“In marriage, everything should be fifty-fifty,” my mother-in-law declared, demanding that I transfer part of my apartment to her son.
“Either you transfer half of the apartment into my name tomorrow, or I pack my things and leave!” Andrey shouted.
His voice echoed through our freshly renovated living room.
He stood in front of me with his arms crossed, his face red with anger. He was clearly expecting me to panic. He probably imagined that I would cry, beg him not to leave, and promise to do whatever he wanted.
Instead, I quietly walked into the hallway, pulled his large sports bag from the top shelf of the wardrobe, and dropped it at his feet.
“Then leave,” I said calmly. “Just leave the keys on the cabinet.”
The confidence disappeared from his face instantly.
Three years earlier, Andrey had seemed like a completely different man. He was calm, attentive, dependable. At least, that was what I believed.
When we met, I was still paying off the mortgage on my apartment. Getting that place had cost me eight exhausting years of my life.
During the day, I worked as a senior accountant for a logistics company. In the evenings and on weekends, I took extra bookkeeping jobs. I prepared tax reports, balanced accounts, and accepted almost any work that would bring me closer to paying off the loan.
I rarely bought new clothes. I didn’t travel. I wore the same winter boots for years.
But by twenty-eight, I had something that mattered more to me than vacations or expensive clothes.
My own home.
When Andrey and I married, he moved in with me. He had never owned property. Until thirty, he had lived with his mother, Tamara Vasilyevna.
I never made him feel inferior because the apartment was mine. I wanted him to feel at home.
Unfortunately, his mother had other ideas.
About six months after the wedding, she came over without warning, as usual.
While drinking tea in our kitchen, she suddenly said:
“Diana, haven’t you thought about getting a bigger apartment? Once you have children, this place will be too small.”
“We’re comfortable here,” I replied. “And I’ve only just finished dealing with a huge mortgage. I don’t want another loan.”
Tamara Vasilyevna pursed her lips.
“It still isn’t right,” she said. “A man shouldn’t live in his wife’s apartment. Andryusha has no guarantees here. If something happens between you, you can throw him out with nothing.”
I laughed it off.
Andrey said nothing.
That should have warned me.
From that day on, his mother began bringing up the apartment constantly.
Whenever Andrey repaired something, she reminded him that he was “investing in someone else’s property.”
Whenever we discussed renovations, she asked what would happen to his money “if Diana decided to divorce him.”
The ironic part was that Andrey barely contributed to our household expenses.
I paid for utilities, groceries, internet, cleaning products, and most everyday necessities.
His salary went toward his car, lunches with colleagues, fuel, and his mother.
Tamara Vasilyevna always needed something.
A new microwave.
Expensive vitamins.
A health resort.
Medicine.
I didn’t interfere. I thought helping his mother was his choice.
But apparently, financial help wasn’t enough for her.
She wanted security for her son.
More specifically, she wanted my apartment.
Over the next few months, Andrey became increasingly irritated.
He suggested selling my apartment, adding his small savings, and buying a larger property together.
When I refused, he became angry.
“I want to live in OUR apartment, not YOUR apartment!” he shouted one evening.
The words sounded exactly like something his mother would say.
Eventually, the situation exploded.
I returned home exhausted after work and immediately noticed unfamiliar shoes in the hallway.
Tamara Vasilyevna was in my kitchen, cooking as though she owned the place.
Andrey sat silently at the table.
“Oh, you’re finally home,” she said. “Andryusha and I discussed everything and made a decision.”
I stared at her.
“You made a decision about what?”
“About the apartment.”
She explained that since I refused to sell it, I would simply transfer half of it to Andrey as a gift.
“You’re married,” she said firmly. “Everything should be fifty-fifty. He has invested in this apartment too. He replaced the electrical outlets!”
I almost laughed.
The outlets had been purchased with my money, and it had taken him months to replace them.
“I bought this apartment before marriage,” I replied. “I paid for it myself. I sacrificed years of my life to own it. I’m not transferring half of it to anyone.”
Her face turned red.
“You don’t love my son!”
Then Andrey finally stood up.
“Diana, Mom is right. If we’re a real family, there shouldn’t be ‘mine’ and ‘yours.’ Tomorrow we’ll go to a notary and settle this.”
I looked at him and suddenly felt as though I were staring at a stranger.
This was the man I had planned to have children with.
And now he was demanding half of something he had done nothing to earn.
I refused to argue.
I went to the bedroom and closed the door.
The following evening, Andrey came home furious.
Apparently, he had spent the day talking to his mother.
He didn’t even remove his jacket before announcing:
“Either you transfer half the apartment to me, or I leave.”
That was when I gave him the sports bag.
“You made your choice,” I said. “Pack.”
He stared at me in disbelief.
“You’re destroying our family over an apartment!”
“No,” I replied. “You’re destroying our family because you’re trying to take something that doesn’t belong to you.”
I gave him thirty minutes.
A few minutes later, I heard drawers opening and wardrobe doors slamming.
He packed loudly, clearly hoping I would come running after him.
I didn’t.
Eventually, he appeared in the kitchen with the bag over his shoulder.
“You chose your apartment over your husband,” he said dramatically.
“I chose myself.”
His face tightened.
“You’ll regret this. Who will want a divorced woman with your personality?”
I looked at him calmly.
“Don’t worry about my future. Leave the keys.”
Then he left.
For the first time in years, the apartment became completely silent.
And strangely, that silence felt wonderful.
Forty minutes later, my phone rang.
Tamara Vasilyevna.
She immediately started screaming.
“How could you throw your husband out?! He gave you everything!”
“Your son gave me an ultimatum,” I said. “He demanded half of my premarital property or threatened to leave. I refused. So he left.”
“A normal wife would think about her family!”
“A normal husband wouldn’t demand his wife’s property.”
She threatened court, divorce, compensation for renovations.
I told her to bring every receipt she could find.
Then I blocked her number.
I blocked Andrey too.
That night, I slept better than I had in years.
No snoring.
No fighting over the blanket.
No resentment.
The next morning, someone rang the doorbell.
It was Andrey.
He looked tired and embarrassed.
“Diana, please. We need to talk.”
“We already talked.”
“I was an idiot,” he said quickly. “It was Mom. She kept putting these ideas in my head. She pressured me.”
I listened silently.
“Let’s forget this happened,” he continued. “Let me come home. We can live like before.”
I opened the door slightly wider.
“No, Andrey. We can’t.”
“But I apologized!”
“You’re thirty years old. Your mother didn’t force you to threaten me. You made that choice yourself.”
He tried to interrupt, but I continued.
“Now you’re blaming her because you want to return to a comfortable home. But you showed me something important. You showed me that whenever your mother pressures you, you’re willing to turn against your own wife.”
His face went pale.
“This was just one mistake.”
“No. It changed how I see you.”
He stared at me helplessly.
“I don’t respect you anymore, Andrey. And without respect, there is no marriage.”
I stepped back.
“I’ll file for divorce next week.”
“Diana, wait. Let’s sit down and talk.”
“There’s nothing left to discuss.”
I closed the door.
The lock clicked.
For a few seconds, I stood silently in the hallway.
Then I smiled.
I walked into the kitchen and started making coffee.
And for the first time in a very long time, my apartment truly felt like home again.