Anna first met Svetlana at Dmitry’s birthday party, when he and Anna had only just started dating. Dima’s sister showed up two hours late and stepped into the apartment like she was on a catwalk—flashy, loud, instantly pulling every eye toward herself. She swept her gaze over the guests and stopped on Anna.
“So this is your new one?” Sveta asked her brother, without even saying hello.
Dmitry nodded and introduced them. Anna reached out her hand and smiled. Svetlana shook it with the enthusiasm of someone granting a favor.
“Well, we’ll see how long you last,” Sveta tossed out, then drifted off toward the table.
At the time, Anna told herself the introduction had just gone badly. It happens—people get tired, moods are off. But after that, it only got worse.
At every family get-together, her sister-in-law found something to nitpick. The salad needed more salt. The meat was “too dry.” The living-room curtains hung “crooked.” The sofa was “in the wrong place.”
“Anya, sweetheart,” Svetlana would say with a venomous little smile, “you could’ve at least wiped the dust before guests came. Look—there’s a whole layer on that shelf.”
Anna would clench her fists under the table. Later she’d check—there was no layer of dust at all. Svetlana simply enjoyed pointing out flaws that weren’t there.
On New Year’s, Svetlana attacked the holiday spread.
“This Olivier salad came out kind of watery. And I’d layer the herring-under-a-fur-coat differently. And where’s the aspic? What kind of New Year is it without aspic?”
Dmitry stayed silent, smiling awkwardly. Anna tried to laugh it off, but inside she was seething. After the guests left, she attempted a serious conversation with her husband.
“Why don’t you ever defend me?” she asked. “Your sister criticizes me nonstop!”
“Oh, come on—Sveta’s just like that,” Dmitry waved it away. “She criticizes everyone. Don’t take it personally.”
“But it hurts.”
“Get used to it,” he said, hugging her. “That’s just her character. She doesn’t mean it.”
Anna stopped arguing. But the hurt remained. And with every visit, it piled up—growing into a steady, stubborn resentment.
On March 8th, Svetlana showed up without warning.
“I decided to visit my brother!” she announced as she walked in. “Oh—what’s that smell? Is something burning?”
Anna was cooking dinner. Nothing was burning. Svetlana simply needed an opening to start yet another lecture about “proper” cooking.
“You know, Anya, meat has to be braised on low heat. Otherwise it turns tough. I’ll give you a recipe—so easy even a child could make it tasty.”
Anna said nothing. She finished the meal and set the table. Svetlana tasted it and grimaced.
“Not enough salt. And not enough spices. Next time, add more.”
Dmitry ate quietly. Anna stared at her plate, thinking how someone could show so little respect for another person’s effort.
Years passed. Encounters with Svetlana became rarer—Anna did her best to avoid joint gatherings. She invented excuses, blamed work, said she didn’t feel well. Dmitry sometimes got offended, but he didn’t insist.
Meanwhile, Svetlana lived her own life—worked as a receptionist at a beauty salon, raised two kids, and fought with her husband. The fighting was frequent and loud. The neighbors had long gotten used to the yelling from their apartment.
The divorce seemed sudden—at least to outsiders. Svetlana, however, had sensed the coming blowup for a long time.
Her husband, Igor, was exhausted by her constant complaints. Svetlana monitored his every step, checked his phone, demanded reports on every penny he spent. He endured it for the children. But when Sveta began making scenes in front of them—accusing Igor of cheating for absolutely no reason—something in him finally snapped.
“Pack your things and get out!” Igor screamed after her latest meltdown. “I’m sick of it! Sick of your endless dissatisfaction! Leave!”
“This apartment is mine too!” Svetlana shouted back.
“This apartment belongs to my parents! They gifted it to me! And I have every right to throw you out!”
The shouting dragged on until deep night. The neighbors called the police. It took a long time to settle things. In the end, Svetlana packed up, grabbed the kids, and slammed the door.
“You’ll regret this!” she yelled as she left. “You’ll regret it!”
Igor didn’t regret it. He shut the door and let out a relieved breath.
Svetlana ended up on the landing with two suitcases and her children. Maksim was eight, Kira was six. The kids cried, not understanding what was happening.
“Quiet, quiet,” their mother hissed. “We’re going to Uncle Dima’s now. We’ll spend the night there, and then we’ll see.”
She called a taxi and loaded their bags. The kids grew quieter, pressed against her. Svetlana stared out the window and planned what she would say to her brother. Of course Dmitry would take in his own sister. What choice did he have?
They arrived late that evening. Svetlana rang the bell. Anna opened the door in a house robe, surprise on her face.
“Svetlana? What happened?”
“Let us in—I’ll explain later,” her sister-in-law pushed past her, dragging the suitcases inside. The children followed, looking around timidly.
“Is Dima home?” Svetlana asked, glancing around.
“He’s home,” Anna said.
Dmitry came out of the room. “Sveta? What happened?”
Svetlana burst into tears and told them about the divorce—about Igor throwing them out. Dmitry listened with a darkening expression. Anna stood to the side, already feeling the trouble closing in.
“We’ll stay with you for now, you don’t mind, right?” Svetlana forced a sugary smile through her tears, already placing the suitcases in the entryway as if she were moving in.
Anna froze.
No. Anything but that.
Living under the same roof as Svetlana would be a nightmare.
“Dima, we need to talk,” Anna said, nodding toward the kitchen.
They stepped onto the balcony, and Dmitry shut the door.
“Anya, she’s my sister,” he began before she could ask anything. “She has nowhere to go.”
“What about a hotel? Friends? Anyone? Our parents?”
“Our parents died years ago—you know that. And Sveta doesn’t really have friends. A hotel costs money she doesn’t have right now.”
“Dima, I can’t,” Anna shook her head. “You know what your sister is like. She’ll drive me crazy.”
“It’s temporary,” he said, taking her hands. “A couple of weeks. A month at most. Sveta will find work, rent a place, and move out. I promise.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She will. She’s not stupid. She understands she can’t sit at our place forever.”
Anna looked him in the eyes. She saw pleading, hope—Dmitry had never asked for something so stubbornly. She exhaled.
“Fine. But only for a month. Not one day longer.”
“Deal,” he said, hugging her. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
Anna didn’t feel like “the best.” She felt trapped.
They returned to the entryway. Svetlana had already made herself at home—spreading the children’s things out on the couch and settling into an armchair.
“Well?” she asked brightly. “Have you decided?”
“You can stay,” Anna said. “Temporarily.”
“Thank you, my dears!” Svetlana sprang up and hugged her brother. She didn’t hug Anna.
The first night was relatively calm. The children fell asleep quickly, exhausted by the stress. Svetlana went to bed early too. Anna, however, lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling and sensing disaster on the horizon.
Morning began with a crash. Maksim and Kira woke up at six and started racing around the apartment—stomping, shrieking, laughing.
Anna jumped out of bed and went into the hallway. The kids ran in circles—from the living room to the entryway, from the entryway to the kitchen, from the kitchen back to the living room.
“Please be quieter,” Anna asked. “The neighbors are still asleep.”
The children didn’t even slow down. They flew past her, still playing. Anna went into the living room where Svetlana was sleeping. Her sister-in-law lay on the couch with her face buried in a pillow.
“Sveta, the kids are making noise. Calm them down.”
“Let them play,” Svetlana mumbled without opening her eyes. “They’re kids.”
“But it’s six in the morning!”
“So what? Kids need to move. They have energy—they have to burn it off.”
Anna clenched her jaw. She returned to the bedroom and woke her husband.
“Dima, talk to your sister. The kids are going to destroy the apartment.”
“Let them settle in,” Dmitry yawned. “It’s their first day. They’re stressed.”
Anna didn’t respond. She went to the kitchen to make breakfast. The children burst in after her and started rummaging through the cabinets.
“Please don’t touch that,” Anna stopped the boy as he reached for a jar of cookies.
“I want cookies!” Maksim whined.
“Breakfast will be ready soon. Wait a little.”
“I don’t want to wait! I want it now!”
Svetlana appeared, yawning and messy-haired.
“Maks, don’t bother your aunt. Let her work in the kitchen.”
Anna first met Svetlana at Dmitry’s birthday party, when he and Anna had only just started dating. Dima’s sister showed up two hours late and stepped into the apartment like she was on a catwalk—flashy, loud, instantly pulling every eye toward herself. She swept her gaze over the guests and stopped on Anna.
“So this is your new one?” Sveta asked her brother, without even saying hello.
Dmitry nodded and introduced them. Anna reached out her hand and smiled. Svetlana shook it with the enthusiasm of someone granting a favor.
“Well, we’ll see how long you last,” Sveta tossed out, then drifted off toward the table.
At the time, Anna told herself the introduction had just gone badly. It happens—people get tired, moods are off. But after that, it only got worse.
At every family get-together, her sister-in-law found something to nitpick. The salad needed more salt. The meat was “too dry.” The living-room curtains hung “crooked.” The sofa was “in the wrong place.”
“Anya, sweetheart,” Svetlana would say with a venomous little smile, “you could’ve at least wiped the dust before guests came. Look—there’s a whole layer on that shelf.”
Anna would clench her fists under the table. Later she’d check—there was no layer of dust at all. Svetlana simply enjoyed pointing out flaws that weren’t there.
On New Year’s, Svetlana attacked the holiday spread.
“This Olivier salad came out kind of watery. And I’d layer the herring-under-a-fur-coat differently. And where’s the aspic? What kind of New Year is it without aspic?”
Dmitry stayed silent, smiling awkwardly. Anna tried to laugh it off, but inside she was seething. After the guests left, she attempted a serious conversation with her husband.
“Why don’t you ever defend me?” she asked. “Your sister criticizes me nonstop!”
“Oh, come on—Sveta’s just like that,” Dmitry waved it away. “She criticizes everyone. Don’t take it personally.”
“But it hurts.”
“Get used to it,” he said, hugging her. “That’s just her character. She doesn’t mean it.”
Anna stopped arguing. But the hurt remained. And with every visit, it piled up—growing into a steady, stubborn resentment.
On March 8th, Svetlana showed up without warning.
“I decided to visit my brother!” she announced as she walked in. “Oh—what’s that smell? Is something burning?”
Anna was cooking dinner. Nothing was burning. Svetlana simply needed an opening to start yet another lecture about “proper” cooking.
“You know, Anya, meat has to be braised on low heat. Otherwise it turns tough. I’ll give you a recipe—so easy even a child could make it tasty.”
Anna said nothing. She finished the meal and set the table. Svetlana tasted it and grimaced.
“Not enough salt. And not enough spices. Next time, add more.”
Dmitry ate quietly. Anna stared at her plate, thinking how someone could show so little respect for another person’s effort.
Years passed. Encounters with Svetlana became rarer—Anna did her best to avoid joint gatherings. She invented excuses, blamed work, said she didn’t feel well. Dmitry sometimes got offended, but he didn’t insist.
Meanwhile, Svetlana lived her own life—worked as a receptionist at a beauty salon, raised two kids, and fought with her husband. The fighting was frequent and loud. The neighbors had long gotten used to the yelling from their apartment.
The divorce seemed sudden—at least to outsiders. Svetlana, however, had sensed the coming blowup for a long time.
Her husband, Igor, was exhausted by her constant complaints. Svetlana monitored his every step, checked his phone, demanded reports on every penny he spent. He endured it for the children. But when Sveta began making scenes in front of them—accusing Igor of cheating for absolutely no reason—something in him finally snapped.
“Pack your things and get out!” Igor screamed after her latest meltdown. “I’m sick of it! Sick of your endless dissatisfaction! Leave!”
“This apartment is mine too!” Svetlana shouted back.
“This apartment belongs to my parents! They gifted it to me! And I have every right to throw you out!”
The shouting dragged on until deep night. The neighbors called the police. It took a long time to settle things. In the end, Svetlana packed up, grabbed the kids, and slammed the door.
“You’ll regret this!” she yelled as she left. “You’ll regret it!”
Igor didn’t regret it. He shut the door and let out a relieved breath.
Svetlana ended up on the landing with two suitcases and her children. Maksim was eight, Kira was six. The kids cried, not understanding what was happening.
“Quiet, quiet,” their mother hissed. “We’re going to Uncle Dima’s now. We’ll spend the night there, and then we’ll see.”
She called a taxi and loaded their bags. The kids grew quieter, pressed against her. Svetlana stared out the window and planned what she would say to her brother. Of course Dmitry would take in his own sister. What choice did he have?
They arrived late that evening. Svetlana rang the bell. Anna opened the door in a house robe, surprise on her face.
“Svetlana? What happened?”
“Let us in—I’ll explain later,” her sister-in-law pushed past her, dragging the suitcases inside. The children followed, looking around timidly.
“Is Dima home?” Svetlana asked, glancing around.
“He’s home,” Anna said.
Dmitry came out of the room. “Sveta? What happened?”
Svetlana burst into tears and told them about the divorce—about Igor throwing them out. Dmitry listened with a darkening expression. Anna stood to the side, already feeling the trouble closing in.
“We’ll stay with you for now, you don’t mind, right?” Svetlana forced a sugary smile through her tears, already placing the suitcases in the entryway as if she were moving in.
Anna froze.
No. Anything but that.
Living under the same roof as Svetlana would be a nightmare.
“Dima, we need to talk,” Anna said, nodding toward the kitchen.
They stepped onto the balcony, and Dmitry shut the door.
“Anya, she’s my sister,” he began before she could ask anything. “She has nowhere to go.”
“What about a hotel? Friends? Anyone? Our parents?”
“Our parents died years ago—you know that. And Sveta doesn’t really have friends. A hotel costs money she doesn’t have right now.”
“Dima, I can’t,” Anna shook her head. “You know what your sister is like. She’ll drive me crazy.”
“It’s temporary,” he said, taking her hands. “A couple of weeks. A month at most. Sveta will find work, rent a place, and move out. I promise.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She will. She’s not stupid. She understands she can’t sit at our place forever.”
Anna looked him in the eyes. She saw pleading, hope—Dmitry had never asked for something so stubbornly. She exhaled.
“Fine. But only for a month. Not one day longer.”
“Deal,” he said, hugging her. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
Anna didn’t feel like “the best.” She felt trapped.
They returned to the entryway. Svetlana had already made herself at home—spreading the children’s things out on the couch and settling into an armchair.
“Well?” she asked brightly. “Have you decided?”
“You can stay,” Anna said. “Temporarily.”
“Thank you, my dears!” Svetlana sprang up and hugged her brother. She didn’t hug Anna.
The first night was relatively calm. The children fell asleep quickly, exhausted by the stress. Svetlana went to bed early too. Anna, however, lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling and sensing disaster on the horizon.
Morning began with a crash. Maksim and Kira woke up at six and started racing around the apartment—stomping, shrieking, laughing.
Anna jumped out of bed and went into the hallway. The kids ran in circles—from the living room to the entryway, from the entryway to the kitchen, from the kitchen back to the living room.
“Please be quieter,” Anna asked. “The neighbors are still asleep.”
The children didn’t even slow down. They flew past her, still playing. Anna went into the living room where Svetlana was sleeping. Her sister-in-law lay on the couch with her face buried in a pillow.
“Sveta, the kids are making noise. Calm them down.”
“Let them play,” Svetlana mumbled without opening her eyes. “They’re kids.”
“But it’s six in the morning!”
“So what? Kids need to move. They have energy—they have to burn it off.”
Anna clenched her jaw. She returned to the bedroom and woke her husband.
“Dima, talk to your sister. The kids are going to destroy the apartment.”
“Let them settle in,” Dmitry yawned. “It’s their first day. They’re stressed.”
Anna didn’t respond. She went to the kitchen to make breakfast. The children burst in after her and started rummaging through the cabinets.
“Please don’t touch that,” Anna stopped the boy as he reached for a jar of cookies.
“I want cookies!” Maksim whined.
“Breakfast will be ready soon. Wait a little.”
“I don’t want to wait! I want it now!”
Svetlana appeared, yawning and messy-haired.
“Maks, don’t bother your aunt. Let her work in the kitchen.”
He listened—for about five minutes. Then he went back to the cabinet again.
Breakfast was loud. The kids demanded one thing, then another. Svetlana made halfhearted attempts to settle them, with little success. Anna silently cleared the table, swallowing her irritation.
It was a day off. Dmitry suggested they all go for a walk together, but Svetlana refused.
“I’m tired. I’ll stay home and rest. Let the kids play here.”
Husband and wife went out alone. They walked in silence. Anna kept thinking about how she was supposed to live like this now. Dmitry felt the tension but didn’t know what to say.
They returned three hours later to an apartment in ruins. Toys were scattered across every room. A vase of flowers had been knocked over. A curtain in the living room was ripped.
“Sveta!” Anna shouted. “What happened here?!”
Svetlana was lying on the couch with her phone.
“What do you mean? The kids were playing.”
“Playing?! This is a disaster!”
“Well, yeah, they made a little mess. We’ll clean it up later.”
“When is ‘later’?!”
“When there’s time,” Svetlana yawned. “Don’t get worked up. Kids are kids.”
Anna cleaned up herself. Dmitry helped in silence. By evening, the apartment looked somewhat presentable again.
A week passed in the same spirit. The children ran, screamed, broke things. Svetlana ignored comments and brushed everything off: it’s fine, they’re just kids.
She quickly got comfortable in someone else’s home and began reshaping the household around herself. She rearranged the living room furniture—said it was more convenient. She threw away half the spices in the kitchen—claimed they were expired.
“Sveta, those aren’t expired!” Anna protested, seeing an almost full jar of paprika in the trash.
“Did you check the date?” Svetlana lifted an eyebrow.
“I did. It’s got three months left.”
“Sure, but when was it opened? Spices don’t keep long once opened. They can go bad.”
“They haven’t gone bad!”
“How do you know? Did you taste-test them?” Svetlana wrinkled her nose. “Better buy new ones. And honestly, it wouldn’t hurt to organize this kitchen. Everything’s just thrown wherever.”
Anna clenched her fists. She wanted to snap back, but she didn’t. She turned and left the kitchen. If she stayed, she wouldn’t have held her tongue.
The criticism became daily. Anna washed dishes “wrong”—she needed more detergent. She hung laundry “wrong”—there was a draft on the balcony and she’d “make everyone sick.” She cooked “badly”—she needed new recipes.
“Anya, you should at least read a cookbook,” Svetlana sighed. “You cook like a student—everything rushed.”
Anna said nothing, teeth gritted. Dmitry stayed out of it. Once, Anna tried to complain.
“Your sister criticizes me every single day! I feel like a servant in my own apartment!”
“You’re exaggerating,” Dmitry waved it off. “Sveta’s just giving advice.”
“Advice?! She tells me what to do—in my own home!”
“Anya, don’t be dramatic. Just hang on a bit longer. She’ll move out soon.”
But Svetlana wasn’t in a hurry to leave. A month passed. Then another. She found a job—again as a salon administrator. The pay was decent, but she didn’t rush to rent a place.
“Why waste money?” she told her brother. “You’ve got plenty of space. I’ll stay here for now and save up.”
Dmitry didn’t object. Anna boiled with rage.
Meanwhile, the kids turned the apartment into a battlefield. Maksim broke a chair leg trying to rock back on it. Kira spilled juice on a new rug—the stain never came out. Together they shattered Anna’s favorite vase—an old one she’d inherited from her grandmother.
“Sorry, Aunt Anya,” Maksim mumbled, staring at the floor.
Anna looked at the shards and felt something tighten in her chest. The vase. Her grandmother’s memory. Gone.
“Sveta,” she called her sister-in-law. “Your son broke my vase.”
“So he broke it,” Svetlana shrugged. “It happens. They’re kids.”
“That was an antique! It was my grandmother’s!”
“Antique?” Svetlana snorted. “Come on. It was just some glass thing. Buy another.”
“You can’t buy another! It was a keepsake!”
“Keepsakes belong in your heart, not in vases,” Svetlana waved her off and walked away.
Anna stood among the broken pieces and realized her patience was running out. A little more, and she would explode.
The explosion came a week later. Anna got home from work exhausted. She wanted nothing but to lie down and breathe. Instead, she walked into another round of chaos.
Svetlana had decided to do a “deep clean.” She’d scrubbed the kitchen and rearranged everything in the cabinets. And Anna’s favorite mugs were gone—Svetlana said they were old and threw them out.
“You threw away my mugs?” Anna stared at her in disbelief.
“Yes,” Svetlana nodded. “They were chipped and ugly. I bought you new ones. Here.”
She handed over a bag. Inside were cheap, plain mugs from a supermarket. And Anna’s beloved ones—with hand-painted designs, a gift from a friend—were now in the trash.
“Sveta, this is my apartment! You have no right to throw out my things!”
“Oh, relax,” Svetlana dismissed her. “Mugs are mugs. New ones are better.”
“They’re not better! Those old ones mattered to me!”
“Back to ‘memories’ again?” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Anya, are you going to live your life or keep digging around in the past?”
Anna turned and stepped onto the balcony. If she stayed inside, she’d say something unforgivable. She breathed deeply, counted to ten. Her hands trembled with anger.
That evening she tried to talk to her husband—seriously, like adults.
“Dima, I can’t do this anymore. Your sister has to move out.”
“Anya, no hysterics,” he sighed.
“This isn’t hysteria. It’s a request. Svetlana has been living here for two months. She promised one.”
“So she stayed a bit longer. It happens.”
“A bit longer?” Anna’s voice rose. “She isn’t even looking for a place! She works, gets paid, and has no intention of renting!”
“She’s saving money. So she can rent something decent, not some tiny dump.”
“And I’m supposed to endure this forever?!”
“Just a little longer,” Dmitry hugged her. “Please. She’s my sister. My only family.”
Anna slipped out of his arms.
“I’m your family too. Your wife. Or does that mean nothing?”
“It means something. Of course it does. But Sveta really has nowhere to go.”
“She does! Rent an apartment! She has a job!”
“Enough, Anya,” his voice hardened. “I’ve decided—she stays until she finds a good option. End of discussion.”
Anna went quiet. She turned and left the room. In the kitchen, she sank into a chair and held her head in her hands.
He’d chosen. He’d chosen his sister.
Another week passed. Anna barely spoke to either Svetlana or Dmitry. She came home, ate dinner in silence, and disappeared into the bedroom. The kids kept screaming. Svetlana kept criticizing. Anna endured it on her last nerve.
And then she couldn’t.
One evening she came home. Svetlana was in the kitchen cooking something, humming. She noticed Anna and smiled.
“Oh, you’re back! I made borscht. Try it and tell me how it is.”
Anna walked past without a word. She sat in the living room, pulled out her phone, and began scrolling through rental listings. Svetlana peered in.
“What are you looking for?”
“An apartment,” Anna answered without looking up.
“Why? Planning to move?” Svetlana laughed.
“No. I want you to move.”
Svetlana’s smile fell.
“What?”
Anna lifted her eyes.
“I want you to find a place and move out. Tomorrow.”
“For what reason?” Svetlana frowned.
“Because you’ve lived here for two months. You promised one. You lied.”
“I didn’t lie! I just haven’t found anything suitable yet!”
“You haven’t even tried,” Anna corrected. “This setup suits you—living at someone else’s expense.”
“At whose expense?!” Svetlana’s voice jumped. “I work! I bring money in!”
“You live here for free, and you still tell me how to live in my own apartment!”
“I don’t tell you anything!”
“You do—every day. You criticize my food, my cleaning, everything. You throw away my things!”
“I was trying to help!”
“I don’t need your help!” Anna stood up. “I need you to move out. Tomorrow. The day after at the latest.”
Svetlana straightened, folding her arms.
“And what if I don’t want to?”
“What?”
“What if I don’t want to move?” Svetlana lifted her chin. “Dima doesn’t mind me here. You’re the one freaking out for no reason.”
“Because this is my apartment!”
“So what? Dima lives here too. I’m his sister. I have the right to be near my brother.”
“You don’t!” Anna stepped closer. “You don’t have the right to live in my apartment without my consent!”
“Then you move out yourself if you hate it so much,” Svetlana snapped. “Find a place and live alone.”
Anna went still. Heat rushed to her face. Her hands curled into fists.
“What did you say?”
“I said what I said,” Svetlana held her gaze. “If you want to leave—leave. No one’s stopping you.”
“This is my apartment!” Anna shouted. “Mine! I bought it before we got married—with my own money! You’re a guest here! An uninvited guest who was supposed to leave a month ago!”
“Oh, please,” Svetlana smirked. “Your apartment. And who is Dima here—another guest?”
“Dima is my husband. You’re a stranger.”
“Not a stranger! I’m his sister—closer than close!”
The door opened. Dmitry walked in and froze on the threshold.
“What’s going on? I can hear you from the stairwell!”
Anna turned to him.
“Tell your sister to move out. Right now.”
“Anya, calm down…”
“I won’t calm down! Enough! I’ve endured this for two months! The whole place is wrecked! My things get thrown out! I’m criticized every day—enough!”
“She wants to throw me out onto the street!” Svetlana cut in. “With my kids! Can you believe it?!”
“Not onto the street—into a rented apartment!” Anna shot back. “You have work, you have money. Rent a place and live there!”
Dmitry raised his hands.
“Girls, let’s handle this like people…”
“Like people?!” Anna stepped closer. “I’ve been living in hell for two months! Your sister turned my apartment into a daycare branch! The kids scream all day and night! Svetlana bosses me around like she’s the owner—and you say nothing!”
“I don’t say nothing—” Dmitry started.
“You do! Every time you brush it off! You tell me to ‘endure’! And I’m done enduring!”
“Anya, Sveta is my sister! She’s in a difficult situation!”
“Everyone has difficult situations! That doesn’t mean you get to trample boundaries!”
“What boundaries?!” Svetlana snapped. “Am I some outsider?!”
“You are!” Anna whirled on her. “To me—you are. And I want you out of my home!”
“Did you hear that, Dima?” Svetlana threw her hands up. “She’s kicking me out—your own sister!”
Dmitry stayed silent, looking from his wife to his sister, jaw tight.
“Dima, decide!” Anna demanded. “Either Svetlana moves out, or… or I don’t know what!”
“Or what?” he asked quietly.
“Or I’ll file for divorce,” Anna blurted out, surprising even herself.
Silence filled the room. Svetlana’s eyes widened. Dmitry went pale.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Completely,” Anna nodded, feeling her knees shake. “I can’t do this anymore. Choose—me or your sister.”
“That’s blackmail!”
“No,” Anna said. “That’s a boundary. Your sister crossed every boundary there is—and you let her. Enough.”
Dmitry stood without a word. Then he walked to the closet, pulled out a duffel bag, and began packing.
“What are you doing?” Anna asked.
“Packing,” he muttered. “If you’re giving an ultimatum, I’m making a choice.”
“What choice?”
“Sveta is my sister. My only blood family. I won’t abandon her when she’s in trouble.”
The floor seemed to drop out from under Anna.
“So you’re choosing her?”
“I’m choosing family,” Dmitry said without looking at her. “Real family.”
“I’m family too!”
“You’re my wife. My sister is blood. It’s not the same.”
Anna recoiled. The words hit harder than a slap. A wife—not family. Just a wife.
Dmitry kept packing. Svetlana stood aside in silence. The children peeked out of the room, frightened.
“Mom… what’s happening?” Maksim asked softly.
“Pack up,” Svetlana ordered. “Now.”
The kids obediently started gathering their toys. Dmitry finished his bag, then took his sister’s suitcase.
“Let’s go,” he said to Svetlana.
She nodded, called the children, and they moved to the entryway. Dmitry opened the door and stepped into the hall first. Svetlana followed, holding the kids’ hands.
Anna stood in the doorway, watching her husband leave—for good.
“Dima,” she called quietly.
He turned.
“What?”
“You’re really leaving?”
“You said it yourself—either me or my sister.”
“I wanted you to choose me.”
Dmitry gave a small, cold laugh.
“And I chose blood.”
The door closed. Anna was left alone in the sudden silence of the empty apartment. She sank to the floor right there in the entryway, wrapping her arms around her knees, breathing slowly, trying to steady herself.
He left. Chose his sister. Preferred Svetlana and the kids to his wife—just like that. No long conversation, no bargaining. He packed and walked out.
Anna sat there until late at night. Then she got up, went to the bedroom, lay down, and stared at the ceiling.
In the morning she woke with a clear head. She got up, washed her face, got dressed, and left the house. She went straight to a law office.
“I want to file for divorce,” she told the lawyer.
“On what grounds?”
“Irreconcilable differences.”
The paperwork was done quickly. Anna signed everything she needed to sign and walked out with a folder of documents. She called Dmitry.
“Yeah?” he answered, flat.
“I filed for divorce. You’ll get the papers by mail.”
Silence. Then:
“Fine.”
“The apartment stays with me,” Anna added. “It’s my premarital property.”
“I know.”
“You can pick up your things anytime. Just let me know in advance.”
“Okay.”
Anna ended the call and went home. The apartment greeted her with silence. No children screaming, no stomping feet, no crashes. Silence—pure, blessed silence.
She walked through the rooms. Everything stayed where it belonged. No one rearranged furniture. No one criticized her cooking. No one threw away the things she loved.
Alone. Finally alone—free from other people’s opinions, demands, pressure. Free from a husband who chose his sister. Free from a marriage where “wife” mattered less than “blood.”
Did it hurt? Yes. Was it scary? Also yes. But it was right.
Anna sat on the couch, picked up her phone, and called a friend.
“Hi. Can we meet? I need to talk.”
Her friend agreed immediately. They met at a café. Anna told her everything—about Svetlana, the kids, Dmitry, the divorce.
“And how are you?” her friend asked.
Anna thought about it. How was she?
Lost. Lonely. But calm.
“I’m okay,” she said. “I’ll manage.”
And she knew she would. She absolutely would—because living in your own home where you aren’t respected is worse than living alone.
But free.