Alyona woke up early, as always. Outside the window it was only just beginning to get light, but inside her the familiar bustle was already rising—she had to make breakfast, get her husband ready for work, and then deal with her own tasks. The three-room apartment in the center of Moscow demanded attention: dust settled on the shelves faster than she’d like, and the flowers on the windowsills needed watering.
Alyona ran her hand along the kitchen countertop—smooth, pale, the very one she had chosen two years ago when she’d been renovating. Back then it seemed like it would be forever—the small world she and Igor had built, where everything would be the way they planned.
The apartment had come to her from her grandmother. The elderly woman had lived here her whole life, and before her death she left her granddaughter the only thing she had. Alyona remembered these walls when they were completely different—peeling wallpaper, creaky parquet, and prehistoric plumbing.
She did the renovation herself, little by little, setting money aside from her salary, choosing every detail. Igor helped, of course—but mostly with advice. Getting his hands dirty wasn’t his thing. Yet now her husband loved bragging to his friends about how spacious their place was, how comfortable the furniture was. Alyona didn’t take offense. She just sometimes wished someone would notice how much effort she had poured into this home.
The neighbors considered them a model couple. Quiet, friendly, no evening scandals. Igor worked for a construction company, earned decent money, but didn’t live large. Alyona worked at a bank—stable position, normal hours. On weekends they went to the movies, sometimes got out of town. Like everyone else. Measured. Calm.
Igor was born in a small provincial town where everyone had known each other since childhood. Alyona had been there once—when she went to meet his family before the wedding. Gray panel buildings, leaning fences, the smell of cheap fuel from buses. A gloomy place, honestly. Alyona tried not to show it, but inside everything tightened. How could anyone live here? Igor walked her around the streets, showing her the school where he studied, the shop where he used to run for bread. It all felt so far from her Moscow life.
His parents welcomed her warmly. His father—a quiet man with calloused hands—nodded politely and immediately went off to tinker in the garage. But his mother, Svetlana Petrovna, filled the entire space at once. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a piercing gaze, she spoke loudly and confidently, as if every word she said was the final truth. Alyona felt her being evaluated from head to toe: clothes, hairstyle, manners.
Svetlana Petrovna fired off questions without really letting Alyona answer, interrupted her, gave advice nobody had asked for. Igor kept silent, as if he didn’t notice how oddly his mother was behaving. Alyona decided then: fine, they live far away, we won’t see them often. Distance is the best protection.
Two years of marriage passed quietly. Svetlana Petrovna never came once. She called rarely, mostly Igor, asking how things were, how work was going. Alyona was only glad. Fewer problems—fewer conflicts. Life went on, and it seemed it would always be that way.
But one evening Igor came home from work with a guilty look on his face. Alyona tensed immediately. He went into the kitchen, poured himself tea, sat down across from her. Stayed silent. Then he said:
“Mom is coming for a week.”
Alyona froze with her mug in her hands. It wasn’t a catastrophe, but something inside clenched.
“When?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.
“The day after tomorrow. I already bought the ticket.”
He spoke as if the decision had been made long ago and there was nothing to discuss. Alyona nodded. Fine. A week isn’t so bad. The guest room was free; she could put on clean sheets, buy groceries. Everything would be fine.
The next day she cleaned from morning till night. She wiped dust everywhere, even in places she normally didn’t check. Washed the windows, hung fresh towels in the bathroom, made sure the guest room was ready. Igor watched her bustle with a light smile.
“Don’t worry so much. Mom’s normal, she’ll understand everything.”
Alyona said nothing. Normal. Sure. She remembered those three days in the provinces perfectly—how Svetlana Petrovna hadn’t left her alone, commenting on every little thing.
On the day of arrival Igor went to the station to meet his mother. Alyona stayed home, putting the final touches into place. When the door opened, Svetlana Petrovna entered like a queen condescending to visit her subjects. Large, in a heavy winter coat, with a huge bag in her hand. Igor dragged a suitcase behind her.
“Well, here I am!” her mother-in-law announced, sweeping her eyes over the entryway. “Oh, it took forever to get here! The train was so noisy and stuffy—I thought I wouldn’t make it.”
Alyona smiled and took her coat.
“Come in, Svetlana Petrovna. You must be tired.”
“Tired? Of course!” She walked into the living room and stopped. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Igoryok! You said the apartment was good, but I didn’t think it was this good!”
She began slowly circling the room, studying the furniture, the paintings on the walls, the big TV. She ran a finger along the back of the sofa as if testing the quality. Then she peeked into the kitchen and gasped:
“Well, would you look at that! So beautiful! And that stove! And the fridge is huge!”
Alyona stood off to the side, watching. Svetlana Petrovna spun like an inspector in a factory, noticing every detail. Then she turned to her daughter-in-law:
“Alyonushka, how did you come by such happiness? This place must’ve been expensive, huh?”
“It’s my grandmother’s inheritance,” Alyona answered calmly. “And I did the renovation myself. Gradually.”
“Ah,” her mother-in-law drawled, shaking her head. “Well, some people are just lucky in life. Born—and there you go, a Moscow apartment. And we’ve been wasting our lives in that hole.”
Alyona clenched her fists. Lucky? She had worked herself to the bone to turn this apartment into something decent. But she kept quiet. Igor looked at his mother with a pleased smile, as if he hadn’t heard the jab.
The first two days were quiet. Svetlana Petrovna spent a lot of time in the kitchen, cooking borscht and pies, talking about life back in her town, about neighbors, about how everything was getting more expensive. Alyona nodded along, trying to be polite. Igor looked happy—his mom nearby, his wife not fighting, everything perfect. On the evening of the second day he even suggested:
“Mom, maybe you should stay longer? Don’t limit yourself to just a week.”
Svetlana Petrovna smiled mysteriously.
“We’ll see, Igoryok. We’ll see.”
On the third day, something changed. That morning at breakfast, her mother-in-law suddenly brought up her sister.
“You know, Igoryok, I have a sister, Lydia. You remember her, of course. Well, she’s dreamed her whole life of getting to Moscow. Never been once. Can you imagine?”
Igor nodded, chewing his sandwich. Alyona grew wary.
“So what?” she asked carefully.
“Oh, nothing—just saying. I keep thinking, if she came here, how happy she’d be. To see the capital—that’s a dream!”
Alyona stayed silent. The talk sounded harmless, but something about it set her on edge. That evening Svetlana Petrovna returned to the topic—more insistently.
“My poor Lidochka has worked at a factory her whole life. Her pension is pennies. Her husband’s retired too. I was thinking—maybe they could come for a week? Rest a bit, see the capital.”
Igor looked up from his phone.
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Alyona froze. Not a bad idea? Was he serious?
“Igor,” she began slowly, “are you planning to put them up here?”
“We’ll find space,” her husband waved it off. “They’re simple people, not picky.”
“I can’t deal with guests right now.”
Alyona felt irritation starting to boil inside her, but she held it back. Maybe it was just talk. Just fantasies.
A day later, in the morning, she was making breakfast. Svetlana Petrovna was still asleep; Igor had left for work. Silence. Alyona enjoyed the rare moment of peace when she didn’t have to paste on a smile and play hostess. She was slicing vegetables for a salad when the doorbell rang.
She wiped her hands and went to open it. Probably a courier. But on the doorstep stood two strangers with travel bags: a man around sixty in a worn jacket and an older woman with a tired face. They looked at Alyona expectantly.
“Excuse me—who are you here to see?” she asked, confused.
At that moment Svetlana Petrovna came out of the room, still in her robe but already lively and pleased. Seeing the visitors, she clapped her hands joyfully.
“Lidochka! Misha! You made it!”
Alyona went still. What? They were already here?
Svetlana Petrovna squeezed past her daughter-in-law and began hugging her sister and her husband, kissing their cheeks, fussing:
“Finally! I thought you’d never get here! Come in, come in!”
Lydia and Mikhail stepped over the threshold timidly. Svetlana Petrovna turned to Alyona with a radiant smile:
“Alyonushka, this is my sister Lydia and her husband Mikhail. They’ll stay with us for a couple of days while they look around the capital.”
Alyona stood there, not believing her ears. A couple of days? With us? Nobody asked her. Nobody warned her. They just brought people and announced they’d be living here.
“Svetlana Petrovna,” she began, trying to stay calm, “you do understand I only have three rooms? One is ours with Igor, the second is yours, and the third is my office.”
“So what?” her mother-in-law waved a hand. “We’ll make up a bed in the office. What’s the big deal?”
Alyona felt blood rush to her face. What’s the big deal? They were turning her home into a hostel, and she was supposed to be happy?
“You didn’t even ask me,” she said slowly.
“And why would I ask?” Svetlana Petrovna looked genuinely surprised. “You wouldn’t refuse your husband’s relatives!”
Lydia and Mikhail stood in the entryway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. They clearly felt the tension but stayed silent.
Svetlana Petrovna looked around the room as if calculating where to place everyone and asked innocently:
“Well, Alyonushka, you’ll find them spare beds, won’t you?”
There was no request in her voice. Only certainty. Certainty that her daughter-in-law wouldn’t dare object—that she would be obedient and convenient, as she was supposed to be.
Alyona froze. Something inside clicked. All her patience, all her efforts to be polite—collapsed in a single second. She turned slowly to her mother-in-law and said clearly:
“You’re the one who invited them to Moscow, not me. So you can find beds for them yourself.”
A dead silence hung in the hall. Lydia and Mikhail froze, as if afraid to breathe. Svetlana Petrovna went pale, then flushed red. Her eyes narrowed.
“What did you say?” she hissed.
“You heard me perfectly,” Alyona answered calmly. “This is my home. And I’m not obligated to accept uninvited guests.”
“How dare you?!” her mother-in-law exploded. “That’s my sister! She’s dreamed her whole life of seeing Moscow! And you… you’re heartless! Cold! Do you even have a heart?!”
Alyona didn’t raise her voice. She just stood there and looked at her. Svetlana Petrovna trembled with rage, waving her arms, nearly shouting:
“I thought you were normal! But you’re an egoist! You got this apartment handed to you—you didn’t earn anything! And now you’re acting like a queen!”
“The apartment came to me as an inheritance,” Alyona said evenly. “And I have the right to decide who lives here and who doesn’t.”
“Igor will hear about this!” Svetlana Petrovna shrieked. “He’ll never forgive you!”
“Let him hear.”
Lydia tried to intervene, speaking timidly:
“Sveta, maybe we shouldn’t… We didn’t want a fight…”
“Be quiet!” Svetlana Petrovna snapped. “It’s her fault! Her!”
Alyona silently pointed to the door. Her hand didn’t tremble. Inside her was a strange calm. She wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of a scandal, not of judgment. This was her home. Her life. And no one was going to dictate how she lived.
Svetlana Petrovna darted into the room, changed, shoved her things into her bag, grabbed her sister by the hand and dragged her toward the exit, throwing over her shoulder:
“I’ve never met such a rude woman in my life! Igor will know everything! Everything!”
Mikhail hurried after them. Alyona closed the door and leaned against it with her back. She exhaled. Her hands trembled slightly, but inside there was a strange relief. She had defended her home. Finally.
Less than an hour had passed when the door flew open. Igor burst into the apartment with a grim face. Alyona sat in the kitchen, finishing her cold tea. He stopped in the doorway, breathing hard.
“What happened?” he forced out through clenched teeth.
“Your mother brought her sister and her husband here,” Alyona replied calmly. “Without warning. She decided they were going to live with us.”
“And so?” Igor stepped into the room. “You kicked them out?”
“I didn’t let uninvited guests into my home.”
“That’s my mother!” he shouted. “My family!”
“And this is my apartment,” Alyona objected just as quietly. “And I have the right to decide who lives here.”
Igor clenched his fists. Alyona saw him trying to hold himself back, failing.
“Mom didn’t mean any harm!” he blurted at last. “She wanted to make her sister happy! And you… you humiliated her!”
“She didn’t ask me.”
“You should’ve given in!”
“Why?” Alyona stood up and looked him straight in the eyes. “Why should I give in? Why do I have to be convenient for everyone? This is my home, Igor. Mine! Not yours, not your mother’s. Mine!”
“You’re an egoist,” he said bitterly.
Alyona laughed—shortly, without joy.
“An egoist? I’ve spent two years putting up with your mother calling, criticizing, meddling in our life. I kept quiet because I didn’t want conflict. But now she crossed the line—and I won’t let her run my home.”
Igor was silent. Alyona watched him torn between his mother and his wife, unable to choose a side. Finally he said:
“You have to apologize.”
“No.”
“Alyona!”
“No,” she repeated. “I won’t apologize for protecting my home.”
Igor turned and headed for the door. Alyona called after him:
“If you’re going to support your mother, you can go to her.”
He froze on the threshold, turned, looked at her for a long moment. Then he left, slamming the door.
Alyona was alone. She sat on the sofa, wrapped her arms around her knees. Silence. No voices, no demands, no judging looks. Just her and her thoughts.
She wasn’t scared. She didn’t feel sorry. A strange certainty rose inside her—she had done the right thing. To protect your home is to protect yourself. Your right to be yourself, not convenient for everyone.
She got up and went to the window. Outside, cars flashed by; people hurried on their way. The city lived its own life, indifferent to the small dramas inside individual apartments. Alyona smiled. Let Igor think. Let his mother rage. She wasn’t going to bend anymore.
That evening the phone stayed silent. Igor didn’t call. Alyona made herself dinner and sat in front of the TV. A strange feeling—as if she’d dropped a weight she’d been carrying for two years. Lightness. Freedom.
At night the door opened. Igor came back. Alyona heard him take off his shoes, walk into the bedroom. She lay still. He lay down beside her and was silent for a long time. Then he asked quietly:
“Are you really not going to let them in?”
“Really.”
Silence. Then:
“Mom said she’ll never forgive you.”
“I know.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
Alyona turned to him.
“That’s for you to decide, Igor. You can support your mother. Or you can support me. But know this—if you choose her, I won’t beg you to stay.”
He lay there staring at the ceiling. Alyona felt him struggling with himself. Finally he exhaled:
“Maybe you’re right.”
She didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes. Tomorrow would be a new day. Tomorrow there might be calls again, reproaches, attempts to pressure her. But she wasn’t going to bend anymore.
In the morning Svetlana Petrovna called. Igor took the phone and went out onto the balcony. Alyona caught fragments of the conversation—his mother demanding, yelling. Igor answered quietly but firmly. When he came back, his face looked tired.
“Mom is leaving,” he said. “She said she’ll never cross this home’s threshold again.”
“Good,” Alyona replied calmly.
Igor looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“Do you really not regret it?”
“No.”
He nodded. Then suddenly he hugged her. Alyona froze, not expecting it. Igor pulled her close, buried his face in her hair.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve supported you right away.”
Alyona didn’t answer. She just stood there, feeling his warmth. Maybe something could still be fixed. Maybe not. But one thing she knew for sure—no one was going to run her life anymore.
Svetlana Petrovna went back to her town. Alyona didn’t see her off. Didn’t call. She simply kept living. The apartment became quiet and cozy again—her space.
Sometimes she thought about that morning scene in the entryway. About how easy it would’ve been to give in, to уступить, to stay silent. But she didn’t stay silent. And that was her small victory—over the fear of being “inconvenient,” over the urge to please everyone.
Alyona stood by the window, looking at the city. Life went on. And she was no longer afraid to protect her world
