— Who are these people? — Natalia asked with a mocking smile.
— Boris, Dasha, my brother — her sister-in-law listed the family members.
— Okay, Boris, he’s my husband, but what does your daughter and brother have to do with this?
— Dasha needs a place to live, and your apartment in St. Petersburg is worth a lot, it’s just enough for her to get a studio here,
in Tver, and you’ll even have money left for a new car! — declared the sister-in-law, as if it were completely natural, not even flinching.
— Very funny, Larisa Alexandrovna! Sell my apartment in St. Petersburg to buy a studio for your daughter!
Natasha laughed out loud, throwing her head back. The sister-in-law sat with a stone face, drumming her fingers on the table.
— I haven’t finished yet — Larisa Alexandrovna cut into the laughter with an icy tone.
— Boris has already prepared the power of attorney. You just go to the notary, sign the papers, and it’s done. The real estate agent has already found a buyer.
The laughter stopped as abruptly as it started. Natasha slowly set her cup of cold tea on the table.
— Stop. So my husband, your son, has already prepared a power of attorney to sell MY apartment?
The apartment I inherited from my grandmother? The one in St. Petersburg? — Natasha emphasized every word as if driving nails into the wall. — And he didn’t even think to discuss it with me?
— What’s there to discuss? — Boris entered the living room, head down, staring at his phone. — Mom is right. Dasha is our little darling, she’s twenty-five and renting a place.
And we have two apartments, and your old one in St. Petersburg is practically falling apart. Logical, right?
— Logical? — Natasha stood up from the table. — Logical would have been if YOU, Boris, had sold your kidney to buy your sister an apartment. But no, you decided my two-room apartment in St. Petersburg is just a passageway?
From the kitchen, Dasha, the sister-in-law, appeared like an offended queen, chin raised.
— Natasha, why are you acting like an outsider? — she whined. — We’re family. So what, an apartment? You have no one left in St. Petersburg anyway.
I’ll be here in Tver, close to Mom. You can’t even imagine the studio I picked! It has such panoramic windows!
— Dasha, the windows are mine — Natasha snapped harshly. — I’m neither a bank nor a charity. You are nobody to me. You even gave me socks for Christmas that were a size too small.
— But mo-om! — Dasha pouted at her sister-in-law.
Larisa Alexandrovna stood up, adjusting her expensive sweater.
— So, dear. We tried nicely. Boris is your husband, and husband and wife are one soul. Half of the house acquired during the marriage belongs to him by law.
Even if it’s in your name, you can’t sell it without his consent. But he will give consent. For the sale. The money goes into the communal pot. And in the communal pot, everyone has a say.
Natasha felt icy rage boiling in her chest. Half a year of karate had taught her one thing: if the enemy attacks, strike first, and strike in a way they won’t dare try again.
— Ah, I see — she took a step toward the sister-in-law, who instinctively stepped back. — You’ve already read the laws. Listen here, old hen — Natasha’s voice became slow, thick like molasses — I’ll explain the situation to you now.
The apartment in St. Petersburg is my inheritance, received before marriage, and it’s in my name.
This is my personal property. Boris’s signature is just a formality, but if he tries any tricks, I’ll remind him immediately who he really is. To your notary, and the real estate agent as well.
— How dare you speak to your elders? — the sister-in-law shrieked.
— And how dare you manage my property? — Natasha shouted, making Dasha flinch. — Your son — she pointed at Boris, who was doing his best to disappear — in five years of marriage, he only buys me flowers once a year, and a credit-bought dinnerware set, which you, Larisa, broke.
I maintain this house! I! And I earned my own car! So go to hell with your “family advice.”
— You’ll regret this! — hissed the sister-in-law, grabbing her daughter’s hand and heading to the door. — You’ll lose your husband!
— Boris? — Natasha smirked at her husband. — Will you escort them, or what?
Boris mumbled something and followed his mother. The door slammed.
A week later.
Natasha had already forgotten the incident, busy with her own matters. On Saturday evening, she stopped at the supermarket, loaded the bags into the trunk of her old but well-maintained Honda, and headed to the driver’s side.
And then from the neighboring car, a gray Lada she had never noticed before, two figures jumped out. Larisa Alexandrovna, furious, with gray strands escaping her hairstyle, and Dasha, holding… a spray paint can?
— Now you’ll answer me, bitch! — shouted the sister-in-law, waving her bag like a weapon. — You’ve driven my son into depression, he’s been drinking for days!
— He’s happy to see less of you — Natasha replied calmly, setting the bags on the asphalt.
— Look at her, look! — Dasha stepped forward, raising the spray can. — I’m about to paint your car, you’ll see what selfishness looks like!
Dasha pressed the nozzle, but the red paint missed the hood — Natasha stepped aside with lightning speed, leaving the line of attack. The girl lost her balance and fell forward.
— You bitch! — Larisa Alexandrovna swung her bag, aiming at Natasha’s head.
The reaction was automatic. Six months of training, sparring, sweat, pain, and exhaustion — all concentrated into one precise move.
Natasha ducked, leaned over the bag, stepped forward, and with her palm, gently, symbolically, pushed the sister-in-law in the chest. She yelped and fell onto her backside into a puddle.
— Mom! — screamed Dasha, throwing the useless spray can and rushing at Natasha with fists, aiming at her face with her nails.
Natasha easily blocked the hand, spun around, ended up behind Dasha, and gently, symbolically, pushed her on the back. Dasha flailed comically and fell face-first into the puddle beside her mother.
The parking lot fell silent, only the splashing of water and Dasha coughing from drinking from the puddle broke the quiet.
Natasha shook her hands as if dusting them off, walked to her car, opened the door, but before sitting down, she turned around.
— Larisa Alexandrovna, Dasha — she said gently to the family members sitting in the puddle.
— Next time, if you plan an ambush, bring someone bigger. Now I see why I’ve been going to the gym for six months. Your “Mother-in-law energy” yoga seminar would have been enough for you.
She got into the car, started the engine, and carefully drove around the ladies sprawled on the asphalt. In the rearview mirror, she saw Larisa Alexandrovna slipping as she tried to stand, and Dasha wiping dirty water mixed with paint from her face.
At home, Boris was waiting, looking suspiciously sober and pale.
— Why are you so pleased? — he asked.
— Just like that — Natasha kicked off her sneakers. — I gave Mom and my sister-in-law a bath in the parking lot. They’re getting stronger. They said hi and asked you to buy them a new car. When you sell my St. Petersburg apartment, of course.
Boris swallowed nervously and went to the kitchen. He knew the hard part was coming. Boris was the unlucky one — Natasha had broken his hand when she went for the choke move.
