Varya nervously tapped her fingers on her cup of chamomile tea. She hadn’t expected such a turn of events. Just a week ago everything had seemed so bright—her parents had finally fulfilled their daughter’s dream by gifting her and her husband their own home. A two-room apartment in a new building, with a spacious kitchen and a balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard. It wasn’t in the center, but it had good transport links—an ideal option for a young family.
Four years of drifting through rented apartments were over. Four years of having to economize on everything, saving every last kopeck for a down payment that always seemed just out of reach. Rent took up almost a third of their combined income, and property prices rose faster than their savings.
When Varya’s father called to announce his decision to help, she even burst into tears of happiness. Suddenly, everything became possible—her own kitchen, a children’s room for a future baby, and no more moving from place to place. Her parents had saved for a long time to help their only daughter. Varya knew how hard it had been for them, and she was infinitely grateful.
Ilya, her husband, also seemed delighted by the news. At least, that evening they discussed together how they would furnish the new apartment, what kind of renovation they’d do, and even imagined finally getting a dog—something that wasn’t possible in a rental under the lease conditions.
But something changed. Varya didn’t notice it at first. First, Ilya started talking less about the move. Then he began staying late at work. And when Varya suggested going to look at wallpapers for the living room, her husband brushed it off: “We still have time.”
The dreamy and enthusiastic man had turned into a pensive and detached one. It was as if an invisible wall had grown between them. Varya attributed it all to fatigue—after all, Ilya was going through a tough period at work, with a new project and increased responsibilities. But her intuition hinted that something else was at play.
Sunday evening. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Rays of the setting sun filtering through the thin curtains of their rented studio. Varya finally decided she needed to figure out what was happening.
“Ilya, we need to talk,” she began, sitting next to her husband on the couch.
Her husband tore his attention away from his laptop, struggling to focus.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask. What’s gotten into you? You’ve been acting strange ever since Dad mentioned the apartment.”
Ilya sighed and closed his laptop.
“I was just about to talk about that. I need to tell you something,” he said, his voice tense.
Varya felt a chill. What could be wrong with such a gift?
“I can’t move into this apartment,” Ilya declared, looking past his wife.
“What? Why? Something wrong with the documents? Or with the house? Did you find out something?”
“No, the apartment is fine. It’s about me.”
Ilya got up and began pacing the room, as if gathering his thoughts. Varya silently watched, anxiety building inside her.
“You see, for me this is a matter of principle,” he finally said. “A man should provide a home for his family himself—earn his own apartment. Not accept such expensive gifts from a father-in-law and mother-in-law.”
Varya blinked, trying to process what she had heard.
“Wait. You’re refusing the apartment because… your pride is hurt?” she couldn’t believe her ears.
“It’s not about pride,” Ilya sighed again. “I just don’t feel like a real man, you know? How am I supposed to look your parents in the eye? How can I respect myself? What will I say to my friends when they ask where we got the apartment?”
“You’ll tell the truth! That my parents decided to help us because we’re family. And families help one another,” Varya said, feeling a lump in her throat.
“It’s humiliating,” Ilya shook his head. “My parents never gave us anything. We achieved everything on our own.”
“And now we’re supposed to refuse help from my parents just because yours can’t or won’t help?” Varya began to get worked up.
“I didn’t say that,” Ilya frowned. “I just… I don’t want to live in an apartment I didn’t pay for. It’s not right.”
Varya took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
“Fine. I hear you. But we already agreed to accept this gift. We can’t just refuse it now—it would be terribly ungrateful to my parents.”
Ilya stopped pacing and sat down opposite her.
“I’ve thought it through. We won’t refuse it,” he said with unexpected determination.
“Great!” Varya exhaled in relief. “So we’re moving in after all?”
“Not quite,” Ilya looked her straight in the eyes. “We’re giving the apartment to my sister.”
Varya felt the room spin.
“What did you say?” she asked, hoping she had misheard.
“We’re giving the apartment to Katya. She has two children, and she and her husband are still cramped in a studio. They need this help more.”
Varya barely managed to keep herself from leaping off the couch.
“Ilya, are you out of your mind? This is the apartment that MY parents bought—for US. What does it have to do with your sister?”
“You see,” Ilya replied in that measured tone that always irritated Varya, “we’re still young. We have our whole lives ahead of us. We can earn our own home someday. And Katya—with Dima and the kids…”
“Stop,” Varya raised her hand. “Did you already discuss this with them? With Katya and Dima?”
Ilya hesitated.
“Not exactly… I talked with my mom.”
“With your mom?” Varya’s anger boiled. “So you discussed our apartment with your mother but not with me?”
“I just asked for her advice!”
“And what did Galina Mikhaylovna advise?” Varya already knew the answer.
“Mom said that a man should provide a home for his family himself, that you shouldn’t live off something ready-made—especially in an apartment bought not with our own hard work, but by other people.”
“Other people?!” Varya couldn’t hold back and jumped up. “You’re calling my parents ‘other people’?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Ilya retorted, standing up. “It’s just a matter of principle. And mom also said that if we really don’t want the apartment, it’d be better to give it to Katya. She’s struggling with two small children right now.”
“So it’s easy for me, then?” Varya’s voice trembled with indignation. “We spent four years renting, giving away a third of our salary every month, just waiting to save for our own. And when our dream was finally about to come true, you suddenly decide that some abstract principles are more important than our future?”
“These aren’t abstract principles!” Ilya raised his voice. “It’s about male pride. I don’t want to be a freeloader living off my father-in-law and mother-in-law.”
“A freeloader?!” Varya couldn’t believe her ears. “Does accepting help from one’s parents really make you a freeloader?”
“You don’t understand,” Ilya began pacing again. “It’s important for me to know that I achieved everything on my own. That I’m a real man, capable of providing for my family.”
“A real man thinks about the well-being of his family, not what his mom or friends might say!”
Ilya ignored the retort.
“Besides, we don’t even have children yet, and Katya already has two. They need it more.”
“We were planning to have a child!” Varya’s eyes filled with tears. “It was precisely because our chance to live in our own apartment finally came that I got excited.”
“We’ll have children, just a little later, when we’ve earned our own home.”
“Are you seriously willing to give MY apartment to your sister just to avoid feeling humiliated?” Varya stared intently at Ilya.
“Well, what else?” Ilya shrugged. “We should achieve everything on our own, not live off handouts!”
Varya looked at her husband in silence for several seconds, trying to comprehend the absurdity of the situation.
Then something clicked in her mind—as if a switch had turned from “endure” to “act.” Strangely, the anger faded, replaced by a chilling calm. She got up from the couch without saying a word.
“Varya?” Ilya asked, concerned. “Why are you silent?”
Varya went to the closet, retrieved a folder with documents, and returned to her husband. She carefully spread the papers out on the coffee table and aligned the stack.
“Look closely,” she said quietly.
Ilya frowned but took the documents in his hands. The certificate of ownership. The technical passport. The extract from the state registry. In the “Owner” section on all documents it read: “Arkhipova Varvara Alexeevna.”
“Wait…” Ilya flipped through the papers again, as if hoping to find something else. “The apartment is registered only in your name?”
“Yes,” Varya nodded. “Dad insisted. He said that the ownership had to be clearly defined.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?” Ilya looked at her hurtfully. “I thought we were both on the papers!”
“And what difference would that have made?” Varya crossed her arms. “Even if we had been listed together, you would still have wanted to give the apartment to Katya.”
“But don’t you understand that we’re a family?” Ilya objected. “We should make these decisions together!”
“Together?” Varya smiled bitterly. “You didn’t consult me when you decided to give our apartment to your sister. You didn’t even share your doubts with me. You just presented me with a fait accompli.”
Ilya lowered his head, then suddenly raised it again.
“That’s not fair! You kept from me that you were the sole owner!”
“And was I supposed to report to you?” Varya’s calm turned to weary resignation. “You know, I only now understand why Dad insisted on this. He said back then, ‘Varya, just in case. Trust, but verify.’ I was upset then, and now I’m grateful.”
Varya stepped away to the closet and pulled out a travel bag from under the bed. Ilya watched her movements in bewilderment.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing,” Varya said as she methodically folded her clothes. “I’m moving out.”
“Where?” Ilya blinked, confused.
“To my own apartment,” Varya replied without stopping her packing. “The apartment my parents bought for me. Not for your sister, not for your mother. For me.”
“You’re leaving?” Ilya got up from the couch. “Just like that, over one argument?”
“This isn’t just an argument, Ilya. It shows how you treat our family. You’re willing to put your mother’s and sister’s desires above our needs. You say a man should provide for himself, yet you effortlessly shifted the burden of rent onto me when you didn’t have enough money.”
“That happened twice!” Ilya protested indignantly. “And I paid it all back!”
Varya shook her head and continued packing.
“It’s not about the money. It’s that you expect my complete trust, yet you don’t give it yourself. Since a man is supposed to earn his own home, here’s your chance. I’m going to my new apartment. I’m tired of hopping from rental to rental.”
“Varya, you can’t just leave like that!” Ilya’s irritation grew. “We need to discuss this calmly.”
“We just discussed it. And you made your position crystal clear. Help from my parents is humiliating. Living in an apartment they gifted means being a freeloader. So then, live in a rental, be proud of yourself, and someday save for your own place.”
Ilya stared at his wife, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then he grabbed his phone.
“I’m calling my mom!”
“Why?” Varya snapped as she fastened her bag. “So she can tell me how to convince you to give the apartment to your sister?”
But Ilya had already started dialing. Varya shook her head and continued packing. Through the phone came the voice of Galina Mikhaylovna. Ilya spoke anxiously:
“Mom, there’s a problem… It turns out the apartment is registered only in Varya’s name! And now she’s packing, saying she’s moving out and leaving me here! What should I do?”
Varya couldn’t make out her mother-in-law’s words, but from Ilya’s expression she understood that Galina Mikhaylovna was clearly not on her side.
“Yes, yes, I understand… No, of course I won’t give in!” Ilya nodded in time with his mother’s words. “Okay, Mom, I’ll call back.”
He finished the call and turned to Varya with a determined look.
“Mom said you’re just blackmailing me to get me to agree to move into this apartment. And that if I cave in, I’ll be under her thumb for life.”
“How convenient that your mom always seems to know what I think, even better than I do,” Varya smirked. “But you know, I don’t care what your mother thinks. I care that you’re willing to give away my parents’ gift to your sister without even consulting me.”
“I just wanted to help Katya!” Ilya exclaimed.
“That’s very noble,” Varya nodded. “But you can help from your own pocket, not from someone else’s. You could have helped Katya with money for a down payment on a mortgage. Instead, you’re proposing to just hand over something that doesn’t even belong to you.”
Ilya waved his hand irritably.
“Don’t twist my words! I said I’m uncomfortable living in an apartment bought by your parents. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s your right,” Varya shrugged. “But then don’t expect to control the apartment. If you don’t want to live there, then don’t live there. But you don’t get to decide its fate.”
Varya picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door. Ilya blocked her path.
“You can’t just leave!”
“I can,” Varya replied calmly. “And I am leaving. I need to think. And so do you.”
“What is there to think about?” Ilya flailed his hands. “You’re throwing a tantrum over a couple of words!”
“No, Ilya. This isn’t a tantrum. It’s a decision. I don’t want to live with someone who puts his ego above our future. Who’s willing to forgo a chance at a better life because of some medieval notions of male pride.”
Varya gently pushed Ilya aside and pointed to the door.
“You’d better leave.”
“What?” Ilya choked. “This is our rental apartment!”
“Yes, but the lease is in my name,” Varya reminded him. “And you paid the rent for the last time six months ago. So, if we’re being principled, this apartment is ‘mine’ until the end of the month.”
Ilya stood there, stunned by this turn of events. He had never seen Varya so resolute and cold.
“So what am I supposed to do now? Go out on the street?” he finally asked.
“Pack your things—I’m giving you until tomorrow,” Varya replied. “You can stay with your mom or with Katya. Since she needs the help so much.”
Ilya opened his mouth to protest, but stopped upon seeing the expression on Varya’s face. Silently, he grabbed his coat and left, slamming the door loudly.
Left alone, Varya sank onto the couch and finally allowed herself to cry. This wasn’t how she had imagined the conversation would end. Yet, strangely, she felt no regret—only exhaustion and a strange relief.
A week later, once the emotions had subsided somewhat, Varya called her parents and told them everything. At first, her father was angry, but then he said he was proud of her decision. “Don’t let anyone take advantage of your kindness, Varya. You did everything right.”
Ilya tried to reconcile. He came with flowers, apologized, said he’d lost his temper. But each time he mentioned phrases like “maybe we can find a compromise.” And Varya realized nothing had changed.
Three months after the breakup, Varya finally finished renovating her new apartment and moved in completely. She arranged the furniture, hung up paintings, got a cat—everything she had long dreamed of. Every day, waking up in her own bedroom, she rejoiced that she hadn’t allowed those who didn’t appreciate her and her family into her home.
And when, six months later, she accidentally met Ilya at a supermarket, he immediately averted his gaze. Through mutual friends, Varya learned that his sister Katya had indeed divorced her husband and returned with her children to her mother’s place. And Ilya now rents a room in a communal apartment and is saving for a down payment—proud and independent.
Varya realized: if a man is willing to forgo stability for his own complexes—let him live with them, but without her.
