— The keys are on the dresser, Polina. And don’t look at me like that, I didn’t take this on to be nursed after your “female interventions.” Roman has a new life, and you’re here like a weed in a flowerbed.
Antonina Stepanovna stood in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed. The scent of lavender soap mixed with something cloyingly sweet that Polina had learned to recognize over five years of marriage as a storm warning.
In the depth of the hallway, behind the Swedish mother, Roman stood. He didn’t look at his wife. He focused intently on his slippers’ socks, as if their threads held the wisdom of the world.
Polina leaned against the doorframe. Her stomach still ached from surgery, and her mind felt like an empty shell.
The gynecology hospital discharge at three in the afternoon—hardly the “great migration of the people” ideal time. She clutched the strap of her bag, which contained only slippers, a robe, and a dose of painkillers.
— Roman, seriously? — Polina’s voice was low, almost colorless. — Right now, immediately?
— Polja, why delay? — Roman finally lifted his eyes but immediately turned away to look at the mirror. — We agreed. Tight. Tight for everyone.
Mother needs peace, I… I need to move on. Julia already brought her things. It wouldn’t look good if someone were standing in the doorway with her suitcase.
— Someone? — Polina nearly laughed. — So Julia in the doorway—that’s fine—but me, after surgery, on the stairs—is that okay?
Antonina Stepanovna stepped forward, closing the distance. Her tiny pearl-like eyes gleamed triumphantly. She had been waiting for this moment for a long time.
Ever since Roman brought home the “gray mouse from the project office.” The Swedish mother had always considered Polina a temporary mistake, a youthful error of her son.
— I’ve already packed your bundles — she cut in. — I put them by the lift. Everything: your rags, your silly books. Only the goose platter remains, it’s family property, it belonged to my mother. No need to haul it to dormitories.
Polina looked at the pile of crushed black bags by the elevator.
From one, her favorite cashmere sweater peeked out— a gift from her father. The bags were torn, as if the Swedish mother hurriedly checked to ensure Polina hadn’t taken any “unnecessary” silver spoons.
Then Julia emerged from the kitchen. About ten years younger than Polina, all sugary personality, in a pink plush pajama that looked like a plastic cup on an antique table in the three-meter-high, stuccoed apartment.
Julia held the double-walled glass mug Polina had bought to celebrate her first award.
— Oh, hi — Julia chirped, sipping tea. — Well, I’m… settling in. Antonina Stepanovna said the place is free now.
Polina felt something click inside her. No hysteria, no tears—just a simple click, like a piece fitting into a complex blueprint.
Suddenly she remembered everything: paying the mortgage for “nursing apartment renovations” for three years, drawing shopping mall plans at night,
while Roman “searched for himself” in online casinos, smiling politely at Antonina Stepanovna, enduring lectures that a real woman must be an invisible shadow beside a man.
— So it’s free, then? — Polina straightened up. Her stomach still hurt, but now icy calm gripped her. — Roman, are you sure this is what you want?
— Polina, don’t make a scene — her husband grimaced. — You overcomplicate everything. You have somewhere to go, right? To your mother in the village, get some fresh air after surgery. Good for you.
— My mother doesn’t have a village, Roma. Only a room in a panel building, which she rents out to help us pay for “our” apartment.
Antonina Stepanovna grimaced:
— “Help”! Counting her pennies. Enough, conversation over. Roma, close the door, there’s a draft. Julia has a weak throat.
The door slammed. Polina remained in the cold stairwell. The Stalin-era building was heavy, smelling of old wood and dust. She looked at the bags. She went over, picked up the sweater. The seam was ripped. Obviously, the Swedish mother, in her haste, had simply pulled it from the wardrobe.
Polina sat on her suitcase. Her hand automatically reached for her bag. Inside, alongside her passport, lay a document she hadn’t mentioned to her husband for two years.
The document from the day she accidentally saw Roman’s messages with “Julia-LittleBunny.” Back then, she didn’t act. She wanted to see how far it would go. She waited for the climax.
And here it was—the climax. A filthy bag by the elevator, and the girl in pink.
She picked up the phone. Her fingers didn’t tremble.
— Hello, Mom? No, everything’s fine. Guess what—they discharged me. Please send me the scanned gift agreement from grandpa. Yes, that one.
And… call the district police, Stepanic. You know, he helped with the garage too? Tell him there’s illegal occupation and attempted theft of personal property.
Polina hung up and looked at the massive oak door.
Laughter echoed behind it, dishes clattered in the kitchen. Julia had probably already tidied up, Antonina Stepanovna boasting about how skillfully she freed herself from the “burden.”
They didn’t know one tiny detail. This apartment was never Antonina Stepanovna’s property.
Nor Roman’s. In 1998, Polina’s grandfather, the old architect, purchased it from the municipality through complex arrangements and, when Polina married, had it registered in her mother’s name with a gift agreement.
With a condition: “As long as Polina is married, she may live here. If anything happens—leave immediately.” Polina had asked her mother not to tell Roman. She wanted to believe he loved her, not the registered ownership.
She stood. Pain throbbed, but her mind was crystal clear. She wasn’t going to the elevator. She wouldn’t collect the torn clothes. She would wait here.
Two hours passed. Polina was still sitting on her suitcase when heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. Stepanic, the district police officer, with a tired bulldog face, came up the floor. Two uniformed young men followed him.
— Polina Arkadyevna? — he nodded at the bags. — Are these your artworks?
— Mine, respected captain. Or rather, the results of former relatives’ creativity. Hospital discharge is here. I’ll show you the gift agreement soon by email.
Stepanic carefully examined the gynecology discharge papers, studied Polina’s pale face, and pressed the buzzer. Long, demanding.
The door opened. Antonina Stepanovna in an apron, holding a wooden spoon. When she saw the police, she froze for a moment, then composed herself. The best armor of Soviet upbringing.
— Oh, what’s this about? We didn’t call the police. This citizen — she nodded at Polina — no longer lives here. All personal belongings are accounted for.
— She does live here — Stepanic said deeply. — And you, Antonina Stepanovna, and your son, on what basis are you staying here?
— On what basis? — Roman shouted from the room, buttoning his shirt on the way. — This is my mother’s apartment! For forty years! Or rather, mother lives here, I…
— Forty years? — Stepanic smiled as Polina handed over the scanned agreement.
— It says here the owner is Vera Pavlovna Krivtsova. And possession under a gift agreement from 2010. And before… Polina Arkadyevna, remember?
— Before, my grandfather rented the apartment from the foundation, then purchased it in my mother’s name — Polina said calmly. — Antonina Stepanovna lived here as a family member. Because of my goodwill. But goodwill… ended after the drugs.
The hallway was so silent you could hear water dripping in the bathroom.
Antonina Stepanovna’s face turned from triumphant red to earthy. She looked at her son, and in her gaze was an ancient terror that for a moment made Polina feel pity. Then she remembered the ripped cashmere sweater.
— Roma… this now… — the Swedish mother stammered. — Is she the owner?
— Apparently — Roman turned pale. — Mother, but you said father arranged everything… that we had armor…
— Your father only handled debts! — Antonina Stepanovna screamed suddenly, lunging at Polina.
— You viper! You inserted yourself, sniffed it out! Cared for grandfather to seize the apartment? It won’t work! I’ll sue! I’m registered here!
— The temporary registration expired six months ago — Polina said. — I thought we were family. Turns out we’re not. If I am nobody, you cannot stay here.
Julia, who had been peeking from behind Roman’s shoulders, quickly turned and disappeared into the apartment’s depths. A minute later, she returned with the pink suitcase.
— Roma, I think I’ll leave. Strange arguments here. You said there’s a lock, but this… panel apartment with doorbells.
— Julia, wait! — Roman tried to reach her, but Stepanic firmly blocked the way.
— All right, citizens. It’s late. The owner requests the premises be vacated. Quickly, quietly pack. If I find a single Polina Arkadyevna belonging outside the stairs damaged—we record it as vandalism.
Chaos erupted. Antonina Stepanovna cried, clutching the goose platter. Roman ran between the wardrobe and his mother, trying to pack his shirts. Julia stood by the elevator, nervously pressing the button.
Polina entered the bedroom. Strange belongings littered the bed—lace lingerie, cheap perfumes. The smell was unbearable. She went to the window. Down on Mira Avenue, the streetlights flickered on. The city prepared for the night.
Suddenly she felt a chill run through her. In the corner of the wardrobe, she saw an old box. Her own box. Antonina hadn’t looked. Polina opened it. Inside were blueprints.
Her first projects, which Roman called “girlish nonsense.” And at the bottom of the box lay a dictaphone.
She pressed “play.”
“…let’s throw it out, Roma. Wait patiently. Now, after she’s had surgery, we’ll send her to the village with clean hands. The apartment is ours, I checked with the notary, all traces gone.
And the girl… foolish. She thinks we love her. The point is she signs the waiver while the pills work…”
Antonina Stepanovna’s metallic voice rang. Polina switched off the recording. A month ago she had left it accidentally on in the kitchen. Then she hadn’t believed her ears. Now the joke was over.
Three hours later, the apartment was empty. The hallway was silent, only water dripping in the bathroom. Stepanic left last, promising to “keep an eye on the stairwell.”
Polina stood in the middle of the living room. Packing debris littered the floor, a forgotten Julia hair clip, dust. Strange how quickly a house becomes ruins when pretense leaves.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Polina flinched. She peeked through the peephole. Roman stood in the stairwell, alone. Mother, Julia, and pride gone. His hair tousled by the wind, coat unbuttoned.
— Polja… let me in. I took your mother to the aunt’s, she’ll be comfortable there, — Roman’s voice was hoarse, unusually soft, like a child asking for forgiveness. — I know you’re upset, but… we need to talk.
Polina paused at the door. Her hand still rested on the handle, but there was no mercy in her eyes.
— Talk? — she asked quietly, almost threatening. — You think there’s something to talk about? Or how you let your mother intrude into my life and this apartment?
Roman stepped in. The door closed behind him. For a moment, they just stood facing each other, the air thick and tense.
— Polja… — he began again, but Polina raised her hand.
— No, Roman. You listen now. Now it’s my turn. This apartment… is my property. And my life—if you like, my decisions too.
You didn’t bring love here, you didn’t pay the bills, you didn’t sit up at night with painkillers to make sure everything was fine.
I did it all alone. You were just a pawn, letting others toy with my life.
Guilt slowly appeared on Roman’s face, unmistakable. He looked down, his eyes searching for words that might soften the situation, but Polina’s voice overpowered every word.
— And now it’s time for you to understand reality. Not games, not lies, not “love” holds things together. Actions, decisions matter. And you… Roman, you’re not ready.
A moment of silence. Roman slowly looked up, something broken, fragile, like ice in spring, in his gaze.
— Polja… I didn’t know… I didn’t understand… — he muttered, but Polina already turned her back, went to the wardrobe, grabbed her boxes, and prepared to leave.
— I know — she said calmly, holding the dictaphone and blueprints. — Now you know. And now there’s no turning back.
Roman tried for a moment to reach for something else, something that might save their relationship, but Polina stepped into the hallway. The cold, quiet stairwell greeted her, along with the possibility of a new beginning.
By the elevator, Julia waited silently, pink suitcase in hand. Polina looked at her, their eyes met briefly, then they descended Mira Avenue, toward a world they now fully owned.
The house remained silent behind them, Antonina Stepanovna’s empty door only a memory that the past and manipulation cannot hold back someone who finally learns to stand up for herself.
Polina took a deep breath. The sun slowly set, and the streetlights on the avenue glowed golden. Every piece of her life had fallen back into place. And now she knew: this was her story. And no one, not even Roman, could take it from her.
