On Tuesday, I came home from work and noticed a pair of unfamiliar men’s shoes in the hallway.
From the kitchen, I could hear my mother-in-law’s voice.
«You can take another forty centimeters here. No, don’t touch the outlet.»
At first, I thought Sergei had come home early and invited someone over. I took off my coat and walked into the kitchen—there stood a man with a tape measure, while Lyudmila Sergeyevna was showing him the wall next to the fridge.
«Hello,» the man said. «I’m here about the cabinet.»
«What cabinet?» I asked.
He immediately stopped measuring.
My mother-in-law answered for him:
«I told you, a proper pantry unit belongs here. Half your appliances are always cluttering the countertop.»
«Starting tomorrow, your mother is not coming here anymore. I’m in charge of this house now,» my mother-in-law declared in my apartment. That evening, my husband took her things away.
«Starting tomorrow, your mother is not coming here anymore. I’m in charge of this house now,» my mother-in-law declared in my apartment. That evening, my husband took her things away.
She never actually said anything like that to me. Maybe at some point she dropped a comment about the microwave. With Lyudmila Sergeyevna, that counted as a discussion.
«Thank you, but we don’t need anything,» I told the man.
He put away his tape measure so quickly, it was as if he had long since realized he was in the wrong place.
My mother-in-law saw him out and came back to the kitchen.
«Why did you send him away? The measurement was free.»
«Who called him in the first place?» I asked.
«I did. What difference does it make?»
That was the first time I didn’t argue about the cabinet.
«How did you open the door?»
She actually seemed surprised:
«With a key.»
Nine years ago, before a trip, Sergei and I had given her our spare key. We had three sets: mine, Sergei’s, and a spare. We left the spare with Lyudmila Sergeyevna—to water the plants, pick up the mail, just in case.
Ten days later we came back. We never took the key back from her.
And for nine years, nothing terrible had happened because of it. That’s probably why I always thought making a big deal over a piece of metal was silly.
But slowly, it stopped being funny.
At first, my mother-in-law would come over only when we expected her. Then, if she happened to be nearby. Eventually, she’d just unlock the door, step into the hallway and call out:
«Anybody home?»
Sergei used to say:
«Mom, at least call us first.»
She would reply:
«And if you don’t pick up the phone?»
I never seemed to have an answer to that question—one I could actually say in front of our child.
But that Tuesday, I finally said:
«Lyudmila Sergeyevna, please don’t invite any handymen to my apartment without me present again.»
«Oh come on, Natasha, he just measured the wall. It’s not like he tried to claim ownership of the apartment.»
This was actually something I occasionally understood about her. She had a way of putting two things of totally different importance side by side, making my complaint seem like a whim.
And in a way, I helped her do it.
Instead of demanding the key back from her, I spent six months telling Sergei about rearranged jars, the towels his mother planned to throw out, groceries she brought without asking, and my poor colander, which had moved from cabinet to cabinet three times.
From the outside, it really did sound like two women fighting over a kitchen drawer.
«I’ll talk to her,» Sergei said that night.
«You already have.»
«Natasha, what are you suggesting? That we take away her key?»
I stayed silent.
Even though that’s exactly what she was suggesting.
The next day, my mom called me around lunchtime.
«Natasha, did something change with Ksyusha?»
«What do you mean?»
«Yesterday, Lyudmila Sergeyevna told me that she’ll be picking her up herself on Tuesdays and Thursdays from now on.»
I put my spoon down. My coworkers and I were sitting in the little room near the storeroom, eating whatever we’d brought from home. The fridge was humming nearby, Oksana was struggling to open a sauce packet and muttering under her breath.
«When did she say that?»
«Last night. She called and said I shouldn’t bother going to the school anymore, it’s more convenient for her now.»
«And what did you say?»
«That I’d ask you first.»
«Mom, why didn’t you tell me right away?»
«Because it was late. And honestly, I thought maybe you two had arranged it and just forgot to let me know.»
We hadn’t agreed on anything.
For the last two years, my mom picked up Ksyusha on Thursdays. Not because the world would end without her, but because it was just convenient for me to stay later at work, Sergey usually came home later on Thursdays, and Ksyusha loved stopping by the bakery with her grandma for her favorite poppy seed bun after school.
Every now and then, Lyudmila Sergeyevna would pick up her granddaughter on Tuesdays if she could.
We never gave her two extra days.
I called my mother-in-law right there in the hallway.
«Lyudmila Sergeyevna, did you call my mom?»
«I did.»
«Why?»
«So she doesn’t have to run around for nothing.»
«And who decided that you’re picking up Ksyusha on Thursdays now?»
There was some rustling on her end, then she said:
«It’s hard for Sergey to be torn between two grandmothers. I suggested we make a proper schedule.»
«With Sergey?»
«Don’t nitpick my words.»
«Did he agree to this?»
«Natasha, I don’t understand what the problem is. I’m her grandmother.»
I was still standing in the hallway at work. The driver walked past and nodded at me; I turned toward the window.
«The problem is that you called my mother and canceled something that nobody asked you to change.»
«I didn’t cancel anything. I just said what’s more convenient.»
«Convenient for whom?»
After a brief pause, she started speaking in a different tone:
«This is why it’s impossible to discuss anything with you. You interrogate every word.»
I was the one to end the conversation first.
That evening, Sergey and I had a fight.
And I started it badly. He hadn’t even taken his jacket off when I asked:
«So, did you approve the grandmothers’ new schedule?»
He froze.
«What schedule?»
I explained.
At first, Sergey didn’t believe me.
«Mom might have made a suggestion.»
«She didn’t suggest anything to me. She called my mom and said she wasn’t needed on Thursdays anymore.»
«Don’t twist her words. I’m sure she didn’t say your mom isn’t needed.»
That’s when I lost my temper.
«Of course. I always understand everything wrong. I just imagined the guy with the wardrobe, my mom misheard, and your key walks around town by itself.»
«What’s my key got to do with it?»
«Because your mother comes in here like it’s her own place.»
«Natasha, that’s enough.»
«No. By the end of the week, your mother needs to return the key.»
He looked at me, and for once he wasn’t just waiting for the argument to end quickly.
«Are you serious right now?»
«Yes.»
«But what if something happens to Ksyusha? What if we’re not home?»
«My mom doesn’t have a key. And somehow, we manage.»
That felt like a low blow, and I knew it. His mom really had helped us so many times. She’d take Ksyusha, watch her whenever we couldn’t get away, bring us groceries. A few years ago, when I was switching jobs and running around to interviews for two weeks straight, she was with our daughter almost every day.
Sergey remembered all of this too.
“How convenient,” he said. “When you need help, my mom’s part of the family. But as soon as she starts to be an annoyance—give her the key back.”
That made me even angrier.
“Then let her live here. That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”
He walked into the kitchen, slammed the cabinet door, and barely spoke to me for the rest of the night.
By morning, I already regretted the way I’d spoken about his mom.
But I still wasn’t going to back down on my request about the key.
On Thursday, my mom brought Ksyusha home around five thirty. Usually, she stayed for about forty minutes, sometimes an hour. But this time, I asked her myself:
“Mom, stay for dinner with us.”
“Does Sergey know about this?”
I almost said, “Why does he care?”—but managed to bite my tongue in time.
Because after our fight, I actually hadn’t texted him.
“I’ll text him now.”
But I didn’t.
I put my phone on the table, Ksyusha called me over to look at her notebook, the kettle started boiling, and my mom began cutting up apples. Basically, I just forgot. Or maybe I didn’t really want to remember.
Lyudmila Sergeyevna arrived without any warning.
The door lock clicked, and from the hallway we heard:
“Ksyusha!”
My mom looked up.
“Is that her?”
“It is.”
My mother-in-law walked into the kitchen, saw Valentina Mikhailovna, and stopped.
“Good evening.”
“Evening.”
For a few seconds, both women busied themselves with pointless things. My mom slid a plate over. Lyudmila Sergeyevna adjusted her purse strap.
Then she asked:
“Are you here again today?”
My mom answered calmly:
“Natasha asked me to stay for dinner.”
“I see.”
I knew exactly what she meant by her “I see.”
“If you have something to say, say it to me,” I said.
“I am saying it to you. I thought we agreed to keep things orderly with Ksyusha.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Natasha, don’t start.”
My mom got up.
“I think I’ll go.”
I grabbed her sleeve.
“Sit down. You came for dinner.”
“I can eat at home.”
“Mom.”
She pulled her sleeve free and looked at me angrily—something she’d never done before in front of my mother-in-law.
“Don’t make me out to be some sort of banner in your argument. You two work this out yourselves.”
Lyudmila Sergeyevna immediately jumped in:
“Exactly. Valentina Mikhailovna is right.”
My mom turned to her:
“I’m not even talking about Natasha right now.”
The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.
Ksyusha peeked out of her room:
“Mom, who’s going to check my math problem?”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
She disappeared back inside.
My mom sat down again. I guess she decided leaving now would only make things more awkward than staying.
My mother-in-law took off her sweater and hung it on the back of the chair.
“I really don’t understand why such a fuss is being made out of a simple question. Children need routine. Today it’s one grandma, tomorrow another, and the day after—someone else.”
“Who else?” I asked.
“I was speaking figuratively.”
“Then don’t speak figuratively.”
At that moment Sergey arrived.
He walked into the kitchen, saw both mothers and me, and immediately asked:
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” my mom replied.
“Everything’s going on,” my mother-in-law said at the same time.
Suddenly, I burst out laughing—completely at the wrong moment.
Sergey frowned:
— Natasha, what’s going on?
— Nothing. Please, go on.
Lyudmila Sergeevna started explaining the schedule, the lessons, dinner, and that there was no reason for Ksyusha to keep running around after school. Sergey listened while standing by the fridge.
Then he asked:
— Mom, did you call Valentina Mikhailovna?
— Oh my God, not you too.
— Did you call her?
— Yes. So what?
— Did you tell her not to come on Thursdays?
— I told her I could pick up the child myself.
— That’s not the same thing.
My mother-in-law looked over at me:
— Of course. She’s probably already told you her version of everything.
I opened my mouth, but Sergey raised his hand:
— Wait, Natasha.
I didn’t like this, but I stayed quiet.
— Mom, why are you the one deciding who picks up Ksyusha? Did we ask you to? — he said.
— Am I supposed to wait for an invitation? I’m the grandmother.
— So is Valentina Mikhailovna.
— I’m not talking about her right now.
— Then about who?
That’s when my mother-in-law finally snapped.
First, she said it’s impossible to figure out who’s in charge in our apartment anymore. Then she complained that my mom comes over too much. She reminded us that last Saturday Valentina Mikhailovna was also here, although in reality she just dropped by for twenty minutes to give Ksyusha her costume for the school performance.
My mom listened, frowning more and more.
I stepped in:
— Lyudmila Sergeevna, my mom will visit me whenever I invite her.
— No, Natasha. That’s not going to happen anymore.
— What?
She pulled a chair up to herself, but didn’t sit down.
— Starting tomorrow, your mother doesn’t come here. From now on, I make the decisions in this house.
No one answered right away.
Sergey was the first to speak:
— Wait. Who exactly are you forbidding from coming here?
— Don’t nitpick my wording.
— No, mom. Who?
— I’m saying there needs to be order here.
— In Natasha’s apartment?
My mother-in-law suddenly turned to him:
— And who are you here? Just a tenant?
— What does that have to do with anything?
— Everything. You’ve lived here for nine years, bring everything here, your child is growing up here, and every time there’s an argument, you’re reminded it’s Natasha’s apartment.
I never said that.
But once, about three years ago, during a very bad fight, I told Sergey: “If you don’t like it here, you know where the door is.” He remembered it for a long time after. Maybe he told his mom. It made me uncomfortable because, in that one thing, my mother-in-law was right.
Sergey remembered it too — it showed on his face.
I was already bracing myself, thinking the conversation would shift back to that old argument of ours.
But instead, he asked:
— Do you have your key with you?
Lyudmila Sergeevna didn’t answer.
— Mom, the key.
— Are you serious?
— Yes.
— Because of her?
He ran a tired hand through his hair.
— Let’s not do that. It’s not ‘because of her.’ Today, you forbade my mother-in-law from coming to her own daughter’s apartment. Yesterday, you brought a handyman over. Before that, you decided all by yourself who would pick Ksyusha up. I’ve been thinking this would sort itself out, but it hasn’t.
— Seryozha, are you really throwing your own mother out?
— I’m asking for the key.
— No.
She said it so casually, I didn’t even realize at first.
Sergey asked again:
— What do you mean — no?
— I mean no. I’ve had it for nine years. Who knows what might happen to you two.
My mom got up.
— I should go.
This time, I didn’t stop her.
She kissed Ksyusha in the hallway, put on her shoes, and said quietly to me:
— Call me later. Just not tonight.
Lyudmila Sergeevna also started getting ready to leave.
At the door, she turned to her son:
«Think carefully about what you’re doing.»
Sergey replied:
«I already have.»
She didn’t hand over the key.
After she left, Sergey and I spent about ten minutes clearing the table. We didn’t say a word to each other. Ksyusha was in her room, suspiciously quiet as she kept herself occupied.
Then Sergey opened the hallway closet and took out a large travel bag.
I immediately realized why.
Over the years, his mother had accumulated more things at our place than I thought: slippers, a robe, a sweater she kept ‘just in case it gets cold,’ old sneakers for walks with Ksyusha. Sergey brought a hairbrush and a small makeup bag from the bathroom. In the kitchen, he gathered her tea jar and some containers.
«Sergey, don’t do this out of anger right now.»
«Then when?»
«At least wait until tomorrow.»
«Tomorrow I’m at work until seven. Then she’ll say I spent a week trying to get the courage.»
He kept packing up her things.
I stood there, feeling odd. I’d spent half the day wishing Sergey would finally stop avoiding the conversation, but now all I wanted was to stop him.
«I never asked you to have a falling out with her.»
He zipped up the bag.
«I’m not going to argue. I’ll just drop off her things and get the key back.»
«She won’t give it back.»
«Then we’ll change the lock.»
He said it calmly, like he was just talking about a burnt-out lightbulb.
Then he grabbed his jacket.
«Will you come with me?»
I hadn’t expected that.
«Why?»
«Because half of this argument is about you. And I don’t want to have to retell who said what afterward.»
I went with him.
Lyudmila Sergeyevna lived fifteen minutes away by car. Sergey was silent the whole drive. He only asked me once if I’d brought my phone. Nothing else.
She didn’t open the door right away.
She saw the two of us, and the bag by her son’s feet.
«That was quick.»
Sergey carried the bag inside the hallway.
«Mom, these are your things.»
«I see that.»
«Check them later, and if we forgot anything, I’ll bring it over.»
She didn’t open the bag.
«Natasha must be happy?»
Right then, I jumped into the conversation, even though I’d promised myself in the car to stay quiet.
«No. I never wanted it to come to this.»
«Of course.»
«Mom, enough,» Sergey said.
She turned to him:
«Do you even realize how this looks? You’re kicking your own mother out with her things. Out of the apartment you live in yourself.»
«I’m not kicking you out. You’re living here. I just brought you your things.»
«And the key?»
«I need the key, too.»
«You need it or she does?»
Sergey leaned against the wall.
«I do. Give me the key.»
«So now I’m supposed to stand outside and ask permission to come in?»
«Call us. We’ll let you in.»
«Perfect.»
She went into her room. I heard the sound of a drawer opening.
She returned with the key in her hand but didn’t hand it right over to Sergey.
«When it was convenient for you, I could come any time. When Ksyusha was little, who watched her? When you were both running late, who came over? Have you already forgotten?»
Sergey didn’t argue.
«We haven’t forgotten.»
«It sure seems like you have.»
«Mom, I’m grateful to you. Really. But that doesn’t mean you can bring in repairmen and decide which mother gets to come over.»
«So she really got in your head.»
«If that makes it easier for you, then sure, think that.»
That sentence angered her more than anything else.
She slapped the key into his palm.
«Take it.»
Sergey put it in his pocket.
There was no graceful end to the conversation. Lyudmila Sergeyevna said she was tired, asked us to leave, and left her bag unpacked in the hallway.
We drove home almost in complete silence.
When we got near our building, Sergey finally spoke up:
«You were wrong too.»
I turned to face him.
«About what?»
«You could have mentioned your mom was staying for dinner tonight. Especially after our argument.»
At first, I wanted to protest. Then I remembered the phone sitting on the kitchen table.
«I could have.»
«And sometimes the things you say about the apartment really hurt.»
That was about the old stuff.
«I know.»
He nodded, and that was the end of it. No reconciliation in the parking lot, no big revelations.
At home, Sergey put the returned key in the top drawer of the dresser. And that’s where it stayed.
Lyudmila Sergeyevna didn’t come by for almost three weeks. She talked to Sergey on the phone, called Ksyusha, but didn’t speak to me.
Then on Saturday, Sergey’s phone rang.
He was in the kitchen and I was beside him chopping vegetables.
«Yes, Mom.»
I could only hear his side of the conversation.
«At home… Yeah… We’ll be leaving in a couple hours… Now? Okay, come over.»
He ended the call.
«Mom’s stopping by. She brought something for Ksyusha.»
I didn’t say anything.
About twenty minutes later, the intercom buzzed.
Sergey went to let her in.
