Nastya wasn’t just lying on the couch; she had practically grown into it. Phone in hand, she scrolled mechanically through the news feed, her mind completely blank. Peace was rare. And, as usual, it lasted exactly until the front door slammed.
Grigory burst in as though an avalanche were chasing him. His cheeks were crimson, his nose was shiny, his jacket was half unzipped, and he still had his boots on.
“It’s so cold my ears still haven’t realized they’re attached to me,” he muttered. Without taking off his shoes, he sat down beside her. “Listen, I’ve got news. Mom’s decided to move.”
Nastya sat up a little. She even turned off her phone. Judging by his face, this was serious.
“What do you mean, move?” Her voice was steady, but her eyes narrowed.
“She sold her place and bought a two-bedroom apartment in the building across the street!” her husband announced happily, as if he were talking about buying ice cream rather than declaring a family apocalypse. “Now we’ll see each other more often!”
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nastya swore inwardly. In three years of marriage, she had developed a reliable way of surviving her mother-in-law’s visits: endure them, nod, smile, then spend a week drinking valerian tea. And now this surprise. The woman would be nearby. All the time. Right across the street.
“When did she manage all that?” Nastya asked, trying to remain polite.
“Just a couple of days ago. She found a decent realtor who didn’t cheat her. Everything was handled properly.” Grigory sprawled on the couch as though he had arranged the whole deal himself.
“Wait.” Nastya frowned as the pieces clicked into place. “She had a one-bedroom apartment, didn’t she? Prices around here are sky-high. How could she afford a two-bedroom?”
“Well… she had some savings. And Dad left her something. What difference does it make, Nastya? The important thing is she’s close by now. It’ll be convenient!”
“Mm-hmm. Very convenient,” she said dryly, feeling herself slowly come to a boil. Even a kettle made less noise inside than she did at moments like this.
“I’ll need to take some time off to help her move. I’ll tell them at work tomorrow and take a week. You should do the same, okay?”
“Take two,” Nastya said wearily. “What she needs isn’t time off. It’s a therapist with a vacuum cleaner. Preferably one person who can do both.”
The next day they went to the lair… sorry, to Angela Viktorovna’s new apartment.
Her mother-in-law was waiting outside the building, looking as though she’d been invited to accept an Oscar.
“Grishenka! Nastenka! Come here, my dears!” She spread her arms like a fairy godmother in a television show where everything had gone wrong.
Nastya hugged her automatically. A sharp cloud of sweet perfume hit her nose so hard she wanted to sneeze and pass out.
As they climbed to the fourth floor—the elevator, apparently, was for weaklings—Angela Viktorovna chattered as if she had rehearsed every word.
“What luck! What happiness! I can just feel it: this is a new life. My son nearby, my daughter-in-law right around the corner… Everything will work out! I didn’t do all this for nothing!”
“Of course you didn’t,” Nastya muttered under her breath. “Not with that much flair for drama.”
The door opened, and Nastya froze. Not with delight. More like shock. The ceiling was streaked, the walls were stained, strips of wallpaper hung down like sad mustaches, and in one corner was black mold, like a greeting from hell.
“Mom, this place is scary to live in,” Grigory said, grimacing at the mold.
“Nonsense!” his mother said with a wave of her hand. “We’ll fix everything. Nastenka will help. She’s so good around the house!”
Oh, yes. A regular Mary Poppins, only with a mop and a panic attack, Nastya thought, forcing a smile.
For the next two weeks, Nastya felt like a guest on a cheap talk show. At least they gave you coffee on those. Here there was disinfecting, moving furniture, washing floors, and Angela Viktorovna playing supervisor of every last task.
“Put that a little higher,” her mother-in-law instructed from the doorway, wearing the expression of Marie Antoinette. “And wipe it properly! There’s enough dust there to fill a museum!”
By the end of each day, Nastya could barely stand. But the moment she said she was tired, her mother-in-law began to wail.
“Oh, tell me about it, dear! I’m practically dying. My age, my blood pressure, my whole life… Thank goodness you’re young and strong. Like a tractor!”
Thanks, Mother. That’s so touching I could cry.
On the last day of her vacation, Nastya gathered the remaining rubbish, washed the floors, and reached for her jacket like a soldier after battle.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Angela Viktorovna called from the kitchen, a spoon in her hand.
“Home. I have work tomorrow.”
“And who’s going to help me? I’m all alone here! Groceries, cooking, dishes—it’s all on me! You’re such a clever girl, such a capable homemaker. It’s settled: you’ll come over this weekend!”
Then, bang—the kitchen door slammed shut in Nastya’s face.
Nastya went down the stairs feeling as though she had escaped a psychological trap rather than an apartment. Her thoughts tangled together.
Since when did I become the personal cook and courier for a grown woman who managed perfectly well without me five years ago?
At home, Grigory sat with his laptop and headphones on, absorbed in his work. Nastya stormed into the room and announced from the doorway:
“That’s it. I’ve had enough! I’m not going to be your mother’s unpaid housekeeper!”
Grigory took off his headphones. “What happened?”
“What happened?” she repeated, her voice shaking. “Your mother has decided I’m a daughter-in-law who does everything. I scrub, I carry things, and now I’m supposed to cook for her too! I have a job, a life, plans of my own! If she wanted to live nearby so badly, she can learn to manage on her own!”
Grigory stood and came toward her, trying to hug her, but Nastya stepped away.
“Don’t. I mean it. First she moved here without discussing it with us. Then she leaned on me for two weeks like a leech. Now she’s summoning me over on weekends too. What’s next—should I make her bed every morning?”
“Well, she’s just struggling…” he mumbled. “New place, stress…”
“Stress?” Nastya threw up her hands. “Do you know who’s stressed? Me! I’m living in an endless game of ‘Help Mom’!”
Grigory fell silent.
Nastya sat down on the couch and added more quietly, “I don’t mind helping. I mind being treated as if I’m obligated. Those are different things. She doesn’t ask; she orders. And you stand there agreeing with her.”
A pause followed. It wasn’t silence, exactly. It was a pause thick with everything left unsaid.
“All right,” Grigory said softly. “I’ll talk to her.”
Nastya looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, she felt he had truly heard her.
Though, if she was honest, she had more faith in the mold being defeated than in an honest conversation with her mother-in-law.
The next two months turned into a television series. Not the kind you happily binge, but the kind where you’re the main character, with no makeup, no script, and bags under your eyes.
Angela Viktorovna called like a building attendant hitting the fire alarm.
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“Nastenka, I’ve run out of flour. Pop into the shop for me—these pancakes won’t make themselves,” she would declare in a tone usually reserved for medical emergencies.
“Dear girl, I’ve decided to do some laundry, but this new machine is impossible to understand. Come save an old woman from a technological catastrophe,” she would say, nearly weeping into the phone.
“Nastyusha, I’m so lonely… Come have some tea. I’ve just baked a pie. It’s almost edible,” she would coax, drawing Nastya’s dusty sense of pity toward her like a vacuum cleaner.
And Nastya went. Like a fool, she went. She helped. She sat. She listened. While Angela Viktorovna poured tea and recounted how their neighbor Nina had taken to drinking and how Pasha from the ground floor had brought home yet another young woman, Nastya’s own laundry, cleaning, work documents, and an unstarted pot of borscht waited at home.
Meanwhile, Grigory was excellent at his one responsibility: noticing absolutely nothing.
Then, one evening, a new refrain began right on cue.
“My little apartment,” her mother-in-law sighed, looking like Joan of Arc at the stake, “is in terrible shape. That mold is back on the walls. It’s harmful, you know, Nastenka. Bad for the lungs. This place needs renovating. Not just a little freshening up—a proper renovation, with all the junk cleared out and new appliances. My refrigerator breathes like an old man after a run, and that stove is a relic from the war.”
Nastya silently wiped the dishes. Thoroughly. With a faint squeak from the cloth. The brighter they shone, the angrier she was.
“I’ve worked it out,” her mother-in-law continued, as though she had a calculator in her head. “I’ll need half a million rubles. At least. Everything I had went into the move. I’m completely broke.”
Nastya kept wiping. No matter what Angela Viktorovna said, she refused to react.
But Angela Viktorovna only gave up long enough to gather her strength. The next day, she brought out the heavy artillery.
“You have a good job, Nastenka… And I’m sure you have savings?” The hint was so thick you could fry potatoes in it.
“You know what they say: a daughter-in-law should look after her mother-in-law. Maria Stepanovna’s son’s wife, for instance, treats her mother-in-law like a precious crystal vase.” That was no longer a hint; it was an SOS signal complete with flag and smoke.
“Maybe you could take out a loan? You’re young. They’d approve you…” She said it as casually as if she were asking for bread.
Nastya felt as if she were being squeezed like a jar of pickles. One more twist and the lid would fly off.
One day, she decided to leave work early. She wanted to lie down, be alone, and enjoy some quiet. Instead, she turned toward her mother-in-law’s building, hoping to “sort things out” first.
The apartment door was slightly ajar. Voices came from inside. Familiar voices. So familiar they made her knees tremble.
“Tell her to transfer the whole amount at once. You’re her husband—make her do her duty. A daughter-in-law should help her mother-in-law,” Angela Viktorovna said, each word sharp and deliberate.
“Of course, Mom. I’ll talk to her. She’ll understand you’re having a hard time. She’s got a decent amount saved. We’ll sort it out,” Grigory replied confidently, as though they were planning a weekend at the country house rather than draining his wife’s savings.
“I didn’t choose her for you for no reason, son,” his mother purred. “I knew the girl came with property, an apartment, and a good income…”
Nastya heard no more. She pushed the door open.
Grigory jumped as though he had been caught doing something far less respectable.
Angela Viktorovna instantly switched to her “poor helpless relative” act.
“Nastenka, dear! We were just talking about you… I’m embarrassed, truly. But the renovation is urgent. I’ll pay you back, I swear. Every last penny!”
Nastya looked around the room. It was the same as it had been two weeks earlier. The same mold, the same clutter. Only now she could see clearly: it wasn’t this apartment that needed tearing down. It was their relationship.
“No,” she said calmly.
“What?” Angela Viktorovna blinked as if she’d been slapped.
“I said no. I won’t give you any money. Not now, not later. Ever.”
“Nastya, what are you saying? She’s my mother!” Grigory snapped.
“Yours. Not mine. And I’m tired of being a walking banking app. Pack your things and go live with Mommy, since the two of you are so good at managing my money together.”
“Have you lost your mind?” He grabbed her arm, but Nastya pulled away.
“Quite the opposite. I’ve finally come to my senses.”
She left without looking back. As she went down the stairs, she felt neither anger nor panic. Only exhaustion and relief.
At home, she didn’t even take off her shoes. She went straight to the bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and took out a suitcase. She packed methodically, like a soldier following orders. Everything belonging to her husband went into it—even the shirts she had given him herself.
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. On the other side came a duet.
“Nastenka! Dear girl, why are you doing this? We’re family! You’re like a daughter to me…” Her mother-in-law draped herself across the doorway.
“Don’t call me your daughter. I’m not your daughter. I never was,” Nastya said clearly, without raising her voice.
Grigory tried to get a word in, darting around the apartment like a cat being given a bath.
“Nastya, let’s talk. If you want, I’ll tell Mom the renovation can wait.”
“It’s too late, Grisha. You had your chance. I cleaned it, ironed it, and sent it on its way.”
The bags and suitcase were in the hall. Nastya opened the door.
“Leave. Both of you.”
“This is outrageous!” her mother-in-law shouted. “How dare you?”
“I dare because it’s my apartment. I decide who lives here—and who goes.”
When the door closed, the first thing Nastya did was take out her phone. She transferred every penny of her savings to her mother. Better her mother than those so-called relatives. Then she called her.
“Hi, Mom. I’ve been thinking… I’m getting a divorce. Yes, I’m sure.”
The next day, she filed the paperwork. Firmly. Clearly. Without a scene.
There wasn’t much to divide. Even their joint account now seemed like a minor detail.
Grigory moved in with his mother. It was where they belonged. Nastya often ran into them afterward—at the shop, near the pharmacy, at the bus stop.
“Nastyusha, forgive me! I was wrong!” Grigory would plead, looking at her with puppy-dog eyes.
And whenever her mother-in-law spotted Nastya, she would grab her phone and launch into a performance.
“Can you imagine how ungrateful she is? We gave her our hearts, and she…”
Nastya walked past without stopping and without pity.
She knew for certain that she had rid herself of parasites. Let them whisper, gossip, and pretend they were the injured parties. She had cleared out something that had been poisoning her life for far too long.
And for the first time in ages, she could breathe easily.
