My husband put me a timatum. I nodded and did it my way
— I apologize to my mother. Quickly. And transfer the money to her. Otherwise, you’ll really get kicked out of the apartment!
This phrase sounded so loudly that the upstairs neighbor seems to have stopped working.
My benefactor, Igor, stood in the middle of the living room and horribly pointed his finger somewhere in the baseboard area. He inflated with its own significance, resembling an airship ready to drop an ultimatum bomb on my ungrateful head.
I sat in a chair, anxiously stirring tea, and with the interest of a naturalist I watched this free theater performance. The situation was so ridiculous that it did not even provoke anger.
We have been married for three years. We lived in Igor’s «family nest» — a murdered one-room apartment, he inherited from his grandfather.
My husband holyly believed that since he generously let me into his thirty-three square meters, I automatically became his personal servant with the function of an ATM.
What Igor in his greatness persistently did not want to remember is one entertaining fact.
I owned a beautiful three-bedroom apartment in an elite neighborhood. My mother, whom I moved from the village, lived comfortably there now.
And I lived in Igor’s «one house» exclusively because from here I was half an hour closer to drive to the office.
I was fine with this compromise. Exactly until the mother-in-law intervened.
Zinaida Pavlovna was a noisy woman, unapologetic and holy confident that her son was an exclusive gift from heaven, for which I am obliged to pay daily rent. To be continued in the comments.
“Apologize to my mother. Now. And transfer the money to her. Otherwise you’re really flying out of this apartment!
He said it so loudly that, upstairs, the neighbors’ hammer drill seemed to stop working.
My dear husband, Igor, stood in the middle of the living room, menacingly pointing somewhere in the direction of the baseboard. He was swollen with self-importance, like a blimp preparing to drop the bomb of an ultimatum on my ungrateful head.
I sat in an armchair, leisurely stirring my tea, observing this free theatrical performance with the interest of a naturalist. The situation was so ridiculous that it didn’t even make me angry.
We had been married for three years. We lived in Igor’s “family nest” — a run-down one-room apartment he had inherited from his grandfather. My husband firmly believed that since he had magnanimously allowed me into his thirty-three square meters, I had automatically assumed the status of his personal maid with ATM functions.
What Igor, in all his grandeur, stubbornly refused to remember was one rather interesting fact.
I owned a beautiful three-bedroom apartment in an upscale neighborhood. My mother, whom I had moved there from the village, was living there quite comfortably now.
And I lived in Igor’s little one-room place for one reason only: it was half an hour closer to my office.
That compromise suited me. Right up until my mother-in-law got involved.
Zinaida Pavlovna was a loud, categorical woman, devoutly convinced that her son was an exclusive gift from the heavens, for the privilege of using whom I was obliged to pay daily rent.
The first warning bells had rung a couple of weeks earlier. My mother-in-law had developed a charming habit of showing up without calling, conducting customs inspections of my refrigerator, and issuing financial directives.
“A good wife should put all her income into her husband’s family, not stash it away in bank accounts!” she declared instructively last Friday, working her fork energetically through a salad.
“Money should serve the good of the family line! You ought to chip in for a new car for little Igor — he’s embarrassed to drive the old one in front of his friends.”
“According to the Central Bank, Zinaida Pavlovna, the best investment right now is a deposit, not an attempt to impress mysterious friends with financed scrap metal,” I replied calmly.
“And my budget is calculated solely for the good of my own digestion.”
Outraged, my mother-in-law jerked her hand, caught the salt shaker with her sleeve, and sent it clattering under the table.
Zinaida Pavlovna froze with her fork raised, like a gopher suddenly realizing that in the middle of the open steppe, all the safe burrows had vanished.
But the lesson didn’t stick. Yesterday she decided to launch a full-scale offensive, and that became the beginning of the end.
Zinaida Pavlovna came to dinner and announced from the doorway that her anniversary was coming up. And the best gift I — specifically I, not her precious son — could give her was to pay for a two-week stay at an elite health resort. The price equaled two months of my salary.
“I am your husband’s mother! I gave him the best years of my life!” she proclaimed, waving a piece of bread like a conductor’s baton. “And you live on my territory! It’s time you showed some gratitude and thanked his mother!”
“The territory, Zinaida Pavlovna, according to the property registry extract, belongs to Igor.
“And my personal charitable program for sponsoring other people’s vacations is temporarily closed for inventory. Please contact the social insurance fund.”
Igor, who until that moment had been cowardly blending into the wallpaper in the hallway, suddenly felt a surge of filial duty.
He darted into the kitchen, fussily escorted his insulted mommy to the elevator, and then came back to me with that now-historic ultimatum.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” my husband went on, still looming over me.
“This is my apartment! And I make the rules here! I’m giving you until this evening. You call my mother, apologize, transfer the money for the resort. Or pack your stuff and get out!”
I looked at his flushed face and realized: the time for half-measures was over.
“You know, Igorek, you’re absolutely right,” I said with a peaceful nod, rising gracefully from the chair.
“Living on someone else’s territory is always a risk. I’ll need about three hours to pack.”
Igor smirked victoriously. In his version of the world, I was supposed to throw myself at his feet right then, drenching the parquet with tears and begging him not to cast me out into the cold.
“You’ll come crawling back!” he proclaimed, proudly shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.
“Who needs you with that attitude? You’ll end up renting some room with bedbugs on the outskirts, and that arrogance will disappear fast!”
“Absolutely. I’ll try to find the most picturesque heating pipe with a view of the central park,” I agreed, pulling out my smartphone.
Muttering something unintelligible, he grabbed the car keys and announced that he was going to his mother’s place — to wait for the money transfer and my humiliated apology.
As soon as the door slammed behind him, I opened an app and called a crew of movers with the largest truck available.
But he hadn’t taken one tiny but critically important detail into account. He had absolutely no grasp of cause and effect. When I moved into that apartment three years earlier, it had been a miserable sight: bare concrete walls, a creaky sofa from the early stagnation era, and a refrigerator that rattled louder than a tractor during sowing season.
During our marriage, unwilling to live in squalor, I had completely furnished that lair. With my own money.
The large double-door refrigerator? Mine. The latest-model washing machine? Mine. The luxurious corner sofa with an orthopedic base? Paid for with my salary card.
The television, the coffee machine, the microwave, the fluffy rug, and even the expensive blackout curtains — I had bought all of it, meticulously saving the electronic receipts in cloud storage.
The movers arrived quickly. They were sturdy, silent guys who worked smoothly and efficiently.
Two hours later, Igor’s spacious one-room apartment had been returned to factory settings. All that remained were bare wallpapered walls, worn linoleum, and a lonely kitchen stove, which I chose not to touch for purely humanitarian reasons — at least let him boil himself some dumplings. The echo of footsteps wandered through the empty room, bouncing off the bare windows.
Before leaving, I carefully placed a stack of utility bills on the kitchen windowsill. For the past three years, I had paid them all, because Igor considered them “small female expenses,” unworthy of his lordly attention.
Now that honorable duty was returning to the rightful owner of the square meters.
I arrived at my spacious three-bedroom apartment. My mother, who smelled of fresh pastries and domestic comfort, threw up her hands when she saw the procession of movers endlessly carrying in appliances and furniture.
“My goodness, sweetheart, what on earth is all this?” she asked in surprise, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I’m returning to my rightful home, Mom. Put the kettle on — we’ve got a grand unpacking ahead of us,” I smiled, feeling a heavy concrete slab lift from my shoulders.
The call came at exactly eight in the evening. Igor had returned home.
“Where’s the furniture?!” he screamed into the phone so hysterically that I had to move the speaker away from my ear. “Where’s my sofa?! Where’s my TV?! What have you done, you lunatic?!”
“The sofa flatly refused to apologize to your mother, Igor,” I answered in an extremely calm, almost affectionate tone, sipping thyme tea.
“And it didn’t want to transfer money for her health resort either. So, in accordance with your strict ultimatum, it flew out of the apartment. Along with the refrigerator and the coffee machine. They showed solidarity.”
“You robbed me! I’m going to the police right now!” my husband shrieked, his voice cracking with outrage.
Like a broken ATM spitting out nothing but declined receipts instead of cash, Igor hurled out one threat more absurd than the last.
“Go, sweetheart. By all means, go,” I advised gently.
“And don’t forget to tell the duty investigator how your devious wife took property for which she has every named receipt and bank statement.
“And while you’re at it, read the bills on the windowsill. There’s a decent debt for capital repairs piled up while I was paying your water and electricity. Now you can do it yourself. All by yourself. Master of the house!”
I hung up. Right after that, Zinaida Pavlovna’s number joined the endless blacklist.
I bit into a piece of my mother’s pie, looked at my gorgeous double-door refrigerator — now perfectly at home in my large bright kitchen — and smiled.
The best revenge against arrogant people is not shouting and not scandal. The best revenge is to leave them alone with their own selfishness. In a completely empty apartment. Without a television. And without the wife who had been paying for that little celebration of life for three years.”
