Yana was climbing the stairs with a bag of groceries in her hands. The workday had been exhausting—she wanted nothing more than to get home, take a shower, and sink onto the couch. She unlocked the door and stopped dead on the threshold.
Voices floated in from the kitchen. Igor—and his daughter, Anya. Yana quietly slipped off her shoes and moved into the hallway, listening.
“Dad, look!” Anya’s voice vibrated with excitement. “We can hang balloons like these! And it says here we can order a garland with my name on it!”
“Nice,” Igor answered. “Anya, how many people do you want to invite?”
“Well, all the girls from my class—that’s ten. Then Masha from dance, Dima, our neighbor Polina… It’ll be about twenty!”
Yana walked into the kitchen and paused in the doorway. Anya sat at the table with printed pages spread out—pictures of party setups. Igor stood beside her, studying the photos of decorations.
“Hi,” Yana said, setting the grocery bag on the floor.
“Oh, Yana!” Igor turned with a smile. “Perfect timing. Anya and I are talking about her birthday. Show Yana what you picked, sweetheart.”
The girl handed Yana a stack of pictures: bright balloons, beautifully set tables, cakes topped with figurines.
“I like this cake,” Anya said, tapping a photo of a three-tier cake with pink flowers. “But Dad says it’s expensive. This one is cheaper, but it’s still pretty.”
Yana flipped through the pages in silence, feeling irritation begin to boil inside her. They were discussing a birthday party. In her apartment. Without asking her.
“Twenty people is a lot,” Yana said, placing the pictures down. “Where are you planning to put everyone?”
“Where else?” Igor shrugged. “Here. The apartment’s big enough. We’ll fit everyone. We can set tables up in the living room, and another one in the kitchen.”
Anya nodded eagerly.
“Yes! Dad, can we put a small table in my room too? For the girls who’ll be playing with me?”
“Of course, sunshine,” Igor said, stroking her hair.
Yana stood with her arms crossed. Her husband didn’t even glance her way. Didn’t ask her opinion. He had simply decided for her.
“Dad, where do we hang the garland?” Anya jumped up and ran into the living room. “Here, over the couch?”
Igor followed after her. Yana remained in the kitchen, fists clenched. Their voices carried back from the living room—happy, excited. Planning a party in her home as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Yana walked into the living room. Anya was bouncing near the couch, showing with her hands where the decorations would go. Igor stood beside her, nodding along.
“And we’ll put the tables right here,” the girl pointed to the center of the room. “A big one for adults and a small one for kids. No—wait! Maybe two kids’ tables would be better. We won’t all fit at one!”
“Good idea,” Igor said, squatting beside her. “So three tables. One for parents, two for kids. Do we have enough chairs?”
“We’ll need to buy more,” Anya thought for a second. “Or borrow some from Grandma.”
Yana leaned against the wall, watching the scene. Something inside her was seething. They were placing imaginary tables in her apartment, deciding where guests would sit—without asking her once.
“What about games?” Igor asked as he stood up, brushing off his knees.
“We could have dancing!” Anya clapped her hands. “Dad, turn on music—I’ll show you how we’ll do it!”
Igor pulled out his phone and started a song. Anya began to dance, demonstrating moves. Igor laughed and cheered her on. Yana stood there, teeth clenched. Every burst of laughter hammered behind her temples.
“And will there be contests?” Igor asked.
“Of course!” Anya stopped, breathing hard. “I saw a kids’ quest online. You hide clues all over the apartment, and they have to find them. Dad, will you help me hide them?”
“Absolutely,” Igor said, draping an arm around her shoulders.
All over the apartment. Yana closed her eyes and counted to ten—don’t snap, don’t shout… not yet.
“Alright, Anya, it’s time,” Igor glanced at the clock. “We need to tell your mom our plans so she’s in the loop too.”
“Mom?” Anya frowned. “Why?”
“Well, she’ll be at the party too. We need to talk about what food to make and who’s responsible for what.”
Yana watched silently as her husband got Anya ready. The girl put on her jacket, grabbed her backpack with the printouts. Igor left to walk her out to the car. Yana stayed alone in the apartment.
She wandered through the living room, picturing tables, children, noise, yelling. Twenty people—in her home. The place that had always been her refuge, where she could rest from the world. And now they wanted to turn her personal space into a venue for a child’s birthday party.
Yana went to the window and stared outside. Igor was buckling Anya into the car, waved, and drove off—taking her to Olga, his ex-wife, to discuss details. Of course. Every decision was made without Yana. She was just expected to accept it.
She dropped onto the couch and lowered her head into her hands. A sharp sense of injustice grew in her chest. Why hadn’t anyone asked her? Why did her husband think he could manage her apartment as if it were his?
When Igor came back, Yana was still sitting in the same spot. He entered the living room, pulling off his jacket.
“We talked it over with Olga,” Igor said cheerfully. “She’s agreed to help organize. She’ll order the cake, I’ll buy the decorations. And you’ll just need to…”
“Stop.” Yana lifted her head. “Stop, Igor.”
He froze.
“What?”
“Who gave you permission to hold a party in my apartment?” Her voice was icy.
“Permission?” Igor frowned. “Yana, it’s Anya’s birthday. Of course we’re celebrating at home.”
“At home?” Yana stood up. “Igor, this isn’t your home. This is my apartment—the one I bought before we got married.”
“So what?” He spread his hands. “We’re a family. Anya is my daughter. I want to give her a proper birthday.”
“Give it,” Yana stepped closer. “Just not here. Rent a café, a hall—whatever you want. But not in my apartment.”
“Yana, what are you even saying?” Igor stared at her. “Why waste money on renting a place if we can do it at home?”
“This is not your home!” Yana’s voice rose. “This is my apartment! And nobody asked for my consent!”
“Oh, for God’s sake—consent?” Igor waved it off. “It’s a family thing. Anya wants a party, I want to make my daughter happy. What—are you against that?”
“I’m against you deciding everything without me!” Yana was nearly shouting. “You and Anya were sitting here mapping out where tables go, where garlands hang. You didn’t ask me once!”
“You wouldn’t say no to a child,” Igor tried to soften his tone. “Anya wants it so badly.”
“That’s your family, Igor,” Yana said coldly. “Not mine. Anya isn’t my daughter. Olga isn’t my friend. And I’m not obligated to bend to your demands.”
Igor went pale.
“So you’re refusing?”
“Yes.” Yana nodded. “I’m absolutely against having this party here.”
“Yana, you can’t do this,” Igor stepped toward her. “Anya has already planned everything. We already talked to Olga. You can’t cancel now!”
“You should’ve asked before you planned,” Yana crossed her arms. “Before you decided.”
“I thought it was obvious!” Igor’s voice rose. “We live together—we’re a family!”
“You and I are a family,” Yana corrected. “But Anya lives with Olga. If you want a party, have it there.”
Igor spun around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door. Yana stood in the middle of the living room, breathing fast, her hands trembling. But underneath it, she felt certain she was right. Let him be angry. Let him sulk. She would not let anyone cross her boundaries.
The next few days passed in tense silence. Igor barely spoke to her. He came home late and left early. Yana didn’t try to fix it—she simply lived her life, trying not to dwell on the conflict.
But Igor didn’t back down. He continued talking on the phone with Anya and Olga. Yana heard fragments—about the cake, the decorations, the guest list. And every time Igor mentioned the apartment, her jaw tightened.
The day before the birthday, Yana returned from work earlier than usual. She opened the door—and froze. Boxes of balloons and garlands stood in the entryway. Voices drifted from the living room.
She walked in and saw Igor and Anya. They were carrying a folding table into the room, trying to unfold it in the middle of the living area.
“Dad, put it here,” Anya pointed toward the window. “And the second table next to it.”
“Right,” Igor nodded, flattening the tabletop.
Yana stood on the threshold, unable to believe what she was seeing. They had brought tables. They’d brought decorations. They were preparing—despite her refusal.
“What is going on here?” Her voice was quiet, but hard.
Igor and Anya turned. Igor straightened, letting go of the table.
“Hi, Yana,” Igor said carefully. “We’re just getting ready for tomorrow’s party.”
“For what party?” Yana stepped forward. “I told you there would be no party here!”
“Yana, listen,” Igor tried to sound conciliatory. “Anya’s been waiting for this. Everything’s already arranged. We can’t cancel now.”
“I didn’t say to cancel it,” Yana walked up to the table. “I said: not here. And you decided to ignore me, didn’t you?”
“We just thought…” Igor began.
“What exactly were you thinking?!” Yana exploded. “Have you completely lost it? I said no—clearly! And you dragged in tables and decorations and you’re planning to turn this place into a circus tomorrow!”
Anya pressed herself against the wall, her eyes filling with tears.
“Aunt Yana… I wanted a party so much…” Her voice trembled.
“That’s not my problem,” Yana didn’t even look at her. “If you want a party, your mother can throw one—at her own place.”
“Yana!” Igor snapped. “Do you hear yourself? She’s a child!”
“I hear myself perfectly,” Yana whirled toward him. “Your child. From your first marriage. Who lives with another woman. And I’m not obligated to provide birthdays for her—or host your ex-wife in my home.”
Anya sobbed and ran into the hallway. Igor lunged after her.
“Anya, wait!”
Yana could hear the girl crying in the entryway. Igor murmured to calm her down. Yana stood in the living room staring at the damn table, rage boiling in her chest.
Igor came back, his face flushed with anger.
“Happy now?” he hissed. “My kid is crying because of you!”
“No,” Yana shook her head. “She’s crying because of you. Because you didn’t respect my answer. Because you decided you could do whatever you wanted in my apartment!”
“This is our apartment!” Igor slammed his fist on the table. “We live here together!”
“No.” Yana stepped closer. “This is my apartment. The paperwork is in my name. I pay the mortgage. I pay the utilities. And I’m the only one who decides what happens here.”
“So you’re denying my daughter a birthday?” Igor looked at her with disgust.
“I’m denying you,” Yana shouted. “Enough of you playing landlord in my apartment! Take your daughter, pack up, and get out!”
A heavy silence dropped. Igor stared, blinking as if he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.
“What did you just say?” he asked quietly.
“I said: get out,” Yana pointed to the door. “Now. Take your tables, your balloons—everything—and leave.”
“You’re throwing me out?” Igor went pale.
“Yes.” Yana nodded. “I am. I’m tired of being disrespected. Tired of my words being ignored. Tired of being a nobody in my own home.”
“Yana, you’re not thinking straight,” Igor reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
“I’m thinking perfectly clearly,” she said, moving toward the window. “You decided that once we got married, what’s mine automatically becomes ours. But it doesn’t, Igor. This apartment is mine. I worked for it. I saved. I took out the loan. Not you. Me. And I will not let you act like the owner here.”
“We’re family!” Igor raised his voice. “In a family there shouldn’t be ‘mine’ and ‘yours’!”
“In a family there should be respect!” Yana snapped. “You should have asked me. Discussed it. Not forced it on me!”
“I thought it was obvious!” he shouted back. “It’s a child’s birthday!”
“She is not my child,” Yana exhaled. “Igor, you have a daughter—fine. I’m not against you seeing her. But don’t force me into the role of a stepmother who has to swallow everything.”
“So you’re against Anya?” Igor narrowed his eyes.
“I’m against my boundaries being trampled,” Yana shouted. “You brought tables and decorations into my apartment and you’re planning to bring twenty people here tomorrow—without my permission!”
Igor fell silent, staring at the floor.
“Leave,” Yana said again—quietly, firmly. “Right now. Take your daughter and go.”
“Yana, let’s talk calmly…” Igor tried.
“No.” Yana shook her head. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I want you out of my apartment.”
“And then what?” Igor crossed his arms. “We’ll get divorced?”
“Yes.” Yana nodded without hesitation. “I’ll file for divorce. Because I don’t want to live with someone who doesn’t respect me.”
Igor stood frozen.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.” Yana walked to the front door and pulled it open. “Go.”
He hesitated a moment, then slowly walked into the hallway. Anya was sitting on the floor with her knees hugged to her chest. Igor took her hand.
“Come on, Anya.”
The girl stood, sniffling. Igor put on his jacket and helped her into hers. Yana stayed by the door, gripping the handle. Igor stepped out into the corridor; Anya followed. The door shut.
Yana turned the key and leaned her back against the frame. Her breathing was ragged; her hands shook. Silence filled the apartment. She walked into the living room slowly.
The folding table stood half-open in the center of the room. Boxes of balloons were piled along the wall. Yana approached, grabbed one box, and carried it out into the hallway. Then another. And another. She folded the table and pushed it against the wall. Everything Igor had brought in, she gathered neatly by the front door.
When there was no trace of party preparations left in the living room, she sat down on the couch and looked around. The apartment was hers again. Only hers. No чужие things, no plans forced on her without permission.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. Inside her was a strange mix of emotions: anger—at Igor for refusing to hear her; relief—because she’d finally defended her boundaries; sadness—because this was how it ended.
But there was no regret. She knew that if she gave in now, it would happen again and again. Igor would keep making decisions alone, and she would simply be expected to follow. Her opinion would be ignored; her comfort would never matter. No. Better to be alone—with her own rules.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Igor: “We’ll come tomorrow to pick up our things.”
Yana deleted the chat without replying. She got up, went into the kitchen, took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, and sat by the window. Outside it was getting dark; streetlights blinked on. Somewhere out there Igor and Anya were driving—probably to Olga’s. They would complain about the “evil stepmother” who ruined the party.
Let them. Yana was done explaining herself. Done being convenient. She had protected her space, her boundaries. And if she had to break a marriage to do it, then the marriage had been built wrong from the start.
She went to the bathroom, turned on hot water, poured in foam, and sank into the tub, closing her eyes. For the first time in a long while, she felt calm. No one would barge in unannounced. No one would make plans without her consent. No one would steal her peace.
Her apartment—and her life—belonged only to her now. The future was uncertain, maybe even lonely. But it would be honest. Without compromises that ate her alive from the inside. Without constant tension and the fear of the next boundary being crossed.
Yana smiled faintly at the ceiling. Yes, it would be hard—divorce, paperwork, possible claims and arguments. But she could handle it. The main thing was that she felt like the owner of her life again.
And that was worth more than any compromise.
