“Wynoście się z mieszkania. Ani ty, ani twoja matka nie będziecie tu już mieszkać.”
Arina odłożyła torbę podróżną obok szafki w korytarzu i zamknęła drzwi wejściowe. Zamek zatrzasnął się z niezwykłą ostrością. W kuchni brzęk łyżek ustał.
Dmitrij siedział przy oknie w luźnym T-shircie, jakby jego żona nie wróciła trzy dni wcześniej, tylko wyszła kupić chleb. Walentyna Siergiejewna siedziała naprzeciwko niego. Przed nią leżała kartka wyrwana z notesu, pokryta dużym charakterem pisma. Obok stały miarki, ołówek i kilka próbek podłóg.
Jej teściowa jako pierwsza wyzdrowiała.
“Dlaczego nie powiedziałeś nam, że wracasz?”
Arina spojrzała na kartkę. Na górze ktoś napisał: “Pokój Valentiny.” Pod spodem znajdowała się lista: łóżko, komoda, lustro, nowe oprawy oświetleniowe, szafa od podłogi do sufitu.
“Czy to teraz wymóg?” zapytała Arina. “Czy muszę dać wypowiedzenie, zanim wrócę do własnego mieszkania?”
Dmitry odsunął kubek.
“Nie zaczynaj od razu, gdy wchodzisz. Jesteś zmęczony po podróży. Przebierz się, zjedz coś, a potem porozmawiamy.”
“Już wystarczająco widziałam.”
Poszła korytarzem i zatrzymała się w drzwiach pokoju, który jeszcze tydzień wcześniej był jej domowym biurem.
Jej biurko zniknęło. Tak samo krzesło i wąska szafka na akta, która kiedyś stała przy oknie. Szerokie łóżko zajmowało teraz środek pokoju. Na nim leżał nowy narzuta. Przy jednej ze ścian stała ciężka komoda, której Arina nigdy wcześniej nie widziała. Doniczki tłocznie się na parapecie, a przy drzwiach leżało kilka zwiniętych kawałków materiału.
Arina weszła do środka i przesunęła dłonią po pustym kawałku podłogi, gdzie stało jej biurko.
“Gdzie są moje rzeczy?”
Dmitrij wszedł za nią.
“W schowku. Niektóre z nich są na balkonie.”
“Moje dokumenty też?”
“Wszystko spakowaliśmy starannie.”
Arina odwróciła się w jego stronę.
“Kto dał ci pozwolenie na dotykanie mojego gabinetu?”
“Zdecydowaliśmy, że to będzie bardziej praktyczne. Mama nie może ciągle spać na kanapie.”
“I nigdy nie przyszło ci do głowy, że zapytałeś mnie najpierw?”
“I tak byś się sprzeciwił.”
Arina powoli skinęła głową. Jej wyraz twarzy się nie zmienił, ale palce mocniej zacisnęły się na rączkach torby podróżnej.
“So you knew in advance that I would object, and you waited until I was gone.”
Valentina Sergeyevna appeared in the hallway.
“Don’t be so dramatic. You only use this office a couple of times a month. I need somewhere to live every day.”
Arina looked at her.
“What made you think you would be living here every day?”
“Dima and I have already discussed everything.”
“You and Dima can discuss his clothes, his car, and how he spends his weekends. I decide what happens in my apartment.”
Her mother-in-law let out an indignant breath and returned to the kitchen. Dmitry remained by the door.
“You’re deliberately making this worse than it needs to be.”
“No. I simply came home earlier than you expected.”
Arina picked up her bag and walked into the bedroom. Two of Dmitry’s sweaters lay on the bed, even though the August heat was so intense that people were still wearing light clothes after sunset. She moved them onto a chair and opened the wardrobe.
Dmitry’s belongings took up almost all the space. Her dresses had been pushed into one corner, and several boxes were missing.
“Where are my shoes?” she asked without raising her voice.
“Mom put them on the top shelf,” Dmitry answered from the hallway. “You hardly ever wear them.”
Arina closed the wardrobe.
Within a few minutes, she had seen enough.
While she was away, they had done more than move a few pieces of furniture. They had divided up the rooms, reorganized the closets, and made plans for renovations. Her presence was no longer part of their calculations. Her husband and mother-in-law were behaving as though Arina were some distant relative who would eventually be informed of decisions already made.
She took out her phone, opened the calendar, and checked the date.
August ninth.
Her business trip was not supposed to end until the twelfth. They had needed only three more days to complete everything they had planned.
Once, this apartment had been the greatest proof that Arina was capable of building a life for herself.
She had bought it before she ever met Dmitry. The building had just been completed. Piles of sand lay in the courtyard where the grass should have been, and the stairwell smelled of cement for months. It was only a two-room apartment, with a small kitchen and a narrow hallway, but it belonged entirely to her.
Arina had paid the mortgage for years. She worked as an engineer at an industrial company, took on difficult projects, and often traveled for work. She never told friends how much she still owed, never complained, and never asked anyone for help. Every month, she simply made the payment, and whenever she had extra money, she paid down the principal early.
When the bank finally issued confirmation that the loan had been repaid in full, Arina placed it in a blue folder with the purchase agreement and the ownership documents.
Six months later, she met Dmitry.
He worked as a technician at a service center and could repair almost any household appliance. He gave the impression of being a man who would not interfere in other people’s affairs. Dmitry never asked how much the apartment had cost, never inspected the rooms, and never told her what ought to be changed.
They dated for two years. Then Arina invited him to move in.
Before he brought over his belongings, she spoke plainly.
“The apartment is mine. I bought it before we met, and I never want to hear that someone else considers himself the owner here.”
Dmitry laughed.
“I’m not after anyone else’s property. It’s enough that you’re letting me live with you.”
At the time, the answer had sounded sincere.
A year later, they registered their marriage. They did not have a lavish wedding. They signed the papers, had dinner with their relatives, and left town for a few days.
During the first years, Valentina Sergeyevna was friendly. She visited on holidays, brought food, and asked Arina about her job. Whenever she stayed overnight, she folded the bedding in the morning and thanked Arina for having her.
That was why Dmitry’s request did not initially alarm her.
His mother had retired and begun complaining that living alone was difficult. Sometimes the upstairs neighbors were too loud. Sometimes the elevator broke. Sometimes the evenings felt unbearably lonely. Almost every day she called her son to talk about her blood pressure, her insomnia, or the fact that there was no one to help her carry shopping bags.
One evening in June, Dmitry paced around the kitchen for a long time before finally speaking.
“Mom wants to stay with us for a week. Maybe ten days. She needs a change of scenery.”
Arina was chopping vegetables for a salad and did not answer immediately.
“Is something wrong with her apartment?”
“No. She’s just tired of being alone.”
“All right. She can stay for a while.”
Valentina Sergeyevna arrived the following day with a large suitcase and two bags.
“I brought only the essentials,” she announced.
A week later, her son brought another bag. Then a box of shoes appeared in the entryway. A few days after that, Valentina Sergeyevna asked Arina to clear two shelves in the wardrobe for her.
Arina did not argue. It seemed petty to count someone else’s belongings when an older woman might genuinely need support.
At the end of the second week, her mother-in-law announced that she would return home after the weekend.
Then her back began to hurt.
Then the hot water in her building was shut off.
Then a distant relative was expected to visit, and Valentina Sergeyevna did not want to see her.
Every week brought a new reason to stay.
By the middle of July, she had stopped mentioning going home.
The changes began with small things.
One day Arina could not find the colander. Valentina Sergeyevna had moved it to a lower drawer because, as she put it, “that’s where any sensible person would keep it.”
Another time, a box containing screws, tools, and fittings disappeared.
“The storage closet was already overcrowded,” her mother-in-law explained. “I gave it to Dima so he could take it to the garage.”
“Those are my tools.”
“What does a woman need screwdrivers for?”
Arina brought the box back.
Two days later, she discovered that the shelves in the kitchen cabinet had been reorganized again. The jars stood in a different order, the containers had been stacked together, and several dishes were sitting in a box beside the outdoor trash bins.
Arina managed to retrieve them before the box was taken away.
“Why are you throwing out my things?” she asked that evening.
Valentina Sergeyevna did not even look away from the television.
“They were old plates.”
“They weren’t broken.”
“But they were ugly.”
“They weren’t yours.”
“I was putting the place in order. Instead of thanking me, you complain again.”
Dmitry, who was lying on the sofa, asked his wife not to start an argument over a few plates.
Arina looked at him but did not continue. She washed the dishes and put them back where they belonged.
A few days later, two unfamiliar women came to the apartment. They talked loudly in the kitchen, opened cupboards, and discussed where grains and cereals should be stored.
Arina came home from work and found one of them standing by the refrigerator.
“Hello,” the woman said. “Valya and I decided to have a little get-together.”
Her mother-in-law waved from the kitchen.
“Come meet my friends. I’ve been promising to invite them for ages.”
“Why wasn’t I told they were coming?”
“Dima didn’t mind.”
The guests left late. Dirty plates remained on the table, the sink was full of dishes, and muddy footprints darkened the floor near the balcony.
Valentina Sergeyevna complained that she was exhausted and shut herself in the room.
Dmitry began collecting the plates.
“You could at least have told me they were coming.”
“Mom lives here. Does she really need to ask permission for every little thing she does?”
“She’s staying here temporarily.”
Dmitry grimaced.
“Not this again.”
“I keep bringing it up because more and more of her things keep appearing.”
“So what? Are they bothering you?”
Arina pointed toward the boxes in the hallway.
“They are now.”
Instead of answering, Dmitry carried the dishes into the kitchen.
The next day, one of the neighbors stopped Arina near the elevator.
“Has your mother-in-law moved in permanently?”
“What makes you ask?”
“She said she lives with her son now. She was also boasting that she would soon start renovating her room.”
Arina thanked the neighbor and entered the apartment.
Valentina Sergeyevna was sitting in the office, sorting through papers on the desk.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for an empty drawer.”
Arina walked over and took the folder from her hands.
“These are my work documents. You’re not allowed to touch them.”
“Everything is forbidden with you. It’s like living in a museum.”
“Because this is not your room.”
Her mother-in-law stood up. Her chin visibly trembled.
“I’m your husband’s mother, not some stranger.”
“That does not give you the right to go through my desk.”
“I wanted somewhere to keep my medical papers.”
“Keep them in your suitcase.”
Valentina Sergeyevna left the room, and within a minute she was telling her son that Arina had practically “thrown her out into the hallway.”
Dmitry came into the kitchen looking angry.
“You could have said it more gently.”
“I’ve asked her several times not to touch my things.”
“She doesn’t mean any harm.”
“Her intentions are irrelevant. She is doing things she has no right to do.”
“She’s behaving perfectly normally. You’re the one looking for faults.”
That evening, Arina realized for the first time that her husband was not merely avoiding conflict. He had already chosen the side that was most convenient for him. His mother could do whatever she wanted, and his wife was expected to stay silent for the sake of peace.
A week later, Arina left on a business trip.
Before leaving, she locked her work folders in the bottom desk drawer and took the key with her. Her monitor, printer, and several unfinished drawings remained in the office.
Valentina Sergeyevna saw her off almost affectionately.
“Don’t worry. We’ll manage just fine here.”
The words struck Arina as strange, but the car was already waiting downstairs.
During the trip, she spoke with Dmitry every evening. His replies were brief. He said everything at home was calm and that his mother was feeling well.
On the fourth day, the meeting with the client was rescheduled, and the trip ended earlier than planned.
Arina bought a ticket and decided not to announce her return. She wanted to come home quietly, take a shower, and go to bed.
The station was stifling. The August sun reflected off the asphalt, and people crowded into the few patches of shade. Arina reached home near evening.
A small moving truck was parked outside the building.
Two men were unloading a chest of drawers.
Arina walked past them without connecting the furniture to her apartment. Only in the elevator did she notice a delivery label on the side bearing Valentina Sergeyevna’s surname.
She opened the front door with her key.
The hallway was filled with rolls of flooring, boxes of fittings, and a package containing a new bedspread. Her desk had been taken apart and leaned against the wall on the balcony. The monitor stood on the floor, covered with a towel. Boxes of documents had been shoved beside cleaning supplies.
Voices came from the kitchen.
“The bed should stay against the far wall,” Valentina Sergeyevna was saying. “And we’ll put a small table by the window.”
“Arina might object,” Dmitry said.
“She’ll get over it. You’re her husband. You’re not a guest here.”
“She thinks the apartment belongs only to her.”
“Let her think whatever the documents say. You live together, which means decisions should be made together.”
Arina entered the kitchen just as her mother-in-law was circling “replace flooring” with a pencil.
She listened to her husband’s explanation, saw the office that had been turned into a bedroom, and then said the words that left them both speechless.
“Clear out of the apartment. Neither you nor your mother will be living here anymore.”
Now Dmitry stood in the middle of the room, trying to push the conversation back into its usual pattern.
“You can’t make a decision like that in five minutes.”
“I didn’t make it in five minutes. The two of you have been helping me make it for months.”
“You’re going to destroy our marriage over a desk and a bed?”
Arina opened the storage closet. Her work folders were lying on top of the toolboxes. One had been crushed, and the corner of another had torn.
She took them out and placed them on the chest of drawers.
“This isn’t about a bed. It’s about the fact that you waited until I left, removed the furniture from my room, and took control of the space without asking me.”
“We were trying to make things more comfortable.”
“For yourselves.”
“Mom is elderly.”
“She has an apartment of her own.”
From the kitchen came Valentina Sergeyevna’s voice.
