Sofya stepped into the entryway, pressing her phone to her ear. Bright May sunlight streamed through the window, flooding the pale parquet floors she had so carefully chosen four years earlier.
“Yes, Mom, we’re fine. Misha’s working late, and I just got home,” Sofya tossed her keys onto the console and froze when she saw an unfamiliar pair of slippers in the hallway. “I’ll call you back, something’s—”
Voices drifted from the kitchen. One was her husband’s. The other—female, with that unmistakably commanding note—Sofya couldn’t be mistaken. Her mother-in-law. But why today? Misha hadn’t said anything.
“Oh, Sonechka’s home!” Misha peeked out of the kitchen with a smile. “We’ve got a surprise!”
Sofya walked slowly to the kitchen, already guessing what kind of “surprise” awaited her. At the table, a cup of tea in hand, sat Valentina Sergeevna—the mother-in-law they usually visited once a month. The woman beamed and stood to embrace her.
“Sofyushka, hello, darling!”
“Hello, Valentina Sergeevna,” Sofya hugged her, trying to hide her surprise. “Did something happen?”
“Mom’s bathroom pipe burst,” Misha answered quickly, avoiding his wife’s eyes. “I invited her to stay with us until the plumbers finish the repairs. A week at most.”
“A week?” Sofya looked at the suitcase in the kitchen corner. Clearly not for a couple of days.
“Thank you, dear, you’re saving an old woman,” her mother-in-law patted Sofya’s shoulder. “I made dinner, I hope you don’t mind? Mishenka said you have no time to cook at all.”
Sofya shot her husband a quick look. She and Misha had only been married six months, and this was the first mother-in-law in their new nest. The apartment belonged to Sofya—she had bought it long before meeting Misha, spending her savings and taking out a mortgage she had only recently paid off. Everything here was arranged exactly as she liked: light tones, minimal things, space and air.
“It’s fine,” Sofya managed a smile. “Of course, stay as long as you need.”
The first week passed relatively peacefully. Valentina Sergeevna took the small guest room, spent a lot of time in the kitchen cooking “the way Mishenka likes,” and sometimes went out “for some air.” Over the weekend Sofya even thought it wasn’t so bad—her husband was pleased, and the mother-in-law didn’t seem intrusive.
But toward the end of the second week, when Sofya cautiously asked how the repairs at Valentina Sergeevna’s apartment were coming along, the older woman waved it off:
“Oh, it’s a mess, Sonechka! The pipes turned out to be no good, they opened up all the walls. The plumber said at least another couple of weeks.”
“A couple of weeks?” Sofya exchanged a glance with her husband.
“Mom, you said a week at most,” Misha reminded her.
“Son, I can’t control those workmen!” Valentina threw up her hands. “You know how it is.”
Sofya kept quiet, but a vague unease stirred inside. She had a feeling two weeks could easily turn into a month.
And that’s what happened. By the end of the third week of her mother-in-law’s stay, Sofya noticed changes. A collection of fridge magnets had appeared in the kitchen—Valentina had brought over her “travel memories.” The bathroom shelves were now crowded with her jars and bottles, taking up most of the space. In the hall stood a new umbrella stand “to make things more convenient.”
“Misha, maybe we should find out the exact timeline for the repairs?” Sofya asked when they were alone.
“Oh, don’t make things up,” Misha frowned. “Mom’s not in the way. On the contrary, look at the cozy atmosphere she creates.”
“This is my home,” Sofya said quietly. “I created the cozy atmosphere myself.”
“Our home,” Misha corrected her. “We’re a family.”
Sofya nodded, deciding not to argue. In the end, her mother-in-law had to move out sooner or later.
After a month, Valentina announced that the repairs were finished, but she was afraid to return to a damp apartment.
“It all needs to dry out, otherwise there’ll be mold,” she declared confidently. “I checked with the specialists—at least a month.”
“A month?” Sofya no longer hid her irritation. “But in summer an apartment dries faster.”
“Sonechka, are you trying to throw me out?” Valentina pressed a hand to her chest. “I thought we were already one family.”
“No, no, that’s not it,” Sofya backed off, feeling guilty. “I’m just surprised.”
That evening Misha reproached his wife:
“Why did you hurt Mom? She’s not a stranger.”
“I didn’t hurt anyone, I just asked,” Sofya ground her teeth. “I think your mother has no intention of leaving.”
“So what? You’re stingy about a corner for an elderly person?” Misha’s voice rose with irritation. “She’s lonely, I’m her only son, you should understand.”
Sofya dropped it, not wanting to escalate the conflict. “We’ll put up with it a bit longer,” she thought as she fell asleep.
But with each passing day, Valentina felt more and more at home. She rearranged the kitchen furniture—“easier to cook that way.” She swapped the dishes around in the cabinets—“more logical.” She even rehung the picture in the hallway—“the light falls better like this.”
One day Sofya came home from work and found her favorite ficus moved from the windowsill to a far corner.
“Valentina Sergeevna, why did you move my plant?”
“Sofyushka, it was blocking the light!” her mother-in-law smiled condescendingly. “And besides, it can cause allergies. I read about it.”
“I’m not allergic to ficuses,” Sofya put the plant back. “And I prefer things to stay where I put them.”
“Oh, how particular we are,” Valentina shook her head. “Misha’s right, you give too much importance to trifles.”
Sofya froze. So they were discussing her behind her back?
The situation peaked when Sofya discovered that all her expensive cosmetics in the bathroom were gone. Tubes, jars, creams—everything had disappeared.
“Valentina Sergeevna, have you seen my cosmetics?” Sofya tried to keep her voice calm.
“Oh, that,” Valentina stirred soup on the stove. “I threw them out. The expiration dates were up, I checked. Bad for the skin.”
Sofya stood still, not believing her ears.
“You threw out my cosmetics? Without asking?”
“Oh, Sonechka, don’t be so dramatic,” Valentina waved the ladle. “I’m taking care of you. Those chemicals only do harm. I’ll give you my cream, it’s natural.”
That evening Sofya told her husband what had happened.
“Misha, your mother threw away my cosmetics. Do you know how much they cost?”
“Don’t be mad,” Misha shrugged. “Mom thought she was doing the right thing. She meant well.”
“That’s not the point,” Sofya clenched her fists. “She has no right to handle my things. This is my home.”
“Oh, come on, don’t nitpick,” Misha brushed it off. “So what, cosmetics. We’ll buy new ones.”
Sofya looked at her husband for a long time. When they had started dating, Misha was attentive, sensitive, always interested in her opinion. Now a completely different person sat before her—indifferent to her feelings, ready to wave away any problem.
“It’s not about the cosmetics,” Sofya repeated more softly. “It’s about respect for my space and my belongings. Your mother has been living with us for two months. And she behaves like the mistress of the house.”
“And what’s so bad about that?” Misha asked unexpectedly. “She helps—cooks, cleans. You’re always at work and come home tired. Mom makes it cozy.”
“I can make it cozy myself,” Sofya began to simmer. “And I didn’t ask for help. Especially the kind where my things get thrown out and the furniture is moved without asking.”
“You just need to talk to her, explain,” Misha suggested, clearly eager to end the unpleasant conversation.
The next day Sofya tried to talk to her mother-in-law and lay down some ground rules.
“Valentina Sergeevna, I understand you want to help, but I’d like you to ask first before changing anything in the apartment.”
Valentina looked at her daughter-in-law with hurt.
“So I’m a stranger here? Just say I’m in the way.”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Sofya tried to stay calm. “It’s just that everyone has their habits, and I’m comfortable when things are in their places.”
“All you do is boss people around,” Valentina pursed her lips. “Poor Mishenka, it must be hard for him with a wife like you. No flexibility at all.”
Sofya drew a deep breath, struggling not to snap. Arguing was pointless—her mother-in-law took any words as an attack.
That evening, after Valentina went to her room, Sofya spoke to her husband.
“Misha, this can’t go on. I’m tired of the constant rearranging, the remarks, of not being respected in my own home.”
“And what are you suggesting?” Misha crossed his arms.
“Either your mother goes back to her apartment—the repairs have long since finished—or we rent a place for the two of you and you live separately.”
“What?!” Misha stared at his wife. “You want to split us up?”
“I want my home and my peace back,” Sofya answered firmly. “Either that, or I’ll leave myself. I hope it won’t come to that.”
Misha looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. Then he said slowly:
“Why don’t you go stay with your mom for a week? Mom and I will be here. We’ll cool off and think things over.”
Sofya froze, unable to believe her ears. Then she laughed—loudly, nervously:
“Move out of my own apartment?! Are you confused? This is my property, not yours.”
Misha recoiled as if slapped. Bewilderment mixed with indignation crossed his face.
“So you’re reminding me this is your apartment? I’m your husband, not a lodger!”
“And you’re proposing I move out of my home so you and your mother can ‘think things over.’ Listen to yourself,” Sofya spoke quietly, but each word rang in the air.
The argument was interrupted by the creak of a door—Valentina came out of her room in a nightgown, making a show of yawning.
“What’s all this shouting at bedtime? Mishenka, what’s happened?”
“Nothing, Mom,” Misha waved it off. “Just discussing family matters.”
Sofya turned without a word and went to the bedroom. She was boiling inside, but speaking now, in the heat of the moment, would only make things worse. Lying sleepless in bed, she sorted through her options. Maybe she really should leave for a few days, cool down? But something told her: the moment she crossed the threshold, there’d be no coming back. Valentina would feel herself the mistress of the house for good.
In the morning Sofya got ready for work as usual. Misha was still asleep—his schedule started later. Valentina was already bustling in the kitchen, but Sofya walked past in silence, only nodding at the cloying “Good morning, Sonechka!”
“Won’t you have breakfast? I’m making pancakes…” her mother-in-law peeked out of the kitchen.
“No, thank you,” Sofya slipped on her shoes. “I’m in a hurry.”
At work, Sofya could barely concentrate. During her lunch break she opened a search engine and typed, “how to evict unwanted occupants from your own apartment.” After scrolling through a few sites, she found a legal consultation number and booked an appointment.
The lawyer—a young woman with her hair in a bun—listened and nodded confidently:
“Unfortunately, your situation isn’t rare. If the apartment is your personal property, acquired before the marriage, and your mother-in-law isn’t officially registered there, you have full legal right to decide who lives in it.”
“And my husband?” Sofya clarified.
“If he’s registered there, it’s more complicated. If not—you can legally ask him to vacate the premises as well. Of course, that’s already a matter for your relationship…” the lawyer looked over her glasses at Sofya.
Sofya nodded. Misha wasn’t registered—they kept putting off going to the passport office “for better times.”
“What do you advise?” she asked.
“Formal notice,” the lawyer pulled a template from a folder. “Here’s a sample. Set a deadline—usually 72 hours. Serve it in person, have them sign for it. No emotion, just facts.”
That evening Sofya came home with the documents. In the kitchen, Misha and Valentina were having dinner, chatting lively. They fell silent when Sofya appeared.
“Want to join us?” Misha pointed to a plate, ostentatiously hospitable, as if last night’s conversation had never happened.
“We need to talk,” Sofya set an envelope on the table in front of her husband.
“What’s this?” Misha frowned.
“An official notice,” Sofya’s voice was steady, though her heart was pounding in her throat. “You have seventy-two hours to vacate my apartment. That goes for you, Misha, and for your mother.”
A deathly silence settled over the kitchen. Misha stared at the envelope as if it might explode.
“You’re joking?” he finally looked up.
“No. I’m completely serious.”
Valentina threw up her hands:
“God, what a circus! Mishenka, your wife’s lost her mind!”
“Sofya, do you understand what this means?” Misha stood, looming over the table. “You’re destroying the family!”
“No, Misha. You destroyed the family when you decided my apartment was your domain and I was a guest you could suggest should ‘go live somewhere else,’” Sofya spoke softly but firmly.
“How cold you are,” Valentina hissed. “My poor boy, look who you chose. An egoist!”
Sofya turned to her:
“Valentina Sergeevna, you are guests in my home. And guests live by the hostess’s rules. Or they don’t live here at all.”
“We’re not guests!” the mother-in-law shrieked. “We’re family! Mishenka, tell her!”
Misha slowly opened the envelope and skimmed the lines.
“You really think I’ll just walk out?” he smirked. “I’m your husband. I have rights.”
“You have only the rights I grant you,” Sofya placed another document on the table. “This is an extract from Rosreestr. The apartment is in my name, purchased before marriage. You’re not registered here and you’re not an owner. So yes, I’m serious.”
“You’ll regret this,” Misha’s fists clenched. “You’ll regret it very much.”
“Maybe,” Sofya shrugged. “But this is my decision now.”
The next two days turned into a cold war. Misha pretended the notice didn’t exist. Valentina alternated between feigning a heart attack and turning aggressive, calling Sofya a “soulless bitch.”
On the third day, when Sofya came home from work, she saw a bag in the hallway. Misha was packing.
“So that’s how it is,” he said without turning. “We’re leaving. But you’ll pay for this.”
“All right,” Sofya simply replied.
“And don’t think this is the end,” Misha finally faced her. “I can file for division of property. For child support.”
“You can try,” Sofya nodded. “The apartment isn’t subject to division. And as for support… we both know we don’t have children.”
Misha flinched as if slapped. Something like respect flickered in his eyes, then vanished.
Valentina rolled her suitcase out of her room, sobbing theatrically:
“Happy now? Throwing an old woman out into the street!”
“You have your own apartment, Valentina Sergeevna,” Sofya kept her composure. “And your son has money to rent a place if he doesn’t want to live with you.”
“Let’s go, Mom,” Misha grabbed the bags. “We’re not welcome here.”
At the door, Valentina spun around sharply:
“We’ll see how happy you are alone!”
Sofya closed the door behind them without a word and turned the key. The sudden quiet washed over her like a cool wave on a hot day. She walked through the apartment, touching familiar things as if getting to know her home anew.
In the days that followed, Sofya set the apartment back in order. She returned the ficus to the windowsill. Arranged her books the way she liked. Threw away the magnets her mother-in-law had left “as a keepsake.” Each evening when she got home from work, she savored the silence and calm she had been missing for months.
On the third day after her husband and mother-in-law left, Sofya sat on the couch with a cup of herbal tea. The evening light lay across the walls in soft golden bands. No one commented on how she sat, what she drank, or what music she listened to. No one demanded attention, reproached, or ordered her around.
Misha called a week later, his voice conciliatory:
“Maybe we could meet? Talk?”
“About what?” Sofya asked.
“Well… about us. About the future.”
“We don’t have a future, Misha,” Sofya said without anger, simply stating a fact. “You chose your side, I chose mine. I’ll file for divorce next week.”
“Don’t rush,” there was a pleading note in his voice. “Mom won’t interfere anymore, I promise.”
“It’s not about your mother,” Sofya shook her head, though he couldn’t see. “It’s about you. You don’t respect my boundaries. My space. Me.”
After the call, Sofya looked at their wedding photo for a long time. Then she put it away in a drawer—not thrown out, just set aside as part of the past. The past in which she thought love meant constant concessions, even when they hollowed you out from the inside.
Sofya walked to the window and took a deep breath. The apartment smelled of her favorite flowers and freshness. Everything was exactly as she liked it. Yes, she no longer had a “family” where she was respected. But she had herself. And that was no less.
