An hour later, Dmitry’s older sister, Svetlana, arrived.
She entered without greeting anyone and walked straight toward Arina.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I asked your brother and your mother to leave my apartment.”
“Mom rented her place out. She has nowhere to go.”
“She can negotiate with the tenants or stay with you temporarily.”
Svetlana suddenly fell silent.
“I have two rooms and children.”
“I also have two rooms. Your mother has already taken one of them without permission.”
“You’re alone. You and Dima only need the bedroom.”
“Why do you get to decide what is enough for me?”
Svetlana removed her glasses and wiped them with a tissue.
“Surely you can come to some kind of arrangement.”
“The arrangement was that your mother would stay briefly. Then she remained indefinitely, and while I was away, she took over my office. The only matter left to discuss is the date of departure.”
“Let her stay for at least a month.”
“No.”
“Two weeks.”
“No.”
“Until the tenants find somewhere else.”
“No.”
Svetlana put her glasses back on and looked at her brother.
“Dima, say something to her.”
He sat at the table in silence.
“He has already said enough,” Arina replied.
Her mother-in-law came into the hallway with tears in her eyes and began listing everything she had sacrificed for her son, how much she had done for him during his childhood, and why she deserved a peaceful retirement.
Arina did not interrupt her. When Valentina Sergeyevna finished, Arina asked a single question.
“How does any of that give you the right to take over my room?”
There was no answer.
Svetlana left angrily. She did not offer to take her mother home with her.
That afternoon, Dmitry found an apartment belonging to an acquaintance that was available for several days. In the evening, he began packing. He did everything noisily, yanking open wardrobes, throwing clothes into bags, and sealing boxes with unnecessary force.
Arina sat in the kitchen and wrote down what he was taking. When Dmitry reached for the coffee machine, she stopped him.
“I bought that before the marriage.”
“I used it too.”
“Using something does not make it yours.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Are you going to fight over every spoon now?”
“The spoons will stay in the drawer. Take your personal belongings.”
Dmitry took his computer, clothes, tools, and several boxes of books. Arina did not hold on to anything that truly belonged to him.
On the second day, movers arrived for Valentina Sergeyevna’s furniture.
The chest of drawers would not fit through the room’s doorway. When it had been brought in, they had angled it through, but now the bed prevented them from turning the heavy piece of furniture.
The movers suggested dismantling it.
“Be careful,” her mother-in-law ordered. “It was expensive.”
Arina stood nearby, making sure the doorframe was not damaged.
When they finally carried the chest out, deep scratches were revealed on the floor.
“The movers did that,” Valentina Sergeyevna said immediately.
“No,” Arina replied. “They were made when it was brought in. I saw them on the day I returned.”
“And what do you expect me to do about it?”
“You will cover the cost of the repair.”
Her mother-in-law waved her hands in protest.
“I’m not paying for anything.”
Arina took out her phone and photographed the damage.
“Then the matter can be settled in court. I have photographs of the room from before I left.”
Dmitry turned sharply.
“You’re going to sue your own mother?”
“Your mother. And only if she refuses to compensate me for the damage.”
Valentina Sergeyevna opened her mouth to object, but her son pulled her aside. Ten minutes later, they agreed that a friend of Dmitry’s would repair the floor at their expense.
By evening, the room was empty.
Only the bed remained, and the movers promised to collect it the next day.
On August twelfth, Dmitry carried out his final box. Valentina Sergeyevna gathered her bags, flowerpots, and a package containing the dishes she had brought herself.
She paused in the entryway.
“I never thought you were capable of doing something like this.”
“And I never thought you would rent out your apartment and take over mine without asking.”
“Dima will come back to you anyway.”
“That will not be his decision alone.”
Dmitry removed the apartment key from his key ring and placed it on the cabinet.
“Happy now?”
Arina picked up the key.
“No. But at least everything is happening honestly now.”
“You destroyed our family.”
“You made a decision behind my back. Now you’re blaming me for the consequences.”
He opened the door.
“You’ll regret this.”
“You’ve already borrowed that line from your mother. Come up with something new.”
Dmitry jerked the door open and walked onto the landing. Valentina Sergeyevna followed him. Arina waited until they reached the elevator and then closed the door.
The apartment felt unusually empty.
There were no voices coming from the kitchen, no unfamiliar bags in the hallway, and no lingering scent of her mother-in-law’s perfume. The dismantled desk remained on the balcony, dark scratches marked the office floor, and a stack of crushed folders filled part of the storage closet.
Arina did not sit down to dwell on the past few years. She took out a set of screwdrivers and the new lock cylinder she had purchased that morning.
The old mechanism did not come out easily. One of the screws kept turning uselessly, so she had to fetch a flashlight and pliers. Forty minutes later, Arina removed the old cylinder, installed the new one, and tested the key several times.
The door opened smoothly.
She placed the old lock cylinder in a bag and stored it out of sight.
Dmitry called that evening.
“I left my electric razor in the bathroom.”
“You can collect it tomorrow at seven. I’ll bring it to the door.”
“I also need to check whether I forgot anything else.”
“Send me a list.”
“Did you change the lock?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“That was fast.”
“I’m not interested in wondering whether you made spare keys.”
“I didn’t have a spare.”
“That no longer matters.”
The following day, Arina gave him the electric razor, its charger, and a jacket. She did not let him enter the apartment.
He tried to talk about reconciling.
“Mom will stay with Svetlana for now,” he said. “I understand everything. Let’s forget this happened.”
“What exactly do you understand?”
“That I should have warned you about the room.”
“Only warned me?”
Dmitry frowned.
“What else?”
Arina closed the bag containing his belongings.
“You still believe you had the right to take over my office as long as you informed me first.”
“It’s an ordinary family matter.”
“No. It’s my property. You refused to hear me for months, and you still refuse to hear me now.”
He reached toward the door handle, but Arina stepped in front of it.
“You are not coming inside.”
“My things are in there.”
“I brought out everything you listed.”
“I lived here.”
“You don’t anymore.”
Dmitry took the bag and left.
For another two weeks, he called almost every day. Sometimes he asked her to start over. Sometimes he accused her of cruelty. Sometimes he offered to leave his mother with Svetlana and return alone.
But not once did he admit that he had no right to make decisions about the apartment without its owner.
At the end of August, Arina filed for divorce in court. They had no minor children, and there was no jointly owned real estate to divide, but Dmitry refused to go with her to the civil registry office. He hoped time would change his wife’s decision.
At the first hearing, Dmitry requested a reconciliation period.
Arina did not object to the legal procedure. She simply stated clearly that they were no longer living together and that she had no intention of restoring the marriage.
After the hearing, he caught up with her near the exit.
“You don’t have any doubts at all?”
“I had doubts when your mother started throwing away my things. I had doubts when she invited guests. I had doubts every time you demanded that I tolerate her behavior. The day I saw a bed where my desk used to be, the doubts ended.”
“I can fix everything.”
“I already restored the office myself.”
In September, a friend of Dmitry’s repaired the damaged flooring. Arina inspected the work, and with that, the matter of her mother-in-law’s furniture was closed.
She reassembled the desk herself. She returned the monitor, sorted the documents, and cleared the wardrobes. Some of the possessions Valentina Sergeyevna had packed into boxes took several weeks to find.
One day, behind a drawer, Arina discovered an old photograph of her parents. Her mother-in-law had intended to throw away the worn frame and had removed the photograph first. Arina held it for a long time, then bought a new frame and placed the picture on her desk.
The apartment became recognizable again.
It was not perfect, and it did not look like a photograph in a design magazine. But it was hers again, with tools in the storage closet, cups on the familiar shelf, and folders arranged in the order that suited the person who actually owned the home.
The divorce became final at the beginning of October.
Dmitry collected the certificate and left first. Arina remained for a few minutes to check the documents.
He was waiting outside the courthouse.
“Mom moved back into her apartment,” he said. “She had to negotiate with the tenants.”
“So a solution was found.”
“She still thinks you were wrong.”
“She is entitled to her opinion.”
“Do you regret anything at all?”
Arina adjusted the strap of her bag.
“I regret not making her name an exact departure date on the very first day.”
Dmitry gave a faint laugh, but the smile quickly disappeared.
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She walked down the steps and headed toward the bus stop.
Arina did not feel victorious. There had been too much to repair after living with people who had spent months insisting that their comfort mattered more than her decisions.
Ale nikt już nie otwierał jej szafek. Nikt nie wyrzucał jej rzeczy ani nie decydował, który pokój powinien być komu.
Nowy klucz spoczywał na jej breloczku.
Jedyny zapasowy egzemplarz przechowywany był w zamkniętej szufladzie Ariny.
I od tego momentu nie można było odbywać rozmów w jej kuchni, jakby właściciel mieszkania nie istniał.
