Svetlana stood in the kitchen, arranging sliced meats and cheeses on a large platter. The clock showed 8:30 p.m. on December 31. The table was already set—salads in cut-glass bowls, the main dish warming in the oven, champagne flutes lined up in a neat row. Everything was ready for the holiday. And yet, for some reason, there was no joy.
She tried not to stare at the clock too often, but her eyes kept drifting back to the face on the wall. Three and a half hours until midnight. Three and a half hours in the company of people she hadn’t invited, didn’t want to see, and was only putting up with because her husband had insisted.
The apartment was Svetlana’s. She’d bought it eight years earlier, back when she worked as a senior merchandiser for a retail chain. She saved for three years, denying herself everything—no vacations, no new clothes, walking instead of taking taxis. She counted every ruble, set it aside, planned, recalculated. She scraped together the down payment on her own. She paid off the mortgage early—five years instead of ten. She did the renovations herself too: hung wallpaper, scrubbed floors, assembled furniture straight from boxes and instruction sheets.
This place was her fortress—her achievement, her pride. Forty-two square meters on the sixth floor of a plain panel building. Two rooms, a kitchen, and a combined bathroom. South-facing windows—bright, warm, comfortable. Every detail chosen, thought through, earned the hard way. She remembered that every minute—especially when strangers acted like they owned the place.
Dmitry, her husband, had moved in after the wedding four years ago. He didn’t have a home of his own—he’d lived with his mother in a three-bedroom apartment on the outskirts. After they registered their marriage, Svetlana suggested they live at her place. Dmitry agreed readily. He promised he’d fit in, wouldn’t be a burden, would help with expenses. At first, he did. Then somehow, without any formal decision, everything slid into a new routine: she paid, she cleaned, she cooked. He worked, came home, ate dinner, and watched TV.
His relatives arrived at seven. They came as a whole crew—his mother Nina Petrovna, her sister Valentina with her husband, Dmitry’s cousin Oleg with his wife Ira and their two children. Eight people, not counting Svetlana and Dmitry. Ten at the table.
They burst in noisy and loud, like they weren’t guests but inspectors sizing up someone else’s territory. Nina Petrovna immediately toured the rooms, peeking into closets, touching things, offering commentary.
“Not bad,” she said, scanning the living room. “Though the sofa feels a bit old-fashioned. And the wallpaper’s already faded. You should really update things.”
Svetlana said nothing. She’d chosen that sofa after half a year of searching, driving from store to store across the city. She’d put up that wallpaper herself two years earlier. But she didn’t argue. It was a holiday, after all.
When everyone sat down, Nina Petrovna confidently took the seat at the head of the table. Svetlana had been about to sit there, but her mother-in-law simply nudged her aside with an elbow without even looking.
“You sit over there, Svetochka, on the edge,” Nina Petrovna ordered. “It’ll be easier for you—getting up and running to the kitchen.”
Svetlana sat where she was told. Dmitry settled next to his mother, pulled out his phone, and stared at the screen. The others took their places, poured drinks, and started eating.
The first hour was relatively calm—talk about work, prices, weather. Svetlana kept getting up: bringing out the main dish, clearing plates, topping up glasses. No one offered to help. Nina Petrovna sat like a queen and issued commands.
“Svetlana, bring more bread.”
“Svetlana, we’re out of salad.”
“Svetlana, why isn’t there mustard on the table?”
Dmitry stayed silent, scrolling his feed, occasionally laughing at a meme. He didn’t look at his wife.
By nine, they were warmed up—more drinks, louder voices, sharper jokes. Oleg told crude stories about wives and mothers-in-law, and everyone roared. Ira had a comment about every dish.
“The salad’s too salty.”
“The meat’s a bit dry.”
“And this one is just… weird. I’ve never eaten anything like it.”
Svetlana sat quietly, staring at her plate. She had no appetite. A dull irritation swelled inside her, but she shoved it down. Just endure it. Soon it would be midnight, and then they’d leave.
Closer to ten, Valentina launched into a speech about respecting elders. The topic drifted smoothly into how young people today had no discipline and didn’t value family traditions.
“Back in our day,” she preached, waving her fork, “a daughter-in-law came into the house and knew her place. She respected her mother-in-law, listened, helped. And now? Now every girl thinks she’s the queen!”
All eyes turned toward Svetlana. She looked up, met their stares, then lowered her gaze again. She stayed silent.
“Come on, Val,” Oleg cut in, winking. “Not everyone’s like that. There are normal wives—who respect their husbands and his family.”
“Well, that depends on the wife,” Ira chimed in with a giggle.
Nina Petrovna took a sip from her glass, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and slowly looked Svetlana over—long, appraising, enjoying the attention.
“And some,” she said loudly, savoring every word, “start thinking that just because the apartment is in their name, they’re the boss here. They forget the husband is the head of the family. Which means his mother gets a say too.”
Laughter broke out. Oleg laughed the loudest.
“Exactly!” he added. “Imagine being so stingy you can’t even host your husband’s relatives properly!”
Svetlana froze. She was holding a plate with a few scraps of salad. Slowly—very slowly—she set it down on the table without making a sound.
“And anyway,” Nina Petrovna continued, gaining momentum, “a good wife should be grateful she was accepted into the family at all. Not act so high and mighty.”
“Mom,” Dmitry muttered without lifting his eyes from his phone, “maybe that’s enough.”
“Oh, hush,” she waved him off. “We’re just talking. Right, Svetochka?”
A tense silence fell over the room. Someone was waiting for tears. Someone was hoping for shouting—a full-blown scandal. Oleg and Ira exchanged looks, clearly enjoying the buildup.
Svetlana stood up from the table. Calmly. No sudden movements. Her face was composed, almost distant. She walked into the hallway and gently pulled the door closed behind her, cutting off the noise and laughter.
She took her phone out of her pocket, found the contact she needed, and pressed call.
“Dad,” she said softly when he answered. “It’s me. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to hear your voice. How are you and Mom? Are you celebrating at home?”
Her father’s voice was steady, warm—domestic. He told her they’d set a small table, would watch TV, wait for the chimes. He asked how she was doing.
“Good,” she replied. “I’m good too. And soon I’ll be even better. Thanks, Dad. Happy New Year to you both. I’ll call again later.”
She ended the call, stood still for a moment, then straightened her shoulders.
When she returned to the room, everyone went quiet. Nina Petrovna watched her with barely hidden triumph. Dmitry sank even deeper into his phone.
Svetlana stopped beside the table—shoulders back, eyes steady, movements precise.
“The celebration in this home is over,” she said evenly. “I want everyone to leave my apartment.”
The laughter died instantly. People stared at her. Nina Petrovna didn’t even have time to set down her glass—she froze with it in her hand.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m asking everyone to leave,” Svetlana repeated. “Now.”
“Have you lost your mind?!” Nina Petrovna snapped. “We’re guests! It’s almost midnight!”
“You’re not guests,” Svetlana replied calmly. “Guests respect their host. You’re sitting in my apartment, eating my food, and insulting me. So please put on your coats and go.”
“Dima!” Nina Petrovna shouted, turning to her son. “Do you hear what she’s saying?!”
Dmitry finally looked up. He glanced at his mother, at his wife, then back at his mother.
“Svet… come on…” he mumbled uncertainly. “Mom, and you too… can we not do this?”
“There won’t be any drama,” Svetlana said. “Not if everyone gets dressed and leaves peacefully right now.”
“And who are you to order us around?!” Ira jumped up. “We’re Dima’s family! We have a right to be here!”
“No,” Svetlana shook her head. “You don’t. This is my apartment. Bought with my money, registered in my name. I decide who stays here. I’ll say it again: leave.”
Nina Petrovna started to rise, but Oleg caught her hand.
“Come on, Sveta,” he tried in a placating tone. “Why are you making a big deal? We were just joking…”
“It isn’t funny to me,” Svetlana cut him off. “And my name is Svetlana, not Sveta. You have ten minutes to pack up. If anyone is still here after that, I’ll call the police.”
“What?!” Nina Petrovna shrieked. “You’d call the police on us?! Dima, did you hear that?!”
Dmitry said nothing. He just sat there, staring down at his plate.
Svetlana unlocked her phone, pulled up the police number, and held the screen where everyone could see.
“Nine minutes,” she said quietly.
Valentina was the first to give in. She stood up and took her husband’s hand.
“Forget it, Nina. Let’s go. We don’t need this apartment. We’ll celebrate at home—in a normal atmosphere.”
Oleg and Ira looked at each other and rose too. The children, who had been playing quietly in the other room, ran out at the commotion.
“Get your things,” Ira snapped at them.
The room erupted into hurried movement—jackets, bags, plastic sacks. No more swagger, no jokes. People avoided Svetlana’s eyes, moved quickly.
Nina Petrovna stayed seated, flushed with rage and humiliation. Then she jerked to her feet.
“Dmitry,” she called sharply. “Come on. Get ready.”
Dmitry lifted his head, looked from his mother to his wife.
“Mom, I—”
“I said, come!” Nina Petrovna raised her voice. “Or are you staying with that… with her?!”
Slowly, Dmitry stood up. He took his jacket from the hook. Svetlana watched in silence, waiting.
He reached the door, paused, turned back.
“Svet…” he began.
“Go, Dima,” she said softly. “Just go.”
He couldn’t find any words that could undo what had happened. He nodded and stepped out after his mother.
Svetlana locked the door behind the last guest. Turned the key. Leaned her back against the wood and closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she smiled—truly smiled for the first time all evening.
She went back to the kitchen and began clearing the table. Packed the leftovers into containers and put them in the fridge. Washed the dishes. Wiped the counters. Restored everything to order.
When the clock struck 11:30, she poured herself a glass of champagne. She sat on the sofa and turned on the TV. A holiday concert filled the screen.
She checked the time: thirty minutes until the New Year. Thirty minutes of silence, peace, freedom.
She called her parents.
“Mom, Dad,” she said when they answered. “Happy almost-New-Year. I’m home. Alone. Everything’s fine—more than fine.”
Her mother asked something anxiously, but Svetlana soothed her.
“Really. It’s all great. Better than you can imagine. I’ll explain later. Love you.”
When the Kremlin chimes began to ring in the new year, Svetlana raised her glass.
“Happy New Year, Svetlana,” she told herself. “To a new life. Without humiliation. Without unnecessary people.”
She drank, set the glass down, and leaned back with her eyes closed.
Outside, fireworks cracked and bloomed— the city was celebrating. And inside this apartment, bought with honest money, there was quiet and order. Svetlana welcomed the New Year alone, and it was the best decision she had ever made.
On the morning of January 1, Dmitry called. Svetlana stared at the screen for a long time, then declined. He called again. She didn’t answer.
An hour later a message appeared: “Sveta, I’m sorry. I’m ashamed. Can I come over? Can we talk?”
She replied briefly: “No. Don’t come. I need time to think.”
He called several more times that day. Sent more messages. Apologized. Begged for a chance to explain. Svetlana didn’t respond.
That evening Nina Petrovna called. Svetlana saw the name, smirked, and blocked the number.
For three days she stayed alone. She read, watched films, walked through the empty winter streets. She thought. Weighed things. Decided.
On January 4 she texted Dmitry: “Come tomorrow at six. We’ll talk.”
He arrived at exactly six, standing in the doorway awkwardly, unsure how to begin.
“Come in,” Svetlana nodded. “Sit.”
They sat at the kitchen table facing each other. Dmitry stared at the tabletop.
“Svet, I—” he started.
“Be quiet,” she cut in. “First you listen. Then you can speak.”
He nodded.
“I’ve thought a lot these past few days,” she began evenly. “And I realized something. I don’t want to live with someone who can’t protect me. Not from enemies. Not from burglars. From his own mother.”
Dmitry flinched but stayed silent.
“Your mother insulted me in my own home,” Svetlana continued. “And you sat there and said nothing. You chose her instead of me. That was your choice, Dima. And I respect it.”
“I didn’t choose!” he burst out. “I just… I didn’t know what to say…”
“Exactly,” she nodded. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. It doesn’t matter why. The result is the same—you didn’t stand up for me.”
“I’m sorry…” Dmitry whispered.
“I don’t want apologies,” Svetlana answered. “I want a divorce.”
He jerked his head up, staring at her.
“What?”
“A divorce,” she repeated. “There’s nothing to divide. The apartment is mine—it was bought before the marriage. We’ll file at the registry office; in a month we’ll be divorced. Simple.”
“Svet, wait… maybe we shouldn’t do this so fast… Let’s try again…”
“No,” she shook her head. “I’ve already decided. You can agree and we’ll do this peacefully. Or you can refuse and I’ll file in court. Either way, the outcome will be the same.”
Dmitry was silent for a long time. Then he exhaled heavily.
“Fine. I agree.”
Svetlana nodded.
“Thank you for not fighting it.”
A month later they filed for divorce. Another month later they received the papers. Everything passed quickly—no scenes, no arguments, no property battles.
Svetlana stayed in her apartment. Alone. She worked, met friends, went to the theater, read books. She learned to enjoy quiet and solitude.
Six months passed. She met someone else—calm, respectful, someone who understood what the word “boundaries” meant. Someone who didn’t stay silent when it was time to speak.
And that New Year’s Eve—she sometimes remembered it and smiled. Not out of bitterness or anger. Simply because she knew that on December 31, she had made the right choice.
She protected herself. She protected her home. And she began a new life—without humiliation, without strangers, without the need to tolerate what should never be tolerated.