— Inna, where did you put the keys to the storage room? — Faina Stepanowna’s voice cut through the kitchen, sharp and relentless, like a knife. She stood by the stove, wrapped in a faded daisy-patterned bathrobe, holding the wooden spoon as if it were a dagger.
— What keys? — Inna kept her eyes on the cucumber slices on the cutting board, casting only a fleeting glance at her mother-in-law. The knife’s blade caught the light and flashed briefly. — They’re always in the drawer by the entrance.— They’re not there! I checked!
— Faina tapped the spoon against the rim of the pot, and hot soup splashed onto the tiles. — You change everything to your liking! This is my apartment, and you act like you’re the mistress!Inna slowly put the knife down on the cutting board. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed together.
With a mixture of anger and disbelief, she turned to Faina, every movement staged as if on a theater stage.— Excuse me, what? — Her voice trembled with rising anger, not fear. — Your apartment? Since when, Faina Stepanowna?Faina straightened, chin raised, her gray hair pulled into a strict bun,
hairspray gleaming metallic under the kitchen light.— Since the day I moved in, Innochka! — She gestured toward the living room. — I paid for the wedding, brought the furniture, hung the curtains! You think that just happened by itself?
Inna stepped forward, hands on her hips. Her chestnut hair fell out of the braid, framing her flushed face.— Really? You paid for the wedding? We’ve been paying off the loan for three years! And the furniture? Uncle Grisha and Zina brought it because you couldn’t strain your back!
At that moment, the front door swung open. Misha entered the kitchen, his heavy steps echoing across the parquet like drums before a battle. He took off his wet jacket, his gaze tired but alert.— What’s all this shouting in the morning? — he grumbled, throwing his car keys onto the table.
— Misha, tell your wife not to make up stories! — Faina turned to him, her voice softer but still full of reproach. — She’s turning my life upside down, but I’ve always fought for you!— Mama, what are you even talking about? — Misha frowned, his gaze shifting between his mother and his wife.
Inna pointed at Faina, voice sharp as an arrow:— She said this is her apartment! Did you hear that? We’ve lived here for seven years, paying the mortgage, and she acts like she’s in charge! Misha froze. His hand, which had reached for a glass, hung in the air. Slowly, he turned to his mother:
— Mama, did you really say that?Faina crossed her arms, a disdainful smile on her lips:— What, it’s not true? If it weren’t for me, you’d still be in a student flat! I put everything into this — my energy, my effort — and now you’re ungrateful?Inna laughed bitterly, the air crackling with tension:
— Your effort? You moved in here three years ago, after Uncle Grisha brought you from the village! And only because your house was sold and the money disappeared somewhere!— Don’t you dare! — Faina stepped toward Inna, her eyes flashing. — Don’t you dare talk to me about money! I spent it on you!
The argument flared up like fire on dry wood. Misha tried to intervene:— That’s enough! Calm down! Mama, why did you say that? This is our home, you know that!But Faina didn’t listen. Her voice trembled with wounded pride:— Oh, ours with Inna? And I’m nobody? I raised you,
Misha, sleepless nights, and now you’re driving me out?Inna raised her hands:— Who’s driving you out? You made all of this up yourself!Years of unspoken conflicts hung between them. Inna and Misha, young and married, had fought hard for their apartment. Faina, domineering and controlling,
saw herself as the queen of the house, while Inna and Misha were caught between love and respect.Finally, Inna stepped back, voice calm but firm:— I’m not stopping you, Faina Stepanowna. If you want to rule — go ahead. But not in our house.
— In *your* house? — Faina glared, but a hint of doubt appeared.— Mama, stop! — Misha slammed his fist on the table. — This is unfair! Inna hasn’t worked any less than I have!Faina fell silent, looking out the window as the gray light fell on her face. She muttered:
— Ungrateful…Inna took a deep breath, voice clear:— Misha, I can’t do this anymore. Either she acknowledges that this is our home, or I don’t know what comes next.Misha gently placed his hand on her shoulder:— I choose you. I’ve known it for a long time. I just didn’t know how to stop Mama.
Inna smiled weakly, a smile of relief, not triumph. They stood in silence until the front door downstairs slammed shut.Faina sank into a chair, hands wrapped around a cup of hot broth, no longer gripping it tightly. Her gaze fixed on the soup, she began to realize that control is not the same as love.
An hour later, Grisha and Zina came in, simple but wise like old trees. Grisha tossed a sack of potatoes onto the table:— So, Faya, waging war again?Faina lifted her eyes, voice quieter:— It’s… hard.— You’re used to controlling everything. But they’re not children anymore.
Show them you’re a mother, not a ruler. — Grisha tapped the cigarette on the table without lighting it.Zina placed her hand on Faina’s shoulder:— They won’t forget you. But let them live.When Misha and Inna returned, the kitchen was quiet, the soup still steaming.
Faina sat there, no longer a queen, but a woman who had learned to let go. Spoons clinked, soft laughter filled the room, and outside the sky cleared after the storm.
