Katya woke up at 6:48 a.m. Not because she wanted to—because of the furious rustle of foil coming from the kitchen. At first an absurd thought flashed through her mind: a dream? Surely no sane person would be gutting “herring under a fur coat” at seven on a Monday morning? Especially not her.
But alas, it wasn’t the salad. It was Elena Semyonovna—the embodiment of the morning ritual: coffee brewed in someone else’s cezve, secret-toasted slices of bread, and the apotheosis of all existence—foil. Absolutely everything got wrapped in it. Even soft-boiled eggs, it seemed, trembled inside their silver cocoons.
Katya sighed and reached for her phone as if it were a life buoy.
Pavel had already evaporated. He’d slipped out like a professional saboteur, just to avoid getting caught in the crossfire of the morning battle between the two most important women in his life.
Katya got up, tightened her robe, and drifted into the kitchen. Slowly, like a surgeon heading into a complicated operation. Step by step, knowing each one would hurt.
“Oh, and here’s our sleepyhead!” her mother-in-law sang out without even turning around. “I brewed you coffee. Hope you won’t be offended that I took your cezve? Pavel said you don’t like it strong. But I made it properly. Not that sour sludge of yours!”
“I didn’t wake up,” Katya snapped, dropping heavily onto a stool. “I was woken up.”
“Oh God, what are you talking about!” Elena Semyonovna threw up her hands theatrically. “I just thought—if the home is shared, then everything’s shared. We’re family now. Or am I wrong?”
Katya turned to her and stared, trying to figure out what stood in front of her: a living human being or a masterfully camouflaged wardrobe with obsessive ideas.
Elena Semyonovna held the gaze and, like an experienced tank driver, went on the offensive:
“By the way, about the room. I thought—since I’m staying with you temporarily—maybe that room where you keep your wardrobe could be redone? I’ll do everything myself. And I’ll throw out that IKEA wardrobe; it wobbles anyway—sleeping next to it is dangerous.”
Katya flared up like a match.
“That’s not a wardrobe. That’s MY room. With MY things. And you’re here temporarily, as I understand it. For a couple of days.”
“Mm-hmm…” Elena Semyonovna took a calm sip of coffee. “‘A couple of days’—that’s something you invented for yourself, sweetheart. Pavel said I could stay as long as needed. He was even having important talks with a lawyer about shares in the apartment.”
For a moment Katya froze. A tense “bzzzz” hung in the air, like a short circuit about to happen.
“What shares, for God’s sake?” her voice came out cold and distant.
“Well, what about it?” her mother-in-law shrugged, as if they were discussing buying onions. “You’re married, so the property is joint. Half is Pasha’s. And he’s my son. Of course, well done you—you weren’t lazy and bought the apartment before marriage. But you know… everything flows, everything changes…”
Katya stood up, swaying slightly as if she’d suddenly lost her footing. She said nothing. In her eyes a bitter cocktail congealed: rage, humiliation, and… a primitive fear.
Pavel came back late. As always—sneaking, silent, soft-footed. But this time Katya didn’t wait for him in the bedroom. She blocked his path in the hallway: arms crossed over her chest, gaze like a razor blade.
“We need to talk,” she said curtly.
“Right from the doorstep? Won’t even let me take my shoes off…” he tried to sneer.
“Exactly. So you’ll know immediately where to pack. I won’t throw you out in slippers.”
He understood at once. He always sensed the moment when the front line was crossed and there was nowhere left to retreat.
“Katya, you’re dramatizing again. It’s my mother. She’s old. She’s lonely. What—do you feel sorry for her or something?”
“I feel sorry that I’m a complete idiot,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “That I was naive enough to believe you respected my boundaries. That you weren’t like everyone else. But you are. Worse—you’re crafty. You squeeze me from underneath. Slowly, drop by drop. First your toothbrush. Then your chair. Then—your mother.”
“Don’t dramatize,” he snorted. “She’s not here forever. Just until we find her a place…”
“Sure. With my wardrobe, my cezve, and your lawyers? Do you even know what ‘premarital property’ means, Pash? It means, at minimum, you DON’T MOVE INTO IT WITH YOUR MOTHER.”
He turned away, as if hoping to dodge the reproach. But Katya didn’t let up.
“Did you talk to a notary?”
He was silent. And that silence was louder than any confession.
“Got it,” she nodded. “Tomorrow you and your mommy leave.”
“You don’t have the right to kick me out! I’m registered here!” Pavel raised his voice—and it was unexpected. He never yelled. But something in him snapped.
“And I have the right to cancel your registration through court, because the owner is me. Not us. Me. And you’re registered here as a family member. A family member I’m crossing out. Starting tomorrow.”
“You don’t understand anything,” he spat, no longer hiding his irritation. “You just like feeling like the boss. But family isn’t about ‘your apartment’ and ‘your boundaries.’ It’s about compromises. And helping your loved ones. And you’re an egoist, Katya.”
“And you’re a parasite, Pavel. With a slick tongue and a mommy on top. That’s it. Tomorrow I’m calling a lawyer. And you—go find yourself a new registration.”
Pavel turned and slammed the door so hard that plaster crumbled from the walls.
Katya remained standing in the hallway. Her legs trembled traitorously. A fire raged in her chest. But it wasn’t the end. It was a promising beginning of the end.
From the kitchen came:
“Just don’t forget to buy him slippers! He walks on the linoleum like it’s asphalt!”
Katya closed her eyes.
And then, slowly, with cold businesslike focus, she went to the room, took out the folder with the apartment documents, and put it into her bag.
Tomorrow she would go to a legal consultation.
And in the evening she’d order sushi.
For herself. Alone. Without Turkish coffee and foil.
Katya didn’t sleep a wink the third night.
First came that clawing insomnia, when thoughts run in circles like in a stale three-room Khrushchyovka. Then a sticky apathy—the borderland between sleep and waking, life’s half-shadow. Sand in her eyes, a lump in her throat, and in her soul—an entire swamp of poisonous toads that had multiplied over the last two years of marriage to Pavel.
And once there had been sun. Once he’d brought her ripe oranges and promised the renovation would be “only to her taste.” Now he was insinuatingly discussing with a notary his mother’s share in her apartment. There—progress.
Katya curled up on the edge of the couch in that very “wardrobe room,” where her only weakness—her shoe collection—languished in dusty bags. Elena Semyonovna had authoritatively declared that “heels after forty look ridiculous” and that “you have to get rid of what you don’t need.” Yet she herself calmly strutted around the house in Katya’s Massimo Dutti shoes as if they were worn-out slippers.
Katya stared into emptiness and whispered, like a spell:
“One… two… three… to hell with both of you.”
In the morning, gathering her will into a fist, she went for a consultation. The lawyer—a woman around sixty, with an impenetrable face and a sharp voice—listened to her confession and slowly nodded.
“Registered? Well, that’s expected. But the ownership is yours. So yes, you can have him deregistered. Through court, of course, but you’re stronger than you think. And as for the mother-in-law—what status does she even have in the apartment?”
“Walking disaster,” Katya replied wearily. “She’s living here without my consent. Pavel just brought her with her things. On Sunday. With the usual phrase: ‘She’ll stay a little.’”
The lawyer gave a crooked smirk.
“I know that ‘a little.’ I had an ‘a little’ living at my dacha for three years. Then he filed a claim that the shed was his. Deregister both. The sooner, the better. Start with a written demand. I’ll send you a template. And I’ll give you a good attorney. He’s eaten dogs on cases like this. But I’m warning you right away: Pavel will press on pity. He’s already started, hasn’t he?”
Katya nodded, sensing the trap in every cell. With each day Pavel became softer, more attentive. He remembered the right words. Wiped her glasses (for the first time in two years!). Covered her with a blanket. Gently hugged her shoulders.
But it was cloying, like jam on flypaper. Fake. A cheap show. She didn’t believe a single gesture anymore.
“And if he doesn’t file for divorce?” she asked, as if testing the ground.
“You can file yourself. And submit a claim that the marriage has exhausted itself. You have plenty of arguments. The question isn’t legal—it’s psychological. It’s about your inner strength.”
Katya left with her shoulders straight. The first step was done. And the email already held the template statement.
At home, strangely enough, there was silence. Only from the kitchen came Pavel’s muffled voice:
“…well yes, of course. I understand her. A lonely woman. Without family, without support. With a character, sure. But you can deal with her nicely…”
Katya froze as if rooted to the floor. It was Pavel. Who was he talking to?
Her heart hammered. She listened.
“…I’m not leaving. Are you kidding. We have a shared life, she’s just going through a crisis right now. I’ll fix everything. Stay here for now. I’ll say your blood pressure is up. Then she’ll get used to it.”
Katya burst into the kitchen with an expression so intense even the microwave seemed to fall silent.
“Get used to it?” she said calmly—almost icily. “Who are you talking about?”
Pavel flinched as if caught stealing.
“Katya, listen…”
“I listened. Enough. You didn’t just betray me. You devalued me. I’m not some random passerby. I’m the person who loved you. Who let you into my life. Into my apartment. And what did you do? You turned it into a walk-through yard.”
He flushed crimson.
“You’re never satisfied! I’m trying for the family and you—”
“You do everything for yourself. And for your mommy. And I’m just scenery. ‘Katya’s apartment,’ ‘Katya’s renovation,’ ‘Katya’s food’… Well, Katya isn’t your buffet anymore. Take your mother—and out.”
Elena Semyonovna, as if on cue, appeared in the doorway.
“Well, you know, Katerina…” she hissed, spewing venom. “From the start you were selfish. I saw it right away. Everything for yourself, everything ‘mine.’ But in a family it should be shared. And anyway, Pavel and I have had a special bond since childhood. He’s my only one. And you’re just some random woman he met at a hard time. And now—you’re out of luck.”
Katya looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Then she shifted her eyes to Pavel.
“Only one?” she repeated with a squint. “You’re thirty-nine. And you’re ‘only’? With a mother who picks out your socks and washes my underwear, calling it ‘the height of shamelessness’?”
“Don’t go too far!” Pavel roared, breaking into a shout. “Mom is taking care of me! And all you do is boss people around. Everything ‘mine,’ ‘me,’ ‘to me’! Family isn’t a monologue!”
Katya stepped closer. Slowly. No hysteria.
“Family is when people respect you. When they don’t drag a stranger into your home—someone you didn’t choose. When they don’t present you with a fait accompli. When they don’t spin intrigues behind your back, dividing up someone else’s housing. Family isn’t when you and your mommy discuss how to break me. That’s collusion. And you know what?”
She flung open the cupboard and yanked out the folder.
“Here. A notice. You both are officially required to vacate the apartment within ten days. And then—court. You wanted the law? You’ll get it.”
Pavel opened his mouth but couldn’t find words. It was as if he’d seen her for the first time—without the mask of softness, care, and compliance. Angry. Strong. Unbending.
Indifference is scarier than hatred.
“You’ve lost your mind,” he hissed. “We’re family…”
“No, Pavel. Family protects. It doesn’t divide.”
And she left. For the first time in a long while—light.
The next morning she was woken by an insistent call.
“Katya Anatolyevna? This is Nikolai Sergeyevich. I represent Pavel Sergeyevich. We’d like to offer you a compromise…”
Katya smirked.
“Tell Pavel I don’t feed on compromises anymore. I like eggs. Sunny-side up. In olive oil. Without mom as a side dish.”
“Excuse me?”
“Goodbye.”
She ended the call, threw the window open, and breathed in deeply.
The apartment smelled of freshly brewed coffee—and unfamiliar silence.
Soon there would be court. And then—the long-awaited silence forever.
The hearing lasted exactly eighteen minutes.
Katya counted the seconds—not out of boredom, but because each one felt like a gulp of clean air after long oxygen starvation.
Pavel showed up in a gray suit—the one he’d worn when he proposed. Interesting: deliberate choice or coincidence? Elena Semyonovna wore a mourning black veil. Who are we pressuring, Elena Semyonovna? The judge—or the audience’s pity? Katya thought ironically.
She kept silent for almost the entire proceeding. Her lawyer spoke for her—clearly and concisely, operating with facts: an extract from Rosreestr, notarial papers proving premarital ownership, the marriage certificate, and all his unsightly background.
“The defendant resides in the apartment without the owner’s consent,” the lawyer concluded calmly. “Moreover, he unlawfully moved in a third person who has no rights to this living space.”
The judge glanced at Pavel. Then at Elena Semyonovna wrapped in black.
“Do you acknowledge the fact of moving into the apartment without the claimant’s consent?”
“But I’m the husband!” Pavel exploded. “This… this is our shared home!”
“No,” Katya cut in—first time she’d spoken the whole hearing. “It’s mine. And while you were hypocritically trying to claw out a share, I’ve already filed for divorce. So—goodbye.”
Pavel went pale as a sheet.
Until the last moment he’d hoped she’d soften. Back down. But the show was over. The curtain fell.
The ruling was brief and unambiguous: deregister. Keep ownership with the lawful owner.
The divorce was a separate case, but the outcome was a hundred percent decided.
Katya walked out of the courtroom as if she’d shrugged off a concrete slab from her shoulders.
“Well then,” Elena Semyonovna floated after her, nervously squeezing her leather handbag. “I always knew you were selfish. And it’ll come back to you. You’ll end up alone. With the apartment, sure. But completely alone.”
Katya gave a contemptuous little smile.
“I’m alone because I made a conscious choice. And you live in your son’s head—not as a loving mother, but as a tyrannical dictator. So stay there. Forever.”
Pavel stood nearby, hollowed out.
He finally understood: this wasn’t a brief flare of anger. It was Katya’s final departure. Irreversible.
“Can I have a word with you?” he asked quietly by the car.
Katya turned.
“Talk.”
“I… I just wanted Mom to live with us until she found something. I didn’t want it to turn out like this. I stupidly hoped I could keep everyone together… that you’d understand me.”
“I understood. Everything’s perfectly clear. You just wanted me to accept it again. To ‘give in’ one more time. To say, ‘Okay, I’ll endure it.’ But I’m not being convenient for anyone anymore.”
“I miss you, Katya,” he whispered, lowering his head.
“And I miss the me I was before I met you. Without constant tension, without the nightly expectation of ‘what else will you come up with today.’ I desperately miss myself, Pavel. And I came back.”
He wanted to answer, but she didn’t let him.
“And one more thing. Don’t even think about coming. Or calling. Or trying to get anything back. I know how to be alone. And I’m better and calmer in that loneliness than next to people who devalue me. That’s all. Good luck to you. And yes—our little shop is closed.”
Two months passed.
Katya sat on the wide windowsill in her apartment.
Now it was entirely her territory again.
Without the musty smell of cheap baking foil, without someone else’s worn shoes in the entryway, without brazen violations of her personal space, her love, and—of course—her wardrobe.
On the table a glass of tart wine flickered. She didn’t order sushi on principle. She cooked herself tender fish—exactly the way she liked it. In the oven, with juicy lemon slices. Without sour disdain of “I don’t like sour,” without allergic theatrics of “but Mom’s allergic.”
A stylish calendar hung on the wall. Tomorrow—the formal divorce hearing. The last finishing touch.
The phone rang.
On the screen flashed the treacherous: “Pavel.”
Katya looked at it for a long moment. The corners of her lips lifted into the faintest smile.
And she decisively tapped “Delete contact.”
No one would be allowed to run her home anymore.
Or her life.
Katya stretched sweetly, turned on music, and began to dance spontaneously.
Alone with herself. In her own kitchen. To the unstoppable rhythms of her freedom.
Life started over. And this time—strictly by her rules.
The end
