Yulia stood by the window, staring out at the city as evening settled in. Streetlights glimmered in the rain-darkened asphalt, and people hurried home after work. A three-bedroom apartment right in the city center was the kind of dream most urban residents never stopped chasing.
She had bought this place five years earlier—long before she ever met Andrey. Back then, she worked as a manager at a large company, saving every ruble she could, taking out a loan, and paying it down for eight long years, denying herself almost everything. But now the apartment was finally, unquestionably hers. The ownership documents were in the name of Yulia Aleksandrovna Sokolova—no debts, no liens, no burdens of any kind.
She got married a year ago. Andrey worked at the same company, and Yulia had first paid attention to him at a corporate party. He was attractive, quiet, seemingly steady—no bad habits. His family also appeared perfectly normal… at least at first. His father had died a long time ago, and his mother, Galina Sergeyevna, lived alone in a two-room apartment on the outskirts of town. She was sixty-two, retired, and used to be an accountant.
Her mother-in-law visited often—three times a week, at minimum. Yulia didn’t resist in the beginning; she assumed it was natural for a mother to want to see her son. Galina Sergeyevna brought homemade pies, helped with cleaning, and chatted about everyday trivialities. She seemed like a sweet, harmless older woman.
But little by little, Yulia started noticing things that didn’t sit right.
Her mother-in-law inspected the apartment with far too much interest. She peered into every room, opened closets, ran her hands over furniture. She asked about the square footage, the layout, the utility bills.
“What a spacious apartment you have,” Galina Sergeyevna commented yet again one day, walking down the hallway. “About seventy square meters, right?”
“Seventy-five,” Yulia corrected, chopping a salad in the kitchen.
“Seventy-five!” her mother-in-law whistled. “And right downtown! Do you know how much you could get for a place like this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… if you rented it out. To a young couple, for instance. Or people coming from out of town.”
Yulia froze, the knife hovering over the cutting board.
“Galina Sergeyevna, I’m not renting out my apartment.”
“Why not?” her mother-in-law sat down at the table, leaning forward on her elbows. “Yulia, think about it. A three-bedroom in the center would easily go for fifty thousand a month. Maybe even more. Per month! That’s not bad money.”
“I have a job. My salary is fine.”
“But that would be extra income!” Galina Sergeyevna lit up. “You rent the apartment out, collect the money, and you and Andrey could live with me. I have space—it’s a two-room apartment, after all.”
Yulia slowly set the knife down.
“Galina Sergeyevna, this is my home. I live here. I’m not moving anywhere.”
“Oh, come on,” her mother-in-law waved it off. “What’s the big deal—moving. Think how much you’d earn!”
“No,” Yulia said firmly. “It’s not up for discussion.”
Galina Sergeyevna pressed her lips together but didn’t argue further. The rest of the evening felt strained. She left earlier than usual, saying a dry, clipped goodbye.
But the topic didn’t disappear. Her mother-in-law came back to it over and over again.
“Yulia, yesterday I spoke to my neighbor Tamara Ivanovna,” she would begin on her next visit. “Her son rents out his apartment. Can you imagine? He gets sixty thousand a month! Sixty!”
“Good for him,” Yulia would reply, not lifting her eyes from her book.
“You don’t understand! That’s money for nothing! You do nothing, and it just keeps coming in!”
“Galina Sergeyevna, how many times can we have this conversation? I don’t want to rent it out.”
“But why?!” her mother-in-law was nearly shouting with outrage. “Explain to me why you’re refusing that kind of income!”
“Because this is my home,” Yulia snapped her book shut. “I renovated it for myself. This is my fortress. I rest here. I live here. I don’t want strangers in my space.”
“Strangers!” Galina Sergeyevna mocked her. “We’ll find good people! Clean people! You won’t have to worry about your things!”
“No.”
“So stubborn,” her mother-in-law shook her head. “Andryusha, talk to your wife. Explain it to her.”
Andrey was sitting on the couch scrolling through his phone. He looked up.
“Mom, it’s Yulia’s decision. The apartment is hers.”
“But you’re husband and wife! You should decide together!”
“We decided together,” Yulia said. “We’re not renting it out.”
Galina Sergeyevna raised the issue several more times, offering examples of acquaintances who had “gotten rich” through renting property. She pulled up online listings with enormous prices. She told stories about wealthy students willing to pay anything for a comfortable apartment in the center.
Yulia didn’t budge. She refused even to discuss it. Andrey supported his wife, though quietly—he simply didn’t object when Yulia shut his mother down.
About two months later, Galina Sergeyevna came over with “news.”
“Kids, I’ve decided to renovate!” she announced the moment she stepped inside.
“Renovate what?” Andrey asked.
“A full renovation! I’m redoing the whole apartment!” Her eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’ve already picked wallpaper, kitchen tiles, laminate for the floors. I found a designer—she showed me sketches. It’s going to be stunning!”
“Mom, that’s expensive,” Andrey frowned.
“Expensive, but beautiful!” she said, pulling out her phone and scrolling through photos. “Look at this wallpaper—Italian! And the tile—Spanish, marble style!”
Yulia studied the photos and did the math in her head. Italian wallpaper, Spanish tile, a designer—this would cost a fortune. Where was a retiree getting that kind of money?
“Galina Sergeyevna… how much will all this cost?” Yulia asked cautiously.
“Oh, I haven’t calculated exactly,” her mother-in-law brushed it off. “Three hundred, four hundred thousand… maybe five hundred.”
“Five hundred thousand?” Yulia nearly choked on her tea. “That’s an enormous amount!”
“So what? I want to live beautifully!” Galina Sergeyevna put her phone away. “I spent my whole life working for others and denying myself. Now it’s my turn to enjoy something.”
“Mom, where did you get the money?” Andrey asked.
“I saved it,” she answered curtly.
Yulia didn’t argue—but she didn’t believe it, either. Galina Sergeyevna’s pension was around twenty thousand. To save half a million on that, you’d have to scrape for years. Yet her mother-in-law bought expensive cosmetics, went to beauty salons, traveled to health resorts. Where was it coming from?
That night Yulia asked Andrey:
“Does your mom really have that kind of money for renovations?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “She’s never complained about money.”
“But half a million isn’t nothing.”
“Maybe she took a loan. Or borrowed from someone.”
“From who? She didn’t ask us.”
“Probably friends. Or she arranged a bank loan.”
Yulia frowned, but dropped it. It wasn’t her business, after all.
The renovation began. Galina Sergeyevna constantly reported on progress—photos of bare walls, unfinished floors, a kitchen coated in construction dust. She talked about the workers, the materials, the designer’s choices.
“Look at the chandelier I bought!” she exclaimed, proudly showing off another purchase. “Czech crystal! It cost twenty-five thousand!”
“It’s beautiful,” Yulia said politely.
“And have you seen the bathtub? Acrylic, with hydro massage! I paid forty thousand, but it’s worth it!”
Yulia listened, astonished. A chandelier for twenty-five, a tub for forty, tile, wallpaper, laminate, furniture—each day the total grew. How could a pensioner afford all of this?
A month passed. The renovation was well underway. Galina Sergeyevna glowed with happiness as she showed the interim results. The walls had been leveled and covered in pricey wallpaper. Laminate flooring had been laid. Spanish tile shone on the kitchen floor. New plumbing was installed in the bathroom.
“When will you finish?” Andrey asked.
“In about two weeks,” his mother said. “Just need to install the furniture and hang the curtains.”
Then, one evening, Galina Sergeyevna appeared at their door with a serious expression. She walked in, took off her coat, sat down at the table, and looked at her son and daughter-in-law.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“About what?” Yulia asked, suddenly on edge.
“About your move.”
“What move?” Yulia didn’t understand.
“To my place. You need to move in with me.”
Yulia froze. Andrey stared at his mother in confusion as well.
“Mom, what are you talking about?” he asked.
“I mean exactly what I said. You’re moving in with me. Start packing today or tomorrow.”
“Hold on—I don’t understand,” Yulia rose from the table. “Why would we move?”
“Because I need your apartment,” Galina Sergeyevna replied calmly.
“Why do you need it?”
“I’m going to rent it out. To students. Or whoever I can find.”
Silence. Yulia stared at her, unable to believe what she’d just heard.
“Are you kidding?”
“Not at all,” her mother-in-law said, folding her arms. “I took out a loan for the renovation. Half a million. I have to pay it back, and I don’t have the money. The only way out is to rent out your apartment. Fifty thousand a month—easy.”
“Wait,” Yulia felt her blood start to boil. “You took out a loan for your renovation, and now you want me to hand over my apartment to cover your debt?”
“Exactly,” Galina Sergeyevna nodded. “I don’t have another option. You’ll help me, won’t you?”
“Galina Sergeyevna,” Yulia said slowly, forcing herself not to scream, “this is my apartment. Bought with my money. Before I married your son.”
“So what? Now you’re family. Family helps each other.”
“Helping is one thing. Handing my home over to strangers is another!”
“Not to strangers—on a lease!” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Temporarily! Until I pay off the loan!”
“How long will you be paying off this loan?”
“Three years, probably.”
“Three years?!” Yulia’s hands began to shake. “You want me to live at your place for three years while strangers rent my apartment?”
“And what’s so terrible about that? My apartment is nice. And after the renovation it’s even better. You’ll like it.”
“I like it here!” Yulia was shouting now. “This is my home! I bought it, I live here, and I’m not going anywhere!”
“Yulenka, don’t get worked up,” Galina Sergeyevna stood up. “I’ve already decided. Students are coming tomorrow to view the place. I posted an ad.”
“What ad?!” Yulia stepped toward her. “You posted an ad to rent out my apartment without my consent?”
“What else was I supposed to do? I need money! I have a loan to pay!”
“That’s your problem! You shouldn’t have taken out half a million for renovations!”
“I thought you’d understand!” Galina Sergeyevna shouted back. “I didn’t do it for myself! I did it for Andryusha—so he’d have a beautiful place to visit!”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Andrey muttered.
“Be quiet!” his mother snapped. “Adults are talking!”
“Galina Sergeyevna,” Yulia clenched her fists, “I’m saying this for the last time. I’m not giving my apartment to anyone. Not students, not anyone. It’s my property.”
“Property!” her mother-in-law mocked her. “You’re greedy, Yulia! That’s what you are—too greedy to help your mother-in-law!”
“I’m not greedy! I just don’t want to pay for your debts!”
“My debts?” Galina Sergeyevna flushed red with anger. “These are family debts! Andryusha is my son! You’re his wife! That means you’re supposed to help!”
“I can help—without handing over my home!”
“Enough arguing!” her mother-in-law stepped closer. “You start packing tomorrow! The tenants are moving in three days! I already took a deposit!”
“You took a deposit?” Yulia went pale. “For my apartment?!”
“For our apartment. The family apartment!”
“It’s not a family apartment! It’s mine—only mine!”
“Stop clinging to the walls!” Galina Sergeyevna screamed and grabbed Yulia’s arm, yanking her toward the door. “You’ll leave, and it’ll be easier for everyone!”
Yulia tore her arm free.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Get out, I said!” her mother-in-law shoved her toward the entryway. “I’m sick of your tantrums! I’ll rent the place, get the money, pay off the loan!”
“Andrey!” Yulia spun toward her husband. “Are you really going to stay silent?”
Andrey sat on the couch, staring at the floor. Silent.
“Andrey!” Yulia repeated. “Say something!”
Slowly, he stood up. Walked into the bedroom. Came back with a bag and began stuffing his things into it.
“What are you doing?” Yulia couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Packing,” Andrey answered quietly. “If Mom says we’re moving, then we’re moving.”
“How can we be moving?!” Yulia felt the ground drop away beneath her. “This is my apartment!”
“Mom’s right,” Andrey wouldn’t look at her. “The loan has to be paid. And there’s no money.”
“Let your mother figure out how to pay it! It’s her loan!”
“But we’re family,” he mumbled, cramming shirts into the bag.
“Family?” Yulia laughed—sharp and bitter. “What family, Andrey? You’re packing because your mother ordered it. Without asking me. Without protecting me.”
“Yulia, don’t make it harder,” Andrey zipped the bag. “We’ll move for a while. What’s the problem?”
“For three years!” Yulia screamed. “For three years, Andrey—while your mother pays off her loan! And my apartment will be rented out to students who’ll trash it!”
“Good boy, Andryusha,” Galina Sergeyevna nodded approvingly. “Pack up. We’re going to my place.”
“Stop,” Yulia said, stepping into the center of the room. “No one is going anywhere.”
“What do you mean, no one?” her mother-in-law frowned.
“I mean exactly that. This is my apartment, and I didn’t agree to any move.”
“Yulenka, don’t be dramatic,” Galina Sergeyevna took a step forward. “Andrey already agreed. A wife should live with her husband.”
“Andrey can agree to whatever he wants,” Yulia said coldly. “But the apartment is mine—and I decide what happens here.”
“Did you not hear me?” her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes. “I said you’re moving!”
“And I said no,” Yulia crossed her arms. “And since things have gone this far—I’m filing for divorce.”
Silence. Andrey dropped the bag. Galina Sergeyevna stood with her mouth open.
“What did you say?” the older woman demanded.
“I said I’m filing for divorce from your son,” Yulia repeated calmly. “If he can’t protect his wife from his mother’s audacity, I don’t need him.”
“Yulia, what are you talking about?” Andrey moved toward her.
“I’m talking about what you just heard. Divorce. And this apartment will stay mine. I bought it before marriage with my own money. You have zero rights to it.”
“Yulia, don’t be ridiculous,” Andrey tried to take her hand.
Yulia stepped back.
“This isn’t ridiculous. It’s a decision. You chose your mother. You started packing without even discussing it with me. You betrayed me. Why would I need a husband who won’t stand on my side?”
“I am on your side!”
“You’re lying. If you were on my side, you’d be throwing your mother out right now—not packing a bag.”
“She’s my mother!”
“And I’m your wife!” Yulia shouted. “Your wife, Andrey—the one who should matter more than your mother!”
“Shameless!” Galina Sergeyevna cut in. “How dare you speak like that!”
“It’s very simple,” Yulia turned to her. “Galina Sergeyevna, you took out a loan for your renovation. That’s your problem. Don’t drag my apartment and my life into it.”
“I won’t drag anything! Andryusha, come on!” the mother grabbed her son’s hand.
“Wait, Mom,” Andrey tried to pull free.
“I said come!” Galina Sergeyevna yanked him toward the door.
“Andrey, if you leave with her right now, consider us already divorced,” Yulia said.
He stopped. Looked at his wife, then at his mother. Galina Sergeyevna tugged him toward the door; Yulia stood in the middle of the room with a face like stone.
“Andryusha, come on!” his mother repeated.
Andrey picked up the bag and walked to the exit.
“So that’s it,” Yulia said. “Fine. If you chose your mother, then live with her. This apartment is mine—and it will stay mine.”
“We’ll see about that!” Galina Sergeyevna snapped. “We’ll take it through court!”
“Go ahead,” Yulia smirked. “Just hire a good lawyer. The apartment was bought with my money before marriage. You have no rights to it.”
“But Andryusha lived here!”
“He did. Now he doesn’t. Get out of my apartment. Both of you.”
“You can’t throw him out!” her mother-in-law stamped her foot.
“I can. And I am,” Yulia said. “It’s my property. Andrey is registered here, but I’m the owner. And once we’re divorced, a husband loses the right to live here.”
“Yulia, let’s talk,” Andrey tried.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Yulia opened the door. “Leave. Now.”
“You’ll regret this!” Galina Sergeyevna threatened.
“I already regret something,” Yulia said coldly. “Marrying your mommy’s boy.”
Her mother-in-law hissed something under her breath, but Yulia didn’t listen. She stood by the open door and waited. Andrey hesitated in the hallway.
“Andryusha, come on! There’s no place for you here!” his mother ordered.
Andrey stepped onto the landing. Galina Sergeyevna followed. Yulia slammed the door shut and turned the key.
She leaned back against the door, breathing deeply, trying to steady the trembling in her hands. Voices rose outside—her mother-in-law shouting, demanding to be let in, Andrey trying to convince her to leave.
Yulia closed her eyes. Tears welled up, but she swallowed them back. Not now. She could cry later, when she was alone.
The voices faded. Footsteps went down the stairs. The building’s entrance door banged shut.
Yulia walked into the living room and sat on the couch. The apartment felt strangely empty without Andrey, even though he’d never truly settled in during the year they’d been married. He hadn’t left much behind.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Andrey: “Yulia, we’ll talk this through. Don’t make rash decisions.”
Yulia deleted the message and blocked the number. Then she blocked Galina Sergeyevna’s number too.
She got up and walked through the apartment, gathering Andrey’s remaining things into a box. She set it by the door. Tomorrow she’d drop it off at his mother’s—or maybe she’d throw it out. She would decide later.
Then she sat down at her computer, opened a legal consultation website, found the section on divorce, and began to read.
An apartment purchased before marriage with personal funds remains with the buyer after divorce. A spouse has no right to claim a share. Registration is not ownership. After divorce, a spouse can be removed from registration through the court.
Yulia nodded. Then that was exactly how it would be. Tomorrow she would file for divorce. She would remove Andrey from the registration through the court. The apartment would remain hers.
She closed the laptop. The phone buzzed again—an unfamiliar number. Yulia answered.
“Yes?”
“Yulia, it’s Andrey.”
“What do you want?”
“Let’s meet. Let’s talk normally.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Yulia, please—Mom is desperate. She has no way to pay the loan.”
“Then she can sell her renovated apartment. The money should cover it.”
“She doesn’t want to sell. She just finished renovating.”
“Then she can find another solution. She won’t get my apartment.”
“But we’re family!”
“We were,” Yulia corrected him. “Until the moment you packed a bag because your mother ordered it.”
“I was trying to calm things down!”
“You did. Now calm down the marriage. I’m filing tomorrow.”
“Yulia—!”
“Goodbye, Andrey.”
Yulia ended the call, blocked the number, turned off the sound, and placed the phone on the table.
She went into the bedroom, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
A year ago, she’d thought she’d found her other half. Andrey seemed calm and reliable. He didn’t drink, didn’t pick fights, held a steady job. The perfect husband, she’d believed.
But in reality, he was a mama’s boy. At the first serious conflict, he chose his mother. He packed his things and headed for the door without even trying to defend his wife.
Yulia closed her eyes. This time the tears finally came—hot and unstoppable. It hurt. It was humiliating. It was maddening. A whole year wasted on someone who crumbled the first time life tested him.
But the choice had been made. There was no road back.
Tomorrow: file the paperwork. In a month: divorce. The apartment stays with Yulia. Andrey goes to his mother. Galina Sergeyevna pays her loan herself—somehow.
And Yulia would start over. Without a spineless husband. Without a manipulative mother-in-law. Just her and her apartment. Her home. Her fortress.
It hurt now. But it would pass. Everything passes.
The apartment would remain—the same one Yulia had bought with her own hands, paying with her last money, spending years paying off the loan while denying herself everything.
And she would never give it to anyone. Not to tenants, not to her mother-in-law, not to anyone at all. Because it was her home.
And hers alone.