“On Sunday, Lenka is moving her bags into your two-room apartment,” my mother-in-law said with a smile. “We’ll put a sofa for her in that small room where your computer is, Olya. You’re not some noble lady. You can sit with your laptop at the dining table.”
I didn’t choke on my tea. I didn’t even drop the bagel I’d already bitten into. I work remotely as an accountant. I handle fifteen individual entrepreneurs, from auto repair shops to shawarma kiosks. I’ve survived bank account freezes under Federal Law 115, surprise tax inspections, and clients who bring an entire quarter’s worth of receipts in a shoebox. My nerves had long ago turned into steel cables. I simply moved my cup to the edge of the oilcloth and looked at my mother-in-law.
Tamara Vasilyevna was a loud, heavyset woman who firmly believed her word was law for the entire family. She was finishing off my homemade pancakes with sour cream as if she owned the table. Beside her sat her daughter, my twenty-eight-year-old sister-in-law Lenka. Lenka was scraping the bottom of a bowl of jam with a spoon, doing her best to look miserable.
My husband Slava, a simple factory worker, not a bad man but terrified of any conflict with his mother, was guiltily picking at the oilcloth with his fork.
“Excuse me, Tamara Vasilyevna,” I said in a calm, ordinary voice. “Who exactly are we putting a sofa for, and where?”
Slava and I had been living in this nine-story panel building on the outskirts of town for five years. The apartment was no palace, but I had polished it into a home with my own hands. I had hung the wallpaper myself, hunted down laminate flooring on sale, and set up a tiny workspace in the second room because I needed silence to work with numbers.
“Olechka, you know Lena is in trouble!” my mother-in-law cried, throwing up her hands.
“That brute Kolya threw her out! Told her to pack her things and get lost! Can you imagine? That scoundrel left a woman with a five-year-old child on the street!”
“You have a two-room apartment. There’s enough space,” Lenka added without lifting her eyes.
“And Olya, lock your cat in the hallway. My Deniska might be allergic to fur. Also, clear the lower shelf in the fridge for me.”
“And one more thing. I need quiet in the mornings. I get migraines from stress, so if you start rattling pots at seven in the morning, I’ll complain. Oh, and we’ll take turns dropping Deniska off at kindergarten and picking him up. I’ll get tired quickly if I have to travel that far from your neighborhood every day.”
Something inside me clicked like an invisible calculator.
They weren’t just planning to move into my apartment. They were planning to climb onto my neck, dangle their legs, and order me around with a broom.
Slava cleared his throat.
“Olyush, come on… Lenka’s really going through a dark time. Where else can she go? She’ll stay with us for a couple of months until she finds a job. We’re family. We’ll squeeze in.”
“We’ll squeeze in.”
What a convenient phrase when someone else is the one being squeezed.
I slowly folded my hands on the table.
“All right. Let’s discuss the logistics,” I said, looking at my mother-in-law.
“Tamara Vasilyevna, remind me, how many rooms are in your apartment? Three, if I’m not mistaken. A huge place, improved layout. Why doesn’t Lena and her son move in with her own mother?”
My mother-in-law began puffing with outrage.
“Olya, are you out of your mind? I have high blood pressure! Deniska runs around like a madman. I need peace! Besides, you know perfectly well I rent out two rooms. That’s my supplement to my pension!”
“Ah, yes. You rent them out,” I nodded thoughtfully.
“To eight migrant workers from the nearby construction site. Without a contract, without registration, and without paying taxes. You are aware, aren’t you, that Officer Petrov has already visited your neighbors twice because of the noise and unsanitary conditions? And that the fine for illegal business activity and tax evasion would eat up your little ‘pension supplement’ for about three years in advance?”
Tamara Vasilyevna went pale. Her mouth opened in a rather funny way.
“You… Are you threatening me with the district police officer?”
“I’m stating facts,” I replied, then turned my gaze to my sister-in-law. “Now, Lena. Let’s talk about your ‘dark time’ and that villain Kolya.”
Lenka stiffened and put down her spoon.
“What about Kolya? He threw me out with a child!”
“Kolya owns a tire service shop at the auto market,” I reminded her gently.
“And, at the same time, he happens to be one of my regular clients. I’ve been doing his accounting for three years. On Wednesday, he called me to reconcile his cash records. You know, Lena, he was very upset.”
Slava finally lifted his eyes from the table and stared at his sister.
“Kolya told me why he kicked you out,” I continued. I didn’t raise my voice, but every word fell like a stone.
“He found out you had been taking cash from the register at the tire shop for two months. Eighty thousand rubles, Lena. And when he checked your credit history, he discovered you’d taken out microloans at insane interest rates in your own name to gamble at online casinos.”
“He threw you out because debt collectors showed up at his place. He even took pity on you and didn’t file a police report for theft.”
Lenka turned crimson. She sank into the stool, avoiding her brother’s eyes.
“Lenka… is that true?” Slava asked in a dull voice.
“She’s lying!” my sister-in-law squeaked, but so unconvincingly that even a blind person would have understood everything.
“Moving on,” I said. I had no intention of stopping.
“Now let’s discuss our two-room apartment and this so-called family support.”
I gave my husband a long, meaningful look.
“Slava. This apartment was not bought by us. It was bought by me. The down payment came from the sale of my grandmother’s little house in the village, which belonged personally to me. And the mortgage, which we supposedly pay together, is paid from my business account. Your factory supervisor salary of forty-five thousand goes entirely toward the loan for your Lada, gas, weekend beer, and utilities. That is where your contribution to the family budget ends. Food, clothes, vacations, and renovations are all on me.”
A thick, ashamed blush flooded my husband’s face. He opened his mouth to say something, but I raised my hand, calling for silence.
“So there will be no Lenas, no nephews, and no strange sofas in my home,” I said, turning back to my mother-in-law, who was sitting there breathing heavily.
“You live in a three-room apartment. Evict your illegal tenants, move your daughter and grandson in there, sell your dacha plot, and pay off her microloans before debt collectors start spray-painting your front door. As for my home, you may come here only on holidays. After calling in advance.”
Tamara Vasilyevna shot to her feet. The stool gave a miserable creak.
“You nasty little witch!” she spat, grabbing her bag.
“What a calculating witch you are! Slava, did you hear how she dragged your mother and sister through the mud? Come on, Lena! And you, son, if you’re any kind of man, pack your things today and leave this snake! We’ll see how she howls here alone with her mortgage!”
They stormed into the hallway. Lenka hurriedly shoved her feet into her sneakers. The front door slammed so hard that a bit of whitewash crumbled from the frame.
I calmly stood up, collected the dirty cups, and put them in the sink. Then I turned on the water.
Slava remained sitting at the table. Naturally, he did not go pack any things.
“Olya…” he finally forced out, staring at my back. “I really didn’t know about the microloans. Or the cash register. Mom said Kolya had found another woman…”
I turned off the water, dried my hands on a towel, and faced him.
“Now you know. And here is what I’ll tell you, Slava. If I hear one more time in my own home that I’m supposed to sacrifice my comfort for your relatives, you will go live with your mother. With the illegal tenants, the debt collectors, and Lenka’s hysterics. And I will stay here. In silence. With my cat.”
I paused, looking into his confused eyes.
“And now take the sponge and wash the dishes. I need to work. The quarterly report won’t balance itself.”
I went into my small, hard-won room and closed the door.
A minute later, I heard water running in the kitchen and the timid clinking of plates.
Slava was washing the dishes.
In my ordinary two-room panel apartment, everything was quiet and safe again.
And once more, everything was going according to my rules.
