“So you decided that your daughter, her baby, and her husband would live in my apartment?”
The wheels of the suitcase rumbled dully across the new laminate flooring, as if foretelling a storm. We entered the apartment, which was soaked with the smell of fried lard and laundry detergent. It was not the scent of cleanliness and new furniture that Alexey and I had been looking forward to all the way from the airport. I slowly lowered the suitcase handle, trying to stay calm. Inside me, the warmth of the sea was still gently swaying, and I desperately did not want to spill it all out over some misunderstanding.
“Lyosha, maybe we’re on the wrong floor?” I asked quietly, although I could clearly see our familiar coat rack.
Alexey frowned, peering into the hallway. His face, which had been relaxed and tanned only moments ago, began to take on the expression of a confused child whose ice cream had been taken away.
“The key worked, Marina. And this is our door.”
Natasha drifted out of the room—there was no other way to describe it. She was wearing a robe, with a towel wrapped around her head and a baby in her arms. She looked at us with such sincere surprise, as if we were the ones who had burst into her home without an invitation.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, shifting the baby more comfortably in her arms. “Mom said you wouldn’t be back for another week. Why are you so early? We haven’t even had dinner yet. Sit down, there’s pasta.”
I felt my softness begin to evaporate, giving way to a cold, sticky confusion. I had to be patient. Natasha, my husband’s sister, was a simple, easily led person. She clearly had not done this out of malice.
“Natasha, wait,” Alexey raised his hand, stopping her stream of hospitality. “What do you mean, ‘early’? We came home. To live here.”
His sister blinked rapidly. The baby in her arms grunted, and she began rocking him automatically.
“What do you mean—live here?” she asked, panic creeping into her voice. “Mom said… Valentina Petrovna said you had decided to let us have the apartment. Until the baby grows up a bit. For about two years. She said things were tight for you financially, and that you and Marina were moving in with her parents so you could rent it out. And that you wouldn’t charge us anything, because we’re family.”
My husband and I exchanged glances. Irritation began boiling inside me, but I still hoped this was some monstrous game of broken telephone.
“Natasha,” I took a step forward, trying to speak gently but firmly. “We are not renting anything to anyone. We just finished the renovation. Our sofa was supposed to be delivered. Where is it, by the way?”
“The sofa?” Natasha looked around in confusion. “Oh, the new one? Mom refused to accept it. She told the delivery guys there was nowhere to put it because our baby crib is here now. They took it back to the warehouse.” That was when it hit me. Any hope of understanding crumbled into dust. My mother-in-law had not merely let relatives stay in our apartment while we were on vacation. She had arranged our life, our property, and our space as if she were playing with dolls.
“Lyosha, call your mother,” my voice became dry and crackling. “Right now.”
Alexey, pale beneath his tan, took out his phone. Natasha, realizing what was happening, began quietly sobbing, pressing the baby to herself. Her husband peeked out of the kitchen, chewing a sandwich, and froze as he assessed the situation.
The evening turned into chaos. We could not throw his sister and her baby out into the street at night—our conscience would not allow it, and Natasha was guilty only of being naive. We agreed: we would give them one week to find an apartment, lend them money if needed, but in seven days the apartment had to be empty. We ourselves, grinding our teeth, went to stay with my parents.
Two days later, my mother-in-law finally deigned to come for a “serious conversation.” We met in our apartment, where Natasha had already started packing her things. My mother-in-law entered like a queen: chin raised, handbag in hand, eyes full of displeasure. She did not even say hello. She immediately went on the attack.
“What kind of circus have you two staged?” she declared loudly, walking into the kitchen and sitting on the only chair without asking permission. “Throwing a poor girl with a baby out onto the street? You have no conscience, you half-baked bourgeois.”
I looked at her and felt disappointment being replaced by hot, pulsing anger. She was not apologizing. She did not even think she had done anything wrong.
“Mom, what were you thinking?” Alexey stood by the window, gripping the windowsill. “This is our apartment. Did you ask us? Why did you lie to Natasha?”
“What was there to ask?” Valentina snorted. “This shack fell into your lap from the sky. Your in-laws made an effort, that’s all. You didn’t earn it, didn’t sweat for it. And poor Natasha is struggling. She needs help. You don’t have children. You could have lived with Marina’s parents for a while, you wouldn’t have fallen apart. Your crowns wouldn’t have fallen off.”
“It is none of your business who bought us this apartment or how!” I raised my voice, feeling the trembling in my hands turn into the urge to act. “You had no right to manage our home. You canceled the delivery of my furniture! You moved people in without our knowledge!”
My mother-in-law smirked, taking a small mirror from her handbag and fixing her hair.
“Oh, don’t shriek. She feels sorry for her furniture. Selfish woman. I always knew you were greedy, Marina. You only think about yourself. And Lyoshka is henpecked if he lets his wife talk to his mother like that. For your information, I know better how to manage a family. I have life experience.”
“Experience stealing other people’s keys?” I stepped toward her. “Hand over the keys. Right now.”
“I won’t even think about it,” she snapped the mirror shut. “I am his mother. I will come to my son whenever I want. And Natasha will stay here because I decided so. And if you two are so smart, go work for a second apartment.”
That was the last straw. A cold decision formed instantly. I was no longer going to be the polite daughter-in-law.
“Get up and get OUT!” I screamed so loudly that my husband flinched.
I did not wait for her to gather herself. I walked right up to her, looming over her. Valentina was stunned. She was used to me staying silent, smiling, and smoothing over conflicts.
“Are you DEAF?” she tried to save face, but fear flashed in her eyes. “How dare you talk to me like that, you rude little brat?”
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“I am talking to a thief and a liar!” I grabbed her bag from the table.
“Don’t you dare touch that!” Valentina shrieked, clutching the strap.
“Lyosha, hold the door!” I shouted to my husband.
To my surprise, Alexey did not try to stop me. He silently flung the front door open. I yanked the bag toward myself, dumping its contents straight onto the kitchen table. Lipstick, wallet, keys—everything spilled out with a crash.
“You’re sick!” my mother-in-law screamed, trying to collect her things. “I’ll file a police report against you!”
“Go ahead!” I snatched our set of keys from the pile of her junk. “And I’ll file a report for illegal entry and abuse of authority. And believe me, I’ll find witnesses. Get OUT of here!”
I grabbed her by the elbow. Hard, roughly, without shame. She tried to break free and swung at me with her free hand, but I caught her wrist. I was younger and far angrier.
“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked as I practically dragged her down the hallway. Natasha and her husband huddled in the corners, afraid to say a word. “Lyoshka, why are you just standing there? They’re killing your mother!”
“Leave,” Alexey said dully. “Just leave.”
I shoved her out onto the stairwell landing. Her bag flew after her, hitting the wall of the entrance hall.
“Don’t you ever set foot here again!” I roared, then slammed the door with a crash and turned the lock twice.
My mother-in-law pounded on the door for another five minutes, shouting curses, but we did not react. Natasha and her husband, quiet and frightened, hurriedly packed their boxes. They moved out that same evening, without waiting for the end of the promised week.
We were left in the empty apartment. Without a sofa, with the smell of someone else’s life—but alone.
And a week later, a spicy little detail came to light, the cherry on top of this absurd cake. Natasha called Alexey to apologize and let something slip. It turned out Valentina Petrovna had taken forty thousand rubles from Natasha’s husband as a “deposit for the first month,” promising to pass the money on to us. Naturally, we had not seen any money, and my mother-in-law, confident that her scheme would work, had already managed to spend it on a new coat she had long dreamed of, because “the children got the apartment for free anyway, so let them pay.”
Now Natasha was demanding the money from her mother. The store would not take the coat back—Valentina had already cut off the tags and worn it in front of her friends. She had no money. When relatives in the village found out about the story, they laughed her to scorn. Valentina ended up completely isolated, in debt to her own daughter and stuck with a useless coat that she now had nowhere to wear except to the store for bread.
Alexey and I changed the locks the next day. She never called again.