The key squeaked, stuck in the metal halfway through the turn, stubbornly refusing to unlock the familiar door.
Veronica leaned heavily on the hard bars of her walkers, feeling the weight of her body and fatigue, and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her breathing.
Behind the heavy entrance door of her apartment came dull, rhythmic knocks, the shouts of children, and the intrusive smell of cheap fried food mixed with stale steam.
No trace of the cleanliness and freshness she always maintained in the hallway.
— Dad, you try — she exhaled, handing over the bunch of keys. — It must be stuck… or someone left the key inside.
Boris Mikhailovich stepped forward firmly, pulled the handle, and pressed the doorbell. On the other side came an irritated murmur, heavy dragging footsteps, and the click of the lock being opened.
The door swung open suddenly.
In the doorway stood Snezana — her husband Oleg’s own sister. Veronica blinked, incredulous. Snezana was wearing Veronica’s favorite silk robe — dark blue, with delicate lace trimming.
The very same one, bought at a considerable price for their wedding anniversary. Now, at its hem, a fresh oil stain spread, and a dirty kitchen rag stuck out of the pocket.
— And what are you doing here? — Snezana shot, without even a greeting, drying her wet hands on the delicate silk. — You should be at Grandma Nadya’s! Didn’t Oleg tell you?
— Grandma Nadya? — Veronica froze on her walkers, feeling anger rise.
— Our grandma, Oleg’s family’s — Snezana huffed, pursing her lips and blocking the passage. — We swapped! She’s very sick now, needs constant care.
You’re staying there, and we with Ilya and the kids are staying here. We need space.
A month ago, Veronica had rushed to work along an icy sidewalk.
A car accident happened. The driver lost control, the heavy car slid, and a strong impact threw her onto the hard ice of the curb. The injuries were severe, and she spent four long weeks under medical supervision.
Her husband appeared in the hospital room only a few times, looking at the floor, hiding his face, always with excuses about work or caring for their five-year-old son, Matvey.
Oleg had convinced Veronica’s parents that he was preparing a large-scale surprise in the apartment — planning to renovate everything before his wife’s discharge.
— It’s all dusty, you can barely breathe! — he said cheerfully to his father-in-law on the phone, a week before.
— Take Matvey on the weekend, and during the week he’ll stay with me at his mother’s so the workers aren’t disturbed. And don’t come yourselves, or you’ll ruin the surprise!
And now Veronica was seeing this “surprise” in real life.
Boris Mikhailovich didn’t waste time with words. He pushed Snezana aside with his broad shoulders, clearing the way for his daughter.
Veronica stepped across the threshold and immediately felt uneasy. Her bright living room, into which she had poured so much effort and savings, had turned into chaos.
On the light suede sofa, Ilya, Snezana’s husband, was sprawled, barefoot on the glass coffee table, eating crackers and scattering crumbs across the beige carpet.
Two small children ran around the room, screaming and smearing melted chocolate on the expensive walls. Torn pages from Veronica’s work planners littered the floor.
From the kitchen came the smell of burning. The new stove was covered in spilled soup, the sink piled high with dirty dishes, and on a chair lay Veronica’s light cashmere coat.
On it, a huge fluffy cat slept, completely oblivious. Veronica never kept cats, as just seeing them made her feel sick.
— Oh, and what did you forget here? — Ilya said lazily, without lifting his feet from the table. — Your house now belongs to Grandma. Two rooms are enough for you and your son.
It’s better for us here, we have two kids, and they need to run. And the garden is being built in the yard.
— This apartment is mine — Veronica said, trying to stay calm. — My parents bought it before I met Oleg. You have no right to be here.
At that moment, the key turned in the lock, and Oleg entered the hall carrying grocery bags. Seeing his wife and father-in-law, he froze for a second, his expression twisted in surprise, but quickly assumed an irritated look.
— Veronica? Why aren’t you at Grandma Nadya’s? I asked my mother to take you straight there!
— Take me where? — her stomach churned at the blatant lie. — You kicked me out of my own apartment? Put my son in a cramped room with an old lady smelling of medicine while your sister destroyed my home?
Only then did everything fall into place in Veronica’s mind. A few days earlier, Matvey’s teacher had called, concerned about the unbearable smell coming from the child’s clothes.
Oleg had lied over the phone, saying it was ointment, but in reality, he had kept the child in intolerable conditions just to free the apartment for his sister.
— Don’t make things up! — Oleg snapped, heading to the kitchen and dumping the grocery bags on the sticky table. — It’s more convenient for Snezana and the two kids here. Their apartment is under renovation.
Grandma needs care. You’re home, so take care of her. We’re family; you need to understand the situation!
All these years, Veronica had tolerated her husband’s family’s intrusions. She let her mother-in-law take food from the fridge, saying, “Snezana needs it more, she’s weak, still nursing.”
She turned a blind eye when Oleg hid new clothes from their son, letting the nephew wear them first. But this was the last straw.
— “I am the owner here, and my sister will live here!” — Oleg shouted, banging the table. — I decided! Enough of being greedy! You sit in your space, and the family must squeeze into corners?!
Silence fell. Only the sound of water boiling in the dirty pot could be heard.
Veronica looked at her husband. Before her stood a complete stranger. Small, jealous, and brazen.
— Dad — she said firmly, turning to Boris Mikhailovich — get the phone. Call the police. Complaint: illegal occupation and property damage.
Snezana swallowed hard. Ilya jumped off the sofa, knocking a plate of crackers to the floor.
— What police? What are you talking about?! — Oleg shouted, stepping forward.
But Boris Mikhailovich positioned himself between them. Though shorter than his son-in-law, his stance radiated so much determination that Oleg immediately stepped back.
— You have exactly one hour — Veronica said, measuring each word — to collect your things. If a single item remains here after that, it will fly off the balcony. Time starts now.
The scramble began. Realizing Veronica wasn’t joking and that her father was already dialing the station, the relatives ran through the rooms.
Snezana pulled the children’s clothes from the closets, trying to sneak new towels of Veronica’s into her bag.
— Put that back! — Boris roared, grabbing the items from Snezana’s hands without ceremony.
Ilya stuffed his dirty clothes into black garbage bags, muttering under his breath. Oleg tried to drag Veronica into the bathroom to “talk nicely,” but she ignored him, leaning on her walkers, looking out the window.
Forty minutes later, the front door slammed again. In the hall was panting Rimma Konstantinovna — the mother-in-law. Oleg had still managed to rat everything out to her.
— Wicked! — she shouted, clutching her chest theatrically. — You’re throwing out your own children! May it be hard to live in these houses! My son did everything for you, brought every penny into the house, and you, ungrateful…
— Rimma Konstantinovna — Veronica cut her off, exhausted — your son did it all only for you. At my expense. So take him back. And Grandma Nadya will receive the care from the “helpful grandson.”
The mother-in-law took a deep breath to start again, but met Boris Mikhailovich’s stern gaze. He tapped his finger on his watch with authority.
Within an hour, the family was packing everything into garbage bags on the staircase. When the heavy door finally closed behind them, the apartment fell silent. Veronica collapsed on the hall bench, too tired to stand.
Her father sat silently beside her, took off his coat, and placed his hand on her shoulder.
— Right, daughter. People like that need to be put in their place immediately, or they’ll spend their whole lives on your back.
The next morning, cleaners arrived. Three women scrubbed the apartment almost all day, removing piles of trash and stains from the furniture. That evening, a specialist replaced all locks with new, secure ones.
The divorce was long and heavy. Oleg still lingered near the building for months, demanding the coffee machine or begging for forgiveness and a restart.
Rimma Konstantinovna wrote nasty messages to acquaintances, calling her daughter-in-law heartless, until Veronica changed her number.
A year and a half later, Veronica was fully recovered. She renovated the apartment, discarding everything that reminded her of her ex-husband and his family.
On weekends, she and Matvey baked cookies and assembled building blocks on the clean carpet in the living room. In her home, there was no longer room for anyone who thought they could claim what was rightfully hers.
