— Sleep in the kitchen. The bedroom is for guests now, — her mother-in-law was making the bed, unaware that the locks had been changed that morning.
Marina was coming home from work, and even before she reached the building, she felt the familiar heaviness in her chest. Her mother-in-law had arrived three days earlier “to stay for a week,” and since then the apartment had stopped being a quiet refuge after a stressful workday.
Valentina Stepanovna appeared in their lives regularly, about once every two months. She lived in a neighboring town, in her own house, but considered it her duty to “look after Andryusha.” Andryusha, incidentally, was thirty-eight years old, worked as an engineer at a factory, and managed his life perfectly well. But to his mother, he had forever remained a little boy who needed to be protected from everything — especially from his wife.
Marina opened the door with her key. The hallway smelled of fried fish — her mother-in-law was cooking dinner. It might have been pleasant, if not for one thing: Valentina Stepanovna always cooked exactly what Marina disliked. In eight years of marriage, her mother-in-law had learned all her tastes and preferences very well, but she used that knowledge in a rather peculiar way.
Marina took off her shoes, hung up her jacket, and went into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law was standing at the stove, stirring something in a frying pan. She turned around and gave her daughter-in-law an appraising look.
“You’re late again. Andrey has been home for an hour already, sitting there hungry.”
“Good evening, Valentina Stepanovna. We were submitting the quarterly report at work.”
“Work is work, but a husband still needs to be fed. I spent my whole life working, keeping house, and raising Andryusha. And my husband never sat around hungry.”
Marina said nothing. She had no strength to argue. She went into the room where Andrey was watching television. He looked up at her with sympathy in his eyes — and helplessness at the same time. Her husband had long ago learned not to interfere in the confrontation between the two women, reasonably assuming that any word he said would be used against him.
“Hi,” Marina said, sitting down beside him on the sofa.
“Hi. Rough day?”
“Just an ordinary one.”
From the kitchen came her mother-in-law’s voice, calling them to the table. Dinner passed in tense silence, occasionally interrupted by Valentina Stepanovna’s comments about how one should properly keep house, raise children — which Marina and Andrey still did not have — and live in general.
After dinner, Marina was washing the dishes when her mother-in-law came right up to her and lowered her voice so her son would not hear from the room.
“My friends Nina and Tamara are coming tomorrow. We haven’t seen each other in a long time. We want to talk, remember our youth. They’ll spend a couple of nights with us.”
Marina almost dropped the plate in surprise.
“Valentina Stepanovna, but this is our apartment. You should have at least asked.”
“I am asking. Andryusha won’t mind. He’s known my friends since childhood.”
“Did you ask me?”
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips, which did not promise anything good.
“You, my dear, are not really concerned in this. The apartment is Andryusha’s, and I am his mother. I have the right to invite guests.”
Marina turned off the water and faced her mother-in-law.
“Valentina Stepanovna, the apartment is not Andryusha’s. It is mine. My grandmother left it to me, and I inherited it two years before the wedding. Have you forgotten?”
Her mother-in-law smirked.
“So what? Just papers. Andrey lives here, so it’s his too. And I am his mother, so I’m entitled. In short, the girls are coming tomorrow, and that’s final.”
With those words, she left the kitchen, leaving Marina bewildered. The conversation with Andrey that evening led nowhere. Her husband fidgeted, looked away, and muttered something about his mother being an elderly woman, that they needed to be more tolerant, and that the friends were coming for only a couple of days.
Marina went to bed with a heavy heart. She loved her husband, but sometimes it seemed to her that she had not married a grown man, but an attachment to his mother.
In the morning, Marina left for work earlier than usual so she would not have to run into her mother-in-law. All day she thought about the situation. Valentina Stepanovna’s friends — two lively retired women who had already stayed with them several times — knew how to turn the apartment into a thoroughfare. They talked loudly until late at night, looked into every cupboard without asking, commented on the order and cleanliness, and once Tamara had broken Marina’s favorite vase and had not even apologized.
After lunch, her friend Svetka called. They had been friends since their student days.
“Why do you sound so sour?” she asked after hearing Marina’s voice.
Marina told her about the situation with her mother-in-law.
“Listen, is that even legal? Inviting guests into someone else’s apartment without the owner’s permission?” Svetka was outraged.
“What legal? She thinks that since her son lives there, she has the right to everything.”
“And the apartment is definitely in your name?”
“Of course. It’s my grandmother’s inheritance. I have all the documents.”
“Then what’s the problem? You are the owner. You decide who lives in your apartment. And your mother-in-law can invite guests to her own home, to her own house.”
Marina fell silent in thought. Svetka was right. Over the years of marriage, she had somehow forgotten that this apartment was her property, her personal space, which she was not obliged to share with just anyone.
After work, Marina did not go straight home. She stopped by a hardware store and bought a new lock. Then she called a locksmith who installed doors and locks — Svetka had given her his number. The locksmith agreed to come the next morning.
At home, everything was as usual. Her mother-in-law was cooking in the kitchen, and Andrey was watching television. Marina had dinner and went to the bedroom early, saying she had a headache.
In the morning, Marina got up at six while everyone was still asleep. She quietly dressed, took her bag, and left the apartment. The locksmith was already waiting on the landing — a young man in work overalls. He changed the lock quickly, in half an hour. Marina paid him, took the new keys, and went down into the courtyard. There she sat on a bench and waited.
Around eight in the morning, Andrey came out of the entrance. He saw his wife on the bench and approached her in surprise.
“Why are you sitting here? I thought you were already at work.”
“Sit down,” Marina said. “We need to talk.”
Andrey sat beside her, clearly worried.
“I changed the lock on the apartment,” Marina said calmly. “Here’s your new key.”
She handed him the keyring.
“Why?” Andrey did not understand.
“Because your mother invited her friends to my apartment for several days without asking my permission. And last night, when you were already asleep, she came into the bedroom and told me that I would sleep in the kitchen because the bedroom was now for guests.”
“What?” Andrey’s eyes widened.
“Exactly. She was making our bed for her friends and said I needed to move to the little kitchen sofa.”
“She couldn’t have said that…”
“She could. And she did. Word for word: sleep in the kitchen, the bedroom is for guests now.”
Andrey fell silent, processing what he had heard. Marina saw the emotions changing on his face: disbelief, confusion, shame.
“I don’t know what to say,” he finally said.
“You don’t need to say anything. You need to choose. Your mother can live in her own house and invite anyone she wants there. My apartment is not a hotel for her friends.”
“Marina, but she is my mother…”
“I understand. But this is my apartment. And my bedroom. And I am not going to sleep in the kitchen to please your mother.”
Andrey was silent for a long time. Then he sighed heavily.
“What do you want me to do?…”
The continuation is just below in the first comment.
Marina was coming home from work, and as she approached the building, she already felt the familiar heaviness in her chest. Her mother-in-law had arrived three days earlier “to stay for a week,” and since then, the apartment had stopped being a quiet refuge after a stressful workday.
Valentina Stepanovna appeared in their lives regularly, about once every two months. She lived in a neighboring town, in her own house, but considered it her duty to “keep an eye on Andryusha.” Andryusha, for the record, was thirty-eight years old, worked as an engineer at a factory, and managed his life perfectly well. But to his mother, he would forever remain a little boy who needed to be protected from everything — especially from his wife.
Marina opened the door with her key. The hallway smelled of fried fish — her mother-in-law was making dinner. That might have been pleasant, if not for one thing: Valentina Stepanovna always cooked exactly what Marina disliked. In eight years of marriage, her mother-in-law had learned all her tastes and preferences perfectly well, but she used that knowledge in a very peculiar way.
Marina took off her shoes, hung up her jacket, and went into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law was standing at the stove, stirring something in a frying pan. She turned around and gave her daughter-in-law an appraising look.
“You’re late again. Andrey has been home for an hour already, sitting there hungry.”
“Good evening, Valentina Stepanovna. We were submitting the quarterly report at work.”
“Work is work, but a husband needs to be fed. I spent my whole life working, keeping house, and raising Andryusha. And my husband never sat around hungry.”
Marina said nothing. She had no strength to argue. She went into the room, where Andrey was watching television. He looked up at her, and his eyes showed both sympathy and helplessness. Her husband had long ago learned not to interfere in the standoff between the two women, reasonably assuming that any word from him would be used against him.
“Hi,” Marina said, sitting down beside him on the sofa.
“Hi. Rough day?”
“Normal.”
From the kitchen came her mother-in-law’s voice, calling them to the table. Dinner passed in tense silence, interrupted only from time to time by Valentina Stepanovna’s comments about how to run a household properly, raise children — which Marina and Andrey did not yet have — and, in general, how to live.
After dinner, Marina was washing the dishes when her mother-in-law came right up to her and lowered her voice so her son would not hear from the other room.
“My friends Nina and Tamara are coming tomorrow. We haven’t seen each other in ages. We want to chat, remember our youth. They’ll spend a couple of nights here.”
Marina was so taken aback she nearly dropped the plate.
“Valentina Stepanovna, this is our apartment. You should have at least asked.”
“I am asking. Andryusha won’t mind. He’s known my friends since childhood.”
“Did you ask me?”
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips, which did not promise anything good.
“And you, my dear, are actually not concerned here. The apartment is Andryusha’s, and I am his mother. I have the right to invite guests.”
Marina turned off the water and faced her mother-in-law.
“Valentina Stepanovna, the apartment is not Andryusha’s. The apartment is mine. My grandmother left it to me, and I entered into the inheritance two years before the wedding. Have you forgotten?”
Her mother-in-law smirked.
“Oh, those little papers. Andrey lives here, so it’s his too. And I’m his mother, so I’m entitled. In short, the girls are coming tomorrow, and that’s final.”
With those words, she left the kitchen, leaving Marina bewildered. Talking to Andrey that evening led nowhere. Her husband fidgeted, avoided her eyes, and muttered something about his mother being an elderly woman, that they needed to be more tolerant, and that her friends would only come for a couple of days.
Marina went to bed with a heavy heart. She loved her husband, but sometimes it seemed to her that she had not married a grown man, but an extension of his mother.
In the morning, Marina left for work earlier than usual so she would not run into her mother-in-law. All day she thought about the situation. Valentina Stepanovna’s friends — two lively retired women who had stayed with them several times before — knew how to turn the apartment into a thoroughfare. They talked loudly until late at night, looked inside every cupboard without asking, commented on the order and cleanliness, and once Tamara had broken Marina’s favorite vase and had not even apologized.
After lunch, her friend Svetka called. They had been friends since their student days.
“Why do you sound so gloomy?” she asked when she heard Marina’s voice.
Marina told her about the situation with her mother-in-law.
“Listen, is that even legal? Inviting guests into someone else’s apartment without the owner’s permission?” Svetka was outraged.
“What legal? She thinks that if her son lives here, then she has the right to everything.”
“But the apartment is definitely in your name?”
“Of course. It’s my grandmother’s inheritance. I have all the documents.”
“So what’s the problem? You’re the owner. You decide who gets to live in your apartment. And your mother-in-law can invite guests to her own house.”
Marina fell silent in thought. Svetka was right. Over the years of marriage, she had somehow forgotten that this apartment was her property, her personal space, which she was not obligated to share with just anyone.
After work, Marina did not go home. She stopped by a hardware store and bought a new lock. Then she called a handyman who installed doors and locks — Svetka had given her his number. The handyman agreed to come the next morning.
At home, everything was as usual. Her mother-in-law was cooking in the kitchen, and Andrey was watching television. Marina ate dinner and went to the bedroom early, saying she had a headache.
In the morning, Marina got up at six, while everyone was still asleep. She quietly dressed, took her bag, and left the apartment. The handyman was already waiting on the landing — a young man in work overalls. He changed the lock quickly, in half an hour. Marina paid him, received the new keys, and went down to the courtyard. There she sat on a bench and waited.
Around eight in the morning, Andrey came out of the entrance. He saw his wife on the bench and came over in surprise.
“Why are you sitting here? I thought you were already at work.”
“Sit down,” Marina said. “We need to talk.”
Andrey sat beside her, clearly alarmed.
“I changed the lock on the apartment,” Marina said calmly. “Here is your new key.”
She handed him a set of keys.
“Why?” Andrey did not understand.
“Because your mother invited her friends into my apartment for several days without asking my permission. And last night, after you had already fallen asleep, she came into the bedroom and told me I would sleep in the kitchen because the bedroom was now for guests.”
“What?” Andrey stared at her.
“Exactly. She was making up our bed for her friends and said I needed to move to the little sofa in the kitchen.”
“She couldn’t have said that…”
“She could. And she did. Word for word: sleep in the kitchen, the bedroom is for guests now.”
Andrey was silent, processing what he had heard. Marina saw the emotions changing on his face: disbelief, confusion, shame.
“I don’t know what to say,” he finally said.
“You don’t need to say anything. You need to choose. Your mother can live in her own home and invite anyone she wants there. My apartment is not a hotel for her friends.”
“Marina, but she’s my mother…”
“I understand. But this is my apartment. And my bedroom. And I’m not going to sleep in the kitchen to please your mother.”
Andrey was silent for a long time. Then he sighed heavily.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to her. Explain that this is not acceptable. That she is a guest in our home, not the mistress of it. If she can’t understand that, then let her live at her own place.”
Andrey nodded and got up from the bench. Marina watched him walk toward the entrance, more hunched over than usual. She felt sorry for him, but she had no intention of backing down.
Around ten in the morning, Andrey called.
“She’s packing her things. Says she’s leaving and will never set foot here again.”
“And her friends?”
“She called them back and said the trip was canceled.”
“How did she react to the lock being changed?”
“Badly. At first she didn’t believe it and thought the lock had simply jammed. Then she started shouting that her son lived here and she had rights. I showed her the certificate of ownership for the apartment. Yours. She went quiet.”
Marina felt a prick of guilt. After all, this was her husband’s mother, an elderly woman.
“Maybe I was too harsh?” she asked.
“No,” Andrey answered unexpectedly firmly. “You weren’t. I should have talked to her a long time ago, but I kept putting it off. I thought it would somehow resolve itself. She really crossed the line.”
That evening, Marina returned to a quiet apartment. Her mother-in-law was gone, and her things had disappeared from the hallway. On the kitchen table lay a note: “Andryusha, when you decide to divorce this woman, call me. Mom.”
Marina read the note and put it back in place. Let Andrey decide what to do with it himself. She went into the bedroom. The bed linen was rumpled — apparently, her mother-in-law had managed to make up the bed for her friends after all. Marina stripped the bed, took fresh linen from the wardrobe, and made it again.
Andrey came home from work around seven. Without a word, he took off his shoes, went into the kitchen, saw the note, read it, crumpled it up, and threw it into the trash can.
“How are you?” Marina asked.
“Fine. Angry. Mostly at myself. For letting her behave like that for so many years.”
He came up to his wife and embraced her.
“Forgive me. I should have protected you, but instead I pretended nothing was happening.”
Marina pressed herself against her husband. For the first time in many years, she felt that he was on her side. Not between her and his mother, but beside her.
Valentina Stepanovna did not visit them for almost six months. Andrey went to see her on weekends by himself. Marina did not object — after all, she was his mother, whatever she was like. Gradually, their relationship began to improve. Her mother-in-law called Marina on her birthday for the first time in all those years. Her congratulations were dry, but she congratulated her nonetheless.
Valentina Stepanovna came to visit for New Year’s. She behaved with restraint, almost politely. She did not comment on the cleanliness, did not criticize the cooking, and did not invite outsiders. Before leaving, she called Marina aside.
“I won’t apologize,” she said. “I still think my son could have found someone better.”
Marina wanted to answer, but her mother-in-law raised her hand.
“But I admit I behaved improperly. This is your home, and I had no right to run it as if it were mine. You put me in my place, and you were probably right to do so.”
She turned and walked to the door, where Andrey was already waiting for her with her bag. Marina watched them from the window. Her mother-in-law got into the car, and Andrey closed the trunk. Before getting behind the wheel, he raised his head and waved to her.
Marina smiled and waved back. She knew her relationship with her mother-in-law would never become warm. But respect was already something. And it had all begun with a simple thing: Marina remembered that this was her home, and she did not allow herself to be evicted to the kitchen.