My mother-in-law made a spiteful joke about my “stinginess” in front of the guests. But I calmly reminded her who was used to living at someone else’s expense…
“Katya dear, why were you so tight-fisted with the dessert? One little cake for such a crowd!”
Zinaida Semyonovna’s voice—shrill and biting like cheap perfume—cut through the chatter. The guests gathered in the spacious living room of Katya’s three-room apartment fell awkwardly silent. Vitya, Katya’s husband, immediately jabbed her in the side with his elbow and hissed:
“What’s wrong with you? Couldn’t you have ordered two? I told you, Mom loves Bird’s Milk cake!”
Katya slowly turned her head. A polite, icy smile froze on her face.
“I ordered what I considered appropriate, Vitya.”
She felt a familiar dull weariness creeping up her temples. It was her birthday. In theory. In practice, it was yet another performance by Zinaida Semyonovna, who was “helping” her daughter-in-law host guests in Katya’s own apartment. An apartment she had bought long before her “happy” marriage.
That evening, when the last guest left and Zinaida Semyonovna, complaining about “indigestion from Katya’s cooking,” retreated to her room (formerly Katya’s study), Vitya launched into his “debriefing.”
“You could’ve been more polite to my mom!” he began, stuffing into his mouth the remnants of that same cake. “She’s an elderly woman!”
“An elderly woman, Vitya, wouldn’t publicly call the lady of the house stingy,” Katya replied as she methodically collected the dishes. Her hands, adorned with expensive rings—gifts from herself after successful projects—moved quickly and precisely. She was a financial director at a large company, and her energy seemed to have physical weight.
“Oh come on, ‘stingy’! You’re so sensitive! She was joking!” Vitya rolled his eyes with a smirk. “You always take everything so personally. You have no sense of humor.”
Katya stopped and looked at her husband. The handsome, well-groomed face she had once loved now seemed like a mask to her. A hypocritical, weak mask.
“No, Vitya. I do have a sense of humor. But it seems my patience is running out.”
That night, Katya couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. She stared at the moonlight dancing across her framed diplomas—now forced into the bedroom—and thought. Thought about how it had all come to this.
Three years ago, Vitya and his mother had moved in with her. First, Zinaida Semyonovna had “suddenly” sold her tiny two-room apartment in the Moscow suburbs to “help her son with the mortgage” (which they didn’t have). The money, of course, immediately “disappeared”—either invested badly or simply evaporated. And Vitya, the “successful freelancer,” hadn’t had a single order for a year but was diligently spending from Katya’s shared bank card on “business expenses.”
They lived in her apartment, ate her food, used her comforts. And yet both—mother and son—managed to look down on her, as if she were some kind of household staff who, for some reason, also earned all the money.
“Why do I tolerate this?” A question that had previously smoldered faintly in the back of her mind now flared with fierce clarity. “I support them. I pay for everything. And in return I’m called stingy?”
Her inner discipline—the same one that served her so well at work—finally awakened in her home life. This wasn’t a decision born of anger. It was cold, precise calculation.
The next day Katya left for work earlier than usual. And in the afternoon, her aunt Alla Borisovna stopped by her office. A short, sharp-tongued woman with drill-bit eyes, Alla was one of the best notaries in the city and possessed exactly the kind of humor Vitya believed Katya lacked.
“Alla, hi! What brings you here?” Katya greeted her warmly.
“Hello, boss lady! I was passing by and decided to check how you’re managing your capitalists.” Alla plopped into the visitor’s chair. “What’s with the face? Did your household vampires drink your blood again and complain it wasn’t sweet enough?”
Katya smirked and—unexpected even to herself—told her everything. The cake, the “stinginess,” Vitya’s “freelancing.”
Alla Borisovna listened silently, tapping her fingers on the armrest.
“I see,” she said at last. “I once had a client, Katya. Another ‘holy martyr.’ She carried her deadbeat husband and his mother on her back too. They also kept whining about her ‘stinginess’ when she didn’t give them money for a new car. Do you know what ‘stinginess’ means to people like that? It means spending your money on yourself—not on them.”
“And what did she do?” Katya asked quietly.
“What did she do? Nothing special. She just… turned on the meter.” Alla smirked slyly. “You see, dear Katya, the Civil Code has some marvelous articles. And the Housing Code— even more marvelous ones. Especially when the apartment is your personal, pre-marital property.”
They talked for another hour. When Alla left, Katya felt as if a concrete slab had been lifted from her shoulders. She had a plan. Calm, decisive, and completely legal…
The emotional roller coaster of the past few days—from hurt and helplessness to cold fury—finally came to a stop at a point of firm certainty.
A week later, Katya gathered people again. Or rather, not “people,” but a “family council.” Just the three of them: herself, Vitya, and Zinaida Semyonovna.
On the coffee table in the living room stood not a vase of flowers, but three neat folders filled with documents.
“Katya dear, what’s all this? A surprise?”
Zinaida Semyonovna was in a good mood. She had already picked out a new fur coat—naturally to be bought with Katya’s money.
“An evening of surprises, Zinaida Semyonovna,” Katya smiled her most charming, professional smile—the one that sent shivers down the spines of her subordinates. “Let’s get to it.”
She picked up the first folder.
“This is for you, Zinaida Semyonovna. It’s a rental agreement. For the room you were kind enough to live in.”
“What?!”
Zinaida Semyonovna snatched the papers. “Rent?! In my son’s apartment?!”
“In my apartment,” Katya corrected gently. “Vitya is registered here as my husband. And you… forgive me, what are you to me according to the Housing Code? That’s right—no one. Therefore, starting from the first of the month”—she pointed to the date—“this is the amount. Quite modest, I assure you. Practically charity. Plus half of the utilities.”
Zinaida Semyonovna’s jaw dropped.
“Vitya! Vitya, did you hear?! She—she’s throwing me out onto the street!”
Vitya jumped up, face flushing red.
“Katya! How dare you?! That’s my mother!”
“Exactly, Vitya. Your mother.”
Katya picked up the second folder. “And this, darling, is for you. Our new family budget. Separate.”
“What do you mean… separate?”
Vitya looked lost.
“Just that. I closed our shared bank card—the one that, for some reason, only my salary went into. Starting tomorrow, we split expenses for food, utilities, and everything else fifty-fifty. Your share”—she tapped the number again—“is right here. Considering your ‘successful freelancing,’ you’ll manage just fine, won’t you?”
She leaned back against the sofa.
“Oh, and I almost forgot.”
She picked up the third, thinnest folder. “This is an invoice. For the last three years. For lodging, food, and other ‘little things.’ A sort of compensation for my ‘stinginess.’ No rush—you have two weeks to think everything over.”
The silence in the room became deafening.
“You… you…”
Zinaida Semyonovna was gasping. “Shameless woman! You’ve taken in a gigolo!”
“You’re mistaken,” Katya laughed—this time genuinely. “A gigolo, dear Zinaida Semyonovna, is a man who lives off a woman. As you understand, that definition doesn’t quite fit me. But Vitya…”
She cast a mockingly tender look at her husband.
“…Vitya, it seems, was getting very close.”
“I—I’ll file for divorce!” Vitya screeched. “I’ll take half of everything!”
“Go ahead,” Katya shrugged. “Only I’m afraid the only thing you’ll get to split are the debts you ran up on my accounts. The apartment, if you recall, is pre-marital. And the car too, by the way.”
Two days later, when Katya came home from work, she found suitcases in the hallway.
Zinaida Semyonovna, eyes blazing, was hissing curses. Vitya—pale and furious—was trying to call a taxi.
“Oh, you’re leaving?”
Katya leaned elegantly against the doorframe. “And what about the rental agreement?”
“Choke on your apartment, you miser!” Zinaida Semyonovna spat.
“Certainly,” Katya nodded. “Vitya darling, don’t forget to send me your share for this month. I’ll forward you the bill.”
The door slammed.
Katya walked into the living room. The apartment felt strangely quiet. She approached the window and threw it wide open. Spring air burst into the room, smelling of dust and new life.
She didn’t feel triumph. No. She felt what a surgeon feels after successfully removing a neglected tumor. It hurt, it was unpleasant, but it was necessary. She felt… relief. And a vast, intoxicating sense of self-respect—something she had returned to herself.
They say other people’s families are mysteries.
But sometimes, to understand your own, you just need to turn on the light at the right moment.
And not be afraid to present the bill.
