she had a bad feeling and worried about you. She transferred her apartment to you as a gift deed. Everything was notarized and officially registered.”
Ira turned the pages in silence. She recognized her mother’s signature.
“So… the apartment is mine now?”
“Yes. With no conditions. You are the sole legal owner.” The attorney studied her carefully. “This is her last gift. Her will. She wanted you to have your own corner—your fortress. She loved you very much.”
The tears that had refused to come for so long finally broke free. Ira cried—not from raw grief, but from the strange mixture of pain and boundless gratitude. Even in death, her mother was still protecting her.
That evening, for the first time in a long while, Ira and Andrey returned to their rental in a lighter mood. Andrey hugged her.
“Well, Irusya… now we have a real home. Your mom was a hero—she thought of everything.”
He sounded sincere, and Ira wanted to believe him. She leaned into him, feeling a small sprout of hope. Maybe now, with the financial pressure gone—now that they’d have their own place—things would finally settle. Maybe the constant strain over his family would fade, and they’d start over.
“You know,” she said, staring out at the darkening sky, “I promise Mom I’ll keep this apartment safe. It’s her biggest gift. Our beginning.”
“Of course,” Andrey said softly, stroking her hair.
Ira closed her eyes and tried to picture their future within her mother’s walls. She didn’t yet know that her promise would be tested very soon—and that the gift would not become the start of a happy life, but a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples that would sweep everything away.
Two months passed. Ira survived the first brutal weeks without her mother by burying herself in the move. At last, they left the rental behind. Moving into a spacious, bright three-bedroom in the city center was supposed to be a fresh start, but relief wouldn’t come. The loss still hurt too much; too many memories lived in those rooms.
Ira was sorting her mother’s books, lining them up on the living-room shelves, when Andrey looked out the window and said with concern:
“Irus… I think mine are here.”
“Yours? Who?” she asked without turning away from the shelf.
“My parents. And Larisa. They said they wanted to offer condolences in person. See how we’ve settled in.”
Ira slowly straightened. Her throat tightened. The visit didn’t make her happy—it made her wary. The same Larisa who “couldn’t come to the funeral because it was too far” had suddenly found a way to visit.
Fifteen minutes later the door flew open and a small delegation poured in. First came Andrey’s mother, Valentina Ivanovna—a woman with a sharp, possessive gaze and tight brown curls. Behind her, shuffling, came his father, Nikolai Petrovich, silent and perpetually displeased. Last was Larisa—thin, with an icy, cutting stare; you wouldn’t guess she was already thirty.
“Our dear girl!” Valentina Ivanovna said, arms wide, moving toward Ira—yet her eyes were already scanning the entryway, the high ceilings, the depth of the apartment. “We came to support you in this terrible time. Such grief…”
She hugged Ira with dry, cold hands.
“Thank you,” Ira murmured, feeling deeply uncomfortable.
Larisa didn’t even take off her coat. She walked straight into the living room, inspecting the furniture, appliances, the renovation.
“Wow… you’ve got space,” she drawled, and envy rang clearly in her voice. “In our two-bedroom with five people—counting the cat—we can’t even move, and you two are living like royalty.”
“We only just moved in,” Andrey said evasively, taking his father’s worn windbreaker.
“I can see that,” Larisa went on, stepping to the window to look down at the busy central street. “And the neighborhood… so prestigious. Utilities here must cost half a paycheck.”
Ira silently prepared tea, goosebumps running up her spine. The condolences lasted exactly five minutes. After that, the visit turned into a slow, methodical inspection. Valentina Ivanovna moved from room to room, admiring loudly while offering “helpful” advice.
“This wall—you should put up a partition and make another little room. And why do you need such a big office? You could keep it smaller.”
Andrey smiled awkwardly and nodded. Ira saw how nervous he was—how desperately he wanted to please everyone at once.
That evening, when they finally prepared to leave, Valentina Ivanovna clasped Ira’s hands with her gripping palms.
“Sweet girl, don’t grieve too much. Now you have a home, a solid backstop. Hold on to it. We’re always ready to come and help.”
Ira just nodded, struggling to hide her irritation.
The door closed. The apartment fell quiet after hours of their voices. Andrey exhaled, relieved, and reached for Ira.
“Well… you’ve met my people properly now. You’ll get used to them.”
Ira stepped back.
“I’m not going to get used to your sister touring my home like she’s picking her future boudoir. And your mother’s already planning renovations.”
“Don’t dramatize it,” Andrey grimaced. “They were just impressed. And you know, while we were having tea, a plan came to me. A genius one.”
Ira stiffened. “A genius plan,” when it involved his family, never meant anything good.
“What plan?”
“Listen,” he said, squatting in front of her and taking her hands, his eyes bright. “We’re two people in a place this big, and they’re three in a cramped two-bedroom—packed like sardines. Larisa doesn’t even have room, and there aren’t any decent guys where they live. Right? So what if my parents sell their place in the city and invest the money into our shared future—like a mortgage, if this one stays ours… and we just register Larisa here for now. Temporarily! So she can get a good job here. And she can help around the house, she gets prospects—everyone wins!”
Ira stared at him, not believing her ears. Her husband, standing in an apartment her dying mother had signed over to protect her, was proposing to register his sister and rearrange everyone’s lives around it.
“Are you serious?” Her voice was quiet—and sharp as glass.
“Completely!” Andrey rushed on, not hearing her tone. “Imagine the pressure off us. My parents won’t need our help anymore because they’ll have money from the sale. And Larisa—”
“Stop.” Ira yanked her hands free. “You’re proposing I bring your sister into my home—the gift from my mother? The same Larisa who walked in and started measuring my square meters with her eyes? And do you honestly think a mortgage gets approved because someone is ‘temporarily registered’?”
“Oh, Ira, don’t be like that!” Andrey stood up, his face reddening. “That’s my family. They aren’t strangers. We can help them get on their feet!”
“Get on their feet—with my mother’s memory as the price?” Ira rose from the couch, shaking. Everything she’d swallowed all day—anger at the comments, the pain of their tactlessness, the fury at this entitlement—burst out. “Do you hear yourself? My mother gave me this apartment so I’d have a fortress. Not a hallway your relatives can march through.”
“It’s our apartment now!” Andrey exploded. “We’re a family! Or is everything yours and mine worth nothing?”
“No, Andrey,” Ira said, her voice turning into steel—the way her mother spoke when she meant it. She stepped toward the bedroom door, cutting herself off from him. “You don’t understand. My mother gave this apartment to me. To me alone. And remember this once and for all: my mother gifted me this place, so you won’t get a single meter of it—no matter what you and your family have planned.”
She turned, left the living room, and slammed the bedroom door, turning the key. Her heart was pounding in her throat. Behind the door she heard Andrey shout something—and then his steps moved away. A moment later his voice came through, muffled but clear. He was calling someone.
“Mom? Yeah, I… it’s fine. She’s not herself right now, can’t take things rationally… Don’t worry, Mom, I’ve got it under control. She’ll come around…”
Ira leaned her back against the cold door and slid slowly down to the floor. The silence was deafening. She sat in the dark, hugging her knees, and realized the war had started. And the enemy wasn’t somewhere outside.
It was in her home.
That evening became a line they crossed. The days that followed felt like life in a besieged fortress. Andrey stopped speaking to her. He left for work without a goodbye, came home late, ate in silence in front of the TV, and went to bed with his back turned. A dense, heavy quiet filled the apartment—her shelter and her prison at the same time.
Ira tried to be the first to talk, but she hit an icy wall.
“Andrey… can we talk?” she ventured at breakfast.
“Nothing to talk about. You’ve decided everything already,” he cut her off without looking up, and left, slamming the door.
She began to feel like a stranger in her own home. Even the walls that should have held her mother’s love seemed to absorb the poisonous cold.
A week later, the phone attacks began.
Valentina Ivanovna called first. Seeing the number, Ira tensed—but she answered.
“Irochka, sweet girl, it’s your mother-in-law,” the voice oozed syrupy concern. “How are you? How’s your mood?”
“Fine,” Ira said flatly.
“And our Andryusha is so down… not eating, not drinking, wandering around in corners. He says his wife doesn’t even consider his family human. That’s not right, Ira. He’s a good man, a provider, and you’re putting him in this position… over a few square meters.”
Ira tried to speak, but Valentina Ivanovna wouldn’t stop.
“We took you in like our own! And you… you’ve broken my son! He can’t even help his own mother because of you! My heart aches, my blood pressure’s through the roof… Do you want me dead because of your greed?”
Ira listened, hands shaking. Pure manipulation—weaponized guilt. She mumbled something and hung up, feeling as if she’d been smeared in filth.
The next day Larisa called, her voice sharp and poisonous.
“So, queen of your castle—did you give Andrey a breakdown? He cried to Mom for two hours yesterday, said his life was ruined. Congratulations. A real woman should be wise, not some business shark counting centimeters.”
Ira said nothing and ended the call.
The day after, a message popped up from some girl introducing herself as Larisa’s friend:
“Hi! I heard you have a conflict with your husband’s family. Just want to say: family is sacred. My husband was jealous of mine at first too, but I convinced him. You should be kinder.”
Ira understood—this was an information war. They were dragging her name through their circles, twisting the story: her as greedy and cruel, Andrey as a helpless victim.
One Saturday, when Andrey went out “to get some air,” Ira tried to escape the oppressive atmosphere and walked to the mall. While she was choosing coffee in the supermarket, someone she vaguely knew from a party approached her.
“Ira! Hi! How are you?”
“Fine,” Ira smiled.
“Listen,” the woman lowered her voice. “Is everything okay at home? Larisa—your husband’s sister—hinted you have big problems. Said you… don’t let his family in at all. Is that true? Do you need help? A psychologist?”
Ira froze. They’d reached her circle too. Her face burned with shame and rage.
“Everything’s fine,” she forced out. “Just a small misunderstanding. Don’t pay attention to gossip.”
She abandoned her basket and almost ran out of the store. Outside, she leaned against a cold wall, trying to breathe. They were everywhere. They were trying to isolate her, smear her, wear her down until she surrendered under the weight of lies and public judgment.
When she came home, Andrey was watching football. He glanced at her briefly.
“Where were you?”
“Store. Wanted to buy coffee.”
“Sure,” he snorted. “Probably met your friends to gossip about me—the tyrant.”
She didn’t answer. She simply went into the bedroom—she had already started dividing the apartment in her mind into hers and his—and closed the door. Sitting on the bed, she buried her face in her hands. The circle was tightening. Her husband had become an enemy, his family was waging a dirty campaign, and acquaintances looked at her with pity or disapproval.
The siege went on. And her strength was running out. She felt completely alone in the spacious, bright apartment that was supposed to be home but had become a battlefield. The worst part was that the enemy knew her softest spot—her love for her husband.
And that’s exactly where they aimed.
A few more weeks passed. The siege continued, but Ira learned to live in constant defense. She barely reacted to Andrey’s jabs, muted her mother-in-law’s calls, and tried not to meet people’s judging eyes. She stayed quiet and held on—just as her mother had taught her as a child: When they push you, the most important thing is not to break inside. Stand straight, even if your legs shake.
Then one morning, the routine cracked.
She woke nauseated and dizzy. At first she blamed stress, but when it happened again the next day—and then again a week later—a small stubborn light turned on in her mind: a cautious, almost impossible hope.
She bought a test at the pharmacy. Her hands trembled as she tore the packaging open. Two clear lines appeared almost instantly.
Ira sank onto the edge of the bathtub, unable to make a sound. She stared at the two red marks like they were a ticket to another life.
A baby. Their baby.
Maybe this was the sign—the thread that could pull them out of the pit. Andrey would be happy, wouldn’t he? He’d always wanted children. Maybe he’d come to his senses, build a boundary against his family, and they’d become the happy couple they used to be.
She decided to tell him in the evening. She cooked his favorite meal, set the table. Her heart hammered as his footsteps sounded behind the door.
“Andrey, sit down—we need to talk,” she began the moment he stepped inside.
“Another talk?” he muttered, dropping his jacket and frowning at the table. “What now? My ‘awful’ family again?”
“No. Not that. I… I’m pregnant.”
She said it quietly, looking straight into his eyes. At first there was the usual irritation. Then confusion. Then slow, dawning understanding. His face flickered. He was silent for a few seconds, and Ira saw something emerge—warmth, shock, maybe even the joy she’d been praying for.
“Really?” he finally breathed, voice breaking. “You’re serious?”
She nodded, tears sliding down her cheeks. For the first time in months, he came to her not like an opponent, but like a husband. He hugged her—tight, tight—and she felt his hands trembling.
“My God, Irus… a baby…” he whispered into her hair. “That’s… that’s wonderful.”
That evening felt like a dream. They talked, laughed, made plans. Andrey was gentle, attentive, like in their best days. He stroked her still-flat stomach, talked about a crib, a daycare, their future. Ira cried and laughed at once, believing the nightmare was over.
But the illusion was fragile.
The next morning at breakfast, his face turned serious again.
“Listen, Ira… we need to think about the baby properly. The child needs a real family, support.”
“Of course,” she smiled, not yet understanding.
“That’s what I mean. We can’t do it alone. Mom called—she’s beside herself with happiness. She says she’s ready to drop everything and move in with us to help. Larisa too. You won’t manage alone with a newborn, will you? There’s room for them in the living room. Now that we have an heir, we should keep everyone close.”
Ira froze, bread in her hand. The joy inside her popped like a soap bubble. They were back. Already back. Already reaching for her unborn child—seeing not a new life, but a new lever.
“What?” she whispered. “Andrey, have you lost your mind? After this news you want to cram your mother and sister into my apartment again?”
“Not ‘cram’!” he snapped, the familiar rage twisting his features. “Help! Do you think you can handle everything alone? You’ll lose your mind! They’re family—they’ll support us!”
“I don’t want their support!” Ira shouted, jumping up. “I want to give birth to your child in our home, not in a коммуналка with your eternally whining sister and a mother who manipulates me through a baby that isn’t even born yet. Do you understand?”
Andrey sprang up too. Yesterday’s softness vanished.
“And what do you want? My child to grow up without a grandmother? My family to be three hundred kilometers away? You’re selfish! You only think about yourself and your apartment!”
“It’s not an apartment, Andrey!” Ira screamed. “It’s my home. The only thing I have left of Mom. And I won’t let you turn it into a circus!”
He stepped close, face suddenly foreign and cruel.
“Stop waving your mother in my face! I’m the father of this child! I decide what’s best!”
“No!” Ira shouted, stepping back. “I decide. While the baby is inside me, I decide!”
In fury, he grabbed her arm above the elbow—hard, real, not playful. Pain flashed, sharp and burning. She gasped.
“Let go!”
He shoved her hand away as if he’d burned himself. They both froze, breathing heavily. Ira stared at her arm. On her pale skin, red marks from his fingers were already rising—promising to bloom into bruises.
They looked at each other in horror. A ringing silence fell between them. He had crossed a line for the first time—no longer words and pressure, but physical force, even if in a moment of anger.
Andrey turned away, shoulders slumping, and left the kitchen without a word. Ira remained alone, rubbing the sore place. No tears came. Only icy emptiness—and bitter understanding. The baby wouldn’t save them. It had become a new battlefield. And the man who would be the child’s father had just left his first bruise on her.
The bruise faded within a week, turning yellow-green like a dirty flower before disappearing.
But the mark inside her remained—deep and cold, like a scar.
That morning hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Andrey acted as though nothing had happened, though sometimes, when he thought Ira wasn’t looking, there was confusion and shame in his eyes.
Ira had no doubts anymore. She understood: she couldn’t stay alone and defenseless in this war. Any hope that Andrey would “come around” evaporated the instant his fingers dug into her skin. Now she had to protect not only herself, but the baby growing quietly under her heart.
She found an attorney online—one who specialized in property and family disputes.
The same one her mother had used: Sergey Petrovich Zaytsev.
She booked a consultation and lied to Andrey, saying she had a gynecology appointment.
The attorney’s office was exactly as she remembered: strict, smelling of wood and old books. Sergey Petrovich greeted her politely.
“Irina, come in. How can I help?”
She sat, gripping her purse on her knees, and told him everything: the gift deed, the pressure to register his relatives, the phone attacks, the smear campaign—and finally the bruise. She spoke evenly, without hysteria, but her fingers whitened around the purse strap.
Sergey Petrovich listened without interrupting, occasionally writing notes.
“You did the right thing by coming,” he said when she finished. “Unfortunately, this is a typical situation. Let’s go step by step. The apartment is gifted to you. You are the sole owner. That is solid. Your husband has no right to any share—now or after divorce.”
Ira nodded, feeling a weight lift slightly.
“And if… if under pressure I register someone? His sister, for example. Just temporarily.”
“Very bad idea,” the attorney shook his head. “Removing an adult who is ‘temporarily’ registered without their consent is almost impossible. Usually only through court, and even then you’d need to prove they don’t live there. And if they do live there…” He looked at her over his glasses. “They can create the appearance of a shared household, receive mail… Over time, they may try to claim a right of use through court. Evicting them becomes extremely difficult. Long, draining war.”
Ira swallowed, imagining Larisa hanging dresses in her closet. Temporarily.
“So what do I do?”
“The best strategic move is simple: don’t register anyone. Period. That is your legal right. And to protect yourself from further pressure, start gathering evidence.” He set down his pen. “Save every text message and screenshot with threats, insults, or demands. If you talk about this topic, turn on voice recording. The law allows you to record a private conversation without warning if you’re participating. Those recordings can be decisive in court—whether it comes to divorce or an eviction case, if they somehow get into the apartment.”
He gave her specific advice on how to handle conversations, how to encourage people to speak openly while staying calm on the surface. Ira listened, and inside her something new formed—not rage, not fear, but a cold, calculating resolve. She had a plan. She had a weapon.
“Thank you,” she said, standing. “You have no idea how much this helps.”
“Take care of yourself, Irina,” he said, walking her to the door. “And remember—the law is on your side. Sadly, it can’t stop people from being cruel. But it can protect you.”
Outside, Ira inhaled deeply. The air was sharp and cold, but it felt clean and free. She went into a nearby electronics store and bought a small, powerful voice recorder—simple to use, with plenty of memory.
That evening, when Andrey sat down in front of the TV, sullen, Ira walked up to him. In the pocket of her lounge pants, the recorder was already on.
“Andrey, we need to discuss our future. And the baby’s future.”
He shot her an irritated glance.
“Starting again? I’m tired.”
“I just want to understand. Do you truly believe your sister should live with us when the baby is born?”
“I believe family should stick together!” his voice immediately rang with anger. “And you want to push everyone away! Don’t you understand a child needs a grandmother? That I need my mother’s support—not my wife’s constant accusations!”
Ira stood and listened, watching him with a strange calm. Let him talk. Let him say everything. Every selfish, disrespectful word was now being stored digitally. It didn’t hurt the way it used to. Now it was evidence.
She didn’t argue. She simply collected proof. And for the first time in a long time, she felt control slowly returning to her hands. She had her fortress—her mother’s gift. And now she had a key to defend it: legally sound and unbiased, like steel.
For several days, Ira lived in tense ожидание. She carried the recorder like a talisman and tried not to stay home alone for long. But fate seemed determined to test her.
On Wednesday she had a scheduled prenatal appointment. The night before, Andrey said he had an urgent meeting and couldn’t go with her.
“It’s fine. I’ll go alone,” Ira replied calmly, touching the pocket where the recorder sat.
The appointment went well. The doctor said the baby was fine, and that soothed Ira a little. She decided to stop at the store, buy something tasty, maybe even try speaking to Andrey again from a place of peace. Perhaps the ultrasound image would soften him.
She returned home with careful optimism. Took the elevator up, pulled out her keys. She slid them into the lock—then froze.
The door wasn’t locked.
Her heart flipped. Maybe Andrey had come home early?
Ira pushed the door open and stopped dead. In the entryway stood suitcases—two big, battered ones—and several bags. Loud, familiar voices carried from the living room.
She stepped inside slowly, like she was sleepwalking.
The living room was buzzing. Valentina Ivanovna had spread her things on the sofa and was animatedly talking to Andrey. Nikolai Petrovich sat in an armchair watching TV like he owned the place. And from Ira’s bedroom—her bedroom—Larisa emerged with an armful of dresses.
“Oh, there’s our young hostess!” Valentina Ivanovna chirped when she saw Ira. “We’ve been waiting for you!”
Ira couldn’t speak. She looked at Andrey. He stood with his head lowered, refusing to meet her eyes.
“What… what are you doing here?” she finally whispered.
“What do you mean, what?” Larisa smiled brightly, walking to the living-room closet and hanging her dresses right on the door. “We’re moving in! Andrey organized it. The parents are selling their two-bedroom, and we’ll settle here for now. It’s more fun together—and I’ll help with the baby. I’ll be the aunt!”
The floor seemed to tilt under Ira’s feet. She turned back to Andrey.
“Is it true? You let them into my home?”
He lifted his eyes—guilty, but stubborn.
“I let my family into our home. They’re living with us now. Period. Get used to it.”
In Ira’s pocket, the recorder was already capturing everything.
“Living…?” Her voice rang. “Without my consent? Have you all lost your minds?”
“And nobody cares about your consent anymore,” Larisa scoffed. “We don’t like you as a daughter-in-law, but we tolerate you. And you’re still fussing over ‘your’ apartment.”
“Get out of my home,” Ira said quietly. “Right now.”
“Oh, listen to her!” Valentina Ivanovna shrieked, jumping up. “Is that how you speak to your husband’s family? I’m not some stranger—I’m your mother-in-law! We’ll live here and you can’t do a thing!”
“This is my apartment!” Ira shouted, and all her restraint evaporated. “My mother’s apartment! Get out!”
“Oh yeah?” Nikolai Petrovich rose, face flushing. “You’re yelling at your elders? I’ll grab you by the collar, you little—”
He stepped toward her. Andrey threw himself between them.
“Dad—don’t!”
“And you’re taking her side?” Valentina Ivanovna wailed, clutching Andrey’s arm. “My son, what did you trade us for? She’s twisted you around her finger!”
The room erupted into chaos. Everyone shouted at once. Larisa screamed that Ira was greedy. Valentina Ivanovna sobbed about betrayal. Nikolai Petrovich raged. Andrey bounced between them, trying to calm them down.
Ira backed up to the wall, shaking with fury and humiliation. She watched Larisa already touching her books on the shelf, Andrey’s father’s things on her favorite chair. It was an invasion. A takeover.
Then Valentina Ivanovna suddenly flung herself to the floor, wailing and thrashing.
“I’m dying! My heart! She’s sending me to the grave! Sweet girl, please agree—we’re family!”
Ira stared at the spectacle—and all her anger drained away, replaced by ice-cold clarity. She pulled out her phone. Her fingers didn’t shake. She dialed the police.
“Hello,” she said over the screaming. “Strangers have unlawfully entered my apartment at this address. They refuse to leave and they’re threatening me. Yes, I’m the owner. Yes, I’ll wait.”
She ended the call.
Silence slammed down like a door. Even Valentina Ivanovna froze on the floor.
“You… what did you do?” Andrey breathed, staring at her in real fear.
“I called the police to protect me from unlawful entry,” Ira answered evenly. “And I have an audio recording of this whole lovely family evening—with every threat and insult.”
She looked at each of them in turn: the father, suddenly uncertain; the mother, gone pale; Larisa, speechless; and Andrey, whose eyes showed defeat.
“You should gather your things,” Ira said softly. “Before law enforcement arrives.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. It lasted maybe a minute, but felt like forever. Ira stood with her back against the doorframe, the tremor leaving her body and giving way to a clean, crystalline calm. Her phone was in her hand like a weapon.
Larisa recovered first, glaring at her dresses.
“Have you completely lost it? Calling the police—on your own family?”
“You’re not my family,” Ira replied quietly, clearly. “Family doesn’t do this.”
Valentina Ivanovna climbed to her feet, the hysteria evaporating as if it had never existed, replaced by cold hatred.
“Andryusha,” she rasped without taking her eyes off Ira. “You will deal with your wife. Immediately. Remove her.”
But Andrey didn’t move. He looked at Ira, and in his eyes there was something new—not anger, not irritation, but shock… and, she thought, even respect. He had never seen her like this—untouchable.
Down the hall the elevator doors clapped. Heavy steps, men’s voices. The doorbell rang like a gunshot.
“Police. Open up!”
Ira walked to the door and opened it without hesitation. Two officers stood on the threshold—one younger, one older, both serious.
“I’m the one who called,” Ira said. “These people entered my apartment without my consent. They refuse to leave and threatened me.”
The older officer stepped inside and assessed the situation.
“Do you have documents for the apartment?”
“Of course.” Ira went to the bureau where she kept the important papers and brought a folder with the registered gift deed and proof of ownership. “I’m the sole owner.”
He looked through the paperwork quickly, then turned to the “guests.”
“On what basis are you here?”
Valentina Ivanovna tried to return to her dramatic tone.
“We’re family! Relatives! We came to help!”
“They don’t live here and they aren’t registered here,” Ira said firmly. “They arrived today with bags and suitcases without warning and tried to move in. I have an audio recording where they threaten me and refuse to leave.”
The older officer’s face hardened. He addressed the family.
“According to these documents, the citizen is the sole owner of this property. Being here against her will is unlawful. You need to leave immediately.”
“But that’s my son!” Valentina Ivanovna screeched, grabbing Andrey’s sleeve.
“The son is not the owner,” the officer replied coldly. “Pack your things. Now.”
What followed was awkward and humiliating for them. Under the police officers’ gaze, muttering curses and throwing venomous looks at Ira, they stuffed their scattered belongings back into suitcases. Larisa yanked her dresses down. Nikolai Petrovich, dark as a storm cloud, folded his things in silence.
Andrey stood in the middle of the mess like he’d been unplugged. He looked from his parents to Ira, and it was obvious his little world—built on manipulation and a false sense of duty—was collapsing.
When the last suitcase was in the entryway, the older officer asked Ira:
“Do you want to file a formal complaint, and request a restriction on their entry?”
Ira looked at Andrey. He understood her glance and slowly shook his head—pleading.
“No,” Ira said. “Not yet. If they don’t come back.”
The officers escorted the “guests” to the elevator. The apartment door shut. Ira and Andrey were alone.
Silence returned—but it was different now. Empty. Final.
Andrey walked into their—now only her—bedroom and began packing a sports bag. He moved slowly, mechanically. Ira didn’t stop him. She stood in the living room and stared at the room left behind after the chaos.
He came out with the bag over his shoulder and paused at the door.
“I… I’ll go to them. Or to a hotel,” he muttered.
Ira nodded.
“I know.”
He reached for the handle, but hesitated.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, without turning around.
The words were so quiet she barely heard them. She didn’t answer. Not “I forgive you,” not “Go.” She simply stayed silent.
The click of the lock echoed through the apartment. He was gone.
Ira walked through every room slowly. Straightened the books, wiped invisible dust from the windowsill, moved the chair back into place. She stopped at the large living-room window—the same one where she once watched the city lights with hope.
Now she looked at them again. They shone steady and cold. Not welcoming, not hostile—just real.
She placed a hand on her still-flat stomach. Inside her was a new life. Her life. Her responsibility. Her future.
She took a deep breath. The air in the apartment felt clean. The smell of чужие духи—other people’s perfume—other people’s things, other people’s emotions—had faded. All that remained was the faint scent of her own perfume and the scent of home.
She didn’t feel joy. She didn’t feel triumph. Only a vast, crushing exhaustion—and the bitter understanding of what she’d lost.
And yet through that bitterness, something else pushed through—heavy as stone, but solid. Dignity. And freedom.
She stroked her stomach.
“It’s going to be okay, baby,” she whispered. “For us, this is just the beginning. A clean page.”
And for the first time in months, her smile wasn’t bitter or forced. It was calm—steady with quiet, unbreakable strength. She had paid a high price for her freedom.
But she had defended it.