“Into my apartment? I won’t let her in! Let her own parents support them!” my mother-in-law shrieked.
The grocery bag was pulling down on Lena’s shoulder, and the damp November wind kept trying to creep under her collar. She stopped at the entrance to catch her breath and find her keys. The intercom beeped in an especially pitiful way, as if it too were tired of the weather and the endless stream of people.
When she reached the third floor, she could hear the landlady’s voice even before opening the door. Tamara Ivanovna, a heavyset woman with a permanent perm, had shown up again without warning.
“I understand everything, Seryozha, but prices are going up,” her deep voice carried from the kitchen. “I have to pay for my grandson’s education—private courses, tutors. So either you add another five thousand, or vacate the apartment by the end of the month. I already have other people interested, students, and they’ll pay even more.”
Lena stepped into the hallway and shook the droplets off her puffer jacket. Sergey was sitting at the kitchen table with his head bowed, turning an empty cup in his hands.
“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lena said quietly. “We agreed on a year. We signed a contract.”
“A contract is just a piece of paper,” the landlady waved her off, getting to her feet. “But life is alive—it changes. I warned you. You have until the first.”
The door slammed behind her, leaving in the hallway the heavy smell of cheap perfume and hopelessness. Sergey looked up at his wife. As always in difficult moments, his eyes were full of confusion. He was a good man, kind, nonconfrontational, but when it came to making tough decisions, he always waited for someone else to do it for him.
“Len, so what are we going to do?” he asked. “I won’t get paid for another two weeks, and even then the car loan payment will be deducted. We can’t handle another five thousand. We can barely afford food as it is.”
Lena sat down across from him and rubbed her temples. Her head was pounding after her shift at the bank.
“Seryozha, how much longer are we going to keep drifting from one rented place to another? We’ve been married for three years already. This is the second apartment we’ve had to move to. Maybe it’s time to talk to your mother?”
Sergey tensed. “Talk to Mom? About what?”
“About Grandma’s apartment. It’s been sitting empty for six months now, ever since your grandmother passed away. Vera Nikolaevna isn’t even renovating it, she’s just paying the utility bills. Why should we keep paying some stranger when we could live there instead? We could fix it up little by little, and we’d cover the utilities ourselves.”
“Oh, Len, I don’t know,” her husband drawled, nervously scratching his neck. “Mom said she wants to hold onto it, maybe rent it out later…”
“Then let her rent it to us! Or let us stay there until we save up for a mortgage. Seryozha, really, I can’t do this anymore. Talk to her. Or let’s go together, buy a cake, explain the situation. They’re not monsters—they’re family.”
The continuation of the story is in the comments under the post.
The grocery bag pulled down on her shoulder, and the raw November wind kept trying to slip down the back of her collar. Lena stopped by the entrance to catch her breath and find her keys. The intercom gave a particularly pitiful beep, as if it too were tired of the weather and the endless stream of people.
When she reached the third floor, she heard the landlady’s voice even before opening the door. Tamara Ivanovna, a heavyset woman with a permanent perm, had shown up again without warning.
“I understand everything, Seryozha, but prices are rising,” her deep voice carried from the kitchen. “I have to pay for my grandson’s education—private courses, tutors. So either you add another five thousand, or vacate the apartment by the end of the month. I already have people interested, students, and they’ll pay even more.”
Lena stepped into the hallway and shook the drops off her puffer jacket. Sergey was sitting at the kitchen table with his head bowed, turning an empty cup in his hands.
“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lena said quietly. “We agreed on a year. We signed a contract.”
“A contract is just a piece of paper,” the landlady waved her off as she stood up. “Life is alive. It changes. I’ve warned you. You have until the first.”
The door slammed behind her, leaving in the corridor the heavy smell of cheap perfume and hopelessness.
Sergey raised his eyes to his wife. As always in difficult moments, they were full of confusion. He was a good man, kind and non-confrontational, but whenever it came to making tough decisions, he always waited for someone else to make them for him.
“So, Len, what are we going to do?” he asked. “I won’t get paid for another two weeks, and even then the car loan will be deducted. We can’t handle another five thousand. We can barely afford food as it is.”
Lena sat down across from him and rubbed her temples. Her head was throbbing after her shift at the bank.
“Seryozha, how much longer are we going to keep drifting from one rented place to another? We’ve been married for three years. This is already the second apartment. Maybe it’s time to talk to your mother?”
Sergey tensed.
“My mother? About what?”
“About your grandmother’s apartment. It’s been sitting empty for six months since she passed away. Vera Nikolaevna isn’t even renovating it, she’s just paying the utilities. Why should we pay some stranger when we could live there? We could slowly fix it up ourselves and cover the bills too.”
“Oh, Len, I don’t know,” her husband drawled, scratching his neck nervously. “Mom said she wants to hold onto it, maybe rent it out later…”
“Then let her rent it to us! Or let us stay there until we save for a mortgage. Seryozha, honestly, I can’t do this anymore. Talk to her. Or let’s go together, buy a cake, explain the situation. She’s not a monster. She’s family.”
On Saturday they went to see Vera Nikolaevna. Sergey’s mother lived in a Stalin-era apartment building in a good neighborhood. Her apartment always smelled of furniture polish and valerian drops. Vera Nikolaevna, a stately woman with pursed lips and a sharp gaze, greeted them coolly. She poured tea into her good china, but didn’t even touch the Napoleon cake Lena had brought.
“Well, tell me, how are you living?” she asked, stirring tea that had long since gone cold. “Seryozha, you’ve lost weight. Does Lena not feed you at all?”
“I do feed him, Vera Nikolaevna,” Lena smiled politely. “It’s just that his job is stressful, and we’re having housing problems.”
“What kind of housing problems?”
“The landlady raised the price,” Sergey cut in. “She’s practically kicking us out. Mom, we were thinking… Grandma’s two-room apartment on Lesnaya is standing empty anyway.”
Vera Nikolaevna slowly placed her cup onto the saucer. The porcelain clinked.
“And what exactly have you been thinking?”
“Let us live there,” Sergey blurted out. “We’ll pay for electricity and water. We’ll start doing repairs. Lenka knows how to hang wallpaper, I’ll replace the baseboards. It’s better than giving money to strangers. We just need a couple of years to get by and save for a down payment.”
His mother-in-law said nothing for a minute, studying her daughter-in-law. The look was appraising, as though she were estimating how much Lena’s blouse cost and why her manicure wasn’t fresh.
“And why can’t Lena ask her own parents for help?” she suddenly asked. “They have a house in the village, don’t they? A farm.”
“My parents are pensioners, Vera Nikolaevna. Their ‘farm’ is just chickens and a vegetable patch, enough to survive themselves. How are they supposed to help? Buy us an apartment in the city?”
“Exactly,” the mother-in-law snorted. “You came with nothing, Lena. I told Sergey right from the start: he should find someone of his own level. Like Svetochka from apartment twenty-five. Her father is a retired colonel, a man of standing. They bought her a car, gave her a separate apartment. And by the way, Sveta asks about Sergey all the time.”
Lena felt the heat rush to her cheeks.
“What does Sveta have to do with this? Sergey and I are a family. We’re in a difficult situation.”
“A family…” Vera Nikolaevna drawled. “A family has to be built on something. And you want to build yours on my neck?”
“Mom, what ‘your neck’? The apartment is just standing empty! Collecting dust!” Sergey protested, though weakly.
And then Vera Nikolaevna snapped. She stood up abruptly and braced both hands on the table.
“My apartment? I won’t let you in! Let her parents provide for her themselves!” she shrieked, her voice breaking into a falsetto. “Apparently the mother-in-law is supposed to! And what about her mother and father? They sent a sack of potatoes and think that’s enough? I’m saving that apartment for my son, not so all kinds of nobodies from nowhere can settle there! I think that neighbor with a dowry suits my son much better than you, you pauper! Sveta is a well-off girl. With her, Sergey will have a future. And with you? A lifetime mortgage and navy-style pasta?”
Lena stood up too. Her hands were trembling, but her voice was firm.
“Thank you for the tea, Vera Nikolaevna. I understand everything now. Sergey, let’s go.”
“Wait, Len…” Sergey looked helplessly from his mother to his wife. “Mom, what got into you? Why bring up Sveta?”
“That’s exactly why!” his mother kept going. “Open your eyes! With her, you’ve sunk into poverty. But Svetochka came by yesterday, brought pie, asked how you were doing. That’s what I call a match! And that one… My foot will never step into Grandma’s apartment while she’s your wife! If you want to live there, then live there alone. Or with a proper woman.”
Lena went into the hallway and quickly pulled on her boots. She wanted to burst into tears, run away, disappear, but she forced herself to wait for her husband. Sergey came out five minutes later, his face red.
“Mom, that’s too much!” his voice came from behind the door. “Lena is my wife!”
“And I am your mother! And I know better what you need!”
Outside, they walked in silence for a long time. The November wind cut right through them.
“Len, come on, she’s an old woman,” Sergey finally began. “Why are you taking it so hard? She got carried away.”
“Got carried away? She dragged me through the mud, Seryozha. And, by the way, she’s trying to sell you off to the highest bidder too. To the neighbor Sveta.”
“Well, she’s just being old-fashioned, wishing me well… Listen, maybe you could go stay with your parents in the village for a month or two? I’ll stay with Mom and work on her. She’ll calm down, cool off, and let us in.”
Lena stopped dead in her tracks.
“So you’re suggesting we split up? I go to the village and you go under your mother’s wing?”
“What else can we do?!” Sergey flared up. “We don’t have money for another rental. Tamara Ivanovna is throwing us out the day after tomorrow. It’s only temporary!”
Lena looked at her husband and suddenly understood with perfect clarity: nothing about this would be temporary. He wouldn’t “work on” his mother. His mother would work on him. Every day she would drip poison into his ears, bring over pies from Sveta, tell him what a terrible wife Lena was, how she abandoned him in a difficult moment and ran away.
“No, Seryozha. I’m not going to the village. I’m not losing my job. If you want to go to your mother, go. I’ll find a room in a dorm or a bed in a shared place. But I won’t humiliate myself anymore.”
“You always make everything harder!” Sergey snapped. “You’ve always had such a character! You could have endured it for the sake of the future!”
“What future? The one where I’m not even treated like a human being?”
That evening they packed in silence. Sergey took his computer, his clothes, and left for his mother’s by taxi. Lena packed her bags and called a friend who had long been asking her to share a room while she was going through her divorce.
Strangely enough, life did not fall apart. The first few months were hard, painful, and humiliating. Lena cried into her pillow, remembering how she and Sergey had dreamed about children, how they had chosen curtains together. But work healed her. She took extra shifts, started doing reports from home on the side.
As mutual acquaintances later revealed, her mother-in-law threw herself into action. The moment Sergey crossed the threshold of his parents’ home, “accidental” encounters with Sveta became a daily occurrence. One day she needed salt, another day her computer needed fixing, another day she needed help moving a wardrobe.
Sveta was not exactly mean, but very spoiled. The complete opposite of Lena—loud, demanding attention, accustomed to the idea that her father’s money could solve any problem. Six months later, Lena learned that Sergey had filed for divorce. And two months after that, wedding photos appeared on social media. The bride wore a fluffy gown, the groom had a strained smile, and Vera Nikolaevna shone brighter than a polished samovar. She had gotten what she wanted: her son was placed in “good hands,” and Grandma’s apartment became a wedding gift for the newlyweds—though officially still in the mother’s name, “just in case.”
Two years passed.
In that time, Lena got promoted—she was now deputy head of the department. She did eventually take out a mortgage, just for a tiny studio apartment in a new building on the outskirts, but it was hers. It smelled of fresh renovation, coffee, and freedom. A violet in a simple clay pot stood on the windowsill—the first thing she bought for her new home.
One spring evening, Lena stopped by the supermarket near her building. She was choosing yogurts when she heard a familiar shrill voice.
“I told you not to take that sausage! It’s expensive! And why didn’t you take out the trash again? Am I hired help now?”
Lena cautiously peeked around the shelf. Sergey was standing by the meat counter. He had put on weight, gone soft around the edges, with dark circles under his eyes. Beside him stood Sveta in an open mink coat, jabbing a finger toward the display case.
“Sveta, I just got off work, I’m tired…” he muttered weakly.
“Tired, is he? My dad got you that office job, and all you do there is sit on your backside for pennies! If it weren’t for Daddy’s help, we’d be starving on your salary! And tell your mother to stop coming over at eight in the morning. I’m sick of her inspections. This is my apartment, I’m the mistress there!”
“It’s my mother’s apartment…” Sergey muttered quietly.
“As long as we live there, it’s mine! And she can stay out of it! Otherwise Daddy will quickly explain who owes what to whom.”
Lena quietly stepped back toward another aisle. She didn’t want them to see her. But fate had other plans. At the checkout, she came face to face not with her ex-husband, but with Vera Nikolaevna.
Her former mother-in-law stood with a small basket: bread, milk, a box of the cheapest tea. She looked ten years older. Her stately bearing was gone, her shoulders drooped, and her expensive coat had been replaced by an ordinary down jacket.
“Lena?” Vera Nikolaevna squinted. “Is that you?”
“Hello, Vera Nikolaevna,” Lena nodded politely as she placed her groceries on the belt: red fish, vegetables, a bottle of good wine, cheese, fresh fruit.
Her former mother-in-law looked at the groceries, then shifted her gaze to Lena—well-groomed, calm, self-assured.
“You look good,” she said in a strange tone. “Did you get married?”
“No, I haven’t met the right person yet. I live for myself, I work. I bought an apartment.”
One corner of Vera Nikolaevna’s mouth twitched.
“An apartment… By yourself?”
“By myself. With a mortgage, of course, but I’m managing. And how are you? How’s Sergey?”
It was a polite question, but Vera Nikolaevna suddenly began to tremble. Apparently so much had built up inside her that she could no longer hold it in, and there was no one to complain to—too shameful in front of friends, since she herself had bragged so much about the “good match.”
“How’s Sergey…” she gave a bitter laugh. “Sergey drinks. Not a lot, but every day. That Sveta… it turns out there was no real dowry, just show. Her father, the colonel, bosses everyone around. He got Sergey a job with him, and now treats him like a little boy. And Sveta… lazy. The house is filthy, she can’t cook, just orders deliveries. Drains money.”
“But you were the one who wanted a wealthy daughter-in-law,” Lena couldn’t help saying.
“I did…” Vera Nikolaevna lowered her eyes. “I thought they’d live like proper people. But she’s throwing me out of my own apartment. I had keys, used to go water the flowers, and she changed the locks! She said, ‘No need for you to creep around here, old woman.’ And Sergey says nothing. He’s afraid of her father.”
The line behind them started grumbling, and Vera Nikolaevna hurriedly paid in small change.
They walked outside. Spring was in full swing; the air smelled of melting snow and freshness.
“Forgive me, Lena,” Vera Nikolaevna suddenly said quietly, without looking her in the eye. “I was wrong back then… about the dowry. Turns out happiness isn’t in money. Humanity matters more. Sveta is rich, but her soul… And you… you were the real thing. Seryozha is full of regret, I can see it. When he drinks, he always remembers you. The way you ironed his shirts, the way you welcomed him home…”
Lena looked at this tired, unhappy woman. She felt neither pity nor gloating. She simply felt nothing. It had all burned out.
“What happened is in the past, Vera Nikolaevna. Everyone has their own path. I don’t hold any grudge. But I’m not going back to the past either.”
She picked up her grocery bag and walked toward her car—a small, used one, but bought with her own money. Behind her was someone else’s life and someone else’s mistakes. Ahead of her was a home where no one was waiting with reproaches.
Vera Nikolaevna stood watching her for a long time. Then she slowly trudged toward the bus stop. At home, an empty refrigerator awaited her, as did another scandalous phone call from a daughter-in-law dissatisfied with something yet again. She remembered the day she refused to let the young couple into the apartment and thought that with her own hands she had slammed the door not only on her daughter-in-law, but on a peaceful old age as well.
And Lena drove through the evening city, listening to the radio and smiling. The violet on her windowsill was waiting for her, and silence, and freedom.
