Where are the boxes? I’m asking you, where are the boxes?”
Tamara Petrovna didn’t walk into the hallway, she sailed in, carrying her impressive bust in front of her like a medal for services to the motherland. Behind her, trying not to step on the rug with his dirty boots, slipped in Igor Sergeevich, clutching a fat folder of files to his side.
Olya was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a mug of cold tea. She was wearing an old, stretched-out sweater she loved because she could almost hide entirely inside it, and thick jeans. No fuss, no panic. Only the dark circles under her eyes gave away that for the last three nights she’d only slept in snatches.
“Good evening, Tamara Petrovna. Hello, Igor Sergeevich,” Olya’s voice was as even as the hum of the refrigerator. “And what do you need the boxes for? Decided to turn in waste paper?”
Her mother-in-law froze, flaring her nostrils. In the dim light of the hallway lamp her face, heavily powdered with something pinkish, looked like the mask of a displeased theatrical deity.
“Olya, let’s do without this… plebeian humor of yours,” Tamara Petrovna twisted her mouth as if she’d bitten into a lemon, peel and all. “We came to monitor the process. Vadim said you’re vacating the premises today. We are decent people, we don’t want any scandals, but we are obliged to check the safety of the property. We know these types… the ones who are leaving. They’ll unscrew the faucets, rip out the sockets.”
From behind his mother’s broad back, Vadim appeared. He looked crumpled, his gaze darting around the corners, carefully avoiding Olya’s eyes. A typical ostrich pose, except instead of sand there was lacquered parquet, which, by the way, Olya had chosen and paid for.
“Mom, wait,” Vadim muttered, nervously twisting his car keys. “Don’t start right at the door. Olya, we talked about everything, didn’t we?”
You talked,” Olya corrected him, taking a sip of cold tea. “You and your wonderful support group. As I recall, I only took part in that ‘discussion’ as a listener.”
“There! ” Tamara Petrovna triumphantly raised a finger with a massive gold ring. “Rudeness. Pure rudeness. Igor, do you hear this? We opened our hearts to her, welcomed her into the family, sheltered her, and she… Vadik, son, how did you live with her for five years? She’s a stone around your neck, not a wife.”
Igor Sergeevich grunted, shifting from foot to foot. He was clearly uncomfortable, but he hadn’t dared contradict his wife since nineteen eighty-nine.
“Tamara, let’s stick to the point,” the father-in-law rumbled. “Olga, the situation is simple. The marriage is de facto dissolved, it only remains to formalize it legally. Vadim needs to arrange his life. You do too, I suppose. The apartment is a family asset. We put our hearts into this…”
“And money!” squealed Tamara Petrovna. “Huge amounts of money!”
Olya walked back into the kitchen, put her mug on the table and gestured for the guests to follow.
“Come in, don’t be shy. You can keep your shoes on, I’ll have to wash the floors afterward anyway.”
The kitchen was spacious and bright, done in cool gray tones. No cheerful curtains or magnets on the fridge. Strict minimalism. Olya loved emptiness—easier to breathe in it. On the table lay documents: statements, receipts, the purchase agreement for the apartment.
The guests took their seats. Tamara Petrovna sat down on the chair as if it were a throne and immediately began an inspection: she ran her finger along the tabletop, checking for dust, and looked skeptically at the cabinet fronts.
“So,” began Igor Sergeevich, opening his folder. “We’ve prepared an agreement. To avoid courts, avoid dirt. You, Olga, are a reasonable woman, you must understand: Vadim is going through a difficult time. He needs a start. This apartment…”
“This apartment,” Olya interrupted him, “was bought three years ago. In ‘bare concrete box with holes in the walls’ condition.”
“So what?” snorted her mother-in-law. “Renovation is something you can always do later. We bought the walls! We sold the garage, we emptied our savings!”
Olya looked at Vadim. He was diligently studying the pattern on his shirt.
“Vadim, maybe you’ll tell your parents how it really was? Or have you swallowed your tongue?”
Vadim twitched.
“Ol, why are you starting again? Mom’s right. They gave the money for the down payment. I was paying the mortgage… well, from our joint card, but I was the one working!”
“You worked,” Olya nodded. “Six months as a taxi driver, three months as a manager, then six months ‘finding yourself’, then a manager again, but this time for a friend, where they paid you peanuts in an envelope and the rest you… where did that go again? Oh right, ‘representation expenses.’ For your image.”
“Don’t you dare count my son’s money!” Tamara slammed her palm on the table. “He worked hard for the family! And you? Sat in your logistics job, shuffling papers!”
Olya smirked. Logistics. If her mother-in-law knew how many nerves it cost to “shuffle papers” in a company that handled oversized transportation across the whole country, she might actually shut up. But in Tamara Petrovna’s mind, a real job was only what Vadim did, even if that job was losing money.
The story of their divorce was banal to the point of tooth-grinding. Vadim had found his “kindred spirit.” A girl from a “good family,” the daughter of some deputy factory director. Tamara Petrovna was thrilled. The new darling, Lenochka, was quiet, hung on Vadim’s every word and, most importantly, her daddy had promised Vadim a position. Not like Olya—“low-born,” from a simple family of engineers, and with a personality to boot.
His parents had been dripping poison into Vadim’s ear for six months. “She’s not right for you,” “she’s dragging you down,” “you’re not growing with her.” Vadim, susceptible to flattery and the prospect of an easy life, caved quickly.
And here was the finale. They had come to evict her.
“Let’s get closer to the numbers,” Olya said sharply. “You claim the apartment is yours.”
“Of course!” exclaimed Igor Sergeevich. “We gave one and a half million for the down payment!”
“You did,” Olya agreed. “As a wedding gift. In an envelope. In front of all the guests you loudly shouted: ‘This is for your little nest!’ A gift.”
“That was a targeted loan!” Tamara quickly corrected, narrowing her eyes predatorily. “A verbal agreement! Vadim will confirm it.”
Vadim nodded without lifting his eyes.
“I confirm. It was a debt.”
Olya slowly shifted her gaze from her husband to her mother-in-law.
“Interesting. So, a debt. And the two million I put into the renovation from my personal savings left from my grandmother’s apartment, we’re not counting that?”
“Renovations depreciate!” waved a hand Igor Sergeevich, clearly proud of knowing a fancy word. “The wallpaper fades, the laminate wears out. That’s not capitalization.”
“Luxury vinyl tile,” Olya corrected automatically. “It’s not laminate, it’s LVT. A lifetime material.”
“Doesn’t matter!” snapped her mother-in-law. “Listen carefully, young lady. We’re offering you an amicable solution. We’ll give you… let’s say, three hundred thousand rubles. For your trouble. And you deregister and move out. Today. Lenochka wants to bring her things tomorrow, she needs to set up housekeeping, and your aura is still here.”
Olya looked at them with genuine interest. You really had to have that kind of unclouded arrogance. They truly believed they could just throw a person out on the street by shoving a handout at her.
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Then we’ll go to court!” roared Tamara. “And we’ll prove you’re a fraud! That you lived off your husband! Vadim will say you were bleeding him dry! We have witnesses!”
“What witnesses? Neighbor Aunt Zina you borrowed salt from?”
“Don’t be cheeky!” Her mother-in-law turned purple. “Vadik, say something to her!”
Vadim finally raised his head. In his eyes sloshed a mix of self-pity and irritation.
“Ol, seriously. Why do you need this war? You have no chance. The apartment was bought during the marriage, but the money came from my parents. At best the court will split it in half, and we’ll prove the origin of the funds, and you’ll get a tenth. You really want to spend years in court? Take the money and leave with dignity.”
Olya stood up and went over to the window. Wet snow was falling outside, typical November gloom. She remembered how they’d bought this apartment. Back then Vadim had just gotten himself into another shady scheme with supplying some kind of supplements and was neck-deep in debt to creditors. He was afraid to put even a SIM card in his name, let alone real estate.
His parents had been shaking too. “What if they seize it? What if the bailiffs come?”
Olya turned back to the “family council.”
“You, Igor Sergeevich, have a short memory. And you too, Vadim.”
She picked up the top document from the table.
“Remember 2022? Vadim, you had three enforcement orders against you totaling eight hundred thousand. Plus collectors were calling.”
Vadim grimaced as if from a toothache.
“Yeah, that happened. I paid them off.”
You paid them off?” Olya raised an eyebrow. “I paid them off. With my bonuses. But that’s not even the point. When we bought the apartment, you, Tamara Petrovna, personally screamed into the phone that not a single square meter should be registered in Vadim’s name. ‘Put everything in your name, Olya, save the property!’ you yelled. Remember?”
Tamara faltered, adjusting the brooch on her chest.
“Well… yes. That happened. A technical necessity. But we agreed that it was just a formality! That the apartment is essentially Vadim’s!”
“Words don’t hold up in court,” Olya said quietly. “But there’s something more interesting.”
She pushed a folder into the middle of the table.
“Vadim, you were so afraid your first ex-wife would file for division of property or recalculate child support when she saw a new apartment, that you insisted… no, you begged me to sign a prenuptial agreement. Remember?”
Silence fell over the kitchen. So thick you could hear the lightbulb buzzing.
Vadim turned pale. His face took on the shade of stale plaster.
“We… we didn’t register it, did we?” he croaked.
“How could we not?” Olya asked with feigned surprise. “We went to notary Artamonova. You were the one who drove me there. You dictated the terms yourself: ‘Property registered in the name of a spouse is considered that spouse’s personal property and is not subject to division.’ You wanted to protect your future millions from me. And at the same time protect the apartment from your creditors by registering it in my name.”
Igor Sergeevich grabbed the folder and with trembling fingers pulled out a copy of the prenuptial agreement with a blue stamp. He ran his eyes over the text. His face lengthened.
“Tamara…” he whispered. “It says here… it says here that the apartment at this address… is the sole property of the wife.”
“What?!” Tamara snatched the paper from him. “That can’t be! It’s a forgery! Vadim, are you an idiot?! What did you sign?!”
“Mom, I…” Vadim shrank. “I thought it was just insurance! I thought we’d rewrite it later! I forgot about it! Olya never mentioned it, I thought she’d thrown that paper away!”
“Thrown it away?” Olya laughed. The laugh was dry and prickly. “I’m an accountant, Vadim. I don’t throw anything away. Especially documents that keep a roof over my head.”
Tamara sank heavily back onto the chair, which creaked plaintively under her weight.
“You… you tricked us!” she hissed, staring at Olya with hatred. “You wormed your way into our trust! You planned this from the start!”
“I? ” Olya stopped smiling. Her eyes turned cold as steel. “I spent three years pulling your family out of a debt pit. I fed your son while he played businessman. I did the renovation in this concrete box, hauling bags of mix because Vadim’s ‘back hurt.’ And when you decided to throw me out like an old dog to move in the daughter of some official, you thought I’d just lie in my pillow and cry?”
She leaned over the table, looking straight into her mother-in-law’s face.
“You convinced your son to divorce me? Congratulations. Operation successful. Except the apartment is registered to me. Both in the prenup and in the property register. Tough luck.”
Olya straightened up and glanced at the clock.
“You have five minutes to leave my property. Otherwise, I’m calling the police. Strangers in my apartment, threats, attempted extortion. I’ve got a camera in the hallway, by the way. With sound.”
Igor Sergeevich was the first to jump up. He realized this smelled not just of a family scene, but of real trouble.
“Tamara, let’s go. Let’s go, we’ll deal with it later. We’ll talk to lawyers.”
“What lawyers?!” shrieked Tamara as her husband dragged her toward the exit. “She robbed us! My money! My hard-earned money! Vadik, do something!”
Vadim sat staring at the table. He understood that once Lenochka found out he was no longer a desirable groom with an apartment but a homeless divorcé with alimony (yes, Olya could still file for spousal support if she found grounds), she would evaporate faster than the morning mist.
“Vadim,” Olya called. “Do you need a special invitation?”
He slowly got up. Looked at her—properly, for the first time that evening. His eyes were empty, with some sort of childish hurt in them.
“You’re harsh, Ol. I didn’t know you were like this.”
“Life taught me,” she snapped. “Keys on the table.”
He put the key ring down. Metal clinked against glass.
“And the boxes,” she added to the relatives’ backs as they were leaving. “Take the boxes with you. I don’t need other people’s trash.”
When the door slammed shut behind them, Olya didn’t start crying. And she didn’t laugh anymore either. She went to the door, turned the lock twice. Then returned to the kitchen, poured the cold tea down the sink and turned on the kettle.
In the silence of the apartment—her apartment—it was peaceful. Her soul, which for the past months had been clenched into a tight knot of fear and resentment, slowly, creaking, began to uncoil.
She walked over to the window. Down below at the entrance, Tamara Petrovna was waving her arms, saying something to her hunched son. Igor Sergeevich was loading the unused empty boxes into the trunk with a doomed expression.
Olya drew the curtain. Tomorrow she would have the locks changed. And maybe buy new curtains. She’d never liked these—the mother-in-law had chosen them. From now on there would only be her rules here…
Olya thought she’d put a full stop at the end of the story, but life decided otherwise. A month of silence later, her phone exploded with messages. But it wasn’t her mother-in-law cursing her. It was the “other woman,” Lenochka. And what she sent—a photo of Vadim’s suitcases set out on the stair landing and a short note: “Come take your treasure back, he’s bankrupt”—didn’t make Olya gloat. It made her tense up.
She realized: Vadim would come back. And this time he wouldn’t be asking—he’d be demanding…
