Two suitcases were standing in the hallway. One was black, huge, and on wheels. The other was pink, smaller, with an airline sticker on the side.
Olga stopped in the doorway, keys in hand. The inspection at the factory was postponed until Monday, so she was let off at three o’clock. She had planned to come home, take off her shoes, relax in silence for half an hour, and then start making dinner.
Music was coming from her son’s room.
Olga placed her bag on the table and walked down the corridor. Artem’s door was wide open. On the bed, there was a pile of dresses, jeans, and sweaters. The closet doors stood open. In front of the closet, with headphones on and dancing a little, was Darya, hanging blouses on hangers.
Olga paused at the doorway. Darya turned around and took out one earbud.
“Oh, hi, Aunt Olga. You’re home early.”
“Dasha? You… what are you doing here?”
“What do you mean? I’m living here.” Darya raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Didn’t Dad tell you?”
“No. He didn’t say anything.”
“Well, I guess he will,” Darya shrugged and put her earbud back in.
Olga went back to the kitchen, sat down, and called her husband. Roman didn’t pick up. He called her back twenty minutes later, by which point she had already drunk a glass of water and stared out the window.
“Olya, I’m at the site, it’s not a good time. I’ll explain everything this evening.”
“Roma, your daughter is in Artem’s room unpacking her things.”
“Yes, I know. Tonight, okay? I’ll come home and we’ll talk.”
Roman came home around eight. By that time, Darya had already had dinner—she found some sausages in the fridge, left the frying pan in the sink, and went to her room. Roman went straight to the kitchen and closed the door behind him.
“Olya, don’t be upset. It just happened. Dasha and Vera had a big fight. Her mother kicked her out. She’s got nowhere to go. What was I supposed to do, leave my kid out on the street? She’s working at a salon, but she can’t afford her own place just yet.”
“Your kid is twenty-two years old.”
“Twenty-two, yeah. But she’s still my daughter.” Roman sat across from her. “It’s just temporary—a month, maybe two. She’ll find a place and move out.”
“Roma, why didn’t you ask me first?”
“I meant to. She called me at lunch, crying. I gave her the keys so she could drop her stuff off. I thought I’d tell you tonight.”
“The keys to my apartment.”
Roman winced.
“Olya, come on. Our apartment.”
Olga stayed silent. She didn’t want to start this conversation that same evening, especially knowing Darya was just in the other room.
The apartment belonged to her. Fourteen years ago, Olga bought the three-room place in a brick building by the park, back when she was still married to Artem’s father. She paid for it with the money from selling her parents’ village house and her own mortgage. After the divorce, by the property settlement, the apartment stayed with Olga—her ex didn’t get it. Olga finished paying off the mortgage on her own. She made the last payment nine years ago, three years before she met Roman.
Roman moved in when they married, five years ago. He knew exactly whose apartment it was. He even spoke proudly about it: “My Olga made all this happen on her own.” He worked as a foreman for a construction company and didn’t have his own place. After their divorce, his ex-wife kept their one-bedroom, where she and Darya still lived.
Olga’s son, Artyom, was a second-year student in St. Petersburg. He only came home during holidays, New Year, and the summer. For most of the year, his room stood empty, but Olga didn’t touch anything in it. His posters were still on the wall, his books and game console left behind—he didn’t want to take it with him to the dorm.
The next day, Olga had a talk with Darya. She did it calmly, in the morning, while Roman was still at home.
“Dasha, I understand you’re in a difficult situation. You can stay for now. But let’s agree on this: you’ll look for a room or an apartment, and by the end of the month, you’ll move out. Okay? This is my son’s room. He’ll be home on break in January.”
“Of course, Aunt Olga,” Darya said easily, spreading butter on her bread. “I’m not here forever. I’m already checking the listings.”
A week later, the closet in the hallway—where Olga kept her winter coats and a fur coat in a garment bag—no longer had any of her things. The coats and fur coat had been moved to the enclosed balcony, bundled up in bags. The closet was now filled with Darya’s jackets, raincoats, and down coats. Boxes of Darya’s shoes lined the shelves in Artyom’s room. Artyom’s books were stacked on the floor by the window.
“Dasha,” Olga stood in the doorway of the room. “Why are my coats on the balcony?”
“Where else am I supposed to put my things? Your closet was practically empty. Besides, you only wear one coat in winter.”
“That’s my closet.”
“Come on, Aunt Olga, don’t worry. It’s not forever. You’ll hang your things back when I leave.”
“And Artyom’s books are on the floor.”
“Well, I needed the shelves,” Darya replied with a hurt look. “You talk as if I’m stealing something. This is dad’s house too. I’m not a stranger here.”
Olga wanted to respond, but stayed silent. That evening, she mentioned it to Roman. Roman sighed.
“Olga, just be patient for a little while. She’s just a girl. She’s having a hard time, she had a fight with her mother. She wants to feel like she has her own space. Why does it matter about the coats?”
“Roma, she was supposed to find a place by the end of the month. There’s only a week left. Is she even looking?”
“She is, she is. I asked her.”
A few days later, Darya started bringing Stanislav over.
Stanislav was twenty-four. Tall and skinny, always in stretched-out sweatshirts, and said he ‘worked remotely’—though Olga never did figure out where that was exactly. He’d turn up in the evenings, around seven, and would leave closer to midnight. Sometimes, he didn’t leave at all. In the mornings, Olga would get up and find the sink full of dishes: plates with dried ketchup, a frying pan, a pot from pasta, four mugs. One morning, she even found a strange man’s razor in the bathroom.
“Dasha,” she said at breakfast, “is Stanislav spending the night here?”
“Well, sometimes. Why?”
“Because this is my apartment, and I haven’t given permission for your boyfriend to be living here.”
“Aunt Olga, he’s not living here. He just stays over sometimes. It’s late and he lives far away.” Darya bit into her sandwich. “By the way, my room is cramped. Artyom’s closet is in there and there’s hardly any space. But your big room—the only thing in there is the TV. Maybe I could move in there? You and dad are fine in the bedroom. In the big room, I could have a proper table and a real closet.”
Olga set her spoon down.
“Dasha, let me remind you. You were supposed to move out by the end of the month. There are only three days left.”
— Well, I still haven’t found anything yet. Prices are so crazy right now, you know that.
That evening, Roman told his wife the same thing he always did:
— Olya, just be patient. She’s my only one. I barely saw her while she was growing up—Vera wouldn’t allow it. Let me at least be her father now.
Olga looked at her husband and could see he was being sincere. He genuinely felt guilty toward his daughter. Olga understood that. What she didn’t understand was why her apartment had to be the price for his guilt.
A week later, on Thursday, Olga came home from work a bit early. The door to Artyom’s room was ajar. She could hear Darya and Stanislav talking inside. As Olga took off her shoes in the hallway and was about to head to the kitchen, she heard her name.
— …and Dad will move Aunt Olya’s wardrobe out to the balcony, — Darya was saying. — There’s plenty of room there. Then your computer can go here by the window. The light is great.
— And where will the desk go? — Stanislav asked.
— We’ll buy a decent desk. Dad will give us money. He sent me twenty thousand last month, he’ll give more. Later, when we move into the big room, we’ll set up everything completely differently.
— But what if your aunt doesn’t let us?
— Where could she go? — Darya laughed. — Dad will talk her into it. He always does. Besides, my mom will never let me come back home. And your grandma won’t take you back either—she’s sick of you. So that’s it. We’re staying here.
Olga stood in the hallway, one shoe in her hand, staring at the half-open door. So, no one was planning to move out. Not now, not in a month. Everything was already decided: the wardrobe to the balcony, the computer by the window, the big room later. And Roman would “talk her into” it.
She put her shoe back on and quietly left the apartment. She walked around the park twice before returning, this time slamming the door loudly.
On Saturday morning, Olga knocked on Artyom’s room door.
— Dasha, could you come out, please? We need to talk.
Darya came out in her pajamas, still sleepy. Roman was already in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. Olga waited until Darya sat down.
— Dasha, I want you to pack your things and find another place to live. The deadline was the end of the month, and that was a week ago.
— Aunt Olya, I’m still looking…
— No, you’re not. I heard you on Thursday telling Stanislav where to put his computer, and where Dad would move my wardrobe. And how you were all planning to move into the big room after. I want you out of here by tomorrow evening.
— Olya, wait, — Roman put down his cup. — Let’s not rush things. Let’s talk this through calmly.
— Roma, I am calm.
But Darya was already on her feet, her face turning blotchy red.
— You were eavesdropping, weren’t you? Of course you were! I knew it! You never wanted me here from the start! You just want to keep Dad to yourself! That’s all you care about!
— Dasha, sit down, — Roman said.
— I’m not sitting down! — Darya turned to Olga. — Who even are you? Dad lives here, so I have a right to this apartment too! — proclaimed her husband’s daughter from his first marriage.
Roman looked at his wife in confusion.
Olga sat at the table with her hands folded, never raising her voice.
“Dasha, your dad lives here because he’s my husband. This apartment belongs to me. I bought it fourteen years ago and paid off the mortgage all by myself. Your dad doesn’t own it. And you don’t automatically become an owner just because he lives here. You’re a guest. And your time as a guest is up.”
“Dad! Do you hear this?!”
“Dasha…” Roman began.
“Pack your things by this evening,” Olga repeated. “Today. Not tomorrow.”
Darya spun around and ran to her room. A minute later, a crash sounded from inside. Olga stood up and walked to the door. Darya was yanking clothes out of the closet, tossing them on the floor, into her open suitcase, and missing the suitcase completely.
“Greedy! You’re just greedy!” she screamed, not looking at Olga. “Can’t spare a few square meters! For your own husband’s daughter! I hope those square meters…”
She grabbed her phone and dialed someone.
“Mom! Mom, they’re kicking me out! Yes! Right now! That… Olga! Mom, please come over!”
Vera arrived an hour later. Olga heard her voice in the stairwell, even before the doorbell rang. Roman opened the door. Vera stood at the threshold, her coat wide open and a bag slung over her shoulder, and started talking right away, without coming in:
“Roma, what are you doing? Are you her father or not? Your daughter’s about to be out on the street, and you say nothing!”
“Vera, come in, let’s talk calmly…”
“I am not going anywhere!” Vera folded her arms. “You paid pennies in child support for twenty-two years, and now you can’t even give your child a roof over her head? Get your daughter a place to live, Roma. It’s your responsibility.”
Olga came out into the hallway.
“Hello, Vera.”
Vera looked her up and down.
“Ah, the lady of the house. Well, hello to you too.”
“Vera, Dasha has a very simple option. She can go back to you. To your apartment. You are her mother, after all.”
Vera laughed, short and harsh.
“Back to us? No way. I kicked her out myself. I’m not taking her back.”
“Why?” Roman asked.
“Ask her yourself.” Vera nodded toward the room. “Do you know what went on at my place? That Stasik of hers lived with us for six months. Six months! On my couch. Not a dime for utilities, not a dime for food. I’d get home from work at eight, and he’d be there in his underwear with a game controller. Dishes piled high, fridge empty. I told her: either he leaves, or both of you do. She chose him. That’s all there is to it.”
Roman was silent. It seemed this was the first time he’d heard that version of the story.
“So, Roma,” Vera went on, “now it’s your turn. I took care of her for twenty-two years. Let her live with her father now. That’s your job too.”
Olga suddenly realized that Vera hadn’t come to defend her daughter. Vera came to make sure her daughter didn’t come back to her.
Darya came out of her room, phone in hand.
“Dad. Whose side are you on? Tell me straight. Mine or hers?”
“Dasha, I’m not on anyone’s…”
“No, say it outright!”
Roman turned to his wife. His face was tired and angry.
“Olya, do you realize what you’re doing? You’re fighting with my kid. Over what? Because of a closet?”
“Roma, your child is twenty-two years old. She works as an administrator in a beauty salon. She earns a salary. And this is my apartment. You don’t get to make decisions about it.”
“Yeah, I know I don’t get to decide! You’ve been telling me that for five years!”
“I have never said that to you. You said it yourself when you moved in here.”
He fell silent. Olga continued in a lower voice:
“I’m not stopping you from helping your daughter. You can support her with money. Rent her a room. Pay for the first month, the second, as many as you want. It’s your money, you decide. But you will never move anyone in here again without my agreement. Not her, not her boyfriend, not anyone else.”
“You know,” Roman spread his hands, “I thought that at least in a family, a home should feel shared. Not just on paper, but in the real, human sense.”
“That’s exactly why, Roma, I didn’t make it shared on paper,” Olga said.
Roman blushed, pulled out his phone from his pocket, and dialed his brother.
“Oleg. Hey. Can you talk? We’ve got a situation… Okay, I’ll put you on speaker. Olga is kicking Dasha out.”
Oleg’s voice sounded hoarse from the speaker, with a compressor humming in the background. Oleg ran an auto repair shop on the edge of town and worked weekends.
“She’s kicking her out? From where?”
“From the apartment. Dasha was living with us after a fight with Vera.”
“How long has she been there?”
“About a month and a half.”
“And how old is Dasha now? Twenty-two?” Oleg paused. “Rom, is she working?”
“She’s working. At a salon.”
“Then she should rent her own place.” Oleg sneezed loudly. “Rom, when I was twenty-two, I was living in a factory dorm, on the top bunk. And I was fine. Grew up just fine. Why do you have to keep supporting her? She’s a grown woman. Olga’s apartment—Olga makes the rules.”
“Uncle Oleg!” Darya shouted into the phone. “You don’t know anything! You’re always taking someone else’s side!”
“Dasha, I’m on the side of common sense,” said Oleg. “Rom, I’m at work, let’s talk again tonight.”
He hung up. Darya tossed the phone onto the couch.
Just then, the door to Artyom’s room opened. Stanislav came out into the hallway. He was wearing a jacket, had a backpack slung over one shoulder, and was holding a sports bag. Olga hadn’t even known he was in the apartment. Apparently, he had come the previous evening and stayed in the room through all the arguing.
“Dasha, I’m going,” he said, not looking at anyone.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. To my grandma’s.”
“But you said she wouldn’t let you in!”
“She’ll let me in. I’ll ask.” Stanislav shifted from foot to foot. “Dasha, I don’t need your family’s drama. I thought everything would be normal here, you said your dad was okay with it. But look at this mess.”
Vera, who had been standing in the hallway, snorted loudly.
“See? I told you, Dashka. I told you.”
Darya grabbed Stanislav’s sleeve.
“Stas, wait! Come with me to my mom’s! Mom, please? Just for a couple of days!”
“To my place?” Vera raised her eyebrows. “With him? No way.”
“Dasha, I’m not going to your mom’s,” Stanislav said quietly, freeing his sleeve. “We’ll talk later.”
He squeezed past Vera towards the elevator. The elevator doors closed. Darya stood in the hallway, watching him go.
The apartment became very quiet.
“Dasha,” Olga said. “Pack your things. Please.”
Darya looked at her. Then at her father. Roman lowered his eyes. Darya turned around and silently walked into her room.
She spent about two hours packing. Vera sat in the kitchen, drinking tea that no one had offered her, and sighed loudly. Roman helped his daughter zip up her suitcases. Then he carried them down to Vera’s car. Before leaving, Darya quietly put the key on the hallway table.
“Mom, it’s only for a couple of weeks,” Darya said in the elevator. “I’ll find something.”
“We’ll see,” Vera replied. “And don’t bring Stasik here again.”
“He left on his own! Didn’t you see that?!”
“I saw. It’s good he left.”
The elevator doors closed. Olga could still hear them arguing as they rode down to the first floor.
Roman came back half an hour later. He walked past his wife into the bedroom and shut the door.
For three days, he barely spoke. He left for work early, came back late, ate dinner in silence, and went straight to bed. Olga knew what he was waiting for. He wanted her to come to him, say she overreacted, say things could have been handled differently, that they should get Dasha back.
Olga didn’t go to him.
She put her coats and fur jacket back in the hallway closet. She put Artem’s books back on the shelves. She scrubbed the floor in her son’s room, where the suitcase wheels had left marks. She removed the sparkly bedspread Daria had forgotten from the bed.
On the fourth evening, Olga sat down across from her husband in the kitchen.
“Roma, let’s talk.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not going to apologize. And I won’t pretend everything was fine. I want you to decide something for yourself. Are you okay being married to a woman whose apartment you can’t control? If not, say so now.”
Roman was quiet for a long time, turning a fork in his hands.
“Is this an ultimatum?”
“It’s a question. I love you, Roma. I’m happy with you. But I’m not going to live in my own apartment with people being moved in behind my back. Not even your daughter. Even if it’s just for a month.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“I know. And I don’t mind you helping her. I told you: rent her a room, give her money. That’s fine. But I’m against you making decisions for me.”
Roman put the fork down.
“I called Oleg in the evening,” he said suddenly. “He told me I’m an idiot. That you’re right, and I’m not. That Dasha’s been playing me since the divorce, and I always feel guilty. And if I lose you over this, I’ll be twice the idiot.”
Olga didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want to lose you, Olya,” Roman said. “Alright. Here’s what we’ll do. No one moves in without you. Not Dasha, not Oleg, not anyone. If someone wants to stay, we decide together. If you say no, then it’s no.”
“Your family, my family,” Olga replied. “Artem too. If he wants to come with a girlfriend, I’ll ask you.”
Roman chuckled.
“It’s his room.”
“I’ll still ask you.”
Three weeks later, Daria argued with her mother again. This time, Roman later explained, it was because Vera refused to buy her a new phone. Daria slammed the door and left. She stayed with a friend for three days, then rented a room with a girl from the salon where she worked. Fifteen thousand rubles a month for a room for two, in an old Khrushchyovka on the opposite side of the city.
Roman paid the first month’s rent himself, from his salary. He asked Olga, and she said, “Of course.” From the second month, Daria started paying for the room by herself.
Father and daughter now met up on weekends at a café near her work. Roman would come back sometimes cheerful, sometimes thoughtful. One day he told Olga:
“She bragged yesterday that she bought herself a jacket. With her own money. First time in her life, can you believe it?”
“I can,” Olga replied.
Daria didn’t visit their apartment anymore. Not even to celebrate her father’s birthday. Roman invited her, but she just said she was busy. Olga wasn’t sure if it was resentment or shame. She never asked.
At the end of December, Roman went to the train station to pick up Artyom. That morning, Olga cleaned her son’s room, put on fresh sheets, and wiped down the posters on his walls. In the evening, when they walked into the hallway, Artyom dropped his backpack on the floor and hugged his mother so tightly her back cracked.
“Mom, I’m here for two weeks! Is that okay?” he said, laughing.
Roman was taking off his shoes when he suddenly paused.
“Olya,” he said seriously. “Artyom’s staying for two weeks. You don’t mind, do you?”
Olga looked at her husband. He stood in the hallway, one shoe in his hand, waiting for her answer.
“I don’t mind,” she said.
Artyom looked at both of them, confused.
“What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing,” Roman laughed, putting the shoe on the shelf. “Come on in. Your room’s ready.”
