I unlocked the door with my own key and stood on the threshold.
Boxes stood in the hallway. Children’s shoes lay scattered on the floor. From the room came Tamara Kirillovna’s voice.
— We’ll put the sofa here. The window faces south; it’ll be good for the children.
Andrej nudged me in the back.
— Why are you just standing there?
I stepped inside. My mother-in-law came out of the room with a measuring tape in her hand. She saw us—and not a trace of shame appeared on her face.
— Oh, you’re here. Oksana is picking out the furniture; help her with your advice.
My husband’s sister appeared from the other room. Her face was apologetic, but her eyes darted around.
— Anna, hi. You don’t mind, right? We don’t really have anywhere to go.
I looked at Andrej.
— Your mother… what are you even talking about?
— About the fact that you have two apartments, and Oksana has none. Relatives are supposed to help. Or have you forgotten who helped raise you?
Two weeks ago, I had turned thirty-five. My parents reserved a table at the “Csillag” restaurant and invited the whole family. I work as a dispatcher, Andrej is a mechanic; we live modestly. We never relied on anything except our salaries.
My father—Stepán Iljics—raised his glass.
— Annuska. We want you to live with dignity.
He placed a leather box in front of me. Inside were a set of keys and some papers. An apartment. Two rooms. In the city center.
I stood there, staring at the papers, unable to believe my eyes. My throat tightened, and I could barely breathe.
— Where…?
— We sold Aunt’s house in the village and added the savings. Remember how we helped your brother with the first payment? Now it’s your turn.
My mother wiped away her tears. My brother hugged me. I cried, unashamed. I had never expected such happiness. Never.
Then I heard Tamara Kirillovna’s voice.
— Two apartments at once. Lucky you.
Her face looked as if I had stolen something from her.
— And some people don’t get any. Look at Oksana, squeezed into a small apartment with her children.
Oksana lowered her head. Her husband stayed silent, staring out the window.
— But of course, that’s your business — added my mother-in-law, forcing a smile.
At the time, I didn’t give it much importance. I was wrong.
— Where did you get these keys? — I asked, trying to keep calm.
Tamara Kirillovna moved the box aside without looking at me.
— I have the keys. Andrej is my son; this is a shared apartment.
— This is my apartment. My parents gave it to me.
— And so what? You have your own apartment. Oksana has children to raise. Are you greedy?
Andrej stepped toward his mother.
— We didn’t discuss this. You had no right.
— I’m your mother; I have the right to decide what’s right. Oksana will stay here. You live in your old apartment and be happy.
I felt my insides freeze.
— You copied the keys on my birthday, didn’t you? When they were lying on the table.
My mother-in-law laughed.
— Okoska. Fine then. You don’t need two apartments anyway.
I turned and walked out. In the stairwell, I pulled out my phone and called my father. My voice shook, but I held it together.
— They moved in. They just took the apartment.
Stepán Iljics arrived fifteen minutes later. He came up to our floor and knocked.
Tamara Kirillovna opened the door, saw us—and immediately tensed.
— Stepán Iljics, why are you here?
— The apartment is in my name until the ownership is officially transferred. You have one minute to pack and leave, or I’ll call the police.
— Have you gone crazy? This is my relative, not strangers!
My father pulled out his phone and started dialing.
— Thirty seconds.
Oksana rushed out of the room and grabbed her mother’s hand.
— Mom, enough. We’re leaving. Now.
Tamara Kirillovna pulled back her hand, but Oksana wouldn’t let go.
— You’re taking the last from the poor! — shouted my mother-in-law as she carried boxes toward the exit. — Greedy!
— This isn’t yours — I said quietly. — And it’s not hers. This is a gift from my parents. It’s mine.
Tamara Kirillovna threw a box to the floor. Something clattered.
— You’ll regret this. Mark my words. You’ll regret it.
Ten minutes later, they left. The four of us were left in the empty apartment. My father put a hand on my shoulder.
— Change the lock today. And never show your keys to anyone again.
Tamara Kirillovna had declared war. She told the neighbors that her son had married a “bitch” who threw her sister out with young children. Andrej cried on the phone every day, begging for help. He came home, gray and silent, all evening.
Once, I couldn’t take it anymore.
— Call her. Tell her you’re coming.
— Why?
— Because she’s your mother. And because if you don’t, it will haunt you your whole life.
We went on Sunday. Tamara Kirillovna opened the door, saw us, and pressed her lips together.
— I called my son.
— I’m his wife. Wherever he goes, I go too.
She let us in. Oksana sat on the sofa; her husband stood by the window.
— Oksana is pregnant — said my mother-in-law. — Third child. They urgently need an apartment. You have to help.
I looked at Oksana. She rested her head on her knees.
— We’re not obligated — said Andrej. — They tried to take the apartment from us. Copied the keys. Moved in without permission.
— I just wanted to help my daughter! Is that a crime?
— At someone else’s expense. Yes, it is.
Tamara Kirillovna jumped up, pointing at Andrej.
— You betrayed your mother! She bought you—this is your wife!
— No — he said calmly. — She betrayed herself when she decided she had the right to take from others. We’re leaving.
Three months passed. We finished the renovations, bought the furniture. In the kitchen, we placed a photo from my birthday—I’m hugging my parents, holding the box with the keys. My mother smiled through her tears, my father was proud.
Every time I look at that photo, I remember the cost of those keys. It wasn’t just my parents’ money. It was the boundaries we had to defend.
Tamara Kirillovna never repaid the debt. Her acquaintances sued her; the collectors seized her property. She called Andrej, cried, and asked for help. He listened quietly and hung up.
I didn’t rejoice in her misfortune. But I didn’t pity her either. Karma—strange thing. It comes quietly, through your own actions.
Now, when I enter our apartment, I still check the lock twice. I keep the keys in my bag, never leave them in plain sight. It’s not a whim.
It’s a reminder that even those closest to you can become strangers. And that you must be able to protect your own happiness. Otherwise, it can be taken without asking.
