Fyodor Aristarkhovich called for the third time in a row, and only on the third ring did Vera think to pick up.
“Miss, are you at home? Some people have come to see you. With tools. They say you lost your keys, and your mother-in-law sent them.”
Vera froze with the phone pressed to her ear. Her mind went blank, as if someone had yanked out a cord.
“What people?”
“A locksmith from the housing office and two more guys. Tamara Semyonovna is with them. They’re opening the door right now.”
Her fingers went numb. The phone nearly slipped from her hand.
Irina, sitting at the next desk, looked up from her papers and studied her face.
“What happened?”
Vera didn’t answer. She just sat staring at one point, unable to move. Irina stood, came over, took the phone from Vera’s hands, and quickly listened to Fyodor Aristarkhovich’s rambling explanation.
“Get your things. Now.”
“I can’t… I need to—”
“I said get your things!”
Irina grabbed Vera’s bag and tossed her jacket at her.
“I’m calling the police, and you’re walking out. Move.”
Vera didn’t remember how she ended up in the car. Irina drove so sharply that every turn threw Vera against the door.
“This is a break-in, do you understand? You have to be there when they arrive. Otherwise you won’t be able to prove anything.”
Vera nodded, but inside everything was tightening. For a year and a half she’d endured nitpicking about dishes, scolding over “wrong” soups, sneers at her job. Tamara Semyonovna knew how to speak so that every word left a mark. Not shouting, not a scene—just a cold contempt that made you want to sink through the floor.
And now she was forcing her way into the apartment. The very apartment Vera had inherited from her grandmother—the one place where she could shut the door and finally breathe.
When they burst out of the car, two police officers were already on the landing. The locksmith—a thin man in a wrinkled jacket—huddled against the wall, mumbling something about a misunderstanding. Two young men, apparently Tamara Semyonovna’s “helpers,” backed toward the stairs.
“Are you the owner of the apartment?” asked the senior officer, a stocky man with a tired face.
“Yes.”
“Go on in. There’s a woman inside. Says she’s looking for her things.”
Vera stepped over the threshold—and stopped.
The dresser in the entryway was flung wide open, its contents dumped onto the floor. Scarves, gloves, old receipts—everything in a heap. In the bedroom the wardrobe stood with its doors open, and in front of it, squatting down, sat Tamara Semyonovna methodically sorting through stacks of underwear.
She turned, saw Vera—and didn’t even flinch. She stood up, brushed her palms on her skirt, and looked at Vera as if it were Vera who had broken into her home.
“Finally you showed up. I’m just taking back what’s mine. You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“What of yours?”
Vera’s voice cracked halfway through.
“Family jewelry. Grandmother’s earrings. I gave them to you for the wedding, and you hid them.”
“What earrings? You never gave me anything!”
“Don’t lie to my face.”
Tamara Semyonovna stepped forward, and Vera instinctively stepped back.
“You think I don’t know you took them? I see everything.”
Irina moved to stand beside Vera—firm, calm.
“Citizen, you entered someone else’s home illegally. The police are here for a reason.”
Tamara Semyonovna shifted her gaze to Irina—cold, appraising.
“And who are you?”
“A lawyer. And a witness.”
Irina turned to the officers.
“The owner did not give permission to enter. The door was forced open at this woman’s demand, and she has no right to do that. Please document what happened and detain her.”
One officer nodded and took out a notebook. The other walked up to Tamara Semyonovna.
“Come with us.”
“Are you serious? I’m her mother! Essentially! She stole my jewelry and you’re detaining me?!”
“Do you have documents for these items?”
“They’re family heirlooms! What documents?!”
“Then come with us. We’ll sort it out properly.”
When they took her by the arms and led her toward the door, Tamara Semyonovna snapped around. Her face twisted as she shouted about ingratitude, about theft, about how Vera had always been nobody. The words flew one after another—sharp, vicious—but Vera stood still and watched her go.
For the first time in a year and a half, she didn’t feel fear. Only a strange, almost chilly satisfaction.
They had to clean the apartment until night. Irina helped in silence, only occasionally tossing out a short remark. The next day Vera took time off work and went to change the lock. The technician came quickly, worked without a word, and half an hour later a new key lay in her palm—heavy, cold, real.
That evening her ex-husband called.
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what—”
“Not on the phone. I’m coming over now. With my sister.”
They arrived twenty minutes later. Her ex, Maksim, looked rumpled—unshaven, wrinkled shirt, red eyes. His sister Oksana followed behind, lips pressed into a thin line.
Vera didn’t let them past the entryway.
“Say what you came to say.”
Maksim dragged a hand over his face, exhausted.
“Vera, you understand… Mom didn’t do it on purpose. She just panicked. Those earrings are very important to her, she thought you—”
“What earrings, Maksim? She never gave me anything. You know that.”
“She could’ve forgotten…”
“She didn’t forget. She broke into my apartment. She called a locksmith, lied to him, went through all my things. That isn’t forgetfulness.”
Oksana stepped forward.
“Vera, we’re not asking you to forgive her. We’re asking you not to ruin Mom’s life. She’s sixty-three. If she gets a record, she’ll lose her job—everything. You don’t want that, do you?”
“And did she want me to lose my peace?”
Vera looked at Oksana, then at Maksim.
“For a year and a half I endured it. Every day. I kept quiet when she said my cooking was disgusting. When she said I dressed like a pauper. When she hinted you were only with me out of pity. I put up with it because I thought—family means you have to endure. And now you come here and ask me to feel sorry for her?”
“We’re asking you not to destroy the family even more,” Maksim said softly.
But Vera heard in his voice what she’d always heard: the tired plea to give in, stay quiet, not rock the boat.
“Maksim, the family fell apart the moment you took her side. When you stayed silent that time she told everyone I married you for the apartment. When you never defended me even once.”
He said nothing, looking away.
“Withdraw the complaint,” Oksana said sharply, almost ordering her. “You’ve had enough revenge.”
“This isn’t revenge.”
Vera opened the door.
“It’s a lesson. For her. And for you.”
They left without saying goodbye. Vera closed the door, leaned her back against it, and slowly slid down to the floor. Her hands were shaking—but not from fear. From the fact that for the first time in a long time, she’d said what she truly thought and didn’t retreat.
The court date was set for a month later. Irina helped with the paperwork, explained what to say and how to behave. Tamara Semyonovna hired a lawyer—a young man with an aggressive voice.
Vera sat in the courtroom and listened as he painted her former mother-in-law as a caring woman who had simply been worried about the safety of something valuable. Tamara Semyonovna sat with her head bowed, acting remorseful, but when the judge asked about evidence, she lifted her head and looked straight at Vera.
That same look—cold, full of superiority. As if even here, in court, she still believed she was right.
“Do you have documents for the jewelry?” the judge asked.
“They were family items, passed down verbally…” the lawyer faltered.
“So there’s no proof?”
Silence.
“And there were no witnesses to the handover?”
Silence again.
The judge looked at Tamara Semyonovna for a long, assessing moment.
“Do you understand that unlawful entry into a dwelling is a criminal offense? Not a family quarrel—a crime.”
Tamara Semyonovna stayed silent, but her lips compressed into a thin line.
The verdict: a suspended sentence, a fine, and compensation for damages. Not much, but enough for a note to appear in her employment record. Enough for her colleagues to find out. Enough that her face, leaving the courtroom, looked gray and older.
As they left the building, Tamara Semyonovna passed Vera without looking at her. Maksim and Oksana followed behind, grim and silent. Vera stood on the steps and watched them go.
Irina gave her hand a brief squeeze.
“That’s it.”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Three months passed. Vera didn’t run into Tamara Semyonovna even once. From mutual acquaintances she learned Tamara had moved in with Oksana, and then lost her job—she couldn’t handle the gossip at work.
One day at the supermarket Vera ran straight into Oksana. Oksana pushed a cart piled with groceries and stopped when she saw Vera. The pause stretched. Vera nodded, about to walk past, but Oksana suddenly spoke:
“Mom moved out from my place. Couldn’t stand it. She’s always unhappy, always telling everyone how to live.”
Her voice sounded tired, without its old harshness.
“I never noticed before. I thought it was normal. That she was just ‘caring.’”
Vera stayed silent.
“I’m not asking you to forgive her. But I wanted to say… you were right. Back then. Right not to back down.”
She turned her cart and walked away without waiting for an answer. Vera stood among the vegetables watching her go. Not triumph, not gloating—just the understanding that sometimes people learn only after a blow.
That evening she sat by the window in her apartment. The new lock clicked softly when she closed the door. A reliable sound. The right sound.
The phone stayed silent. No calls from Maksim. No messages from his relatives. As if they’d never existed.
Vera looked at the things in the dresser—neatly folded, in their places. At the wardrobe no one would ever rummage through without permission again. At her life, which she had fought back.
She didn’t feel joy, and she didn’t feel relief. Just quiet. A calm, long-awaited quiet in which she could finally breathe fully.
The boundaries she had built held firm. A new lock on the door. New rules in life. A new steadiness in her voice when someone tried to pressure her.
She had learned to say “no.” Learned not to explain, not to justify, not to feel guilty for defending herself. It hadn’t been easy—but it had been worth it.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Irina: “Movie tomorrow? A new one came out—they say it’s pretty good.”
Vera smiled and typed: “Sure. What time?”
A simple exchange of messages. Simple plans. A simple life with one main thing in it—peace. Real peace, earned and hard-won, where you don’t have to look over your shoulder, don’t have to wait for the next blow, don’t have to defend yourself from people who should have been on your side.
One spring day, when the snow had almost melted away, Vera saw Tamara Semyonovna on the street. She was walking on the opposite side of the road, hunched, heavy bags in her hands. Older. Her face looked worn, her movements slower.
Vera stopped, watching her. No anger. No pleasure at how it had turned out. Just emptiness—like looking at a stranger you once crossed paths with a long time ago.
Tamara Semyonovna didn’t notice her. She walked past and disappeared around the corner.
Vera stood for another moment, then turned and went on. She had her own errands. Her own life. The one she had reclaimed—and had no intention of giving back to anyone.
That evening she was re-papering the bedroom—she’d chosen light, almost white wallpaper. She threw out the old armchair that sat in the corner collecting dust. The apartment felt lighter, more spacious. Fyodor Aristarkhovich came by to help with a heavy roll and said, looking at the refreshed walls:
“It’s nice in here now. Bright.”
“Yes. Bright.”
She no longer thought of Tamara Semyonovna every day. Sometimes a thought would flicker—by accident, when she heard a similar voice on public transport. But they were brief flashes, without pain or heaviness.
Once Irina asked:
“Do you regret filing the report?”
Vera thought for a moment.
“No. I only regret not doing it sooner. That I put up with it for so long.”
“A lot of people put up with it their whole lives.”
“I know. But I don’t want to be one of them anymore.”
They sat in the kitchen drinking tea while outside the sky slowly darkened. An ordinary evening. An ordinary day. Without drama, without upheaval. Exactly the kind Vera wanted.
She had learned to live differently. Not making excuses. Not apologizing for having a right to her own space. Not feeling guilty for defending her boundaries.
The apartment no longer felt like a fortress to hide in. It became simply a home. A place you want to return to. Where it’s bright, quiet, and calm. Where no one will dig through your closets, humiliate you, or pretend they have a right to your life.
Vera put her phone down, finished her tea, and stood up. A new day lay ahead.
And it belonged only to her.
