The first weeks in the new apartment felt like a breath of fresh air after a long suffocation. I stood at the kitchen window, looked out into the courtyard, and couldn’t believe it—no one would be peering over my shoulder, counting how much salt I put in the borscht or commenting that “in my day, young wives knew how to iron men’s shirts properly.”
“Len, where are you?” Dima called from the hallway.
“In the kitchen!” I answered, not taking my eyes off my evening tea.
He appeared in the doorway looking pleased—the way he always did after work when he knew peace was waiting for him at home, not a mother’s interrogation about whether he was eating enough and why he was getting in so late.
“How are you?” he asked, kissing my temple. “What are we making?”
“How about we just order something tonight? Sit, talk. No fuss.”
Dima nodded and sat down opposite me. In the month of our independent life, he’d noticeably relaxed. He’d stopped flinching at every sound, expecting his mother’s voice from the corridor. He no longer felt the need to justify every minute spent alone with me.
“You know,” he said, stretching, “I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to come home and not report where you were and what you were doing.”
I smiled. Galina Petrovna really did know how to set a tone. Three years of living together had taught me a lot: how to slip off to the bedroom when she started her monologues on what real wives should be like; how to nod and agree when she explained that I cooked porridge the wrong way; how to pretend I was interested in her stories about the neighbor, Klavdiya Semyonovna, and her problems with the grandkids.
The hardest part was enduring her criticism of my job. “Why does a girl need a career when she has a husband?”—that was her favorite theme. And when I got a promotion, Galina Petrovna sulked for two weeks, repeating that “in her day women knew their place.”
“Mom’s just used to controlling everything,” Dima would say when I tried to talk to him about it. “She worries.”
Worries. Yes, I suppose you could call her daily inspections of the fridge and comments like “bought the expensive cottage cheese again—what’s wrong with the regular kind?” worry.
But now all that was behind us. Our little one-bedroom in the new neighborhood had become a real refuge. Yes, the mortgage weighed on us, and every month we had to count our pennies, but we were on our own. Finally, on our own.
I didn’t hear the first doorbell—I was in the shower. The second caught me in a robe with a towel on my head. The third was insistent and long.
“Coming, coming!” I called, tightening the robe belt as I hurried.
Through the peephole I saw a familiar figure in a dark blue coat. My heart dropped.
“Galina Petrovna?” I asked, flustered, opening the door. “What happened?”
My mother-in-law stood on the threshold with a large suitcase and a shoulder bag. Her face was determined, even triumphant.
“Hello, Lenochka,” she said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. “Where’s my son?”
“He’s still at work. Did… did something happen?” I looked at the suitcase, not understanding what was going on.
“No,” she said, already in the hallway, taking off her coat. “I just missed you. Decided to stay for a little visit.”
The word “visit” in her delivery sounded suspiciously substantial. Especially paired with a suitcase clearly packed for more than a couple of days.
“Galina Petrovna,” I ventured carefully, “maybe it’s better to warn us about these visits? We, you know, don’t have… much space.”
She gave me that look I knew by heart—a mix of surprise and mild superiority.
“Lenochka, dear, don’t worry about me. I’m unpretentious. I can sleep on the couch.”
“That’s not the point,” I began, but she had already headed into the living room and was giving our place a critical once-over.
“The couch is comfortable,” she muttered, sitting and testing the springs. “And you can see the TV well from here.”
I stood watching her make herself at home and felt panic rising. A month of freedom was over. The inspections, the advice, the hints and outright remarks about my shortcomings would start again.
“Galina Petrovna,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “Dima and I have only just started settling in. It’s still… chaotic. Maybe it’s not the best—”
“I’m not moving in with you; I’m moving in with my son,” she declared, turning toward me with suitcase in hand. “It’s his apartment; he bought it. Which means it’s mine too—the family’s. And I have every right to be here.”
There was such certainty in her voice that I realized arguing would be useless—at least right now. I needed to think what to do next.
“All right,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just go get dressed.”
In the bedroom I grabbed my phone and dialed Oksana. She was at work but picked up right away.
“Oksi, I have an emergency,” I whispered. “My mother-in-law arrived. With a suitcase.”
“Oooh,” Oksana drew out. “I see. For long?”
“Judging by the suitcase, forever. Says it’s a family apartment and she has the right to live here.”
“Listen, remember I told you about my sister-in-law? The one who also decided their place was the family nest?”
“I remember,” I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. “What did you do?”
“I drove her out,” my friend giggled. “Very simple. Here’s how…”
Oksana talked for ten minutes, and I listened, slowly starting to smile. The plan was devilishly simple and at the same time brilliant.
“Do you think it’ll work?” I asked.
“It worked perfectly for me. Irka moved out in two days and never again brought up the ‘family home.’”
That evening Dima came home around seven, as usual. I met him in the hallway with a warning look.
“We have a guest,” I said quietly.
“What guest?” he didn’t get it.
“Your mom. She came… to visit.”
Dima’s face fell.
“To visit? For how long?”
“Judging by the suitcase—awhile.”
He sighed heavily and went into the living room. By then, Galina Petrovna had already prepared dinner—she’d divided my buckwheat with meat into three portions and chopped a cucumber salad.
“Dimochka!” she exclaimed, rushing to hug her son. “I missed you so much!”
“I missed you too, Mom,” he said, though I saw his shoulders stiffen. “What’s this visit about?”
“Oh come on, son! Can’t a mother check on her children? I sit alone there, bored. And you two are young, lively…”
Over dinner she reported neighborhood news, complained about the neighbors, and quizzed Dima about work. Business as usual. But I could see Dima shrinking back into his old pattern—listening attentively, nodding, not interrupting.
I waited for the right moment.
“You know,” I said when the conversation turned to our financial difficulties, “I have an idea for paying off the mortgage faster.”
“What idea?” Dima asked.
“Let’s rent the apartment short-term. It’s very profitable right now. Especially in the summer.”
Galina Petrovna choked on her tea.
“Rent it? How do you mean?” she asked.
“What’s so complicated about it?” I shrugged. “You have a great place, the neighborhood’s popular. You can get good money. Rent to out-of-towners, business travelers, tourists. And young people love renting for parties—they pay the most.”
“Parties?” my mother-in-law gasped. “In our apartment?”
“Why not?” I asked innocently. “Money is money. And we need every ruble. Especially now that expenses have gone up.”
I gave her a meaningful look. She flushed.
“Dima,” I turned to my husband, “I’ve already checked prices. If we actively rent all summer, we can not only double the monthly payment, but also set aside money for a major renovation.”
“Renovation?” he frowned. “Why a renovation?”
“What do you mean why?” I feigned surprise. “After short-term renters you always need to fix things up. It’s not their walls they’re careful with. Especially after parties and holidays. But that’s fine—we’ll factor the restoration costs into the rental price.”
Dima nodded thoughtfully.
“You know,” he said, “there’s something to that. No point letting the apartment sit idle. And since Mom’s moved in with us, it’d be a shame not to take advantage.”
“You can’t be serious!” cried Galina Petrovna. “Strangers? Parties?”
“What’s the problem?” I asked, wide-eyed. “The apartment shouldn’t sit empty. Especially when the kids are paying off debt. We’re a big family now—more expenses. We need to think about extra income.”
“But all kinds of people will come!” she protested. “How will we know what kind of people they are?”
“Galina Petrovna,” I explained patiently, “nowadays everything can be checked. Passports, ratings, reviews. And besides, money talks. If they pay well, they’re good people.”
“All the more,” Dima chimed in, warming to the idea, “we can install cameras and keep an eye on things.”
“Exactly!” I said brightly. “And take a deposit for the furniture. Standard practice.”
She stared at us in horror.
“Where am I going to live?” she asked in a faint voice.
“Where? Here, of course,” I said, surprised. “You came with a suitcase.”
“We could rent you a dacha for the summer,” Dima suggested. “Fresh air, nature. And in the fall you’ll come back to a refreshed apartment.”
“Oh, and we should take photos for the listing tomorrow,” I added. “My friend’s a realtor—she’ll help make it all look great. It’s just the start of the season.”
“Lena,” my mother-in-law tried, “maybe we shouldn’t rush? Let’s think it over…”
“What’s there to think about?” I cut in. “The sooner we start, the more we’ll earn. May, June, July, August—those are the most profitable months. By September we’ll have saved up for a nice renovation.”
“And new furniture,” Dima added. “After the guests, something will surely need replacing.”
Galina Petrovna went pale.
“Dimochka,” she ventured, “maybe I should go home for now? I don’t want to get in the way of your plans…”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Mom!” I exclaimed. “You’re not in our way! On the contrary, you gave us the idea. If you hadn’t come, we wouldn’t have thought to monetize the apartment.”
“Exactly,” Dima agreed. “Thanks, Mom. It’s turning into a solid plan.”
The next morning I woke to sounds in the hallway. Quietly, my mother-in-law was packing her things.
“Are you leaving?” I asked, appearing in the bedroom doorway.
“Yes, dear,” she answered without looking up. “I’ve got things piling up at home. And besides, I don’t want to interfere with your plans.”
“What a pity,” I said sympathetically. “We were already getting excited about family life.”
“Another time,” she muttered, zipping up her suitcase. “Maybe another time.”
She left without waiting for Dima to wake up. She only left a note on the kitchen table: “Son, I remembered important things at home. See you soon. Mom.”
That evening, after Dima read the note, he looked at me for a long time, suspicious.
“Len,” he said at last, “you didn’t happen to come up with that rental idea on purpose, did you?”
I tried to keep a straight face, but I couldn’t and burst out laughing.
“On purpose,” I admitted. “Oksana taught me.”
Dima shook his head and laughed too.
“So what now?”
“What do you mean, what now?” I said. “Now everything’s fine. We live alone, no one interferes.”
“What if Mom comes again?”
“If she does—we’ll think of something else. Oksana has plenty more ideas.”
We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and laughing, while the May sun shone outside. The apartment was quiet, peaceful, truly cozy. Finally, truly good.
A week later, Galina Petrovna called to ask how we were and carefully inquired whether we had changed our minds about renting the apartment if she came to visit.
“Of course not—the idea’s a good one. Even if summer ends, there are the long fall weekends, and the school breaks are around the corner. It’s always relevant!” I replied.
After that call, she never again brought up moving in with us. She even started coming over only when invited, letting us know in advance.
And we went on living in our little one-bedroom—happy, free, and finally on our own.
