Artem, bring in two more bags from the car. And grab the gray one, too, that’s got the shoes.”
Larisa froze in the entryway, not even having a chance to take off her coat.
Against the wall stood a large dark-blue suitcase. Next to it—another, slightly smaller one. On the table by the mirror was a set of unfamiliar keys with a wooden house keychain, and from the bathroom came the voice of Valentina Stepanovna.
“Careful with the white bag! There are bottles in there!”
That morning, Larisa left for work before her husband. Artem was still in bed and groggily asked when she’d be home. He hadn’t mentioned anything about guests, his mother, or any suitcases.
That’s why, for the first few seconds, Larisa assumed her mother-in-law had just stopped by on her way somewhere.
Then she noticed three bags by the stairs, a box with a hair dryer, and a rolled-up blanket.
Nobody brings that much stuff if they’re only staying for a couple of hours.
Artem came into the house carrying two bags.
He saw his wife and immediately recognized from her face that the moment he’d clearly hoped to avoid had arrived.
“You’re home already?”
“As you can see.”
He set the bags down next to the suitcase.
“Mom’s apartment got damaged by a leak. She needs somewhere to stay until everything’s fixed.”
Larisa slowly unbuttoned her coat.
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long is she planning to stay here?”
Artem glanced away, looking toward the kitchen.
“Well… about two months, give or take.”
Larisa took off her boots and carefully placed them on the rug.
“Two months.”
“Maybe less.”
Valentina Stepanovna came out of the bathroom in a comfortable outfit she had clearly brought with her.
“Hello, Larisochka. I couldn’t find your towels, so I asked Artem to get mine. I just don’t like using other people’s.”
“Good afternoon.”
Larisa looked at her husband.
“To the kitchen.”
Artem let out a heavy sigh but followed her.
His mother-in-law stayed in the entryway, sorting through her bags.
Larisa closed the kitchen door.
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Today.”
“Before she got here or after?”
He didn’t respond right away.
That was enough for her.
“Artem.”
“Okay, fine. After.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you’d object.”
Larisa just looked at him for a few moments.
She didn’t raise her voice or interrupt.
Apparently, Artem felt he needed to explain more:
“I figured if Mom shows up with all her stuff, you wouldn’t make a scene and send her back.”
Larisa even tilted her head slightly.
“So you planned it all out in advance.”
“Don’t make this into some conspiracy.”
“It’s not me. You just explained the whole scheme yourself.”
“She really doesn’t have anywhere else to stay.”
“That’s a separate issue. I’m not asking about your mom right now.”
Artem tiredly rubbed his forehead.
“Lar, what was I supposed to do? Tell Mom, ‘Sorry, my wife’s against it, you’re on your own’?”
“I wanted you to call me before you brought someone here for two months.”
“And then you would’ve said no.”
“Maybe I would have.”
“Exactly.”
Larisa gave a short, bitter laugh.
“So you decided you didn’t even need my approval.”
Artem shoved a chair back in irritation.
“Don’t start.”
“It’s already started. And it wasn’t me.”
Two years ago, Valentina Stepanovna had stayed with them before.
Back then, it all began innocently enough: there was plumbing work at her house and she asked to stay just a few days.
A few days turned into almost three weeks.
On the fourth morning, at 7:30, she turned on the TV downstairs so loud that it woke up Larisa all the way in the upstairs bedroom.
It was Saturday.
When asked why it was so early, Valentina Stepanovna replied, “Normal people are already having breakfast at this hour.”
Then she started checking the fridge.
First, she simply wondered why there was no cottage cheese.
A couple of days later, she began announcing which foods “Artyom has eaten every day since he was a child.”
Another week passed and she asked why Larisa hadn’t prepared food for her husband to take with him, especially since she knew he’d be out at different sites all day.
That time, Larisa stayed silent.
The second time, she replied.
And the third time, she said directly:
“Artyom is a grown man. If he needs a container with food, he knows how to use the fridge.”
Valentina Stepanovna took offense.
That evening, Artyom asked his wife to “not pick on mom.”
After she left, the conversation was brief.
Larisa told her husband:
“For a few hours, for dinner, for a weekend—fine. But if someone is going to live here for weeks, that’s only after we both agree.”
Artyom agreed right away.
“Okay. I understand.”
And for two years, they never brought up the subject again.
Until tonight.
The house where Valentina Stepanovna’s suitcases now stood actually had nothing to do with Artyom before he met Larisa.
The small two-story cottage had been left to Larisa by her grandmother.
Not fancy, but solid: three bedrooms upstairs, a living room and kitchen downstairs, a small yard, a carport, and a warm storage room.
After she inherited the house, Larisa slowly put everything in order. Instead of renovating all at once, she fixed things as needed: replaced the old wiring on the first floor, updated the plumbing, insulated the attic, and later put in new windows.
When she met Artyom, he was renting a one-room apartment.
They dated for eight months before he moved in with her.
It was almost another year and a half before they got married.
For Larisa, the house had always been a place where decisions weren’t made just because someone spoke louder and said, ‘This is how it should be.’
And Artyom understood that very well.
She opened the kitchen door.
“I get it.”
“What do you get?”
“Everything.”
Larisa went upstairs.
Artyom didn’t follow her right away.
She took a travel bag from the top shelf and started packing her things.
Two pairs of pants.
Three sweaters.
House clothes.
Underwear.
Cosmetics bag.
Work laptop.
Chargers.
A folder with documents.
By the time Artyom appeared in the doorway, his face was noticeably calmer.
He thought his wife was packing things for his mother.
“Mom can have the room by the stairs. The closet there is almost empty.”
Larisa zipped up the bag.
“She can.”
“Great then.”
Larisa took her laptop.
“But you’ll be the one to give it to her.”
His smile disappeared.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where to?”
“To Aunt Tamara’s.”
“But she’s at the dacha.”
“Exactly.”
Aunt Tamara’s apartment was empty until mid-autumn. Larisa would occasionally stop by to check the plumbing and get the mail; the keys were always in her purse.
Artyom frowned.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Because of mom?”
“Because of you.”
“Here we go again.”
Larisa went downstairs.
Valentina Stepanovna was just unpacking the contents of one of her bags onto the cabinet.
“And where are you off to?” she asked.
“I’m going to stay somewhere else for a few days.”
Her mother-in-law looked at her son in surprise.
Artyom snorted.
“She’ll take a walk until evening, then come back.”
Larisa put on her coat.
“Since you brought your mother here without asking me, you’ll be staying with her by yourself.”
“Larisa, don’t make a scene.”
She zipped up her bag.
“No scene.”
Artyom leaned his shoulder against the wall.
“And what are you trying to prove with this?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you really going to leave your own home?”
“For a few days, yes. I want to see how you like the decision you made without me.”
Valentina Stepanovna frowned, displeased.
“I don’t understand why my arrival has to be a problem.”
Larisa turned to her.
“Your arrival isn’t really the issue.”
And she didn’t explain anything further.
Before she left, she looked at Artyom.
“I’ll pay the utility bills myself. It’s my house, that’s normal.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Everything else is on you.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“Groceries. Cleaning. Cooking. Errands. Everything you and your mom will need.”
Artyom laughed.
“As if I can’t live without you.”
“Perfect, then.”
She walked out.
Her aunt’s apartment was about twenty minutes away by car.
It was small, but clean and warm. It had everything she needed: a bed, a fridge, a desk, and reliable internet.
Larisa set her bag by the closet, opened the windows for a few minutes, turned up the heat, and ordered herself some dinner.
Her phone was right next to her.
She didn’t silence or block Artyom’s number.
She just didn’t want to be the one to start the conversation.
Meanwhile, back home, Artyom was starting to realize that his mom wasn’t there as just a regular guest.
“Son, those things need to be brought upstairs.”
He looked at the two suitcases.
“Mom, we’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
“Why wait for tomorrow? I want everything unpacked today.”
“I’m tired.”
“And I’ve been packing all day.”
Twenty minutes later, he was hauling suitcases up the stairs.
Another ten minutes, and Valentina Stepanovna called to him from the room.
“Larisa’s things are in the closet.”
“So?”
“Where am I supposed to hang my things?”
“On the free side.”
“There is no free side.”
Artyom silently started moving boxes from the top shelf.
Then his mom remembered she’d left a bag of shoes in the car.
When he brought it, it turned out she needed a different bag.
Then Valentina Stepanovna asked him to go to the store.
“Right now?”
“Of course. There’s nothing for breakfast.”
“The fridge is full of food.”
She opened the fridge door.
“I don’t eat that.”
“What exactly?”
“I don’t like those yogurts. The cheese is too salty. And the bread is rye.”
Artyom took out his phone.
“Mom, just tell me what you need.”
Half an hour later, the list was almost an entire phone screen long.
A specific brand of milk.
A different bread.
Cottage cheese.
Butter.
Mineral water.
Coffee, the kind Valentina Stepanovna always buys herself.
“And tomorrow we need to stop by the dry cleaner,” she added.
“Why?”
“To take in my coat. I brought it especially.”
“Mom, you’re only staying for two months, not moving in forever.”
“So I’m supposed to go without my coat?”
Artyom didn’t respond.
He ended up going to the store anyway.
He got back close to nine.
Valentina Stepanovna was sitting in the kitchen.
“What about dinner?”
“What about it?”
“Are we going to cook something?”
“Mom, I just got back from the store.”
“I see that.”
She glanced at the bags.
“Then make something quick. I’ll take a shower in the meantime.”
Artyom froze, holding the carton of milk in his hand.
“Why me?”
His mother looked at him as if his question made no sense.
“Who else, then?”
He instinctively turned his head to the empty spot at the table where Larisa usually sat.
His phone vibrated.
Artyom almost felt happy for a second.
But it was just a message from a coworker.
There were still no messages from his wife.
The morning felt a little livelier.
Valentina Stepanovna was up before him.
At half past six, she knocked on his bedroom door.
“Artyom, get up.”
“Mom…”
“We need to make it to the hardware store before the traffic jam starts.”
He propped himself up on his elbow.
“What hardware store?”
“I need to look at tiles and a faucet.”
“What about the repairman?”
“Later.”
“Why later?”
“Because he’s busy for now.”
Artyom sat up.
“Wait, when is he even starting the renovation?”
“In three weeks.”
He was suddenly wide awake.
“What do you mean, three weeks?”
“Just three weeks.”
“You said the renovation was already happening.”
“It will be.”
“So nothing is actually being done there right now?”
“Everything is still damp after the leak.”
“But you could live there?”
“Technically, yes. But why would I sit there in that condition?”
Artyom rubbed his face with his hand.
“You mentioned two months.”
“I said approximately.”
“What do you mean, approximately?”
“If they work fast, two months. If not, I’ll stay longer.”
He looked at his mother.
“How much longer exactly?”
“How should I know?”
Twenty minutes later, he was already calling Larisa.
She didn’t answer right away.
“Yes?”
“Are you at work?”
“I’m getting ready to leave.”
“Maybe you’ll come back this evening?”
“Why?”
“Come on, that’s enough. I get it.”
Larisa was fastening her watch.
“Get what, exactly?”
“That I should have talked to you first.”
“Alright.”
“I’ll handle everything with Mom myself. You won’t have to do anything.”
Larisa walked to the window.
Outside, a woman in a light-colored jacket was helping a child into a car.
“Artyom, I didn’t leave because I don’t want to shop for your mom.”
“I know.”
“You hid her move on purpose, hoping I’d feel too awkward to object once she was already at the house.”
Her husband was silent.
“That’s what you need to figure out.”
“So how long will you be staying there?”
“Until I feel like I’m coming home, not to a hotel where new tenants are settled in without me.”
“Lar…”
“I have to go.”
She ended the call.
She wasn’t irritated.
The conversation was just over.
That same day, for the first time, Artyom had a serious talk with his mother.
Without Larisa.
Without trying to push the conversation onto her.
At first, Valentina Stepanovna didn’t even grasp what he was suggesting.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“You mentioned that Zoya Mikhailovna offered you a place to stay.”
His mother shot him a sharp look.
“What does Zoya have to do with this?”
“Because she has a spare room.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”
Artyom couldn’t hold back.
“But it’s okay to inconvenience us?”
“You’re my son.”
“And?”
“Zoya is a stranger.”
“She offered herself.”
Valentina Stepanovna irritably adjusted her hair.
“Her kitchen is cramped. And her bathroom is old.”
Artyom slowly nodded.
Now everything finally made sense.
“So it’s not that you have absolutely nowhere to go.”
“Did I ever say I’d be living on the street?”
“You made it sound just like that.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Mom, look, let’s make it simple. Tomorrow I’ll take you to Zoya Mikhailovna’s.”
Valentina Stepanovna froze.
— Was this Larisa’s idea?
— No.
— Don’t lie.
— She doesn’t even know we’re talking right now.
— So, her leaving pushed you to this.
Artem sat down across from her.
— I’m the one who caused her to leave.
His mother pursed her lips…
He stopped himself, because Valentina Stepanovna just leaned back on her chair and crossed her arms.
— Wonderful. Now it’s the mother’s fault.
— I didn’t say that.
— Then what did you say?
— That I’ll drive you tomorrow.
That was the end of the conversation.
Zoya Mikhailovna really was ready to welcome her friend.
She was even surprised why she hadn’t agreed right away.
— I told you back on Thursday: the room is free, stay as long as you want, even until winter.
Valentina Stepanovna muttered something unclear about her son.
Artem silently unloaded the suitcases.
On the way back, for the first time in two days, there was silence in the car.
No requests.
No lists.
No instructions about where to go next.
He parked by the house, went inside, and stood in the hallway for a long time.
The keys that didn’t belong to him were no longer on the console.
The suitcases were gone.
There were no bags on the stairs.
The house looked just as it always had.
Only Larisa wasn’t there.
He wrote a message:
“I took Mom to Zoya Mikhailovna’s. If you want, come by this evening.”
Larisa saw the message after work.
She didn’t reply right away.
She finished her tasks, shut down her laptop, packed her things, and only then wrote:
“I’ll come.”
Artem waited for her at home.
Not by the door, not at the window.
He was sitting in the kitchen.
Larisa came in, set her bag in the entryway and walked through the first floor.
No suitcases.
No things that weren’t hers.
And Valentina Stepanovna wasn’t there either.
Artem stood up.
— She’s at her friend’s place.
— Got it.
Larisa took off her coat.
— I was wrong.
She looked at him.
He had clearly prepared an explanation, but she stopped him:
— No need for a long speech.
Artem nodded.
— Okay.
Larisa walked into the kitchen.
— Then let me say it once, briefly. If you ever decide to let someone stay here again without my consent, I’m not leaving for just a few days.
He frowned.
— What do you mean?
— Next time, it won’t be just about guests.
Artem understood.
Larisa didn’t elaborate.
And neither did he.
The next morning, Valentina Stepanovna called her son.
Artem went outside to take the call on the porch.
He came back a few minutes later.
— Mom wants her charger back. She left it by the bed.
— Take it to her.
— Already found it.
Larisa poured herself some coffee.
Artem put the charger into his jacket pocket.
— And she also said that Zoya has a really uncomfortable couch.
— It happens.
— And that the TV is really loud in the evenings.
Larisa looked at her husband.
— Why are you telling me this?
He paused for a second.
Then he smiled.
— Good point. No reason.
And he walked away.
Within a few days, life went back to normal.
Larisa worked.
Artem kept busy with his own things.
Valentina Stepanovna didn’t try to visit.
Sometimes she called her son to give updates about the handyman.
At first, he said he’d come in two weeks.
Then a spot opened up sooner.
A few days later, it turned out that most of the work could actually be finished faster than she expected.
One evening, Artem walked into the kitchen with his phone.
— Mom’s coming back home on Saturday.
Larisa looked up.
— Okay.
— The renovation is almost done.
“Great.”
He stood there for a while.
“She also said she shouldn’t have carried so many things around.”
Larisa looked at him.
“Did she just realize that now?”
Artyom laughed.
“Looks like it.”
On Saturday, they happened to run into Valentina Stepanovna at the store.
She was pushing a cart and choosing cleaning supplies.
When she spotted Larisa, she stopped for a moment.
“Well, the renovation is almost finished.”
“Good.”
“I’m even staying the night at my place today.”
“Congratulations.”
Her mother-in-law clearly expected something more.
An explanation.
Some sort of justification.
Maybe a conversation about who was really right in that situation.
Larisa grabbed a pack of sponges from the shelf and put them in the cart.
“Artyom, we still need dishwasher detergent.”
“I’ll get it now.”
They kept shopping.
At the checkout, her husband quietly asked,
“You really don’t want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Larisa glanced at him.
“Because we’ve already talked it through.”
And they never brought up that story again.
Artyom remembered it all, even without going over it again.
