“Get to the kitchen!” — My mother-in-law decided I was the servant in my own apartment. I had to remind the guests who the home actually belonged to
“Polina! Who serves meat like that? That looks like dog food, not proper portions!” Tamara Ilyinichna grabbed the serving tongs and decisively swept my carefully arranged French-style meat medallions into one messy pile on the platter. “This is how you do it! Mix it with the potatoes so it’s juicier. You put out three little pieces like that and the guests won’t even have anything to grab. And add sauce—lots of sauce on top. It’s dry!”
I watched her destroy two hours of my work right in front of me. The baked cheese crust cracked apart, mixing with the cheap mayonnaise she was generously squeezing straight from the packet over the fresh herbs.
Something inside me didn’t simply snap. It felt as though a steel spring had broken with a deafening crack.
“Tamara Ilyinichna,” I said in a low voice. “This dish is meant to be served in individual portions.”
My mother-in-law waved me away without even looking at me.
“Don’t teach me how to cook, girl. Seryozhenka, come help your wife carry this out before she falls asleep standing here. And the bread, Polina! I told you to slice it thinner, but once again you’ve hacked it into thick chunks.”
From the living room came the booming laughter of her “high-status friends” and the clinking of dishes.
The situation had gone far beyond absurdity a long time ago.
I had bought this spacious two-room apartment myself, two years before I even met Sergey. No one had helped me. I had managed it through strict saving and a few successful investments. This was my space, designed and arranged down to the smallest detail.
But after the wedding, Tamara Ilyinichna apparently decided that the stamp in her son’s passport automatically made her the owner of my square meters. As usual, Sergey hunched his shoulders, grabbed the ruined platter, and slipped sideways into the living room.
“Pol, don’t start,” he whispered as he passed me. “Mom just wants everything to feel more homely.”
I wiped my hands on a towel, counted to five, and followed him.
The table was buzzing with conversation.
“Oh, finally, food!” boomed a heavyset woman dressed in lurex, Larisa Sergeyevna. “We were starting to think the hostess had decided to put us all on a diet.”
“Toma, your apartment is certainly spacious,” another guest added, looking around at my walls, which were painted in a sophisticated shade of gray. “But this color… it feels like a hospital. A little gloomy. You should put up wallpaper with peonies. Beige wallpaper. You know, the kind with gold embossing?”
I froze.
Tamara Ilyinichna, pouring fruit drink into glasses, nodded approvingly.
“I’ve already looked at some, Galochka. Once the young couple gets properly settled and children come along, we’ll redo everything in a normal, cozy style. This minimalism is neither here nor there.”
It felt as though someone had poured ice water over me.
They were already planning renovations?
In my apartment?
I put the salad bowl on the table a little more sharply than necessary.
“Help yourselves,” I said, staring over their heads.
“Oh, Polina.” Tamara Ilyinichna frowned when she noticed me pulling out a chair. “Where do you think you’re squeezing yourself in? Can’t you see Larisa Sergeyevna doesn’t have enough room for her elbow? And we’re out of napkins. Go on, get to the kitchen! Bring another pack and put the kettle on. You can eat later, when the guests are finished. There’s barely enough room as it is, so there’s no need for you to crowd everyone.”
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Sergey stared down at his plate, diligently winding a piece of meat around his fork.
My mother-in-law’s friends looked at me with the lazy superiority of wealthy ladies whose careless maid had forgotten to serve dessert.
No tears.
No trembling hands.
Only cold, crystal-clear understanding. I straightened to my full height, walked over to the stereo system, and pressed the power button.
The cheerful music abruptly stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Larisa Sergeyevna drawled irritably.
I stepped into the middle of the room, directly beneath the chandelier.
“Tamara Ilyinichna,” I said clearly. “Please repeat what you just said. Where exactly am I supposed to go?”
“To the kitchen!” my mother-in-law barked, sensing that she was losing authority in front of her friends. “What, have you gone deaf? And turn the music back on! Show some respect for your elders!”
“No. You should show some respect for other people’s property. The banquet is over. I’m asking everyone to leave my home.”
“What do you mean, your home? Have you lost your mind?”
“This is my apartment. I bought it with my own money two years before the marriage. The ownership documents are in my name and are kept in the safe. Sergey has no claim to it, and you certainly don’t. I’ve tolerated this for long enough, but I never agreed to play the servant in my own home.”
The guests exchanged glances.
Someone stopped chewing.
“Toma, you told us you bought this apartment for your son…” “Galochka” muttered in confusion.
Dark red blotches spread across my mother-in-law’s face.
“How dare you! In front of everyone! You rude little brat! I’m your husband’s mother!” She jumped to her feet, knocking over a glass of wine onto the pale tablecloth. “Seryozha! Say something to her! Shut your wife up!”
Sergey looked at me.
There was panic in his eyes.
“Mom…” he managed. “Polina really is tired. And the apartment… well, it really is hers. Let’s not make a scene, okay?”
“Traitor!” my mother-in-law shrieked. “Spineless little henpecked fool! I did everything for you! Everything! And you let this… this woman throw us out?!”
“You have two minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. “Anyone who hasn’t gathered their things by then leaves without their coat. Your time starts now.”
Apparently blessed with a highly developed instinct for self-preservation, the women around the table began hurriedly standing up.
“Come on, Lara,” one of them whispered. “This has become awkward… Toma, honestly, you really went too far. You lied to us about everything…”
“Stop! Nobody is going anywhere!” my mother-in-law tried to command, but her little entourage was already jostling in the hallway.
A minute later, the front door slammed behind the last guest.
Tamara Ilyinichna, breathing heavily with fury, grabbed her handbag.
“You… you’ll regret this!” she hissed into my face. “I will never set foot here again! And you, son… stay here with your shrew!”
She stormed out of the apartment so violently that it seemed as though the walls themselves shook.
I remained standing in the middle of the wreckage.
Then I walked to the table, picked up my glass of wine, and took a sip.
“Pol…” Sergey jumped up from his chair and gave me a guilty smile. “You really showed them. But you didn’t have to be so harsh with Mom. She’s an older woman. Her blood pressure…”
“And you, darling, are now going to take a rag and some garbage bags and start cleaning this entire place from top to bottom.”
Sergey immediately sprang into action, clearly relieved that the storm seemed to have passed him by.
“Of course! I’ll clean everything! Right now. I’ll just call Mom first and calm her down.” He pulled out his phone and confidently pressed the call button. “Look, I’ll even put her on speaker so you can hear. She’ll have cooled down by now and apologize. She’s actually a wonderful woman, she just has a temper. You’ll see. She’ll understand everything.”
He gave me a triumphant look as the phone rang through the speaker.
Then came the click of the call connecting.
“Hello, Seryozha!” Tamara Ilyinichna’s voice contained no trace of remorse. Instead, it was full of cold, angry calculation. “Listen, don’t fall apart over there. The plan has changed. Since that hysterical woman decided to bare her teeth, we’ll do this the hard way. Do you remember where she keeps the documents for the apartment? I just spoke to a lawyer. He said that if we can prove the renovations were paid for with your money, we might be able to sue for a share on the grounds of jointly acquired improvements. You didn’t throw away those fake receipts for construction materials that Uncle Vanya and I made, did you? And tell her I’ll file for divorce on your behalf. Let the bitch run around trying to deal with that…”
The smile slid from Sergey’s face like melting ice cream.
He turned white and frantically jabbed at the screen, trying to end the call, but his hands were shaking so badly that the phone simply fell onto the carpet.
His mother’s voice continued from the floor, saying something about “stripping her of everything she owns.”
I stood there looking at the man with whom I had shared my bed and my meals for two years.
“Those fake receipts we made.”
“Sue for a share.”
So the circus with the guests had only been a test of my boundaries before an actual attempt to seize my property.
“Polina, it’s not what you think…” he croaked. “Mom is just… she’s emotional. I didn’t know anything about the receipts, honestly!”
I calmly finished my wine and set the glass on the table.
“Forget the cleaning, Seryozha.”
“Really?” A pathetic spark of hope flashed in his eyes.
“Really. Leave the dishes. Go to the bedroom.”
“To the bedroom?” He took a step toward me.
“Yes. Get your suitcase. You have ten minutes to pack your things. If you don’t finish in time, I’ll throw them out the window.”
“Polina, where am I supposed to go this late at night?”
“To your mother’s, Seryozha. To her ‘family home.’ And don’t forget to find those receipts. You’ll need them. You can use them to wipe each other’s tears when I file for divorce.”
I walked into the hallway, opened the front door wide, and blocked the latch so it couldn’t close.
Then I returned to the kitchen, poured myself another glass of wine, and sat down to wait.
The timer in my head counted down the final seconds of his presence in my life.
And with every passing second, it became easier to breathe.