Vera was setting plates out in the kitchen when she heard the key turn in the lock. Andrey came in and called out from the doorway:
“Are you going to eat? I bought that cheese you liked last week.”
“I will,” Vera replied, taking glasses out of the cupboard. “How was work?”
“Same as usual.” Andrey hung up his jacket, walked into the kitchen, and kissed his wife on the cheek. “The meeting dragged on for two hours, even though everything could have been settled in fifteen minutes.”
Vera nodded as she poured the tea, and for a moment her gaze lingered on the kitchen cabinets—the very ones she had chosen before she had even met Andrey, carefully comparing prices at three different stores so she could stay within her budget. Three rooms, renovations, furniture—she had put it all together piece by piece over nearly six years, setting money aside from every deal and working without days off until the real estate agency where she worked began bringing in a steady income.
“Why are you smiling?” Andrey asked, noticing the expression on her face.
“Oh, nothing.” Vera shrugged. “I just remembered bringing the first box in here. Back then, the only furniture I had was a mattress and one chair.”
“I remember you telling me,” Andrey said, sitting down at the table. “You worked yourself to death for six years without a vacation.”
“Five and a half, to be exact,” Vera corrected him. “I paid off the mortgage in four years, then spent another year and a half saving for the renovations and furniture.”
“But now it looks beautiful.” Andrey looked around the kitchen. “Do you regret having to handle everything yourself before we got married?”
“Not for a second,” Vera answered honestly. “At least I know for certain that this apartment is mine, and no one can say I didn’t earn it.”
Andrey fell silent for a second, studying his plate, then said as if suddenly remembering something important:
“By the way, remember what we agreed on right after the wedding?”
“About the apartment?” Vera raised an eyebrow. “Of course I remember. You said it would never become a source of conflict between us.”
“And that’s still true.” Andrey nodded. “I was just reminding you.”
Vera looked carefully at her husband, but he had already switched to talking about the TV series they had started watching the previous weekend, and the tension that had barely begun to form dissolved on its own.
Two weeks later, Andrey came home later than usual, looking distracted.
“What happened?” Vera asked, looking up from her laptop.
“Margarita called.” Andrey sat down on the sofa, rubbing his neck. “She was complaining that their rented apartment has become too cramped.”
“It’s a one-bedroom, right?” Vera clarified. “With Artyom and the baby, it really must be crowded.”
“Exactly. And now Mom is worried too.” Andrey sighed. “She says the child will soon be two, and there isn’t even a separate corner for the toys.”
“I understand,” Vera nodded, “but that’s not our problem, is it?”
Andrey said nothing. He merely shrugged and changed the channel.
A few days later, Tatyana Viktorovna called her son herself.
“Andryusha,” she began without any preamble, “I’ve been thinking. Since Margarita is so cramped there, I’m going to give her my apartment. And I’ll move in with you.”
“Mom,” Andrey said, taken aback, “didn’t you think you should discuss that with me first?”
“What is there to discuss?” Tatyana Viktorovna sounded surprised. “You and Vera have a three-room apartment. There’s plenty of space. I don’t need much—just a little corner and a bed.”
“Mom, wait.” Andrey lowered his voice and glanced toward the kitchen, where Vera was washing the dishes. “It’s Vera’s apartment. I can’t just make a decision like that.”
“Then talk to her,” his mother replied, irritation creeping into her voice. “Explain that I have no other choice. I can’t exactly live on the street.”
“You’re not on the street,” Andrey tried to object. “You have your own apartment.”
“Had,” Tatyana Viktorovna snapped. “I’ve already promised it to Margarita. I’m not taking my word back. I’m not used to doing that.”
Andrey ended the call and sat in the hallway for a long time, unable to bring himself to go into the kitchen.
“Who called?” Vera asked, drying her hands on a towel.
“Mom,” Andrey answered shortly.
“And what did she want?”
Andrey hesitated, searching for the right words, then said cautiously:
“Vera, here’s the situation. She’s decided to give her apartment to Margarita. And she wants to move in with us.”
Vera froze with the towel still in her hands, staring at her husband in bewilderment.
“With us?” she repeated. “You mean here, in my apartment?”
“Well, yes.” Andrey rubbed the back of his head. “She really won’t have anywhere to go once she gives her apartment away.”
“And who asked her to give it away?” Vera put the towel down on the table. “She made that decision herself without asking anyone, and now we’re supposed to deal with the consequences?”
“Vera, try to understand.” Andrey stepped closer. “Mom is alone, her pension is small, and she can’t afford to rent a place. We have three rooms. There’s enough space for everyone.”
“Andrey,” Vera pronounced his name slowly, clearly separating each syllable, “we had an agreement. Before we even got married. You yourself said the apartment would never become a source of conflict.”
“I remember.” Andrey spread his hands. “But the situation has changed. This isn’t about arguing over the apartment. Mom genuinely has nowhere to go.”
“That’s not my problem.” Vera shook her head. “Your mother chose what to do with her own home without asking anyone. She can decide for herself where she’s going to live afterward.”
“So you’re not even willing to discuss it?” irritation appeared in Andrey’s voice.
“I’m willing to discuss a lot of things,” Vera replied, “but I’m not willing to have someone living in my apartment whom I didn’t invite. Even if that person is your mother.”
Andrey turned away, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and said more quietly:
“Let’s not tell Mom anything directly yet. I’ll try to sort it out with her myself.”
“Whatever you want.” Vera shrugged. “But my position isn’t going to change.”
Andrey never got the chance to sort anything out. Tatyana Viktorovna arrived that very Saturday without warning, carrying a large bag.
“I’ve brought a few things over in advance,” she announced from the doorway, “so I won’t have to carry everything at once later.”
Vera exchanged a glance with her husband but said nothing as she let her mother-in-law into the apartment.
“Tatyana Viktorovna,” Vera began once the three of them were seated in the kitchen, “Andrey told me about your plans. But he and I have an agreement that he probably never mentioned to you.”
“What agreement?” Tatyana Viktorovna raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“That my apartment will not be subject to family decisions,” Vera explained calmly. “It is my property, and I decide who lives here.”
“Well, would you look at that,” Tatyana Viktorovna drawled, giving her daughter-in-law a long look. “And I was already thinking about where I’d arrange my furniture. That room over there,” she nodded toward Vera’s study, “has windows on the sunny side. It would be perfect for me.”
“Mom,” Andrey tried to intervene, “we haven’t made any final decision yet.”
“What is there to decide?” Tatyana Viktorovna waved him off. “I’ve already given Margarita my word. Next week I’m going there to transfer the documents, which means I’ll need somewhere to live at the same time.”
“Somewhere doesn’t automatically mean here,” Vera said firmly.
Tatyana Viktorovna went silent for a second, then looked at her son, clearly expecting his support.
“Andryusha,” she said reproachfully, “tell her.”
Andrey hesitated, looking from his mother to his wife.
“Vera, come on,” he began uncertainly. “Maybe we could reconsider? At least temporarily, until Mom finds something else.”
“We’ve already discussed this.” Vera folded her arms across her chest. “My opinion hasn’t changed.”
Tatyana Viktorovna snorted and set down her cup of tea.
“So this is how things are now,” she said bitterly. “A wife doesn’t even let her husband have a say.”
“This isn’t about having a say,” Vera objected. “The apartment belongs to me, so the decision is mine.”
Her mother-in-law abruptly straightened up and stared at Vera with undisguised astonishment.
“Why is the apartment only yours? You’re a married woman now!” she exclaimed, as though the mere fact of marriage automatically turned personal property into shared property.
“Marriage does not cancel property rights,” Vera said sharply, feeling something hard and unyielding ignite inside her. “I bought this apartment long before I ever met Andrey, with my own money and through my own work. Marriage does not make you—or anyone else—a co-owner.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is.” Tatyana Viktorovna pursed her lips, then suddenly raised her voice. “So to you, your mother-in-law is worse than a stray dog! I’m your husband’s own mother, and you’re throwing me out onto the street!”
“No one is throwing you onto the street,” Vera said, trying to keep her voice even, although her fingers gripping the edge of the table had turned white from tension. “You have an apartment that you decided to give to your daughter. That’s your choice, and it isn’t my responsibility to fix it.”
“Greedy!” Tatyana Viktorovna shouted, standing so abruptly that the chair scraped backward across the floor. “People like you spend their whole lives trembling over every square meter and never give a thought to family!”
“Mom,” Andrey tried to stop her, “please calm down.”
“And you keep quiet!” Tatyana Viktorovna spun around toward her son. “You’re standing there like a statue instead of putting your wife in her place! I raised you, and now you’re putting some strange woman above your own mother!”
“She isn’t a strange woman,” Andrey objected quietly. “She’s my wife.”
“Exactly—your wife!” Tatyana Viktorovna threw up her hands. “And if she’s your wife, everything should be shared! I honestly don’t understand where these newfangled ideas came from—everyone guarding what’s theirs!”
“These aren’t newfangled ideas,” Vera cut in. “It’s basic respect for someone else’s property. I’m not interfering with your apartment, which you’re giving to Margarita. I expect you to stay out of mine in exactly the same way.”
Tatyana Viktorovna froze for a moment, boring into her daughter-in-law with a gaze full of barely restrained rage. Then she turned to her son and raised her chin demandingly.
“Andrey,” she said clearly, “I’m going to live with you anyway. Regardless of what your wife thinks about it.”
Andrey lowered his eyes to the countertop and said dully:
“Mom, I can’t just…”
“Then you’ll think about it,” Tatyana Viktorovna cut him off. “Meanwhile, I’ll start unpacking my things.”
Vera felt the blood rush to her face, and her voice became sharp with the strain of barely controlled emotion.
“Then only one person will be living here—me,” she said, looking directly at her husband. “Andrey, if you keep thinking my opinion can simply be ignored, you know where the suitcase is.”
Silence fell over the kitchen. Tatyana Viktorovna was the first to break it, throwing up her hands with almost theatrical outrage.
“Did you hear that?!” she cried to her son. “She’s openly threatening you! Shameless—that’s what she is!”
“I’m not threatening anyone,” Vera replied harshly. “I’m stating a fact. This is my apartment, and I’m under no obligation to share it with people I haven’t invited here.”
“I’ll never set foot in this place again if that’s how you’re going to put it!” Tatyana Viktorovna shouted, grabbing her bag from the table. “And remember this: I’ll do everything in my power to destroy this marriage! No normal man should have to put up with a wife like you!”
“Mom, stop,” Andrey tried to intervene, but his voice lacked conviction and firmness.
“And you,” Tatyana Viktorovna turned to her son, “demand that she apologize immediately. Otherwise it means you’ve chosen her instead of me, this…”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vera said quietly but firmly.
Andrey raised his eyes to his wife, then to his mother. His face showed the painful confusion of a man being pulled between two sides. Finally, addressing Vera, he said:
“Vera, apologize to Mom. Please. And agree to at least a temporary arrangement.”
Vera slowly shook her head, feeling everything inside her contract into a cold, solid knot.
“No,” she said clearly. “I won’t apologize, and I won’t agree. Not temporarily and not permanently.”
“Then this conflict is impossible to resolve,” Andrey said, spreading his hands as though absolving himself of responsibility for what was happening.
“Then it’s impossible to resolve,” Vera echoed.
Tatyana Viktorovna, who had been silently watching the argument between her son and daughter-in-law, pursed her lips with satisfaction and marched decisively toward the exit.
“Come on, Andryusha,” she called over her shoulder. “There’s nothing more for us to do here. Let your precious wife sit here alone with her principles.”
Andrey paused for a moment in the kitchen doorway, looking at Vera with a mixture of hurt and confusion.
“You really won’t change your mind?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Vera replied without looking away.
Andrey gave a short nod, almost as if to himself, then followed his mother out. The door slammed shut with a dull thud, and a ringing silence descended over the apartment, broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock.
For three days, Andrey neither came home nor called. Vera continued going to work, meeting clients, and showing apartments. The familiar routine helped her avoid thinking too much about what had happened. On the fourth day, Andrey finally sent her a message: “Mom is really upset. Maybe we can still discuss this calmly?”
Vera stared at the phone screen for a long time before replying: “There’s nothing to discuss. My decision hasn’t changed.”
No reply came.
A week later, Andrey arrived to collect some of his belongings—his suits, laptop, and documents. Their conversation was brief and cold.
“Are you seriously prepared to destroy everything?” he asked as he folded shirts into a gym bag.
“I’m not destroying anything,” Vera replied calmly, standing in the bedroom doorway. “I’m simply not prepared to tolerate decisions being made for me without anyone asking my opinion. And I’m not prepared to be married to a man who, when it really matters, sides with his mother instead of his wife.”
“Mom was left without a roof over her head,” Andrey protested as he zipped up the bag. “What was I supposed to do with her?”
“I don’t know.” Vera shrugged. “But that’s no reason to demand that I compromise my principles.”
Andrey fell silent and looked around the bedroom where he had lived for almost two years. Then he said quietly:
“So we’re getting divorced?”
“So we’re getting divorced,” Vera confirmed without the slightest hesitation in her voice.
The following months passed in a blur of legal formalities—the application, division of jointly acquired property, of which there turned out to be very little, since according to the documents the apartment belonged solely to Vera and had been purchased long before the marriage. Andrey did not challenge that fact, understanding that any such attempt would be pointless.
When Margarita learned about her brother’s divorce, she refused to let her mother move back into the apartment, explaining that the transfer of ownership had already been completed.
“Mom, the documents have already been transferred,” she said over the phone while Tatyana Viktorovna demanded to stay there temporarily, even if only for a couple of months. “Where am I supposed to put you? Artyom and I already have renovations planned.”
“But you were the one complaining about how cramped it was!” Tatyana Viktorovna protested. “That’s why I gave you the apartment—to make things easier for you!”
“You gave it to me, and thank you for that,” Margarita replied wearily. “But I can’t take you back in.”
In the end, Tatyana Viktorovna and her son rented a small one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city. It was inexpensive, but it still required monthly expenses neither mother nor son had been prepared for. Deprived of his spacious home and accustomed comfort, Andrey took on extra weekend work to cover the difference in their budget.
Vera, meanwhile, remained alone in her three-room apartment, gradually restoring the space to the way it had once been—removing the final traces of their life together and rearranging the furniture exactly as she liked it. At first, the silence felt unfamiliar, but after a couple of months it no longer seemed empty. Instead, it became filled with a sense of well-earned peace.
One evening, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, Vera realized that for the first time in a long while, the apartment felt entirely hers—not shared, not disputed, but truly hers, the home for which she had sacrificed sleepless nights and years without vacations. She felt no regret about what had happened, only a calm certainty that the decision she had made was the only right one.
Vera never crossed paths with Andrey again, either by accident or intentionally. Their lives had separated completely, each going its own way, and there was no reason whatsoever to look back.
