— YES, I inherited the apartment. NO, you will not live in it. Not even with a baby in your arms!
“Can you imagine, Galka? I think just last month I was still a wife, and now I’m the owner of a bachelor apartment.”
“How is that possible?!”
“It’s simple: I didn’t sign the paper. So I kept the square meters, but lost the husband and the relatives.”
“Just look at them… Sitting in my kitchen, eating my herring, and still managing to hint that ‘one person doesn’t need so much space,’” Elizaveta said bitterly, watching Viktor fill his plate with salad for the second time that evening without even offering to help clean up.
The kitchen was warm and a little cramped, especially with five people packed into it. The ceiling was slightly low, the lamp with its plastic shade swayed with every movement, and the room smelled of fried potatoes with onions. Some chanson song was playing on the crackling radio on the windowsill, while Lyudmila Sergeevna whispered something to Masha—her new daughter-in-law, clearly something about Lizka.
“And why are you acting like a stranger?” Lyudmila Sergeevna pursed her lips, as if she was about to say “fool” but held back. “We’re family! Viktor and Masha are going to have a baby soon! And you have an apartment. So what if you inherited it? You’re not going to take it with you to the grave!”
Elizaveta licked her dry lips. She was forty-two and looked five years younger, but today she felt like a pensioner with blood pressure through the roof. Irritation burned in her eyes, her chest trembled, and only one thought kept spinning in her head: What kind of circus is this? Who did I let into my home?
And yet everything had started normally. Andrey—her husband—was always sluggish, but he had seemed decent enough. When they got married, he could at least make decisions. Now he just sat there, crumpling a napkin and staring into his plate, as if he weren’t even present.
“Listen, Andrey, maybe you’ll say something?” Elizaveta snapped, turning sharply toward him. “Or are you staying ‘neutral’ again? Your mother is already deciding what to do with my apartment, and you’re sitting there silently stuffing your face. Is that normal?”
Andrey froze like a cornered rabbit. He was forty-five, tall, with the beginning of a bald spot and an extra ten kilos on his stomach. He looked like an intellectual; in reality, he was as soft as marmalade.
“Well, Liz… Mom is just saying… I mean, since you and I don’t have children, and Vitya is going to have one… It kind of makes sense…”
“What makes sense?!” she exploded. “That you agree to have me thrown out of my own apartment and then maybe sheltered somewhere on your mother’s balcony?”
Masha, who had been silent until then, smiled weakly and stroked her small belly.
“We’re not against you coming to live with us afterward… I mean, in the room. We already promised Lyudmila Sergeevna we’d help her once the baby is born. And what difference does it make to you? There are only two of you anyway…”
“Thank you, really,” Elizaveta said, standing up and clearing plates from the table. “That’s all I’ve ever dreamed of—spending the rest of my life in a walk-through room with a screaming baby and a mother-in-law behind the wall. Maybe I should work nights as the nanny too?”
Lyudmila Sergeevna tensed, but she did not shut up.
“No need for sarcasm. We’re trying to do this kindly! You understand, don’t you… Prices are what they are now. Viktor won’t get a mortgage, Masha is going on maternity leave, and you… you have everything. We’ll just transfer it, that’s all. A gift deed. We’re family!”
“A gift deed…” Elizaveta repeated quietly, feeling blood rush to her temples. “And if I refuse?”
A pause fell. Even the radio went silent—it had switched to the news.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll disappoint your husband very much,” her mother-in-law whispered, “and you may end up alone.”
“Better alone than with you,” Elizaveta cut her off, dropping the fork into the sink with a loud clang.
Two days later, Lyudmila Sergeevna appeared again. Without warning. She stood in the doorway holding a plastic folder.
“Here’s the sample. We have a good lawyer; he prepared everything. You sign it, and it will all be legal. And you’ll stay living with us. I have space. And a big refrigerator,” she smirked. “Enough for you and for us.”
“Leave.” Elizaveta’s voice was icy. “I’m not signing anything. This apartment is mine. My mother worked her whole life for it, and I cared for her until her last day. And now you’ve come here, stretching out your ears and hands. It won’t happen.”
Lyudmila Sergeevna narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, is that so?” She stepped inside. “So you’re against the family? Well, watch yourself, Liza. I warned you. Vitya and I are serious.”
“Please leave. Or I’ll call the district police officer right now. For trespassing.”
Andrey came home that evening. He brought a bottle, as always when he felt he had messed up. He sat on a stool in the hallway like a punished little boy.
“Liza, maybe… maybe we can do it differently. We’ll just arrange it so that… well… and we’ll keep living the same way. Together. Nobody is throwing you out.”
She walked over silently and looked down at him.
“Andrey. Do you not hear me? They want me to voluntarily give everything away. Your mother is blackmailing me, and you… you don’t believe in me. You don’t protect me. Who are you to me now?”
He jumped up.
“I’m your husband! We’ve been together for twelve years, Liz! What, because of some papers—”
“Those ‘papers’ are my life. And you are not anymore.”
That evening, she filed for divorce. The text trembled, just like her hands. Then she leaned back in the chair and cried. Not loudly. No hysterics. Just—that was it. There would be no more “we.” There would be “I.” And there would be the apartment. Because of all things, she had not built all of this just to be thrown into the hallway with a bag of belongings.
Andrey packed a suitcase and left silently. No scandal. No shouting. Only at the very end, standing on the threshold, did he say quietly:
“You shouldn’t have done that. We could have handled everything like decent people.”
She looked him in the eye.
“I am acting like a decent person. Just for the first time, I’m doing it toward myself.”
“Don’t cry, Lizok… You’re not stupid—you did well. At least one of us didn’t let herself get stripped bare like a tree.”
“I’m not crying, Galya. It’s just the tea. It’s hot. Makes my eyes sting.”
A week later, the notices in her building that read, “Looking for a respectable woman to rent a room,” began disappearing. Someone kept tearing them down. And someone wrote over one of them with a ballpoint pen: “What if the mother-in-law shows up and kicks her out?”
Elizaveta lived in a state of suspension. Andrey had left—and it was easier than she had expected. Even the empty side of the bed in the mornings felt more like freedom than loss. He had taken nothing except his belongings. He even left behind his lace shower robe. And his darned socks in the dresser.
But the world around her was boiling.
Viktor called her. Several times. Once, drunk. In the voice of an offended teenager:
“What’s wrong with you, huh? I respected you. You were like a sister to us! And now you’re the enemy of the family? We have nowhere to live, Masha is about to give birth! And you’re clinging to walls. Selfish woman!”
She simply muted the call. At first she trembled, but then she understood: let him talk. Let all of them talk. The main thing was that the door stayed locked.
But one day—it wasn’t.
On Sunday, she went out for milk. Fifteen minutes at most. She came back—the lock seemed intact, but inside… Lyudmila Sergeevna. Standing in the middle of the living room, holding that same folder. And Masha too. With a bag. Her belly was already noticeable. And Viktor was with her, taking off his jacket as if he had come home.
“What are you doing here?!” Elizaveta’s voice broke into a scream. “How did you get in?!”
“Andrey gave us the key. He isn’t officially deregistered yet,” Lyudmila Sergeevna said calmly, without blinking. “We came peacefully. Masha can’t live in that cramped place. And here there’s plenty of room.”
“This is MY apartment!” Elizaveta stepped closer, her shoulders shaking, her voice cracking. “You have no right to be here!”
Read the continuation at the link in the comments.
You have no idea, Galka. I think last month I was still a wife, and now I’m the mistress of a bachelor apartment.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s simple. I didn’t sign the little paper. So I ended up with the square meters, but without a husband or relatives.”
“Just look at them… Sitting in my kitchen, eating my herring, and somehow still managing to hint that ‘one person doesn’t need so much,’” Elizaveta said bitterly, watching Viktor fill his plate with salad for the second time that evening without even offering to help clean up.
The kitchen was warm, a little cramped—especially when five people packed into it. The ceiling was a bit low, the lamp with its plastic shade swayed with every movement, and the room smelled of fried potatoes and onions. Some chanson song crackled from the radio on the windowsill, while Lyudmila Sergeyevna whispered something to Masha—her new daughter-in-law—clearly something about Lizka.
“And why are you acting like a stranger?” Lyudmila Sergeyevna pursed her lips as if she was about to say “idiot,” but held herself back. “We’re family! Viktor and Masha are about to have a baby! And you have an apartment. So what if you inherited it? You’re not taking it to the grave with you!”
Elizaveta licked her dry lips. She was forty-two and looked five years younger, but today she felt like a pensioner with her blood pressure through the roof. Irritation burned in her eyes, trembling rose in her chest, and only one thought spun in her head: What kind of gathering is this? Who did I let into my home?
And yet it had all started normally. Andrey—her husband—was always sluggish, but on the surface he seemed decent. When they got married, he at least made some decisions. Now he sat there, crumpling a napkin and staring into his plate as if he wasn’t even in the room.
“Listen, Andrey, maybe you’ll say something?” Elizaveta turned sharply to him. “Or are you in ‘neutral territory’ again? Your mother is already dividing up my apartment, and you’re sitting there silently stuffing your face. Is that normal?”
Andrey froze like a cornered rabbit. He was forty-five, tall, with a receding hairline and an extra ten kilos hanging over his stomach. He looked like an intellectual, but in reality he was soft as marmalade.
“Well, Liz… Mom is just saying… You know, since you and I don’t have kids, and Vitya will… Well, it’s logical…”
“What’s logical?!” she snapped. “That you agree to throw me out of my own apartment and then lodge me somewhere on your mother’s balcony?”
Masha, who had been silent until then, smiled weakly while stroking her small belly.
“We’re not against you staying with us later… Well, in a room. We already promised Lyudmila Sergeyevna she’d have help when the baby is born. And what difference does it make to you? It’s just the two of you anyway…”
“Thank you, of course,” Elizaveta stood up and began clearing plates from the table. “That’s exactly what I’ve always dreamed of—living out my days in a walk-through room with a screaming baby and a mother-in-law behind the wall. Maybe I should also work part-time as a night nanny?”
Lyudmila Sergeyevna stiffened, but she did not fall silent.
“No need for sarcasm. We’re trying to do this nicely! You understand, don’t you? Prices are what they are now. Viktor won’t get a mortgage, Masha is going on maternity leave, and you… you have everything. We’ll simply transfer it over, that’s all. A deed of gift. We’re family!”
“A deed of gift…” Elizaveta repeated quietly, feeling blood rush to her temples. “And if I refuse?”
A pause fell over the kitchen. Even the radio seemed to shut up as it switched to the news.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll disappoint your husband very much,” her mother-in-law whispered. “And you may end up alone.”
“Better alone than with all of you,” Elizaveta cut her off, dropping a fork into the sink with a sharp clang.
Two days later, Lyudmila Sergeyevna appeared again. Without warning. She stood in the doorway holding a plastic folder.
“Here’s a sample. We have a good lawyer, everything has been prepared. You sign it, and everything will be legal. And you’ll stay living with us. I have space. And a big refrigerator,” she smirked. “Enough for you and for us.”
“Leave.” Elizaveta’s voice was icy. “I am not signing anything. This apartment is mine. My mother worked for it her whole life, and I cared for her until her last day. And now you people have spread your ears and hands all over it. It won’t happen.”
Lyudmila Sergeyevna narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, is that so?” She stepped inside. “So you’re against family? Well, watch yourself, Lizochka. I warned you. Vitya and I are serious.”
“Please leave. Or I’ll call the local police officer right now. For trespassing.”
Andrey came home that evening. He brought a bottle, as always when he felt he had made a mess of things. He sat on the hallway stool like a punished little boy.
“Liza, maybe… maybe we can do it differently. We’ll just put it in writing so that… well… and we’ll keep living the same way. Together. Nobody is throwing you out.”
She walked over silently and looked down at him.
“Andrey. Do you not hear me? They want me to hand everything over voluntarily. Your mother is blackmailing me, and you… you don’t believe in me. You don’t protect me. Who are you to me now?”
He jumped up.
“I’m your husband! We’ve been together for twelve years, Liz! What, because of some papers—”
“These ‘papers’ are my life. And you are no longer part of it.”
That evening, she filed for divorce. The text trembled as much as her hands. Then she leaned back in her chair and cried. Not loudly. No hysterics. Just—everything. There would be no more “we.” There would be “I.” And there would be the apartment. Because of all people, she had not built all of this just to be thrown out into the hallway with a bag of belongings.
Andrey packed a suitcase and left silently. No scandal. No shouting. Only at the very end, standing in the doorway, he said quietly:
“You’re wrong to do this. We could have handled everything like decent people.”
She looked him in the eyes.
“I am handling it decently. For the first time—toward myself.”
“Don’t cry, Lizok… You’re not stupid—you did well. At least one of us didn’t let herself get stripped bare.”
“I’m not crying, Galya. It’s just the tea. It’s hot. Makes my eyes sting.”
A week later, notices in her entryway began disappearing. They read: “Looking for a respectable woman to rent a room.” Someone tore them down. And someone wrote over one of them in ballpoint pen: “What if a mother-in-law comes and kicks her out?”
Elizaveta lived in a suspended state. Andrey had left—and it was easier than she had expected. Even the empty side of the bed in the mornings felt more like freedom than loss. He had taken nothing but his things. He even left behind his lace shower robe. And some darned socks in the dresser.
But the world around her was boiling.
Viktor called her. Several times. Once drunk. In the voice of an offended teenager:
“What’s wrong with you, huh? I respected you. You were like a sister to us! And now you’re the enemy of the family? We have nowhere to live, Mashka is about to give birth! And you’re clinging to walls. Selfish woman!”
She simply muted the phone. At first she trembled, but then she understood: let them talk. Let everyone talk. The main thing was that the door stayed locked.
But one day, it wasn’t.
On Sunday, she went out for milk. Fifteen minutes at most. She came back—the lock seemed intact, but inside… Lyudmila Sergeyevna. Standing in the middle of the living room with that same folder in her hands. And Masha too. With a bag. Her belly already obvious. And Viktor was with them, taking off his jacket as if he had come home.
“What are you doing here?!” Elizaveta’s voice broke into a shriek. “How did you get in?!”
“Andrey gave us a key. He isn’t deregistered yet,” Lyudmila Sergeyevna said calmly, without blinking. “We came nicely. Masha can’t live in those cramped conditions. And here there is plenty of space.”
“This is MY apartment!” Elizaveta stepped closer, her shoulders shaking, her voice cracking. “You have no right to be here!”
Masha spread her hands.
“Well, let’s sort it out legally then. You’re an adult woman. If you don’t want to do it the nice way, it’ll be through court.”
“What court?!” Elizaveta practically jumped. “I have documents! Certificate of inheritance, registration, an extract from the property register! I am the sole owner. Everything!”
“Yes, but Andrey and I are relatives by marriage. For now, anyway. Which means the key is legal,” Lyudmila Sergeyevna smirked. “And nobody stopped you from changing the lock.”
“Out!” Elizaveta grabbed a raincoat from the hanger and threw it at them. “Get out of my home!”
“Oh, stop screaming!” Viktor shouted. “We’re not breaking anything! We just came in, by the way! What, are we supposed to stand in the stairwell?”
Everything happened in a minute. Something animal awakened in her, like during a fire. She rushed toward Masha, grabbed the bag, and dragged it out the door. Then she shoved Viktor, and he slammed his shoulder into the doorframe before he could even swear. Then Lyudmila Sergeyevna. She didn’t hit her. She simply pushed her out, hard, with force, by the shoulder. The woman cried out, “What the hell are you doing, you bitch?!” but she was already standing on the other side of the door.
The door slammed shut with a crash. Tears streamed from Elizaveta’s eyes, her body trembled. She sat right down on the floor among the shoes. Her heart pounded in her ears. She had never screamed like that. Never shoved people. But they had invaded. Broken in. And all of it as if it were legal. “He gave us the key, he’s your husband…” Like a madhouse.
Two days later, a letter arrived. Registered mail. With delivery confirmation.
A claim for division of jointly acquired property.
The words immediately jumped out at her: “apartment acquired during marriage,” “shares,” “in the interests of the family,” “taking into account the pregnancy of a close relative.”
She sat down. The letter fell to the floor. Beside it was a cup of coffee. It had gone cold. Like everything now.
Her friend Galya called.
“Liz, I heard. Have they completely lost their minds?”
“Yeah. They want to divide it. I mean… apparently, I acquired the apartment with Andrey. The one he didn’t pay a single kopeck for, not even the electricity. Not one kopeck, Galya!”
“Listen. You need a lawyer. Right now.”
The lawyer was polite and young. He sat in an office that smelled of dust and printer ink. He looked over the papers, the lawsuit, the certificate of inheritance.
“Don’t worry. They have no chance. This is an inheritance. It is not jointly acquired property, even if you were married. If you had sold it and bought something else, that would be different. But here… this is just another attempt to pressure you. File a counterclaim to have the property recognized as separate. And change the locks immediately. Today.”
“Thank you.” Her voice broke. “And if… they come again?”
“Call the police. Threat of intrusion. You have all the documents.”
She returned home and called a locksmith. Good locks were installed, with rekeying. That evening she wrote to Andrey: “I changed the locks. Informing you. Your relatives will not enter here again. Not without a court.”
His reply was dry:
“Understood. Since you chose the path of war, there will be war.”
And that was all. Something tightened inside her.
That night she had a nightmare: Lyudmila Sergeyevna was walking around her apartment with an axe, knocking down walls and laughing. Masha stood nearby, her belly thrust forward, saying, “You let us in yourself… You did…”
In the morning, Elizaveta sat down and opened her laptop. She wrote an application to deregister Andrey through the court. There were many pages, but the essence was simple:
“He does not live here. And he will not live here.”
From that day on, she began looking for a lawyer. Not just a lawyer, but a fighter. Someone who knew how to fend off “families” like this.
Because this was not just a domestic dispute.
This was an occupation.
And now—she was on defense.
“Liza, don’t be silent. Did they call again?” Galya’s voice on the phone sounded anxious, like a nurse afraid to look beneath a bandage.
“They called. Viktor’s lawyer. He said that if I don’t ‘meet the young family halfway,’ they’ll file for temporary residence. Can you imagine? TEMPORARY. Until ‘the fate of the apartment is decided.’ As if I’m not a person, but a public corridor.”
Two months passed. The divorce process dragged on sluggishly, like expired mayonnaise. Andrey did not show up. He only sent explanations through the court. All in the same style: “I wasn’t against it, but I didn’t know,” “Mother only wanted what was best,” “The apartment really wasn’t purchased, but…”
Elizaveta’s lawyer—a stern woman with a face that said, Don’t try lying to me, I’ve seen worse—slammed folders on the table and said:
“They’re stalling. They hope you’ll give in. Or do something stupid. Don’t. No contact. Everything through me.”
But patience is not elastic.
In March—on the eighth, somewhere between mimosa flowers and expired Raffaello chocolates—Lyudmila Sergeyevna showed up directly at her workplace.
In the accounting department. Where six women sat, each with hearing sharper than a radio operator on a submarine.
“Liza, I’m speaking as a mother! As a woman! You can’t be so heartless!” she wailed right by the coat rack, clutching the collar of Elizaveta’s jacket. “Don’t you see? Masha is about to give birth any day now! A child needs a corner!”
“You have a corner,” Elizaveta pressed her lips together, trying to speak quietly. “I have an apartment. No one will live in it except me. Not you, not Viktor, not Masha, not their newborn. That is my position. I am explaining it for the last time. Leave me alone.”
“You… ungrateful woman!” her mother-in-law jumped back as if stung. “I raised a son for you! And you? You hide behind apartments! You’ll have no one to live for, you’ll see!”
The female coworkers froze, some with pink gloss on their lips, others with coffee cups halfway to their mouths.
Elizaveta sighed.
“If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police. And I’ll have you, your ‘grown son,’ and his helpless wife all taken there. You can explain what you want to them.”
And Lyudmila Sergeyevna… left. But on her way out, she hissed:
“You’re digging your own grave. All by yourself. And without a shovel.”
In April, the court finally dissolved the marriage. The marriage was annulled. But it was not the end—it was only the release of the brakes.
Now Elizaveta went on the offensive.
She filed a claim to have Andrey deregistered. The hearing was scheduled for June.
She hired an appraiser. It turned out the apartment had increased in value by a million. And now her brother-in-law and his pregnant wife wanted to move in even more.
At the hearing, Andrey appeared. In a suit. The very same one he had worn when they got married—only now it was wrinkled, with a stain near the cuff.
“I don’t want conflict,” he began weakly. “But I’m a person too. I was registered there. My toothbrush was there.”
Elizaveta snorted. The judge looked up from the papers.
“Excuse me, are you saying that the presence of a toothbrush gives you grounds to reside in a residential property owned by the plaintiff?”
“Well…” Andrey hesitated. “I just don’t want my younger brother and his wife to end up on the street.”
“And I don’t want someone setting up a daycare in my apartment without asking me!” Elizaveta stood up. “Your Honor, he has not lived there for six months. I have utility bills, statements, and testimony from neighbors. Moreover, he gave keys to third parties—his mother, his brother, his pregnant sister-in-law—without my consent. They invaded my property. I fear for my safety. I am a woman. I am alone.”
A pause followed. The judge gave a small hum and wrote something down.
“The hearing is concluded. The decision will be ready within five days. Thank you all.”
Five days later, an envelope arrived. The court granted the claim. Andrey was deregistered. No shares. No rights. The apartment was hers alone.
She sat by the window, holding the letter in her hands.
For the first time in all that time, it was not from lawyers.
It was from Masha.
Short. Written by hand. Messy:
Liza, you won. I hope you feel good now. We left for Lipetsk. Viktor has no job, his mother is a nervous wreck. The baby is coming soon. May all of this come back to you.
Elizaveta sighed. Folded the letter. Threw it away.
Summer began hot. The apartment was quiet. Coffee stood on the windowsill, steam rising from the mug. Outside the window—the sky.
No people.
No ultimatums.
She exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.
And for the first time—with a smile.