The smell of garlic-roasted chicken filled the kitchen, promising a peaceful Friday evening.
I had just come home from my second job — I was managing the bookkeeping of three sole proprietors in the evenings so we could pay off the mortgage faster.
Dark circles sat under my eyes, my back ached from exhaustion, but my soul felt light. A month ago, we had paid the final installment. The two-room apartment was finally completely ours.
The door slammed loudly. In the hallway, my husband Igor’s cheerful voice rang out, and my mother-in-law Zinaida Petrovna’s shuffling steps followed.
I went out to the hallway, wiping my hands on a towel.
— Oh, Mom, hi. What are you doing here? — I smiled.
— We came on business, Verochka — my mother-in-law said, not even starting to take off her shoes, only removing her fur scarf. Her eyes glittered with a predatory, triumphant light.
Igor went into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and slammed a plastic folder onto the tabletop.
— Ver, sit down. We need to talk — my husband used that “head of the family” tone he only used when he was about to propose something insane. — I’ve been thinking… times are unstable right now.
You know how it is with my business — sometimes there’s work, sometimes there isn’t. The tax authorities are also getting strict. So I decided to transfer the apartment to Mom. We’ll make a gift agreement.
I froze. My ears started ringing, and the towel in my hand suddenly felt like it weighed a ton.
— What did you decide? — I asked quietly.
— And what’s wrong with that? — Zinaida Petrovna cut in, sitting down next to her son. — I’m an elderly person, reliable. The apartment will stay in the family.
And this way no bailiff can take Igorochka’s property if something goes wrong. Besides, he is the head of the family, he knows how to handle assets!
I looked at my husband and couldn’t believe my ears. Assets?
For the past seven years, I had been sleeping five hours a night.
My full-time job ended at 6 p.m., after which I sat down at my laptop and until two in the morning I balanced other people’s accounts. I had forgotten what beauty salons smelled like, and my winter boots had been begging to be replaced for three years already.
Meanwhile, Igor was “finding himself.” He opened a tire repair shop that went bankrupt in six months. He tried selling Chinese phone cases online, but only debts remained.
All the mortgage payments, utilities, and groceries were on my shoulders. My work, my exhaustion, my nervous system held this apartment together.
— The apartment was bought during the marriage — I said, my voice trembling, but I tried to stay calm. — You can’t give it away without my consent.
— That’s exactly why we’re here! — Igor became enthusiastic and pulled out a document.
— We’ve already booked an appointment with a notary for tomorrow at ten. You’ll sign the consent. Ver, you’re a smart woman, you must understand, this is for our security!
— Of course I’ll sign! — the mother-in-law nodded, but her eyes flickered nervously. — Oh, Verochka, why are you looking at us like that? Your husband has your best interests at heart. A wife must follow her husband, not argue!
That was the breaking point. Something inside me snapped. Seven years of the illusion of a stable family collapsed onto the kitchen linoleum. Suddenly I saw clearly: no one was going to write any will.
They were planning to throw me out of my own apartment. As soon as I signed the papers, Zinaida Petrovna would become the owner. And at the first argument, I would end up on the street.
The exhaustion seemed to evaporate. A cold, sharp calm washed over me.
— Tomorrow at ten, you said? — I slowly walked up to the table. — Wait a moment. I also have something… for your security.
I went into the bedroom. I opened the bottom drawer of the dresser, took out my old red folder, and returned to the kitchen.
— Igor, do you remember 2019? — I placed the folder on the table.
My husband frowned. — What does 2019 have to do with anything?
— Do you remember when you took out a three-million loan for that ridiculous café franchise? — I spoke slowly, weighing every word. — The franchise collapsed, and the bank threatened you with a lawsuit and foreclosure.
You came home pale, shaking, saying they would take the apartment we had just renovated. Do you remember what we did on the lawyer’s advice?
His face changed. The color drained from it.
I opened the red folder and took out an official stamped document.
— We signed a marriage contract. Which terminated the joint property regime. And this apartment became entirely my exclusive property. To prevent creditors from taking it.
— That… that was just a formality! — Igor’s voice broke. — The loan has long been paid off!
— Yes. But the marriage contract was never canceled — I said coldly. — This apartment is entirely mine. You have nothing in it. Nothing to gift to your mother, Igorochka. You are only a registered occupant here.
Zinaida Petrovna gasped, clutching her chest: — You cunning snake! You tricked my son! He wasted his life on you, and you robbed him!
— His life? — I leaned forward. — I worked two shifts to get this apartment! While he lay on the couch “finding himself.” Every single ruble was paid by me.
I stood up and pointed at the door.
— From tomorrow, no one is going to the notary. At ten tomorrow, Igor will pack his things and move in with his mother. If she is so reliable, let her support him. On Monday I will file for divorce and officially deregister him through court.
— Vero… is this a joke? — Igor tried to grab my hand, but I pulled away in disgust. — Mom, say something!
— Don’t touch her, son! — the mother-in-law screamed, stepping back. — Let’s go! The court will decide who the owner is!
— It will decide — I said calmly. — Family law, Article 40. Look it up.
They hurriedly gathered their things. Doors slammed, clothes and shoes were thrown together. Igor still tried to explain himself, his mother hissed curses. I stood against the wall and watched them storm out of my life.
When the door finally closed, there was silence.
I went into the kitchen. The chicken was perfectly golden from the oven. I took it out, poured myself a glass of red wine, and sat down at the table.
From tomorrow, I would have a lot to do: lock change, lawyer, divorce. But for the first time in seven years, nothing pressed on my shoulders. The apartment was mine. So was my life.
