“We’ve decided to register the apartment in my son’s name only. You need to give up your share,” her mother-in-law said calmly.
“We’ve decided to register the apartment only in Artyom’s name,” Marina Igorevna said evenly, sipping tea from a porcelain cup with a gold rim.
Katya froze, a pen still in her hand. On the kitchen table between them lay the shared-equity construction agreement and a thick folder of mortgage documents. Outside, a cold October drizzle tapped against the window.
“What do you mean, ‘only in Artyom’s name’?” Katya felt her mouth go dry. “We’re buying it together. I sold my apartment…”
“You’ll be a co-borrower on the mortgage,” her mother-in-law clarified, carefully setting the cup onto its saucer. “You’ll both be making the payments, which is convenient for the bank. But the owner will be him. That’s safer.”
Katya slowly put the pen down on the table, feeling a chill spread through her.
“So I pay half… but the apartment isn’t mine?”
Artyom sat across from her, stubbornly staring at the pattern on the tablecloth. Marina Igorevna folded her hands on the table—calm, confident, as if they were discussing the weather.
“Katya dear, don’t be so dramatic. You’re family.”
It had all started six months earlier, in the spring. Katya was sitting in the tiny kitchen of their one-room apartment, once again rearranging numbers in an Excel spreadsheet of the family budget. Artyom had just come home from work.
“Katya, Mom called,” he began, taking off his jacket. “She has a suggestion about an apartment.”
“What kind of suggestion?” Katya looked up from her laptop.
“She says now is a good time to take out a mortgage. Interest rates are going to go up, and later we won’t be able to afford it.”
Katya had owned that one-room apartment even before the wedding—it had been left to her by her grandmother. Thirty-two square meters. After the wedding, she and Artyom had been squeezing into it together, and there was catastrophically little space.
“What about the down payment?” she asked, practical as always.
“We’ll sell your apartment. Mom already looked into it—the resale market has good prices right now.”
The very next day, Marina Igorevna arrived with a ready-made action plan. At that same kitchen table, she spread out printouts from real estate websites, calculations, and realtors’ contact details.
“Look, children,” she said, tapping the papers with a pen. “Katya’s apartment is worth six million. That’s enough for the down payment on a three-room apartment in a new building. Artyom, as the primary borrower, will get a good rate.”
“Why as the primary borrower?” Katya asked in surprise. “I have an official salary too.”
“His is higher, sweetheart. And banks trust men more.”
Katya wanted to object, but Artyom placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Mom’s right. It’s more выгодно this way.”
(“Mom’s right. It’s more beneficial this way.”)
The next few months flew by in a blur of chores and paperwork. Katya sold her apartment—quickly, maybe even too quickly. At the same time, she worked out mortgage options, compared banks, calculated payments down to the last kopek. On weekends, they drove out to the construction site to watch their future home take shape. Katya chose bathroom tiles, planned the kitchen, skipped lunches to save for renovations.
“Our bedroom will be here,” she said dreamily, standing inside the concrete shell of the future apartment. “And the nursery will be here.”
Marina Igorevna was always nearby—advising, directing, deciding.
“I arranged a meeting at the bank for tomorrow,” she would announce. “Artyomushka, take the day off.”
“What about me?” Katya would ask.
“What about you? You’re working. We can manage without you.”
The first alarm bell rang at the bank. The manager, a young woman with flawless hair, addressed only Artyom and his mother.
“Artyom Sergeyevich, your income allows… Marina Igorevna, as guarantor, you understand…”
“And me?” Katya tried to cut in. “I’m a co-borrower too.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the manager nodded without looking at her. “You’ll need to sign here and here.”
When Katya asked to review the documents, Marina Igorevna let out an impatient sigh.
“Katya dear, we’re running late. You can read them at home.”
But the documents never made it home—they had supposedly been “left at the bank for review.” Katya began to worry.
“Artyom, show me the contract.”
“Why? Mom already checked everything.”
“I want to look at it myself. It’s my apartment too.”
“Of course it’s yours,” her husband reassured her. “We’re family. What difference does it make whose name it’s in?”
But Katya was an accountant. She was used to calculating everything, checking every figure. That evening, after Artyom had fallen asleep, she sat down with a calculator and a notepad. She worked for a long time, methodically writing down every amount.
Her apartment—six million. That was seventy percent of the down payment. Her salary covered half the monthly mortgage payment. Her savings were going toward the renovation.
But her name was nowhere in the draft contract she had managed to glimpse.
Katya sat in the dark kitchen of their rented apartment, staring at the numbers in her notebook. Rain drummed against the window. In the next room, Artyom slept peacefully.
She was putting in everything—but receiving nothing.
Katya reread the line in the contract three times.
“Buyer: Artyom Sergeyevich Volkov.”
Only him. No mention of her at all.
“Marina Igorevna,” Katya’s voice trembled, “but I put in the money from selling my apartment. Why am I not in the contract?”
Her mother-in-law set her cup aside and looked at her as if she were a foolish child.
“Katya dear, why are you acting like such a little girl? You’re a co-borrower on the mortgage. You’ll be paying together with Artyom. It’s convenient—shared responsibility strengthens a family.”
“But the ownership…”
“Ownership should be in the man’s name,” Marina Igorevna cut her off. “That’s the proper way. A man should be protected. In case something happens…”
“Something like what?” Katya felt the ground slipping away beneath her feet.
“Well, you never know. A divorce, for example. God forbid, of course. But Artyom mustn’t be left out on the street.”
“And me?” Katya breathed out. “What if I’m the one left out on the street?… Continued just below in the first comment.”
If you want the next part translated too, send it over.
“We decided to register the apartment in Artyom’s name only,” Marina Igorevna said calmly, sipping tea from a porcelain cup with a gold rim.
Katya froze, a pen still in her hand. On the kitchen table between them lay the shared-equity agreement and a thick folder of mortgage documents. Outside, a drizzly October rain was falling.
“What do you mean, ‘in Artyom’s name only’?” Katya felt her mouth go dry. “We’re buying it together. I sold my apartment…”
“You’ll be a co-borrower on the mortgage,” her mother-in-law clarified, carefully setting the cup onto its saucer. “You’ll both make the payments, which is convenient for the bank. But he will be the owner. It’s safer that way.”
Katya slowly put the pen down on the table, feeling a chill spread through her.
“So I pay half… but the apartment isn’t mine?”
Artyom sat across from her, stubbornly staring at the pattern on the tablecloth. Marina Igorevna folded her hands on the table—calm, confident, as if they were discussing the weather.
“Katya, don’t be dramatic. You’re family.”
It had all started six months earlier, in the spring. Katya was sitting in the tiny kitchen of their one-room apartment, once again moving numbers around in an Excel spreadsheet of the family budget. Artyom had just come home from work.
“Katya, Mom called,” he began, taking off his jacket. “She has a suggestion about the apartment.”
“What kind of suggestion?” Katya looked up from her laptop.
“She says now is a good time to take out a mortgage. Rates are going to go up, and later we won’t be able to afford it.”
Katya had owned that one-room apartment before the wedding—it had come from her grandmother. Thirty-two square meters. After the wedding, she and Artyom had been squeezing into it together, and there was catastrophically little space.
“What about the down payment?” she asked, practical as always.
“We’ll sell your apartment. Mom already looked into it—the resale market is good right now.”
The very next day Marina Igorevna arrived with a ready-made action plan. She spread out printouts from real estate websites, calculations, and realtor contacts on the same kitchen table.
“Look, kids,” she said, pointing at the papers with a pen. “Katya’s apartment is worth six million. That’s enough for the down payment on a three-room apartment in a new building. Artyom, as the main borrower, will get a good rate.”
“Why as the main borrower?” Katya asked in surprise. “I have an official salary too.”
“His is higher, dear. And banks trust men more.”
Katya wanted to object, but Artyom put a hand on her shoulder.
“Mom’s right. It’s more выгодно this way.” [Better/more выгодно should be translated smoothly:]
“Mom’s right. It’s better this way.”
The next few months flew by in a whirl of errands. Katya sold her apartment—quickly, maybe even too quickly. At the same time, she calculated mortgage options, compared banks, worked out the payments down to the last kopek. On weekends they drove out to the construction site to watch their future home rise. Katya chose bathroom tiles, planned the kitchen, skipped lunches to save for renovations.
“This will be our bedroom,” she said dreamily, standing in the concrete shell of the future apartment. “And this will be the nursery.”
Marina Igorevna was always there—advising, directing, deciding.
“I scheduled a meeting at the bank for tomorrow,” she would announce. “Artyomushka, take the day off.”
“And me?” Katya would ask.
“What about you? You’re working. We’ll manage ourselves.”
The first alarm bell rang at the bank. The manager, a young woman with perfect hair, addressed only Artyom and his mother.
“Artyom Sergeyevich, your income allows for… Marina Igorevna, as guarantor, you understand…”
“And me?” Katya tried to cut in. “I’m a co-borrower.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the manager nodded without looking at her. “You’ll need to sign here and here.”
When Katya asked to review the documents, Marina Igorevna let out an impatient sigh.
“Katya, we’re running late. You can read them at home.”
But when they got home, the documents were nowhere to be found—“left at the bank for review.” Katya began to worry.
“Artyom, show me the contract.”
“Why? Mom checked everything.”
“I want to look at it myself. It’s my apartment too.”
“Of course it’s yours,” her husband soothed her. “We’re family. What difference does it make whose name it’s in?”
But Katya was an accountant. She was used to calculating everything, checking every figure. That evening, after Artyom fell asleep, she sat down with a calculator and a notepad. She worked for a long time, methodically writing down every amount.
Her apartment—six million. That was seventy percent of the down payment. Her salary covered half of the monthly mortgage payment. Her savings were going toward the renovation.
But her name was not in the draft agreement she had managed to glimpse.
Katya sat in the dark kitchen of the rental apartment, staring at the numbers in her notebook. Rain drummed against the window. In the next room, Artyom slept peacefully.
She was putting in everything, and getting nothing.
Katya reread the line in the contract three times. “Buyer: Artyom Sergeyevich Volkov.” Only him. No mention of her.
“Marina Igorevna,” Katya’s voice trembled, “but I invested the money from the sale of my apartment. Why am I not in the contract?”
Her mother-in-law set her cup aside and looked at her as if she were a foolish child.
“Katya, why are you acting like a little girl? You’re a co-borrower on the mortgage. You’ll pay together with Artyom. It’s convenient—shared responsibility strengthens a family.”
“But the ownership…”
“Ownership goes to the man,” Marina Igorevna cut in. “That’s the proper way. A man should be protected. Just in case…”
“In case of what?” Katya felt the ground slipping out from under her feet.
“Well, you never know. A divorce, for example. God forbid, of course. But Artyom must not be left out on the street.”
“And me?” Katya exhaled. “What if I’m the one left out on the street?”
“Don’t say silly things. You love each other.”
Katya stared at the documents, the numbers blurring before her eyes. She would be responsible for the loan for twenty years. Obligated to pay. But the apartment would not be hers. If something went wrong, she would lose everything: the money from the apartment she sold and the new home. But she would still have to pay the mortgage.
Artyom said nothing, staring at his phone.
That night Katya couldn’t sleep. They were still living in a rental apartment—a temporary place after selling her one-room flat. Artyom fell asleep quickly, but she lay awake staring at the ceiling with its peeling paint.
Katya quietly got up and went into the kitchen. She sat by the window, hugging her knees. Beyond the glass, the lights of the night city flickered. Somewhere out there, in the new development, their future apartment was waiting. Seventy square meters overlooking a park. Tomorrow they were supposed to sign the final papers.
She remembered her old one-room apartment. The cozy kitchen with a geranium on the windowsill—the flower had belonged to her grandmother. The creaky parquet floor she had learned to love. The view of the old courtyard with swings where children played in the evenings. She remembered saying goodbye to the apartment on the day it was sold—stroking the walls, thanking them for shelter, for years of independence.
“Forgive me,” she had whispered then to the empty rooms. “I traded you for the dream of a big family home.”
And now it turned out it would not be her home. She had invested six million—everything she had. She would spend twenty years paying the mortgage—half her salary. She had already chosen wallpaper for the bedroom, picked out a kitchen set, dreamed of a nursery with a big window.
But the apartment would be registered in Artyom’s name. And she would simply be a co-borrower, obligated to pay for walls that did not belong to her and to which she had no rights.
The folder with tomorrow’s documents lay on the table. Katya opened it with trembling hands and read it again. “Buyer: Volkov Artyom Sergeyevich.” Only him.
A tear rolled down her cheek. Outside, dawn was beginning, tinting the gray buildings pink. She had only a few hours left before the meeting at the bank. A few hours to decide whether to sign or not.
The morning was sunny. Katya had not slept all night, but she felt a strange clarity. She made breakfast, waited for Artyom to wake up, and sat down across from him.
“Either we register the apartment in both our names, fifty-fifty, or I’m not signing anything today.”
Artyom choked on his coffee.
“Katya, what are you doing? The meeting at the bank is in three hours!”
“I know. And I’m not going if the terms don’t change.”
The intercom buzzed—Marina Igorevna had arrived so they could go together to the bank for the signing.
“What do you mean, ‘you’re not going’?” her mother-in-law burst into the apartment without even taking off her shoes. “Artyom, what nonsense is she talking?”
“I’m demanding fairness,” Katya replied calmly. “The apartment must be registered in both our names. I invested most of the money.”
“You’re ruining everything!” her mother-in-law’s voice broke into a scream. “Because of your whims, we’ll lose the deposit! The developer won’t wait!”
“This isn’t a whim,” Katya stood up. “I will not allow myself to be used.”
“Mom, maybe she actually has a point…” Artyom started to say.
“Be quiet!” Marina Igorevna barked, then turned to Katya. “Are you signing or not?”
“No. Not on these terms.”
An hour later they were sitting in the bank. The manager was nervously shuffling papers.
“You understand, changing the structure of the deal now is difficult… All the documents would have to be redone…”
“I refuse to be a co-borrower if I’m not also an owner,” Katya said firmly. “The money from the sale of my apartment is still in the escrow account. Either we change the terms, or you return the funds.”
“Katya, please…” Artyom looked lost.
“Choose,” Katya said, looking him in the eyes. “Either your mother, or fairness in our family.”
Marina Igorevna was boiling with rage, but she stayed silent. The office fell into complete silence.
Three months later, Katya sat in the tiny kitchen of a rented studio apartment. Five square meters, an old refrigerator, a view of the blank wall of the neighboring building. On the table—a laptop with job listings open and a cup of instant coffee.
The deal had collapsed that day at the bank. Artyom chose his mother.
“We’ll find another option,” he had said then. “Without your money. Mom will help with the down payment.”
“Find one,” Katya had replied, and walked out of the office.
The money from the escrow account was returned a week later. Another week after that, she moved out from Artyom’s place.
“You’re selfish,” he had thrown after her. “Because of your pride, we lost the perfect apartment. Mom was right—you don’t know how to be part of a family.”
“I don’t want to be part of a family where I’m treated like a cash cow,” Katya answered.
Now she was renting a place on the outskirts of the city. Cheap furniture left by the previous tenants, floral wallpaper, creaky floors. But on the table lay a rental agreement with her name written on it in black and white. Hers alone.
Her phone vibrated—a message from a realtor:
“I found an option. A studio in a good neighborhood. It needs cosmetic repairs, but the price is within your budget. Shall we see it tomorrow?”
Katya smiled and typed back:
“Yes. Let’s see it.”
She took a sip of coffee and looked out the window. Six million sat in her account—her safety net, her freedom. Enough for a modest apartment without a mortgage. Her own. A real one.
In the corner of the kitchen, on the windowsill, stood the geranium—the only thing Katya had taken from her former life. The flower, which had survived two apartments, had put out new scarlet buds.
“We’ll be moving soon,” Katya promised it. “To our home. Ours alone.”
