On Sunday, Lena will haul her bags into your little two-room apartment. We’ll put a sofa for her in that tiny room where you keep your computer, Olya. And you’re not some grand lady — you can work with your laptop at the kitchen table.
I didn’t choke on my tea. I didn’t even drop the half-eaten ring-shaped pastry in my hand. I work remotely as an accountant: I handle the books for fifteen sole proprietors, from auto repair shops to shawarma kiosks. I’ve survived frozen accounts under anti-money-laundering laws, surprise tax inspections, and clients who dump a whole quarter’s worth of receipts on me in a shoebox. My nerves had long since turned into steel cables. I simply moved my cup to the edge of the oilcloth-covered table and looked at my mother-in-law.
Tamara Vasilievna, a loud, heavyset woman who sincerely believed her word was law for the entire family, was finishing off my homemade pancakes with sour cream as if she owned the place. Beside her sat her daughter, my sister-in-law Lena, scraping the bottom of a bowl of jam with exaggerated sadness.
My husband Slava — a simple factory worker, not a bad man, but absolutely terrified of any conflict with his mother — was guiltily picking at the tablecloth with his fork.
“Excuse me, Tamara Vasilievna,” I said in an even, everyday tone. “Whose sofa are we putting where?”
Slava and I had lived in this drab nine-story apartment block on the outskirts for five years. It was no palace, but I had polished and improved that apartment for years: I’d hung the wallpaper myself, grabbed discounted laminate flooring whenever I could, and carved out a tiny workspace for myself in the second room because I needed silence to work with numbers.
“Olya, you know Lena is in trouble!” my mother-in-law cried, throwing up her hands.
“That good-for-nothing Kolya threw her out! Told her to pack her things and get lost! Can you imagine what a bastard he is? A woman with a five-year-old son, left on the street!”
“You’ve got a two-bedroom place. There’s enough room,” Lena cut in without lifting her eyes.
“And, Olya, keep your cat shut in the hallway, okay? My Deniska might be allergic to fur. And clear the bottom shelf in the fridge for me.
“And one more thing — I need silence in the mornings. Stress gives me migraines, so if you start banging pots around at seven a.m., I’m going to have a problem with it. Oh, and we’ll take turns dropping Deniska off at kindergarten and picking him up. I’ll get tired fast if I have to keep making that trip from your side of town.”
Something clicked inside me like an invisible calculator. They weren’t planning to temporarily stay in my apartment. They were planning to move in, plant themselves on my neck, dangle their legs, and make me dance attendance around them.
Slava cleared his throat.
“Olya, come on… Lena’s really going through a rough patch. Where’s she supposed to go? She’ll stay with us a couple of months until she finds work. We’re family. We’ll squeeze in.”
We’ll squeeze in. Such a convenient phrase when it’s always someone else who has to do the squeezing.
I slowly folded my hands on the table.
“All right. Let’s discuss the logistics,” I said, looking at my mother-in-law. “Tamara Vasilievna, remind me — how many rooms does your apartment have? Three, if I’m not mistaken. Big one too, improved layout. Why don’t Lena and her son move in with her own mother?”
My mother-in-law began sputtering in outrage.
“Olya, are you out of your mind? I have high blood pressure! Deniska runs around like a maniac, I need peace! And besides, you know I rent out two of the rooms! That’s my extra income on top of my pension!”
“Ah yes, you rent them out,” I said with a nod. “To eight migrant workers from the construction site nearby. No lease, no registration, no taxes paid. You do know Officer Petrov has already visited your neighbors twice because of the noise and the filth? And that the fines for illegal business activity and tax evasion will eat up your little ‘extra income’ for the next three years?”
Tamara Vasilievna went pale. Her mouth dropped open in a comical little circle.
“You… you’re threatening me with the police?”
“I’m stating facts,” I said, shifting my gaze to my sister-in-law. “Now let’s talk about you, Lena. Your ‘rough patch.’ And that bastard Kolya.”
Lena tensed and set down her spoon.
“What about Kolya? He threw me out with a child!”
“Kolya happens to own the tire shop at the auto market,” I reminded her sweetly.
“And he also happens to be one of my regular clients. I’ve handled his books for the last three years. He called me on Wednesday to reconcile his cash records. Lena, he was very upset.”
Slava finally looked up from the table and stared at his sister.
“Kolya told me why he threw you out,” I said. I never raised my voice, but every word landed like a stone. “He found out you’d been skimming cash from the tire shop for two months. Eighty thousand rubles, Lena. And when he checked your credit history, he discovered you’d taken out microloans at insane interest rates in your own name to gamble in online casinos.
“He kicked you out because debt collectors started showing up at his place. And he still went easy on you by not filing a police report for theft.”
Lena turned crimson. She shrank into the stool, avoiding her brother’s eyes.
“Lena… is that true?” Slava asked hoarsely.
“She’s lying!” my sister-in-law squeaked, but so unconvincingly that even a blind man would have understood everything.
“I’m not finished,” I said, with no intention of stopping. “Now let’s discuss our ‘two-room apartment’ and all this talk about family solidarity.”
I looked at my husband for a long, pointed moment.
“Slava. This apartment was not bought by us. It was bought by me. The down payment came from selling my grandmother’s little house in the village — property that belonged to me personally. And the mortgage that we supposedly pay ‘together’? I pay it from my business account. Your forty-five-thousand-ruble salary as a shop foreman goes entirely toward your Lada loan, gas, weekend beer, and utility bills. That’s where your contribution to the family budget ends. I cover the food, the clothes, the vacations, and the repairs.”
My husband’s face flushed deep red with shame. He opened his mouth to say something, but I raised a hand, silencing him.
“So there will be no Lena in my home, no nephew, and no extra sofa,” I said, turning back to my mother-in-law, who was now breathing hard. “You live in a three-room apartment. You kick out your illegal tenants, move your daughter and grandson in there, sell your dacha plot, and pay off her microloans before debt collectors start spray-painting your door. And as for me, you only come here on holidays. After calling first.”
Tamara Vasilievna shot to her feet. The stool squealed against the floor.
“You miserable snake!” she spat, grabbing her handbag. “What a cold, calculating snake you are! Slava, did you hear how she dragged your mother and sister through the mud? Come on, Lena, let’s go! And you, son, if you’re a real man, pack your things tonight and leave this viper! We’ll see how she sings when she’s here alone with her precious mortgage!”
They stormed into the hallway. Lena hurried into her sneakers. The front door slammed so hard the plaster shook loose from the frame.
I calmly got up, gathered the dirty cups, and set them in the sink. Then I turned on the water.
Slava stayed seated at the table. He did not, of course, start packing.
“Olya…” he finally managed, staring at my back. “I honestly didn’t know about the microloans. Or the cash from the shop. Mom told me Kolya had found someone else…”
I turned off the tap, dried my hands on a towel, and faced him.
“Now you know. And let me tell you this, Slava. If I ever hear again in my own home that I’m supposed to sacrifice my comfort for your relatives, you’ll go live with your mother. With the illegal tenants, the debt collectors, and Lena’s hysterics. I’ll stay here. In peace. With the cat.”
I paused, looking into his lost, bewildered eyes.
“And now take the sponge and wash the dishes. I have work to do. The quarterly report is not going to balance itself.”
I went into my tiny, hard-won room and closed the door. A minute later I heard running water in the kitchen and the timid clink of plates. Slava was washing the dishes. In my ordinary little apartment in a concrete block building, it was quiet again, safe again, and everything was back under my rules.