Nastya took off her boots at the door and stood there in her favorite woolen sweater, gray and full of little pills but so beloved. The air smelled of fresh renovations, furniture dust, and just a hint of paint. The apartment—even if it was just another panel house—was her pride and joy. When her parents moved to Sochi for good, they signed the two-bedroom place over to her without fuss, just left the keys on the table: “Live here, honey, start your family nest. It’s about time you settled down with your husband.”
And settle in she did. She paid for all the renovations herself—repainted everything in light colors, hung up decent shelves in the bathroom, ordered a sliding-door wardrobe and a new kitchen. She even took vacation days to go shopping for materials with the contractor at Leroy Merlin. Her husband Ivan had promised to help, but was always too busy. Eventually, the whole “we live together” thing started to feel more like “he just comes here to sleep.”
The silence was broken by a knock on the door. Not a doorbell—an actual knock: firm, three quick raps. Nastya winced a little. It could only be one person.
“Hello, Galina Petrovna,” she said briskly as she opened the door.
“Hi there,” Ivan’s mother already had her shoes off at the entrance. “I’ve got some fresh cutlets with me. Fried them myself. Looks like you two are always busy, huh? My son’s losing weight—his cheeks are sinking in. I ask him, ‘What’s up with you?’ and he says, ‘Nastya’s always on her diets, making these weird green soups.’ That won’t do!”
Nastya stepped back in silence. She already knew what would come next: ‘I’ll just leave these here,’ ‘There’s a weird smell in your bathroom—don’t you think the pipes need replacing?’ and of course, ‘Can I hang out here for a bit? My TV’s acting up again, but your screen is so nice.’
It had only been three months since she and Ivan moved in. And now, after just one month, her mother-in-law had pretty much taken over half their apartment.
“Come on in,” Nastya said coolly, nodding toward the kitchen. “Your favorite couch is waiting.”
“Thanks, dear,” Galina Petrovna said, plopping down like it was her own chair. “Actually, I came for a reason. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Nastya tensed up. These “talks” always ended with someone needing something, or her being blamed for something else.
“Okay, I’m listening,” she said, taking a seat on a stool across from her.
“You and Vanya,” her mother-in-law began, narrowing her eyes slyly, “you’ve been together a long time, right?”
“This is our fifth year,” Nastya nodded, already feeling where this conversation was headed.
“But you’re still living… like this. Not serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Well, the apartment is yours, right? So my son is just living here ‘for free.’ I’m not asking for nothing, Nastya. As a mother, I care about him having everything too. Sure, your parents are generous leaving you the apartment, but really, it should be shared. You get what I mean?”
“It’s not shared. It’s mine. My parents legally gifted it only to me.”
“That’s a shame,” her mother-in-law snorted. “When my husband and I got our place, we registered it for both of us. Because a family is about being together. What you’ve got…well, it’s a strange kind of math.”
“I see,” Nastya stood up. “Are you suggesting I sign over part of the apartment to Vanya?”
“It’s not a hint. I’m being direct. That’s what’s fair. He lives here, works, helps out…”
“Helps out?” Nastya shot back. “He barely even takes out the trash half the time. He did nothing for the renovations. I did everything myself. He couldn’t even assemble the wardrobe—I had to hire someone to do that.”
— Well, you do like everything done “your way.” And besides, he doesn’t have time. He’s a busy man, always working.
— Sitting in the garage with his friends drinking beer counts as work now?
My mother-in-law sighed and stood up.
— Now you’re just being hurtful. To both Vanya and me. I came here to talk nicely, but you treat me like a stranger. Do you really want my son ending up with nothing, just in case?
— Just in case what? — Nastya’s voice grew colder. — This is my apartment. We don’t share any property. And I’m not about to change that. If you want, we can discuss it with a lawyer.
Galina Petrovna went quiet. Then she stepped closer, smiled as if the whole thing was just a joke, and said:
— You’re still young, Nastenka. You don’t understand. A man needs to feel like the head of the house. And you should be the lady at his side. Not the other way around. Everything’s upside down with you two.
— Everything is fine with us. At least until you show up with your cutlets and complaints.
My mother-in-law narrowed her eyes.
— Aren’t you afraid of ending up alone?
Nastya spun around sharply.
— If I end up alone in MY apartment, that’ll still be better than living with someone who hides behind his mother.
— Well, we’ll see about that, — my mother-in-law muttered as she left the kitchen. — I’ll be back. And I won’t be alone.
The door slammed shut with a sound that felt like a challenge. Nastya was left alone in the kitchen. Just her and the cutlets, which didn’t even smell like meat. She stood by the sink, mechanically washing dishes. One phrase echoed in her mind:
“You’re still young, Nastenka.”
Honestly, that’s just plain rude at this point. This isn’t a mother-in-law, it’s like having an inspector who’s here to strip you of your rights to exist.
She tossed the cutlets straight into the trash without even tasting them. They all looked suspiciously identical. Like something from the store, just fried around the edges so she wouldn’t notice. “Homemade?” Yeah, right. More like microwaved. soulless, like in the army: perfectly measured portions, no salt.
The door slammed again — no knock, no bell. Someone slid a key into the lock, turned it, and in he walked.
Ivan.
— Hey, Nastyukha, — Ivan rumbled, dragging a sports bag behind him. — Did Mom drop by?
— Yeah, she dropped off her regards. And an ultimatum.
— Don’t exaggerate, — Ivan kicked off his sneakers and headed straight to the kitchen, grabbed a mug, poured himself the tea Nastya had already let get cold. He sat down, stretched, yawned. — Tough day?
— Tough day. Because of both of you, — Nastya wiped her hands on a towel, folded it neatly, and — rather surprisingly — sat down across from him. — Can you please explain why your mother acts like this is her home? This is my place. Nobody called, nobody asked. She just comes in, starts grilling me with questions. Criticism. Lectures. And now she’s demanding that I sign the apartment over to you.
Ivan chuckled loudly, even leaned back in his chair:
— Ha! Typical! You women always say it’s a demand. She was just making a suggestion. You know, since you and I are family, everything should be shared. What’s so tragic about that?
— The tragedy is that this is MINE! — Nastya slapped her hand on the table. — My apartment. My parents made sure it was in my name. You moved in here as my husband. That’s it! A guest. You and your mom. And now she thinks she can dictate how I should live? What I owe to whom?
— You’re talking like… like an accountant, seriously! Everything has to be on paper, everything by contract! What about love? What about trust?
— And where were you when I was painting the walls? Where was your trust when your mom decided, behind your back, who gets to live in this house and who gets kicked out?
Ivan stood up. He threw his mug into the sink—it clanged loudly but didn’t break. Nastya didn’t flinch.
— Have you lost your mind? She’s my mother! She just wants what’s best for us!
— She wants your registration! — Nastya jumped up. — Then she’ll file for the division of property. And then you two will throw me out like a stray dog from the porch!
— Nonsense! — Ivan grabbed his hair. — You’ve gone crazy over this apartment! Apartment, apartment! Go ahead, just hug it already, sleep with it if you like!
— And you? — she lifted her chin defiantly. — Whose side are you on? Me or your mother?
He fell silent. For a few seconds. But those seconds were enough for Nastya.
— I… I can’t choose. She’s my mother. And you… — he hesitated. — You’ve become too harsh. Not the same as before.
— The girl I used to be put up with things. She stayed quiet when you lounged with a beer while I mopped the floors. She even had tea with your mom and smiled. But that girl’s gone. I found myself—and I didn’t lose my apartment, thankfully. Not yet.
He stepped closer. For a second, she thought he might hit her. But he just hovered over her, close enough for her to smell the mix of tobacco and mint—his go-to gum after a smoke in the garage.
— You know, you’ve turned into your mother. Everything’s about ‘me,’ everything’s ‘I’ll do it myself,’ and ‘you mean nothing to me.’ Well, then you’ll be alone. Alone—with that apartment of yours.
— Better alone than with you two.
He took a step back. His eyes were no longer angry—just empty. Tired.
— Mom says you’ve always been selfish, ever since you were a kid. Now I see she wasn’t lying.
Ivan headed for the hallway, grabbed his jacket and bag. But before he left, he turned around:
— You think you’re strong? You’re just scared. Scared to live alone. Scared to be without us. We’ll see how you feel in a month, Nastenka.
— In a month, maybe I’ll start a new life, — she tossed at his back. — No slippers in the hallway. No mom’s meatballs. And no you.
He slammed the door so hard that a bottle of perfume fell off the shelf in the hallway. Nastya didn’t even move. She just sat down. And for the first time in a long time—she cried.
Her tears weren’t out of hurt. It was rage. And the realization of how much she’d allowed him—and how little he appreciated it.
The morning began with silence. No phone calls, no footsteps behind the door, no jingling keys. Just… emptiness.
Nastya got up late, without an alarm. With no reason to wake up. The bedroom door was left ajar, like in those movies where a woman is alone—beautiful, broken, red-eyed, with oatmeal in the microwave she won’t eat anyway.
Outside, the June rain was drizzling—a nasty, sticky kind. Like words people say not to you, but just to spite you.
She fell in love with her apartment all over again. Quiet, calm, smelling of coffee and vanilla. Just like it used to, before slippers and socks under the sofa and phrases like:
“That’s how we do it at home. Mom does it this way.”
For the first time in a month, she even turned on some music. Quietly. So the walls wouldn’t get scared that someone was about to come in again.
But the person who showed up was Galina Petrovna.
No doorbell. Just used her key. As if they’d already erected a monument for her here.
“Aha! And here I was wondering why it was so quiet! I thought, either you were dead or you finally saw sense,” Galina Petrovna burst into the hallway as if it were her own sauna. “Where’s my son?”
Nastya stood up from the table. No smile. No words.
“I’m asking you, where is Vanechka?” Galina Petrovna pressed, squinting.
“He left,” Nastya answered calmly. “I hope for good.”
“And what are you so happy about?” her mother-in-law snorted. “You think I’ll let you toss your family out like trash? Do you even know how much he’s given you?”
“Have you ever tried counting how much I’ve given him?” Nastya replied quietly but firmly. “Five years of my life. And now I’m supposed to say thank you that you two didn’t manage to steal my apartment?”
Galina Petrovna turned pale. Not from shame—more from the realization that maybe she really hadn’t managed to get the apartment.
“You don’t get it, Nastya,” she said, brushing aside a graying strand that kept falling into her eyes. “A woman must be wise. Keep the family together. Understand her husband. Not just throw everyone away and sit alone like a fool. What will you do then, when your hair turns gray? When your back starts aching? Who’ll take you to the doctor?”
“I will,” Nastya folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll take myself. Because I’m not my own enemy. And you and your son—you’re strangers to me now. You’re not family. You’re a mistake.”
“Oh, is that so?” Galina Petrovna stepped closer. “Now we’re the villains? Imagine that, such a saint! But when you went to Egypt on his dime—you were quiet! When you planted potatoes with us in the village—you posted photos! But now we talk about the apartment, suddenly we’re ‘toxic’?!”
Nastya smirked.
“Listen to yourself. Egypt? Potatoes? In five years, he’s never even bought me a gift. Just complained how everything’s too expensive. How I want too much. And you always backed him up. And yes, the apartment—IT’S MINE. My parents left it to me. Not your village.”
“Aaaah!” Galina Petrovna screamed. “May you spend your whole life alone, you hear? With that personality, only cockroaches will love you! I always told you—you’re not right for my Vanechka! He pitied you! And you threw him out like a stray puppy!”
“He left by himself,” Nastya raised her voice. “Because he’s always let you make every decision. He’s not a husband—he’s just a mama’s boy under your skirt.”
Galina Petrovna lunged toward the coat rack, grabbed Nastya’s jacket, pulled a set of keys from the pocket, and sorted through them for something.
“We’re taking these! So there’s no temptation to let just anyone in here,” she spat out coldly, proudly shoving the keys into her purse.
Nastya stepped forward. Stood face to face.
No yelling. Calm. Like a judge who’s already handed down a verdict.
“Give back the keys, Galina Petrovna. Or I’ll call the police. I have a complaint against you. You entered unlawfully, caused a scene, made threats. I’ll record everything. Believe me, I’ve learned how to protect myself.”
“Are you threatening me? Me? After everything I’ve done for you?”
“After everything—you’re nobody to me. And if you try this again, I’ll see you in court. No hysteria. No mercy.”
They stared at each other. Several seconds passed. Nastya didn’t blink.
Galina Petrovna broke. She lowered her gaze, then suddenly turned and headed for the door.
“Fine, go ahead and live, Nastya. Just don’t call me later. When you finally get it. And you will. Believe me.”
“I get it now,” Nastya replied. “No one has the right to invade my life. Not even those who think they do.”
The door slammed shut.
This time—for good.
Epilogue
An hour later, Nastya blocked access to her intercom, changed the entry code to her building, and by the next day she had ordered a new lock for her apartment. No one else had a key to her life anymore.
Her mom and dad came to visit a week later, bringing a cake, a bottle of cognac, and saying:
“So, sweetheart, you’ve finally grown up. Let’s live life together.”