“My son bought the apartment, and this one just walked into a ready-made life!” my mother-in-law bragged. But the dinner party came to an abrupt halt when the daughter-in-law pulled out a folder.
The key got stuck halfway through the turn. Ksenia gave the handle an irritated tug, then shoved the door with her knee. The lock gave way with an unpleasant scraping sound — apparently, someone had tried to turn it from the other side without removing the key.
A thick, heavy smell hit her at once. It was the kind of smell you get in old dining cars: a mix of burnt oil, cheap cafeteria food, and laundry soap. Ksenia set the heavy paper bag of groceries down on the mat.
The entryway she had decorated so lovingly in light tones was gone. On the pale velour bench were piled two enormous blue-and-red checkered bags. They were tightly bound with ordinary sturdy cord, and a bundle of dried mushrooms stuck out from under the flimsy zipper of one of them. Nearby, right on the light porcelain tile, lay a pair of worn men’s sneakers and huge women’s ankle boots with fake fur turned outward.
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and two loud voices.
“Nina, I’m telling you, these blinds need to be ripped down to hell!” a raspy contralto declared. “They’re dust collectors. You should hang proper lace curtains, like normal people do. And her pots are strange too, so heavy I could barely lift them.”
“Oh, don’t bother, Raika,” the second voice waved off the complaint, and Ksenia instantly recognized her mother-in-law, Nina Fyodorovna. “Young people have their own quirks these days. Oleg made the effort, bought them, so let them stay.”
Ksenia slowly slipped off her coat. A sick feeling settled in her chest at once. By agreement with her husband, Nina Fyodorovna was only supposed to come visit in a month — to see doctors at the city clinic. And there had certainly been no mention of her bringing along her older sister, Raisa.
She stepped into the kitchen.
The scene was impressive. Nina Fyodorovna, in a gaudy robe, was enthusiastically scrubbing the nonstick coating off an expensive frying pan with a metal scouring pad. Aunt Raisa sat at the kitchen island, crumbling a loaf of bread directly onto the countertop.
“Good evening,” Ksenia said evenly.
The women jumped. Nina Fyodorovna dropped the scrubber into the sink, quickly wiped her wet hands on the hem of her robe, and broke into a broad smile.
The key got stuck halfway through the turn. Ksenia jerked the handle in irritation, then shoved the door with her knee. The lock finally gave way with an ugly grinding sound—apparently, someone had tried to turn it from the other side without removing the key.
A thick, heavy smell hit her at once. It was the kind of smell old dining cars had: a mix of burnt oil, cheap cafeteria food, and хозяйственное soap. Ksenia set the heavy paper grocery bag down on the mat.
The entryway she had decorated so lovingly in pale tones was gone. Two enormous blue-and-red checkered bags were piled on the light velvet bench. They were tightly bound with ordinary sturdy cord, and a bunch of dried mushrooms poked out from under the flimsy zipper of one of them. Nearby, right on the light porcelain tile, lay a pair of battered men’s sneakers and a huge pair of women’s ankle boots with fake fur turned outward.
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and two loud voices.
“Nina, I’m telling you, these blinds need to be torn down to hell!” a hoarse contralto was declaring. “Dust collectors. She should hang proper lace curtains, like normal people do. And her pots are weird too—so heavy I could barely lift them.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Raika,” the second voice replied dismissively, and Ksenia instantly recognized her mother-in-law, Nina Fyodorovna. “Young people have their quirks these days. Oleg tried his best and bought them, so let them stay.”
Ksenia slowly took off her coat. A sick feeling settled in her stomach at once. According to the arrangement she had made with her husband, Nina Fyodorovna was only supposed to come stay in a month, so she could see doctors at the city clinic. And there had certainly been no mention of her bringing along her older sister, Raisa.
She stepped into the kitchen.
The scene was impressive. Nina Fyodorovna, in a bright floral robe, was enthusiastically scraping the nonstick coating off an expensive frying pan with a metal scouring pad. Aunt Raisa was sitting at the kitchen island, crumbling a loaf of bread directly onto the countertop.
“Good evening,” Ksenia said evenly.
The women jumped. Nina Fyodorovna dropped the scouring pad into the sink, quickly wiped her wet hands on the hem of her robe, and broke into a broad smile.
“Oh, Ksyusha! Look who’s finally here! We decided to surprise you. Why wait? Raya’s back started acting up, so we thought we’d both go see your city’s medical luminaries. Oleg left us the keys and said to make ourselves at home.”
“Hello,” Ksenia said, shifting her gaze to the ruined frying pan and then to the pile of dirty dishes. “And where is Oleg himself?”
“Our breadwinner is at work!” her mother-in-law exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Should be home soon. He has to support his family, after all! Just look at the monster he’s built here—you’d wear yourself out paying the electric bill alone. Go wash your hands. I fried potatoes in lard—you’ll lick your fingers clean.”
Ksenia didn’t argue. She turned around in silence, went into the bedroom, and sent her husband a message: Waiting at home. Urgent.
Oleg didn’t show up until an hour and a half later. He shifted about nervously in the hallway, hiding three tired carnations behind his back. The moment he stepped over the threshold, Nina Fyodorovna floated out of the kitchen.
“My son! Worked to the bone, my dear!” she cooed, practically shoving Ksenia aside with her shoulder. “Come to the table, we’re about to feed you. And you, Ksyusha, why are you standing there? Pour your husband some compote. The man just got home from work—he’s exhausted!”
Ksenia silently watched as Oleg, straightening up importantly, seated himself at the head of the table. On ordinary days, he heated his own dinner without complaint and loaded his plates into the dishwasher. But the moment his mother appeared, some provincial lord seemed to awaken inside him.
The conversation happened late that evening in the bedroom. Ksenia spoke in a whisper so as not to wake the guests, whose loud snoring carried through the whole apartment.
“Explain this to me,” Ksenia said, staring directly at her husband. “Why are your relatives moving my things around? And why is your mother convinced that you bought this apartment?”
Oleg looked away. He began nervously picking at a hangnail.
“Ksyush… just try to understand. Mom has old-fashioned ideas. To her, the man is the provider. If I told her I came to you with one suitcase, she’d laugh at me. And she’d be ashamed in front of the neighbors too… I just sort of blurted out that we bought it together. What difference does it make? We’re husband and wife.”
“The difference, Oleg,” Ksenia replied sharply, “is that I bought this apartment four years before I even met you. I worked two jobs and forgot what weekends looked like so I could pay off the loans. And now you’re letting your mother order me around in my own kitchen just so you can look successful?”
“Oh, just put up with it!” her husband hissed. “Is it really that hard to play along? Let them think it’s my house. What does it cost you? Mom mustn’t get upset. Two weeks, and they’ll be gone.”
“Two weeks. But if they keep imposing their rules, I’ll show them the door.”
The following days turned into an endless endurance test. The apartment became soaked with the smell of cheap frying grease. The television in the living room blared from early morning—Nina and Raisa watched scandalous talk shows, loudly condemning the behavior of the guests on screen.
Ksenia tried to leave earlier and come home later. But the domestic nightmare caught up with her everywhere. Her mother-in-law threw out the farm cheese with mold from the fridge, declaring that it had “gone bad and stank.” Aunt Raisa washed one of Ksenia’s silk blouses on the boil cycle, turning it into a dust rag.
In his mother’s presence, Oleg changed completely. He demanded tea in the living room, scattered his clothes around, and spoke loudly about how hard it was for him to maintain such a large home.
The breaking point came on Thursday. Ksenia was let off work after lunch. She opened the front door without a sound. The apartment was quiet—the television was off.
She took a few steps down the hall and heard a muffled whisper coming from the living room.
“I’m telling you, Nina, something’s fishy here,” Aunt Raisa was muttering.
Ksenia cautiously peered through the half-open door. The women were sitting directly on the carpet. Papers were scattered all around them. Ksenia instantly recognized her personal document folder, the one that always lay on the top shelf of the wardrobe under a stack of off-season clothes.
“It can’t be!” her mother-in-law said, contemptuously tossing aside a warranty card for the washing machine. “My Olezhka wouldn’t lie. If he said it’s his apartment, then it’s his. That sly little mouse must have been pocketing his money behind his back and putting everything in her own name! Clung to our boy like a leech!”
“Exactly,” Raisa chimed in, peering at old receipts. “We need to tell Oleg. Let him expose her for what she is. Look at her, turning up her nose and playing lady of the house.”
Ksenia didn’t burst into the room. She didn’t say a word. She simply turned around, slipped back out of the apartment just as quietly, and took the elevator downstairs.
She walked to the nearest coffee shop, ordered a black coffee, and opened her laptop. She logged onto the government services portal and requested a fresh extract from the real estate register with an electronic seal. Then she opened her banking app and downloaded her payment history from the years when Oleg had not yet even existed in her life.
After printing everything out at the nearest copy center, she placed the pages into a thick cardboard folder.
Ksenia returned home toward evening. Sounds of a feast drifted from the kitchen. Nina Fyodorovna had decided to set the table. There were thick-cut slices of sausage, a huge bowl of layered salad drenched in mayonnaise, and an open bottle of expensive dry red wine Ksenia had brought back from vacation.
At the table sat Oleg, both relatives, and the neighbor from the landing, the talkative pensioner Anna Ilyinichna. Apparently, her mother-in-law had invited an audience for her boasting.
“Oh, and here comes the wife!” Nina Fyodorovna announced loudly the moment she saw Ksenia. Open mockery rang in her voice. “Come in, sit down somewhere.”
Oleg sat at the head of the table, carefully avoiding eye contact, studying the pattern on the tablecloth.
“Yes, Anna Ilyinichna, this is how we live,” her mother-in-law went on, addressing the neighbor. “My son bought the apartment, and this one just walked into a ready-made life! Can’t cook, can’t clean. She got lucky with my Oleg—he brought the girl into society.”
Raisa nodded approvingly, her mouth full. The neighbor smiled awkwardly, glancing at Ksenia.
Ksenia slowly walked up to the table. Her face showed absolutely nothing.
“How interesting your version is, Nina Fyodorovna,” Ksenia said softly, but the kitchen fell so quiet that the hum of the refrigerator compressor could be heard. “Why don’t we add a little to your story?”
She opened the folder and took out the first sheet.
“Anna Ilyinichna,” Ksenia said, handing the document to the neighbor, “can you read without your glasses? Please look at this line. Out loud. The one that says ‘Owner.’”
Consumed by curiosity, the neighbor took the paper, squinted, and cleared her throat.
“Let’s see… extract from the real estate register… Property: three-room apartment… Owner: Volkova Ksenia Andreevna. Share: one hundred percent. Basis: purchase agreement dated… oh my, this was registered six years ago!”
Aunt Raisa began coughing violently, having choked on a piece of sausage. Her face immediately turned crimson. Ksenia calmly picked up the carafe from the table, poured a glass of water, and slid it toward the coughing woman. Raisa greedily latched onto the rim.
Nina Fyodorovna froze with her mouth hanging open.
“What… what Ksenia?” her mother-in-law rasped, turning a bewildered gaze toward her son. “Oleg? What kind of circus is this? Tell her this is your apartment!”
Oleg hunched his head into his shoulders. He blushed so fiercely that red blotches spread across his neck.
“Well… Mom… I told you… we… together…”
“I’ll explain it myself, since Oleg seems to have lost his voice,” Ksenia said evenly. She threw a stack of bank printouts onto the table. “I bought this apartment. I paid for the renovations with my money. Your son moved in here with one sports backpack. In two years he has not once paid even for the internet. He lives here for free and eats the food I buy. And he lied to you because he’s ashamed to admit who he really is.”
“How dare you!” Nina Fyodorovna finally snapped out of it. Her face twisted with raw humiliation. In front of the neighbor, her perfect picture had crumbled to dust. “My son is gold! And you’re a calculating woman! Throwing bread in a man’s face!”
“I never threw anything in anyone’s face until you came into my home, started ruining my things, and went through my documents,” Ksenia said, bracing both hands on the edge of the table and looking straight at her mother-in-law. “You wanted the truth? Now you know it. And now—pack your things.”
“What?!” Nina Fyodorovna shrieked. “Oleg! Do you hear this? Put her in her place!”
Oleg jumped up from his chair. He clearly wanted to look threatening, but his voice sounded uncertain.
“Ksyusha, you’re going too far!” he shouted. “This is my family! Apologize right now!”
“Or what?” Ksenia looked him straight in the eye. “You’ll go back to your mother’s village? Be my guest. You have fifteen minutes to pack.”
Anna Ilyinichna hastily slipped sideways into the hallway and disappeared out the front door.
An unbelievable commotion broke out. Nina Fyodorovna ran through the hallway cursing her daughter-in-law. Raisa, breathing heavily, tried to discreetly dump the leftovers from the cold cuts into a bag. Oleg stuffed T-shirts and chargers into a suitcase in frantic confusion.
“I’ll file for division of property!” he shouted from the doorway, trying to preserve the last scraps of dignity. “Half of everything we acquired during the marriage is mine!”
“Please do,” Ksenia smirked. “We can divide your credit card debt and the old microwave. You have no claim whatsoever to my real estate.”
When the door slammed shut, Ksenia turned the key twice and slid the heavy bolt into place. Silence filled the kitchen. She opened the window wide, letting in the cold evening air to drive out that thick, heavy smell.
Stepping up to the windowsill, she looked down. Under the light of the streetlamp stood three figures with their huge bags. Nina Fyodorovna was furiously waving her arms, scolding her crestfallen son. The illusion of a successful life had burst.
Ksenia took a sip of the dry red wine and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow she would call a cleaning service, and everything in her home would finally be put back in its proper place.
