Kristina opened her eyes and instantly knew this would be the worst day she’d had in the past six months. Not because rain was hammering the windows, not because the fridge was out of milk again, but because Lyudmila Ivanovna had decided to remind the world she existed. The phone rang at exactly seven in the morning—so early that even the downstairs neighbors hadn’t yet launched their infernal drill symphony.
“Hello, Kristinochka,” her mother-in-law sang out, sounding like she’d already been awake for three hours—coffee finished, cold shower conquered, ready to take on the universe. “You didn’t forget my anniversary is next week, did you?”
Kristina shut her eyes and counted to ten in her head. She hadn’t forgotten. She’d simply been hoping Lyudmila Ivanovna had. Or at least would pretend she had. But no—of course not.
“No, I didn’t forget,” Kristina lied, forcing a hint of cheer into her voice. Her head buzzed like a hangover, even though she hadn’t had a drop of wine in a month. Chemotherapy was still exacting its price—the doctors kept saying it was temporary, but “temporary” had dragged on for three months, and every day began with the feeling that someone was carefully, relentlessly tightening a vise around her skull.
“Excellent!” Lyudmila Ivanovna chirped. “Then you and I will talk everything through today. Come by around three—I’ll make a list.”
“A list of what?” Kristina propped herself on an elbow and immediately regretted it—the room spun like a carousel.
“Groceries, obviously! For twenty people, no less. And don’t forget the alcohol—Maksimka said his friends won’t show up without vodka.”
Kristina clenched her teeth. Maksimka. It always disgusted her when her mother-in-law used that cutesy nickname for her husband, as if he weren’t a thirty-year-old man but a little boy who’d forgotten to put on his hat.
“Lyudmila Ivanovna, we agreed the celebration would be at a café,” Kristina tried to argue. “I can’t—”
“What café?” her mother-in-law cut her off, and the exact tone Kristina hated most slid into her voice—contempt wrapped in fake sympathy. “You said yourself you don’t have money. At home it’s cheaper. And cozier! You’re a kind girl—you understand how important this is to me.”
You’re kind. Those two words always came before something ugly. You’re kind—help me clean. You’re kind—watch the dog. You’re kind—lend me money. Kristina’s kindness had long since turned into her weakest spot.
“I’m not ‘kind,’ I’m exhausted,” she said. “My tests aren’t good. The doctor told me to stay in bed.”
“Oh, stay in bed then, stay in bed,” her mother-in-law dismissed her with a wave—Kristina couldn’t see it, but she could hear it. “But the anniversary can’t be canceled. You don’t want everyone thinking you’re selfish, do you?”
Selfish. There it was—Lyudmila Ivanovna’s main weapon. If Kristina refused, she’d be selfish. If she agreed, it would be treated as natural—because she was “kind.”
“I’ll think about it,” Kristina muttered, and hung up.
Maksim had left for work before the call. As always. He left early, returned late, and if Kristina ever tried to speak about something serious, he brushed her off: “Later, I’m tired.” Later never arrived.
She dragged herself to the kitchen, turned on the kettle, and stared at the fridge magnet that read, Family is what matters most. A gift from Lyudmila Ivanovna last New Year’s. Back then Kristina had smiled and thanked her. Now she wanted to hurl the magnet at the wall.
The kettle boiled. She poured tea but couldn’t drink it—nausea rose in her throat. Instead she opened her laptop and searched grocery prices. Fifteen thousand, minimum. Salads, meat, pastries, drinks. Plus decorations, plates, cleanup… She opened her banking app. Eight thousand in the account. Three of it already earmarked for utilities.
Kristina shut the laptop and pressed her forehead to the table. Sell something? But what? The furniture was old. The appliances weren’t new either. The only things of value were her jewelry—earrings her mother had given her and a chain from her grandmother. She reached toward the jewelry box, then froze with her hand in the air.
No. That was the last thing she had left from her old, normal life.
At three o’clock she went to Lyudmila Ivanovna’s anyway. Her mother-in-law’s apartment smelled of lavender and something else—something sour, like it hadn’t been aired out in ages. Lyudmila Ivanovna sat at the table in her favorite rocking chair, knitting something pink and smiling as if they were planning a seaside holiday, not arguing over a costly party.
“Ah, Kristinochka, finally!” she waved toward a chair. “Sit down, I put the kettle on.”
Kristina sat. A list already lay on the table, neat and tidy, written in purple ink.
“Here,” her mother-in-law said, handing her the sheet. “I’ve written everything out. Ten kilos of meat, five of fish, plenty of vegetables, and a cake, of course. Maksimka loves Napoleon—you know that.”
“Lyudmila Ivanovna,” Kristina took a deep breath. “I don’t have fifteen thousand.”
Her mother-in-law arched an eyebrow.
“Fifteen thousand for what?”
“For the groceries.”
“Oh, come on,” Lyudmila Ivanovna waved her hand. “You work. You have a salary.”
“I’ve been on medical leave for three months,” Kristina felt her voice begin to tremble. “I don’t have that money.”
“Then borrow it!” her mother-in-law said easily. “Or let Maksimka help. He’s a man—he should provide for his family.”
Kristina laughed—not because it was funny, but as if someone had clamped her throat shut with tongs.
“Maksim spends his paycheck on the car,” she said. “And on the loan for that TV you bought together last month.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lyudmila Ivanovna snapped. “You’re a smart girl—you’ll figure it out. Or do you want my anniversary to look… shabby?”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” Kristina asked suddenly. “You have a pension.”
Her mother-in-law’s face turned instantly cold.
“It’s your duty as a daughter-in-law,” she said slowly, like she was explaining something to a child. “Or did you think I married you to my son for nothing?”
Something inside Kristina dropped and broke. She stood.
“I’m not your servant,” she said. “And I’m not your wallet.”
“Oh, you—” Lyudmila Ivanovna stood too, her knitting slipping to the floor. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m not threatening you,” Kristina said, lifting her bag. “I’m telling you I won’t do it.”
“Then don’t come to the anniversary,” her mother-in-law sniffed. “And I’ll tell Maksimka how ungrateful you are.”
Kristina was already at the door.
“Tell him,” she said, and walked out.
At home she called Maksim immediately.
“Hi,” he sounded tired. “What do you want?”
“Your mother is demanding I organize her anniversary,” Kristina said. “With my money. With my health.”
“So what’s the big deal?” Maksim yawned. “Mom celebrates once in a lifetime.”
“Once in a lifetime?” Kristina let out a sharp laugh. “She celebrates something every year! And every time it becomes my problem!”
“You’re exaggerating,” Maksim said. “Just do what she wants.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Then you’re selfish,” he replied flatly. “And don’t be surprised if Mom stops talking to you.”
Kristina stayed silent. She already knew he wouldn’t take her side. He never had.
“Fine,” she said at last. “Then I’ll stop too.”
She hung up, went to the dresser, and pulled out a box of documents. The prenuptial agreement they’d signed five years ago sat right on top. She flipped through it again and paused at the section on property division.
The apartment was hers. A wedding gift from her parents. Maksim hadn’t put a cent into it.
Kristina picked up her phone and called the realtor.
Kristina woke to the sound of a key turning in the lock. The clock on the nightstand read three in the morning. She pushed herself up on an elbow and listened as Maksim shuffled around in the entryway, trying not to make noise—like that was even possible after three bottles of beer and a late-night visit to Mommy.
“Where were you?” she asked, even though she already knew.
Maksim paused in the bedroom doorway, his silhouette framed by darkness—broad shoulders, a slight hunch, hands he never knew what to do with.
“At Mom’s,” he grunted. “She’s upset because of you.”
“Because of me?” Kristina snorted. “So it’s my fault she wants to throw her anniversary on my dime?”
“You’re blowing it out of proportion,” Maksim started pulling off his T-shirt. “She just wanted a family celebration. And you, as always, turn everything into a fight.”
“And you, as always, take her side,” Kristina shot back. “You didn’t even ask how I’m feeling.”
“What is wrong with you?!” Maksim suddenly raised his voice. “Everything is always someone else’s fault with you! Mom’s right—you’ve become selfish!”
Kristina sat upright. Her head spun again, but she clenched her fists and held on.
“I’m selfish?” she repeated. “I spent three months sick with fever and you didn’t even bring me soup. Your mother demands I feed half the neighborhood, and you support her instead of supporting me. Who’s selfish here, Maksim?”
“You’re being dramatic!” he waved a hand. “Everyone has problems.”
“Yes, but not everyone has a mother-in-law who thinks her daughter-in-law owes her everything,” Kristina got up and stepped closer. “Have you ever once stood up for me? Even once?”
Maksim didn’t answer. He never liked conflict. He preferred to escape it—literally. Like now: he turned and went to the bathroom, slamming the door.
Kristina stood alone in the dark. She waited until the footsteps faded, then went to the nightstand, switched on the lamp, and pulled out a stack of papers. The prenuptial agreement was on top. She flipped to the property clause, then picked up her phone.
She texted the realtor: “Prepare the paperwork to sell the apartment. Without Maksim.”
Sent.
In the morning Maksim left for work without breakfast. Kristina didn’t stop him. She drank coffee, ate a piece of toast that instantly turned to a lump in her throat, and started packing.
Not her things. His.
T-shirts he tossed onto the chair. Socks under the couch. Papers from the shelf—passport, license, receipts. She stuffed everything into a gym bag he’d bought two years ago and never once used. Then she pulled his favorite sweater from the closet—the one she’d given him for his last birthday—and placed it carefully on top.
The doorbell rang at exactly ten.
Kristina opened the door.
Lyudmila Ivanovna stood on the threshold in a new blouse, carrying an expensive branded handbag—one Kristina knew Maksim had bought her. Probably yesterday. She was smiling, but her eyes were cold.
“Good morning, Kristinochka,” she said as she stepped into the hallway. “I decided to stop by and discuss the anniversary. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Come in,” Kristina said, stepping aside.
Lyudmila Ivanovna walked into the kitchen, set her handbag on the table, and began pulling out plastic bags.
“I already bought a few things,” she said, placing sausage, cheese, and two bottles of wine on the counter. “So it’ll be easier for you.”
Kristina stared at it all and felt something tighten inside her.
“Take it back,” she said.
“What?” Lyudmila Ivanovna looked up.
“Take it back,” Kristina pointed at the bags. “I’m not doing your anniversary.”
Her mother-in-law rose slowly, bracing her hands on the table.
“Are you serious?” she asked quietly.
“Completely,” Kristina crossed her arms. “And tell Maksim his things are in a bag. He can come pick them up.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna’s face shifted. The smile vanished. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Have you lost your mind?” she hissed. “That’s my son! That’s my home!”
“This is my apartment,” Kristina corrected calmly. “And I want both of you out.”
“You don’t dare!” Lyudmila Ivanovna stepped closer, her voice rising. “You don’t understand anything! Maksimka lives here! He has rights!”
“He has rights to that bag of clothes,” Kristina said, pointing to the hallway. “And that’s it. We signed a contract. The apartment is mine. Now take your groceries and leave.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna went pale.
“You… you’re throwing us out?” Her hands clenched. “Over some stupid party?”
“No,” Kristina shook her head. “Because you both treat me like a cash cow. Because you demand, and he stays silent. Because I’m done.”
“You’re destroying a family!” Lyudmila Ivanovna screamed.
“No,” Kristina said evenly. “I’m saving myself.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna lunged toward her, eyes blazing.
“You’ll regret this!” she spat. “Maksimka won’t forgive you!”
“Then let him not forgive me,” Kristina opened the door. “But you’re leaving. Now.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna stood there for a second, fists tight around the bags—then hurled them to the floor.
“You’ll cry for this!” she snapped, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the neighbors probably assumed a murder was underway.
Kristina locked the door. Then she went to the window and looked down. Lyudmila Ivanovna marched toward her car, back straight, chin high. She didn’t look back once.
Kristina returned to the kitchen and began picking up the scattered groceries. The sausage had hit the floor, the wine shattered, the cheese rolled into corners. She threw everything into the trash, then took out a broom and dustpan.
While she was sweeping up the glass, the doorbell rang again.
She opened the door.
Maksim stood there, face flushed, eyes wide and confused.
“What did you do?!” he gasped.
“I kicked you out,” Kristina said. “And your mother.”
“You can’t do this!” he tried to push past her, but she blocked him.
“I can,” she said, nodding toward the bag. “Take it and go.”
“You’re insane!” Maksim shouted. “This is my apartment!”
“No,” Kristina pulled the prenuptial agreement from her pocket and opened it to the right page. “It’s mine. Read it.”
Maksim stared at the paper, his face twisting.
“You… you planned this?!”
“I planned to protect myself,” Kristina answered. “Because no one else will.”
Maksim grabbed the bag, slammed it onto the floor, then spun around and left, slamming the door so hard the walls trembled.
Kristina closed her eyes.
The apartment fell silent.
Kristina woke to silence. Not to a phone call, not to shouting neighbors, not to a key scraping in the lock—just silence. She was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the clock ticking in the kitchen.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
As if time had finally slowed down.
Three days had passed since she threw Maksim and Lyudmila Ivanovna out. Three days in which no one came, no one called, no one tried to pull her back. She’d expected Maksim to beg. She’d expected her mother-in-law to return with threats. She’d expected neighbors to whisper. But there was… nothing. Quiet.
She got up, stretched, felt her muscles ache. She’d been lying down too much, tensing too long. In the kitchen there was cold coffee—she’d forgotten to switch off the machine the night before. She drank it, grimacing at the bitterness, and checked her phone.
Twenty missed calls. Ten from Maksim. Five from Lyudmila Ivanovna. The rest from unknown numbers. And one text from the realtor: “Paperwork is ready. When do we meet?”
She replied: “Today. Three o’clock.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna showed up at four.
Kristina opened the door and saw her—same coat, same handbag, but her face wasn’t just angry. It looked twisted. Her eyes were red, her mouth tight, her hands gripping the strap so hard her knuckles had gone white.
“What have you done?!” she hissed, stepping inside without waiting to be invited.
“I’m selling the apartment,” Kristina said calmly.
“You have no right!” Lyudmila Ivanovna stepped forward, her voice shaking. “That’s my son’s home!”
“It’s my apartment,” Kristina replied. “And I’m selling it.”
“You bitch!” her mother-in-law suddenly screamed, her control snapping like an overstretched string. “You’re ruining his life! You’re selfish! You—”
“I’m tired of being your provider,” Kristina cut her off. “Tired of being the one who endures everything. I’m sick, Lyudmila Ivanovna. I can barely stand, and you both keep demanding and demanding and demanding. Enough.”
“You don’t dare!” Lyudmila Ivanovna moved closer, fingers biting into the strap. “I’ll get a lawyer! I’ll contest that contract!”
“Contest it,” Kristina shrugged. “The apartment is already sold.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna froze.
“What?”
“I signed the papers an hour ago,” Kristina smiled—not with joy, but with the kind of relief you feel when you finally exhale. “The realtor already transferred the money. Tomorrow the new owners come.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna went bloodless.
“You… you couldn’t…”
“I could,” Kristina said, taking a step back. “And I did.”
Her mother-in-law suddenly threw herself at her. Kristina didn’t have time to react—hands grabbed her shoulders, shook her, fingers digging into her skin.
“You ruined everything!” Lyudmila Ivanovna screamed, spittle hitting Kristina’s face. “You destroyed my son!”
Kristina shoved her away.
“Your son is destroying himself,” she said. “He will never take my side. He’ll always be your little mama’s boy. And I’m done living in that circus.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna stumbled back, breathing hard.
“You’ll regret it,” she hissed. “You’ll be alone. No one will stay with you.”
“I’m already alone,” Kristina said—and closed the door.
Maksim came that evening.
She opened the door and saw him—red eyes, unshaven, hands still not knowing where to go.
“Did you really sell it?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yes,” Kristina nodded.
“Why?”
“Because I want to live,” she looked him straight in the eyes. “Not just survive.”
“You destroyed our family,” he said, clenching his fists.
“No,” Kristina shook her head. “You destroyed it. You always chose her over me. You never asked how I was. You just took and took.”
“I loved you,” he whispered.
“No,” she said softly. “You loved convenience. You loved having a wife who tolerated everything. But I’m not tolerating it anymore.”
Maksim went quiet. Then he turned sharply and left.
Kristina closed the door.
The next day she stood in the doorway of her new apartment—small but bright, with a balcony overlooking a park. The keys were in her pocket. She breathed in; the air smelled of wet grass and rain.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her lawyer:
“Lyudmila Ivanovna filed a claim to invalidate the prenuptial agreement. But she has no chance.”
Kristina smiled.
She took out her phone and called her mother.
“Hello?” her mother answered.
“Mom,” Kristina said. “I’m free.”
The End.
