The scrape of the key in the lock sounded like a gunshot. I hadn’t even managed to finish my morning coffee when Zinaida Pavlovna burst into the hallway. With a dull thud, she dropped two checkered market bags onto the linoleum and, as if she owned the place, shook the snow off her boots. The suffocating smell of her favorite cheap perfume mixed with the frosty air immediately filled the room.
“Well then, Anechka, you’ve lived in comfort on everything ready-made long enough!” my mother-in-law declared loudly, walking straight into the kitchen without taking off her shoes. “Igorek told me everything. Thank God, he has a new love now, a real woman. He’s filed for divorce. So come on, pack up your bowls and ladles and clear out these square meters.”
I sat at the table, gripping my cold mug so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Everything inside me was trembling with hurt and rage. Ten years of marriage. Ten years of carrying the household on my shoulders while her precious “little basket” kept “finding himself,” changing jobs every six months. And yesterday, I caught him with a twenty-year-old secretary. Instead of an apology, I heard, “It’s your own fault. You don’t inspire me as a man!” Then he slammed the door and rushed off to complain to his mommy.
“Are you out of your mind, Zinaida Pavlovna?” My voice betrayed me and trembled. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“Do I look like I care?” My mother-in-law planted her hands on her enormous hips and smirked triumphantly. “Go to your mother’s village! You’ve been living here for ten years with no rights at all. Poor Igorek broke his back paying the mortgage, while you, you freeloader, just took advantage. My daughter Dasha and her husband will move in here. They need more space. And Igorek will stay with me for now. Come on, move yourself. I’m not waiting until evening!”
She reached for the cabinet where my expensive dinner set stood, a gift from my parents, and shamelessly flung the door open.
And at that moment, something inside me clicked like a switch. Self-pity evaporated, giving way to an icy, crystal-clear calm.
“Put it back,” I said quietly, but with steel in my voice.
“What?!” my mother-in-law spun around sharply. “How dare you talk to me like that, you ungrateful trash? I’ll call the police right now, and they’ll throw you out of my son’s apartment!”
I slowly stood up. I went to my bag, took out a blue cardboard folder, and tossed it onto the table right under Zinaida Pavlovna’s nose.
“Call them,” I smirked. “Right now. But while you’re at it, ask your genius son why he didn’t tell you the truth.”
“What truth?” she narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but didn’t touch the folder.
“Open it. Read it. You’re an educated woman, aren’t you?” I crossed my arms over my chest.
My mother-in-law opened the folder with disgust. Her eyes darted across the lines of the official document with the state seal. I watched with pleasure as the color drained from her plump face, turning it gray and earthy. Zinaida Pavlovna’s breathing grew faster.
“What is this worthless scrap of paper?” she rasped. “What gift deed?”
“A perfectly ordinary one,” I shrugged. “My parents bought this apartment after selling their three-room place up north. And they transferred it to me under a deed of gift before I married your son. Your Igorek didn’t pay a single kopeck for it. By law, gifted property is not divided in a divorce. It belongs only to me.”
“You’re lying!” my mother-in-law shrieked, clutching the edge of the tablecloth in her fists. “Igorek said you took out a mortgage together! He sent me money every month, showed me receipts, said he was paying for the apartment!”
“Ah, so that’s what it was,” I laughed out loud, though the truth made me sick. “He took out loans for his car and for gifts for his underage little mistress. And he lied to you about the mortgage so you wouldn’t nag him. And you swallowed it whole.”
My mother-in-law sank heavily onto the stool. She gasped for air like a fish thrown onto the shore. All her arrogance and swagger deflated in a single second.
“You have exactly three minutes, Zinaida Pavlovna, to take your bags and disappear from my apartment,” I said, picking up my phone and dialing 112, holding my finger over the call button. “And tell little Igor this: he can pick up his TV and the old microwave. He didn’t earn anything more here. Your time starts now.”
She didn’t say a word. Silently, with trembling hands, she grabbed her checkered bags and, stumbling over the threshold, fled into the stairwell.
When the door slammed shut behind her, I turned the key twice in the lock.
Then I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee.
It had never tasted so good.
