The alarm went off at seven, as usual. Yana reached around on the nightstand, silenced it, and lay there for another couple of minutes, staring at the crack in the ceiling of their rented apartment. It had appeared back in winter; the landlord had promised to fix it and then forgotten. Dmitry was already clattering cups around in the kitchen, making coffee for the two of them.
“Yana, get up, you’ll be late,” his voice came from the hallway.
It was an ordinary Tuesday morning, no different from dozens before it. Work, the subway, and a TV series on the couch in the evening. Neither Yana nor Dmitry had any idea that this particular day would turn their familiar life upside down.
The call came around noon, right during her lunch break. The number was unfamiliar—a landline.
“Yana Sergeyevna?” a calm female voice asked. “This is Notary Kovalyova. Your aunt, Valentina Igorevna, left a will in your favor. You’ll need to come by to complete the paperwork.”
Yana froze with her fork suspended over her half-finished lunch.
“A will?” she repeated. “Aunt Valya… She’s gone?”
“Two weeks ago,” the notary replied gently but professionally. “My condolences. As I understand it, you were the only relative she had remained in contact with during the last few years.”
Aunt Valentina, Yana’s father’s sister, had lived alone on the other side of the city. She had no children and had separated from her husband back in the nineties. Yana visited her a couple of times a year and called her on holidays. The news of her death settled inside Yana like a dull weight, but she barely had time to grieve—she had to go to the notary’s office that evening and deal with the documents.
At home that evening, Yana told her husband everything. Dmitry hugged her and offered his condolences at first, but when he heard that she had inherited a three-room apartment, he couldn’t hide his surprise.
“Three rooms?” Dmitry whistled. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Yana sighed, looking through the folder of documents. “Aunt Valya left everything to me. The apartment and some money in a bank account.”
“Now that’s lucky,” Dmitry said, sitting down beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Although I suppose you can’t really call it luck, considering the circumstances. Still, at least we won’t have to keep renting this dump with cracks in the ceiling.”
The paperwork took about a month. Yana specifically checked with both the notary and a lawyer she knew: property received through inheritance remained the personal property of the person who inherited it, regardless of marriage. The apartment was registered solely in her name; there was no other option.
“That’s exactly how it should be,” Dmitry agreed when Yana first mentioned it. “It’s your inheritance from your aunt. I have nothing to do with that property, and that’s perfectly normal.”
They moved in at the beginning of autumn. It was a three-room apartment in a nine-story prefabricated building constructed in the 1990s—not a new development, but spacious, bright, and most importantly, their own. The first few weeks were spent settling in: choosing wallpaper, assembling store-bought furniture, arguing over the color of the bedroom curtains. Dmitry put up shelves while Yana arranged books and unpacked boxes of dishes.
The first month passed peacefully, almost blissfully. Work, evenings at home, occasional guests—Yana finally began to relax, getting used to the idea that she now had a real home instead of temporary rented housing filled with someone else’s furniture and rules against hammering nails into the walls.
The peace was disturbed by Larisa Valentinovna.
Her mother-in-law had visited occasionally before, but she rarely came to their old rented apartment and had shown little interest in it. Once she learned about the inheritance, however, her visits increased to two or three times a week.
“Oh, you’ve got a cracked tile here in the kitchen,” Larisa Valentinovna remarked during one of her first visits, running a finger along the grout. “You really ought to replace it. It doesn’t look very presentable.”
“We haven’t had time to renovate everything yet,” Yana replied calmly as she poured tea. “We’ve been too busy.”
“And I’d hang the mirror in the hallway on the other wall,” her mother-in-law continued, walking around the apartment as though she were an appraiser preparing it for sale. “And the wallpaper in the living room is too dark. It steals all the light.”
Yana nodded and tried not to argue over trivial things. Dmitry usually stayed silent during these moments, scrolling through his phone or going out onto the balcony for a cigarette, leaving his wife alone to listen to his mother’s criticism.
One day, her mother-in-law even showed up without warning while Yana was arranging a new collection of books on a shelf in the living room.
“Why don’t you have a proper dining table yet?” Larisa Valentinovna asked, looking at the small kitchen table that seated four. “With this much space! You need a larger table, one for at least eight people.”
“The two of us have more than enough room at this one,” Yana replied without looking away from the books.
“Well, you never know,” her mother-in-law said vaguely, sweeping her hand toward the empty third room, which the young couple was still using to store boxes. “Someone might come to visit and decide to stay for a while. Extra space never hurts.”
Yana didn’t attach any significance to the remark at the time. She dismissed it as her mother-in-law’s usual habit of giving household advice. Only later, looking back on that conversation, did she realize that the groundwork had been laid long before the serious visit.
A month after the move, Larisa Valentinovna arrived with an unusually solemn expression. She refused tea, sat down at the table, folded her hands in front of her, and was clearly preparing for an important conversation.
“Yana, Dima, I have something serious to discuss with you,” her mother-in-law began, looking from one to the other. “Zoya and Igor will be moving to our city soon. Igor is being transferred for work, and they don’t have a place of their own here yet.”
“I see,” Yana replied cautiously, still unsure where the conversation was going.
“So I was thinking,” Larisa Valentinovna straightened up, “they can stay with you at first. A month, maybe two, until they find something of their own. Your apartment is large. There’s more than enough room.”
Yana set down her cup.
“Larisa Valentinovna, that’s impossible,” she replied firmly. “We’re not prepared to have strangers living with us for that long.”
“What strangers?!” her mother-in-law exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “She’s Dima’s own aunt! They’re not random people off the street.”
“They’re still strangers to me,” Yana shook her head. “I’ve never even met them.”
Dmitry sat silently, studying the tablecloth as if he had noticed its pattern for the first time.
“Dima, say something to her,” his mother turned to her son. “Explain to your wife that family members are supposed to help each other.”
“Mom, well…” Dmitry shrugged vaguely, clearly unwilling to get involved. “Maybe they really could stay for a little while?”
“No,” Yana answered before her husband could continue. “My decision isn’t going to change. I’m sorry Zoya and Igor are having difficulties with the move, but that’s no reason to turn our apartment into a hostel.”
Larisa Valentinovna pursed her lips, remained silent for a couple of seconds, and then began speaking again, this time more harshly.
“You’re heartless, Yana,” her mother-in-law said, shaking her head. “You’re refusing to give relatives a roof over their heads. They’re not strangers, after all. They’re your husband’s family.”
“I’ve already explained my position,” Yana said, trying to keep her voice even, although her irritation was growing with every minute. “I agree that relatives should be helped. But helping them doesn’t mean I have to spend a month and a half living under the same roof with people I don’t know.”
“People you don’t know!” her mother-in-law snorted. “You’d think they were criminals or something. They’re perfectly respectable people moving here for work.”
“My answer hasn’t changed,” Yana repeated.
Larisa Valentinovna raised her voice, her face turning red with indignation.
“You’ve got some nerve!” her mother-in-law exclaimed. “A three-room apartment for two people, and you begrudge your own relatives a corner! You live like royalty and refuse to share!”
“Please stop,” Yana said, getting up from the table. “This conversation needs to end.”
“I will not stop!” Larisa Valentinovna stood up too, almost knocking over her chair. “Do you even understand that—”
“Enough,” Yana interrupted. Her voice trembled with restrained irritation but did not break. “This conversation is over. I am not going to let strangers live in my home. Period.”
The argument quickly turned into a full-blown scandal. Her mother-in-law kept insisting, raising her voice, bringing up old grievances, and reminding Yana that family was supposed to stick together. Yana listened silently for several minutes, then walked to the front door and flung it open.
“Leave,” Yana said firmly, looking her mother-in-law directly in the eyes. “Right now.”
“What?!” Larisa Valentinovna gasped indignantly. “You’re throwing me out of my own son’s home?!”
“This is my apartment,” Yana corrected her. “And yes, I’m throwing you out. The conversation is over.”
Her mother-in-law grabbed her handbag and shot her son a devastating look, clearly expecting him to support her. Dmitry lowered his eyes and continued to say nothing. Larisa Valentinovna walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Yana locked it, leaned her back against it, and slowly exhaled. She was still trembling from the tension of the argument, but at the same time, she felt a strange sense of relief—as though she had finally managed to put an end to an issue that had dragged on for too long.
“Well, that’s that,” Yana said, turning to her husband. “I hope the subject is closed.”
Dmitry nodded without looking at his wife and cleared the cups from the table. He didn’t say another word about what had happened for the rest of the evening—not in support of his mother and not in support of his wife. He simply turned on the television as though nothing had happened.
Yana attributed her husband’s silence to the awkward situation. After all, it was difficult when your mother and wife were in conflict. She decided that the matter really was over, that Zoya and Igor would find some other temporary accommodation, and that Larisa Valentinovna would complain for a while before eventually accepting the refusal. Just an ordinary family quarrel that would eventually be forgotten.
The evening passed quietly. Dmitry went to bed early, saying he was tired. Yana stayed up a little longer with her laptop, sorting through work emails, then went to the bedroom as well, convinced that the worst was already behind them.
A week passed peacefully. Neither Yana nor Dmitry tried to bring up the conversation with his mother. Life returned to its usual routine: work, evenings at home, occasional calls from Larisa Valentinovna, who behaved with deliberate coldness but no longer mentioned the move.
On Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. Yana was drinking coffee in the kitchen, while Dmitry was still asleep. When she opened the door, she froze on the threshold.
Two unfamiliar people stood on the landing—a woman of about fifty-five who bore a vague resemblance to Larisa Valentinovna, and a man around the same age. Beside them stood two large suitcases and a checkered travel bag.
“Hello,” the woman said with a broad, confident smile, as though they had been expected. “We’re Zoya and Igor, Dima’s relatives. Come in—I mean, shall we come in?”
Yana looked at the suitcases, and suddenly everything inside her seemed to drop. It became perfectly clear why the guests had come and why Larisa Valentinovna had backed down so easily during their earlier argument at the table.
“Pack up your things and get out! I didn’t invite you here!” Yana said, pointing toward the door at her husband’s relatives.
“Excuse me?” Zoya frowned and tried to squeeze past her while holding onto her suitcase. “But we were told everything had been approved. Larisa Valentinovna said it was all settled.”
Meanwhile, Igor had already put one foot across the threshold. Yana planted herself directly in the doorway, refusing to let them go any farther.
“Nothing has been settled,” Yana said without moving. “I never agreed to let you stay here. This is my apartment.”
“How can that be?” Zoya threw up her hands, pushing the suitcase closer to the threshold. “We’ve already rented out our apartment, all our things are here, and we have nowhere else to go!”
“You should have arranged that with me, not with Larisa Valentinovna,” Yana said, trying to sound firm although her voice trembled slightly from agitation. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you.”
The scandal erupted instantly. Igor began insisting that everything had been agreed upon a month earlier and that her mother-in-law had personally assured them that the rooms were ready and waiting for their guests. Zoya joined in, raising her voice and calling the situation outrageous.
“Nobody asked for my permission,” Yana kept repeating, standing in the doorway like a barrier. “Nobody.”
The noise woke Dmitry, who emerged sleepily from the bedroom. Then, literally only a few minutes later, Larisa Valentinovna arrived at the building—as though she had been waiting somewhere nearby, ready to appear at exactly the right moment.
“What’s going on here?!” her mother-in-law exclaimed, hurrying up the stairs. She pushed past Dmitry with her shoulder and stood beside her sister. “Why are Zoya and Igor standing out here with all their luggage?!”
“Because I’m not letting them into my apartment,” Yana replied without taking a single step backward.
“Let the guests in immediately!” Larisa Valentinovna raised her voice to a shout. “They’ve been traveling, they’re exhausted, and you’re putting on a performance!”
“No,” Yana said, shaking her head.
Dmitry stood nearby, looking from his mother to his wife, then from his wife to his aunt and uncle. The silence stretched awkwardly for several seconds before he finally spoke—quietly, but loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Yana,” Dmitry stumbled over his own words, “maybe we really should let them stay for a while? Where are they supposed to go now, standing outside with all their belongings?”
Yana turned toward her husband so sharply she nearly lost her balance.
“What did you just say?” she asked, unable to believe what she had heard.
“Let them stay,” Dmitry repeated more confidently, as though he had finally made up his mind. “Temporarily. We have a spare room. Why let it sit empty?”
“Dima, this is my apartment,” Yana pronounced each word separately, as though hammering in nails. “Nobody has the right to decide for me who is going to live here. Not even you.”
“Oh, stop being so stubborn,” Larisa Valentinovna interrupted, looking triumphantly at her son. “See? Dima is on my side. That means the family agrees that we should help.”
“I don’t care who is on whose side,” Yana turned to her mother-in-law. “I make the decision because the apartment is registered in my name. And I am saying no.”
Igor tried to say something about the difficult position they had been put in. Zoya again started talking about the apartment they had rented out and the fact that they had nowhere else to live. Larisa Valentinovna demanded that Yana compromise for the sake of the family. Their voices blended into a continuous roar as everyone talked over one another.
“Enough!” Yana shouted over all of them with a single word, and suddenly the landing fell silent.
She looked at Zoya, at Igor, and at their suitcases by the threshold.
“Leave,” Yana said calmly, almost casually. “Right now. You are not welcome here.”
“You have no right!” Larisa Valentinovna began.
“I do,” Yana interrupted her. “This is my apartment.”
Zoya snorted, grabbed her suitcase, and jerked it toward the elevator with exaggerated offense. Igor followed his wife silently, merely giving a short nod goodbye, almost as though apologizing for the awkwardness of the situation. Larisa Valentinovna remained standing on the landing, purple with indignation, but there were no suitcases beside her—leaving herself was clearly not part of her plans.
Yana turned her gaze toward her husband.
“Now you,” she said.
“What?” Dmitry blinked in confusion.
“You leave too,” Yana said, taking a step back into the apartment while continuing to hold the door open. “Pack your things and leave with them.”
“Are you serious?” Dmitry stood frozen in place. “Over my relatives? Over one argument?”
“Not because of an argument,” Yana shook her head. “Because you just took your mother’s side against me in my own home. Because you decided for me who was going to live in my apartment.”
Dmitry hesitated, obviously expecting his wife to soften if he simply waited a little longer.
“Yana, listen, I didn’t mean any harm,” he began, but stopped when he saw the look in his wife’s eyes.
“You have one hour to pack your things,” Yana said, walking back into the room and leaving the door open. “After that, I’m changing the lock.”
Dmitry shifted from one foot to the other for several more minutes, glancing first at the door and then at his wife, clearly expecting her to change her mind at any moment—that this was merely a burst of anger that would pass on its own.
It didn’t.
Yana silently packed his belongings into a bag—shirts, documents, his phone charger—and placed everything by the door.
An hour later, Dmitry left the apartment carrying the same bag his wife had packed, with the expression of a man who had hoped until the very last second for a different outcome. The door closed quietly behind him, without a slam.
By then, Larisa Valentinovna had already left, hissing something about ingratitude and a ruined family before she went.
Yana filed for divorce the following week. Dmitry called several times and sent messages—apologetic at first, then slightly resentful, as though he were the one who had been unfairly thrown out of his own life. Yana replied briefly, without anger, but without giving him even the slightest chance of changing her decision.
The divorce was finalized quickly. There was nothing to divide: the apartment had belonged solely to Yana from the beginning, and the rest of their property was divided without dispute.
A couple of months later, Yana had grown accustomed to the silence of the three rooms she had inherited from Aunt Valentina. She rearranged the furniture exactly as she liked and finally hung the hallway mirror where she herself wanted it, rather than where Larisa Valentinovna had advised her to put it.
In the evenings, there was no longer anyone criticizing the kitchen tiles, complaining about the dark wallpaper, or dropping hints about the unused third room.
The apartment remained hers—spacious, quiet, completely her own, and free from other people’s decisions and other people’s relatives.
