“Your mother is in our way!” – said the son-in-law. “Fine, then clear out her apartment tomorrow.” But he had no idea who it really belonged to…
The Tuesday evening dinner at the Kowalev family’s home was slowly coming to an end.
Marina gently dabbed her lips with a napkin, avoiding looking at her husband. She could already feel that something was coming. Something unpleasant.
Denis, on the other hand, was enjoying his performance. He ate the last few bites of his pasta with exaggerated confidence, deliberately letting his fork clatter against the porcelain plate, and repeatedly threw meaningful glances at his mother-in-law.
Lidia Sergeyevna noticed, of course.
The 62-year-old woman, with her neatly cut short hair and her habit of always sitting perfectly straight, as if someone had placed a steel rod in her back, calmly drank her tea.
She knew people like him.
For forty years she had worked as the chief accountant of a large company. During that time, she had learned to ignore provocations — as long as they were not supported by official documents or facts.
After Denis pushed his plate aside, he folded his hands on the table and let out a loud sigh.
Marina knew that gesture.
He always did it before asking for something important. Years ago, he used it in front of his boss when he wanted a raise. Today, apparently, he was using it in front of his own family.
— All right, — Denis began in a serious voice. He looked at Marina, but spoke loudly enough for Lidia Sergeyevna to hear every word. — We can’t go on like this anymore.
The kitchen fell silent.
— We have no space. No privacy. We’re a young family, and we constantly have to adjust to someone else’s habits. Marina… your mother is in our way.
For a moment, the air in the room seemed to freeze.
Marina lowered her head instinctively.
She had known this conversation would come someday. But she never imagined Denis would start it so coldly.
— Denis, please don’t speak like that, — she whispered.
But he was already on a roll.
— Speak like what? I’m just telling the truth! How long is this supposed to continue? Lidia Sergeyevna always leaves the hallway light on, watches her shows when I want to sleep, and even criticizes the way I mop the floor! I don’t feel like a man in my own home — I feel like a guest!
He leaned back and crossed his arms.
— We need our own space. Either we finally live alone, or I don’t know what the point of all this is. Lidia Sergeyevna… with all due respect: it’s time for you to go your own way.
His mother-in-law didn’t move.
No trembling. No angry expression. No argument.
Only her hand slowly placed the cup onto the saucer.
Then she looked at her daughter.
— Marina, do you agree with your husband? Am I also an obstacle for you?
Marina became nervous.
She looked back and forth between her mother and Denis. Under the table, Denis firmly squeezed her knee. A silent command: take my side.
— Mom… you understand… Denis is right. We just want to live alone for once. We’ve been married for two years and we still live like roommates.
Lidia Sergeyevna slowly nodded.
Two years.
Exactly two years ago, Denis had moved in with a single suitcase from a small rented apartment on the outskirts of the city.
Since then, he had settled in quickly.
He had bought himself an expensive car — naturally, on credit. He had started seeing himself as the head of the family.
He had only forgotten one small detail:
Most of the bills were still being paid by Lidia Sergeyevna.
Food. Utilities. Many everyday expenses.
She was also still working as an independent auditor for several companies.
She calmly stood up.
Smoothed her skirt.
Looked at her son-in-law.
Denis straightened his shoulders proudly.
He believed he had won.
But then Lidia Sergeyevna smiled.
— Fine. If I am really in your way, then the solution is simple.
She paused briefly.
— Clear out the apartment tomorrow.
Denis blinked.
His expression changed.
— Which apartment?
— Your apartment. This one.
— Wait… what do you mean “your”?
He gave an uncertain laugh.
— This is your apartment!
Lidia Sergeyevna looked at him calmly.
— Denis, my dear… when you moved in here two years ago and registered your address — without any ownership rights, only because it helped you at work — did you actually read the documents? Or did you only look at the address?
Marina suddenly turned pale.
She remembered.
Her mother was always prepared.
— Mom… are you saying…
— Exactly.
The woman went into the living room, opened an old lacquered cabinet, and took out a blue folder.
She placed it in front of Denis.
— Please. Read.
With uncertain fingers, Denis opened the folder.
The first document was a property registry extract.
Under “Owner” it said:
Kowaleva Lidia Sergeyevna.
— So what? — Denis muttered. — Exactly. Your apartment. Then we’ll just have to…
— Turn the page.
He did.
There was a gift agreement.
Signed three years earlier.
Before his marriage to Marina.
It stated:
The three-room apartment on Leninsky Avenue had been transferred to her sister Valentina, who lived permanently in Germany.
Lidia Sergeyevna had only kept the right to live there for the rest of her life.
Denis swallowed.
But the next page hit him even harder.
Another ownership document.
A two-room apartment on Vavilov Street.
Owner:
Marina Kowaleva.
— Mom… — Marina whispered. — You said that apartment was rented out and the money was for your future…
— It was, — her mother answered calmly. — Until last week. The rental contract expired.
She looked at Denis.
— I wanted to give you that apartment for your wedding anniversary. Hand over the keys. Fresh renovation. Good location.
A pause.
— But after learning that I apparently bother you so much…
Denis slowly realized what was happening.
— Wait… that apartment doesn’t belong to you?
— No.
— And it doesn’t belong to Marina either?
— This one doesn’t. It belongs to my sister Valentina. She is coming to Moscow next week for six months.
Lidia Sergeyevna smiled slightly.
— And she probably won’t be very happy to find a stranger living in her apartment — especially one who constantly complains about the floor but cleans poorly himself.
Marina closed her eyes.
— Mom…
— Tomorrow at ten o’clock, a moving truck will be waiting outside. I have arranged everything.
Denis opened his mouth.
But no words came out.
Then came the second blow.
— Oh, one more thing.
He looked at her carefully.
— What?
— The apartment on Vavilov Street belongs personally to Marina. It was gifted to her before the marriage.
Lidia Sergeyevna sat back down.
— And since you are so proud of being an independent head of the family, you will naturally pay rent.
Denis stared at her.
— Rent? To my own wife?
— No. To the owner of the apartment. The market price is 50,000 rubles per month. Plus utilities.
— You can’t be serious!
— I am.
She stood up.
— Your alternatives are: the train station, a cheap rental apartment on the outskirts, or going back to your mother in Saratov.
She walked out of the kitchen.
— The movers will arrive at ten.
The door closed.
And for the first time that evening, Denis felt no power.
Only fear.
The following months changed everything.
The apartment on Vavilov Street was beautiful, but smaller.
Denis no longer had his own room. His computer stood in the bedroom. When Marina went to sleep, he had to work with headphones.
But the worst part was:
He suddenly had to take responsibility.
Every month, he transferred the 50,000 rubles on time.
No excuses.
No arguments.
He took extra projects. Worked evenings. He stopped telling his friends in bars stories about how he “kept the women at home under control.”
Marina changed too.
For the first time, she truly learned to cook.
She learned that food doesn’t simply appear in the refrigerator.
She learned what responsibility meant.
One evening, they sat together in the kitchen.
Denis worked on his laptop.
Marina prepared meat for meatballs.
— You know… — she said quietly. — Mom was right.
Denis looked up.
— About what?
— We were immature. I thought money just came from somewhere. You thought an apartment belonged to you simply because you lived there.
She smiled sadly.
— These three months taught us more than two years of marriage.
Denis was silent.
Then he took her hand.
— I was an idiot.
Marina smiled.
— Yes. You were.
They both laughed.
Shortly before Christmas, Lidia Sergeyevna called.
She invited them to dinner.
Denis went there like he was taking an exam.
He bought white chrysanthemums — he knew by then that she liked those flowers.
He wore a suit.
He polished his shoes.
When the door opened, Lidia Sergeyevna stood there.
Perfect as always.
— Come in.
Denis handed her the bouquet.
— For you. And… thank you.
She raised an eyebrow.
— For what?
— For the lesson.
He looked directly into her eyes.
— Without your little “shock therapy,” I would probably still be the same person.
Lidia Sergeyevna studied him for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
— Test passed.
During dinner, she suddenly placed a blue folder next to his plate.
Denis became nervous.
Documents again?
But this time it was something different.
Inside was a savings certificate for 150,000 rubles.
— These are the three months of payments, — she explained.
— I didn’t need the money.
She smiled.
— I only needed to know whether you could take responsibility.
A pause.
— You can.
Denis swallowed.
For the first time, he saw his mother-in-law not as an enemy.
But as someone who had truly made him stronger.
Lidia Sergeyevna placed a piece of duck on his plate.
— And remember: a mother-in-law is like a tax inspector.
She smiled.
— If you are honest and fulfill your duties, you hardly notice her.
Marina laughed.
And Denis laughed too.
Because this time, he had truly passed the test.
