Yana woke up to the sound of furniture being moved. The heavy scraping noise grated across her nerves, making her jerk upright in bed. The alarm clock showed seven in the morning. Sunday.
She threw on her robe and stepped into the hallway. The scene before her made her freeze on the spot. Tamara Vasilievna, her mother-in-law, was busily rearranging the shoe cabinet, piling Yana’s shoes into one heap by the entrance. A box of things stood beside her.
“Good morning,” Yana said, trying to keep her voice calm. “What is going on?”
Tamara Vasilievna straightened up. She was a tall, imposing woman of sixty-two, with a heavy stare and lips that were always pressed tightly together. She dusted off her hands and looked at her daughter-in-law as if she were a servant who had dared to speak without permission.
“I’m putting things in order, Yanochka. Too much junk has piled up here. There’s no room to breathe. Your boots have taken over every corner. I’ll put them in the storage closet and place mine here. I need it more. My back hurts, and bending down is bad for me.”
“This is my apartment, Tamara Vasilievna,” Yana’s voice trembled. “I will decide where my things should stand.”
Her mother-in-law smirked and deliberately nudged the box of Yana’s shoes toward the wall with her foot.
“Your apartment, you say? Does my Dimochka live here? He does. And I, your husband’s mother, live here too. That means the apartment is shared. A family home. And you are still nobody, understood? Your name is Yana. No patronymic. You haven’t earned one.”
Yana clenched her teeth. Three months had passed since Tamara Vasilievna had moved in with them “for a week’s visit.” A week had turned into a month, and the month had turned into eternity. Her mother-in-law had sold her three-room apartment on the other side of the city, explaining that she wanted to be closer to her son. She had put the money from the sale into a separate account and taken over the guest room.
The apartment in question really did belong to Yana. Her parents had bought it and transferred it to her as a gift two years before their daughter’s wedding. Back then, it had seemed like a sensible decision — to provide their only child with solid ground beneath her feet. Now that ground had become a battlefield.
“Tamara Vasilievna,” Yana forced herself to speak more firmly, “I understand that you are Dima’s mother. But there are boundaries. This apartment is mine by law.”
Her mother-in-law burst out laughing. Her laugh was unpleasant and barking, as if she were not amused but snapping at the person in front of her.
“By law! You said ‘yes’ to Dimochka at the registry office, Yanochka. That means everything is shared. God commands us to share. Besides, who are you? Some girl off the street. My son is an educated man, an engineer. He must live in proper conditions.”
“The conditions are proper. My parents bought me this apartment.”
“Your parents!” her mother-in-law threw up her hands. “It’s always your parents this, your parents that. And what are you yourself? A zero without a stick. You cook terribly. You clean once in a while. You barely earn any money — you get pennies at that little office of yours. What exactly are you, apart from your mommy’s little apartment?”
Yana felt a lump rise in her throat. She was thirty-one years old. She had a higher education, a position as an accountant in a construction company, and a salary that allowed her to support herself and partially support her husband, who had been unemployed for three months. But her mother-in-law saw only what she wanted to see.
“I earn enough,” Yana said quietly.
“Enough?” Tamara Vasilievna stepped toward her. “Then why do you go shopping with a list? A normal housewife’s refrigerator should be bursting. Yours is empty as a drum. Yesterday Dimochka wanted some baked pork, and what did you give him? Buckwheat porridge. Shameful.”
“Dima asked for buckwheat himself. And I bought baked pork on Saturday.”
“That baked pork was impossible to eat. Tough as a shoe sole. I threw it out.”
“What?!”
Yana rushed into the kitchen. The refrigerator was open. On the shelf lay products her mother-in-law had brought from the market — cottage cheese in parchment, eggs, butter. Almost none of Yana’s groceries remained. The bologna, cheese, and baked pork were gone.
“Where are my groceries?”
“I threw them out,” her mother-in-law replied calmly, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “They were wrong. You buy whatever is cheaper, but my son deserves better. From now on, I’ll do the shopping. And you will cook what I tell you to cook.”
Yana turned to her. Her hands were shaking.
“You have no right to run my home. You are a guest here.”
“I am the mistress here. Because you are an empty place. A wife must obey her husband, and a husband must obey his mother. That is how it has always been. Live as long as I have, and you’ll understand.”
The lock clicked in the hallway. Dima had arrived — tall, stooped, with an eternally guilty expression on his face. He had worked as an engineer at a construction company, but three months earlier he had been laid off, and now he spent his days at home playing on his phone and promising that he would “find something worthwhile any day now.”
“Oh, my girls are already in the kitchen,” he tried to smile. “What smells so good?”
“Nothing smells good, sonny,” his mother instantly changed her expression. Now she was a caring mother. “Our Yanochka decided to rest today. I’ll make you some fried eggs.”
“Yana can cook for herself,” Yana muttered.
“Yanochka, why are you starting again?” Dima grimaced. “Mom only wants to help. Let’s not have a scandal.”
“Dima, your mother threw away my groceries.”
“Then they must have gone bad,” her husband shrugged indifferently. “Mom wouldn’t give bad advice.”
“They were fresh!”
“Yanochka,” her mother-in-law pursed her lips, “don’t shout at my boy. He has a weak nervous system. You’ll give him a heart attack with your hysterics.”
Yana looked at her husband, waiting for at least one word of support. But Dima had already buried himself in his phone, shutting himself off from reality. Her mother-in-law rattled the frying pan, demonstratively ignoring her daughter-in-law.
And then Yana saw it.
On the table, among the kitchen utensils, stood her mother’s little vase. Crystal, with delicate engraving, given to her mother by Yana’s grandmother for her wedding. Now it was half filled with water, and a dried bay leaf floated inside it.
“Why did you take that?” Yana’s voice broke into a whisper.
“What? Some junk was gathering dust on the shelf. I decided to use it for bay leaves.”
“That is my mother’s vase. It is a keepsake.”
“A keepsake?” her mother-in-law snorted. “Well, now it will be a keepsake for bay leaves. At least it’s useful.”
Yana grabbed the vase from the table. Her hands were shaking so badly that water splashed onto the tablecloth.
“Do not touch my things. Ever. Do you understand me?”
Tamara Vasilievna slowly wiped her hands on a towel. Her eyes narrowed.
“You, little girl, don’t start swinging your rights around here,” she said in an icy tone. “You are married to my son. That means you are part of our family. And in our family, I am the one in charge. If I want to move something in this home, I will move it. If I want to throw away your rags, I will throw them away. If I want to cook lunch from what I bought, I will cook it. You will eat what you are given and be grateful.”
“This is MY home.”
“A home is where the family is. And you are not family to us. You are a wife. An attachment to my son. A temporary one. Here today, gone tomorrow. So behave quietly. Don’t stick out. Maybe you’ll manage to take root.”
Her mother-in-law turned back to the stove and calmly began cracking eggs into the pan, as if nothing had happened.
Yana left the kitchen, pressing the rescued vase to her chest. In the bedroom, she sat down on the bed and stared at one point for a long time. Her thoughts were tangled. How had she allowed this? Why was her husband silent? Why was she herself enduring it?
There was a knock at the door. Dima came in.
“Yanus, why are you so upset?” he sat beside her and tried to hug her. “Mom just wants to help. She loves us.”
“Dima, she called me an empty place.”
“Don’t make things up. Mom is sharp-tongued, but she is kind. That’s just her character.”
“Character?” Yana pulled away. “She threw away my things. My food. She said I am nobody here.”
“She went a bit too far. It happens. Yanochka, let’s live peacefully. Mom is the only one I have. Dad is gone. I can’t abandon her.”
“I am not asking you to abandon her. I am asking her to respect me. And my home.”
Dima darkened. He got up and paced around the room.
“Listen,” he finally said. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“What?”
“Mom thinks… and I agree with her… that it would be fair if you signed over half the apartment to me.”
Yana froze.
“What?”
“Well, into shared ownership. Like normal spouses. So everything is honest. You trust me, don’t you? Then prove it. Otherwise it feels like I live here as a tenant. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Dima, this is my apartment. My parents bought it. Before the marriage.”
“I know. But we are a family! If you love me, what doubts can there be? Mom says a woman who doesn’t trust her husband with property is hiding something. Maybe you are planning to divorce me?”
Yana looked at him and did not recognize him. The same man who had sworn his love three years earlier, given her flowers, promised to carry her in his arms. Now a stranger stood before her, repeating his mother’s words like a memorized lesson.
“I will not sign over the apartment.”
“Why?”
“Because it is mine. It is my only asset. My protection.”
“Protection from whom? From me?” Dima raised his voice. “You don’t trust me? After everything we’ve had together?”
“I trusted you. Until you started demanding something that does not belong to you.”
Her husband’s face twisted. For the first time in their marriage, Yana saw something ugly in his eyes. Something that reminded her of his mother.
“You are selfish,” he said distinctly. “Mom is right. You only think about yourself. Fine. We’ll see how things go.”
He walked out, slamming the door. From the kitchen came her mother-in-law’s voice:
“What happened, sonny? I told you. She doesn’t love you. All she cares about is her little apartment. Well, never mind. We will fix that.”
Yana lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Something unpleasant twisted in her stomach. She did not yet know that the worst was still ahead.
Two weeks later, Yana began to feel unwell. Morning nausea, dizziness, weakness. A test bought at the pharmacy showed two lines.
Pregnancy.
She stood in the bathroom and stared at the plastic stick, unable to believe her eyes. She and Dima had not planned a child so soon, but they had not been using protection either. Yana had hoped they would first resolve the housing issue and find some common ground with her mother-in-law. But fate had decided otherwise.
She wrapped the test in paper and threw it into the trash bin. She did not tell anyone right away — she decided to wait for the right moment. But the moment came sooner than she expected.
That same evening, Tamara Vasilievna entered the bedroom without knocking. In her hands she held a crumpled paper bundle. The very same test.
“What is this?” her mother-in-law’s voice rang with anger.
“Where did you get that?”
“I found it in the trash. Don’t look away. Is it true?”
“Yes. I am pregnant.”
Yana had expected anything. Surprise. Maybe even joy — after all, it was her grandchild. But her mother-in-law’s reaction was completely different.
“You sly thing,” Tamara Vasilievna whispered. “How sly you are. Decided to tie my son to your square meters with a child? You think once you give birth, we’ll carry you around on our hands?”
“This is my and Dima’s child. Your grandchild.”
“Grandchild?” her mother-in-law threw the test onto the bed. “I need healthy bloodlines, not your scrawny genes. And while you lie around here with your little belly, who will work? Dimochka? Don’t count on it. I will not allow my son to slave away for a pregnant freeloader.”
Yana stood up. Her head was spinning from outrage.
“I work. And I will keep working until maternity leave. And I will pay the bills. Unlike your son, who has been unemployed for three months.”
“Dimochka is looking for a suitable position. Not just any job will do for him. He is an engineer, not a laborer. And you are just an accountant. You sit in your office shifting papers. That isn’t work. It’s child’s play.”
“That child’s play brings in the money we live on.”
“Money!” her mother-in-law burst out laughing. “Your pennies are barely enough for buckwheat. Never mind. From now on, I will manage the budget. You will hand your salary over to me. And I will decide what to spend it on.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that you don’t know how to handle finances. And anyway, a pregnant woman must be watched. Otherwise you’ll buy all sorts of nonsense and the baby will be left without diapers.”
Yana felt rage boiling inside her.
“You will not get my money. And I will raise the child myself. Without you.”
“We’ll see,” her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes. “We’ll see, little girl. You still don’t know who you’ve gotten involved with.”
She left, leaving Yana alone. A minute later, her voice came from the kitchen — she was calling someone on the phone:
“Can you imagine? She got pregnant. On purpose, of course. Now she’ll put Dimochka on alimony. We need to do something. Get the apartment transferred before it’s too late…”
Yana sank onto the bed. Her heart was pounding wildly. She understood — this was war.
The following week turned into a nightmare. Her mother-in-law established new rules in the house. She demonstratively cooked only for herself and Dima. Yana’s groceries, which she bought after work, disappeared from the refrigerator with frightening speed. To every question, there was one answer:
“I don’t know. Maybe they spoiled. Maybe someone ate them. You don’t lock the refrigerator, do you?”
On the fifth day of that life, Yana came home especially exhausted. At the office, it was quarterly report time, and she had to work overtime. Her lower back ached. She wanted to eat and sleep.
The apartment smelled of fried chicken. In the kitchen, her mother-in-law and Dima were having dinner. In front of them stood a full pan of golden chicken legs, salad, and fresh bread. When Dima saw Yana, he barely lifted his eyes and continued chewing.
“Did you leave any for me?” Yana asked, opening the refrigerator.
It was empty inside. Only eggs, butter, and a carton of kefir Yana herself had bought three days earlier.
“You had to earn your lunch,” her mother-in-law said quietly, chewing chicken. “Those who don’t cook don’t eat.”
“I was at work.”
“So what? Your problem. I am not your cook.”
Yana turned to her husband.
“Dima?”
“Mom is right,” he muttered. “You come in and expect everything ready. Who cooked it? Mom did. So let her decide.”
“Dima, I am pregnant. I need proper food.”
“Then buy yourself something. And cook it. You’re a working woman, after all. You earn money.”
Her mother-in-law smirked without stopping chewing. Yana looked at those two people and felt the ground disappearing beneath her feet.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “I’ll cook for myself.”
She reached into the cabinet for a pot. But the pot was gone. In its usual place lay only unfamiliar frying pans.
“Where is my pot?”
“Oh, that one with the scratch?” her mother-in-law finally turned to her. “I threw it out. It was old. And scratched. Bacteria grow in scratches. I bought a new one, mine. You may use it if I allow you.”
“You… threw away my pot?”
“Your pot?” Tamara Vasilievna put down her fork. “Everything here is shared. Or have you forgotten? You are married. Property is family property. And I am the elder in this family. That means the things are ours.”
“The apartment is mine. The pot is mine. The groceries are mine.”
“The apartment?” her mother-in-law slowly rose from the table. “Ah yes, the apartment. You keep poking us with that apartment. As if we are nobody here. As if Dimochka is some hanger-on. You know what? In three years of marriage, you still haven’t understood the main thing. You are my son’s wife. And as long as you are with him, you are under my authority. And you’ve started all this — scandals, division of property. I am not your neighbor in a communal flat. I am your husband’s mother.”
“You are nobody here,” Yana breathed out. “By law — nobody.”
Silence fell. Her mother-in-law turned crimson.
“Oh, really?” she hissed. “Then listen here, dear daughter-in-law. You can demand lunch in your own home! You are nobody to me! Do you understand? And roll head over heels out of my apartment!”
“Out of yours?!”
“Out of mine! My son lives here. That means this is my home. And you are the extra one. If you want to eat, go earn money and buy food. If you want to live somewhere, rent a corner. This isn’t a cafeteria for you.”
Yana looked at her mother-in-law and felt something break inside her. Not fear. Not hurt. Something else. Something cold and hard.
“This is not your apartment,” she said calmly. “This is my parents’ apartment. And here, you are nobody. Repeat that so I remember it.”
“Nobody!” her mother-in-law barked. “You are an empty place in this house! Roll head over heels out!”
Dima ran into the kitchen. He had heard the shouting and now stood in the doorway, looking from his mother to his wife.
“What is going on here?”
“Dimochka,” his mother instantly changed her tone to a plaintive one. “She is throwing me out. Throwing me out of the house. I said something about lunch, and she… she… oh, my heart…”
Tamara Vasilievna clutched her chest and began sinking onto the chair. Dima rushed to his mother.
“Mom! Mommy! What’s wrong?”
“Call an ambulance, sonny. Your wife has driven me to this. She wants to get rid of me.”
Dima turned to Yana. His face was pale with anger.
“What have you done?”
“I did nothing. Your mother insulted me. And told me to get out.”
“She is an elderly person! She has a bad heart! And you drove her to an attack!”
“Dima, she is not having any attack. It is a performance.”
“Shut up!” her husband shouted. “Enough! You have crossed every line!”
He grabbed Yana by the elbow and dragged her into the hallway. She tried to break free, but his grip was like iron.
“Let me go!”
“Go outside. Take a walk. Cool off. You are not in your right mind right now.”
He opened the front door and shoved Yana out onto the stairwell. She staggered and barely kept her balance.
“Dima!”
The door slammed in her face. The lock clicked. Then came the bolt. The heavy metal bolt her mother-in-law had ordered installed a month earlier “for safety.”
Yana remained in the entryway. In her house robe. In slippers. Without a phone, without keys, without money. Pregnant.
She stood and stared at the iron door of her own apartment. From inside came her mother-in-law’s muffled voice:
“That’s right, sonny. Let her air out. Maybe she’ll understand how to speak to your mother.”
Yana sank onto the cold concrete steps. A shiver ran through her body. Somewhere above, a peephole clicked — a neighbor, having heard the noise, was watching what was happening.
“Do you need help?” an uncertain voice sounded from upstairs.
“No, thank you,” Yana replied without lifting her head.
She sat like that for about an hour. Her thoughts were tangled. Then, slowly, holding the railing, she got up and went outside. A cold autumn wind struck her face. Her robe did nothing to keep her warm.
She had to decide something. She had to go somewhere. Her parents lived out of town, and getting there without a phone or money was difficult. Friends… who had keys to a home where she could simply appear in the middle of the night in a robe?
She remembered. Lenka. A school friend who lived in the next courtyard. They had not seen each other often lately, but Lenka was the kind of person who did not ask unnecessary questions.
Yana walked across the courtyard, hoping her friend was home. On the way, she caught several surprised looks from passersby. No wonder — a young woman in a robe and slippers wandering through the evening city.
Lenka opened almost immediately. Seeing Yana on the doorstep, she gasped:
“My God, Yana! What happened?”
“They threw me out of my home. Out of my own home. Can I spend the night with you?”
“Come in.”
Half an hour later, Yana was sitting in the kitchen, wrapped in a warm blanket, holding a cup of hot tea. Lenka listened to her story without interrupting. Only the muscles in her jaw clenched faster and faster.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” she said when Yana finished. “I have an acquaintance. A lawyer. She specializes in family cases. Tomorrow we’re going to see her.”
“I need my documents. They’re in the apartment.”
“Then we’ll go together. In the morning. When your dear husband goes to his interview and your mother-in-law crawls off to the market. You have spare keys, right?”
“At the office. In my desk.”
“Excellent. And now — sleep. You look like death.”
In the morning, everything went according to plan. Yana waited until her mother-in-law left, called the neighbor to make sure Dima was also not home, and entered the apartment. It was quiet inside. Dirty dishes stood in the kitchen. Her mother-in-law’s things were scattered across the bed in the bedroom.
Yana quickly gathered her documents — passport, marriage certificate, deed of gift for the apartment. She grabbed her laptop and some clothes. On the dressing table lay the same crystal vase. Yana wrapped it in a sweater and placed it in her bag.
“Hurry,” Lenka whispered from the doorway. “We don’t have much time.”
An hour later, they were sitting in the lawyer’s office. A woman of about forty-five, with short hair and sharp eyes, was leafing through the documents.
“The apartment was received as a gift before marriage,” she said, setting the papers aside. “Article thirty-six of the Family Code. Property received by one spouse as a gift is that spouse’s personal property. It is not subject to division.”
“So I can evict them?” Yana asked.
“You not only can. You must. You are the sole owner. They have no right to be there without your consent. Taking over someone’s housing is a criminal matter. Arbitrary action is an administrative offense. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand.”
“Are they registered there?”
“No. My mother-in-law is registered in her three-room apartment on the other side of the city. My husband is registered there too. We never arranged registration.”
“Excellent. Then the procedure is simple. You call the district police officer and file a statement. He comes, records the fact that unauthorized persons are living there illegally. Then you change the locks. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Yana could not believe it.
“That’s all. But there are nuances. First, your husband is your spouse. Under family law, he has the right to live with you. But if you intend to divorce, that right disappears. Second, they may resist. Shout, call the police in return, file reports against you. You will need nerves. And witnesses.”
“My nerves are already settled. There will be witnesses.”
“Then we prepare the documents. And one more thing. I checked the database. Is the apartment pledged as collateral?”
“No.”
“That is good. Because there are cases when relatives try to take out a loan secured by someone else’s real estate. With forged documents.”
Yana flinched. She remembered her mother-in-law’s words: “We need to get the apartment transferred before it’s too late.”
“I want to file for divorce.”
“The right decision. We’ll gather the documents. A petition for dissolution of marriage. A statement to the district officer. A court claim for division of jointly acquired property — a car, for example, or debts. Are there any debts?”
“My husband has one. He took out a consumer loan a year ago. For a new car.”
“Is the car registered in his name?”
“Yes.”
“Then that is a shared debt. It will be divided during the divorce if it is proven the money was spent on family needs. But if he took loans for personal purposes, that is his problem. Article forty-five of the Family Code.”
“And if his mother tries to do something? Set fire to the apartment, for example?”
“Then that is Article 167 of the Criminal Code. Intentional destruction of property. Up to five years. But I don’t think it will come to that. People like that are usually cowards. They are strong only while the victim endures.”
Yana left the office with a folder of documents. For the first time in a long while, she felt confident.
“What now?” Lenka asked.
“Now — war. A real one.”
Preparation took three days. During that time, Yana did not appear at home once. Her phone rang nonstop with calls from Dima and his mother, but she did not answer. Only once did she read a message from her husband: “Yanochka, come back. Mom is worried. We’ll talk everything through.”
Her mother-in-law’s comment beneath that message read: “Let her run around. She’ll understand she is nobody without us.”
On the appointed day, three cars pulled up to Yana’s building. In the first were Yana and the lawyer. In the second was the district police officer, a middle-aged police captain. In the third were two of Lenka’s friends, sturdy young men invited as witnesses and backup.
“Ready?” the district officer asked.
“Ready.”
They went upstairs. Yana opened the door with her key. The lock had not been changed — they had not expected her.
The light was on in the hallway. From the kitchen came the smell of borscht. From the living room — the sound of the television.
“Who’s there?” her mother-in-law’s voice called.
Tamara Vasilievna came out into the hallway. Seeing Yana surrounded by unfamiliar people, she froze.
“What is this? Who are these people?”
“District police officer,” the captain said, showing his identification. “A statement has been filed regarding unlawful entry into a residence.”
“What residence?” her mother-in-law took a step back. “This is my home!”
“Present the documents for the apartment.”
“What documents? I live here with my son! I am his mother!”
“There are no documents,” Yana said calmly. “I am the owner. Here is the extract from the Unified State Register of Real Estate. Here is the deed of gift. Here is the certificate of ownership.”
The district officer examined the papers and nodded.
“Citizen, you are not registered here. The owner demands that you leave the premises. You have time to collect your belongings.”
“What?!” her mother-in-law shrieked. “Dima! Dimochka!”
Her husband came out of the living room. He saw Yana, the police officer, the unfamiliar men.
“Yana? What is happening?”
“Dima, I am filing for divorce. And I demand that you and your mother leave my apartment. Today.”
“Are you out of your mind?!” her husband’s face turned white. “This is my home too!”
“Not by law. The gift deed was made before the marriage. You know that better than I do.”
“I am your husband!”
“The one who threw me out onto the stairwell in a robe. In front of witnesses. That has been recorded. Do you want to discuss it in court?”
Meanwhile, her mother-in-law grabbed her heart and began sinking to the floor.
“Oh! My heart! Call an ambulance! They’re killing me! My pregnant daughter-in-law is killing her mother-in-law!”
The district officer remained unshaken.
“Citizen, stop the performance. I have called a patrol unit. If you are pretending, there will be an administrative fine for a false call.”
Tamara Vasilievna instantly changed her mind about dying. She sat on the floor and stared at Yana with a look of hatred.
“Snake,” she hissed. “I warned you.”
“And I am warning you,” Yana replied, trying to speak calmly. “A statement for arbitrary action, Article 19.1 of the Code of Administrative Offenses. A fine or arrest. Choose. Either you calmly gather your things and leave, or we formalize compulsory removal.”
“We are not going anywhere!” Dima shouted. “I am your husband!”
“For now, yes. But divorce is only a matter of time. And for now — pack your things. You and your mother.”
At that moment, Dima snapped. He lunged at one of the witnesses, trying to strike him. But the strong young man easily intercepted his arm and twisted it behind his back.
“Easy, friend. No violence. That’s an offense.”
“I’m not your friend!” Dima wheezed.
“But I am your witness. Assaulting a person. Do you want a criminal case too?”
Seeing her son restrained, her mother-in-law began howling:
“Let him go! He is ill! He has high blood pressure! Good people, help! They are killing him!”
At the noise, the same neighbor who had seen Yana in the robe looked out from the next apartment. She watched carefully.
“Galina Petrovna,” Yana addressed her. “You witnessed how they threw me out of my home. Will you confirm it to the district officer if needed?”
“I will,” the neighbor nodded. “I saw everything. And heard everything. Tamara shouted a month ago that she would drive Yana out of the apartment. I thought back then I should record it.”
“Is there a recording?” the lawyer perked up.
“On a voice recorder. I’m an old woman, my memory is poor. I’ve gotten used to recording things.”
When her mother-in-law heard this, she fell silent. She looked at Yana with an expression of fierce, concentrated hatred. But fear was already flickering in her eyes.
“Fine,” she forced out. “We’ll leave. But you’ll regret this. I promise you.”
“Gather your things. You have one hour.”
The hour passed in grave silence. Dima and Tamara Vasilievna packed their suitcases, throwing things in anyhow. Her mother-in-law tried to take the television, bought during the marriage, but the lawyer reminded her that jointly acquired property was subject to division by the court and could not be removed without the other party’s consent.
“I bought it!” her mother-in-law declared.
“Is the receipt in your name?” Yana asked.
There was no receipt. Dima had bought the television.
“Choke on it,” her mother-in-law snapped and threw the remote control onto the floor.
An hour later, they stood at the threshold. Two suitcases, three bags. A taxi was waiting downstairs.
Before leaving, Tamara Vasilievna turned to Yana.
“You think you’ve won?” she asked quietly. “You think you threw us out and it’s over? Little girl, this is only the beginning. You don’t know what real war is. I will destroy you. Slowly. With pleasure. You will still crawl to me begging for forgiveness.”
“Hardly.”
“We’ll see.”
She left, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. Dima did not even look at his wife.
Yana closed the door. She sank directly onto the hallway floor and burst into tears.
“You did well,” Lenka said, sitting down beside her. “You did everything right.”
“I know. But it hurts so much, Len. It hurts so much.”
The next day, Yana changed the locks. The apartment was empty. Almost none of her mother-in-law’s things remained — only dirty dishes in the sink and a forgotten pill on a shelf in the bathroom. Yana threw everything away. She washed the floors. Aired the rooms.
Her mother’s vase stood on the shelf. Whole.
Two days later, Yana received a court summons. Dima had filed a counterclaim — he did not agree to the divorce and demanded the right to live in the apartment because it was his “only housing.” In the claim, it was stated that Yana was a mentally unstable woman who was throwing her husband and his sick mother out onto the street in winter. Attached to the claim were a cardiologist’s certificate about Tamara Vasilievna’s heart disease and a character reference for Yana signed by neighbors — friends of her mother-in-law.
“Don’t worry,” the lawyer said. “This is a standard set. We have the gift deed. We have witnesses. The court will be on your side.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“It will be. The law is on your side.”
But her mother-in-law would not calm down. She began calling Yana’s parents. She accused their daughter of ingratitude, rudeness, and cruelty. Yana’s parents, knowing the truth, simply hung up. Then Tamara Vasilievna switched to Yana’s colleagues. Calls began coming into the accounting department of the construction company: “Tell your employee she is a slut and a piece of trash.”
Yana filed a statement for defamation.
Then her mother-in-law sent her husband. Dima’s father, whom Tamara Vasilievna had divorced many years earlier, unexpectedly appeared at Yana’s apartment door. He was an elderly, stooped man with guilty eyes.
“Daughter,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “Tamara sent me.”
“Why?”
“To talk. As family. Maybe you’ll come to your senses? Dimochka and Tamara Vasilievna are pitiful, after all. They only wish you well.”
“Well?” Yana smiled bitterly. “Your ex-wife called me an empty place. Threw away my things. Then I was pushed out onto the landing in a robe. Is that what well means?”
“Well, they got carried away. It happens. You understand — family. You have to give in.”
“I gave in for three months. Enough.”
“Then maybe compensation? Money? Dimochka said you don’t want to transfer the apartment. Maybe you could buy them a one-room place on the outskirts? Then you part peacefully. And everyone can be calm.”
“On what grounds?” Yana looked at the elderly man and could not believe her ears. “I am not a charity fund for freeloaders. Your son is a healthy man. He can work. Let him support his mother. What do I have to do with it?”
“But he is your husband…”
“Not anymore. Or rather, he officially won’t be soon. Tell Tamara Vasilievna not to expect any gifts from me.”
Her father-in-law sighed, turned around, and left. He never appeared again.
The court hearing took place two months later. The session lasted three hours. Her mother-in-law tried to pressure the judge, claiming that Yana was a fraud who had tricked her son into marriage for the sake of the apartment. Dima kept repeating that he loved his wife and wanted to save the family. Yana presented the deed of gift, the extract from the property register, and the neighbor’s witness testimony.
Tired of the mutual accusations, the judge withdrew to make a decision. An hour later, she returned.
“The marriage is dissolved. The defendant’s claim to be granted the right to reside in the plaintiff’s apartment is denied. The apartment is recognized as the plaintiff’s personal property and is not subject to division. Jointly acquired property — the car — is subject to division. The defendant’s loans taken for personal purposes are not subject to division.”
Her mother-in-law cried out and clutched her heart. This time, it seemed, for real.
Dima sat with a stone face. When they left the courtroom, he caught up with Yana in the hallway.
“You destroyed our family,” he said dully. “Because of some apartment. Because of a piece of paper.”
“I protected myself and the child. Those are different things.”
“The child? Ah yes, the child. And whose is it? Mine, or some random bastard?”
Yana turned and walked away. Behind her, her ex-husband’s fading voice rang out:
“You’ll regret this! We’ll meet again!”
Five months passed. Yana lay on the sofa in her — now truly her — apartment. Her belly was noticeably rounded. Three weeks remained before the birth. The room smelled of fresh paint — she had finished redecorating and repainted the walls a soft green color called “gentle sage.”
On the coffee table stood her mother’s crystal vase with the first spring tulips. No one dared touch it anymore.
Lenka had brought a baby crib — a gift from Yana’s coworkers. Yana had gone on maternity leave, but her colleagues kept in touch, calling to ask about her health.
Her father helped with money for the renovation. Her mother came every weekend with homemade food. Life was slowly getting back on track.
That evening, Yana was expecting her friend to visit. When the doorbell rang, she opened without looking through the peephole.
Dima stood on the doorstep.
He had changed a great deal. He had lost weight, looked gaunt, and shadows lay beneath his eyes. He wore a rumpled jacket and shoes that had not been cleaned in a long time. In his hands was a bag of oranges.
“Yana…” his voice trembled. “May I come in?”
“Why?”
“To talk. I… I’ve understood a lot.”
Yana did not open the door all the way. She left the chain on. Through the gap, his exhausted face was visible.
“Speak like that.”
“Yana, I was a fool. A complete fool. Mother confused me. She kept saying that you didn’t love me, that all you needed was registration in the capital, that you would throw me out… And I believed her. Do you understand? I believed her. And she… do you know what she did?”
“What?”
“She threw me out. When she found out the court ordered me to pay the loans. She said I was a failure and had not lived up to her expectations. That I should have married someone else, someone with an apartment in the center. But I married you.”
“I’m sorry for you. But what do I have to do with it?”
“I want to come back. I realized I love you. And I love the child. It is my child. Let’s start over. Without Mother. Without her influence.”
Yana looked at him through the door chain. Somewhere deep inside, pity stirred. Very small. Almost imperceptible.
“Dima, do you remember that day?” she asked quietly. “When you pushed me out into the entryway. In a robe. Pregnant. Your mother told me then, ‘Roll head over heels out of my apartment.’ And you agreed with her.”
“I was wrong. I was under her influence.”
“Influence is not an excuse. You are an adult man. You could have thought with your own head. But you chose your mother. You always chose your mother. And now you have come not because you understood anything. You came because she threw you out. And you simply have nowhere to go.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is true. You are looking for somewhere warmer. But it will not be warm here anymore. This is my home. Mine and my child’s. Here, you are nobody.”
“Yana…”
“You will send alimony by mail. The amount was set by the court. You will see the child according to the schedule established by agreement. I am not forbidding you from communicating with your son or daughter. But you will not live here. Ever.”
Dima looked at her with a long, heavy gaze. Something went out in his eyes. His last hope.
“You’ve become different,” he said. “Hard. You used to be kinder.”
“I used to let people wipe their feet on me. Now I don’t. That isn’t hardness. It is experience. Painful experience. Go, Dima. It’s time.”
“I’ll come again. I have the right to see the child.”
“According to the schedule. In the presence of witnesses. That is what the court said.”
She slammed the door shut. The bolt clicked. The very same bolt her mother-in-law had installed. Now it protected Yana.
Footsteps sounded behind the door. Quiet, shuffling. Dima was leaving.
Yana slowly walked into the living room. She sank onto the sofa. Placed a hand on her stomach. The baby kicked in response, as if asking, “Mom, is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine, little one,” Yana whispered, looking at the tulips in her mother’s vase. “Everything is fine now. We made it. The two of us. And that is how it will always be.”
Twilight thickened outside the window. Somewhere far away, the city hummed. But inside the apartment, it was quiet and peaceful. For the first time in a long while.
Yana smiled and turned on the lamp. Ahead of her was an entire life. Clean, bright, and hers alone.
