In the kitchen, there was a mix of medicine and old dust – that nauseating smell Szvetlana Semyonovna had brought with her three months ago when she moved in with three huge bundles.
She sat at the head of my table, pressing her lips so tightly they became a thin thread, and stirred the empty teacup with a spoon as if she could coax something out of it.
Pavel, my husband, stood by the window, staring at the wet October yard. His back was hunched, his posture full of guilt, as if he already knew he would be too cowardly to speak.
“Ira, sit down,” she commanded in the tone of a drill sergeant. “We need to talk. Unpleasant, but necessary.”
I turned off the tap. The sponge slapped into the sink with a wet squelch. Inside, everything tightened with cold. I knew this tone. This is how debt collectors or dissatisfied bosses speak right before firing someone.
“I’m listening,” I said, sitting on the edge of the stool, ready to jump up at any moment.
“We calculated with Pasha…” she paused, letting the weight of her words hang in the air.
“Your Misha is nine years old. But he eats like a grown man. Sneakers wear out in a season, jackets have to be new every year. Times are tough, as you know. Prices jump like crazy.”
I looked at my husband. He pulled his head into his shoulders but didn’t turn around.
“And what’s the point of this preamble?” I asked softly.
Szvetlana Semyonovna straightened, her eyes flashing coldly:
“Your son is eating us out of house and home! From today, the budget is separate!” she declared.
A thick silence fell. Only the old fridge hummed monotonously – the same one that had witnessed our nighttime snacks at the start of our marriage, when we were still happy.
“Explain,” I asked, feeling not hurt, but a cold, pure rage boiling inside me.
“It’s simple,” she said, seizing the opportunity eagerly. “We divide utilities between the three adults. You pay the mortgage alone – the apartment is in your name. Pasha will pay only his minimum, as in the contract.
And the groceries… everyone feeds themselves. We’re not obliged to carry your trailer.”
She didn’t say the word “trailer,” but it hovered in the air. “Your Misha,” “that boy,” “him.”
“Pasha, do you agree?” I looked at his back.
He finally turned. His face was red, his gaze darting across the floor.
“Ira… my mom’s right. You have a managerial job, you can handle it. And for us… well, you know. My car needs repairs, my mom’s teeth… it’s not fair.”
Three years of marriage. Three years I thought I had a shoulder to lean on. Turns out – just a crutch that breaks under the first weight.
“Excellent,” I said. My voice became unnaturally firm. “Separate budget, then.”
“Good girl,” her mother beamed, taking my composure for weakness. “About time. You’ve gotten too comfortable.”
I stood up, went to the document drawer, and took out a notebook and pen.
“Let’s record the conditions in writing. So there are no disputes later. Agreed?”
In the evening, I went into the children’s room. Misha was sitting on the floor, assembling Lego. When he heard my steps, he pulled in his head – exactly like Pasha did in the kitchen. My heart tightened.
The child felt everything. He heard “Mama Sveta” whispering, saw the sideways glances.
“Mom, I’m not hungry,” he said quietly, avoiding my eyes. “I ate at school.”
I sat next to him, pulled him close. Skinny, with his sharp shoulder blades sticking out. “Eating us out of house and home,” indeed?
“You’re the best, understand? And no one, ever, will hurt you. Soon everything will change. I promise.”
I didn’t sleep that night. I counted. Numbers don’t lie, don’t manipulate, don’t play on emotions. The ledger of debit and credit painted an interesting picture.
On Sunday morning, when Pasha and his mother came out for breakfast, a surprise awaited them on the table.
I was drinking coffee – real, freshly ground coffee, whose aroma filled the whole kitchen.
“Good morning,” I said cheerfully. “Here’s our agreement. Read it.”
I slid the sheet toward them.
“What is this?” the mother-in-law asked, putting on her glasses.
“The rules of our communal living. Point one: Food. We are zoning the fridge. Upper shelves – mine and my son’s. Lower shelves – yours. Taking someone else’s food is forbidden. Violation – a penalty of three times the price of the product.”
“You’re petty, Ira,” she sneered.
“Market-based,” I corrected her. “Point two: Household chemicals.
Detergent, shampoo, toilet paper – everyone has their own. I noticed, Szvetlana Semyonovna, that you like to pour fabric softener generously. Now – at your own expense.”
Pasha silently chewed his cheap sausage sandwich, trying not to look at my cheese.
“And the most interesting. Point three. Rent.”
The mother-in-law choked on her tea.
“What?!”
“The apartment has a mortgage. I paid 80% of the down payment from the sale of my grandmother’s one-bedroom flat. On paper, three-quarters of the apartment is mine,
Pasha’s one-quarter – in square meters, that’s the small bedroom. And you, Szvetlana Semyonovna, occupy the living room – 20 square meters, plus you use the kitchen and bathroom.”
“And?” Pasha asked suspiciously.
“And the fact that you are occupying someone else’s living space. Since we have a separate budget, everyone is responsible for themselves. Therefore, I am introducing rent for using my space.”
“You’ve lost your mind!” the mother-in-law screamed, turning red. “Charging your own husband money?!”
“From the neighbor,” I said. “And from his guest, who has been staying for four months. I checked the prices. Renting a room in this area is not cheap. Plus furniture and appliances wear and tear.”
I listed the sum. It’s about half of Pasha’s salary. Payment due on the fifth of each month.
“I don’t have that kind of money!” Pasha blurted. “Ira, you’re crazy! I pay the mortgage!”
“Your small share according to the contract? Pay. That goes to the bank. The rent goes to me. Don’t like it? Then move out. Szvetlana Semyonovna, you have that empty two-bedroom apartment at the other end of the city?”
The mother-in-law clutched her heart – a practiced gesture.
“Heartless! Kicking my son out of his home! Pasha, do you hear?!”
“I hear, mom. Ira, stop. This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing. Yesterday, you said my child ‘eats you out of house and home.’ I accepted the rules of the game. Sign, or your stuff goes out the door.”
They signed. They thought I was bluffing.
The next day, I called a locksmith and had a lock installed on Misha’s and my room.
When Pasha tried the handle that evening and ran into a locked door, he knocked:
“Ira, I need to get a shirt.”
“The key is on the hall table,” I shouted. “Take it, lock the door behind you, return the key. And don’t touch anything else. I made an inventory.”
Life turned into an ’80s-style communal apartment, only with a modern renovation.
I bought good food and cooked only for the two of us. In the evenings, the house smelled of roasted chicken with garlic, stewed meat, vanilla muffins.
Pasha and his mother lived on discounted dumplings and cheap pasta. The mother-in-law didn’t like cooking, thought it beneath her, and Pasha… he was used to food appearing on his plate by itself.
One evening, I was frying cutlets. Juicy, homemade. Pasha entered the kitchen, sniffed the air. He looked pitiful: wrinkled pants, circles under his eyes.
“Ira… smells amazing. Can I have one? I’ll pay back from my advance.”
I flipped a cutlet. The oil sizzled.
“No, Pasha. One cutlet costs as much as a pack of your pasta. Budget is separate.”
“Stingy,” hissed the mother-in-law, entering. “Your own husband and you won’t give him a piece.”
“And you, mom, didn’t give my son an apple last week. ‘Leave it, Pasha needs it for work.’ Remember?”
She pursed her lips and turned to the window.
I saw my son change. He no longer feared entering the kitchen. He knew: Mom is the wall, Mom protects. The other two are just unpleasant neighbors.
The fifth was approaching. Payday.
Pasha walked around like a dark cloud. He called friends, whispered in the bathroom. There was no money.
On the evening of the fourth, he came to me.
“Ira… I don’t have the full amount.”
“Bad,” I said, not looking up from my screen.
“Well, consider… Mom needs medicine. Expensive, imported.”
“Pasha, when you proposed a separate budget, what did you think? That I would continue to support you and spend my money on you? You wanted to push me around?”
“We wanted justice…” he muttered.
“Justice has arrived. Tomorrow is the fifth. No money – no apartment.”
At that moment, the mother-in-law entered.
“What are you talking to her about!?” she shouted. “We’re not going anywhere! This is my son’s apartment!”
“One-quarter,” I reminded her. “The court will decide the usage. You get the doormat at most.”
Then the performance began. The mother-in-law flushed red, clutched her chest, and slowly slid down the door frame.
“Oh… my heart… it burns… Pasha, call an ambulance…”
Pasha turned pale.
“Mom! Ira, call the ambulance!”
I stepped forward.
“All right,” I said calmly. “Just know: the free ambulance is overloaded. One hour. Private comes in ten minutes. But it’s expensive. You pay?”
“You heartless!” she yelled. “Call the private!”
Seven minutes later, the doctors arrived. They examined her.
“Completely healthy,” said the tired doctor. “Simulation. Payment, please.”
The terminal beeped.
Pasha stared at the invisible wall.
“You lied?” he asked softly.
“It was nerves…” started his mother.
“You lied,” he repeated. “Pack. Now.”
Within half an hour, she left. Didn’t say goodbye.
Pasha sat in the kitchen, his head in his hands.
“Probation,” I said finally. “Three months.”
Now two months had passed.
Yesterday I came home early and saw Pasha and Misha sitting on the floor, playing with Lego.
“Dad, where does this piece go?” “Here, champ.”
I quietly closed the door. I haven’t removed the lock yet. Trust is built slowly.
This month I didn’t charge rent. Instead, we opened a joint savings account. For vacation. The three of us.
The mother-in-law calls occasionally. Pasha politely advises a doctor and hangs up.
And I know: I chose myself and my son. And in the end… perhaps I even won my husband.
