Nastya’s hands were trembling as she wiped down the kitchen counter, the familiar motions doing little to calm the storm brewing inside her. Her apartment — her pride, her sanctuary — was suddenly under siege, and she was starting to feel like an intruder in her own home. The knock at the door, the one she had been expecting, was like the last straw. Three short raps. It was always the same, a signal that something was about to be taken away from her.
She opened the door and greeted Ivan’s mother, Galina Petrovna, with the same polite but distant smile she always wore when she saw her. It had only been three months since she and Ivan had moved into this freshly renovated apartment, but already, it felt as though his mother had claimed it as her own. Galina entered without invitation, as usual, and began setting the scene for her familiar routine.
“I brought you some fresh cutlets,” she said cheerfully, as if she were stepping into her own home. “You don’t have time for that, do you? My son’s losing weight. You feed him those weird green soups…”
Nastya’s eye twitched. She had heard it all before. The criticisms, the passive-aggressive comments, the subtle demands. But today, something was different. Today, she was tired. Tired of the control, tired of her apartment being treated like a shared family space, tired of Galina’s constant overstep.
She ushered her mother-in-law into the kitchen, where she plopped down on the small couch, taking up more space than she had any right to. Nastya sat across from her, arms folded.
“Well, Nastya,” Galina began, not wasting any time, “you and Vanya have been together for five years now. Don’t you think it’s time things got serious?”
Nastya’s stomach sank. She knew exactly where this was headed.
“You live here, in your apartment. But Vanya, he’s just living with you. That’s not how family works. When my husband and I bought our place, we did it together. You know, because family means together.”
Nastya’s face went cold. “It’s not shared,” she said, her voice firm. “It’s mine. My parents gave it to me. Only me.”
Galina snorted. “Well, that’s a mistake. You should transfer part of it to Vanya. It’s only fair. He lives here, works here, helps…”
Nastya’s eyes narrowed. “Helps?” she scoffed. “He takes out the trash every other time. Zero help with the renovation. I did it all. I hired the carpenter. I ordered everything. He didn’t even assemble the wardrobe.”
Galina shifted uncomfortably, clearly unfazed. “You like things your way, don’t you? Well, he’s busy working. Men work, they don’t have time to play house.”
Nastya stood up, her chair scraping against the floor as she moved toward the sink. “I’m tired of your lectures, Galina Petrovna. I’m not transferring anything. I’m not going to be bullied into it. You want to talk? Fine. We’ll talk with a lawyer.”
Galina’s expression darkened, but she didn’t rise to the challenge. Instead, she stepped closer to Nastya, a smile creeping onto her face as if she were sharing some grand wisdom. “You’re still young, Nastya. You don’t understand. A man should feel like the master of his home. And you should be the mistress, not the other way around. You have everything upside down.”
Nastya’s patience snapped. “We’re fine,” she snapped back, her voice sharp. “Until you come here with your cutlets and complaints.”
Galina’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you afraid of being alone?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge, but Nastya wasn’t backing down.
“If I’m alone in my apartment,” she said, her voice icy, “that’s better than living with someone who hides behind his mother’s back.”
Galina scowled and made her way out of the kitchen, leaving the apartment as quickly as she had entered. The door slammed behind her, leaving a lingering sense of tension in the room.
Nastya stood still for a moment, letting the anger fade, only to be replaced by a deep, suffocating exhaustion. Her hand clenched into a fist as the words echoed in her mind: “You’re still young, Nastya.”
Was that her problem? Was she simply too young to understand what it meant to be in a relationship, to have a family? Or was it that she had always been treated as if she didn’t have the right to her own life, her own choices?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Ivan stepped in, dragging his sports bag behind him, oblivious to the storm that had just passed.
“Hey, Nastyuha,” he greeted her casually. “Did your mom stop by?”
Nastya didn’t answer right away. Instead, she sat down across from him, her expression unreadable. “Yeah, she left me some cutlets. And an ultimatum.”
Ivan laughed, as though it were all a joke. “Don’t exaggerate. She just suggested it. Like, you and me — family. So everything should be shared. What’s the big deal?”
“The tragedy is,” Nastya said, slamming her palm down on the table, “this apartment is mine! My parents gave it to me. Not to you, not to her. Me. And you moved in as my husband. That’s it. A guest. That’s all you are.”
Ivan chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Ha! Women, I swear! ‘Demands’ right away…”
Nastya’s patience was gone. “I’m not demanding anything. This is mine. And I’m not giving anything up. Not for you, not for her. Not for anyone.”
Ivan, unbothered, took a sip of his tea, his face a mask of indifference. But Nastya saw it — the small flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, the reality of her words was sinking in.
But as she stood there, her back straight and her eyes steely, she realized something. She didn’t need Ivan’s approval. She didn’t need Galina’s permission. This apartment was hers, and if that meant standing alone, then so be it.
Because sometimes, standing alone was better than sharing everything with someone who would never understand the value of what you had.