“Well, Irusa, surely you understand that keeping that kind of money in one pair of hands is simply irrational,” Oksana drawled, winding a lettuce leaf around her fork with such force it looked as if she were trying to strangle it personally. “I’ve already found a place for a beauty studio on a prime street. Two million from your aunt’s apartment would really help us out. We’re family, after all!”
I took a careful sip of my now-lukewarm tea and looked at my sister-in-law. Oksana was thirty-three and liked to call herself a “beauty investor,” though in reality she did nails from home and was in a constant search for someone willing to finance her supposedly enormous potential.
We were sitting in my kitchen. More precisely, in the kitchen of the apartment I had owned before marriage, a fact my husband’s family preferred to forget with remarkable elegance. At the head of the table sat my lawful husband, Pavel. A sales manager for plumbing supplies, he somehow fancied himself a ruthless businessman. Today he was wearing a burgundy blazer and the expression of a man who had just bought a controlling stake in Gazprom.
“Ira, the girl is making sense,” my mother-in-law, Raisa Sergeyevna, chimed in solemnly. She dabbed her lips with a napkin with all the dignity of a woman who still behaved as if she were in charge of the meat warehouse where she had once decided who got sausage and who got bones. “As a mother, I’ll say this: family has to stick together. Aunt Zina, God rest her soul, had a good apartment near the metro. We sell it, set dear Oksanochka up with a business, and it’s high time Pashenka upgraded his car. It doesn’t look respectable for a manager to drive around in an old Korean sedan.”
My father-in-law, Nikolai Petrovich, who sat on the edge of the table, hurriedly swallowed a piece of ham and muttered into his plate, “Don’t make a scene… the neighbors will hear.”
I turned to my husband. Pavel was smiling indulgently, absently twirling the stem of a glass filled with cheap wine he had presented as “a collector’s bottle from private cellars.”
“You see, sweetheart,” Pavel began in a velvety baritone, leaning back in his chair, “in a modern economy, assets are supposed to work. You can’t just sit on real estate. You have to diversify the portfolio. I’m ready to take on the burden of managing those funds. We’ll put them into circulation, generate passive income…”
I set my cup down on the saucer. The sharp click of porcelain made Oksana flinch.
“Pasha, by diversify, do you mean like last year, when you bought that batch of expired seat-massage covers because you said it was a gold mine, and then we spent half a year practically giving them away on classified ads?” I asked gently.
Pavel jerked. His hand, which had been elegantly spinning the glass, trembled, and a drop of red wine splashed directly onto the pristine lapel of his “executive” blazer. He grabbed a napkin and started rubbing frantically, only spreading the stain wider. In that moment he looked like an inflatable goose in a water park that had suddenly run into a nail.
“That was market analysis!” he squeaked, losing his baritone entirely.
“Analysis,” I agreed. “Raisa Sergeyevna, the way you’ve already disposed of Aunt Zina’s apartment is truly impressive. There’s just one small problem. Under the law—specifically Article 36 of the Family Code of the Russian Federation—property received by one spouse during marriage as a gift or inheritance remains that spouse’s personal property. It is not divided in a divorce and is not considered jointly acquired property.”
A heavy silence fell over the table. Only Nikolai Petrovich gave an approving grunt—he liked it when things were settled by law, especially if the law saved him from having to make decisions himself.
“Ira! What are you saying? Divorce? What divorce?” my mother-in-law cried, throwing up her hands as blotches of red spread over her cheeks. “Why are you bringing up legal codes? We’re family! Everything is shared! Pashenka brings his salary home, he provides for you while you sit there shuffling your papers!”
I work as a chief accountant. My salary is about three times higher than Pavel’s, but in Raisa Sergeyevna’s mythology I was a poor orphan her noble family had taken in out of charity. I never argued. I found it amusing to watch my husband buy himself expensive watches with my bonuses while telling his mother tales about his “successful deals.”
“Exactly!” Oksana jumped in, putting down her fork. “My business plan is already in motion! Franchise, scaling, growth! You just don’t understand how money flows work! I already have a waiting list of VIP clients!”
“Oksana, money flow is wonderful,” I said, looking at her sweetly. “But how exactly are you planning to open a franchise when you don’t even have a sole proprietorship registered, and your personal accounts have been frozen by court officers over unpaid utility bills?”
Oksana exhaled sharply. Her hand, reaching for the bread, knocked into the salt shaker. A beautiful white waterfall of salt spilled directly into the herring salad. My sister-in-law froze with her mouth open like a bad provincial actress who had forgotten her lines on opening night.
“That’s… that’s temporary!” she finally blurted out. “A banking error!”
“Of course,” I nodded peacefully. “Banks always make mistakes in ways that affect only your electricity bill.”
Pavel, having finally ruined his blazer beyond repair—the stain had now turned into a giant pink smear—decided it was time to take the situation in hand like a man. He straightened up, puffed out his cheeks, and slammed his fist on the table.
“That’s enough, ladies, stop the marketplace chatter!” he barked, trying to recover his alpha-male image. “I’m the head of this family, and I make the decisions. Ira, Oksana is right. We’ll sell the apartment. The money will go into my account so it stays safe. I’ll personally allocate the necessary amount to my sister. End of discussion.”
Oksana smiled in triumph. My mother-in-law proudly lifted her chin—there he was, her eagle, proof she had raised a real man. My father-in-law instinctively shrank into his shoulders.
My sister-in-law had dared to suggest dividing up my inheritance. I looked at my husband and said:
“Only on one condition.”
Pavel gave a condescending little chuckle, clearly expecting me to demand a fur coat or a trip to Turkey in exchange for two million Moscow rubles.
“I’m listening, my love.”
“We can sell Aunt Zina’s apartment and give Oksana the money on the very same day,” I said quietly, enunciating every word, “that you, Pasha, right now, in front of your mother, pull three credit cards out of that fashionable man-bag of yours. The very same cards you used for your ‘business expenses’ in restaurants and for buying that burgundy blazer. Then the three of us can sit down with a calculator and figure out exactly how many hundreds of thousands from my salary went to covering your minimum payments over the last year so the debt collectors wouldn’t come after you.”
Pavel’s face turned the same shade as his ruined lapel.
“And one more thing,” I continued before anyone could recover. “Raisa Sergeyevna, since everything is supposedly shared in this family, then tomorrow let’s transfer your summer cottage into my name. It’s irrational for you to keep it when all you do there is grow radishes. I could turn it into a holiday retreat. We’re relatives, after all. I say that as your son’s wife.”
Nikolai Petrovich suddenly let out a loud, heartfelt hiccup and murmured, “Well… this really got out of hand.”
Raisa Sergeyevna was gasping for air. Oksana’s triumphant smile had slid halfway down to her neckline. Pavel sat staring at the pink stain on his jacket while a fine sheen of sweat gathered on the forehead of the perfect top manager.
“How… how dare you speak to your husband like that?” my mother-in-law finally managed. “He’ll leave you! He’ll leave you with nothing!”
“Out of my apartment?” I asked in genuine surprise. “With my money? Raisa Sergeyevna, if Pasha leaves, the only thing I’ll be left with is the chance to finally buy decent cheese instead of the discount kind, just because the alpha male has to keep paying for gas.”
I stood up from the table, gathered the empty plates, and carried them to the sink.
“The tea’s gone cold,” I said calmly over my shoulder. “If anyone wants more, the kettle’s on the stove. And as for the inheritance, the matter is closed. I’ll be renting out Aunt Zina’s apartment. The money will go into my personal savings account.”
The evening ended remarkably quickly. Oksana suddenly remembered she urgently had to go do someone’s eyelashes. Raisa Sergeyevna claimed her blood pressure was acting up. Pavel spent the rest of the night silently fixing the bathroom faucet that had been leaking for six months.
I stood by the window, looking out at the evening lights of Moscow, and smiled. Being a smart, independent woman in Russia doesn’t mean shouting the loudest. It means knowing the Family Code by heart—and taking out a calculator at exactly the right moment.