— Have you gone deaf during your maternity leave? Who am I talking to, take that pot off the stove!
Illya nodded unhappily toward the small pot of vegetables cooking for the child. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, tightening his belt, and looked at his wife like an annoying obstacle.
— By six o’clock, everything must shine. And make a proper dinner. Roast some meat in the oven, chop a couple of salads. Ludmila Markovna is coming, and she doesn’t care for your diet zucchini.
Natalia froze, towel in hand. The kitchen smelled strongly of Illya’s cologne. Eight-month-old Matvey, who had been fussy all night from teething, was now quietly playing in the playpen, though he could start crying again at any moment.
— Illya, the baby is unwell, — she whispered, trying not to break. — I was completely exhausted last night, on my feet since three. I physically won’t manage a banquet and to scrub the floors. Order food from a restaurant.
The man stepped forward sharply. His face flushed with anger. He grabbed the towel from her hands, threw it on the table, and raised his hand.
Natalia instinctively drew her head into her shoulders, closing her eyes. Illya restrained himself but grabbed her shoulder roughly, crushing the fabric of her home T-shirt.
— I don’t care that you can’t manage, — he growled, looming over her. — I bring money into this house. I support you. So be kind, work. And keep a decent expression on your face.
“My square meters—my rules. Don’t like it? Pack and go back to your father.”
The slam of the front door sounded so loud Matvey flinched. The lock clicked.
Natalia slowly sank onto a chair. Her shoulder ached unpleasantly. Inside, everything simply burned out. No tears, no trembling. Just a clear understanding: this is the end.
“Supports, so… my square meters…”
This apartment had belonged to Illya from his grandmother. When they first married, it was depressing: stained ceilings, old floors, and the constant smell of dust and medicine. “The apartment is mine, so live and be happy,” Illya had thrown at her even before their son was born.
His salary was enough for bills, gasoline, and food. All the comfort had been created by completely different people.
Natalia looked around the kitchen. Built-in appliances, solid wood furniture. In the living room stood a huge sofa. The bathroom was modern. All of this had been paid for by her father, Grigory Ivanovich. He had simply transferred the money to ensure the grandchild would be comfortable.
Illya loved relaxing on that sofa and reprimanding Natalia for every speck of dust. He genuinely believed all this comfort was his own achievement. After all, he had “let” them into his square meters.
But that morning, he had crossed the line. Natalia realized: if she stayed silent now, tomorrow would be much worse.
She picked up her phone.
— Dad, hi.
— Hi, Natasha. How’s the grandson?
— He’s asleep. Dad… I need your construction guys and a couple of trucks.
— Are we taking something to the country house?
— No. We’re returning Illya’s apartment to its original state. I’m taking back everything that’s mine. And I’m filing for divorce.
The line went quiet. Grigory Ivanovich never interfered when he heard such a decisive tone from his daughter.
— Understood. We’ll be there in an hour.
They arrived quickly. Grigory Ivanovich stepped into the hallway, silently looking at his pale daughter and pausing over the redness on her arm. He just nodded at the strong man in the work overalls.
— Let’s begin. We remove everything they’ve done here. Down to the concrete.
The workers acted quickly and efficiently. It was a methodical dismantling of someone else’s arrogance.
First, they took out Natalia’s personal belongings, dishes, and children’s toys. Then they started on the furniture.
When they removed the massive wardrobe in the hallway, crooked walls with remnants of old floral wallpaper appeared. Natalia sat by the door, holding her son, watching the comfort vanish.
The workers tore up the floor covering. The boards came off with a crack, raising dust. They removed the interior doors, leaving empty frames. They took down heavy curtains, and old plaster fell from the walls.
From the bathroom, they removed the washing machine and sink.
— Grigory Ivanovich, what about the faucets?
— Put back the old faucet; it’s in the car. In the kitchen, cap the pipes, the sink is coming with us.
The kitchen surrendered slowly. When the cabinets and appliances were removed, the room became a hollow box. Natalia personally unscrewed all the bulbs from the chandeliers, leaving only a weak socket in the hallway.
By five in the evening, the apartment smelled only of construction dust and dampness. This was the true underside of Illya’s life.
The phone in her pocket rang. The husband.
— Well, is dinner ready? — his voice lounged arrogantly.
— Yes. I prepared a surprise.
— Let’s see. My mother and I will be there in twenty minutes.
Natalia silently hung up. She handed the child to his father. Her keys she carefully placed on the dust-covered windowsill.
They stepped into the stairwell but did not leave. They went one floor up. They needed to wait for the finale.
Illya and Ludmila Markovna arrived on time. Illya climbed the stairs, twisting the keychain on his finger. Next to him, his mother struggled to breathe.
— Your daughter is still young, — the mother-in-law mused across the stairwell. — You have to raise her. Be stricter.
— I already explained everything to her this morning; now she’ll be like silk, — Illya smirked.
He leaned on the heavy door.
— Come in, Mom. I’ll apologize for appearances, and then she’ll rush to clean, — he tossed the words over his shoulder, letting Ludmila go first.
The door swung open.
— Natasha, we’re here! Where’s dinner?! — Illya shouted into the darkness, then suddenly tripped.
His mother slammed into him from behind.
— Illya, why is it so dark? Turn on the light.
The man slapped the wall irritably, searching for the switch. His fingers touched rough concrete and a roll of tape.
He took out his phone, turned on the flashlight, and directed the beam ahead.
The light swept across the walls, revealing only bricks where the wardrobe had stood. He dashed to the living room, the gray floor reflecting the light. No flooring, no sofa, no curtains. Bare walls and echoes.
— What the… — Illya breathed. He stepped uncertainly and loudly cracked his boot on a piece of plaster.
They rushed to the living room, then to the kitchen. The flashlight flickered across corners, showing only dust, scraps of old wallpaper, and protruding pipes.
— They robbed us! Illya, they took everything! — Ludmila Markovna screamed. — Call the police! They even removed the sink!
Illya stood in the middle of the empty kitchen. The flashlight highlighted the windowsill. There lay a piece of paper. He rushed to it.
“I took only what was mine. Your precious square meters are still yours, enjoy. Divorce filed. Keys are beside them. Have a nice evening.”
— Ungrateful, — he hissed. — Mom, she took everything! Do you understand? Everything! Furniture, appliances, even the floor covering!
Ludmila Markovna pressed to the doorframe, frightened. A cold draft swept through the empty apartment.
— And what will we drink tea from? — she asked, confused. — Illya, it’s cold here… and drafty.
— She had no right! — Illya yelled. — This is my territory! I’ll file a complaint!
— I don’t recommend it. Lawyers are expensive, and you won’t even have gas until your paycheck, — Grigory Ivanovich’s calm voice came from the entrance.
Illya flinched.
Natalia’s father slowly stepped into the apartment. Behind him stood Natalia, rocking her sleeping son.
— Grigory Ivanovich… — Illya swallowed nervously. Vanity vanished instantly. — What is this circus? Return the stuff! We’re a family, property is joint!
— Joint? — the father pulled a thick folder from his pocket and dropped it onto the dusty floor at his son-in-law’s feet. — Here are the receipts. For every door, every can of paint, all furniture. Everything is in my name and paid from my account. I just came and took back my things. Questions?
Ludmila Markovna tried to speak:
— But how could you? You left your own grandson on this concrete!
Natalia stepped forward.
— My son has a place to sleep. He has a perfect nursery in our country house. Your son, Ludmila Markovna, can stay right here. These are his square meters. Let him manage his own concrete walls.
And yes, Illya… I changed the faucet in the bathroom. I put back your grandmother’s old one. It leaks badly, so put a rag under it, or you’ll flood the neighbors.
Only now did Illya begin to realize the full horror of his situation. Expensive car on credit, empty, ruined apartment, and a bewildered mother in the middle of the dust.
He tried to force a smile:
— Natash… why are you upset? I lost it this morning. Problems at work. You know I love you. Come back. We’ll put everything back, forget it…
Natalia looked at him like he was nothing.
— I forgot everything the moment you raised your hand against me. Enjoy being the host. Goodbye. Dad.
They turned calmly and left.
Illya and Ludmila Markovna remained standing in the cold concrete box.
— Illya… — his mother’s trembling voice called. — Come to me. At least I have a sofa. It’s drafty and cold here.
— What do we take, Mom? — he replied dully, squatting. — My card is blocked.
Six months passed.
Natalia sat in a cozy café, stirring a cappuccino. Next to her, the now older Matvey sat in the child seat. A notification about child support appeared on the screen. The amount was tiny.
Then a message arrived from a former neighbor:
“Natash, hi! Your ex rented his apartment to a crew of workers. About fifteen people are sleeping on mattresses. He charges them just to cover his debts. Meanwhile, he moved in with his mother. They constantly argue over money!”
Natalia smiled lightly. She had closed that chapter of life in time and taken the most valuable things—herself and her son.
The self-proclaimed master of life remained sitting in the empty concrete box.
Natalia adjusted Matvey’s clothes and looked out the window. Her new apartment keys were in her bag. And she would never let anyone who tried to impose their rules at her expense through these doors again.
