“Mom is now officially registered in your apartment, and I don’t care what you think!” the husband barked. “The suitcases are inside—get used to it.”
“You think I’m exaggerating? If only you’d seen her face when I walked in! As if it weren’t my apartment, but her little room on the third floor of the district office, where she spent twenty years taking in other people’s dusty coats!”
Valeria slammed the door, set her bag on the floor, and kicked off her heels. Her legs ached after a dozen meetings and one pointless presentation where her boss, for the third time in a row, had claimed her idea as his own.
But the fatigue evaporated when she saw who was sitting on their couch in a robe, hair still wet.
“Mommy’s here,” Misha bleated with fake cheerfulness, peeking from the kitchen holding a pot. “I drew her a bath—she got all sweaty on the train…”
“And, of course, straight into my robe,” Valeria hissed. “Mish, do you even think with your head, or only when your online store is counting its spices?”
Nina Petrovna silently twirled a strand of hair around her finger, deliberately not looking at her daughter-in-law.
“Good evening, Valeria. How’s work? Or is it no longer customary to greet each other?”
“And now is it customary to live in a threesome, like a commune?” Valeria threw her bag onto the table. “Aren’t you going to explain anything to me?”
Misha shrugged.
“Why do you start off like that? Mom will stay a few days—she’s got renovations at home.”
“And where did she live before, while her home was being renovated?” Valeria crossed her arms. “Alone. In peace. Without my robes, without your little bag of dumplings. Why is she here now?”
“Because your work is always your first priority!” Nina Petrovna suddenly snapped, going on the offensive. “Misha spends all day alone like an orphan. You come home—no kind word, no soup! When I got married, I greeted my husband at the door, not with the question: ‘And what are you doing here?’”
“I didn’t greet you at the door—you were already half-lying on my couch,” Valeria hissed. “And by the way, my husband has hands of his own to make soup—he doesn’t need to fetch his mom from three train stations away.”
Misha put the pot back on the stove, judging by the clatter, a bit carelessly.
“Enough already! Mom, don’t interfere for now. And you, Lera, calm down… you’re tired. Everything was fine before!”
“When was everything fine, Misha?” Valeria laughed bitterly. “When you were ‘doing business’ with my money and then forgot to tell me you wasted it on ads for ‘pure Indian turmeric’?”
Nina Petrovna snorted.
“See how she is with you! I told you—don’t marry that careerist! You’ll never get anything but complaints from such a woman!”
“And as for children—you both shut up!” Valeria stepped forward, pointing between them. “If you want to boss someone around, get yourself a house with a poodle. I’m not your child. I’m the person supporting this infantile grown-up boy—and now, apparently, his mom too!”
“Don’t yell, Valeria,” Misha said quietly, clearly trying to put out the fire. “It’s only a couple of days.”
“And how do you imagine that? Mom and I in the same kitchen? She asking me for advice about soup? Or maybe you’ll even give her the keys?”
Nina Petrovna silently pulled a key fob from her pocket. Dangling on it was a brand-new duplicate key.
“Already taken care of,” she said calmly. “Mishenka made it for me. After all, I’m officially registered now.”
Valeria felt her mouth go dry all of a sudden.
“What did you say?”
Misha lowered his eyes like a schoolboy in front of the principal.
“Well… you signed the power of attorney for me when you went on vacation. I thought Mom would feel more comfortable if she were officially registered. Just in case…”
“You. Registered. Her. In. My. Apartment?” Valeria spat out each word with difficulty.
“Our apartment!” Misha blurted. “We bought it together!”
“With my money!” she shouted, feeling her face flush. “And I paid the mortgage! And the renovations! Have you completely lost it?”
Nina Petrovna rose from the couch like a statue of righteousness.
“I sold my own apartment to help you! And now you’re kicking me out? You heartless woman!”
“And you—are a manipulator!” Valeria spun around and headed to the bedroom. “Congratulations, family! Enjoy your housewarming—without me.”
“Where are you going?” Misha called after her, bewildered.
“To a hotel. Until I hire a lawyer.”
“What? Lera!” Misha ran after her. “Wait, why do you jump to extremes?”
“Because nobody asked me,” she said, turning back with her bag. “If they had, I would’ve explained: there’s only one owner of this apartment. And it’s definitely not your mom.”
She slammed the door, leaving behind the smell of dumplings, the scent of “Red Moscow” perfume, and the sense that everything had collapsed.
“Well, Valeria Nikolaevna, congratulations—you’ve got a classic setup. A power of attorney is just a golden key for all sorts of schemes.
And if the person doesn’t even read what they’re signing, you could take out a loan for a camel, for all it matters,” the lawyer, Petr Arkadievich, said with a smirk, flipping through her papers. “Look here: your mother-in-law’s registration, an 800-thousand loan—it’s all done via power of attorney. With her own hand. Yours.”
Valeria stared at the sheets like they were a medical diagnosis.
“Uh-huh… and then she’ll start demanding her share. Claim she lived here, paid for groceries, cooked…” Petr Arkadievich glanced at her. “I call that ‘pie-rights.’ You’d be surprised how courts sometimes respect it.”
“I…” Valeria swallowed hard, feeling something boiling inside. “I just wanted them to leave me alone while I was on vacation! I said, ‘Just pay the utility bill!’ And he… he did it… his mother.”
“Well, you know,” the lawyer shrugged, “trust, but read. It’s your signature—you’re responsible.”
Valeria left the office feeling like she’d stepped out of a freezer. Her hands were shaking. She walked down the street with the sense that she had been cheated in a card game she never even played. Checkmate. With her own hand.
Her phone vibrated. Misha. She pressed “decline.” Again. And again.
“Go away, Misha, with your mother and your turmeric.”
But an hour later, she finally went somewhere. Not home. To a friend’s place.
“Okay, quiet!” shouted Lidka, her friend from university, pouring white wine into glasses. “All right, calm down, take a sip. Now, to the point: you signed a power of attorney, he took out a loan. Question: for what?”
“An online spice store…” Valeria muttered, resigned, nibbling on cheese. “Some honey with pepper, turmeric… He was negotiating everything in a warehouse with some Tajik. The Tajik disappeared. And the money—remained.”
“Listen, this isn’t a marriage, this is… a gastronomic robbery!” Lidka slammed her hand on the table. “He took a loan in your name, registered his mother, and still sits on your couch like he’s the tribal chief!”
“He says I’m cold… that at least his mother takes care of him…”
“And you’re the fool for putting up with it so long!” Lidka howled. “He was whispering in your ear while quietly piling debts on you!…”
“You know, I’m not twenty anymore. I thought—well, family, stability, comfort. We went on vacation—and then this. He decided to register his mother in my apartment…”
“Oh, that’s like a jack in the bed!” Lidka snorted. “Enough, Lera. Tomorrow—court. File to annul the registration. And divorce at the same time. Let Mommy cook him borscht and pay the loan herself!”
Valeria smirked. It was strange how someone else’s anger sometimes eases your own bitterness—especially when it’s justified.
The next morning she returned home. The apartment greeted her with silence. No perfume, no Nina Petrovna shouting. Only Misha sat in the kitchen, eyes red.
“Where’s Mom?” she asked hoarsely, without taking off her coat.
“She left…” he said, looking at her tiredly. “I realized I went too far.”
“Uh-huh. A little,” Valeria said coldly, “by eight hundred thousand. Were you going to tell me you took out a loan in my name?”
“I thought I could make it back…” Misha rubbed his temples. “Lera, you know how hard things are right now. You’re always at work. I just wanted you to see that I’m not useless. That I can do something on my own…”
“Well, you showed me! Good job! Took money, wasted it, registered your mom—all without me knowing. Truly ‘on your own.’”
“I wanted to prove I could…”
“Without me?” she dropped her bag to the floor. “Then live that way—from now on, without me. You decided you could do everything yourself?”
Misha jumped up and approached.
“Ler, let’s not. I’ll put everything in my name. Payments, the loan. Just don’t leave.”
“And the apartment?” she raised her eyes. “Who did you register it under?”
“Us…” he said quietly. “Half and half.”
“Seriously?” Valeria laughed sharply, almost hysterically. “I’ve been paying the mortgage, renovations, furniture, utilities, and you decided, ‘Well, let’s be fair’?”
“I just… wanted you to feel we were doing everything together.”
“And I do feel it, Misha. Only it’s not ‘together,’ it’s ‘everything—on me.’”
She went past him, into the bedroom, and pulled the documents from the bottom drawer.
“Where are you going?” he asked weakly.
“To the notary. Then the lawyer. And in the evening—home. To Lidka.”
“So… everything?”
“Misha,” she turned to him. “I didn’t just stop loving you. I’m tired of being alone in a marriage meant for two.”
He stood with his hands down. Silent.
That evening, she sat at Lidka’s, with tea and a crossed-out copy of the power of attorney.
“Do you know what’s the most insulting?” Valeria sighed. “I knew he was a mama’s boy. But I didn’t think the heel belonged not to me, but to his mother.”
“Ha!” Lidka laughed. “And you thought you were the sandal in his life?”
They laughed. No more tears. Only fatigue. And resolve.
“I have every right to live in this apartment!” Nina Petrovna snapped her bag on the table, glaring at Valeria like she would at a shop clerk who dared not give the correct change.
“You are only temporarily registered here. Temporary—that’s the key word,” Valeria’s lawyer answered calmly.
“And I’m not sure your client is even my son’s wife. She behaves like a treasurer at a checkpoint! Counts everything, notes everything!”
“Nina Petrovna,” Valeria said wearily, “I’m not a treasurer. I’m a person whose soul was drained teaspoon by teaspoon. One drop at a time.”
“Don’t dramatize!” she snorted. “I tried! I cooked! I cleaned!”
“And for that you want a share of the apartment?” the lawyer interjected. “No one is stopping you from cooking borscht at home.”
“I don’t have a home,” she said defiantly. “I sold my two-room apartment to give my son money for his business! And what? Lost everything! I’m the real victim here!”
“Victim?” Valeria slowly rose from her chair. “You first put my husband on a leash, then barged into my apartment, into my life, staged a circus, and now you’re screaming that you’re the victim?”
The judge tapped the gavel.
“Please, no emotions. We are hearing the motion to annul the registration.”
“So, what did you achieve?” Misha’s voice caught up with her in the courthouse corridor. “Are you happy now? The court canceled her registration. And then what? You’ll be alone in your golden cage?”
“Better alone in a cage than chained with you,” Valeria answered calmly, not turning around. “The loan is yours. Notarized. The apartment share is mine. You lost nothing, Misha. You just stayed where you were comfortable—under your mother’s wing.”
“I loved you, Ler.”
“And I didn’t love you,” she turned to him. “I saved you. And then I got tired of being your savior.”
He was silent. Just stared. Like a puppy thrown out into the street. With a hint of offense. And no awareness at all.
“And she’s getting old, Ler. Mom… it’s hard for her.”
“I’m not a nursing home. And not a savings bank. Not even a doormat. I’m a person, Misha. Who just wanted respect.”
Two weeks passed.
“All right, pour, Lidka!” Valeria placed two glasses on the table. “Today we celebrate! I’m officially free. No husband, no mother-in-law, no loan.”
“No illusions either,” Lidka added, smiling. “So, how does it feel?”
“Like after the flu. Weak, but I can breathe.”
“And him?”
“Misha? Moved in with his mom. A studio in Butovo. The online store closed, the Tajik disappeared, Mom cries—says I abandoned them.”
“And you?”
“And I… don’t cry.”
They clinked glasses.
“And how will you live now?”
“Quietly. And honestly, with pleasure. Turns out I sleep pretty well alone. And I fit on a double bed by myself.”
At parting, Misha tried to stop her. He wrote a letter. Tearful, like rhubarb compote.
“I realized everything… Come back, I’ll fix it all…”
She deleted the message without reading it fully.
Because going back—to a place where you were never heard, never seen, never respected—is only for an experiment. And she had already conducted that experiment. Seven years.
Now—it was enough.
