The metal measuring tape snapped back into its plastic case with a vile, scraping crackle. Olga Nikolaevna businesslike adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose and wrote the numbers down in an old notebook, carefully forming every digit.
I froze in the hallway, having just taken off my heavy winter coat. Dirty water mixed with street chemicals slowly dripped from my shoes onto the pale laminate floor. My own entryway smelled thickly of medicine and the heavy odor of cooking — smells that, over the past three years, had become permanently embedded in the curtains and wallpaper.
“Olga Nikolaevna,” I tried to say as evenly as possible, so I would not lose control in the first seconds. “Why are you measuring the width of the corridor?”
My mother-in-law flinched, dropped the tape measure, and it hit the baseboard with a dull thud. She turned around, tugging at her favorite terry-cloth robe. There was not a trace of embarrassment on her face, only mild displeasure at having been interrupted.
“Oh, Ksenia, you’re always sneaking up on people,” she said, pressing her thin lips together in irritation. “I’m preparing the information for the agent. Tomorrow morning someone from the agency is coming to take nice photos for the listing. We need to know the exact square footage so we don’t deceive the buyers. People care about space.”
I blinked, feeling the cold from outside still stinging my cheeks while a heavy, sticky nausea began rising inside me.
The front door creaked behind my back. Roman appeared on the threshold. He spent a long moment shaking his boots on the mat, then looked up at me and broke into a broad, pleased smile. In his hands he held a thick folder with some colorful printouts.
“Ksenia, you’re already home? Perfect!” Roman quickly hung his jacket on the hook, brushed past me into the living room, and tossed the folder straight onto the antique oak table I had inherited from my grandfather. “I have incredible news. I’ve found a way out of our situation!”
I slowly unbuttoned my coat. My fingers barely obeyed me.
“What situation, Roman?” I asked, stopping in the doorway.
My husband spread the bright glossy sheets across the table. From them, drawn happy families smiled at me against the background of identical gray high-rises.
“We’re finally moving apart!” he announced solemnly. “I’ve calculated everything down to the last kopeck. The appraiser is coming tomorrow. We’ll exchange your apartment, buy Mom a studio! And with what’s left, we’ll get ourselves a gorgeous new apartment in a residential complex being built on the outskirts. There’s good ecology there, the forest is nearby, the pipes are new. Enough of squeezing ourselves into this old place with high ceilings where drafts run wild in winter.”
Olga Nikolaevna immediately nodded, pressing the notebook to her chest.
“Roma is talking sense, Ksenia. I’ve already found a wonderful studio for myself. Twenty square meters will be more than enough for me alone. I’ll bake pies for you on weekends. We’re family. We have to help one another.”
I looked at them and physically felt the room shrinking around me.
This three-room Stalin-era apartment had come to me after my grandmother passed away. Every creak of the parquet floor here was familiar and dear. In the corner of the living room stood the heavy piano on which I had learned to play as a child. On the doorframe in the nursery, pencil marks of my height were still visible. This was my home. My fortress.
Three years earlier, Olga Nikolaevna had sold her two-room apartment to invest the money in some dubious business run by her sister. The business collapsed two months later. My mother-in-law was left with nowhere to go. Back then, Roman had looked at me with pleading eyes and begged, “Ksenia, it’s only temporary. Mom will stay with us for a couple of months until we figure something out.”
Those couple of months stretched into more than a thousand days. During that time, Olga Nikolaevna threw out my favorite violets because they “drained female energy,” started washing her clothes together with my silk blouses, and her jars of ointments completely occupied the shelf in the bathroom. And every time I tried to talk to my husband, he dodged the conversation, accusing me of selfishness.
“Roman,” I swallowed the dry lump in my throat. “This is my family’s apartment. I am not going to sell it. And I am certainly not obligated to provide housing for your mother out of my grandmother’s inheritance.”
My husband’s face darkened instantly. The smile slid away, his jaws clenched. He stepped toward me, nervously rubbing his neck.
“Ksenia, why are you starting again?” Roman’s voice became irritated, almost breaking. “You complain every day that we argue over household issues! That you don’t have enough personal space! I found a real solution to the problem, and now you’re turning on that impenetrable stubbornness of yours again.”
“I complain that in my own apartment I feel like a guest!” I began to tremble, gripping the edge of the wooden table with my fingers. “I complain that your mother rearranges my things, monitors what time I come home from work, and checks the grocery receipts! You simply decided to dispose of my property behind my back!”
“How dare you say that?!” Olga Nikolaevna theatrically clutched her side and sank heavily onto the sofa. “I live here like a servant! I put my entire pension into the common pot! I’m afraid to say a word against you! And now you reproach me! Roma, do you hear how she talks to your mother?”
Roman walked over to the table, pulled a printed black-and-white sheet from the folder, and threw it in front of me.
“This is a preliminary contract with the agency,” he said harshly. “I’ve already paid the realtor’s service deposit out of my own savings. Tomorrow you’ll sign the consent to sell. Understand this, Ksenia, there is no other way. If you ruin the deal now, we’ll lose money. Stop behaving like a child.”
He was certain I would give in. Just as I had given in for all these three years, to avoid scandal and to avoid listening to my mother-in-law complain that she felt unwell.
I did not shout. I looked at his confident face, then at Olga Nikolaevna, who was watching my reaction carefully from beneath half-closed eyelids. Then I turned around, silently went into the hallway, took the car keys from the small cabinet, and left.
The wind outside cut to the bone. I got into my old sedan, started the engine, and turned the heater on full blast. The cabin smelled of dust and old plastic. I took out my phone and dialed the only number I knew by heart.
The ringing went on for a long time. Finally, the call was answered.
“Yes, Ksenia. What happened? Your voice sounds strange,” came a deep, calm baritone.
My older brother, Mikhail, was seven years older than me. He owned a small chain of auto repair shops, never interfered in my life with advice, but always appeared when the ground disappeared from under my feet. We were completely different: I was soft and yielding, he was tough and pragmatic.
“Mikhail…” I squeezed my eyes shut tightly so I would not cry. “They want to sell Grandfather’s apartment. Roman has already hired an agent and paid a deposit. They’re measuring the rooms for photos right now. He demands that tomorrow I sign consent for the sale.”
A long, heavy pause hung on the line. In the background, I could hear tools clanging and compressors humming.
“Did you sign any papers?” my brother’s voice became dry and sharp.
“No. I left. The ownership documents are in the bank safe-deposit box.”
“You did the right thing putting them there last year,” Mikhail said evenly. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Go back home. Go to bed. Don’t get into any arguments. Tomorrow morning, calmly go to work. In the evening, I’ll come visit you. And Ksenia… just stand aside and don’t say anything.”
The entire next day at the office, I mechanically sorted through documents. The letters swam before my eyes. At half past six in the evening, I turned the key in the lock of my apartment.
Olga Nikolaevna’s rubber boots and Roman’s work boots stood in the hallway. From the kitchen came my husband’s cheerful voice.
“Yes, everything is still on. We’re expecting your photographer at eight. My wife is home, she’ll show the documents.”
I slowly took off my coat. Roman came out into the corridor. He was wearing a fresh, neatly ironed shirt.
“Cooled down?” he snorted condescendingly, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “The agent will be here in an hour. At least try to pretend we’re a normal family. Don’t embarrass me in front of people.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Briefly, twice. Roman raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Well, aren’t they punctual. They even came early.”
He walked confidently to the door and opened it wide. The smile on his face froze instantly.
Mikhail stood on the threshold. His dark down jacket was unzipped, his face completely stone-like. Behind him, shifting heavily from foot to foot, stood a stocky, tall man in blue work overalls. In his hands, the man held a massive metal toolbox.
“Mikhail?” Roman blinked in confusion, retreating half a step. “What brings you here? We’re actually expecting buyers. We have an important meeting.”
My brother did not even look at him. Without taking off his boots, he silently stepped into the apartment and pushed Roman aside with a hard movement of his shoulder.
“The meeting is canceled,” Mikhail said in a level tone that allowed no objection. He turned his head toward the man with the toolbox. “Stepan, get started. Cut out the old lock completely. Install the safe-lock mechanism we brought.”
Stepan gave a short nod. He set the box on the floor, pulled out a heavy professional drill with a clang, and without another word drove the bit straight into the cylinder of the door lock. An earsplitting metallic screech tore through the cramped corridor. Sparks and fine shavings flew.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!” Roman came to his senses and lunged toward the door, trying to grab Stepan by the shoulder.
Mikhail sharply thrust out his arm, planting his firm palm directly against my husband’s chest.
“Step back,” my brother said quietly, but with such menace in his voice that Roman instinctively tucked his head into his shoulders. “Ksenia is the sole legal owner of this apartment. You and your mother have been here solely by her courtesy. Your time is up. You have exactly thirty minutes to gather your personal belongings and leave someone else’s property.”
Olga Nikolaevna rushed out of the room at the noise. Seeing the sparks from the drill and Mikhail’s icy face, she clutched her head.
“Ksenia! What are these bandits doing in our home?! The police! I’m calling the police right now!”
Mikhail slowly took a folded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his down jacket.
“Go ahead, Olga Nikolaevna,” he offered calmly. “At the same time, we’ll show the officers an extract from the real estate register. You are nobody here. And you have exactly zero rights. And if you don’t start packing your suitcases now, Stepan will help you. I just can’t guarantee your dinnerware sets will stay intact after his help.”
Roman turned pale. His lips trembled, and he shifted his hunted gaze from the working drill to me. All his arrogance from the day before had evaporated, leaving only the pathetic, sticky panic of a coward confronted with real force.
“I’m registered here!” my husband broke into a shout. “This is illegal! I have every right to live here! We’re married!”
“A registration stamp gives you the right to receive mail here, Roman,” Mikhail smirked. “The apartment was inherited before your marriage. You have nothing to do with it. Want to sue? Hire a lawyer. But for now, bags in hand and out the door. The clock is ticking.”
Olga Nikolaevna understood everything faster than her son did. She let out a thin, piercing wail, dashed into the living room, and began frantically raking things out of the cabinets into huge checkered bags.
They packed to the continuous screech of the drill and metallic clanging. Roman tried to say something to me, tried to press on my pity, reminded me of the years we had lived together, but Mikhail simply stood between us with his arms crossed over his chest.
Forty minutes later, five stuffed bags stood in the hallway. Stepan had already finished his work. A massive panel of the new, complex lock gleamed dully in the wooden door.
Roman threw on his jacket. He looked at me with undisguised malice.
“You’ll end up alone, Ksenia. No one will need you with that character of yours,” he spat, grabbing the handle of his suitcase.
“At least I’ll remain at home,” I answered evenly.
Mikhail opened the door onto the stairwell. When Roman and Olga Nikolaevna dragged out their bags, my brother slammed the door shut. He inserted the new long key into the keyhole and turned it twice. Heavy, dull clicks sounded.
The apartment became quiet.
The television was no longer mumbling with crime dramas. Oil was no longer hissing in a frying pan. My mother-in-law’s shuffling steps could no longer be heard. Only the refrigerator hummed softly in the kitchen.
I leaned my back against the cool wallpaper, my legs gave way on their own, and I simply sank to the floor, hiding my face in my hands. I sat like that for several minutes, listening to my own breathing. It was a strange feeling — as if a tight, prickly rope that had been strangling me for the past several years had finally been taken off my neck.
Mikhail paid Stepan, walked him to the elevator, and then returned. He came over to me, crouched down, and placed his heavy, warm hand on the crown of my head.
“Get up, Ksenia. The floor is cold. You’ll freeze.”
We went into the kitchen. From the bag he had brought with him, Mikhail took out a box with my favorite chocolate cake and a pack of good tea.
“Put the kettle on,” he said, sitting down on a stool and stretching out his long legs. “We’re going to celebrate your housewarming. Tomorrow I’ll come over and help you rearrange the furniture. We’ll throw out all the junk they filled this place with.”
I poured water into the kettle, lit the burner, and looked into the dark window. Outside, fine dry snow was swirling, settling on the branches of bare trees. I turned my face toward the cool draft from the open vent window, looked at my brother, who was calmly cutting the cake into large pieces, and for the first time in a very long while, I felt that now no one would touch me.
And it was the most right feeling in the world.
