“After the wedding, your three-room apartment will become ours,” my future father-in-law announced, and then he called me a servant — the conversation ended with me packing a suitcase.
A three-room apartment in a new building on the outskirts of the city. Mine. Bought with my own money after eight years of working for a large retail chain. No grandmothers, grandfathers, or inheritance involved.
I saved for three years for the down payment. Then I spent another four years paying off the mortgage. I made the final payment a month before I met Maxim.
I am thirty-one years old. Head of the sales department in a supermarket chain. I earn two hundred thousand, plus bonuses, plus extra rewards for exceeding targets. I lived alone. Peacefully. No drama. No scandals. No strangers in my apartment.
And then I met Maxim.
We met at a city marathon in early May. We were running side by side during the last lap. He tripped over a lane marking, and I managed to catch him by the elbow. We started talking at the finish line.
It turned out he worked as an engineer at a design firm. Thirty-four years old. Birthday in September. Divorced. No children. Renting a one-room apartment on the other side of the city.
A week later, we went to the movies. Two weeks after that, we met in the park. We walked until evening. We talked about work, our plans, and what we wanted from life.
A month later, he moved in with me. He brought one suitcase of clothes and a box of books.
His parents live in Kaluga. A three-hour bus ride away. His father, Viktor Sergeyevich, is a retired former principal of a district school. His mother, Irina Afanasyevna, is a nurse at the local clinic and still works. Old-school people. Used to controlling everything. Knowing everything. Interfering in everything.
The first meeting went fine. I went to visit them for the weekend in early July. They met me at the bus station. Maxim warned me in advance that his mother would ask about absolutely everything. And that is exactly what happened.
While we were driving to their house, Irina Afanasyevna asked where I worked, how much I earned, whether I had a car, and what my plans for the future were.
I answered calmly. Honestly. Without evasion.
At home, they set the table. Fried chicken. Cucumber and tomato salad. Potatoes. Compote. Everything simple. Homemade.
They kept asking more questions about work. About my parents. About wedding plans. I said that we were not going to rush. We wanted to live together for a while, get used to each other, and understand whether we were truly right for one another.
“The continuation of the story is here 📖📖👇👇”
A three-room apartment in a newly built complex on the outskirts of the city. Mine. Bought with my own money after eight years of working for a large retail chain. No grandmothers, grandfathers, or inheritance involved.
I saved for three years for the down payment. Then I spent another four years paying off the mortgage. I made the final payment a month before I met Maxim.
I’m thirty-one years old. Head of sales at a supermarket chain. I earn two hundred thousand. Plus bonuses. Plus extra incentives for exceeding targets. I lived alone. Peacefully. No drama. No scandals. No strangers in my apartment.
And then I met Maxim.
We met at a city marathon in early May. We ran the last lap side by side. He tripped over a line on the pavement, and I managed to catch him by the elbow. We started talking at the finish line.
It turned out he worked as an engineer at a design firm. Thirty-four years old. Birthday in September. Divorced. No children. Renting a one-room apartment on the other side of the city.
A week later, we went to the movies. Two weeks after that, we met in the park. We walked until evening. We talked about work, about plans, about what we wanted from life.
A month later, he moved in with me. He brought one suitcase of clothes and a box of books.
His parents live in Kaluga. A three-hour bus ride away. His father, Viktor Sergeyevich, is a retired headmaster of a district school. His mother, Irina Afanasyevna, is a nurse at the local clinic and still works there. Old-school people. Used to controlling everything. Knowing everything. Interfering in everything.
The first meeting went fine. I visited them for a weekend in early July. They met me at the bus station. Maxim warned me in advance that his mother would ask me about everything under the sun. That’s exactly what happened.
On the way to their house, Irina Afanasyevna asked where I worked, how much I earned, whether I had a car, and what my plans were for the future.
I answered calmly. Honestly. Without dodging.
At home, they set the table. Fried chicken. Cucumber and tomato salad. Potatoes. Compote. Everything simple. Homemade.
They kept asking about my work. My parents. Our wedding plans. I said we weren’t in any hurry. We wanted to live together first. Get used to each other. Understand whether we were truly right for one another.
Viktor Sergeyevich frowned. Irina Afanasyevna pursed her lips. But they kept silent. For the time being.
The second trip was three months later, in early October. Maxim suggested celebrating his birthday with his parents. Thirty-five years old. A milestone birthday. Irina Afanasyevna insisted that we come. She called every day. Reminded us. Asked us to come.
“Mom really wants us all to be together,” Maxim said. “Let’s go. Make them happy.”
I agreed.
We arrived on Friday evening by bus, carrying a cake and a bouquet of chrysanthemums for Irina Afanasyevna. They welcomed us warmly. Hugged us. Sat us at the table. Everything was already prepared. Salads. Roast pork. Mushroom soup. Cabbage pie.
Viktor Sergeyevich was in a good mood. He joked around. Told stories about the school. About students. About the daily life of a principal. Irina Afanasyevna poured tea, offered us food, asked how we were living and how work was going. Everything was fine up until the moment Viktor Sergeyevich began making a toast. He stood up. Raised his glass. Cleared his throat.
“To the young couple!” he said solemnly. “To Maxim and his girlfriend Nastya! May they build a strong family! May they have everything they need for happiness!”
I smiled. Raised my glass of juice. Clinked with Maxim. With Irina Afanasyevna.
Then Viktor Sergeyevich continued, his voice growing more serious:
“You know, Nastya, our Maxim is a serious man. Responsible. He deserves a worthy wife. A good homemaker. One who will support him in everything. Create comfort. Look after the house.”
“Of course,” I nodded, not understanding where he was going with this.
“A wife must take care of her husband,” Irina Afanasyevna added. “Cook well. Keep the house clean. Raise the children. Respect her husband’s parents. Help them in old age.”
Maxim stayed silent. He cut up the chicken. Didn’t raise his eyes.
Then the conversation naturally turned to children. How many we wanted. A boy or a girl. When we were planning to have them. Irina Afanasyevna was already imagining how she would help with the grandchildren. Come for a month. Teach me how to feed a baby properly. Swaddle it. Put it to sleep.
Then the topic shifted to where we would live after the wedding.
“Nastya has an apartment,” Maxim said casually, spooning salad onto his plate. “A three-room place. In a good neighborhood. Eighth floor. Windows facing the courtyard. Quiet.”
Viktor Sergeyevich perked up. Put down his fork. Looked at me carefully.
“Big?”
“Eighty square meters,” Maxim answered for me.
“A good size,” his father nodded thoughtfully. “Enough for a family. And there’ll be room for me and Mother too. Three rooms, after all. One for you. One for us. One for the children later.”
I choked on my water. Started coughing. Maxim patted me on the back.
“Sorry,” I said after catching my breath. “What did you just say?”
“Well, we’ll all be living together,” Viktor Sergeyevich explained calmly, as if he were talking about the weather. “A family should stay together. Under one roof. That’s the right way. That’s how it’s always been done. Your mother and I aren’t young anymore. Our health isn’t the same. We need help. Care. And Maxim is our only son. The only one. Who else is going to look after us if not him?”
Maxim was silent. He stared at the chicken on his plate as if studying every piece of it.
“We never agreed to that,” I said slowly, looking at Viktor Sergeyevich.
“And why would we need to agree?” Irina Afanasyevna asked in genuine surprise. “That goes without saying. Your husband’s parents are your parents too. A son must care for his parents. And his wife will help him with that. That’s normal. That’s right. That’s how it’s done.”
“Mom, not now,” Maxim finally spoke up quietly. “We’ll discuss it later. At home. Calmly.”
“Why not now?” Viktor Sergeyevich frowned. “Better to talk about everything right away. Put all the cards on the table. So there won’t be misunderstandings later. No unspoken things. No hard feelings.”
They had already decided everything. Planned out my apartment. My life. My future. Without even asking me.
“Viktor Sergeyevich,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “the apartment is mine. I bought it myself. With my own money. I took out the mortgage. I paid it off for four years. I closed it completely last year. No one else has any share in it. And no one will.”
“Not yet,” he smirked, leaning back in his chair. “But once you get married, everything becomes shared. Family property. And we’ll decide together. As a whole family. The proper way.”
“No,” I said firmly. “The apartment was bought before marriage. By law, it remains my personal property. Even after the wedding.”
Silence hung in the room. Irina Afanasyevna froze with a cup in her hands. Maxim stared at me.
“I’ll draw up a prenuptial agreement.”
Viktor Sergeyevich slowly placed his fork on the plate. Wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“A prenuptial agreement?” he repeated slowly, stretching out the words. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re going to get married with a contract? Like in America or something?”
“As protection of my rights. Including my financial contributions.”
“So you don’t trust our son?” Irina Afanasyevna cut in, setting her cup down with a loud thud.
“I do trust him. But relationships should also be handled properly in legal terms. Those are two different things.”
“Handled properly in legal terms,” he mocked, twisting his mouth. “What are you, a lawyer? An attorney? A notary?”
“I’m a sales department manager. I work with documents every day. Contracts. Agreements. I understand how important it is to put everything in writing. In black and white.”
Irina Afanasyevna pursed her lips. Crossed her arms over her chest.
“This is what modern girls are like,” she said disapprovingly. “They get married with contracts. Conditions. Clauses. In the old days, people married for love. They trusted each other. Lived in harmony. And now everything is done through paperwork. Cold. Calculating.”
“Love does not cancel out legal literacy,” I answered calmly.
“You’re selfish,” Viktor Sergeyevich snapped, raising his voice. “You only think about yourself. About your square meters. About your rights. But have you thought about family? About your husband’s parents? About the people who raised him? Brought him up? Put him on his feet? We’re going to need help. Who’s going to care for us? Who’s going to cook? Clean?”
“Hire a caregiver,” I said. “Or a social worker. There are special services for that.”
“A caregiver?!” he roared, slamming his palm on the table so hard the plates jumped. “We have a son! There’ll be a daughter-in-law! Family! That’s your duty! Your obligation!”
Maxim sat there like a mummy. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“Maxim,” I said quietly, turning to him. “Say something. Please.”
He slowly raised his eyes. Looked at me. Then at his father. Then back at me.
“Nastya, they’re my parents,” he said uncertainly. “We can’t just abandon them. Leave them alone. They’ve done everything for me. Raised me. Educated me. Made me into who I am.”
“I’m not suggesting we abandon them,” I replied, trying not to lose my temper. “I’m saying I don’t want to live with them. In my apartment. Under one roof.”
“But they need help! Support! Care!”
“There are different ways to help. Visit on weekends. Support them financially. Invite them over. But not move them in with us permanently.”
Viktor Sergeyevich suddenly stood up. His chair screeched backward. He slapped the table with his palm. The plates rattled. Irina Afanasyevna flinched.
“This is today’s youth!” he barked, pointing his finger at me. “Selfish! Heartless! Soulless! Ready to throw your husband’s parents out the door! Ready to abandon old people! Nothing sacred!”
“I’m not throwing you out,” I answered firmly, looking him in the eye. “I’m simply not inviting you to live with me. That is my right.”
Irina Afanasyevna jumped up and grabbed him by the sleeve.
“Vitya, calm down! Your blood pressure!”
He was breathing heavily, hoarsely. He looked at me with such hatred that it made me uneasy. His face had turned red. The veins in his neck stood out.
“You know what, girl?” he hissed through clenched teeth, leaning toward me over the table. “You’re going to marry our son. You’re going to sign every document he tells you to sign. Every single one. And you’re going to do what the family tells you to do. WHAT WE TELL YOU. Because A DAUGHTER-IN-LAW IS A SERVANT, NOT A MEMBER OF THE FAMILY. After the wedding, your three-room apartment will become ours.”
I froze. I couldn’t believe what I had heard.
“What did you say?” I asked quietly.
“A servant,” he repeated clearly, syllable by syllable, looking straight into my eyes. “A ser-vant. You came into our family. That means you are obliged to serve. Cook. Clean. Wash. Scrub. Care for the elderly. For the children. For your husband. That is your duty. Your role. Your place. So don’t start asserting your rights here. Understood?”
I slowly stood up.
“Maxim,” I said to him, “we’re leaving. Right now.”
“Nastya, wait…”
“Right now,” I repeated firmly.
“Sit back down!” Viktor Sergeyevich shouted. “We’re not finished with this conversation!”
“We are finished. Forever.”
I walked into the room and packed my things. Maxim stood in the doorway.
“You don’t understand… they’re just worried…”
“I understood everything,” I cut him off. “Your father called me a servant. In front of you. In front of your mother. And you said nothing.”
“That’s not what he meant…”
“That’s exactly what he meant. Word for word. ‘A daughter-in-law is a servant, not a member of the family.’ Did you hear it?”
“I heard it, but…”
“No ‘but.’ Let’s go.”
I came out of the room, walked through the kitchen. His parents were sitting at the table.
“Leaving?” Irina Afanasyevna asked coldly. “Offended?”
“Yes. Offended. By the rudeness. By the insults. By the attempt to seize my apartment.”
“We’re not seizing anything!” Viktor Sergeyevich protested. “We just want the family to be together!”
“Your family. Not mine.”
I went outside. Took out my phone. Called a taxi to the bus station. Maxim came out five minutes later. Silent the whole way. Silent on the bus. Three hours on the road. Not a word. We got home late at night. I went straight to the bedroom and locked the door.
The next morning he tried to talk.
“Nastya, come on, let’s discuss everything calmly…”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“They’re just worried. They want to be closer to us. That’s normal.”
“It’s normal to want that. It’s not normal to demand it. And to call me a servant.”
“Dad got carried away. He didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“He did mean to. Very much. And he said exactly what he thinks.”
“So what now? We just stop talking to them completely?”
“You can talk to them as much as you want. Go visit them. Call them. See them. But they will never come here. Never.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
He tried to persuade me for another week. Asked me to give them a chance. Promised to talk to his father. I refused. A month later, Maxim went to visit his parents alone. He returned three days later.
“They send you their regards,” he said cautiously.
“Thank you. No need.”
“Mom asked when the wedding is.”
“When your father apologizes. Publicly. In front of the whole family. For the servant comment.”
“He’s… not ready.”
“Then there won’t be a wedding.”
“You’re kidding?!”
“No. I’m not going to marry a man whose family sees me as a servant. And whose father isn’t ready to apologize.”
“Nastya, that’s stupid!”
“It’s a matter of principle.”
We lived together for two more months. The relationship kept getting worse. He got angry. Blamed me. Said I was selfish. That I didn’t value family. That I was ruining everything with my stubbornness.
One evening I overheard him talking on the phone.
“Mom, I don’t know what to do… She won’t budge… Says without an apology there’ll be no wedding… Yeah, I tried… She won’t listen… Maybe you could come here? Talk to her?”
I walked into the room.
“You want to bring them here?” I asked quietly.
He flinched. Hung up the phone.
“I thought maybe if you met in person, you’d make peace…”
“No.”
“But why?!”
“Because I said they are not coming here. Ever. Not until there is an apology.”
“Nastya, this is my apartment too!”
“No. This is my apartment. You live here because I allowed it. But I am the owner. And I forbid you from bringing people here who insulted me.”
“You… you…”
“I’m the one in charge here. Yes. And I set the rules.”
He stood there red-faced, breathing heavily.
“You know what?” he hissed. “Dad was right. You really do act…”
“Go on.”
“…like the mistress of the house who…”
“Like a servant?” I prompted. “Were you going to say ‘like a servant’?”
“No! Just…”
“Get out. Right now.”
“What?”
“Pack your things. And leave. My apartment. My life. Go back to your parents, the ones who think daughters-in-law are servants.”
“You can’t throw me out!”
“I can. It’s my apartment. Get out.”
He packed his things in half an hour. Slammed the door on his way out. He kept texting for a few more days. Asked to come back. Promised to talk to his parents. I didn’t reply.
A week later, I blocked him everywhere.
Six months passed.
I met a new man at a technology exhibition. We got acquainted near a stand showing off new electronics. Anton. Thirty-eight years old. Works as a manager in a wholesale company. Divorced. Two children live with his ex-wife.
We’ve been dating for three months. He lives with me. Moved in after a month of dating.
His mother lives in another city. Calls rarely. Doesn’t meddle in our affairs. So far.
When I told him about Maxim and his parents, Anton said:
“You did the right thing. You have to put people in their place immediately. Otherwise, you’ll never get rid of them later.”
I agree.
Though recently, in passing, he mentioned:
“Mom’s turning sixty-five soon. Her pension is tiny. I’m thinking maybe I’ll help her out. Fifteen thousand a month. Is that okay?”
I nodded. Fifteen thousand is not a problem.
And a week later he added:
“By the way, she says she wants to move closer to us. So she can see the grandkids. You know, when we have children. She’ll sell her apartment there and buy something nearby here.”
I said nothing. Nearby is good. Nearby is not in my apartment.
So far he hasn’t suggested moving her in with us. So far he’s only talked about helping her. So far it seems fine.
But I’m watching. Closely. At the first hint of “let’s have Mom move in with us,” the conversation will be short. A daughter-in-law is not a servant. And the apartment is mine. I’ve already taught one man that lesson. I’ll teach the second one too, if necessary. No problem.
