“Gáli, you’re rich now!” — shouted her cousin on the other end of the line. — “Aunt Rája left you her three-room apartment in the city center!”
Gáli put down the phone, completely stunned. Apartment. Her own. Three rooms. She looked at her husband. Zsenián, who had been lazily picking at his teeth, now sat up straight.
There was a terrifying, oily gleam in his eyes, and Gáli felt a shiver of unease.
And she understood that gleam that very evening.
They had barely sat down for dinner when Zsenián’s phone rang. On speaker was his mother, Júlia Semyonovna: “Zsenián, my little son! Congratulate Gáli! Oh, well done, you got it! Then Vera, Tóli, and I will come over tomorrow!”
Gáli recoiled. “Come where, to us?”
“Where else? To your three-room apartment!” — his mother laughed loudly into the phone. — “Why let it sit empty? Vera and I are crammed in our two-room place.
Tóli goes downtown to study, Vera goes to work. And you can take the small room, what’s the problem? We’re family, aren’t we?”
Zsenián nodded like a puppet, smiling happily. “Mom, of course! We’re all for it! Gáli, what’s wrong? Mom never advises badly!”
Gáli couldn’t get a word in when the “relatives” appeared on Saturday. None of them had brought anything—just “inspection.” Júlia Semyonovna immediately pulled a tape measure from her bag and began measuring the living room walls.
“This wall comes down. Tóli’s room will be here. He’s going to be a programmer; he needs space.”
Vera, pouting, was already at the window in the bedroom. “I want this one. The view is nice. Gáli, take down these ugly curtains; I’ll put up my beige ones.”
Gáli watched the circus with her mouth open. They were dividing her apartment. The apartment that still smelled faintly of Aunt Rája’s medicine. Zsenián stood next to his mother, respectfully holding the other end of the tape measure.
“Zsenián!” — Gáli grabbed his arm. — “Are you out of your mind? This is my apartment! Inherited!”
Zsenián waved irritably. “Gáli, don’t start. Sure, it’s yours, but why should we be strangers? Mom’s right, we need to organize it smartly. Why suffer in a rented hole when there’s… at your place… such a space?”
That evening, Gáli heard Zsenián boasting to his friend: “Yes, three rooms! Downtown! I’m the head of the big family now. I’ll move Mom in, Vera, Tóli. We’ll live well! Gáli? What about Gáli? She’ll just grumble and calm down. Where would she go?”
“Where would she go?” — that phrase was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Gáli suddenly realized that to them, she was not a person. She was a function. A free app attached to square meters.
The “move-in” was scheduled for the following weekend. Gáli stayed silent all week.
She went to work, nodded when Zsenián enthusiastically described the big couch they would buy for the living room, and how Tóli had already picked out a desk for his computer.
Zsenián and his mother assumed she had “given in, accepted their will.”
On Saturday, precisely at ten in the morning, a small truck stopped outside their tiny rented apartment. Júlia Semyonovna, Vera with her suitcase, and Tóli with his computer proudly stepped out.
“Well, Gáli, welcome! Let’s go!” — commanded his mother loudly.
Zsenián, shining like a polished samovar, carried the two suitcases out of the building. “Gáli, why are you just standing there? Help! Bring the stuff!”
Gáli walked up slowly. She was surprisingly calm. “Zsenián. Who are you really?”
Her husband was taken aback. “What’s wrong, Gáli? I’m your husband!”
“And the apartment belongs to whom?” — she asked in the same quiet tone.
“Well, yours…” — he began uncertainly.
“JOINT!” — shouted Júlia Semyonovna. — “Acquired during marriage! It’s legally divisible!”
“Inheritance, Júlia Semyonovna, is not marital property. It cannot be divided.” — Gáli gave them the coldest smile she could manage. — “And now, Zsenián, listen carefully. Here are the keys to the rented apartment.”
She pulled the keyring from her pocket. Zsenián stared at her, baffled.
“I just called the owner, Ivan Petrovich,” — Gáli spoke loudly so the whole yard could hear. — “I told him we’re moving out. Right now. We no longer live here.”
Zsenián’s face slowly changed. The bright smile slipped off like cheap lipstick.
“What… what are you saying?”
“The truth, Zsenián. Your mother is a genius. She just moved you out—not only from our future three-room apartment, but also from our current one-room place.” — Gáli tossed the keys toward the truck, straight into the dust.
“The stuff is in the truck? Perfect. You wanted to live together, right? Cramped, but without anger. Tóli has his computer, Vera has her suitcase, your mom has her tape measure. Comfortable enough.”
“Gáli!” — Zsenián shouted, realizing the scale of the disaster. “What are you doing?! Where are you going?!”
“Me? For coffee.” — Gáli snapped her fingers, and five minutes later a bright yellow taxi pulled up. — “Then I’ll go to my own apartment. File for divorce. And change the locks.”
“You… you…” — Júlia Semyonovna sputtered in anger, her face turning crimson. — “You’re destroying the family!”
“You destroyed the family. With your tape measure.”
Gáli got into the car. The last thing she saw was Zsenián standing confused between his enraged mother, crying sister, and grumpy movers who hadn’t been paid.
The divorce was quick. Zsenián’s friends teased him for a long time afterward: “So, how’s the head of the family? Did you five fit in your mom’s apartment?”
Gáli did a magnificent renovation in the three-room apartment. A year later, an elegant man pulled up in a black Mercedes at her housewarming.
When her friend asked what about Zsenián, Gáli, adjusting her hair, replied with a sarcastic smile:
“Probably happy. After all, he listened to his mother. And Mom never advises badly.”
Because as Confucius said: greed breeds poverty. In Zsenián’s case, it also gave him a lifelong “hallway residence.”
