— And why on earth does your mother think she can lay claim to my apartment? To a share of it? My parents bought it for me, so she can just forget it!
— Want some dinner?
It was an ordinary question, tossed over her shoulder from the stove, where meat was sizzling in the pan. Marina didn’t even turn around when she heard the key turn in the lock. But her husband’s answer made her freeze.
— Huh? Yes, sure.
It wasn’t his usual “yes.” Normally, when Vadim came into the apartment, he shed the day’s street-weariness along with his shoes. From the doorway he might start talking about work, cracking jokes, or loudly complaining about traffic. But now his voice sounded dull and detached, as if he were answering not her, but his own thoughts. She turned off the burner and looked around.
Vadim was standing in the hallway, still in his unzipped jacket. His shoulders were slumped, as if he were carrying not just a laptop bag, but a couple of sacks of cement. He didn’t look at her; his gaze was fixed on the floor. The keys he pulled from his pocket clinked dully as he dropped them onto the little shoe cabinet.
Marina felt a familiar chill run down her spine. That was how he looked when he brought bad news. Not a catastrophe—no. But those sticky, unpleasant problems that always came into their home from the same direction. From his mother.
— Did something happen at work? — she asked, trying to keep her voice even.
— No, work’s the same as always, — he finally forced himself to smile. The smile came out strained and pitiful; it didn’t reach his eyes. He walked into the kitchen and sat down, scraping the chair back with an unpleasant squeal. — Smells good. You must be tired?
He was trying to talk as if nothing were wrong, but the falseness was almost tangible. Marina leaned her hip against the counter and folded her arms across her chest. She wasn’t going to play along with this performance. She knew the trick: first lull her with small pleasantries, then, casually, drop the real reason for it all.
— Vadim, don’t beat around the bush. You were at your mom’s. What did she come up with this time?
He flinched as if she’d hit him. He looked up at her, his eyes full of cornered misery. He clearly hadn’t expected such a direct question and was now frantically trying to figure out how to continue.
— Yes, I was… I stopped by after work, she asked me to. Nothing special, just… we talked.
— You talked, — she repeated without a questioning tone. It was a statement. She stared him down, giving him no chance to dodge, to hide behind meaningless phrases. The silence in the kitchen grew thick. All she could hear was the hum of the refrigerator.
Vadim was the first to break eye contact. He stood up, paced across the kitchen, ran a hand through his hair. He stopped by the window with his back to her.
— Marina, you know Mom… she, well… she worries. About me. About us.
— And how is her “worry” showing itself this time? — steel edged into her voice.
He took a deep breath, working up the courage. He still didn’t turn around, as if he was afraid to see her face when he said it.
— She says life is… unpredictable. Today everything’s fine, and tomorrow… anything can happen. And she just wants to be sure I’ll be okay. That I… well… won’t end up on the street if something happens.
He fell silent, leaving her to fill in the blanks. But Marina said nothing. She waited. She would make him say it out loud—every last word. And, not getting any help from her, he finally forced it out, stumbling and lowering his voice almost to a whisper:
— Basically, she’s asking… no, offering… that you transfer a share of the apartment to her. A small one. Just for her— you know— peace of mind as a mother. For security.
The silence after his words was absolute. It didn’t ring or press down—it simply existed, like a vacuum where every sound had stopped. Vadim stood at the window, afraid to turn around. He expected shouting, reproaches, maybe even tears. He was ready for anything except what happened next.
First it was just a short, sharp exhale through her nose. Then another, louder one. And then Marina laughed.
It wasn’t cheerful, not ironic, not even hysterical laughter. It was loud, unpleasant—almost barking. She threw her head back, and harsh, broken sounds burst from her throat, echoing off the kitchen’s tiled walls. She doubled over as she laughed, as if a sudden spasm of pain had seized her. One hand braced on the counter; the other pressed to her stomach. It was the laughter of sheer, beyond-all-limits disbelief—the laughter of someone who had just heard the most absurd and ugly thing in her life.
Vadim finally turned around. His face, pale and tense before, now showed complete bewilderment. He stared at his laughing wife; tiny beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.
— Marin, come on… stop… This isn’t funny, — he muttered, taking an uncertain step toward her.
His words only threw fuel on the fire. Her laughter grew louder, turning into something guttural, almost painful. She looked up at him, and there wasn’t a trace of amusement in her eyes—only cold, furious contempt, sharpened by that awful sound.
— Not funny? — she panted through her laughter. — Vadim, it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in all the years I’ve known you! Security! She wants security!
He faltered completely, suddenly feeling like an idiot. He started making excuses, tangling himself in words like a failing student at the blackboard.
— I told you, I didn’t come up with it… It was her… Mom is just worried, you know what she’s like. She thinks it’s the right thing, for the family…
The laughter stopped.
It stopped so abruptly, as if someone had flicked a switch. Marina straightened up. Her face, distorted by laughter a second ago, became utterly still—like a mask. Two red tears, squeezed out by the strain, hung frozen in the corners of her eyes. She looked him straight on, and her gaze was hard and sharp as a shard of glass.
— And why on earth does your mother think she can lay claim to my apartment? To a share of it? My parents bought it for me, so she can just forget it!
He tried to protest, to say something about how it wasn’t his fault and he’d only relayed the message. But she didn’t let him even open his mouth.
— I don’t care whose idea it was, — she cut him off, taking a step toward him. Now they were standing almost nose to nose. — What matters is that you heard it. You digested it. And you brought it to me. Here. Into our home. You opened your mouth and said this insanity out loud.
She stared straight into his eyes, and he felt his knees go weak. He realized it was no longer about his mother or her insane request. It was about him.
— So you allow that thought, — she went on in the same icy, lethal tone. — You think it’s something that can even be discussed. That my property, bought before you and for me, can become a bargaining chip for your mother’s peace of mind. You think that’s normal.
She wasn’t asking. She was delivering a verdict.
— So here’s what you tell your mother: she’s not getting any “security.” Not ever. And you… — she paused, and something inside him clenched into an icy knot. — And you and I will talk separately. Right now.
Vadim took a step back, as if her words had struck him physically. He raised his hands in a defensive, almost childlike gesture.
— Marin, what are you saying? I’m not “allowing” anything! I just… I just passed on what she asked for. I thought we’d talk, and I’d tell her it’s nonsense. I was on your side!
He spoke quickly, stumbling over himself, and an injured, whining note broke through in his voice. It was his usual defense: paint himself as a victim of circumstances, trapped between two fires. Before, it sometimes worked. But not today. Marina looked at him as if he were made of glass, as if she could see straight through his pathetic, slippery tactic…
— You thought we’d talk it over? — she repeated with a deadly calm. — Talk over what, Vadim? The very idea that someone can just show up and demand a piece of my property? Do you really not understand that things like this aren’t even up for discussion? You don’t bring them into the house. You shut them down right there, on the spot. You should’ve told your mother “no” before she even finished her sentence. But you didn’t.
He opened and closed his mouth helplessly, realizing that any answer would be the wrong one. He really hadn’t told her “no.” He’d mumbled something like, “I’ll talk to Marina,” hoping it would all somehow resolve itself on its own.
— And this isn’t the first time, — Marina went on, beginning to pace slowly around the kitchen like a predator circling its prey. Her voice was even, stripped of emotion, and that made it sound even more frightening. — Remember when we were getting ready to go on vacation? To the sea. I’d already found a hotel, we were looking at photos of the beach. And then you went to your mom’s. And suddenly it turned out the sea was “harmful acclimatization,” and the best vacation was her dacha sixty kilometers outside the city. And you came to me with that suggestion. You said you were “just proposing we discuss it,” too.
— That was completely different! — he protested. — She was sick back then, she needed help around the plot…
— And the couch? — she cut him off, not listening to his excuses. — I picked that light, modern couch. We went to look at it three times. You agreed. Then your mother said it was “impractical” and “shows stains.” And you started doubting. For a whole week you walked around whining that “maybe Mom’s right,” that “we should get something darker and more solid.” You turned choosing a couch into a family conflict for no reason.
She stopped right in front of him.
— Every time it’s the same. Any decision we make, any plan we have, has to pass her censorship. And you aren’t a filter, you aren’t a defender of our family. You’re just a conduit. A hollow conduit for someone else’s will. A mailman who drags other people’s trash into my home and asks me to “discuss it.”
It was cruel. And it was true. He felt shame flood his face. He tried to find the strength for a counterstrike—something to grab onto.
— But it’s about my future! — he finally blurted out, raising his voice. — The apartment is yours, I’m not arguing! But we live here together! I’m invested too! And if something happens to us, if you… if we split up, where am I supposed to go? Onto the street? That’s what she’s worried about! About me!
That was his biggest mistake. He shifted the focus from her mother’s insane idea to himself, to his vulnerability—and handed Marina the weapon she’d been holding ready for so long.
— About you? — she smirked, but there was no laughter in it now, only pure venom. — She isn’t worried about you, Vadim. She’s worried about keeping her little boy tied to her apron strings. And you… you still don’t understand, even now. The problem isn’t that your mother wants guarantees. The problem is that you need those guarantees yourself. You never grew up. You never became independent. You still need Mommy to solve all your problems for you and put down a safety net. Even at my expense—at the expense of my dignity.
His face twisted. The accusations hit home, and like any weak person backed into a corner, he responded not with remorse, but with aggression.
— Oh, is that how it is? So I’m infantile, I didn’t grow up? And you did, I guess? Sitting in your apartment that Mom and Dad bought you, thinking you can rub my nose in it? I put no less into this apartment than you do! I handled the whole renovation! All the appliances were bought with my money! I thought we were a family, a shared household—and it turns out you’re counting everything! Dividing it all into “yours” and “mine”!
He spoke loudly, waving his arms, trying to seize the initiative—turn his guilt into her flaw. He was trying to make her feel ashamed, force her to justify herself. But looking at him, Marina suddenly realized she didn’t feel anything anymore. Not anger, not hurt, not even irritation. Inside her, a ringing, icy emptiness formed. As if she were looking at a complete stranger yelling at her on a bus. And arguing with him was just as pointless.
She watched his flushed face contorting with righteous fury in silence. She listened to the talk about “family” and “a shared household” and understood he hadn’t grasped a thing. And he never would. He couldn’t see the difference between buying a refrigerator and trying to take part of a home. To him, they were the same kind of thing.
When he finally ran out of steam and fell silent, waiting for her answer, she didn’t say a word. She simply turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Vadim was confused for a second, then followed after her, still throwing accusations at her back.
— What, nothing to say? The truth hurts, huh? Running away from the conversation?
Marina walked into the living room. Her movements were calm, almost unhurried, and there was something unsettling in that measured pace. She went to the desk in the corner where her laptop sat. Vadim stopped in the doorway, not understanding what was happening.
She lifted the lid. The laptop woke from sleep, and the screen lit her face, making her features look even sharper and colder. She placed her fingers on the keyboard. For a few seconds she just sat there, staring at the screen—then her fingers began to tap quickly and methodically. The sound—dry, businesslike plastic clicks—was the only sound in the room.
— What are you doing? — he asked with a note of suspicion. — Decided to write a complaint to my mom?
Marina didn’t answer. She clicked the touchpad, scrolling down the page. Then again. Finally she stopped. She picked up the laptop, stood, and walked over to Vadim, who was still in the doorway, and held it out to him.
— What is this? — he frowned at her, then looked at the screen.
On the screen was a classifieds site. Bright headlines screamed with offers: “Room for rent. Cheap,” “Room in a three-bedroom—single man only,” “Bedspace, metro nearby.”
He stared at the screen, and the meaning of what was happening reached him slowly, painfully. He looked up at her, stunned—terror and confusion mixed in his eyes.
— You… what are you…?
— You’re worried you might end up on the street, — Marina said quietly and clearly. Her voice was perfectly even, like a secretary reading minutes into the record. — So don’t worry. I’m helping you. Start looking. In advance.
She paused, meeting his eyes, and added with the faintest, icy smirk:
— You can pick something closer to your mom. It’ll calm her down. And you—guarantees.
She placed the laptop into his slack hands. It was heavy and cold. Vadim stood in the middle of the room, holding the glowing screen with its чужие rooms and shabby furniture, and felt the ground slipping out from under his feet. He wasn’t a husband in his home anymore. He was just a man who had just been told to start looking for a room to rent. In advance…
