Part 1: The Geometry of Greed
The keys rested on the dark stone countertop—heavy, cold, like tiny metal skeletons meant to unlock the future. Alla stared at them, and an odd, unfamiliar spaciousness spread through her chest. The three-bedroom apartment her father, Viktor Sergeyevich, had purchased wasn’t just square footage. It was oxygen. It was the chance not to hear the neighbors arguing through the wall, and not to stumble over old boxes in a narrow hallway.
Her father, a man of the old school with iron principles, had been wise.
“Live there, build your life,” he said, passing her the key ring, “but let the documents stay in my safe for now. It’s calmer that way, sweetheart. Life has a habit of twisting.”
Alla had only smiled at his caution then. She believed in her marriage, in Leonid, in their shared “we.”
Leonid, her husband, restored antique furniture. Dusty work that demanded patience and steady hands. He could spend hours bringing back lacquer finishes, breathing life into dried-out wood. He was gentle—sometimes too gentle. He’d grown up under the shadow of a commanding woman: his stepmother, whom he’d learned to call Mom. His biological mother had been taken by illness when Lenya was five, and not long after, Larisa Anatolyevna came into the home.
Larisa was loud, a woman who seemed to occupy every bit of space available. She had a talent for filling silence with complaints—and rooms with her presence. When Lenya married, Larisa Anatolyevna let out a dramatic sigh of relief.
“Well then, Boris,” she had declared to her husband, Boris Ignatyevich, “finally we’ll live for ourselves. Our place is small; the youngsters will be cramped. Let them find their own nest.”
That “nest” was, at first, a rented corner of someone else’s apartment, then a tiny studio—until Alla’s father made his sweeping gesture.
The first warning bell rang a week ago. Larisa Anatolyevna and Boris Ignatyevich arrived for the housewarming. Alla set the table, trying not to notice the way her husband’s stepmother scanned the fresh renovations, the high ceilings, the wide loggia.
“Luxurious,” Larisa drawled, dragging a finger along the windowsill. “Simply luxurious. And why do you two need so much space? It must echo in here. Meanwhile your father and I—our legs hurt. Climbing to the fifth floor in our old Khrushchyovka with no elevator is torture. But here? A freight elevator, ramps…”
Alla steered the conversation elsewhere, but she caught the predatory narrowing of her guest’s eyes. Larisa wasn’t just looking. She was fitting herself into the place. In her mind, she’d already arranged her ficus plants in the living room and hung her heavy velvet curtains that carried a faint mothball smell.
Two days later, Larisa called.
“Allochka, darling,” her voice oozed syrupy sweetness that made your teeth ache. “Your father and I have talked it over. You young people don’t need much. You’re at work all day. But we’re old—we need peace and comfort. Lenya’s registered at our two-room place. So let’s do this like family, sensibly, smartly. We’ll move into this three-bedroom, keep everything in order, and you can take ours. It’s cozy, lived-in. We’ll swap—what do you say?”
“Larisa Anatolyevna,” Alla answered firmly, “the apartment belongs to my father. I can’t make decisions about it, and we’re not swapping. We like our home.”
“Oh, stop with the formalities!” the stepmother cut in. “Your father isn’t some beast—he’ll understand it’s hard on his in-laws. Turn off that selfishness, Allochka. Family means sharing the best with your elders.”
Alla ended the call, feeling a dull irritation growing inside her. She assumed the topic was over.
She was wrong.
Part 2: The Invasion and the Suitcase
The workday had been brutal. At the design bureau, the estimates had been mixed up, and Alla spent four hours recalculating material volumes so they wouldn’t fail the client. Her head buzzed like an electrical substation. All she wanted was to step into the cool of her hallway, kick off her shoes, and stand under a shower.
She slid her key into the lock—but it didn’t turn. Strange. The door was already unlocked.
Alla pushed it open. A sharp, чужой smell hit her nose—cheap perfume mixed with fried onions. In their apartment, which usually smelled only of fresh wood and cleanliness.
In the corridor stood two enormous checkered suitcases, bloated like overfed toads. On the coat rack—over Leonid’s windbreaker—hung Larisa Anatolyevna’s massive coat.
Alla walked slowly into the living room. What she saw was so grotesque her brain refused, for a second, to accept it as real.
Larisa Anatolyevna, dressed in a house robe (not Alla’s—clearly brought from home), lounged on their new Italian sofa with her feet up on the coffee table. In her hand she held Alla’s favorite mug—ceramic, handmade. A loud talk show blared on the TV.
“Oh, you’re back,” the mother-in-law said instead of greeting her, without looking away from the screen. “I decided to fry up some potatoes. Lenya likes them. Though your pans are awful—too thin. I’ll have to bring mine.”
“What are you doing here?” Alla’s voice came out quiet, but a vibration had already entered it—the first hint of a storm. “How did you get in?”
“How, how,” Larisa snorted, finally turning to her daughter-in-law. “I took Lenya’s keys. Had a copy made while he was with us over the weekend. We’re not strangers, after all.”
“Leave,” Alla said. She still wasn’t shouting, but the air around her began to thicken.
“Well, look at you—so bold!” Larisa flung up her hands theatrically, nearly spilling her tea. “I came with my whole heart, packed my suitcases, strained my health dragging them here, and she says ‘get out.’ I decided I’m done talking. You’re young, you’re foolish, you don’t understand your own happiness. Your father and I are moving in. Period. I’ve already started unpacking. In the bedroom, by the way, your closet is inconvenient, so I put your rags on the floor for now and hung up my dresses. They wrinkle.”
In that moment, Alla’s world shrank to a single pupil, pulsing with rage. Words ran out. Logic, upbringing, respect for age—burned to ash in one second, like dry paper.
“You touched my things?” Alla repeated.
“And what of it?” Larisa smirked, tasting what she believed was untouchable power. “I’ll be the mistress of this house now. Get used to it, sweetheart.”
Part 3: The Point of No Return
“What the hell?!” burst out of Alla. It wasn’t just outrage—it was a roar.
She dropped her bag on the floor. The thud of leather on parquet sounded like a gong.
“How dare you talk to your mother-in-law like that?” Larisa shrieked, dropping her feet from the table. “I’m twice your age! I raised Lenya! Your father and I deserve a decent old age! And you, you little slip of a girl, came to everything ready-made—Daddy bought you an apartment and now you’re a queen?”
“This is MY home!” Alla screamed. Red blotches spread across her face. “You have no rights here! You’re a thief and a shameless invader!”
“Oh, go to hell!” Larisa snapped, rising into the posture of a market brawler. “Lenya is my son! What’s his is mine! He won’t throw his mother out onto the street. And if you don’t like it, you can run back to your daddy. Lenya, his father, and I will live just fine here. I already took the bedroom and made the bed.”
She was bluffing—pressuring, convinced the daughter-in-law would cry, fold, retreat, and wait for her husband to “fix it.” And Lenya was soft; Lenya wouldn’t hurt his mother. Larisa always did it this way—by sheer audacity, by charging in, by turning her demands into a done deal.
But she forgot one thing.
Alla wasn’t Lenya. And she had no intention of being a victim. Inside Alla, the thin string of patience snapped with a deafening crack. Fear of a scene vanished, replaced by a cold, almost unhinged determination.
Without a word, she turned and walked toward the bedroom.
“Hey! Where are you going? I’m talking to you!” Larisa shouted after her. “Don’t touch anything in there—I just arranged it!”
The bedroom was chaos. Alla and Leonid’s clothes lay in heaps across the floor. And inside the closet, on hangers, hung Larisa’s shapeless floral dresses, sparkly knit tops, and greasy house robes. The sight of чужие вещи—stale-smelling чужие вещи—in her sanctuary, in her new bedroom, became the last drop.
Alla didn’t cry.
She laughed—short, sharp, frightening.
Part 4: The Bumblebee’s Flight
She grabbed an armful of dresses, hangers and all. Plastic crunched in her fists.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” Larisa ran into the bedroom and saw her daughter-in-law ripping her wardrobe down. “Put that back! That’s imported!”
“IMPORTED?!” Alla echoed, mocking her, tipping into a hysterical scream. “LET’S SEE HOW WELL IT FLIES!”
Alla lunged for the balcony door and threw it wide. Wind slapped her face. Fifth floor. Down below, the lawn glowed green.
“NO!” Larisa howled, charging at her.
But Alla was faster. Rage gave her strength. She hurled the first armful over the railing. Bright, gaudy fabric swelled in the wind like the sails of unlucky pirates, drifting slowly downward.
“Damn you!” the mother-in-law screamed, trying to grab Alla’s arm.
Alla whirled and shoved Larisa in the shoulder—not hard, but enough to send her stumbling back.
“COME ANY CLOSER AND YOU’LL FLY NEXT!” Alla snarled. Her eyes burned with such wild fire that Larisa—who was used to crushing everyone—suddenly felt fear. She wasn’t facing a polite young wife anymore. She was facing a fury.
Alla returned to the closet and grabbed the next batch: sweaters, skirts, some kind of leggings—everything went over the railing, spinning in a mad waltz. She moved like a disposal conveyor belt.
“The suitcases,” Alla remembered.
She ran into the corridor, seized one of the suitcases. It was heavy, but anger performs miracles. She dragged it out onto the stairwell and, without calling the elevator, simply kicked it down the steps. The suitcase thundered as it bounced from one concrete flight to the next.
“OUT!” Alla stormed back into the apartment, yanked Larisa’s coat off the rack, and flung it straight into the stepmother’s stunned face. “GET OUT OF HERE! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU IN MY HOME AGAIN!”
Larisa clutched the coat to her chest and backed toward the door. Her arrogance fell away like a husk. All that remained was animal fear of this woman who’d finally snapped.
“You… you’re sick,” Larisa hissed. “I’ll tell Lenya everything. You’ll regret this!”
“GO!” Alla slammed the door in her face.
She leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Her hands shook. Her heart hammered up in her throat. But it wasn’t fear. It was victory adrenaline.
She pulled out her phone and called her husband.
“I threw your mother’s things off the balcony,” Alla said the moment he answered. Her voice trembled, breaking. “And I kicked her out. If she shows up here again—I can’t promise what I’ll do.”
Silence hung on the other end.
“I’m coming,” Leonid said shortly.
Part 5: A Reverse Lynch Court
During the hour it took Leonid to get home, Alla scrubbed the apartment like a woman possessed. She washed the floors where Larisa’s feet had stepped. She threw away the mug the stepmother had drunk from. She opened every window to chase out the smell of cheap perfume.
When the doorbell rang, Alla was ready for anything: divorce, a screaming match, Leonid defending his “poor mother.”
She opened the door.
Leonid stood on the threshold. He looked exhausted, his work overalls marked with lacquer stains. Behind him, on the landing, Larisa Anatolyevna sat on a half-crushed suitcase, surrounded by dirty clothes gathered from the lawn. Her face was tragic—and vengeful.
“Lenyochka!” she wailed when she saw him. “Look what this psychopath did! She nearly killed me! She threw my things out! All I asked for was respect, and she— You have to deal with this! You have to punish her! We’re family! Throw her out, sonny! Put her in her place!”
Leonid slowly shifted his gaze from his tearful, disheveled stepmother to Alla. Alla stood straight, arms crossed, still wound tight, ready to fight. She looked him in the eyes—no pleading, no excuses. Her look said: Choose. Either me and my dignity, or that parasite.
Leonid took a deep breath. He looked at the heap of clothes. Then at Larisa’s face, twisted with greed and spite. And suddenly he saw her as if for the first time: not a mother who raised him, but a stranger who had spent his entire life reminding him of every crust of bread, who had pushed him out of his father’s home, and now had come to destroy the only thing he’d built for himself.
“Get up,” Leonid said quietly to his stepmother.
“Exactly!” Larisa brightened, scrambling to her feet. “Tell her! Make her apologize and bring my things back up!”
“Leave,” Leonid said—louder, and harder.
Larisa froze, mouth open.
“What…? What are you saying, son? You didn’t understand—she—”
“I understood everything,” Leonid cut in. There was no hesitation in his voice. “I see what you did. You walked into someone else’s home without permission, started bossing around, humiliated my wife. You wanted to take our apartment? You really think everyone owes you?”
“I’m your mother!” she screeched.
“You’re not my mother,” Leonid said flatly. The words fell like heavy stones. “You’re my stepmother. And you’ve always acted like the stepmother from a bad fairy tale. I tolerated you for Dad’s sake. But today you crossed the line.”
He stepped to Alla and stood beside her—shoulder to shoulder. He took her hand. His palm was warm, solid.
“Alla did the right thing,” he said, staring Larisa straight in the eyes. “What the hell did you think you were doing here? Greed blind you that badly?”
“How dare you?!” Larisa began to choke with indignation. “After everything we— Your father will hear about this!”
“Let him,” Leonid said indifferently. “Tell him how you tried to steal housing from his son. And one more thing, Larisa Anatolyevna: you won’t get another kopeck from us. No help, no money for ‘medicine’ you spend on new curtains. The funding is over.”
Larisa turned truly pale. Money was her most sensitive spot. The young couple had been helping them regularly, believing it was their duty.
“You’ll regret this…” she hissed.
“Out!” Leonid barked so loudly the echo rolled through the stairwell. “Pick up your junk and get lost. If I see you near my home again, I’ll throw you down the stairs myself.”
Larisa gasped for air and grabbed her suitcase. She understood she’d lost. Humiliated, clutching filthy dresses, she trudged toward the elevator, muttering curses. No one listened anymore.
Leonid shut the door and turned the lock twice.
Then he faced his wife. Alla was still trembling, the crash after the adrenaline washing over her in waves.
“You… you’re not angry?” she asked, barely moving her lips.
“I am angry,” Leonid said, pulling her into his arms. “Angry at myself for not putting her in her place sooner—and that you had to do it yourself. You’re a fighter.”
He buried his face in her hair.
“I thought you’d choose her,” Alla admitted.
“I chose you the day I put a ring on your finger,” he said simply. “And parasites need to be poisoned— even when they pretend to be family.”
Silence settled over the apartment. But it wasn’t the frightening kind. It was calm—cleaned of lies and чужое присутствие. It was the silence of their home.