The key turned in the lock with an unpleasant metallic screech, and Vera had not even taken off her coat when she was already hit by the heavy smell of overheated sunflower oil and burnt frying batter filling the air.
On the light-colored tile floor, unfamiliar muddy shoes were lined up, as if the apartment no longer belonged to her.Nina Fedorovna was here again.
The “just helping you out” visits had long since become regular, then slowly turned into complete occupation: from Fridays to weekends, from weekends to permanent presence.
— Olechka, eat more, I made fresh meat patties! — rang the familiar, overly energetic voice from the kitchen.
Vera bent down and took off her shoes. After a ten-hour dental shift, every part of her body felt exhausted; she longed only for a hot shower and silence, but instead she was greeted by foreign noise, foreign smells, and foreign mess.
She walked toward the kitchen. Nina Fedorovna stood by the stove as if it had always been her domain, wearing a well-ironed blouse with an old apron over it, clearly brought “just in case.” Oleg sat at the table, eating as if he had been starving for years.
This was no longer a visit. It had become a habit.— Oh, Vera, you’re home! — the mother-in-law turned to her while wiping her hands. — Wash your hands and sit down, I cooked for you so you don’t have to bother on the weekend.
— Thank you, but we were planning to go to a restaurant tomorrow, — Vera said quietly.The woman snorted.— Restaurant? Waste of money! Homemade food is the real thing. Right, son?
Oleg nodded without looking at her.
Vera tensed. This was the pattern: the mother spoke, the husband nodded, and she was always the excess one. She went to the sink for water but stopped when she saw an empty bottle in the trash: cold-pressed pumpkin seed oil—her expensive, medical diet oil.
— Nina Fedorovna… you fried with this? — she asked.— Yes, of course, — the woman shrugged. — The other one ran out. This one was just standing there.
— You’re not supposed to heat this, — Vera said slowly. — It’s not ordinary oil. I need it for health reasons.— Vera, don’t dramatize. Your mother cooked, that’s it, — Oleg said, finally looking up.
— This is not drama, this is health, — she replied quietly.— Ungrateful, — snapped the mother-in-law.The air thickened, and for the first time Vera felt it clearly: here she was not a partner, but an obstacle.
The next days passed in tense silence. Oleg avoided eye contact, Nina Fedorovna came even more often, as if checking how far she could go. Then Friday came.
For the first time in a long while, Vera felt it would be real. She planned a special dinner—turkey, asparagus, a light sauce, a quiet evening.
She spent hours at the market, carefully choosing everything, paying a lot, but feeling pleased. She came home late in the evening, and already in the hallway she was hit by the smell of fried mayonnaise. The key turned more slowly in the lock.
In the kitchen, Nina Fedorovna stood triumphantly over a huge baking tray.— Surprise! I chopped up the asparagus, added potatoes and cheese—it’s much more filling like this! — she said.
The expensive ingredients had melted into an unrecognizable mass. Oleg was already eating, happily.Vera stood still. Something inside her quietly snapped.— I told you not to touch my food, — she said very softly.
— Oh come on, it’s just food, — the mother-in-law waved her hand. — The main thing is that we’re full.And then came the next sentence:
— By the way… I thought you could pay for it too. Twenty-five thousand a month. For cooking.
Silence fell. Oleg finally spoke:— Mom works a lot for this. You shouldn’t talk to her like that.Vera understood then: this was not a misunderstanding, but a system.
— So I have to pay for having my own food ruined in my own apartment? — she asked calmly.Oleg stood up.— Don’t make a scene.His hand landed on her shoulder, harder than necessary.— Eat. And behave.
That was the limit.Vera slowly stepped back.— You will not be here tomorrow, — she said.The words were not loud, but final.That night she called her brother.
— Come tomorrow.— I’ll be there.The next morning, unfamiliar men appeared in the apartment. They did not shout or argue; they packed quickly, precisely, efficiently.
Oleg first laughed, then raged, then begged, and finally just watched as his life was put into black garbage bags.— This is my apartment too! — he shouted.
— No, — Vera said calmly. — This is my apartment.When the door closed, there was suddenly space. Real space.
Months later, Vera stood in her own kitchen, surrounded by the smell of vegetables and silence. Her phone vibrated: Oleg’s message. “I’m sorry. Everything should have been different. Let’s meet.”
Vera read it, looked at it for a long time, then deleted it.There was no anger in her—only closure.And for the first time in a very long time, she did not have to please anyone in her own home.
