Anna first saw Svetlana at Dmitry’s birthday party, back when they’d only just started dating. Dima’s sister arrived two hours late and swept into the apartment as if she were stepping onto a catwalk—dramatic, loud, and instantly pulling all the attention toward herself. She scanned the room, then her gaze locked on Anna.
“So this is your new one?” Sveta asked her brother, without even saying hello.
Dmitry nodded and introduced them. Anna smiled and offered her hand. Svetlana gave her a limp shake, like it was an inconvenience.
“Alright then,” Sveta tossed out, “let’s see how long you last,” and walked away to the table.
At the time, Anna convinced herself it was just an awkward first meeting. People get tired. People have bad moods. But after that, it only got worse.
At every family get-together, her sister-in-law found something to attack. The salad was under-salted. The meat was dry. The curtains in the living room hung “wrong.” The sofa was “in the wrong spot.”
“Anya, sweetheart,” Svetlana would say with a venom-sweet smile, “you could’ve at least dusted before guests came. Look at that shelf—there’s a whole layer.”
Anna would clench her fists under the table. Later she’d check—there was no dust layer at all. Svetlana simply enjoyed inventing flaws and pointing them out.
On New Year’s Eve, she tore apart the holiday spread.
“The Olivier is kind of runny. 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, giving an awkward smile. Anna tried to joke her way through it, but inside she was simmering. After the guests left, she finally tried to talk to her husband.
“Why don’t you ever defend me?” she asked. “Your sister is constantly criticizing me!”
“Oh, come on, Sveta’s just like that,” Dmitry waved it off. “She criticizes everyone. Don’t take it to heart.”
“But it’s unpleasant!”
“Get used to it,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “That’s just her personality. She doesn’t mean it.”
Anna stopped arguing. But the hurt stayed—and with every visit, it grew heavier, turning into a hard, steady resentment.
On March 8th, Svetlana showed up without warning.
“Decided to visit my little brother!” she announced as she marched inside. “Ugh, what’s that smell? Is something burning?”
Anna was cooking dinner. Nothing was burning. Svetlana just needed a reason to begin yet another lecture about “proper” cooking.
“You know, Anya, meat has to simmer on low heat,” she explained. “Otherwise it comes out tough. I’ll give you a recipe—even a child could make it taste good.”
Anna said nothing. She finished cooking and set the table. Svetlana took a bite and grimaced.
“Not enough salt. Not enough spices. Next time add more.”
Dmitry ate quietly. Anna stared at her plate and wondered how someone could be so disrespectful of another person’s effort.
Years passed. Meetings with Svetlana became less frequent—Anna avoided family events whenever she could. She made excuses, blamed work, pretended to feel unwell. Dmitry sometimes got annoyed, but he didn’t insist.
Meanwhile, Svetlana lived her own life—worked as an administrator at a beauty salon, raised two children, and fought with her husband. The fighting was loud and regular. The neighbors had long grown used to the shouting from their apartment.
Then the divorce happened “out of nowhere.” At least, that’s how it looked from the outside. Svetlana had felt the explosion coming for a long time.
Her husband, Igor, had finally had enough of her constant complaints. Svetlana controlled his every step—checked his phone, demanded reports on every ruble he spent. He endured it for the kids. But the day she started screaming in front of the children—accusing him of cheating for no reason—something snapped.
“Pack your things and get out!” Igor shouted after yet another meltdown. “I’m done! I’m sick of your endless dissatisfaction! Leave!”
“This is my apartment too!” Svetlana screamed back.
“It’s my parents’ apartment! They gave it to me! And I have every right to throw you out!”
The fight dragged on deep into the night. The neighbors called the police. It took a long time to sort out. In the end, Svetlana stuffed her things into bags, grabbed the kids, and slammed the door on her way out.
“You’ll regret this!” she shouted over her shoulder. “You’ll regret it!”
Igor didn’t. He shut the door and breathed like a man who’d just escaped a cage.
Svetlana ended up on the landing with two suitcases and two children. Maksim was eight, Kira was six. They cried, confused, not understanding what was happening.
“Hush, hush,” their mother snapped. “We’re going to Uncle Dima’s. We’ll spend the night there, and then we’ll see.”
She called a taxi, loaded the bags. The kids quieted down and clung to her. Svetlana stared out the window, rehearsing her speech. Of course Dmitry would take his sister in. Where else could he go?
They arrived late. Svetlana rang the bell. Anna opened the door in a house robe, surprise written all over her face.
“Svetlana? What happened?”
“Let me in—I’ll explain later,” her sister-in-law squeezed past, dragging the suitcases inside. The children followed timidly, looking around.
“Is Dima home?” Svetlana asked, glancing around.
“He is,” Anna said as Dmitry stepped out of the room. “Sveta? What happened?”
Svetlana burst into tears and told him everything—the divorce, how Igor threw them out, how they’d been left with nowhere to go. Dmitry listened, frowning. Anna stood off to the side, feeling trouble creeping closer.
“We’ll stay with you for now, you don’t mind, right?” Svetlana forced a sugary smile through her tears—already stacking suitcases in the hallway and acting like she’d moved back in.
Anna went still. No. Not this. Living under the same roof as Svetlana? A nightmare.
“Dima, we need to talk,” Anna said, nodding toward the kitchen.
They stepped onto the balcony. Dmitry closed the door behind them.
“Anya, she’s my sister,” he started before she could ask anything. “She has nowhere to go.”
“What about a hotel? Friends? Family?”
“Our parents are gone—you know that. Sveta doesn’t really have friends. And 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 insane.”
“It’s temporary,” he said, taking her hands. “A couple of weeks—maybe a month at most. Sveta will find a job, rent a place, and move out. I promise.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She will. She’s not stupid. She knows she can’t live with us forever.”
Anna looked into his eyes and saw pleading there—hope. Dmitry had never asked for something so insistently. She exhaled.
“Fine. But only for one month. Not a 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 hallway. Svetlana was already settled in—kid’s clothes spread across the sofa, Svetlana herself planted in the armchair.
“So?” she asked brightly. “What did you decide?”
“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, drained by stress. Svetlana went to bed early too. Anna lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, sensing a disaster on the way.
Morning started with crashing footsteps. Maksim and Kira woke up at six and began racing through the apartment—stomping, shrieking, laughing.
Anna jumped out of bed and went into the hallway. The kids ran in circles—living room to entryway, entryway to kitchen, kitchen back to living room.
“Please be quieter,” Anna asked. “The neighbors are still asleep.”
They didn’t slow down at all. They tore past her, still playing. Anna went to the living room, where Svetlana was sleeping. Her sister-in-law lay on the sofa with her face buried in a pillow.
“Sveta, the kids are noisy. Please 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—where else should it go?”
Anna clenched her jaw, then went back to the bedroom and woke her husband.
“Dima, talk to your sister. The kids are going to wreck the place.”
“Let them adjust,” he yawned. “It’s their first day. They’re stressed.”
Anna didn’t answer. She went to the kitchen to make breakfast. The children rushed in behind her and started rummaging through cupboards.
“Please don’t touch that,” she said, stopping Maksim as he reached for a jar of cookies.
“I want cookies!” he whined.
“Breakfast will be ready soon. Wait a little.”
“I don’t want to wait! I want it now!”
Svetlana appeared, yawning, hair a mess.
“Max, don’t bother your aunt. Let her work in the kitchen.”
He listened—for five minutes. Then he reached for the cupboard again.
Breakfast was noisy. The kids demanded one thing after another. Svetlana tried, lazily, to discipline them, but without much success. Anna cleared the table in silence, forcing down her irritation.
It was a day off. Dmitry suggested they all go for a walk, but Svetlana refused.
“I’m tired. I’ll stay home and rest. Let the kids play here.”
Anna and Dmitry went out alone. They walked without speaking. Anna kept thinking about how they were supposed to live now. Dmitry felt the tension but didn’t know what to say.
They came back three hours later to a disaster zone. Toys were scattered through every room. A vase of flowers had been knocked over. A curtain in the living room had been torn.
“Sveta!” Anna shouted. “What happened here?!”
Svetlana lay on the sofa scrolling her phone.
“What?” she said. “The kids were playing.”
“Playing? This is destruction!”
“Well, yeah, they made a bit of a mess. We’ll clean it up later.”
“Later—when?!”
“Whenever there’s time,” Svetlana yawned. “Don’t work yourself up. Kids are kids.”
Anna cleaned up herself. Dmitry helped in silence. By evening the apartment looked more or less acceptable again.
The week went the same way. The children ran, broke things, screamed. Svetlana ignored complaints, brushing them off—nothing serious, they’re just kids.
She quickly made herself at home and began reshaping the apartment around her. She moved furniture in the living room—said it was “more convenient.” She threw out half the spices in the kitchen—claimed they were expired.
“Sveta, they’re not expired!” Anna protested when she saw a nearly full jar of paprika in the trash.
“Did you check the date?” Svetlana lifted an eyebrow.
“I did. It’s good for three more months!”
“Sure, but when was it opened? Open spices don’t last. They can go bad.”
“They didn’t go bad!”
“How do you know?” Svetlana grimaced. “Did you taste-test them? Better buy fresh ones. And honestly, your kitchen could use some organizing. Everything’s just thrown wherever.”
Anna’s hands curled into fists. She wanted to argue, but she turned and left instead—because if she stayed, she would say something she couldn’t take back.
Svetlana’s criticism became daily. Anna “washed dishes wrong”—not enough soap. She “hung laundry wrong”—there was a draft on the balcony, she’d “get everyone sick.” She cooked badly—needed new recipes.
“Anya, you should read a cookbook sometime,” Svetlana sighed. “You cook like a student—everything rushed.”
Anna kept quiet, jaw tight. Dmitry kept quiet too. Once Anna tried to complain.
“Your sister criticizes me every single day. In my own apartment I feel like a servant!”
“You’re exaggerating,” Dmitry said, waving it off. “Sveta is just giving advice.”
“Advice? She tells me what to do—in my home!”
“Anya, don’t be dramatic. Just hang on a little longer. She’ll move out soon.”
But Svetlana wasn’t in a hurry to leave. A month passed. Then a second. She found a job again—administrator at a salon. The pay was decent, but she still didn’t rush to rent her own place.
“Why waste money?” she told her brother. “You’ve got enough space. I’ll stay here and save up.”
Dmitry didn’t object. Anna was quietly furious.
Meanwhile the kids turned the apartment into a battlefield. Maksim snapped a chair leg trying to rock on it. Kira spilled juice on Anna’s 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, “your son broke my vase.”
“So?” Svetlana shrugged. “It happens. Kids are kids.”
“That vase was an antique. It belonged to my grandmother!”
“Antique?” Svetlana snorted. “Oh please. Just some piece of glass. Buy another.”
“You can’t buy another! It was sentimental!”
“Memories belong in your heart, not in vases,” Svetlana dismissed her and walked away.
Anna stood among the fragments and realized: her patience was almost gone. One more push—and she’d explode.
That explosion came a week later.
Anna came home from work exhausted. She wanted nothing but to lie down and rest. Instead, she walked into another upheaval.
Svetlana had decided to do a “deep cleaning.” She scrubbed the kitchen, rearranged all the cupboards. And Anna’s favorite mugs—she’d gotten rid of them. Claimed they were old and threw them out.
“You threw away my mugs?” Anna couldn’t believe it.
“Yeah,” Svetlana nodded. “They were all chipped and ugly. I bought you new ones—here.”
She handed her a bag. Inside were cheap, generic supermarket mugs. Anna’s favorites—the painted ones, a gift from a friend—were now sitting in a dumpster somewhere.
“Sveta, this is my apartment,” Anna said, voice shaking. “You have no right to throw away my things!”
“Oh, come on,” Svetlana waved her off. “Mugs are mugs. The new ones are better.”
“They’re not better! The old ones mattered to me!”
“Always with your ‘sentimental value,’” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Anya, are you planning to live your life, or keep digging around in the past?”
Anna turned and walked onto the balcony before she exploded. She breathed deeply, counting to ten. Her hands trembled with rage.
That evening she tried to talk to her husband—seriously, like adults.
“Dima, I can’t do this anymore. Your sister needs to move out.”
“Anya, no hysterics,” he sighed.
“This isn’t hysteria. It’s a request. Svetlana has lived here for two months. She promised one.”
“She overstayed a bit. It happens.”
“Overstayed?” Anna snapped. “She isn’t even looking for a place. She works, gets paid, but she’s not planning to rent anything!”
“She’s saving up,” Dmitry said. “So she can rent something decent, not some tiny dump.”
“So I’m supposed to suffer indefinitely?”
“Just a little longer,” he said, hugging her. “Please. She’s my sister. My only family.”
Anna pulled away.
“I’m your family too. Your wife. Or does that not matter?”
“It matters. Of course it matters. But Sveta truly has nowhere to go.”
“She does—rent an apartment! She has a job, a salary!”
“Enough, Anya,” Dmitry’s voice hardened. “I’ve decided. She stays until she finds a good option. That’s final.”
Anna went silent. She turned and left the room. In the kitchen she sat down, head in her hands. Dmitry had chosen. He’d chosen his sister.
Another week passed. Anna barely spoke to Svetlana or Dmitry. She came home, ate dinner in silence, and shut herself in the bedroom. The kids kept screaming, Svetlana kept criticizing, and Anna kept holding on by her fingernails.
Then she finally snapped.
One evening she came home. Svetlana was in the kitchen, cooking and humming. She saw Anna and smiled.
“Oh, you’re back! I made borscht. Try it and tell me how it turned out.”
Anna walked past without a word. She sat in the living room, pulled out her phone, and started scrolling rental listings. Svetlana leaned into the doorway.
“What are you looking at?”
“An apartment,” Anna answered without looking up.
“Why? Planning to move?” Svetlana laughed.
“No,” Anna said calmly. “I want you to move.”
The smile slid off Svetlana’s face.
“What?”
Anna looked up.
“I want you to find a place and move out. Tomorrow.”
“Excuse me?” Svetlana frowned. “Since when?”
“Since you’ve been here two months. You promised one. You lied.”
“I didn’t lie!” Svetlana raised her voice. “I just haven’t found a suitable option yet!”
“You haven’t looked,” Anna corrected. “You’re comfortable here—living at someone else’s expense.”
“At someone else’s expense?!” Svetlana snapped. “I work! I bring money in!”
“You live here for free—and on top of that you 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 want your help!” Anna stood up. “I want you 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 out?” Svetlana lifted her chin. “Dima doesn’t mind me being here. You’re the one losing it for no reason.”
“Because this is my apartment!”
“So?” Svetlana shrugged. “Dima lives here too. I’m his sister. I have a right to be near my brother.”
“You don’t,” Anna stepped closer. “You have no right to live in my apartment without my consent.”
“Then you move out yourself if you’re so unhappy,” Svetlana shot back. “Find a place and live alone.”
Anna froze. Heat rushed to her face. Her hands clenched.
“What did you say?”
“What you heard,” Svetlana held her stare. “If you want to leave—leave. No one’s stopping you.”
“This is my apartment!” Anna shouted. “Mine! I bought it before marriage—on my own money! You’re a guest here! An uninvited guest who should’ve left a month ago!”
Svetlana smirked. “Your apartment… and what is Dima here? A guest too?”
“Dima is my husband. You’re a stranger.”
“Not a stranger! I’m his sister—couldn’t be closer!”
The front door opened. Dmitry walked in and stopped on the threshold.
“What’s going on? I can hear you from the stairwell!”
Anna turned to him.
“Tell your sister to move out. Now.”
“Anya, calm down…”
“I’m not calming down! Enough! I’ve endured this for two months! My home is wrecked! My things get thrown away! I’m criticized every day! Enough!”
“She wants to throw me out onto the street!” Svetlana cut in. “With my kids! Can you imagine?!”
“Not onto the street—into a rental!” Anna shot back. “You have a job and money. Rent a place and live there!”
Dmitry raised his hands.
“Girls, let’s talk like adults…”
“Like adults?” Anna stepped closer. “I’ve been living in hell for two months! Your sister turned my apartment into a daycare! The kids scream nonstop! Svetlana orders everyone around like she owns the place—and you say nothing!”
“I don’t say nothing,” Dmitry started.
“You do! Every time you brush it off. ‘Be patient,’ you tell me. I’m done being patient!”
“Anna, Sveta is my sister. She’s in a hard situation.”
“Plenty of people have hard situations. That doesn’t give them permission to destroy boundaries!”
“What boundaries?!” Svetlana jumped in. “Am I a stranger to you?!”
“You are,” Anna turned on her. “To me you are. And I want you out of my home!”
“Did you hear that, Dima?” Svetlana threw up her hands. “She’s throwing me out—your own sister!”
Dmitry stood there, silent, looking from his wife to his sister. His face was tight, jaw clenched.
“Dima, decide,” Anna demanded. “Either Svetlana moves out or… or I don’t know what!”
“Or what?” Dmitry asked quietly.
“Or I’ll file for divorce,” Anna blurted—and surprised even herself.
Silence dropped hard. Svetlana’s eyes widened. Dmitry went pale.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Completely,” Anna nodded, her knees trembling. “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 didn’t answer. He walked to the wardrobe, pulled out a bag, and began packing.
“What are you doing?” Anna asked, stunned.
“Packing,” he muttered. “If you’re giving ultimatums, then I’m choosing.”
“Choosing what?”
“Sveta is my sister. My only family. I’m not abandoning her.”
Anna felt the floor tilt under her.
“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,” he replied coldly. “A sister is blood. It’s different.”
The words hit like a slap. Wife—separate. Not family. Not enough.
He kept packing. Svetlana stood to the side in silence. The children peeked out from the room, frightened.
“Mom… what’s happening?” Maksim asked in a small voice.
“Pack up,” Svetlana snapped. “Now.”
The kids obediently began gathering their toys. Dmitry finished packing his own things, then picked up his sister’s bag.
“Let’s go,” he said to Svetlana.
She nodded and called the children over. They moved into the hallway. Dmitry opened the door and stepped out first. Svetlana followed, holding the children’s hands.
Anna stood in the doorway, watching her husband leave—feeling like it was forever.
“Dima,” she called softly.
He turned.
“What?”
“Are you really going?”
“You said it yourself—me or my sister.”
“I wanted you to choose me.”
Dmitry gave a short, bitter laugh.
“I chose blood.”
The door closed.
Anna was left alone in the silence of the empty apartment. She sank to the floor in the hallway, hugged her knees, and breathed slowly, trying to steady herself.
He left. He chose his sister. He preferred Svetlana and the children over his wife. Just like that—no discussion, 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, thinking.
By morning her head was clear. 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.
“Grounds?”
“Irreconcilable differences.”
The paperwork was prepared quickly. Anna signed what she needed to sign, walked out with a folder of documents, and called Dmitry.
“Yes?” he answered curtly.
“I filed for divorce. You’ll get the papers by mail.”
Silence. Then:
“Fine.”
“The apartment stays with me. It was mine before the marriage.”
“I know.”
“You can pick up your things anytime. Just warn me first.”
“Okay.”
Anna ended the call and went home. The apartment greeted her with stillness. No children screaming, no stomping, no crashing. Only silence—blessed silence.
She walked from room to room. Everything stood where it belonged. No one rearranging furniture. No one criticizing her food. No one throwing away the things she loved.
Alone. Finally alone. Free from someone else’s opinions, demands, and pressure. Free from a husband who chose his sister. Free from a marriage where a wife mattered less than “blood.”
Did it hurt? Yes. Was it scary? Yes. But it was right.
Anna sat on the sofa and took out her phone. She called her friend.
“Hi. Can we meet? I need to talk.”
Her friend agreed immediately. They met at a café. Anna told her everything—Svetlana, the children, Dmitry, the divorce.
“And how are you?” her friend asked.
Anna paused. How was she? Lost. Lonely. But calm.
“I’m okay,” she said at last. “I’ll manage.”
And she knew she would. She would, no matter what. Because living in your own home where you aren’t respected is worse than living alone—free.