Lyubov Ivanovna stood in front of her daughter-in-law’s door, straightening the collar of her expensive coat and arranging her face into an expression of noble grief. In her eyes—carefully outlined with eyeliner—burned the resolve of someone used to getting her way at any cost. Sixty-three years of life had taught her many things, but the main lesson was this: the whole world was supposed to revolve around her, the way planets circle the sun.
Only a year earlier, she had found “marital happiness” with Valentin Ivanovich—a patient, accommodating man who somehow managed to endure her temperament. So many years had passed since her divorce from her first husband that she had nearly forgotten the taste of domestic comfort and a man’s attention. But this morning everything collapsed. Valentin Ivanovich had dared to contradict her, and now—proud and unyielding—she was searching for a new place to take shelter.
The door opened, and Olga appeared in the doorway—a slim woman in her early thirties, with tired eyes and hair pulled into a simple bun. She wore an ordinary house robe, and in her hands was a towel she was using to dry her wet palms.
“Hello, Olechka,” her mother-in-law’s voice sounded theatrical, with those metallic notes polished by years in leadership roles. “I came to see you. Thought I’d drop by, check how you and my son are living, and how the grandson is growing.”
Olga silently let Lyubov Ivanovna into the apartment. The cramped entryway smelled of borscht and children’s toys. A plain coat rack hung on the wall, and a worn rug lay on the floor. Lyubov Ivanovna surveyed it all with a disdainful look, as if assessing the property of an employee who had failed her.
“Hello, Lyubov Ivanovna,” Olga replied evenly, helping her remove her coat. “Come in if it’s something important. I only ran home for lunch—I’ve got about twenty minutes left. Would you like to eat?”
Lyubov Ivanovna was already taking off her shoes, placing her polished heels neatly in a straight line, as if measured by a ruler.
“Lunch is fine—but later. Right now, we’re talking business,” Lyubov Ivanovna said, pausing to savor her moment. “So, my dear, you’re going to vacate that apartment your parents left you. Get the tenants out. From now on, I’ll be living there.”
Olga froze. The towel slipped from her hands and fell to the floor. Surprise flickered in her eyes, then instantly sharpened into caution.
“What… are you saying?” she asked quietly.
“Exactly what you heard, sweetheart,” Lyubov Ivanovna replied, tipping her head back as if presenting the proud profile she once flaunted. “There’s no room for me here in your little two-bedroom anyway. And Valentin Ivanovich and I…” She took a loaded pause. “Well, I left him myself.”
“Oh, I see,” Olga narrowed her eyes, steel creeping into her voice. “So you’re the one who left? Funny—I figured Valentin Ivanovich finally kicked you out. The poor man couldn’t take it anymore. Which is why you’re now trying to claim my apartment.”
“No one kicked me out!” her mother-in-law snapped, red blotches blooming on her cheeks. “Don’t twist my words! We simply decided it would be better to live on opposite sides of the city. You know I’m a proud woman—I’m not going to humiliate myself. If I want to leave, I leave. And I did.”
“Alright, understood,” Olga bent down and picked up the towel. “Then why don’t you go to your own place?”
It was a perfectly reasonable question, but Lyubov Ivanovna ignored it. She straightened to her full height and spoke in the tone of someone who expected obedience:
“I’m speaking plain Russian: clear out that apartment. I’m going to live there. There’s no point renting it to strangers. I have nowhere to stay right now.”
Olga stayed silent for a beat. She knew that manner well—the unyielding voice, the parade-marshal stare. Lyubov Ivanovna had polished that habit of putting people in their place during her years as a manager at a municipal services office. But Olga wasn’t easily intimidated. If she’d shown weakness back when she and Igor first got married, her mother-in-law would have gladly planted herself in Olga’s life—and stayed there forever.
Olga looked at her, and then, suddenly, smiled—the kind of smile that never promised anything good.
“Then here’s the situation, Lyubov Ivanovna,” Olga said softly, almost sweetly. “The tenants paid for a full year in advance. Before you move in, you’ll have to return every ruble and also pay the penalty for breaking the agreement early. If you sort that out, then by all means—move in and enjoy. I won’t stop you.”
Lyubov Ivanovna went pale. A flash of panic crossed her face—quickly masked, but not quickly enough.
“What money? What penalty?”
“Well, those people living in my apartment aren’t at fault because you suddenly decided to relocate,” Olga replied innocently, blinking as if she couldn’t imagine why this was complicated. “They have children too. Yes, it’s a large sum. But what can I do? And I’m not paying them out of my pocket—we already spent that money.”
“Where am I supposed to get that kind of money right now?” her mother-in-law protested, dramatically flinging her hands.
“Well, if that’s the case, then the train station it is—if you truly have nowhere else to go,” Olga shrugged philosophically. “Or go back to Valentin Ivanovich. I don’t know what happened between you, but I’m sure there’s always a chance to make peace. Oh—and I almost forgot. There’s a third option: our balcony. Only as a last resort, though. It’s pretty cold out there, but fine—I’ll even gift you a sleeping bag.”
Her mother-in-law stared, stunned by the sheer, logical audacity of it. The situation was clearly slipping out of her control. Her chest tightened—the same painful squeeze she always felt whenever the world refused to bend to her will.
“Are you… seriously saying all of this?” she forced out.
“Completely,” Olga confirmed with a bright, polite smile. “I’m not stingy. I’m willing to help however I can. And it’s a great sleeping bag—warm, down-filled. Igor took it ice-fishing last winter. It’s been sitting in the closet ever since.”
Lyubov Ivanovna lowered herself onto the small hallway couch and pressed a hand to her chest. Nothing was happening the way she’d imagined. Her mind flashed with fragments—her own apartment, mortgaged to finance an overseas vacation; Valentin Ivanovich refusing to “support” her; and what she was supposed to do next.
“You shameless girl! Shameless, Olga! And how dare you speak to your elders like that?”
“And how do elders speak to me?” Olga fired back immediately. “They don’t seem to hold back at all.”
Just then, the front door opened, and Igor appeared—tall, around thirty-five, kind-eyed but tired. Seeing his mother in mild shock and his wife in full battle mode, he looked genuinely surprised.
“Mom? What are you doing here? We usually couldn’t drag you to our place with a rope.”
“Well, my son,” his mother instantly latched onto him, trying to pull him onto her side, “I came with a problem, and your shameless wife is throwing me out!”
Igor looked at Olga, confused.
“Olya… is that true?”
“Yes, it’s true—unfortunately, it’s a very real and very strange truth,” Olga said calmly. “Your mother is insisting on moving into the apartment my parents left me. It’s rented out, and she doesn’t have the money to remove the tenants. So I offered her your old sleeping bag and the balcony. If that doesn’t work—then the station. Or, finally, Valentin Ivanovich. By the way, Mom refuses to go back to her own apartment and won’t say why.”
Igor blinked, processing, then muttered:
“Mom… this is all really… odd.”
“And whose side are you on, son?” Lyubov Ivanovna flared.
“I’m on the side of dinner,” Igor shrugged. “It’s easier to solve problems on a full stomach.”
Lyubov Ivanovna exhaled loudly and declared:
“Fine! But I’m not leaving that easily. You have to help me solve my problem.”
“That’s your right,” Olga said good-naturedly. “I can pour you tea. And lunch is still on the table.”
Half an hour later, Lyubov Ivanovna sat in the kitchen, staring into a mug and gloomily rethinking her life. The small kitchen was cozy in its plainness: a floral oilcloth table cover, an old refrigerator decorated with children’s drawings, and a geranium pot on the windowsill. It was a stark contrast to her own place with expensive furniture and crystal chandeliers.
She understood her plan to seize her daughter-in-law’s apartment had failed spectacularly. But Lyubov Ivanovna wasn’t Lyubov Ivanovna if she gave up easily. She stayed stubbornly at the table until evening, waiting for Igor and Olga to come back from work—drinking through every type of tea they had: black, green, even herbal, which she normally disliked.
Finally, the whole family was home again. And with them came her grandson, Sasha—an eight-year-old with lively eyes and perpetually messy hair. He was the only one genuinely happy to see her.
“Grandma!” he shouted, throwing his arms around her neck. “What are you doing here? Are you moving in with us?”
While Lyubov Ivanovna entertained her grandson with stories and toys, Olga pulled Igor into another room.
“Igor, I don’t like any of this,” Olga said quietly. “Do you happen to have Valentin Ivanovich’s number?”
“I do. Why?”
“Then call him. We need to resolve this. We’re not sending your mom to the train station. And the balcony thing—I said that out of anger.”
So Igor called Valentin Ivanovich.
“Hello, Valentin Ivanovich. You haven’t happened to lose your wife, have you?”
“Looks like it,” the man answered, sounding exhausted. “We had a massive fight this morning. She put her apartment up as collateral—wants to go vacation abroad. And of course I told her no. It’s too late to undo it now—she’ll be hit with serious interest. And she assumed I’d be the one paying off the loan. Naturally, I refused. So she ran off. Is she with you?”
“Yes. She’s looking for somewhere to stay.”
“Alright. I’m coming over.”
When Valentin Ivanovich arrived—short, gray-haired, wearing a simple coat and scuffed boots—Lyubov Ivanovna greeted him with a furious stare.
“Valentin! What are you doing here?”
“Lyuba, let’s go home. Enough with the theatrics,” he said, reaching for her hand. She jerked away.
“No! I thought you’d do anything for me—and you backed out over something so small!”
Lyubov Ivanovna was already preparing for another dramatic scene, sure everyone would start begging and persuading her. But her son shattered her script.
“I’ve already called a taxi,” Igor said firmly. “Valentin Ivanovich, take her home. Otherwise she’ll really end up at the station.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” Lyubov Ivanovna tried to launch Act One.
“Then if she won’t go home, drop her at the train station,” Igor said flatly. “Sounds like that’s what she wants.”
And that was the moment Lyubov Ivanovna understood: the jokes were over. No one was going to coax her, indulge her, or play along anymore. In her son’s eyes she saw a kind of resolve she’d never noticed before. And Valentin Ivanovich looked at her with sadness—but without his old softness.
“Fine. Take me wherever you want, you shameless people,” she muttered, feeling something crack inside her.
“Valentin Ivanovich,” Olga said as she walked them to the door, “don’t let her out of your sight anymore. She’s like a child.”
When the door closed, the apartment fell quiet. Igor put an arm around Olga’s shoulders, and they stood together in the hallway without speaking. Behind the wall came the sound of children’s laughter—Sasha was playing in his room, unaware of adult drama.
“Do you think we did the right thing?” Igor asked softly.
“What else could we do?” Olga answered. “Sometimes you have to be tough so people understand boundaries.”
Outside, a taxi door slammed. Igor went to the window. Down below, Valentin Ivanovich carefully helped Lyubov Ivanovna into the car. She was still talking passionately, waving her hands, and he listened patiently, nodding now and then.
“Maybe she’ll come to her senses,” Igor said, stepping away from the window. “And if not… then so be it. Everyone chooses their own path.”