I spent five long days in the hospital, recovering from a scheduled knee operation. The healing process went without the slightest complication, so my attending physician discharged me earlier than planned. My husband Oleg was expecting his wife back only on Saturday evening, but I decided to surprise him. I did not warn anyone, called a taxi, and headed along the familiar route.
More than anything, I wanted to be back within my own walls, take a warm shower, and change into something loose and comfortable. I inserted the key into the lock, but it stubbornly refused to yield to my efforts. Someone had secured the front door with the inside latch, which in our three years of married life we had never once used.
I had to press the doorbell insistently several times, leaning heavily on my medical cane. On the other side came heavy, shuffling footsteps, nothing like my husband’s light tread. The door swung open, and on the threshold stood Vera Ivanovna, Oleg’s mother.
She was wearing my favorite silk robe, a deep emerald color, which I had bought a month earlier for a considerable sum. The thin flowing fabric was treacherously stretched across my mother-in-law’s full figure, threatening to split at the seams. The belt had been carelessly tied around her waist in a rough double knot.
“Oh, why did you show up at the house so early?” the relative drawled irritably, without even thinking of stepping aside. “Oleg clearly told me you wouldn’t be discharged from the hospital until tomorrow.”
“Hello, Vera Ivanovna, let me into the apartment,” I said, carefully squeezing past her into the hallway.
My light wooden shoe cabinet had disappeared, and in its place stood a massive ottoman made of cracked brown faux leather. Beside it were three enormous plaid bags stuffed to the brim with various belongings. Right on top of the expensive laminate floor lay an old faded rug with its pattern worn away.
Oleg came slowly out of the bedroom, lazily rubbing his sleepy eyes. He was wearing stretched-out lounge pants and an old gray T-shirt.
“Sveta, why are you making noise the second you come through the door?” he yawned, leaning against the wall. “Mom came to help around the house while you’re sick. I can’t spend the whole week eating store-bought dumplings, I’ll ruin my stomach.”
Without a word I walked into the kitchen and froze at what I saw. On the induction stovetop stood an old aluminum pot with a bent handle and black soot caked along the sides. Vera Ivanovna was busily scraping my best frying pan with a metal spatula, trying to turn over burnt pieces of meat.
“Stop, you’ll ruin the special nonstick coating,” I stepped forward, trying to take the kitchen utensil from her.
“Oh, don’t make up nonsense, you pampered city girl,” my mother-in-law waved me off, continuing what she was doing. “What difference does it make what you stir the food with? The main thing is that the man is fed and satisfied. I fried you some cutlets from good pork, enough for at least three days.”
I shifted my gaze to the dining table, where an elegant glass vase with a dried-flower arrangement had once stood. Now there was a massive plastic salt shaker shaped like a fat chef and a roll of paper towels.
“Where are my flowers that were standing on this table?” My voice sounded surprisingly even.
“I threw that trash out in the garbage, just to be safe,” Vera Ivanovna answered calmly. “They only collect dust all over the house, there’s nothing to breathe. Normal people keep fresh bouquets, not dried-up brooms.”
“Oleg, why is your mother throwing away my personal things?” I looked at my husband, who was watching what was happening with complete indifference.
“Sveta, don’t start another fight over nothing,” he sighed irritably. “A person came from far away, cleaned everything up, cooked food for the whole family. Be grateful for the help and care.”
“I did not ask for help, especially not at the cost of damaged property,” I said, pronouncing every word sharply. “And take off my robe immediately, Vera Ivanovna.”
My mother-in-law snorted in annoyance, threw the spatula onto the countertop, and left for the bathroom. I decided to check the bedroom where I had planned to rest and regain my strength after being discharged. The door to the room was half-open.
On our double bed lay a чужой set of bed linen with a gaudy floral pattern. And right on my orthopedic pillow sprawled Yegor, Oleg’s twenty-year-old younger brother. He was chewing sunflower seeds, spitting the husks into a saucer on the blanket, and watching videos on his phone.
“Hey, Svetka, why did you come back so early?” the relative tossed out, not even removing his feet in street socks from the bedspread. “We were actually expecting you only tomorrow.”
My large built-in wardrobe stood wide open, displaying complete chaos inside. Half of my dresses had been crumpled up and shoved tightly into a far corner. In the freed-up space hung my mother-in-law’s bulky sweaters and Yegor’s brightly patterned shirts.
I closed the bedroom door and slowly walked back down the corridor. From the kitchen came my husband’s and mother-in-law’s muffled but clearly audible voices.
“Just look at her, what an offended little lady she came in acting like,” Vera Ivanovna complained loudly. “She’s sorry to lend her pathetic robe to her husband’s own mother. Never mind, Olezha, let her get used to sharing property. You just stand your ground, don’t let her boss the family around.”
“Mom, I asked you not to unpack all the bags yet,” my husband muttered guiltily, shifting from foot to foot. “We should have eased her into the idea gradually, but now there’s definitely going to be a scandal.”
“And why drag it out if Yegor starts classes at the institute in a week?” his mother snapped, loudly clattering plates. “The boy can’t ride in from the suburbs on trains every day, he’ll get tired fast. Your second room is standing empty anyway, that’s where he’ll live.”
“She’ll be against it, her workspace is set up there,” Oleg tried to object uncertainly.
“Your little business lady will get over it,” Vera Ivanovna slammed the cabinet door with force. “The apartment is yours, you’re the rightful owner and head of the house. You’ll tell her your brother will live here until he gets his diploma, and that’s that. And if she doesn’t like it, she can pack her things and go back to her parents.”
I stood in the corridor, listening to this astonishing conversation. A clear picture of the madness taking place formed in my mind. There were no tears, no hurt, only an utterly lucid understanding of the situation.
Oleg knew perfectly well that I had inherited this spacious, bright apartment from my grandmother two years before I even met him. It turned out my beloved husband had brazenly lied to his relatives for years. He had presented himself as a successful man who had bought a city apartment and generously supported his wife.
Now these people sincerely believed they had every right to dispose of my square meters. I stepped resolutely into the kitchen, gripping the handle of my cane tightly. Vera Ivanovna immediately fell silent and began energetically wiping the countertop with a wet sponge.
“Vera Ivanovna, pack your bags right now,” I said in an even and extremely firm voice.
The sponge fell from the stunned woman’s hands. She blinked in surprise, clearly not believing her own ears.
“I repeat, pack your things. You and Yegor have exactly thirty minutes to vacate my property.”
Oleg spun around sharply, red blotches rapidly spreading over his face. He took a step toward me, trying to block my way.
“Sveta, have you completely lost your conscience?” his voice broke into an outraged shout. “How dare you speak to my mother like that in my house?”
I smiled sincerely and broadly, looking straight into his darting eyes. I felt absolutely no fear of him.
“In your imaginary house, Oleg, you can boss around anyone you like.” I straightened my back. “But this is my apartment, and I’m sick of your endless guests.”
My mother-in-law looked helplessly from me to her son. Her lips trembled with indignation.
“How is it your apartment?” the heavyset woman threw up her hands. “Olezha himself said he took all the expenses on himself and bought it for your future family!”
“Your son just wanted to seem like a wealthy man at someone else’s expense,” I said, not taking my mocking gaze off my husband. “Let him show you the property papers, if he even has any.”
Oleg went pale and swallowed convulsively, unable to find the right words to justify his years of lies. He stared stubbornly at the floor, nervously twisting the hem of his gray T-shirt.
“Son, tell me honestly, is it true?” Vera Ivanovna asked in a trembling voice, leaning heavily against the edge of the table.
The only answer was the pathetic, guilty silence of a grown man. The illusion of prosperity collapsed in a single instant.
“Time is passing,” I said meaningfully, glancing at my phone screen. “Oleg, this concerns you directly as well. Get out your travel bag. Your mother will surely need male strength to carry the heavy things to the station.”
“Sveta, wait, let’s discuss everything normally, without emotion,” he tried to touch my shoulder, but I recoiled in disgust. “I just didn’t want to upset them with the harsh truth. Let Yegor stay a couple of months, there’s plenty of room for everyone.”
“The time for discussion ended the very moment you threw out my things and let outsiders onto my bed.”
I walked into the corridor and flung the front door wide open. Then I leaned against the cool wall, calmly watching the commotion begin. A disheveled Yegor stuck his head out of the bedroom, finally tearing himself away from his videos.
“What’s with the rush in the apartment?” he scratched the back of his head in surprise.
“Pack your things, we’re leaving right now,” Oleg snapped angrily, roughly shoving his mother and brother aside on the way to the bedroom.
The packing took place in a heavy, crushing atmosphere. Vera Ivanovna tried demonstratively sighing, theatrically clutching at her heart, and drinking water in small sips. She was clearly hoping to make me feel sorry for her with her sudden indisposition.
But those cheap theatrical performances did not make the slightest impression on me. Oleg grimly stuffed his shirts, shaving supplies, and work computer into a travel bag.
He kept throwing questioning glances my way, expecting tears, hysteria, or an offer to make peace. But on my face he saw only absolute certainty and calm.
Forty minutes later, the whole procession stood lined up on the landing: my mother-in-law, flushed with humiliation; sleepy, bewildered Yegor with the bags; and my now former husband.
“You’ll regret what you’ve done,” Oleg hissed, gripping the suitcase handle tightly. “You’ll be left all alone in an empty apartment. Who needs you with such a disgusting character?”
“Goodbye, Oleg.”
I firmly shut the heavy door right in front of his face. The locks clicked twice, cutting off the past forever.
The first thing I did was roll the ugly ottoman out of the hallway onto the landing by the garbage chute. The old rug that had been covering my clean laminate floor went after it.
In the kitchen, without the slightest regret, I threw out the burnt food together with the ruined aluminum cookware. I opened all the windows wide so the autumn wind could air out the smell of fried onions presence.
I made myself a pot of fresh loose-leaf tea and settled comfortably into a soft armchair. There was no one in the apartment except me, and that felt like a real victory.
