“At last, your old mom is gone! Today my mother and sister will move into her apartment from the communal flat,” declared the pleased husband.
Olga sat at the kitchen table, sorting through her mother’s papers. September rain drummed against the windows, adding to the melancholy mood. The funeral had taken place three days ago, but grief still squeezed her heart like a vice. Her mother had died suddenly — a heart attack left no time to say goodbye.
Now there were documents to handle. Olga knew the inheritance process would take six months, but there was no point in delaying the start. Her mother had left no will, which meant the sole heir would be her only daughter.
The apartment was a two-room flat in a good neighborhood. Her mother had received it back in Soviet times when she worked at a factory. After privatization, she became the full owner. Olga grew up within those walls; her childhood and youth unfolded there.
Viktor, Olga’s husband, had been acting strangely since his mother-in-law’s death. Before, he occasionally visited the elderly woman, brought groceries, fixed the faucet. Now he avoided conversations about Olga’s mother, brushing off his wife’s attempts to share her feelings.
“What’s the point of dwelling on it,” Viktor would say. “Life goes on.”
Yet he showed keen interest in the timeline for obtaining the inheritance certificate, what documents were needed, how much the process would cost. Olga assumed his curiosity came from care — perhaps he just wanted to help with the legal matters.
Viktor worked as a fitter at the same factory where his mother-in-law had once been employed. The couple lived in a rented one-room apartment for the past five years. They had no property of their own and no savings. His salary was enough for daily living, but nowhere near enough to buy an apartment.
Viktor’s mother, Valentina Ivanovna, lived with his younger sister Tamara in a communal flat. The conditions were tough — one room for two, alcoholic neighbors, a shared bathroom. Tamara worked as a shop assistant, never married, had no children. At thirty-five, she still lived with her mother and dreamed of having a home of her own.
Olga knew about her mother-in-law’s struggles and occasionally helped with money. Viktor often complained about the conditions in which his mother and sister lived. But buying an apartment was out of reach — even a loan would be too much to handle.
After the funeral, Valentina Ivanovna and Tamara began visiting often. Supposedly to check on Olga, to support her in a difficult time. Their conversations were cautious, but Olga sensed something was off.
“Olechka, you’re all alone now,” sighed her mother-in-law. “It’s good we’re here; we’ll help you with whatever you need.”
“Yes,” Tamara chimed in. “The apartment is big; it must be scary to be here by yourself.”
Olga nodded politely, but her wariness grew. Her husband’s relatives had never shown such involvement before.
Viktor had changed, too. He called his mother more often, discussing some plans. When Olga asked what they were talking about, her husband gave evasive answers:
“Oh, nothing special, just chatting.”
A week after the funeral came the conversation that turned Olga’s world upside down. That evening Viktor came home from work cheerful, rubbing his hands, humming to himself.
“Good news?” asked Olga.
Viktor sat down across from his wife and uttered a phrase that froze her in place:
“At last, your old lady is gone! Today my mother and sister will move into the apartment from the communal flat.”
Blood rushed to Olga’s face. Her husband spoke of her mother’s death as if it were a profitable deal, a long-awaited event. His words stung more than a slap.
“What did you say?” Olga asked quietly.
“You heard me. Mom and Tamara won’t have to suffer in the communal apartment anymore. They’ll move into a normal flat.”
“On what grounds?”
Viktor shrugged, as if surprised by the question:
“What do you mean? We’re family now. Family property should be shared.”
“Family property?” Olga couldn’t believe her ears. “This is my mother’s apartment!”
“It was your mother’s. She’s gone now.”
“And what does that mean?”
“That the property should stay in the family. We’re husband and wife; everything’s shared.”
Olga stood, went to the cabinet, and pulled out a folder of documents. She laid papers, statements, and her mother’s passport on the table.
“Look carefully,” Olga said. “It clearly states: legal heir — the daughter, that is, me. Only me.”
Viktor glanced at the papers and smirked:
“So what? Papers are one thing, life is another. The apartment will still belong to the family.”
“What family?”
“Our family. My mother’s been suffering in that communal hole her whole life, and now there’s an opportunity.”
Olga put the documents away. The conversation was going nowhere — her husband either didn’t understand or refused to see the obvious.
“Viktor, by law the apartment belongs to me. No one is moving in.”
“You’re so selfish,” her husband shook his head. “Are you really that stingy with your relatives?”
“This isn’t about stinginess. It’s about rights.”
“Rights? What rights? We’re family!”
The conversation was interrupted — Valentina Ivanovna called. Viktor picked up and spoke quietly with his mother for a long time. Olga caught fragments: “agreed,” “tomorrow,” “keys.”
After the call, her husband announced:
“Mom and Tamara will start moving things tomorrow. I’ll help them.”
“No one is moving anything.”
“Olka, don’t be stubborn. Think logically — the three of us can fit in a two-room flat, and they’re cramped in that communal place.”
“The three of us?”
“Well, yes. Mom will take one room, Tamara the other, and we’ll put a sofa in the kitchen.”
Olga sank into a chair — her legs almost gave way from outrage. Her husband had planned it all, even where he and his wife would sleep.
“Viktor, have you lost your mind? I’m supposed to live in the kitchen of my own apartment?”
“Not your own, ours. And it’s temporary anyway. Until they get used to it.”
“How long is ‘temporary’?”
“Oh, a month or two. Maybe six months.”
Olga realized — her husband was serious about moving his relatives into her mother’s apartment. Worse, the plans had clearly been forming even before the funeral.
The following days were tense. Valentina Ivanovna and Tamara visited more often, discussing renovations, rearranging rooms, buying furniture. They spoke as if the apartment already belonged to the whole family.
“Olechka, we’ll get a new fridge,” mused the mother-in-law. “This old one’s no good.”
“And we’ll change the stove,” added Tamara. “Switch to electric.”
“And we’ll redo the wallpaper,” continued Valentina Ivanovna. “Fresh, modern.”
Olga listened in silence, but inside, her resolve hardened. Her husband’s relatives behaved like owners, dividing an inheritance that wasn’t theirs.
That evening Viktor announced:
“Tomorrow I’ll bring Mom and Tamara. I packed boxes for them, I’ll help carry the essentials.”
“I won’t give you the keys,” Olga said firmly.
“Why keys? I have a spare; Mom gave it to me when I watered the plants.”
Olga remembered — her mother had indeed trusted her son-in-law with keys when she went to the country house. Viktor watered the plants, checked the flat.
“I’ll take those keys.”
“Too late. I already gave them to Mom.”
So the plan had been in motion. Her husband had taken the keys and handed them to his mother. Now the relatives could enter the apartment without Olga’s consent.
The next day Olga didn’t go to work. She took the day off and waited near her mother’s building. In her pocket were the apartment documents and her own passport.
Around noon, a taxi pulled up. Out stepped Viktor, Valentina Ivanovna, and Tamara. Her husband pulled boxes and bags from the trunk, while the relatives chatted excitedly about the upcoming move.
Olga walked up to the group and stood in front of the entrance. She held her passport and the apartment documents in her hands.
“No one is going in there,” Olga said calmly.
Viktor looked at his wife in surprise, then his face darkened with anger.
“What are you doing? We had an agreement!”
“There was no agreement. I said I would not let anyone move into my mother’s apartment.”
Valentina Ivanovna put her bag down on the pavement and exclaimed indignantly:
“Olechka, what nonsense is this? We’re family!”
“Family or not, the apartment belongs to me by law.”
Tamara shifted nervously from foot to foot:
“Olga, think reasonably. It’s impossible to live in that communal flat anymore. The neighbors drink and fight every night.”
“Rent another place.”
“With what money?” the mother-in-law snapped. “Viktor gives all his salary to the family!”
Olga looked at the documents in her hands, then at her husband’s relatives:
“That’s your problem. The apartment came to me as an inheritance, and I alone decide who will live there.”
Viktor grabbed his wife’s hand:
“You’re destroying the family! How can you be so heartless?”
“Heartless?” Olga pulled her hand free. “You were happy about my mother’s death!”
“I wasn’t happy! I just said that now we could solve the housing problem!”
“By solving it at my expense!”
Voices grew louder. Viktor gestured angrily, his mother wailed, Tamara tried to interject. Olga stood calmly, holding the documents to her chest.
An elderly neighbor peered out of the entrance:
“What’s all the noise? People are trying to rest after work!”
“It’s family business,” Viktor shouted. “None of your concern!”
“Oh, it’s my concern! I’ll call the police right now!”
The neighbor disappeared back inside. Viktor realized the commotion was drawing attention and tried a softer tone:
“Olka, let’s go inside and talk this through calmly.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. The documents speak for themselves.”
Ten minutes later, a police car pulled up. Two officers got out — a man around forty and a young woman.
“Who called?” the senior officer asked.
“I did,” the neighbor’s voice came from a second-floor window. “They’ve been yelling for half an hour!”
The officer approached the group:
“What’s the problem?”
Viktor tried to explain first:
“My wife won’t let my mother into the apartment! Relatives have a right to housing!”
“What right?” the female officer asked.
Olga took out the documents:
“Here’s the certificate of inheritance. The apartment belongs only to me. These people are trying to move in without my consent.”
The officer carefully examined the papers:
“Everything’s in order. You’re the sole heir?”
“Yes. My mother had no other children.”
“And you are who to this woman?” he asked Valentina Ivanovna.
“I’m her mother-in-law. We’re family!”
“Family ties do not grant the right to someone else’s property,” the female officer explained. “If the owner does not consent, no one can be forced to live there.”
Valentina Ivanovna and Tamara’s faces fell. They clearly hadn’t expected this outcome.
“But we packed our things!” Tamara said, stunned.
“Pack them back up,” the officer advised. “And leave the area.”
Viktor tried to protest:
“This is lawlessness! They’re breaking up the family!”
“No one is breaking anything up,” the female officer said patiently. “You can live anywhere you like, but not in someone else’s apartment against the owner’s will.”
They had to load the boxes back into the taxi. Valentina Ivanovna sniffled, Tamara stayed silent and grim. Viktor threw angry looks at his wife.
“Going home?” the officer asked Olga.
“Yes, thank you for your help.”
The officers left. The taxi drove off with the relatives. Olga went up to her mother’s apartment alone.
At home, Viktor started another scene. He slammed doors, shouted, accused his wife of betrayal:
“You humiliated me in front of my mother! How am I supposed to face her now?”
“You humiliated yourself when you decided to claim someone else’s property.”
“Not someone else’s — family property!”
“Family?” Olga gave a bitter laugh. “You rejoiced at my mother’s death! What kind of family is that?”
Viktor fell silent, realizing he had gone too far.
“That’s not what I meant…”
“You meant exactly that. My mother died, and you were already making plans to divide the apartment.”
Olga walked over to the nightstand where her husband’s keys lay. She picked out the ones for her mother’s apartment.
“You won’t be needing these anymore,” Olga said calmly.
Viktor started to protest, but one look at his wife’s cold face stopped him. For the first time in their marriage, Viktor saw Olga so resolute.
“What does this mean?”
“It means you no longer have access to my mother’s apartment.”
“And what about us?”
“What ‘us’? After today, there is no ‘us.’”
Viktor tried to justify himself for another hour, but Olga wouldn’t listen. That night, he slept on the couch — his wife didn’t let him into the bedroom.
The next morning Olga filed for divorce at the registry office. They had no children, no joint property — they rented their apartment, owned no car, had no savings. They could be divorced within a month.
Viktor found out about the divorce filing that evening and rushed home. He begged his wife to reconsider, swore he would never bring anyone into the apartment again.
“It’s too late, Viktor. You’ve shown your true face.”
“I’ll change!”
“No need. Go live with your mother and sister if they matter so much.”
“But they have nowhere to stay!”
“Not my problem.”
In the weeks that followed, Viktor called constantly, sent messages, waited for her near work. Olga didn’t answer, ignored every attempt to make peace.
Valentina Ivanovna also tried to intervene. She came to Olga’s workplace, complained to her colleagues about her “heartless daughter-in-law.” Told anyone who would listen that Olga had thrown her relatives out onto the street.
“Olga, think about it,” pleaded the mother-in-law. “Viktor was a good husband!”
“A good husband doesn’t celebrate his mother-in-law’s death.”
“He wasn’t celebrating! He just phrased it badly!”
“Very badly. And your plans turned out badly too.”
Valentina Ivanovna realized persuasion was useless. Olga had made her decision and wasn’t going to change it.
The divorce was finalized in a month. Viktor signed the papers without a fight — there was nothing to divide. He moved out of the rented apartment, taking his belongings.
Olga didn’t care where her ex-husband settled. Rumor had it he rented a room in a dormitory, but that was hearsay.
Half a year later, when the inheritance paperwork was complete, Olga moved into her mother’s apartment. She sold some of the old furniture, bought new pieces. Did some light renovations — painted the walls, replaced the linoleum.
Her mother’s room remained untouched for a long time. Olga couldn’t bring herself to go through her mother’s things. But little by little the pain subsided, and she was able to put the room in order.
That winter, at work, she met a new colleague — Andrey. He had recently moved to the city, rented an apartment near the office. He was a programmer, divorced, no children.
Andrey turned out to be a considerate man. When he learned about Olga’s recent loss and divorce, he didn’t pry. He offered help but never pushed.
Gradually, a warm friendship grew between them. Andrey often walked Olga home, sometimes dropped by. He never asked about her plans for the apartment, never showed interest in the inheritance.
“You have a lovely apartment,” Andrey said once. “It’s cozy.”
“Thank you. My mother worked hard to make it a home.”
“You can tell everything was done with love.”
Olga smiled gratefully. At last, there was someone who understood the value of a home built with heart.
A year after the divorce, Olga ran into Tamara at a store. Her former sister-in-law looked tired, her clothes worn.
“Hi,” Tamara greeted hesitantly.
“Hello.”
“How are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Oh, same old. Still in the communal place.”
Tamara hesitated, then added:
“Viktor’s in a dormitory too. It’s hard for him alone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Maybe you could make up?”
“No.”
“But you loved each other once!”
Olga looked closely at her former sister-in-law:
“Love and respect are not the same. Without respect, love turns into habit.”
“Viktor respected you!”
“A person who rejoices at your mother’s death cannot respect you.”
Tamara dropped her eyes and said nothing.
At home, Olga brewed tea and sat by the window with a book. Snow was falling outside, covering the city in a white blanket. The apartment was warm and quiet.
That evening, the phone rang. It was Andrey.
“Hi. How are you?”
“Good. Reading.”
“Would you like to go to the theater tomorrow? I got opera tickets.”
“I’d love to.”
After the call, Olga turned off the lights and got ready for bed. The day had passed peacefully, and tomorrow promised something new.
Left alone in her mother’s apartment, Olga didn’t feel lonely — she felt relief. Not because she was now the sole owner, but because she had freed herself from people who saw life as currency, who were ready to build happiness on someone else’s grief.
Her mother’s apartment had become a true home — a place to be herself, where no one threatened her peace or dignity. A place belonging to someone who knew how to value and protect what was created with love.
