“Meet Karina. And until we sort out the divorce and the sale of the apartment, she’ll be staying here.”
Ilya said it in an even, rehearsed tone as he dropped two heavy suitcases onto the mat in the entryway. He looked slightly over Alla’s head, avoiding direct eye contact. Behind him, a young woman in a light cashmere coat shifted nervously from foot to foot. She pulled her scarf tighter around herself and looked at Alla with a barely concealed challenge in her eyes—a mixture of superiority and slight apprehension.
Alla stood at the entrance to the kitchen with a damp sponge in her hand. She had just been wiping down the countertop after dinner. The apartment smelled of roasted chicken and garlic. Alla looked at the suitcases, then at the husband she had lived with for twenty-five years, and finally at his companion.
“The apartment is jointly owned in shares and was privatized among three people,” Ilya quickly added, interpreting his wife’s silence as weakness. “One-third of it legally belongs to me. I have every right to bring whoever I want here. If you don’t like it, you can go stay with your mother. I’m not stopping you.”
He was confident in his plan. Ilya knew Alla hated scandals, that she was proud and couldn’t stand anything sordid or humiliating. He expected his insulted wife to burst into tears, throw some clothes into a bag, and leave for her mother’s cramped two-room apartment on the other side of the city, leaving him and Karina with the spacious three-room apartment.
Without saying a word, Alla turned around, walked to the sink, squeezed out the sponge, rinsed her hands, and dried them on a waffle-weave kitchen towel. Then she returned to the entryway.
“Take your shoes off. Don’t walk on the parquet in dirty boots. I washed the floor this morning,” she said calmly.
Ilya frowned. He had not expected that reaction. Karina looked uncertainly at him, waiting for support.
“Alla, you don’t understand,” her husband said emphatically. “We’re going to live in our bedroom. You’d better pack your things.”
“I understand perfectly, Ilya. The bedroom is yours. I’m moving into the living room.”
Alla walked past them into what had once been their shared bedroom. She took a large sports bag down from the overhead storage and began methodically packing her clothes into it. Dresses, sweaters, underwear. Then she removed her duvet and pillow from the bed.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asked irritably, standing in the doorway. “Are you seriously planning to live in the same apartment with us? That’s absurd! Don’t you have any pride at all?”
“My pride, Ilya, has nothing to do with my real estate,” Alla replied without looking at him. “My son’s and my two-thirds of this apartment are worth a considerable amount of money. I have no intention of giving them to you or your guest. And I’m not planning to move out of my own home either.”
She picked up the bag, gathered her bedding, and went into the living room. The living room was a walk-through room, with doors leading to the kitchen, hallway, and their son’s room. Alla dropped her belongings onto the large corner sofa they had bought three years earlier and began unfolding it into a bed.
The lock clicked on the neighboring door. Twenty-year-old Maxim came out of his room. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. His eyes swept over the suitcases in the entryway, his tense father, the unfamiliar young woman, and his mother making up a bed in the living room.
“Mom, what kind of circus is going on here?” the son asked darkly.
“Your father brought his new woman home, Maxim. They’ll be living in the bedroom,” Alla replied matter-of-factly as she tucked the sheet under the edge of the mattress.
Maxim slowly turned his heavy gaze toward Ilya. He was half a head taller than his father and broader in the shoulders.
“Want me to throw their things out onto the landing?” he asked quietly, without emotion.
“No,” Alla stopped him. “Your father legally owns one-third of the apartment. We respect the Criminal Code and the Civil Code. Go back to your room. You have an exam tomorrow.”
Maxim stared at his father without blinking for several more seconds. Ilya was the first to look away and hurriedly began taking off his jacket. The son silently turned around, went back to his room, and firmly closed the door.
The first night passed in oppressive silence. Alla lay on the sofa in the walk-through room and stared at the strip of light beneath the bedroom door. She could hear muffled whispers and the creaking of the parquet floor. She didn’t feel sleepy, but there was no hysteria inside her, no tears. There was only a cold, calculating understanding that her life had changed forever and that now there would be a fight ahead.
A fight for her space, her peace, and her money.
The next morning, the real domestic war began.
Alla woke at six-thirty, as usual. She went into the kitchen, put the kettle on, then headed to the bathroom. She stayed in there for exactly forty minutes. It was her standard morning routine: shower, hair, makeup.
At seven sharp, someone knocked impatiently on the bathroom door.
“Alla… excuse me, are you going to be much longer?” Karina’s sleepy, irritated voice came from behind the door. “Ilya has to leave for work soon, and I need to wash up too.”
Alla calmly applied face cream, opened the door, and looked at the young woman. Karina stood there in a silk robe, shivering in the morning chill.
“I’m finished,” Alla said calmly. “But the drain is clogged, and the water in the bathtub is draining slowly. You’ll have to wait until the foam goes down.”
Karina slipped into the bathroom. A second later, an indignant cry came from inside.
Standing in the kitchen, Alla merely smirked. She had deliberately gathered all the numerous jars, creams, shampoos, and shower gels Karina had happily arranged on the shelf beneath the mirror the night before and put them into a garbage bag, which she had left on top of the washing machine.
Ilya stormed into the kitchen, buttoning his shirt as he walked.
“Alla, what are these childish games? Why did you dump Karina’s things into a bag?”
“Because it’s my bathroom too, Ilya. And I don’t want my things mixed together with a stranger’s. It’s a matter of personal hygiene. She can keep her cosmetics in your bedroom. And by the way, she can buy her own soap and toothpaste. I’m not financing your women.”
Ilya ground his teeth angrily but said nothing. He poured himself some coffee from the cezve Alla had just taken off the stove, but without changing her expression, she calmly took the cup straight out of his hands and poured the coffee into the sink.
“That’s my coffee,” she explained. “I only make coffee for myself and our son. The coffee machine broke a month ago, remember? Your jar of instant coffee is on the top shelf.”
Over the next several days, life became a genuine nightmare for the lovers.
Ilya had hoped that Alla would be unable to tolerate the constant presence of her rival and would run away, but the exact opposite happened. Alla behaved like the owner of a hotel where unwanted guests had taken up residence.
Moreover, Alla worked from home—she remotely handled the accounting for several companies—so her work laptop and folders now occupied the coffee table around the clock.
The living room, where Alla had settled, was the strategic hub of the apartment. To get to the kitchen, bathroom, or front door, Ilya and Karina had to cross his wife’s territory.
Alla was always there.
She worked, watched television, read books, ironed clothes. Every time they emerged from the bedroom, they were met by her cold, assessing gaze.
Karina no longer felt like the woman who had won. She felt like a guilty schoolgirl. She tried to slip quietly into the kitchen, but the parquet floor betrayed her with every creak.
The kitchen became another battlefield.
Karina neither knew how nor liked to cook. During the first few days, she and Ilya ordered food deliveries—sushi rolls, pizza, burgers. Boxes accumulated on the table.
On the third day, Alla silently gathered all the empty boxes and dirty containers and stacked them neatly right outside the bedroom door.
When Ilya came out of the room the next morning, he tripped over the tower of cardboard and plastic and woke the entire household with a stream of profanity.
“Your garbage, your problem,” Alla said sharply as she walked past him carrying a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
Alla cooked every day.
In the evenings, the apartment filled with the mouthwatering aromas of rich borscht, fried potatoes with mushrooms, and baked French-style meat. She set the table, called Maxim, and the two of them ate dinner together, leisurely discussing his studies.
Ilya, who had grown accustomed to excellent home cooking over twenty-two years, sat in his room choking down cold pizza while his mouth watered.
Karina tried boiling pasta and frying sausages, but afterward she left behind a mountain of dirty dishes and a stove splattered with grease.
The following morning, when Karina came into the kitchen to make herself a sandwich, she discovered that every frying pan, saucepan, plate, and piece of cutlery had disappeared.
The cupboards were empty.
In a panic, she woke Ilya.
He stormed into the living room, where Alla was calmly watering the ficus.
“Where are the dishes, Alla?!” he shouted.
“My dishes, which I bought with my own money, are packed in boxes under my sofa. Maxim’s plates are there too. You leave a mess in the kitchen. I’m not satisfied with that. I’m not your maid, and I’m not cleaning up after you. So buy your own things and use them. Or eat off plastic plates.”
Ilya turned crimson.
He tried threatening her, shouting that everything was jointly owned, but Alla merely shrugged.
“I have the receipts for the dishes in my files. And the set of frying pans isn’t marital property—it was a gift from my sister for my anniversary. Prove otherwise.”
By the end of the first week, Karina was beginning to crack.
The romance of living together had shattered against the brutal realities of everyday life.
She couldn’t even take a peaceful bath. The moment she got into the water, Alla would start banging loudly on the door, announcing that she urgently needed to load the washing machine.
Karina couldn’t walk around the apartment in revealing underwear either, because grim, silent Maxim was constantly moving through the hallway, looking at her as though she were invisible.
But Alla saved her biggest blow for Monday.
She prepared carefully, spending several hours consulting a lawyer on a specialized online forum and reading the Civil Code.
On Saturday, while Ilya and Karina were at the shopping mall, Alla called a locksmith. Within twenty minutes, he replaced the cylinder in the lower, main lock on the front door. Alla disabled the upper lock completely from the inside.
The locksmith gave her a set of five new keys.
Monday morning began as usual.
Ilya, irritable and disheveled after a weekend spent trapped within four walls under constant pressure, was putting on his coat in the hallway. Karina stood beside him in her pajamas, seeing him off. She planned to sleep until noon and then watch a TV series on her laptop.
Alla came into the hallway and held out a new, shiny key to Ilya.
“What’s this?” her husband asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.
“A new lock. The old one had started sticking, so I called a locksmith over the weekend. Here’s your copy. Maxim has the second one.”
Ilya shoved the key into his pocket.
“And Karina’s key?” he demanded.
Alla folded her arms and looked her husband directly in the eyes.
“Karina doesn’t get one. She isn’t registered here and she doesn’t own a share. She’s a guest.”
“She lives here with me!” Ilya raised his voice.
“Article 246 of the Civil Code, Ilya,” Alla said calmly, enunciating every word. “The possession and use of property held in shared ownership is carried out by agreement of all its participants. I have not given my consent for an outsider to live in my home. Maxim, as the owner of another one-third share, is against it too.”
Ilya smirked, trying to conceal his confusion.
“And what are you going to do? Call the police?”
“Exactly. While you’re inside the apartment, she can be here as your guest. But the moment you walk out that door and go to work, she remains here alone, without the owner who invited her. From that moment on, she is an outsider unlawfully present on my property.”
Karina went pale. Her frightened gaze darted between Alla and Ilya.
“Ilya, what is she talking about?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“Get dressed, Karina,” Alla ordered, ignoring the question. “Visiting hours are over. Your boyfriend is leaving for work, and you’re leaving with him.”
“I’m not going anywhere! I want to sleep!” Karina shrieked, hiding behind Ilya.
“Don’t listen to her. You’re not going anywhere,” Ilya muttered, although his voice no longer carried its former confidence.
He opened the door and stepped onto the landing.
“Lock the door from inside and don’t let her in if she tries anything. I’ll come back tonight and sort this out.”
The door slammed shut.
Alla walked over, turned the new lock all the way, and took out her phone.
“Are you serious?” Karina swallowed nervously as she watched Alla dial a number.
“Police station? Hello. Please send a patrol or our local officer to this address… Yes. There is an unknown woman in my apartment who refuses to leave. I am one of the owners, and my son lives here with me. The other owner has left. Yes, I’m concerned about the safety of my belongings. I’ll be waiting.”
Karina rushed into the bedroom. She frantically began calling Ilya, but he was already on the subway and his phone was out of service.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Alla opened the door. A young police lieutenant stood on the threshold with a tablet in his hands.
“Did you call? What happened?” he asked wearily as he stepped into the hallway.
Alla showed him her passport with her registered address.
“This woman,” Alla said, pointing to Karina, who had emerged from the bedroom dressed but disheveled, “has no right to be here. I demand that she leave my apartment.”
The officer sighed.
Family disputes like this were routine for him.
He looked at Karina.
“Your passport, ma’am. Are you registered at this address? Do you have a rental agreement?”
“I… I’m the girlfriend of the other owner! He gave me permission!” Karina began to explain, her voice cracking. “He went to work!”
“Is the other owner here right now?” the lieutenant clarified.
“No, he’s at work.”
“Then here’s the situation, ma’am. Since not all the owners have agreed to your presence and the person who invited you is not currently on the premises, you’ll have to leave. Otherwise, I’ll have to file a report for disorderly conduct or unlawful entry. Gather your belongings and head out.”
Karina’s lips began to tremble.
She realized there was no point arguing with a man in uniform.
She grabbed her handbag, threw on her coat, and rushed out the door, nearly knocking the police officer over.
Alla closed the door behind them, turned the key, and went to the kitchen to drink tea.
For Karina, the nightmare had begun.
It was a bleak November outside. A freezing wind tore the last leaves from the trees, and icy slush squelched underfoot.
She didn’t work, having grown accustomed to living off men, and now she had to find somewhere to spend the hours from eight in the morning until seven in the evening, when Ilya returned from work.
On the first day, she went to a shopping mall.
She wandered around boutiques for an hour, then sat down in the food court. She ordered a coffee and sat staring at her phone.
Three hours later, a security guard approached and politely asked her to free the table for other customers who were eating.
She had to buy a burger.
By evening, her back ached from the hard chair and her legs were throbbing.
When Ilya approached the entrance to the apartment building that evening, Karina was waiting for him on a bench, frozen to the bone, her nose bright red.
“Why are you sitting outside?!” Ilya exclaimed.
She flew at him, pounding him with her fists.
“Your crazy wife threw me out with the police! You promised she’d move out! You said she wouldn’t dare say a word against you! I spent the whole day wandering around the mall like some homeless woman!”
Ilya tried to calm her down and took her upstairs.
He stormed into the living room, ready to start a scandal, but Alla was sitting on the sofa beside Maxim.
The son stood up, casually squeezing a hand gripper, and looked coldly at his father.
Ilya stopped short.
“If she stays here without you again, Ilya, I’ll call the police again,” Alla warned calmly. “You can take time off work and sit with her all day if you want. But the moment you walk out that door, she goes with you.”
Tuesday and Wednesday followed the same pattern.
Every morning at exactly eight o’clock, Alla stood in the hallway watching as Karina, swallowing angry tears, pulled on her boots.
During the day, Karina tried sitting in cafés, went to the cheapest morning movie screenings, and warmed herself in the library.
She spent all her money on cappuccinos and tickets.
Then she developed a runny nose.
On Thursday evening, Ilya came home exhausted and furious.
He was having problems with his boss, his car needed repairs, and instead of coming home to a cozy bedroom, he returned to the tense atmosphere of a prison cell and cold pasta, because Alla no longer allowed them to use her cookware.
Karina sat on the bed in the bedroom wrapped in a blanket, loudly sniffling. Piles of crumpled tissues lay around her.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said hoarsely the moment Ilya closed the door behind him. “Rent us an apartment.”
“With what money, Karina?” Ilya grimaced as he pulled off his tie. “I have a car loan. I don’t have an extra fifty thousand a month for rent. Just be patient. The court case is coming up soon. We’ll sell this apartment, I’ll take my share…”
“When?! In six months?!” Karina jumped off the bed. “I’m not spending six months wandering around in the freezing cold! You’re a pathetic loser! You can’t even put your own wife in her place! I thought you were a man, that you were the master of your own home! But you’re just a dependent living in an apartment where that… old hag controls everything!”
“Shut up,” Ilya hissed, glancing nervously toward the door. “The neighbors will hear you! And Maxim is home!”
“I don’t give a damn about your Maxim!” Karina screamed, grabbing the suitcase she had arrived with a week earlier.
She began furiously throwing her things into it—sweaters, underwear, cosmetics that Alla had returned to her in the garbage bag.
“I’m leaving! Go on living with your wife if you’re such a spineless weakling!”
Ilya tried to grab her hands, whispering something and pleading with her, but Karina shoved him away.
She stormed into the hallway, dragging the suitcase noisily behind her.
Alla stood in the doorway to the living room. She was wearing a soft lounge set and holding a cup of herbal tea.
There was no gloating on her face.
Only calm.
Karina stopped and stared at Alla with tear-filled, furious eyes.
“Happy now? You drove me out!” she spat.
“I was simply protecting my home,” Alla said with a shrug. “Have a safe trip. And try not to catch a cold. It’s minus five outside.”
The door slammed shut behind Karina.
A heavy, humming silence filled the apartment.
Ilya stood in the hallway with his shoulders slumped. All his polish, all the confidence of a middle-aged man trying to look younger and start a new life at other people’s expense, had vanished.
He looked old and exhausted.
Slowly, he turned toward his wife.
“Alla…” he began uncertainly, taking a step toward her. “Maybe… maybe we overreacted? This whole thing was madness. A midlife crisis. You know how it is. Can’t we just forget it? I’ll move my things back right now.”
Alla took a sip of tea.
“No, Ilya. We’re not forgetting anything.”
She placed the cup on the dresser.
“Tomorrow I’m officially filing for divorce. We’re putting the apartment up for sale. We’ll divide the money exactly as the law requires, down to the last penny, among the three owners. And then you can go build your new happy life with your lawful one-third.”
“Alla, don’t make a rash decision… Where am I supposed to go? Mortgage rates are insane right now!”
“That’s no longer my problem,” Alla cut him off sharply. “I’ll combine Maxim’s share and mine and use the money to buy a two-room apartment on the outskirts for the two of us. You’ll figure something out for yourself. And until the apartment is sold, the rules stay the same. Your territory is the bedroom. Mine is everything else. Good night.”
She turned away and went into the living room, firmly closing the door behind her.
For the first time in a week, Alla lay down on the sofa and felt the muscles in her back relax.
The apartment was quiet.
It smelled of clean laundry and fresh baking.
Alla closed her eyes, knowing that court proceedings, apartment viewings with real estate agents, moving, and endless paperwork still lay ahead.
But she had already done the most important thing.
She had refused to let anyone walk all over her.
And for the first time in a very long while, she slept completely peacefully, without waking once until morning.
