Her mother-in-law walked into the apartment without calling—like she always did. She’d had a key from day one, back when Denis first brought Natasha to that cramped two-bedroom Khrushchev-era flat. Five years ago, Valentina Petrovna had smiled sweetly and said, “Just in case, kids—what if you need help urgently?”
Now the key wasn’t “help.” It was a weapon. A tool for sudden, unwanted intrusions.
Natasha heard the lock click and froze in the kitchen, a ladle still in her hand. Her heart dropped hard. She was cooking borscht for Denis—he’d be home in an hour. She’d imagined a quiet evening, just the two of them. That hope shattered with the familiar sound of the front door opening.
Valentina Petrovna appeared in the kitchen doorway, flawless as ever. An elegant suit the color of wet asphalt, hair twisted into a tight bun, a forced smile stretched across her lips. She flicked her gaze over the pot on the stove, the cutting board with half-chopped parsley, then looked at Natasha. Something cold flashed in her eyes.
“Making borscht?” the mother-in-law asked, walking in and sitting at the table without being invited. “Denis likes it with beef, you know. And you’re saving money again—using chicken?”
Natasha swallowed the tight lump in her throat. Chicken was cheaper. Their salaries covered life, but not luxuries. Valentina Petrovna knew that. She always knew—and she always made sure to remind her.
“Chicken is fine too,” Natasha answered quietly, continuing to chop the herbs.
“Fine,” Valentina Petrovna echoed with a faint, sharp smile. “My son is used to something else. I always cooked for him with meat. Real meat.”
Natasha kept silent. Arguing was pointless. Every attempt to defend herself only turned into another round of accusations. She had learned to stay quiet, swallow insults, nod along. It was how she survived in this family.
“By the way,” her mother-in-law said, pulling a folder of documents from her purse and placing it on the table, “I’ve been thinking. We need to talk seriously. About the apartment.”
Natasha looked up. The apartment. Those two words had hung over their marriage from the beginning like a blade. On paper, the place belonged to Denis—Valentina Petrovna had arranged the privatization in his name before their wedding. But in reality, Valentina Petrovna had always acted like the only owner who mattered.
“What about the apartment?” Natasha asked carefully, setting the knife down.
“I’ve decided to transfer it into my name,” Valentina Petrovna said calmly, opening the folder. “Or rather—Denis and I already discussed it. He agreed. You understand, at my age you have to think about inheritance. You never know.”
The words struck like a slap. Denis agreed? He knew? And he hadn’t told her?
“When did you discuss this?” Natasha’s voice trembled.
“Last week. He came by, we talked,” the mother-in-law said. “My son is smart—he understands. It’s sensible. The apartment returns to the family, and then when I’m gone, he gets it back anyway. Officially, through inheritance. Clean, no complications.”
“But we live here,” Natasha whispered. “This is our home.”
Valentina Petrovna studied her with a long, measuring look. It said everything: you’re temporary, you’re чужая, you’re a guest—not the woman of the house.
“My son’s home,” Valentina Petrovna corrected. “You’re just the wife here. For now.”
Those last two words landed like a sentence. Natasha felt something tear inside her. For years she had endured—criticisms about her cleaning, her cooking, how she dressed, how she styled her hair. Constant comparisons to some “perfect” wife that lived only in her mother-in-law’s imagination. Surprise visits. Boundaryless control. She endured it because she loved Denis. Because she believed time would smooth things out.
But she couldn’t endure this.
“Denis couldn’t have agreed to that,” she said, firmer now. “Not without my knowing.”
“He could—and he did,” Valentina Petrovna said, pulling out a few papers. “Here. A preliminary gift-transfer agreement. His signature. We just need to go to the notary next week and finalize it.”
Natasha took the sheet with shaking hands. Denis’s signature. His uneven, hurried handwriting. The date—last week. So he’d known all this time. He’d come home, kissed her, talked about his day—and stayed silent.
“Why?” was all she managed to breathe.
“Because it’s the right thing,” Valentina Petrovna said coolly, taking the papers back. “I’m his mother. I raised him alone, without a father. I gave my whole life to him. And who are you? Five years married and still no children. Maybe there won’t be any. Then who gets this apartment—your relatives? Don’t even dream.”
The words fell like stones. Natasha gripped the edge of the table and felt anger slowly rise inside her—cold, heavy anger she’d been smothering for years.
“You want to drive me out,” she said quietly. “You always did.”
“Not drive you out,” Valentina Petrovna replied, standing and adjusting her bag strap. “Just protect my son’s interests. You know marriages fall apart. And the apartment has to stay in the family. The real family.”
She headed toward the door, then turned back in the doorway.
“Oh—and don’t forget to salt the borscht. Yours is always bland.”
The door shut. Natasha remained standing in the kitchen. The borscht bubbled softly on the stove, steam rising toward the ceiling. But she didn’t see it. All she saw was Denis’s signature. His agreement. His betrayal.
An hour later Denis came home, and she met him with silence. He changed clothes, came into the kitchen, inhaled.
“Borscht? Perfect. I’m starving.”
Natasha set a bowl in front of him and sat down across the table. She watched him eat without lifting her eyes.
“Denis,” she said finally. “Your mother was here.”
He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. He didn’t even look up—just stopped. And it was enough. He knew. Of course he did.
“So?” he asked quietly.
“She showed me the papers. You’re signing the apartment over to her. Without telling me.”
Silence. He set the spoon down and rubbed his face with his hands.
“Natasha, it’s logical. Mom’s right. It’s a family apartment. It’s safer this way.”
“Safer from who?” Her voice shook. “From me?”
“Not from you,” he finally looked at her. “Just… you never know. Divorces happen. Property division. This way it stays in the family.”
“I am your family,” Natasha whispered. “Or am I not?”
He said nothing. And in that silence was the answer. She understood then: for him, “family” meant his mother—forever. And Natasha was an add-on. Temporary.
“Were you even going to tell me?” she asked.
“I was,” he said, reaching for his spoon again. “I was just waiting for the right moment.”
“The right moment,” she repeated. “When? After it was already signed?”
“Natasha, don’t make a scene. It’s just paperwork. Nothing will change.”
“Everything will change,” she said, standing up. “I’m not the woman of the house anymore. If I ever was.”
She went into the bedroom and locked the door. Lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. No tears came. It hurt too much even for tears.
That night she didn’t sleep. She lay there and thought—about five years of marriage, about how hard she’d tried to please her mother-in-law, about how Denis always chose his mother’s side, about how she’d dissolved into that family until she could barely recognize herself.
By morning, she’d decided.
When Denis left for work, Natasha pulled an old suitcase down from the top shelf and began packing. Not everything—only what mattered. She wasn’t going to fight. She was simply leaving.
Her phone rang around noon. Her mother-in-law.
“Natasha, it’s Valentina Petrovna. Denis and I are going to the notary tomorrow at two. Will you be home? We need some documents from the wardrobe.”
“I won’t be home,” Natasha said evenly.
“What do you mean you won’t be home? Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving. For good.”
A pause—then Valentina Petrovna’s voice, sharper.
“You’re abandoning your husband?”
“I’m freeing up the apartment,” Natasha replied. “After all, it’s ‘family property.’ And as it turns out, I’m not family.”
“Natasha, don’t be ridiculous. Without him you’re nobody. Where will you go?”
“To my parents’ for now. Then I’ll rent something. I’ll find a better job. I’ll manage. Without your ‘family’ pressure.”
“Denis won’t allow it,” something close to panic crept into her mother-in-law’s tone.
“Denis already allowed it,” Natasha said, glancing at the suitcase. “The moment he signed your papers behind my back. The moment he chose you, not me. He’s been allowing me to leave for a long time.”
She ended the call. The phone rang again immediately. She switched it off.
By evening she was done. She sent Denis a short message:
“Keys are on the table. I’ll send the divorce papers through a lawyer. Don’t call.”
She took the suitcase and walked out. Once, she looked back at the two-bedroom flat where she’d spent five years of her life—years spent fighting for the love of a man who never learned to put her first.
The door closed softly.
A week later Denis showed up at her parents’ house—begging, lost, saying everything could be fixed. Natasha met him at the doorway.
“Did you already sign the apartment over?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“You did,” she nodded. “So your mother got what she wanted. And you?”
“I want you to come back,” he stepped closer. “Natasha, I love you.”
“No,” she shook her head. “You love your mother. You love her approval. You’re afraid to upset her. And me? I was convenient. Quiet. The obedient daughter-in-law.”
“That’s not true,” he reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” Natasha looked him straight in the eye. “Not that you signed the papers. It’s that you didn’t even think to ask me. For you it was normal—to decide for me. To decide without me. Like I was furniture in that apartment, not your wife.”
“I’ll change,” his voice trembled. “I’ll talk to Mom. We’ll undo it.”
“There’s nothing to undo,” Natasha said tiredly. “Live there together. She always wanted that. Now she has the apartment and she has you completely. She won.”
“Natasha, please—”
“Go, Denis. I’ve already filed for divorce. I don’t want anything from you. Not the apartment, not money. Just freedom.”
He stood in the doorway, unable to move. Natasha slowly closed the door. On the other side came a dull thud—probably his fist hitting the wood. Then silence. Then footsteps fading down the stairwell.
Natasha leaned her back against the door and exhaled. Inside her, there was emptiness—but a different kind of emptiness. Not the one that had been tearing at her for years. This was the emptiness after a deep clean—after you’ve thrown out all the trash, scrubbed the floors, opened the windows. Painful. Cold. But clean.
Three months later the divorce was final. Natasha rented a tiny one-room apartment on the outskirts and got a job as a manager in a trading company. The salary was modest, but it was hers. The apartment was small, but it was hers. Life was hard, but it was hers.
One evening, coming home from work, she saw Valentina Petrovna. Her former mother-in-law stood near the entrance, clearly waiting. She looked older, her face drawn. Natasha tried to pass, but the woman called out.
“Natasha, wait.”
Natasha stopped, turned, and waited in silence.
“He’s completely fallen apart,” Valentina Petrovna said dully. “He drinks. Almost every day. Problems at work. I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s not my problem,” Natasha said evenly.
“But you’re his wife…”
“I was his wife,” Natasha corrected. “Now I’m free. And you got what you wanted—the apartment, your son nearby. Enjoy it.”
She turned toward the building. Valentina Petrovna called again.
“I only wanted what was best! For him!”
Natasha stopped and looked back one last time.
“You wanted control. Power. You wanted him to stay your little boy forever. But he needed to become a man—someone who protects his family. You didn’t let that happen. Now you have the apartment, and you have a son registered in it. Only there’s no happiness there. And there never will be.”
She went inside without looking back. Walked upstairs to her place. Sat by the window with a cup of tea. Snow fell outside. The city drifted into a white, quiet sleep.
Natasha picked up her phone and texted her friend:
“I’m free. For real.”
And it was true. She’d lost a home, a husband, five years of her life. But she’d found herself again—the Natasha she’d misplaced on the very first day of marriage. The Natasha who knew how to say “no.” The Natasha who knew her own worth.
Never again would she let anyone erase her. Never again would she become a shadow in someone else’s family story. Now she was writing her own—from a blank page.
The mother-in-law and the apartment stayed in the past.
Ahead of her was freedom.
