My Mother-in-Law Said, “The Apartment Is Great—you’ll Transfer It After the Wedding.” So I Did
Galina Petrovna assessed her future daughter-in-law’s apartment even before the wedding. After the ceremony, she reminded Vera of her promise. Vera transferred it—but not in the way her mother-in-law expected.
Galina Petrovna first came to Vera’s apartment in March. She arrived uninvited, carrying a bag of tangerines and wearing the kind of expression that seemed to calculate every square meter.
Vera did not yet realize that it was an inspection. She made coffee and took out the cups while her future mother-in-law walked through the rooms, touched the windowsills, and remained silent. The silence was as dense as winter fog.
“Nice apartment,” Galina Petrovna said, stopping beside the bedroom window. “Two rooms?”
“Yes. Forty-seven square meters.”
“Is it yours?”
“Yes. My grandmother left it to me.”
Galina Petrovna nodded. She adjusted a curtain no one had asked her to touch and returned to the kitchen. Sitting down, she wrapped both hands around her cup and looked at Vera as though trying to fit her into some internal plan.
“You’re a good match for Dima.”
Vera smiled. She was twenty-nine and had loved Dima for a year and a half. This was only the third time she had met his mother. The first two meetings had been brief—a café, Dima’s birthday, polite conversation. But now there was the apartment, the tangerines, and that calculating stare.
“Thank you, Galina Petrovna.”
“Just call me Galina.”
Vera did not. Something told her it was too soon.
The wedding was scheduled for October. Dima had proposed in August at a friend’s country house, with the ring hidden in the pocket of his shorts and his ears bright red from nervousness. The ring was thin and gold, with a small stone. Vera wore it without ever taking it off.
The preparations moved quickly. Dima worked as an engineer at a factory in Podolsk. He earned a decent salary, though nothing luxurious. Vera managed the accounts for a construction company. Together, they were paying the mortgage on his one-room apartment in Butovo and saving for renovations.
Dima had bought the Butovo apartment himself before meeting Vera. It was thirty-one square meters, on the fifth floor, with windows facing the courtyard. The building smelled of dampness from the basement, and the pipes hummed at night.
Vera had never moved there. They lived in the two-room apartment her grandmother had left her in the Sokol district. It had a quiet courtyard, high ceilings, and herringbone parquet flooring. Grandma Zinaida had died four years earlier and left the apartment to her only granddaughter.
Galina Petrovna called every Wednesday. Always at the same time—seven in the evening, when Dima was already home. She asked about the wedding, the dress, and the restaurant. Then, as though casually, she would drop certain remarks into the conversation.
“You’ll be living in the same apartment after the wedding, won’t you?”
“Yes. In mine.”
“So you’ll sell Dima’s place?”
“No, not yet. It still has a mortgage.”
“Ah. Yes, of course.”
A pause. Then:
“And your apartment is registered in your name?”
“Yes. It belonged to my grandmother.”
“Well, after the wedding, you’ll probably transfer it. Put it in both your names—or in Dima’s. That would be more appropriate. You’ll be a family.”
Vera stood at the stove, stirring a stew. The spoon struck the edge of the pot, producing a hollow sound, as though an empty room had answered.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Of course. Think about it. I’m only telling you how these things are normally done.”
Vera ended the call. Dima was in the living room watching football. He had not heard the conversation. Or perhaps he had heard it and decided it did not matter.
September arrived. There were three weeks left before the wedding. Vera was trying on her dress at a seamstress’s studio near Taganka. The dress was simple—ivory crêpe de Chine, with long sleeves and buttons down the back.
Rita, the seamstress, was a woman in her fifties who wore a measuring tape around her neck. She was taking in the bodice.
“You’ve lost weight,” Rita said, pulling pins from her mouth.
“Nerves.”
“Your mother-in-law?”
“Why do you immediately assume it’s my mother-in-law?”
Rita raised her eyebrows and said nothing. The pins went back into her mouth.
Vera stood in front of the mirror and studied herself. She was 168 centimeters tall, with narrow shoulders and dark eyebrows that almost met above the bridge of her nose. Her grandmother’s eyebrows.
Grandma Zina used to say, “Those aren’t eyebrows. That’s character.”
Vera’s phone vibrated inside her bag. She took it out. There was a message from Galina Petrovna:
“Vera, remind me of the address of the notary Dima recommended. I want to clarify something about the paperwork.”
Vera read it. Then she read it again and put the phone away.
“Rita, do you have any water?”
“In the hallway, on the cabinet.”
Vera drank half the glass without stopping. The water was warm and tasted faintly of plastic. Her hands were trembling, so she pressed her palms against her thighs until they stopped.
That evening, she asked Dima about it.
“Did you give your mother the number of a notary?”
“What notary?”
“She wrote that you had recommended someone.”
Dima frowned. He always made that face when he did not understand something but did not want to look confused—his lips tightened, and his eyes shifted slightly to the side.
“I didn’t recommend anyone. Maybe she got mixed up.”
“Dima.”
“What?”
“She wants me to transfer the apartment.”
Silence.
The neighbors had their television on, and laughter from some comedy show penetrated the wall. Dima rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Was she serious?”
“She mentions it every Wednesday. Every single Wednesday.”
He sat down on the sofa and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Then he looked at Vera.
“What do you want?”
“I want to know what you think.”
“I think it’s your apartment.”
Vera sat down beside him. Their shoulders touched, and she felt the warmth of his body through his T-shirt. At that moment, it seemed more important than words.
But there had not been many words.
“Will you tell her?”
“I will.”
He did not.
The wedding took place at the Beryozka restaurant on Leninsky Prospekt. There were forty-two guests, live music, and a cake decorated with white sugar roses.
Galina Petrovna sat at the head table in a dark green dress with a brooch that, according to her, had once belonged to her mother. The brooch was gold, shaped like a small branch, with three tiny stones. Vera noticed that the stones looked cloudy, as though they had grown tired of shining.
Galina Petrovna’s toast was long. She spoke about family, traditions, and how a woman needed to know how to build a home.
“Not the walls, but the relationships,” she said, looking directly at Vera.
The guests applauded. Vera smiled and took a sip of champagne. The bubbles tickled the roof of her mouth.
After the toast, when everyone was dancing, Galina Petrovna approached Vera beside the bar.
“It’s a beautiful wedding.”
“Thank you.”
“Dima is happy.”
“So am I.”
Galina Petrovna took hold of Vera’s elbow. Her fingers were dry and tenacious.
“Vera, about the apartment. You understand, don’t you? A family should be one whole. Everything needs to be registered properly. Dima is the man. He should be the owner of the home.”
“At the wedding, Galina Petrovna? You want to discuss this at our wedding?”
“When else? Later, everyone will become busy and forget. I simply want my son to live in his own home.”
“He does live in a home. Mine.”
Galina Petrovna released her arm. The smile remained on her face, but her eyes changed. They became colder, like the stones in her brooch.
“We’ll see.”
Vera finished her champagne. The glass clinked against the bar.
The first few months after the wedding were peaceful. Dima left for work at eight, and Vera left at nine. In the evenings, they cooked together or ordered food. On Saturdays, they went to Auchan with a long shopping list. On Sundays, Dima slept until eleven while Vera drank coffee in the kitchen and scrolled through her phone.
Galina Petrovna called less frequently—once every two weeks. But every conversation contained a small needle.
“Are you planning to renovate?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s sensible. There’s no point renovating someone else’s apartment.”
“It isn’t someone else’s apartment, Galina Petrovna.”
“It is for Dima. Until you transfer it.”
Vera would end the call and go wash the dishes. Hot water ran over the plates, and steam rose into her face. She would stand there for one minute, two minutes, three—until her fingers turned red.
Dima noticed.
“Did my mother call?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“About the apartment again?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
But he did not. Or perhaps he spoke to her in such a way that Galina Petrovna felt free to continue.
In December, Galina Petrovna came to visit without warning. She brought a pie and a folder.
The cabbage pie was good, golden brown and freshly baked. The folder was transparent, with documents inside. Vera noticed it protruding from her mother-in-law’s bag while hanging her coat on a hook in the hallway.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll show you later. Let’s have tea first.”
They drank tea in the kitchen. Galina Petrovna praised the backsplash tiles, touched the countertop, and asked what company had made the faucet. Vera answered her questions.
The cabbage pie was delicious. The filling contained egg, and the pastry was thin and flaky.
“It’s very good,” Vera said.
“It was my mother’s recipe. I can teach you.”
“I’d like that.”
Galina Petrovna smiled. Then she took out the folder.
“Here. I’ve prepared everything. This is a deed of gift. You transfer the apartment to Dima. It’s simple—just one visit to the notary.”
Vera looked at the folder. Transparent plastic, white pages covered in printed text.
She did not touch it.
“Did you prepare this yourself?”
“A lawyer prepared it. An acquaintance of mine. He did it for free.”
“Without my knowledge?”
“Vera, don’t make it complicated. It’s a formality. You’re a family. What difference does it make whose name is on the paperwork?”
“If it makes no difference, why transfer it?”
Galina Petrovna put down her fork. A piece of pie remained unfinished on her plate.
“Because it’s the proper thing to do.”
“Proper for whom?”
“For the family.”
Vera stood up. She walked to the sink, turned on the water, then turned it off again and faced her mother-in-law.
“Galina Petrovna, my grandmother left this apartment to me. She worked at a textile factory for forty years. Forty years, so she could exchange a one-room apartment for a two-room apartment. I’m not transferring it.”
“To your own husband?”
“To anyone.”
Silence.
A crow cawed outside. Vera could hear every sound—the clock ticking on the wall, the hum of the refrigerator, and her own breathing.
Galina Petrovna picked up the folder and returned it to her bag.
“Does Dima know you feel this way?”
“Dima feels the same way.”
“We’ll see.”
After that visit, Vera could not sleep properly for two days. She would lie down, close her eyes, and see the folder in front of her. Transparent plastic and white sheets of paper, like an envelope containing a sentence from a judge.
Dima slept beside her, on his side. After the visit, Vera could not sleep properly for two days. She would lie down, close her eyes, and once again see the folder. Transparent plastic and white sheets of paper, like an envelope containing a sentence from a judge.
Dima slept beside her, on his side of the bed. He always slept on his right side with one hand beneath his pillow. Vera lay on her back and counted the bands of light cast onto the ceiling by the streetlamp.
On the third night, she got up, went to the kitchen, and opened her laptop. She opened the Rosreestr website. Then she closed it and opened it again.
She was not thinking about the apartment.
She was thinking about Grandma Zina, who had woken up at five thirty every morning and traveled across the entire city to the factory. She remembered how her grandmother made dried-fruit compote and placed it on the windowsill to cool. She remembered its smell—sweet and warm, with a hint of prunes.
And she remembered something Grandma Zina had once told her:
“Verka, remember this. Never give away what is yours. Never take what belongs to someone else. Then you’ll be able to sleep peacefully.”
Vera closed the laptop and returned to bed.
That night, she fell asleep quickly.
January was bitterly cold. The temperature dropped to minus twenty-two Celsius. The pipes in the entrance hall were covered with frost, and the radiators barely gave off any heat.
Vera walked around the apartment in woolen socks and her grandmother’s dark blue knitted cardigan with stretched sleeves.
Galina Petrovna did not call for three weeks. It felt strange and unsettling, like when a tooth suddenly stops hurting. It seemed like a good thing, but you kept waiting for the pain to return.
The trap arrived through Dima.
He came home late from work one Friday evening. He removed his boots, walked into the kitchen, and sat down at the table without taking off his coat.
“Dima?”
“My mother came to see me at work.”
“To the factory?”
“Yeah.”
He took a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket and opened it. It was the same text—the same deed of gift.
Only now there was a handwritten note at the bottom:
“Dima, this is for you. Mom.”
Vera looked at the paper. Then at Dima. Then back at the paper.
“She came to the factory with this?”
“She thinks I don’t control you.”
The word “control” hung in the air like the smell of something burning.
Vera took half a step backward.
“What did you tell her?”
“That it was between you and me.”
“And what did she do?”
“She started crying. Right there at the security checkpoint. The guard was watching.”
Vera sat down opposite him and took his hands. They were cold and rough from the frost, and the skin over his knuckles was cracked.
“Dima, I need you to answer me honestly.”
“Ask me.”
“Do you want me to transfer the apartment to you?”
He did not look away. Vera noticed that and remembered it.
“No.”
“No because you don’t want to argue with me, or no because you believe it would be wrong?”
“No because it’s your apartment. Period.”
Vera nodded.
The document lay on the table between them. Dima crumpled it and threw it into the trash.
In February, Vera returned from work and found an envelope in the mailbox. It was a plain white envelope with no return address.
Inside was a handwritten letter in small, neat handwriting.
“Vera. I understand that you consider the apartment yours. But think about what will happen if you and Dima divorce. He will be left with nothing. His one-room apartment is mortgaged. Your two-room apartment in Sokol is more than just an apartment. It is my son’s future. I’m asking you to think about someone other than yourself. Galina.”
Vera read it while standing in the entrance hall. Her feet were inside wet boots, and her scarf had come loose and hung down to her waist.
The lightbulb on the landing flickered at regular intervals. Each time it did, Vera’s shadow appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared.
She folded the letter, returned it to the envelope, and went upstairs.
That evening, she did not tell Dima. She placed the envelope inside a desk drawer beneath a stack of bills.
Then she took it out.
She read it again.
Then she put it back.
Something was changing. Not her decision—her decision remained the same.
Something was changing inside her, in the place where patience lived. It was shrinking like clay drying beneath the sun.
It was beginning to crack.
In March, Vera took a day off work and went to a notary. Not the one whose number Galina Petrovna had requested. She went to another notary in Presnya whom one of her colleagues had recommended.
The notary, Anton Sergeyevich, was a man of about forty-five with a receding hairline and marks from his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He agreed to see her without an appointment.
“What would you like to discuss?”
“A will.”
“What property does it concern?”
“An apartment. A two-room apartment in Sokol.”
“Who would you like to leave it to?”
“Myself.”
He looked up.
“What do you mean?”
“I want to arrange things so the apartment remains my property under all circumstances. And if I die, it should pass to a specific person. Not to my husband.”
“To whom?”
“My niece. She’s twelve years old. My sister Larisa’s daughter.”
Anton Sergeyevich wrote it down. Then he asked:
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Does your husband know?”
“He will.”
The notary nodded without commenting. Vera was grateful for his professional restraint.
They spent an hour and a half in his office. Vera signed the will. One copy remained with the notary, and she took the second one with her.
The envelope rested inside her handbag beside her phone and keys.
Outside, the snow was melting. Water squelched beneath her feet as Vera walked through Presnya, past a coffee shop, a pharmacy, and a playground with wet swings.
The air smelled of damp earth and something faintly sweet, as though someone nearby was baking waffles.
She felt lighter.
Not happy, exactly.
Simply lighter, like someone who had finally removed a heavy bag from her shoulder.
She told Dima that same evening. They were sitting in the kitchen, eating macaroni and cheese while rain fell outside.
It was noisy March rain, driven by gusts of wind that threw droplets against the window.
“I went to a notary today.”
He stopped chewing.
“Why?”
“I made a will concerning the apartment.”
“Who did you leave it to?”
“Masha. Larisa’s daughter.”
A pause.
Dima put down his fork. Vera watched the muscles in his jaw move. He clenched it, relaxed it, then clenched it again.
“Did you do this because of my mother?”
“I did it because of myself.”
“Vera.”
“Dima, listen to me. The apartment is mine. It belonged to me before you. It will remain mine for as long as I live. After I die, it will go to the person I have chosen. This isn’t about you. It’s about me.”
He remained silent. The rain pounded against the window.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
“‘All right’ because you agree, or ‘all right’ because you’re offended?”
“‘All right’ because I understand.”
Vera reached across the table and placed her hand over his.
He did not pull away.
But he did not squeeze her hand in return. He simply allowed it to rest there.
Vera was the first to withdraw.
Galina Petrovna found out in April. Vera never discovered who had told her. Perhaps Dima had let it slip. Perhaps Larisa had mentioned it. Or perhaps Galina Petrovna had found another way.
She had her own channels.
The phone rang on a Saturday morning. Vera was standing in front of the hallway mirror, tying her hair into a ponytail.
The phone lay on the shelf beside the door. The screen lit up:
“Mother-in-law.”
“Hello.”
“Vera. You made a will.”
It was not a question. It was a statement.
“Yes.”
“You left the apartment to Larisa’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“And Dima?”
“Dima is my husband. He is not the heir to the apartment.”
The silence lasted so long that Vera had time to finish tying her hair, adjust her collar, and look at herself in the mirror.
Dark eyebrows. Thin lips. Calm eyes.
Her grandmother’s face.
“You did this deliberately.”
“No. I did it consciously.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A significant one.”
Galina Petrovna was silent.
Then her voice changed. It became lower and quieter, as though she had decided to approach the conversation from a different position.
“Vera, I’m not your enemy. I’m a mother. I want my son to have a roof over his head.”
“He does. He lives with me.”
“And what if you leave him?”
“Then he’ll return to his apartment in Butovo. The apartment he bought himself. The apartment no one is asking him to transfer to anyone else.”
A pause.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I wanted the two of you to be equal.”
“We are equal, Galina Petrovna. Just not in the way you want us to be.”
Vera ended the call and put on her boots.
Then she stood beside the door for a moment with her palm resting against the cold lock. The metal burned her fingers.
She went outside.
May arrived.
Vera sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading a message from Larisa:
“Masha wants to know when Aunt Vera is coming to visit. She drew you a cat.”
A photograph was attached to the message. It showed a sheet of paper with an orange cat whose whiskers were crooked. Beneath it, written in green marker, were the words:
“For Aunt Vera from Masha. The cat’s name is Peach.”
Vera smiled, saved the photograph, and placed her phone on the table.
Dima emerged from the bathroom, still wet from the shower, with a towel draped over his shoulders.
“Who’s messaging you?”
“Larisa. Masha drew a cat.”
“Let me see.”
He looked at the photograph and gave a quiet snort.
“That’s a good cat.”
“Really?”
“The whiskers are crooked, but you can see its personality.”
He sat down opposite Vera and poured himself coffee from the cezve.
He took a sip.
“My mother called yesterday.”
“And?”
“She said you were ‘a difficult person.’”
“What did you say?”
“That she was right.”
Vera snorted.
Dima looked at her over the rim of his cup, and there was something in his eyes she had not seen for a long time.
Not agreement.
Respect.
Quiet respect, without words or gestures.
She finished her coffee. The cup was white, with a small crack in the handle. It had belonged to her grandmother. Vera always washed it by hand and never put it in the dishwasher.
In June, Galina Petrovna came to visit again.
This time, she called in advance.
“Vera, may I come over on Sunday? I’d like to bring a pie.”
“Come over.”
She arrived with a pie and without a folder.
The pie was filled with apples and was still warm. Vera placed it on the table, sliced it, and brought out the plates.
The three of them sat down.
Dima ate quickly and silently. Galina Petrovna cut her slice into tiny pieces and ate them one at a time.
“The pie is delicious,” Dima said.
“Of course it is. I’ve been baking it since this morning.”
Vera chewed and waited.
She waited for the needle.
But no needle came.
Galina Petrovna finished her tea. She looked out the window and then at Vera.
“You look like your grandmother.”
Vera nearly choked.
“Did you know my grandmother?”
“No. But you have a photograph of her in the hallway.”
“Yes. Grandma Zina.”
“She has a serious face. And the same eyebrows.”
“Character,” Vera said.
Galina Petrovna smiled.
Not cruelly. Not bitterly.
She smiled the way people do when they have acknowledged something but are not yet prepared to say it aloud.
“All right. Would you like another piece of pie?”
“Yes, I would.”
Galina Petrovna placed a second slice on her plate. The apple filling was slightly tart, and the pastry crumbled on Vera’s tongue.
Outside, sparrows were shrieking, and sunlight lay across the table in a long yellow patch.
No one said anything about the apartment.
After her mother-in-law left, Vera washed the dishes. Plates, forks, cups. Hot water, steam, and the smell of dishwashing liquid.
As she washed them, she thought about Grandma Zina, who had stood in this same kitchen thirty years earlier and washed the same plates.
Not these exact plates.
But the same ones.
Dima came up behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“My mother was normal today.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Maybe she’s finally let it go.”
“Maybe.”
Vera turned off the water, dried her hands on a towel, and turned toward him.
“Dima.”
“Hmm?”
“If we ever decide that we can’t stay together, I will not divide this apartment. And you must not ask me to.”
“I never asked.”
“I know. This is for the future.”
He nodded, kissed her temple, and went into the living room.
Vera remained standing in the kitchen.
Outside, darkness was falling, and the courtyard was slowly filling with shadows. The streetlamp came on, just as it had every evening when Grandma Zina was still alive.
On the shelf beside the hallway mirror stood a photograph of her grandmother as a young woman. She wore a headscarf, held her back straight, and had those same eyebrows.
Vera walked past the photograph every day.
The apartment was silent.
Warm.
Familiar.
Hers.
A piece of pie remained on the kitchen table. Vera covered it with a plate and turned off the light.