October’s evening wrapped the city in early dusk. Olya came home from work exhausted, kicked off her shoes in the hallway, and went to the kitchen, where dinner was already warming. Dmitry sat at the table, scrolling through something on his phone and sighing from time to time. Such sighs had become regular lately, and Olya had already learned to recognize what they meant—the conversation would be about his mother.
“I called Mom today,” Dmitry began without lifting his eyes from the screen. “She complains the neighbors are noisy, the staircase is dirty, the store is too far. It’s hard for her to be alone, you know?”
Olya nodded, spooning buckwheat and cutlets onto the plates. Talks about her mother-in-law had become more frequent, but so far they remained in the realm of ordinary filial worries. Olya saw nothing alarming in it—the mother is aging, the son is concerned, a normal situation for many families.
“Maybe we should hire her a helper?” Olya suggested as she sat down opposite him. “Someone could come a couple of times a week, help around the house, go to the store.”
Dmitry grimaced as if he’d heard something indecent. “Strangers in the house? No, Mom won’t tolerate that. There are things, personal space. She’s embarrassed in front of outsiders.”
Olya kept quiet. She didn’t want to argue, and the subject didn’t seem serious. They ate dinner in silence, washed over only by the sounds of the TV in the living room. Dmitry went off to the screen; Olya started washing the dishes, thinking about the report due before noon tomorrow.
A few days later the conversation repeated. Then again. Dmitry mentioned his mother more and more often—her loneliness, her complaints. Olya listened patiently, sometimes suggested solutions, but each time ran into refusal. Either the mother-in-law didn’t want strangers, or it was too expensive, or simply inconvenient.
And then came the evening when everything changed. It was Friday, drizzle outside the window, and Olya wanted only one thing—to go to bed early with a book and forget the workweek. Dmitry met her at the door with shining eyes, as if he had thought of something brilliant.
“Olya, I’ve decided!” he announced enthusiastically the moment his wife crossed the threshold. “Mom’s moving in with us. For good. And I’m quitting my job to stay with her. You’ll be happy about that, right?”
Olya froze, tugging off her wet jacket. The fork she’d held a minute ago at dinner could have fallen just as easily as she now wanted to drop her bag.
“Are you serious?” was all Olya managed, searching her husband’s face for any sign of a joke.
“Absolutely!” Dmitry beamed. “I’ve thought it all through. Mom’s alone, she needs help. I can’t calmly work knowing she’s not well. And here, with us, everything will be perfect. We have enough space, I’ll be at home and look after her. You’re at work all day anyway; it won’t bother you.”
Olya walked slowly into the room and sat on the edge of the couch. Her thoughts tangled. Quitting? The mother-in-law moving in? And without discussion, without asking—just a fait accompli wrapped in a pretty package of “care.”
“Dima, let’s talk calmly,” Olya began evenly, trying not to show her turmoil. “Leaving your job is a serious decision. We live on two salaries. If you quit, the burden falls entirely on me.”
“So what?” Dmitry shrugged. “You’ll manage. I’m not asking the impossible. I’ll just be at home for a while. At least Mom won’t be alone.”
“What about hiring a caregiver? Or a social worker?” Olya tried to find a compromise, though irritation was already simmering inside. “There are services that help the elderly.”
Dmitry’s face darkened. “Olya, do you even understand what you’re saying? This is my mother! Not some stranger you can hand over to outsiders! I thought you’d support me, and you’re only talking about money and ‘some caregiver’!”
His voice rose, and Olya realized arguing was pointless. Dmitry had already made up his mind and would take any objection as betrayal. Olya clenched her fists, feeling tension spread through her body. She wanted to shout, to protest, to demand a normal discussion, but instead she only nodded.
“Fine. If you think that’s best.”
Dmitry broke into a smile and put an arm around her shoulders. “Great! I knew you’d understand. Mom will be so happy!”
A week later her mother-in-law was on their doorstep with two huge suitcases and several boxes. Valentina Ivanovna looked lively—not at all like a frail old woman who needed constant care. Dmitry fussed around his mother, carrying things, asking if she was tired, whether the room would be comfortable. Olya watched from the side, politely helping unpack the boxes. Inside, something tightened unpleasantly, as if something alien had invaded her familiar space.
Valentina Ivanovna surveyed the entryway and nodded like an inspector. “Well then, we’ll settle in bit by bit. Dimochka, show me where you keep everything; I’m not used to other people’s arrangements.”
Olya snorted inwardly. Other people’s arrangements. In her own apartment.
By evening, the mother-in-law’s things occupied half the living room, which had been hastily turned into a bedroom for her. Dmitry collapsed onto the couch, exhausted, and his mother went to the kitchen to make tea. Olya, having come home early to meet them, quietly changed her shoes and went to the bedroom. She wanted to be alone, to digest what was happening.
The changes began the next day. Valentina Ivanovna woke earlier than everyone, walked through the apartment, and by breakfast had already reviewed the contents of all the kitchen cabinets. When Olya came into the kitchen, her mother-in-law was at the stove rearranging the dishes.
“Good morning, Valentina Ivanovna,” Olya greeted her, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Morning. I see you’ve got everything standing any which way. Pots with mugs, frying pans under the plates. Disorder. I’ve already rearranged it; now it’ll be sensible.”
Olya opened the cupboard where her favorite cups had stood yesterday and found a set of old bowls there. The cups had moved to the top shelf, out of Olya’s reach without a stool.
“Valentina Ivanovna, I’m used to my own order,” Olya ventured, carefully taking a cup. “Maybe we could leave everything as it was?”
Her mother-in-law turned, her gaze sharpening. “Used to it? Then get used to the new way. I live here now; I’m the mistress, too. Or do you think I’m superfluous here?”
Olya said nothing. Arguing with Valentina Ivanovna was like banging your head against a wall. Dmitry, of course, walked into the kitchen at that moment—cheerful and well-rested.
“Mom, how did you sleep? Olya, why so tense? Smile, we’re a big family now!”
Olya forced a smile and left the kitchen without a word. She had to go to work without breakfast.
Days flowed in monotony. Olya left in the morning and returned in the evening, and each time the apartment felt more alien. Valentina Ivanovna ruled the kitchen, moved things around, criticized the cleaning. Dmitry spent his days on the couch with his phone, getting up occasionally to brew tea for his mother or watch the next talk show with her.
“Dima, are you going to look for a job?” Olya asked one evening when her patience finally snapped.
He didn’t even look up from the screen. “What’s the rush? Mom just arrived; she needs support. I promised to be there. Later, when she settles in, then I’ll think about it.”
Olya ground her teeth. “Settles in.” Valentina Ivanovna had already settled in so thoroughly she’d remade the entire routine around herself. The TV blared from morning till night; on speakerphone she discussed neighborhood news with her friends, and Dmitry gladly joined in, laughing at other people’s stories. Olya felt like an outsider in her own home. She left in the morning, returned in the evening—and every time she seemed to bump into an invisible wall at the threshold. Her mother-in-law greeted her with a perfunctory nod; Dmitry tossed a distracted hello, and Olya went to the bedroom—the only place where something personal remained.
One evening, coming home from work, Olya didn’t find her laptop on her desk. Looking closer, she saw the desk had been moved to the window, the papers stacked in a pile, and the laptop gone.
“Dima, where’s my laptop?” she called into the hallway.
“Oh, Mom was tidying up; she probably put it somewhere. Ask her.”
Olya found Valentina Ivanovna in the kitchen. She was stirring something in a pot and whistling a tune.
“Valentina Ivanovna, have you seen my laptop? It was on the desk.”
“Of course I’ve seen it. I put it in the cupboard so it wouldn’t be in the way. The desk was all cluttered, so I decided to tidy up. It’s on the top shelf in the hallway closet.”
Olya bit her lip. “Tidying up.” In her things. Without asking. She retrieved the laptop, went back to the bedroom, and locked the door. A flicker of alarm crossed her mind, as if someone had stepped over an invisible line—the line where trust ends and intrusion begins.
She sat on the bed, opened the laptop, and stared at the screen, seeing nothing. Thoughts swarmed, piling up on each other. How had her life flipped in just a couple of weeks? How had her own apartment become a battleground for every inch of personal space? Dmitry—the same Dmitry she’d lived with for several years—had suddenly turned into a stranger. He no longer took interest in Olya’s affairs, didn’t ask how her day went, didn’t offer help. All his attention went to his mother, while Olya was left as the source of income and a silent observer.
Her phone buzzed—a message from a colleague. Olya opened it automatically, read it, replied. Work remained the only place she felt needed. There they valued her, listened to her; there she could breathe freely. At home—only a dull tension that grew every day.
On Wednesday Olya left work early—her head was splitting, and her boss, seeing her haggard face, let her go without question. The ride home took half an hour; wet autumn snow slid across the minibus windows, and Olya watched the blurred city lights thinking only of reaching the bed and switching off the world for a couple of hours.
The key turned quietly in the lock. The lights were on, but no one came to meet her. Strange. Usually Valentina Ivanovna was the first to appear, giving Olya an appraising once-over, as if checking whether Olya looked tired enough to justify being gone all day.
Olya slipped off her shoes and walked down the hall. Muffled voices came from the living room—not loud, but wary. She pushed the door and froze on the threshold.
Dmitry and Valentina Ivanovna were sitting on the couch, close together, and on the coffee table in front of them lay her laptop. The screen glowed, and even from the doorway Olya could see a familiar interface—her online banking. Columns of numbers, card activity, notifications of transfers.
Dmitry jerked when he saw his wife and quickly snapped the laptop shut. Valentina Ivanovna spun around, and on her face flashed an expression Olya had never seen—something between fear and anger.
“You’re home early,” Dmitry managed, trying to smile, but the smile came out crooked.
Olya stood still. Inside there was no scream, no hysteria. Only an icy clarity, sharp and precise, as if someone had switched on a light in a dark room. There it was. That’s why the laptop vanished and then ended up in the cupboard. That’s why Dmitry had so easily agreed to quit. That’s why Valentina Ivanovna had settled in so fast.
“How long?” Olya asked quietly, but her voice rang clear.
“How long what?” Dmitry tried to look puzzled, but his fingers fidgeted at the edge of the couch.
“How long have you been digging through my accounts?”
Valentina Ivanovna snorted and straightened. “We’re not ‘digging’ through anything! Dimochka just wanted to see how much you spend. We’re a family, you know—everything should be shared!”
Olya turned her gaze to her mother-in-law. She sat defiantly, chin raised, hands folded on her knees. Next to her, Dmitry hunched as if trying to make himself smaller.
“Shared,” Olya repeated slowly. “My salary, my accounts, my laptop—shared. And your pension, Valentina Ivanovna? And Dima’s income, which hasn’t existed for a month? Is that shared too?”
More details
Table
Kitchen goods
A book under the table
Bookshelves
Games for the whole family
A table with a book
Streaming services with movies
Valentina Ivanovna sprang up. “How dare you talk to me like that! I am the mother! An old woman you took in out of pity, is that it? And you imagine you’re the mistress here!”
“I am the mistress,” Olya cut her off. “This is my apartment. Mine. Not ours, not shared. Mine. And what’s been going on here for the last month ends right now.”
Dmitry jumped up, hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “Olya, wait, don’t get heated. We just wanted to understand where the money goes. You know Mom is used to saving, so she’s worried that you’re wasting.”
“Wasting,” Olya echoed. “On groceries that you two eat. On utilities that you consume. On the internet you sit in all day. Wasting, is it.”
Olya’s voice stayed even, almost indifferent, and that was scarier than a shout. Dmitry backed away, at a loss for words.
“We didn’t mean to… I thought you wouldn’t mind… Well, Mom worries…”
“She worries.” Olya nodded. “I see. Valentina Ivanovna, pack your things. Tomorrow morning you’ll vacate the room.”
Her mother-in-law leapt to her feet, face flushed. “What?! You’re throwing me out?! An old, sick woman—onto the street?! Dimochka, do you hear what this snake is saying?!”
“Sick,” Olya repeated, looking her over from head to toe. “Who runs around the apartment every day, drags furniture, spends hours chatting on the phone with friends. Very sick.”
“I have blood pressure! A heart condition! My joints ache!”
“Then go back to your apartment and treat yourself there. Dima, you’re packing, too. I’m tired of feeding grown adults and paying for other people’s entertainment.”
Dmitry turned pale. “Olya, what are you doing?! We’re husband and wife!”
“We were,” Olya corrected him. “Not anymore. Tomorrow I’m going to a lawyer. I’ll file for divorce.”
Valentina Ivanovna clutched at her heart, feigning an attack. “Oh, I feel faint! Dimochka, call an ambulance! She’s killing me! This heartless woman!”
Olya calmly took out her phone and dialed. “All right, I’ll call an ambulance. They’ll come, take you to the hospital, and the doctors will examine you. You’ll have to stay for observation, but you are feeling ill, right?”
Valentina Ivanovna straightened abruptly, letting go of her chest. “No need for any ambulance! I can manage on my own!”
“Excellent,” Olya nodded, putting her phone away. “Then tomorrow morning I expect both of you at the door. With your things.”
The rest of the evening passed in oppressive silence. Dmitry tried to start a conversation several times, but Olya didn’t answer. Valentina Ivanovna locked herself in the room, loudly sobbing and lamenting, but Olya didn’t take the bait. She went to bed, locked the door, and for the first time in a month slept soundly and peacefully.
In the morning Olya got up early, got dressed, gathered her documents. On the way to work she stopped by a law office and booked a consultation. The lawyer listened, asked a few clarifying questions, and nodded.
“Is the apartment your property from before the marriage?”
“Yes.”
“No joint loans, deposits, or purchases?”
“No.”
“Then it’s simple. We file for divorce in court, since your husband is unlikely to agree voluntarily. No division of property is required, since there’s nothing to divide. No alimony either; there are no children. The process will take a couple of months, but the result is predictable.”
Olya signed the contract, paid a retainer, and stepped out onto the street feeling as if she’d shrugged off a heavy backpack. Work awaited her, but even the thought of a boring report didn’t spoil her mood.
That evening, when she came home, she found Dmitry rushing about the apartment. Valentina Ivanovna sat on the couch with a martyr’s expression, hands folded on her chest.
“Olya, where are we supposed to go?” Dmitry pleaded. “Mom’s apartment is rented out; the lease is for six months! You can’t just throw the tenants out!”
“Your problem,” Olya said, walking past them into the kitchen. “You could have thought about that earlier—before rifling through my accounts.”
“We didn’t take anything! We just looked!”
“You looked without asking. On my personal laptop. In my bank data. That’s enough.”
Valentina Ivanovna stood and took a step toward Olya. “Listen, dear, let’s handle this nicely. I’m old; I have nowhere to go. Dimochka’s out of work, too. So we peeked into the computer—big deal! Is that a reason to kick out your own family?”
“Family?” Olya smirked. “You’re nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. By tomorrow evening I want you beyond the threshold. Otherwise I’ll call the police.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I would. And I will. A simple statement about unlawful residence is enough, and the district officer will come himself.”
Dmitry grabbed his head. “Olya, this is insane! We’re husband and wife—how can you throw me out?!”
“Soon to be exes. The paperwork is filed. The hearing is scheduled. The apartment remains mine since it was purchased before the marriage. Nothing here belongs to you. Or to your mother.”
Valentina Ivanovna hissed, her eyes narrowing. “There—her true nature! She pretended to be a goody-goody, and the moment it got tough—out came the claws! Dimochka, do you see who you got involved with?”
Dmitry said nothing, staring at the floor. Olya turned and went to the bedroom, closing the door. Voices filtered through—Valentina Ivanovna railing, Dmitry mumbling back. Olya didn’t listen. She put on music in her headphones and opened a book.
The next day, returning from work, Olya found the suitcases still in the hall and Dmitry and his mother sitting in the kitchen pretending nothing was happening.
“Time’s up,” Olya said, taking out her phone. “I’m calling the district officer.”
Dmitry jumped up. “Wait! We’re leaving—we just need time to find a place!”
“You had time. A month. You spent it looking through my accounts. Pack now or I dial.”
Valentina Ivanovna sniffled, but she dragged her suitcase to the door. Dmitry, red-faced and flustered, carried the boxes. Olya stood by the door, watching calmly. When the last bag was out, Dmitry reached for the keys on the shelf.
“Leave them,” Olya said. “The keys stay here.”
“But how—”
“No how. You don’t live here anymore.”
Dmitry opened his mouth, then closed it. From the hallway, Valentina Ivanovna cast one last hateful look. “You’ll regret this! You’ll end up alone, unwanted by anyone!”
Olya smiled—an honest smile. “Better alone than with you.”
She closed the door and turned the key. Silence covered the apartment like a soft blanket. Olya leaned her back against the door, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. For the first time in a month the air seemed clean.
The court hearing went quickly and without extra drama. Dmitry came alone; he didn’t bring his mother. He sat with his head down and answered the judge’s questions monosyllabically. There were no objections. There was no property to divide. The decision was issued the same day—the marriage dissolved, the apartment remained Olya’s property.
Leaving the courtroom, Olya ran into Dmitry in the corridor. He stopped, opened his mouth, but said nothing. Olya walked past without looking back.
A few weeks later a colleague said she’d seen Dmitry at a bus stop. He was standing with his mother; both looked rumpled and tired. Olya listened and shrugged. Someone else’s life, someone else’s problems.
The apartment gradually returned to its former state. Olya rearranged the furniture as it had been, put the dishes back where they belonged, and threw out the stack of old newspapers her mother-in-law had piled in the corner. In the evenings she could finally sit with a book in the quiet, without the TV blaring and without endless phone conversations.
One evening, brewing tea in the kitchen, Olya caught herself smiling. For no reason at all. Because the home was quiet, peaceful, and smelled of fresh linen. Because no one rifled through her things, moved her dishes, or demanded an account of every penny spent.
Olya walked to the window, looking out at the autumn city wrapped in early dusk. Life went on. Without dead weight, without pretense, without people who hide behind the word “family” to drain the last of you. And in that solitude there was more peace than in all the years they had lived together
