October evening settled over the city with early twilight. Olya came home from work exhausted, kicked off her shoes in the entryway, and went to the kitchen, where she started reheating dinner. Dmitry was sitting at the table, scrolling through something on his phone and sighing now and then. Lately those sighs had become a regular thing, and Olya had learned to recognize what they meant—this would be about his mother.
“I called Mom today,” Dmitry began without looking up from the screen. “She’s complaining the neighbors are noisy, the stairwell is dirty, the store is far. It’s hard for her alone, you know?”
Olya nodded as she plated buckwheat and cutlets. Talk about her mother-in-law had been coming up more and more often, but so far it stayed in the realm of ordinary, sonly worry. Olya didn’t see anything alarming in it—his mother was aging, her son was concerned, a normal situation for many families.
“Maybe we could hire her some help?” Olya suggested, sitting across from him. “Someone could come a couple times a week, help with the house, do the shopping.”
Dmitry grimaced as if he’d heard something indecent.
“Strangers in the house? No. Mom won’t tolerate that. She’s got her things, her personal space. She’d be embarrassed in front of outsiders.”
Olya said nothing. She didn’t feel like arguing, and the topic didn’t seem serious. They ate in silence, broken only by the TV sounds from the living room. Dmitry went back to the screen; Olya started washing the dishes, thinking about the report she had to submit before noon the next day.
A few days later, the conversation repeated. Then again. Dmitry mentioned his mother more and more often—her loneliness, her complaints. Olya listened patiently, sometimes offering solutions, but every time she ran into refusal. Either her mother-in-law didn’t want strangers, or it was too expensive, or it was simply inconvenient.
And then came the evening that changed everything.
It was Friday. A drizzle tapped at the windows, and Olya dreamed of only one thing—going to bed early with a book and forgetting the workweek. Dmitry met her at the door with shining eyes, as if he’d come up with something brilliant.
“Olya, I decided!” he announced enthusiastically the moment she stepped inside. “Mom’s moving in with us. For good. And I’m quitting my job—I’ll stay with her. You’ll be happy, right?”
Olya froze, tugging off her wet jacket. The fork she’d held a minute ago at dinner could have slipped from her hand just as easily as she now wanted to drop her bag.
“Are you serious?” was all Olya managed, searching his face for signs it was a joke.
“Absolutely!” Dmitry beamed. “I thought it all through. Mom’s alone, she needs help. I can’t work calmly knowing she’s struggling. But here, with us, it’ll be perfect. We have enough space. I’ll stay home and look after her. You’re at work all day anyway—it won’t affect you at all.”
Olya walked slowly into the room and sat on the edge of the couch. Her thoughts tangled. Quitting? His mother moving in? And without discussion, without asking—just a fact delivered in shiny wrapping paper called “care.”
“Dima, let’s talk calmly,” Olya began in an even voice, trying not to show the confusion rushing through her. “Leaving your job is a serious decision. We live on two salaries. If you quit, the whole burden falls on me.”
“So what?” Dmitry shrugged. “You’ll manage. I’m not asking the impossible. I’ll just be home for a while. At least Mom won’t be alone.”
“And if we hire a caregiver? Or a social worker?” Olya tried to find a compromise, though irritation was already starting to boil inside her. “There are services that help elderly people.”
Dmitry’s face darkened.
“Olya, do you even understand what you’re saying? That’s my mother! Not some random old woman you can hand over to strangers! I thought you’d support me, and all you talk about is money and some ‘caregivers’!”
His voice rose, and Olya understood—arguing was pointless. Dmitry had already decided, and he’d take any objection as betrayal. Olya clenched her fists, feeling tension spread through her body. She wanted to shout, to protest, to demand a real discussion, but instead she only nodded.
“Fine. If you think that’s best.”
Dmitry broke into a smile and threw an arm around her shoulders.
“That’s great! I knew you’d understand. Mom will be so happy!”
A week later, her mother-in-law stood on their doorstep with two enormous suitcases and several boxes. Valentina Ivanovna looked lively—nothing like a frail old woman who needed constant care. Dmitry fussed around her, hauled her things, asked if she was tired, whether her room would be comfortable.
Olya watched from the side, politely helping unpack. Inside, something tightened unpleasantly, as if something foreign had invaded her familiar space. Valentina Ivanovna swept her gaze over the entryway and nodded like an inspector.
“Well then, we’ll get settled little by little. Dimochka, show me where you keep everything—I’m not used to other people’s ways.”
Olya snorted to herself. Other people’s ways. In her own apartment.
By evening, her mother-in-law’s belongings had taken over half the living room, which they hurriedly converted into Valentina Ivanovna’s bedroom. Dmitry collapsed onto the couch, while his mother went to the kitchen to make tea. Olya, who had left work early to be there for the arrival, silently changed shoes and went into the bedroom. She wanted to be alone, to digest what was happening.
The next day the changes began. Valentina Ivanovna woke up before everyone, walked through the apartment, and by breakfast had already gone through every kitchen cupboard. When Olya came into the kitchen, her mother-in-law was standing by the stove, rearranging dishes.
“Good morning, Valentina Ivanovna,” Olya greeted her, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Morning. I’m looking at this—and everything’s all over the place. Pots with mugs, pans under plates. A mess. I already reorganized it; now it’ll make sense.”
Olya opened the cabinet where her favorite cups had been just yesterday and found an old set of bowls. Her cups had been moved to the top shelf—too high to reach without a stool.
“Valentina Ivanovna, I’m used to my own system,” Olya said carefully, taking out a cup. “Maybe we should leave it the way it was?”
Her mother-in-law turned around; her eyes went sharp.
“Used to it? Then get used to a new one. I live here now too—I’m a mistress of the house as well. Or do you think I’m unnecessary here?”
Olya fell silent. Arguing with Valentina Ivanovna was like banging your head against a wall. Dmitry, as if on purpose, appeared in the kitchen at that exact moment, cheerful and well-rested.
“Mom, how did you sleep? Olya, why are you so tense? Smile—we’re a big family now!”
Olya forced a smile and walked out of the kitchen. She left for work without breakfast.
The days passed in the same pattern. Olya left in the morning, came back in the evening, and each time the apartment felt more and more чужой—like it belonged to someone else. Valentina Ivanovna ruled the kitchen, moved things around, criticized Olya’s cleaning. Dmitry spent his days on the couch with his phone, occasionally getting up to make his mother tea or watch another talk show with her.
“Dima, are you going to look for a job?” Olya asked one evening when her patience finally snapped.
He didn’t even look up from the screen.
“Why rush? Mom just got here; she needs support. I promised I’d be near her. Later, when she settles in, then I’ll think about it.”
Olya ground her teeth. Settles in. Valentina Ivanovna had settled in so much that she’d reshaped the whole household around herself. The TV blared from morning till night; on speakerphone she discussed neighborhood gossip with her friends; and Dmitry happily joined in, laughing at other people’s stories.
Olya felt like an outsider in her own home. In the morning she left; in the evening she returned—and every time she hit an invisible wall at the threshold. Valentina Ivanovna greeted her with a routine nod; Dmitry tossed out a distracted hello; and Olya went to the bedroom, the only place that still felt personal.
One evening, coming home from work, Olya didn’t find her laptop on the desk. She looked closer—the desk itself had been moved to the window, her papers were stacked neatly, and the laptop was gone.
“Dima, where’s my laptop?” Olya called out, peeking into the hallway.
“Oh, that—Mom was tidying up, probably moved it. Ask her.”
Olya found Valentina Ivanovna in the kitchen. She was stirring something in a pot and whistling a tune.
“Valentina Ivanovna, have you seen my laptop? It was on the desk.”
“Of course I saw it. I put it in the closet so it wouldn’t be in the way. The table was cluttered; I decided to bring some order. It’s on the top shelf in the hallway closet.”
Olya bit her lip. Order. In her things. Without asking. She retrieved the laptop, went back to the bedroom, and locked the door. A flicker of тревога—alarm—ran through her, as if someone had crossed an invisible line. The line where trust ends and intrusion begins.
Olya sat on the bed, opened the laptop, and stared at the screen without seeing it. Thoughts swarmed, layered over one another. How had it happened that in a couple weeks her life flipped upside down? That her own apartment became a battlefield for every inch of personal space?
Dmitry—Dmitry she’d lived with for years—had suddenly turned into a stranger. He no longer asked about her day, no longer offered help. All his attention had gone to his mother, and Olya had become a source of income and a silent observer.
Her phone vibrated—a message from a colleague. Olya opened it automatically, read it, replied. Work remained the only place where she felt needed. They valued her there, listened to her there, and there she could breathe freely.
At home—only a dull tension, growing with every day.
On Wednesday Olya asked to leave work early—her head was splitting, and her boss, seeing her worn-out face, let her go without questions. The trip home took half an hour; wet autumn snow fell outside the minibus windows, and Olya stared at the blurred city lights, thinking only about getting to bed and shutting off the world for at least a couple of hours.
The key turned quietly in the lock. The lights were on, but no one came to greet her. Strange. Usually Valentina Ivanovna was the first to appear, casting that assessing look, as if checking whether Olya was tired enough to justify being away all day.
Olya slipped off her shoes and walked down the hallway. Muted voices drifted from the living room—not loud, but wary. Olya pushed the door open and froze on the threshold.
Dmitry and Valentina Ivanovna were sitting on the couch pressed close together, and on the coffee table in front of them lay her laptop. The screen glowed, and even from the doorway Olya could make out the familiar interface—online banking. Columns of numbers, card transactions, transfer notifications.
Dmitry jerked when he saw his wife and snapped the laptop shut. Valentina Ivanovna whirled around, and an expression Olya had never seen flashed across her face—something between fear and anger.
“Why are you home so early?” Dmitry forced out, trying to smile, but the smile came out crooked.
Olya stood still. Inside there was no scream, no hysteria. Only an icy understanding—sharp and clear, as if someone had turned on the light in a dark room. There it was. That was why the laptop disappeared and ended up in the closet. That was why Dmitry had so easily agreed to quit his job. That was why Valentina Ivanovna had settled in so fast.
“How long?” Olya asked quietly, but her voice carried.
“How long what?” Dmitry tried to look confused, but his fingers nervously picked at the edge of the couch.
“How long have you been digging through my accounts?”
Valentina Ivanovna snorted and straightened.
“We’re not digging through anything! Dimochka just wanted to see how much you spend. We’re family, after all—everything should be shared!”
Olya looked at her. Valentina Ivanovna sat defiantly, chin lifted, hands folded on her knees. Next to her Dmitry shrank, as if trying to become smaller.
“Shared,” Olya repeated slowly. “My salary, my accounts, my laptop—everything is shared. And your pension, Valentina Ivanovna? And Dima’s income, which hasn’t existed for a month? Is that shared too?”
Valentina Ivanovna bristled.
“How dare you talk to me like that! I’m his mother! An old woman they took in out of pity, is that it? And you’re acting like you’re the mistress here!”
“I am the mistress,” Olya cut in. “This is my apartment. Mine. Not ours, not shared—mine. And what’s been happening here the last month ends right now.”
Dmitry jumped up and held out his hands in a placating gesture.
“Olya, wait, don’t get heated. We just wanted to understand where the money goes. You know Mom’s used to saving; she worries you’re wasting it.”
“Wasting,” Olya echoed. “On food you eat. On utilities you use. On the internet you sit on all day. Wasting, right.”
Her voice stayed even, almost indifferent, and that was more frightening than shouting. Dmitry backed away, not knowing what to say.
“We didn’t mean… I mean, I thought you wouldn’t mind… Well, Mom worries…”
“She worries,” Olya nodded. “Understood. Valentina Ivanovna, pack your things. Tomorrow morning you’re vacating the room.”
Her mother-in-law sprang up, her face flushing red.
“What?! You’re throwing me out?! An old, sick woman—onto the street?! Dimochka, do you hear what this snake is saying?!”
“Sick,” Olya repeated, looking her over from head to toe. “Who runs around the apartment every day, drags furniture, spends hours on the phone with friends. Very sick.”
“My blood pressure! My heart! My joints!”
“Then go back to your own apartment and treat yourself there. Dima, you’re packing too. I’m tired of feeding grown adults and paying for someone else’s entertainment.”
Dmitry went pale.
“Olya, what are you doing?! We’re husband and wife!”
“Were,” Olya corrected. “Not anymore. Tomorrow I’m going to a lawyer. I’m filing for divorce.”
Valentina Ivanovna clutched her chest, putting on a performance of an attack.
“Oh, I feel awful! Dimochka, call an ambulance! She’s killing me! She has no heart, that shameless woman!”
Olya calmly took out her phone and dialed.
“Fine, I’ll call an ambulance. They’ll come, take you to the hospital, the doctors will examine you. You’ll have to stay for observation, of course—but you feel bad, right?”
Valentina Ivanovna straightened up abruptly and dropped her hand.
“No need for an ambulance! I’ll manage myself!”
“Wonderful,” Olya nodded, putting her phone away. “Then tomorrow morning I’m waiting for both of you by the door. With your things.”
The rest of the evening passed in oppressive silence. Dmitry tried to talk a few times, but Olya didn’t answer. Valentina Ivanovna locked herself in her room, sobbing loudly and whining, but Olya didn’t react. She went to bed, locked the door with the key, and for the first time in a month slept soundly and peacefully.
In the morning Olya got up early, got dressed, gathered her documents. On the way to work she stopped by a law office and booked a consultation. The lawyer listened, asked a few clarifying questions, and nodded.
“The apartment is in your name from before the marriage?”
“Yes.”
“No joint loans, deposits, or purchases?”
“No.”
“Then it’s simple. We file for divorce through the court, since your spouse likely won’t agree voluntarily. No property division is needed—there’s nothing to divide. No alimony either—no children. The process will take a couple months, but the outcome is predictable.”
Olya signed the contract, paid the deposit, and stepped outside feeling as if she’d shrugged off a massive backpack. Work awaited her, but even the thought of a boring report couldn’t ruin her mood.
That evening, when she came home, Olya found Dmitry pacing around the apartment. Valentina Ivanovna sat on the couch with her arms folded and a martyr’s expression on her face.
“Olya, where are we supposed to go?” Dmitry pleaded. “My mom’s apartment is rented out—there’s a six-month lease! You can’t just kick tenants out!”
“Your problems,” Olya replied, walking past to the kitchen. “You should’ve thought earlier—before you went digging through my accounts.”
“But we didn’t take anything! We just looked!”
“You looked without permission. On my personal laptop. At my bank data. That’s enough.”
Valentina Ivanovna stood up and stepped toward Olya.
“Listen, dear, let’s do this nicely. I’m old, I have nowhere to go. Dimochka’s without work. So what if we peeked at the computer! Is that really a reason to throw out family?”
“Family?” Olya smirked. “You’re nobody to me. Absolutely nobody. By tomorrow evening I expect you both to be out. Otherwise I’ll call the police.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I would. A statement about unauthorized residence is enough, and the district officer will come on his own.”
Dmitry grabbed his head.
“Olya, this is nonsense! We’re husband and wife—how can you throw me out?!”
“Soon we’ll be exes. The papers are filed. The court date is set. The apartment stays with me because it was bought before the marriage. There’s nothing of yours here. Nothing of your mother’s either.”
Valentina Ivanovna hissed, eyes narrowing.
“So that’s who you really are! Pretended to be a meek little thing, but when it got tight—you showed your claws! Dimochka, do you see who you got involved with?”
Dmitry stayed silent, staring at the floor. Olya turned and went into the bedroom, locking the door. Voices carried from outside—Valentina Ivanovna raging, Dmitry mumbling back. Olya didn’t listen. She put on headphones, turned on music, and opened a book.
The next day, returning from work, Olya found the suitcases still in the entryway, and Dmitry and Valentina Ivanovna sitting in the kitchen, acting as if nothing was happening.
“Time’s up,” Olya said, taking out her phone. “I’m calling the district officer.”
Dmitry jumped to his feet.
“Wait! We’re leaving, we just need time to find a place!”
“You had time. A month. You spent it looking at my accounts. Now pack up, or I’m calling.”
Valentina Ivanovna sniffled, but dragged the suitcase to the door. Dmitry, red and flustered, carried the boxes. Olya stood by the door, calmly watching. When the last bag was taken out, Dmitry reached for the keys lying on the shelf.
“Leave them,” Olya said. “The keys stay here.”
“But how…”
“No way. You don’t live here anymore.”
Dmitry opened his mouth, but said nothing. Valentina Ivanovna, standing in the hallway, threw one last hateful look.
“You’ll regret this! You’ll end up alone, nobody will need you!”
Olya smiled, and the smile was sincere.
“Better alone than with you.”
She closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Silence covered the apartment like a soft blanket. Olya leaned her back against the door, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. For the first time in a month, the air felt clean.
The court hearing went quickly and without excess emotion. Dmitry came alone; he didn’t bring Valentina Ivanovna. He sat with his head down and answered the judge’s questions in monosyllables. There were no objections. There was no property to divide. The decision was issued the same day—the marriage dissolved, and the apartment remained Olya’s property.
Leaving the courtroom, Olya ran into Dmitry in the corridor. He stopped, opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. Olya walked past without looking back.
A few weeks later a colleague said she’d seen Dmitry at a bus stop. He was standing with his mother; both looked rumpled and tired. Olya listened and shrugged. Someone else’s life, someone else’s problems.
The apartment slowly returned to how it used to be. Olya moved the furniture back, put the dishes where they belonged, threw away the old newspapers Valentina Ivanovna had stacked in a corner. In the evenings she could finally sit in silence with a book, without the roar of the TV and endless phone calls.
One evening, making tea in the kitchen, Olya caught herself smiling. Just because. Because the house was quiet and calm, and it smelled of fresh laundry. Because no one was rummaging through her things, rearranging her dishes, demanding an account of every penny.
Olya went to the window and looked out at the autumn city wrapped in early twilight. Life went on. Without extra weight, without falsehood, without people hiding behind the word “family” to squeeze out the last thing you have.
And in that solitude there was more peace than in all the years together
