Marina stood in the middle of the kitchen, the fork in her hand never quite making it to her mouth. Her expression was the kind a woman wears when she’s told she’s getting a promotion—only nobody mentions there won’t be a bonus.
— So… let me get this straight… that was a joke just now, right? — her voice stayed even, but there was something sharp hiding in that steadiness. — Or did you all decide, as a family, to see how much I can take?
Sergey, in his ancient T-shirt from some long-forgotten rock festival, stood by the table and stirred the salad with a spoon as if the answer to their family mess might be buried under a cucumber slice. It wasn’t. Neither were the shrimp—those had vanished after the very first toast.
By the window, sprawled lazily on a stool, sat Vitalik—Sergey’s younger brother. He looked entirely at home: sweatpants, flip-flops, a can of beer in his hand. His feet were propped on a brand-new white ottoman Marina had spent three hours choosing at IKEA. Now that pristine white showed the imprint of his callused heel and a dubious dark ring from the can.
— Why are you so pissed, Marin? — he said with his mouth full. — We’re just… family, aren’t we?
— Family?! — Marina whipped around. — Who are you, forgive me? A raider? A plumber on a house call? Why does a grown man need to be told you don’t walk into someone else’s home without permission?
— I came to see my brother! — Vitalik turned to Sergey. — Seryog, tell her—
— Sergey, tell me, — Marina shifted her gaze to her husband, — when are you handing your apartment over to your mother? Or is it totally fine that your precious brother suddenly took a liking to mine?
Sergey raised his eyes slowly, as if he were digging for a decent word—but the only words lining up in his head were obscene.
— Marin, why are you winding yourself up? He just asked… He’s considering options.
— “Options”?! — Marina gave a short, humorless snort. — What are you, a real estate site? I didn’t list my apartment.
— Nobody’s taking anything from you, — Sergey muttered.
— Not yet, — Marina corrected. — But I’m already freezing.
She sat down—slowly, with dignity, the way people sit when they know the sentence has already been passed.
Vitalik set the can aside, stood, stretched.
— Maybe you’re just in a mood, huh? Women get like that… you know, around certain days. Mom said—
— Say one more word about “days,” and I’ll scratch a calendar into your forehead, — Marina said softly, almost tenderly.
Vitalik dropped back onto the stool.
The wall clock ticked louder than usual, counting down the minutes to the shipwreck of whatever they were still calling a marriage.
— He just ended up without a place, — Sergey began, like he’d been rehearsing since morning. — You know, because of his ex—
— I don’t care who he ended up without a place because of! — Marina’s voice rose. — I have no obligations to your brother! This apartment is my dream! I worked eight years to get here! And you want to move in a freeloader who’s never seen money that didn’t come from your mother’s pension?!
— Don’t talk about Vitalik like that, — Sergey said quietly. — He’s trying…
— Where?! When?! — Marina shot up. — When he lived here three days and didn’t wash a single mug? Or when he lectured me about “passive income” while I dragged myself to work with a fever?
— I was just… joking around, — Vitalik mumbled.
— The joke will be when I call the local police and you explain how you ended up in someone else’s apartment with beer and slippers.
Sergey started pacing.
— Let’s not shout—
— Do you even hear your wife, Seryozha? Or is your plan to hide behind the fridge and wait until we magically work it out ourselves?
— You know it’s hard on Mom. Her heart—
— And mine is what, a water pump? — Marina stared at him for a long moment. — The difference is you protect her heart, and mine can be tossed into the trash.
He shrugged and sat down, staring at the floor.
Marina took a breath.
— I’m tired, Seryozha. I’m sick of proving I’m not the enemy of your holy “family unit.” And I don’t want to see your brother here again. Not even on the staircase.
— What if I just stop by? — Vitalik asked cautiously.
— Then you’ll leave with security.
— You can’t treat my family like this… — Sergey started.
— Your family? — Marina smirked. — So who am I to you—your wife or an enemy of the state? Because it feels like I’m the occupying force here and you’ve formed a resistance movement.
Silence. Even the fridge seemed to hush its hum in embarrassment.
Marina wiped the table slowly, set the fork in the sink without looking at Sergey.
— Work tomorrow, — she said evenly—no drama, just steel. — Lock the door when you leave. And take your shoes off, Vitalik. The floor is new.
She walked out, leaving the two men in the kitchen like a pair of forgotten schoolboys, waiting to be scolded—only the adult never showed up.
— What is this?! — Marina’s voice cracked louder than she meant. But now it wasn’t just anger—it was exhaustion: thick, heavy, pressing down like a wet wool blanket. — What kind of circus are you running in my apartment?!
— Marin, you’re doing it again… — Sergey began, but she was already in the hallway, where Vitalik—cigarette in his teeth—was lazily unlacing his sneakers. He was wearing his old track jacket he’d “accidentally” left here a month ago, the one Marina had been tempted to set on fire down the trash chute.
— You again?! — she shrieked. — You know I don’t want to see you in here!
— I’m not alone, — Vitalik smirked.
And behind him, like a shadow, appeared Nastya. Mini skirt. Pink suitcase. As if this was her apartment.
— Hi, — Nastya said calmly, like she’d come to rehearsal for a cheap comedy show. — You must be the owner? Vitalik said everything here is kind of shared. Until he gets back on his feet…
Marina closed her eyes.
— Sergey. Come here. Now. Immediately.
He came over, crumpled-looking, phone in hand. He tried to say something, but she cut him off.
— Is this normal to you? Did we open a hostel? What’s next—renting out the balcony to retirees from an online listing?
— Marin, don’t freak out, — Vitalik jumped in. — We just need a couple of days. Until Mom sorts out the paperwork, then I’m out.
— What paperwork?! — Marina snapped her head toward Sergey, and he stared at the floor like a kid who’d swallowed something bitter.
— Mom suggested… — he said quietly, — putting the apartment in both our names. Yours and mine. So later we don’t have to split things, if anything happens…
— What?! — The room tilted; she grabbed the doorframe. — Are you serious? You want my apartment to become shared property—through your mother—so Vitalik can end up with a piece of it? Ira gave it to me. The papers are in my name! And you’re already dividing my home?!
— Marin, don’t start, — Sergey sighed. — We’re family. Vitalik’s temporary. Mom just wants it done decently. Safely.
— Safe for who? — Marina stepped closer. — For the man who’s never paid a utility bill? Or for the people who think “decently” means the woman works, cleans, cooks, and also provides her home to strangers?
— Hey, I’m not a stranger! — Vitalik protested. — I practically grew up here! Summers, me and Seryoga hung out. It’s familiar. Memories…
— And I have nerves! — Marina snapped. — And if you, Vitalik, don’t get out of my apartment with Nastya—whoever she is—within thirty minutes, I’m calling the police. And I’ll explain you’re living here without the owner’s consent, using my things, bringing people over, and hanging your underwear on my cactus!
— What cactus? — Nastya narrowed her eyes. — Oh, that one? I thought it was plastic. Why are you yelling? Self-esteem issues?
Marina grabbed the air conditioner remote and hurled it into the wall beside the pink suitcase.
— That’s it. I’m done. Sergey. You have a choice: either right now you tell your brother and his bleached-blond “happiness” to leave my apartment, or I call the authorities. I file a report. And I file for divorce. Living with you is like living in a communal flat with cockroaches. At least cockroaches don’t smoke and don’t eat caviar by the spoonful.
— You’ve lost it, — Vitalik muttered. — Mom said you were hysterical. I thought she was exaggerating… Guess not.
— Mom said? — Marina looked straight at Sergey. — So you’re also discussing my flaws while I earn money so your brother can eat my sausage?
Sergey exhaled.
— Let’s calm down. Maybe you can stay with Ira for a couple of days, and I’ll talk to Mom, to Vitalik—
— Or maybe you leave. Completely, — Marina said quietly.
So quietly that even Nastya stopped chewing her gum.
— What? — Sergey blinked.
— Leave, Sergey. Right now. Take your stuff—your shorts, your socks, your laptop. And your mother’s little icon. Go somewhere you’re listened to. Somewhere you’re treated like a man. Somewhere you’re comfortable. Not here. I won’t let you back in.
— Marin…
— I’m not your Marin anymore. You betrayed me. At home. On my territory. In my fortress.
Vitalik muttered something, but Marina didn’t hear it. Her temples pounded. There were no tears—only a concrete-heavy hurt.
Sergey went to the bedroom in silence. Ten minutes later he came out with a bag. He paused in the doorway, looked at her. She looked back.
— I’m sorry, — he said.
— Too late, — Marina answered.
When the door slammed shut, the silence inside the apartment became almost physical. Even the refrigerator seemed to stop humming. Only the cactus on the windowsill watched it all with quiet reproach—dusty, and wearing some strange piece of underwear. Marina carefully removed it, wiped the plant with a dry towel, and set it back.
— Well then, buddy, — she whispered, — we hold the line.
And there was still his mother ahead of her. Elena Petrovna. The one everyone said was already “handling the paperwork.”
Marina suddenly understood: this wasn’t the end.
It was the middle.
Marina didn’t sleep. Not because she couldn’t—sleep simply didn’t stay in this apartment anymore. Not after they’d tried to “temporarily register” an unemployed relative, his girlfriend, and most likely a cat after that.
She sat in the kitchen—clean, neat, hers. Cold coffee beside her. On the table: her passport, the ownership certificate, an old letter from Ira, and a to-do list:
Change the locks.
File in court.
Revoke the power of attorney.
Consult a lawyer.
Buy a proper, big frying pan.
The frying pan was symbolic, of course—proof that now she was on her own. Alone with herself. Without Sergey. Without his “Addams Family.”
The doorbell rang.
Marina closed her eyes. Pointless—she already knew who it was.
— Hello, Marina, — Elena Petrovna walked in like she was entering a hospital ward, as if Marina were the unruly patient and she the nurse sent to restrain her. — I spent two hours getting here to talk like civilized people. And you don’t pick up, you don’t answer, you threw Sergey out of the house. Is that normal?
— Depends on whose definition of normal we’re using, — Marina said calmly, dropping her gaze to the list. — In my definition, it’s not normal when people try to take my apartment.
— Take?! — her mother-in-law squealed. — We’re trying to help you! Vitalik almost ended up on the street! And you’re throwing him out like a dog! He’s depressed, by the way!
— I’m depressed too, by the way. Only I don’t treat my depression with other people’s square meters. Let him go work. Or do you think a woman is supposed to grind herself down with three jobs while he gets “mental peace”?
— You know it’s hard for him. And I—his mother—am carrying everything. My pension is tiny. I thought you’d understand…
— I’ve seen your “hard.” You’ve got a pretty comfortable “hard.” In the city center. With a view. And a refrigerator stocked at my expense.
— Well, look at you! — Elena Petrovna shrieked. — I welcomed you like my own! I made salad when you were in the hospital! And you—
— …received a gifted apartment. My friend trusted me. Because she knew I would never hand it over to schemers. Even if those schemers come in family packaging.
The mother-in-law yanked a folder out of her bag.
— Here. This is something. Sergey asked. We spoke to a lawyer… You can make it shared ownership. You get the bigger share, Sergey gets something so he’s not left with nothing. We’re not monsters. And you—are you a wife? Or not anymore?
Marina stood.
— You really thought I’d swallow this? — She stepped closer. — You thought I’d sign your paper, give away my home, forget how you trampled through it, how your Vitalik stomped around, how you suggested I go sleep at my friend’s while you “sorted things out” here?
— Marina, stop sulking, — Elena Petrovna sat down like she was at a retirees’ club meeting. — You’re a grown woman. Why be stubborn? You can’t live alone your whole life. We’re family…
— No, — Marina said quietly, clearly. — You are not my family. Family protects you. You were ready to trade me off like a hostage. You’re a crew. A gang. A mutual cover-up. Not family.
Elena Petrovna went still, then abruptly gathered her things.
— Fine. Live alone. With your cactus.
— Thank you, — Marina nodded. — At least it doesn’t lie, doesn’t manipulate, and doesn’t demand a share.
The mother-in-law slammed the door.
Marina locked it. Then the top lock. Then the chain. She inhaled and exhaled deeply.
Her phone lit up. A text from Sergey:
“Sorry. I thought we could sort it out. Maybe later…”
She stared for twenty seconds. Then deleted it. No rage. Just deleted.
Two days later she changed the locks. A week later she filed for divorce. A month later she rented a room on Airbnb and leased out her apartment to a young couple: he was a medical student, she a programmer. They needed it more.
Marina went to Riga. To live. To think. To sit by the sea. She took one suitcase.
And the cactus.
In a plastic bucket, wrapped in a scarf.
What’s yours—has to be protected.