Galina Petrovna stepped over the threshold of our apartment like she owned the place, and I realized—what I’d feared most was starting.
“Darya, pack your things,” my mother-in-law said, not bothering with a greeting. “You’re moving back in with us. We’re selling this apartment.”
I froze with a cup of coffee in my hand. Artyom, my husband, stood beside his mother, avoiding my eyes.
“Excuse me, what?” I set the cup down, trying to stay calm. “This is our apartment. We’ve been paying the mortgage for three years.”
My mother-in-law smirked and pulled some documents from her bag.
“The apartment is registered in Artyom’s name. And Artyom is my son. And he agrees with my decision. Right, son?”
Artyom nodded, still not looking at me. I felt the ground give way beneath my feet.
“Artyom, what is she talking about?” I stepped closer to him. “We talked about this! This apartment is our home!”
“Mom’s right,” he said quietly. “It’ll be better for us to live together. Why pay a mortgage when my parents have a huge house?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Three years earlier, when we’d just gotten married, I’d clearly stated my position—living separately from our parents. Artyom agreed. We took out a mortgage; I paid half my salary toward the payments and built our little nest. And now this?
“Galina Petrovna,” I turned to my mother-in-law, “this is a family matter. Artyom and I will decide it ourselves.”
“It’s already decided!” she snapped. “Artyom told me everything. About how you refuse to have children until the mortgage is paid off. About how you forbid him from helping us with renovations. About how you turn him against his own mother!”
“I’m not turning him against anyone!” I protested. “I just want us to have our own life!”
“Your own life?” she stepped closer. “Girl, you married my son. Now his family is your family. And you will live by our rules!”
“No, I won’t!” I straightened up. “Artyom, tell her! Explain that we had an agreement!”
But Artyom stayed silent. He stood with his head lowered like a schoolboy being scolded by a strict teacher.
“See?” Galina Petrovna said triumphantly. “My son understands that family is sacred. And you, daughter-in-law, need to learn that!”
She said “daughter-in-law” with such contempt that my chest tightened with hurt.
“I’m not moving anywhere,” I said firmly. “And we’re not selling the apartment.”
“That’s not for you to decide!” my mother-in-law raised her voice. “The apartment is in Artyom’s name!”
“But I pay half the mortgage! I have every receipt and payment record!”
“So what?” Galina Petrovna shrugged. “You paid for living here. Like rent. Artyom, confirm it!”
I looked at my husband in horror. Was he really going to say that?
“Yes, Mom’s right,” Artyom whispered.
Something broke inside me in that moment. The person I trusted—the person I loved—had betrayed me. And not just betrayed me: he’d planned it all in advance with his mother.
“Wonderful,” I said, picking up my phone. “Then I’m calling my lawyer.”
“A lawyer?” my mother-in-law laughed. “And what will you tell him? That you voluntarily paid to live in your husband’s home? No one forced you!”
“I’ll tell him I invested money into marital property. And I’ll demand compensation.”
“Marital property?” Galina Petrovna pulled out another document. “And here’s the prenup you signed. Remember?”
With trembling hands I took the paper. Yes—three years ago, Artyom had asked me to sign a marriage contract. He said it was a formality, that his mother insisted, but it meant nothing. I hadn’t read it carefully back then—I trusted him.
Now, scanning the document, I understood my mistake. In black and white it said that any property acquired during the marriage in one spouse’s name remained that spouse’s personal property.
“Do you get it now?” my mother-in-law said, settling onto the sofa like a queen on a throne. “You’re nobody here. A temporary tenant. And if my son decided you’re moving in with us—then that’s how it will be!”
I looked at Artyom. He still stood there without lifting his eyes.
“Why?” I asked him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Mom’s right,” he mumbled. “We’ll be better off living together. And we’ll save money.”
“Money?” I couldn’t suppress a bitter smirk. “For three years I gave up half my salary, denied myself everything—and for what? So your mother could come in and claim our apartment?”
“Not ours—mine,” Artyom corrected, looking me in the eyes for the first time. “The apartment is registered to me!”
And then I understood: the man in front of me wasn’t the one I’d married. Or maybe I just hadn’t seen his real face behind the mask of a loving fiancé.
“I’m giving you a week to pack,” Galina Petrovna said, standing up. “By next Monday you’d better have the apartment cleared. The realtor will come Wednesday for an appraisal.”
“And if I refuse?” I asked.
“Then Artyom will file for divorce, and you’ll leave with nothing,” she smiled. “But if you move in with us and behave like a good daughter-in-law, maybe I’ll allow you to stay married.”
She headed for the door; Artyom followed.
“Artyom!” I called after him. “Are you really going to let her treat me this way?”
He turned back, and I didn’t see a trace of doubt in his eyes.
“Mom always knows what’s best,” he said—and walked out.
I was left alone. I sat down on the floor in the middle of the living room and tried to process what was happening. My mother-in-law had trapped me. The prenup stripped me of rights to the apartment even though I’d honestly paid for it. My husband turned out to be a mama’s boy, incapable of making independent decisions.
But I wasn’t going to give up.
The first thing I did was call my friend Olga—she worked as a lawyer.
“Olya, I need help,” I said, trying not to cry. “Urgently.”
“What happened?” she asked, alarmed.
I briefly explained everything. Olga was silent for a long time, then sighed.
“A prenup is serious. But do you have all the documents proving your mortgage payments?”
“Yes. I kept everything.”
“Great. Come to me right now. We’ll see what can be done.”
I gathered every document and went to Olga’s. She carefully reviewed the papers—the contract, the receipts, the bank statements.
“You know,” she said at last, “there’s one point here. You weren’t paying just to live there. You were making mortgage payments. That’s documented. We can try to prove you contributed to repaying the loan, which means you’re entitled to compensation.”
“But the prenup…”
“A prenup can’t contradict the law. If we prove you didn’t just live in the apartment but participated in paying off the mortgage, the court may side with you.”
A flicker of hope rose inside me.
“And one more thing,” Olga continued. “If Artyom and his mother are forcing you to move, that can be classified as psychological pressure—especially considering your mother-in-law is effectively kicking you out of your home.”
The next day I met Artyom again. He came to the apartment to grab his things—apparently he’d decided to stay with his parents until I moved out.
“Artyom, let’s talk calmly,” I said. “Why are you doing this? We were happy!”
“We were,” he agreed. “Until you started distancing yourself from my family. Mom says you’re a bad influence on me.”
“Your mom is wrong! I just wanted us to have our own life!”
“But family is the most important thing!” Artyom raised his voice. “Mom raised me, sacrificed everything! And you want me to abandon her!”
“I don’t want you to abandon her! I want you to be an independent adult man—not an eternal mama’s boy!”
Artyom flushed with anger.
“How dare you talk about my mother like that!”
“I’m talking about you, not her! Though there’s plenty to say about her too. Your mother is a manipulator! She uses you—controls your every step!”
“Enough!” Artyom grabbed his bag. “Mom was right! You’re toxic! You’re trying to destroy our family!”
“Our family was destroyed by your mother and her need to control everything!” I shouted after him, but he was already slamming the door.
That evening Galina Petrovna called me.
“Darya,” her voice was icy, “Artyom told me about your conversation. How dare you insult me?”
“I was just telling the truth,” I said.
“The truth?” she laughed. “Girl, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. I can make it so you lose not only the apartment—but your job too!”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a warning. I have a lot of connections in this city. One word from me—and you’ll be fired. So I suggest you be smarter and accept my offer. Move in with us, be a good daughter-in-law, have grandchildren—and everything will be fine.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then blame yourself. You have five days left.”
She hung up. I knew Galina Petrovna wasn’t joking. Her late husband had been a major businessman; she really did have influence. But I wasn’t going to surrender.
The next day I went to work as usual. I was an accountant at a small firm, and my boss, Sergey Pavlovich, had always valued me as a specialist.
By lunchtime I was called into the director’s office.
“Darya,” Sergey Pavlovich began, clearly uncomfortable, “someone called me… Galina Petrovna Vorontsova. Do you know her?”
“My mother-in-law,” I answered.
“I see. She… hinted that if you keep working here, her company will cancel its contract with us. And they’re our main client.”
Anger surged inside me.
“So what did you decide?”
“Darya, you’re an excellent specialist, but…” He spread his hands. “I can’t risk the firm. I’m very sorry.”
“So you’re firing me?”
“I’m asking you to resign voluntarily. It’ll be better for everyone.”
I stood and walked toward the door.
“Darya!” the director called after me. “I truly am sorry. But I don’t have a choice.”
“You do have a choice,” I said. “All of us do. You just chose money.”
I returned to my desk, packed my things, and left. I didn’t even write a resignation letter—let them fire me “for cause” if they wanted.
At home, Artyom was waiting for me. He sat in the kitchen looking smug.
“Mom said you’re not working anymore,” he said. “Maybe now you’ll come to your senses?”
“Your mother deliberately got me fired?”
“She just showed you what happens if you keep being stubborn. Dasha, understand—Mom wants what’s best for us! She wants us to live as one big family!”
“She wants to control you—and me along with you!”
“Why do you hate her so much?” Artyom stood up. “She hasn’t done anything bad to you!”
“Haven’t?” I snapped. “She’s kicking me out of my home! She got me fired! She humiliates me every time we meet!”
“That’s your own fault! If you were a normal daughter-in-law…”
“A normal daughter-in-law?” I couldn’t hold back. “In your mother’s version, a ‘normal’ one is a powerless servant who fulfills every whim!”
“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that!”
“And don’t you dare tell me what I can say! This is still my home—at least for four more days!”
Artyom left without a word. I stayed alone, thinking through my next steps. Galina Petrovna had shown she could take my job. But I still had one trump card.
I picked up my phone and called my uncle. He worked at the tax inspectorate.
“Uncle Misha? It’s Dasha. I need your help.”
“What happened, niece?”
I told him the whole story. He was quiet for a moment, then gave a low chuckle.
“Vorontsova, you say? Interesting. Do you know her late husband left behind some very tangled business? And the tax office has been keeping an eye on some of their companies for a long time.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do. If your mother-in-law keeps pressuring you, remind her about a company called ‘Stroyinvest.’ I think she’ll understand.”
I thanked him and thought it over. I had leverage against Galina Petrovna now—I just had to use it correctly.
The next day my mother-in-law came again—this time with a realtor.
“We’re inspecting the apartment for an appraisal,” she announced from the doorway.
“Without the owner’s permission, you have no right to perform an appraisal,” I said calmly.
“Artyom is the owner! And he gave permission!”
“Artyom is not currently living in this apartment. And I am registered here and have the right to be here until the marriage is officially dissolved.”
“You—!” my mother-in-law turned red with rage. “I’ll throw you out on the street!”
“Try,” I smiled. “And by the way, Galina Petrovna—greetings from ‘Stroyinvest.’”
She went pale.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you understand perfectly. The tax office is very interested in some of your affairs. And if you continue to harass me, that interest can become… more active.”
“You’re blackmailing me?”
“I’m defending myself. You started this war.”
She stared at me with hatred.
“Fine,” she hissed. “You can stay here. But Artyom will still file for divorce!”
“That’s his right. Just like it’s my right to demand compensation for the mortgage money I paid.”
She turned and stormed out, slamming the door. The realtor shifted awkwardly in the hallway and left too.
An hour later Artyom called.
“What did you say to my mother?” he yelled into the phone. “She’s hysterical!”
“I just stated my position.”
“You threatened her!”
“No. I warned her about the consequences of her actions. There’s a difference.”
“Dasha, stop this! Apologize to Mom and we’ll settle everything peacefully!”
“Peacefully? Artyom, your mother tried to throw me out and got me fired! What ‘peace’ is there?”
“She just wanted us to live together!”
“No—she wanted control. Total control over you and me. And I’m not going to become her puppet!”
“You know what? We’re getting divorced! And you’ll walk away with nothing!”
“We’ll see,” I said—and hung up.
In the following days, a real war unfolded. Galina Petrovna tried every way she could to push me out. She showed up with different people—first a plumber to “check the pipes,” then an electrician to “inspect the wiring.” I didn’t let anyone in.
Artyom sent divorce papers. I gave them to Olga, and she began preparing a countersuit for division of property.
“We have a chance,” she told me. “You can prove you contributed significant funds to paying down the mortgage. The court might order Artyom to compensate you.”
But Galina Petrovna wasn’t going to surrender. One day I came home and found the locks changed. My belongings were in boxes by the door.
I called the police. The officers listened to both sides—me and Artyom, who just “happened” to be home.
“She has no right to be here!” Artyom insisted. “We’re divorcing, and the apartment is mine!”
“I’m registered here!” I argued. “And until the court decision, I have the right to live here!”
The officers checked the documents and took my side. Artyom had to switch the old locks back.
“You’ll pay for this!” Galina Petrovna hissed when she appeared.
“I’m recording this conversation,” I warned, holding up my phone. “All your threats will be given to my lawyer.”
She fell silent, but her look promised trouble.
And it didn’t take long. Two days later the neighbors upstairs flooded my apartment. Supposedly a pipe burst. But I knew Galina Petrovna’s friend lived up there.
I photographed all the damage and called the police again. This time they drew up a report for property damage.
“Prove it was me,” my mother-in-law smirked when we met in the stairwell.
“I don’t have to prove anything. The court will figure it out.”
The divorce was in full swing. At the first hearing Artyom claimed I had no rights to the apartment because of the prenup. Olga presented proof of my mortgage payments.
The judge studied the documents carefully.
“Mrs. Vorontsova, did you in fact pay half of the mortgage payments?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Here are all the receipts and bank statements.”
“Mr. Vorontsov, do you confirm your wife participated in repaying the mortgage?”
Artyom hesitated, glanced at his mother sitting in the courtroom.
“She was just paying to live there,” he finally said.
“But the amounts exactly match half the mortgage payment,” the judge noted. “And the payments went directly to the bank toward the loan.”
“That’s… that’s a coincidence,” Artyom muttered.
The judge postponed the hearing for further review of the paperwork.
After court, Galina Petrovna came up to me.
“You think you’ve won?” she hissed. “I won’t let some upstart take my son’s apartment!”
“I don’t want to take the apartment. I want fair compensation for the money I paid.”
“You won’t get a kopeck!”
But the next hearing showed she was wrong. The judge ruled that I was entitled to compensation for half of the mortgage funds that had been paid.
“The court rules,” the judge read out, “to obligate Vorontsov Artyom Denisovich to pay Vorontsova Darya Mikhailovna compensation in the amount of one million two hundred thousand rubles.”
Galina Petrovna jumped up.
“That’s unfair! She tricked him into giving her that money!”
“Order in the courtroom!” the judge said sharply.
After the session Artyom approached me.
“Are you happy? You destroyed our family!”
“No, Artyom. Our family was destroyed by your inability to be independent and by your mother’s need to control everything.”
“We’ll appeal!”
“Go ahead. I have time—and a good lawyer.”
But there was no appeal. Instead, a week later Galina Petrovna called me.
“Darya, let’s meet and talk.”
“What is there to talk about?”
“A peaceful solution.”
We met at a café. She looked tired and older.
“I’m ready to pay the compensation,” she said without preamble. “But I have a condition.”
“What condition?”
“You sign an agreement saying you have no further claims against Artyom or our family. And you leave the city.”
I laughed.
“Leave the city? Why would I?”
“I don’t want you to be in my son’s sight.”
“Your son made his choice. And I’m not going anywhere because of your whims.”
“Then you won’t get the money!”
“I will. By court order. And if you stall, I’ll go to the bailiffs.”
She clenched her fists.
“I hate you!”
“It’s mutual,” I said calmly. “But unlike you, I don’t let emotions control my actions.”
In the end, the money was transferred to me a month later. I rented a new apartment and found a job at another firm. Life gradually got better.
And six months later I ran into Artyom by chance at a mall. He was with a young woman—quiet-looking, modest.
“Dasha?” he said in surprise.
“Hi, Artyom.”
The woman looked at me curiously.
“This is… my ex-wife,” Artyom introduced awkwardly. “And this is Lena. We’re… seeing each other.”
I smiled at Lena.
“I’m happy for you. And here’s some advice—don’t sign a prenup, and don’t agree to live with your mother-in-law.”
Lena blinked, confused. Artyom turned red.
“Dasha, don’t…”
“Just friendly advice,” I shrugged. “All the best.”
I walked away, leaving them standing in the middle of the mall. I didn’t care whether Lena listened to my advice or not. Everyone makes their own choice.
And I made mine—I chose freedom and independence. Yes, it cost me my marriage, but can you really call it a marriage when one person fully submits to another?
Galina Petrovna got what she wanted—she pulled her son back under her control. But she lost more than she gained. Because Artyom remained a mama’s boy, incapable of an independent life.
And me? I learned a priceless lesson. Now I know you should never lose yourself for someone else. And you should never let a mother-in-law dictate how you live.
Every daughter-in-law should remember: respect has to be mutual. And if a mother-in-law doesn’t respect the boundaries of a young family, that family is doomed.
My divorce wasn’t an ending—it was a beginning. The start of a new, free life where I decide how to live, who to talk to, and what choices to make.
And you know what? I don’t regret a thing
