Irina sat at her desk in her room, reviewing a website mockup for a new client. Colorful blocks, fonts, and icons flickered across her laptop screen. She had been working remotely as a web designer for four years now, and it brought in a decent income. Orders came in steadily, she set her own schedule, and the arrangement suited her perfectly.
The living room door opened, and Dmitry came into the apartment. He took off his jacket, hung it in the closet, and headed to the kitchen.
“Ira, are you home?” he called.
“Yes, I’m working!” she replied without looking away from the monitor.
Dmitry appeared in her doorway and leaned against the frame.
“Listen, I need to talk to you. Seriously.”
Irina looked up from the screen and at her husband. From his face, it was clear the conversation wouldn’t be easy.
“What happened?”
“It’s about Mom,” Dmitry rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Her house in the village is falling apart. The roof leaks, the stove smokes, the walls are damp. She definitely won’t make it through the winter there.”
Irina tensed. She already had a feeling where this was going.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Well… we need to take her in. At least for the winter,” Dmitry avoided meeting her eyes. “We’ve got a three-room apartment—there’s enough space.”
Irina leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She had only seen Valentina Petrovna a few times in three years of marriage, and every meeting left a bitter aftertaste. Her mother-in-law was a domineering, hardline woman who believed she knew better than anyone.
“Dim, do you realize this will complicate our lives?”
“She’s my mother, Ira. I can’t leave her in a house that’s collapsing,” he finally looked at his wife. “Please.”
Irina let out a heavy sigh. Refusing was impossible—Dmitry would take it as betrayal. And she understood that leaving an elderly person in those conditions really wasn’t an option.
“Fine,” she agreed. “But only for the winter. And she stays out of our business.”
“Of course, of course! Thank you, sweetheart!” Dmitry exhaled in relief and kissed her on the top of her head.
The apartment truly was three rooms—and it belonged to Irina. She had inherited it from her grandmother five years earlier, before she even met Dmitry. After the wedding, they simply started living here together. Dmitry worked as a manager at a construction company, earning an average salary—there wouldn’t have been enough money for a mortgage or rent on a large place.
Valentina Petrovna arrived a week later. Dmitry picked her up from the village in his car and brought her with three huge suitcases and two bags.
“Hello, Valentina Petrovna,” Irina greeted her in the hallway and tried to take one of the suitcases.
“Hello,” the older woman answered dryly, sweeping the apartment with an appraising gaze. “So this is where I’ll be living?”
“Yes, this is your room,” Irina pointed to the far bedroom. “We put a bed in there, a wardrobe—everything you need.”
Valentina Petrovna walked into the room, looked around, and grimaced.
“A bit cramped. Oh well, I’ll get through the winter.”
She started unpacking, and Irina went to the kitchen, feeling a flicker of irritation. “Cramped”—the room was fifteen square meters, more than enough for one person.
The first few days were relatively calm. Valentina Petrovna settled in, arranged her things, explored the apartment. Irina worked in her room, Dmitry went to the office, and her mother-in-law kept herself busy with whatever she pleased.
But after a week, things changed. Valentina Petrovna had fully made herself at home—and decided it was time to set things in order. Irina came back from the kitchen with a cup of coffee and discovered that all her books on the living room shelves had been rearranged.
“Valentina Petrovna, why did you do this?” she stopped in the middle of the room, cup in hand.
“Why? I’m putting things in order,” her mother-in-law said, dusting a shelf. “You had chaos here—books all mixed together. I sorted them by size. Now it looks nice.”
“But it was convenient for me the way it was…”
“Convenient!” Valentina Petrovna snorted. “Young people today don’t understand what order is. I also checked your kitchen—pots are shoved in any which way, grains are poured into random jars. It all needs redoing.”
Irina pressed her lips together but said nothing. She didn’t want to argue, and it wasn’t worth starting a scandal over books. She went back to her room and closed the door.
With each day, her mother-in-law’s interference grew. Valentina Petrovna criticized how Irina cooked soup, said the apartment wasn’t clean enough, that laundry needed doing more often, and dishes should be washed differently. Dmitry brushed off his wife’s complaints, repeating that his mother just wanted to help and Irina shouldn’t take it to heart.
One Wednesday morning, Irina was at her computer, finishing the landing page design for a major client. The deadline was two days away; there was still a lot to do. She was carefully moving elements on the screen when the door flew open and Valentina Petrovna burst in.
“Irina, don’t you have anything better to do?” she stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “Go to the store—we need groceries for lunch. We’re out of potatoes, and we need onions and carrots.”
Irina turned around.
“Valentina Petrovna, I’m working. I have a call with the client in half an hour.”
“Working!” her mother-in-law waved a dismissive hand. “Sitting on the internet, pushing pictures around. That’s not work. When I was young, I busted my back at a factory—that was work!”
“This is my profession, and I earn money,” Irina said. “I can’t go to the store right now.”
“You can’t? And who will? Do you think I’m supposed to run up and down stairs at my age? My back hurts!”
Irina drew in a breath, fighting the urge to snap.
“Valentina Petrovna, later. I’ll be free around two, and I’ll go.”
Her mother-in-law muttered something and left, slamming the door loudly.
The next day, it happened again. Irina was going through the technical brief from a new client when Valentina Petrovna barged in once more.
“Irina, go help me clean up right now! I can’t manage alone—the apartment is huge!”
“It’s the middle of my workday,” Irina didn’t even turn around, keeping her eyes on the screen.
“That’s what I’m saying—lazy!” Valentina Petrovna snapped. “You sit at home and you’re useless! Get up and help!”
“I. Am. Working,” Irina hissed through clenched teeth.
“Working! Real women run the household, not stare at a computer!”
This time Irina couldn’t hold back.
“Valentina Petrovna, stop barging in without knocking! This is my room—my workplace! I earn money that, by the way, allows you to live here!”
Her mother-in-law puffed up and stomped out. That evening, when Dmitry came home from work, she complained to her son that his wife had insulted her. Dmitry talked to Irina, but the conversation went nowhere.
“Ira, why were you so rude to my mom? She’s an old woman.”
“Dima, she keeps pulling me away from work! I have deadlines, orders, responsibilities!”
“So what? You can’t help her for five minutes?”
“Five minutes? She yanks me ten times a day!”
“You’re exaggerating. Mom just wants the house to be in order.”
Irina waved him off and went to her room. Arguing was pointless.
The fights and tension in the house grew day by day. Valentina Petrovna acted like the owner; Irina withdrew into herself more and more; Dmitry tried to stay out of it, but inevitably sided with his mother.
Saturday came. Irina had an important job—a corporate website for a construction firm. It had to be delivered by evening, otherwise she’d lose the client and the money. The project was big and complicated, and it demanded concentration.
She got up at seven, drank coffee, locked herself in her room, and sat down at the computer. Hours flew by unnoticed. Irina worked without distractions, didn’t come out for breakfast, and placed her phone facedown beside the screen so it wouldn’t get in the way.
By noon she had nearly finished the main pages. All that was left was to finalize the site footer, check responsiveness on mobile devices, and upload everything to the server. Irina stretched, rolled her neck, and picked up her phone to check work chats. At that moment the door flew open so hard it banged against the wall.
Dmitry stood in the doorway, face red, fists clenched.
“What kind of strike are you staging?” he barked. “Mom can’t manage alone, and you’re sitting there with your phone!”
Irina slowly locked the screen and turned to her husband. For a few seconds she just stared at him, not believing what she’d heard.
“What did you say?”
“I said stop slacking off! Mom’s been on her feet since morning—cooking lunch, cleaning! And you’re sitting here poking at your phone!”
Irina rose from her chair, her voice cold and clear.
“I’m not poking at my phone. I’m working. I’ve been working for five straight hours on an urgent project that brings money into this house.”
“What work?!” Dmitry flung his hand out. “You sit on the internet! Real work is going to an office like I do! And you’ve settled in at home and you’re still getting mouthy!”
“I earn as much as you do!” Irina felt her blood boiling. “My contracts pay for utilities, groceries, clothes! Or do you think money falls from the sky?!”
“Don’t yell at me!” Dmitry shouted. “You’re selfish! You only think about yourself! Family means nothing to you!”
“Family? What family?!” Irina stepped closer. “Your mother runs everything here, humiliates me, and you back her up! That’s not a family—that’s abuse!”
“You’re ungrateful! Mom is trying for us, she wants to help!”
“She’s not helping—she’s getting in the way! She interferes with my work, my things, my life!”
Valentina Petrovna came into the room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
“What’s going on here? Dimmy, are you okay?”
“Mom, Irina started a scandal,” Dmitry immediately switched to a plaintive tone.
“I knew it!” Valentina Petrovna glared at her daughter-in-law. “No respect for elders, no respect for your husband! Do you even understand how you’re supposed to behave? A wife should support her husband, keep the house, not sit at a computer!”
Something inside Irina snapped. All the built-up resentment, exhaustion, and irritation poured out in a single moment.
“That’s it. Enough. Get out—both of you—out of my apartment!”
Silence fell. Dmitry and Valentina Petrovna froze, staring at Irina.
“What?!” Dmitry was the first to recover.
“I said—get out,” Irina spoke calmly, but firmly. “This is my apartment. Mine. I’m the owner here, and I decide who lives here.”
“Ira, have you lost your mind?”
“No, I’ve finally come to my senses,” she pointed to the door. “I won’t tolerate disrespect toward me and my work in my own home anymore. Pack your things and leave!”
“Irina, you can’t be serious,” Dmitry tried to take her hand, but she jerked away.
“More than serious. You have one hour.”
“But that’s my mother! She has nowhere to go!”
“She should’ve thought of that earlier, when she was teaching me how to live in my own apartment,” Irina crossed her arms. “One hour. After that I’ll call the police and have you removed.”
Valentina Petrovna threw up her hands.
“Dimmy! Do you hear what she’s saying?! Listen to how she talks to me!”
“Mom, calm down…” Dmitry looked helplessly back at her.
“Calm down?! She’s throwing us out! Into the street!”
“Not into the street,” Irina corrected coldly. “Back to that house in the village you came from. Or rent an apartment—do whatever you want. But you’re not living here anymore.”
She turned, went into her room, and locked the door. On the other side came indignant voices, stomping, doors slamming. Irina sat at the computer, but she couldn’t work—her hands were shaking.
About twenty minutes passed. Then she heard Dmitry hauling suitcases. Valentina Petrovna moaned and sniffled, but she packed. Irina sat at her desk and listened to the sounds with a stone face.
Forty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
“Ira, open up.”
She opened it. Dmitry stood there with red-rimmed eyes.
“Do you really want me to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, turned away, and walked toward the hallway. Irina followed. Suitcases and bags stood in the corridor. Valentina Petrovna was pulling on her coat, sniffling loudly.
“I hope you’ll have someone to live with!” she snapped as a parting shot. “Husbands leave women like you!”
Irina said nothing. Dmitry opened the door, dragged the suitcases into the stairwell, then came back for his mother. Valentina Petrovna walked past her daughter-in-law with her head held high.
The door shut. Irina was alone.
She stood in the middle of the apartment and listened to the silence. No voices. No demands. No intrusions. Only the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Irina went to the window and looked down. Dmitry and his mother were loading the bags into the car. A few minutes later, they drove away.
She returned to her room, sat at the computer, and looked at the unfinished project. Footer, responsiveness, upload to the server. Three or four hours of work.
Irina flexed her fingers, pulled the keyboard closer, and immersed herself in work. Her thoughts gradually settled, her hands stopped trembling. She moved elements on the screen, chose colors, checked the code.
No one burst into the room screaming. No one demanded she drop everything and run to the store. No one accused her of selfishness or laziness.
Irina worked until ten in the evening. The project was finished, uploaded to the server, and sent to the client. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
Yes, she was alone now. Without a husband, without a family. But she had regained control over her own life—over her own space. No one would tell her what to do in her own home ever again.
Irina got up, went to the kitchen, and made tea. She sat at the table and looked out the window. The city glowed with lights; somewhere far away a car drove by.
Silence. Calm. Freedom.
Her phone was silent. Dmitry didn’t call.
And Irina felt good.
