The keys to her new life lay in the pocket of her robe, softly clinking with every step she took across the kitchen. Nadezhda was making her morning coffee and listening to that sound like music. A small metallic melody of freedom.
“Nadya, where did you put the salt?” a demanding voice rang out from the other room.
Valentina Petrovna’s voice—her mother-in-law’s—was special. It could sound weak and commanding at the same time, plaintive and insistent. In three years of living together, Nadezhda had learned to hear all its shades. Right now it was shade number four: I’m an old woman, but you’re obligated to serve me.
“It’s on the table, where it always is,” Nadezhda answered calmly, stirring sugar into her cup.
“I don’t see it! My eyes are completely useless now, and you won’t even help!”
Nadezhda took the salt shaker and carried it into the room. Valentina Petrovna sat on her throne—a wide armchair by the window—wrapped in a plaid blanket even though the radiators were working just fine. She didn’t look up when Nadezhda placed the salt shaker right in front of her on the armrest.
“Here you go.”
“You could’ve brought it earlier instead of waiting until I had to ask.”
Nadezhda said nothing. Before, she had tried to explain, argue, prove her point. Now she just collected. She collected every “you could’ve,” every “you must,” every “in my house.” And most importantly—she collected money. In secret, ruble by ruble, hundred by hundred, thousand by thousand. Three years of saving, side gigs, and refusing anything unnecessary. And now the keys to her own studio apartment lay in her pocket.
The studio was tiny, on the outskirts, but it was hers. Completely hers. Without a mother-in-law, without reproaches, without the need to report for every minute of her day.
“Where’s Kolya?” Nadezhda asked.
“Probably at work already. He left early.”
Kolya. Her husband. Kind, gentle, spineless Kolya. He loved her—she knew that. But he was even more afraid of upsetting his mother. Nadezhda had once thought everything would change once they moved out. But they never moved. After divorcing her husband, Valentina Petrovna had gotten this two-room apartment, and she clung to it like a last lifeline. “This is my apartment. I’m registered here. I’ve lived here my whole life.” And Kolya nodded. Always nodded.
Nadezhda went back to the kitchen and took out her phone. A message from her friend Sveta: “So? Are you moving today?”
“Today,” she typed, then immediately erased it. No—not today. Today she would just take her things. She’d move tomorrow. First she had to say it. First she needed a reason so she wouldn’t feel like a traitor.
And the reason came two hours later.
Nadezhda was going through the bedroom closet, packing her clothes into a large travel bag. She did it quietly, methodically, without drawing attention. Valentina Petrovna was dozing in her room after lunch. Kolya was at work. The timing was perfect.
Under a stack of old magazines on the top shelf, her hand hit a folder. A plain cardboard folder with ties, a little dusty. Nadezhda opened it automatically, ready to check whether the papers were hers. Inside were documents. She began flipping through them without really reading—until one phrase snagged her eye.
“Gift agreement. Real estate object…”
Nadezhda froze. Her fingers holding the page trembled slightly. She reread the line. Then again. It was a draft gift deed for the apartment. This apartment. From Valentina Petrovna to her son, Nikolai. The date was recent—two days ago. In the “Donee” section, only her husband’s name was listed. No mention of his spouse. And in the notes, in small handwriting, it added: “In case of divorce or death of the donor—the property remains solely with the son.”
Nadezhda slowly lowered the paper. Everything fell into place. For the last three weeks, Valentina Petrovna had suddenly become strangely fussy—going somewhere, whispering on the phone, getting nervous. Kolya had left “to take care of things” a few times, though normally he came straight home after work. They were planning something. They wanted to protect this apartment from Nadezhda. In case of a divorce. Or in case Valentina Petrovna suddenly…
She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms. So they had been preparing for her to leave. Or planning to throw her out. Transfer the apartment to the son alone so Nadezhda would have no rights. She had endured three years—three years of reproaches and control—and they were simply waiting for the moment to leave her with nothing.
No. Now everything would be different.
Nadezhda photographed the document on her phone, carefully put the folder back, and closed the closet. Her breathing was steady; her hands didn’t shake. Strangely enough, the rage that should have boiled up never came. Instead, a cold, crystal-clear certainty settled inside her.
She went back to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and opened her chat with Kolya.
“We need to talk. Seriously. Come home early today.”
A reply came a minute later: “What happened?”
“We’ll talk at home.”
She didn’t explain. Let him worry. Let him feel that something important was happening.
Kolya came back at six, earlier than usual. He looked anxious. He stepped into the hallway, shrugging off his jacket, and immediately asked:
“Nadya, what happened? Is Mom okay?”
“Mom’s fine,” Nadezhda said evenly. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”
They sat across from each other at the small kitchen table. Nadezhda silently took out her phone, opened the photo of the document, and placed it in front of him. Kolya stared at the screen. First his face showed confusion, then dismay, then guilt.
“This… where did you get this?”
“Found it in the closet. By accident.”
“Nadya, I can explain…”
“Then explain.”
He ran a hand over his face. His shoulders slumped. He looked like a schoolboy caught cheating.
“Mom is scared. She’s scared that when she’s gone, the apartment… well, that there’ll be problems. She wants everything properly arranged. It’s just a legal formality.”
“A formality,” Nadezhda repeated. “A legal formality that strips me of any rights to this home. Kolya, we’ve been married three years. I’m registered here. I put my money into renovating the bathroom. I bought the kitchen furniture. And now you and your mom decided to protect yourselves?”
“It’s not like that! Not like that, Nadya, you don’t understand…”
“Then explain it so I do understand. Explain why you didn’t tell me. Why this is being done behind my back?”
Kolya was silent. He stared at the table, his fingers nervously drumming on the tabletop. Finally he exhaled:
“Mom insisted. She said it was the right thing. That it’s her apartment and she can do what she wants with it. I couldn’t say no to her. She’s old, she worries…”
“She worries,” Nadezhda echoed. “And you? Do you worry? About us? About our family? Or am I just a temporary lodger who can end up on the street at any moment?”
“Nadya, what are you saying? I love you—you know that!”
“I know,” she nodded. “And that’s exactly why I don’t want to keep playing this game.”
She stood up, went to the bedroom, and came back with the already packed travel bag. Kolya stared at her with wide eyes.
“What… you’re leaving?”
“I’m leaving. I rented a studio. Small, but mine. Where I won’t have to justify every cup I didn’t wash on time. Where I won’t have to be afraid you’ll throw me out. Where I’ll be the one in charge.”
“Nadya, don’t—let’s talk, let’s discuss this…”
“We discussed it for three years. For three years you said ‘hang on,’ ‘Mom is elderly,’ ‘we’ll move soon.’ But we didn’t move. And we won’t. Because you can’t choose between me and her. And I don’t want to be in a life where I’m forced to compete with someone else.”
At that moment Valentina Petrovna entered the kitchen. She’d heard voices and came to see what was going on. When she saw Nadezhda with the bag, she stopped in the doorway.
“What’s going on?”
Nadezhda turned to her. Her voice was calm and cold as ice.
“I’m leaving, Valentina Petrovna. You’re getting what you wanted—an apartment just for you and your son. Without me. Without the ‘strange woman.’”
For a split second, triumph twisted her mother-in-law’s face, but she caught herself quickly and put on a look of surprise.
“Nadya, dear, what are you talking about? What nonsense! Kolya, say something to her!”
But Kolya stayed silent. He sat at the table, eyes fixed on the floor, and his silence was louder than any words.
Nadezhda went to the coat rack and took her jacket. Kolya suddenly jumped up, rushed to her, grabbed her hand.
“Nadya, don’t go! Please! I’ll fix everything—I’ll talk to Mom, we’ll cancel that agreement!”
She looked at him. Tears were in his eyes. Real tears. He truly didn’t want her to leave. But he also didn’t want to fight with his mother. And between those two refusals, he just stood there—paralyzed, unable to choose.
“Kolya,” she said softly, “I waited three years for you to choose me. To choose us. But you don’t choose. You just want everything to resolve itself. That’s not how life works. And I’m done waiting.”
She gently freed her hand, put on her jacket, and picked up the bag. Valentina Petrovna suddenly snapped, her voice sharp:
“Leaving? Then go! You think he can’t live without you? We’ll find him another one—a normal one who respects the family!”
Nadezhda paused at the threshold. She turned and looked at her mother-in-law. There was no hatred in her eyes. Only pity.
“You’ll never let him go, will you? He’ll live with you until old age—alone—because no woman will put up with your control. You don’t love him. You’re just afraid of being alone.”
Valentina Petrovna went pale. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Nadezhda turned and walked out.
She went down the stairs and stepped outside. Evening had fallen; streetlights were coming on. The cold autumn air burned her lungs. She took out her phone and called Sveta.
“Sveta, I’m coming out. Will you meet me at the new place?”
“I’m already on my way! Well done, girl. You did it!”
Nadezhda slid her hand into the pocket of her robe—no, now the pocket of her jacket—and felt the keys there. They clinked softly. Freedom’s music.
She walked along the evening street, and with every step it became easier to breathe. Behind her was the apartment where she had been a guest for three years. Ahead was a tiny studio where she was the owner. And that mattered more than square meters.
A week later Kolya came to her. He stood at the door of her new apartment, wrinkled clothes, dark circles under his eyes.
“Can I come in?”
She let him in. He stepped inside and looked around. The studio really was small, but cozy. Nadezhda had already put out flowers, hung curtains, and arranged books on a shelf.
“It’s nice here,” he said quietly.
“Thanks.”
They sat at the little table by the window. Kolya was silent for a long time, then spoke:
“I canceled the gift agreement. Told Mom I wouldn’t sign it. We fought. A bad fight.”
Nadezhda nodded. She didn’t ask for details. She didn’t care.
“Nadya, I get it now. I get that you were right. I was a coward. I was afraid to choose—and I lost you. I want to fix everything. I want you to come back.”
“Come back where, Kolya? To the same apartment, to the same mother-in-law, to the same life?”
“No. I want us to move out. On our own. Mom can live alone—she’ll manage. Or we’ll find her a caregiver; I’ll pay. But we’ll live by ourselves. You and me.”
Nadezhda looked at him. In his eyes was hope—real, desperate hope. Three years ago she would have cried with happiness hearing those words. Now she felt only exhaustion.
“Kolya, you’re saying this now because I left. Because you got scared. But what happens in a month? In half a year? Mom gets sick, or cries, or says she can’t cope alone—and you’ll start running between us again. And I’ll feel guilty again for wanting my own life.”
“It won’t be like that! I promise!”
“You can’t promise that. Because you haven’t changed. You’re just afraid of loneliness.”
She stood and went to the window. Outside, the city hummed. Somewhere out there lived people who weren’t afraid to make choices. Who didn’t cling to the past. Who built their lives instead of living someone else’s.
“Kolya, I’m not coming back. Not now. Maybe someday we’ll try again. But first you need to learn to live without your mother. And without me. Learn to stand on your own. And I need to learn not to wait for someone else to make me happy. I’ll make myself happy.”
Kolya was silent. Then he nodded slowly. He stood, walked to the door.
“I’ll wait.”
“Don’t wait. Live.”
He left. The door closed. Nadezhda was alone in her small apartment. She went to the table where a cup of cold tea stood. She picked it up and took a sip. Bitter, cold. But hers.
She smiled.
In the pocket of her robe, the keys to her new life clinked softly. And it was the best music she had ever heard.
