“This Is My Apartment, and Neither Your Brother nor His Pregnant Olga Will Be Staying Here Anymore—Find Them Somewhere Else to Live Yourself if You Care About Them So Much!”
“This is my apartment, and neither your brother nor his pregnant Olga will be staying here anymore. Find them somewhere else to live by yourself if you care about them so much!”
“I don’t understand, Vika. What’s the problem? Are you really that unwilling to help?” Dmitry followed her around the kitchen, awkwardly weaving between a stool and the drying rack covered with laundry. “They’ll only be there for a month at most! Just until they finish dealing with the renovations at their place.”
Victoria remained silent. Not because she had nothing to say. Quite the opposite—there was far too much. She was simply tired of repeating herself. More than that, she was exhausted by her husband’s stubborn, unshakable calm, which somehow always placed him on everyone else’s side but hers.
“You don’t understand,” she finally said, tearing her gaze away from the window, where a dreary May drizzle trickled down the glass. “It is my apartment. My parents left it to me—not to us, not to your Ilya and Olga. To me. And I don’t want anyone grilling meat on the balcony or smoking in the bedroom.”
“Here you go again…” Dmitry sighed. “They’re adults. They’ll understand. I’ll talk to them.”
“Right. You already talked to Ilya when he lived with us in our two-room apartment after his divorce. Remember how well he ‘talked’ to the local police officer after the neighbors called the police because of his late-night visitors and drunken friends?”
Silence hung between them like dampness in a bathroom after a shower. Dmitry could not think of anything to say.
Victoria worked as a general practitioner at a district clinic. She spent the mornings working a full shift and then went out on house calls. By the end of the day, she was exhausted beyond words. Her parents’ three-room apartment on a quiet, chestnut-lined street was her refuge.
It still smelled of her mother’s lavender sachets. Everything there remained under her control: dust was wiped away on time, the windows were cleaned once a month, and even the cat she had rescued from the street knew that putting its paws on the kitchen table was strictly forbidden.
Now Dmitry’s relatives were preparing to invade that refuge—his brother Ilya and his “new woman,” Olga, whom he had been dragging from one temporary apartment to another for nearly five years, unable to save enough money even for a tiny one-room place.
Ilya had a special talent: he always managed to live at someone else’s expense. He also knew exactly whose ears to fill with excuses—especially Dmitry’s. Since childhood, Dmitry had been taught that family was sacred, brothers always stood together, and you never abandoned your own.
Victoria had nothing against helping “your own.”
She had a problem with shameless freeloaders.
Two days later, Victoria stood outside the apartment on Myasnitskaya Street, inspecting the locks. She had not been there for a long time—not since her father’s funeral, when she had decided not to rent it out. She wanted to keep it as an emergency refuge in case of divorce or simply as somewhere to go if life became unbearable.
Now it seemed she might need it sooner than expected.
Without waiting for Victoria’s consent, Dmitry had given Ilya the keys.
“Come on, Vika. The place is empty anyway, and they need somewhere to stay until the end of the month!”
The neighbors began calling the very next day.
“Victoria Sergeyevna, did you turn the apartment into a hostel?” one of them asked. “Our elevator was broken for an entire week, and your guests have already carried beer up from Pyaterochka five times. There was noise last night—music, swearing. Apparently, Ilya decided to celebrate his housewarming!”
“Why are you getting so worked up?” Ilya greeted her wearing a stained undershirt and holding a beer, an insolent grin spread across his face. “You don’t mind, do you? We’re being careful. We haven’t broken anything, so relax.”
Olga was lying on the sofa in Victoria’s mother’s room, drying the polish on her toenails. A television series blared loudly, and several pairs of unfamiliar sneakers stood on the hallway floor—clearly belonging to neither Ilya nor Olga.
The apartment smelled of cigarettes, shawarma, and dirty shoes.
Victoria stared at everything as though she had wandered into someone else’s dream—a senseless, sticky nightmare.
She remembered her father, who had been so meticulous that even a splinter out of place would bother him. She remembered her mother, who ironed the bed linen even when it was intended for guests.
They would never have survived seeing this.
“Pack your things,” Victoria said calmly. “You have forty-eight hours. After that, I’m changing the locks.”
Ilya snorted.
“Are you serious? Vika, you’ve lost your mind. We’re practically family.”
“You are nobody to me. You haven’t been for a long time. You have forty-eight hours.”
“You’re going too far,” Dmitry told her that evening. “You made a scene as if they had burned the apartment down. What kind of person are you?”
“Me?” Victoria stared at him as though he were a stranger. “I’m a person who wants to live in peace and cleanliness—not in the pigsty your relatives create wherever they go.”
He said nothing.
The next day, the police called again. The neighbors had filed another complaint against Ilya because of the noise, loud music, and drunken visitors.
Victoria arrived before anyone else.
“This is my apartment,” she told the young police sergeant. “And I am formally stating that these people are living here without my permission.”
“Do you have the ownership documents?” he asked, seemingly unsurprised. It was probably not the first time he had dealt with a situation like this.
“Yes. And I will submit a written statement as well.”
By evening, Victoria stood alone in the empty apartment. The scent of Olga’s perfume still lingered in the air like a mocking reminder.
She opened the windows, took out a mop and rubber gloves, and began cleaning.
Every movement felt like an exhale. Like one final, irrevocable no.
She was not merely angry.
She was resolute.
For the first time in a very long while.
“I’m taking my home back,” she said aloud. “My territory. My life.”
As for her husband, he could decide for himself whose side he was on.
“Well, Vika, you certainly went into full combat mode,” her friend Lena said with a grin when Victoria finally arrived for her shift. “You put your husband in his place, threw the relatives out, and cleaned up the apartment. I’m proud of you, honestly. Although something tells me this isn’t over.”
“I feel the same way,” Victoria muttered grimly, taking a sip of cold tea from her travel mug. “Dmitry hasn’t said anything for three days. He walks around as though he’s crossing a minefield. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t even openly sulk. The air around him has simply become thick and heavy, as if he’s saying, ‘You decided everything yourself, so now live with it.’”
“Were you supposed to consult him?” Lena tilted her head. “It is your apartment. The only people you should consult are a lawyer or the local police officer.”
The silence at home had indeed become deafening.
Dmitry came home late, ate without speaking, watched television with the sound turned off, and slept on the sofa.
He did not yell, argue, or slam doors.
He was simply there, like a large and sorrowful piece of furniture.
It infuriated Victoria.
“Are you ever going to say anything?” she finally snapped one evening when he once again sat down to eat without looking at her.
“What is there to say?” He shrugged, tore off a piece of bread, and dipped it into his borscht. “Everything is already obvious. I’m nobody to you. My family is nobody to you. You decided everything yourself.”
“I made the decision because otherwise all of you would have crushed me. Because you are incapable of saying one firm word to your precious relatives. Because in your system of values, my boundaries mean absolutely nothing.”
“You didn’t have any boundaries until you got a taste of power. The moment you got your hands on that apartment, you put on a crown.”
“Thank you, Dima. That explains a great deal.”
That weekend, he went to Ilya’s place.
“We need to talk man-to-man,” he said, packing a backpack. “I can’t be treated like a rat in my own home.”
“Of course not,” Victoria replied with a bitter smile. “And what am I? A toad sitting on a chest of gold?”
He did not answer.
He left, slamming the door behind him.
That evening, Victoria received a call from a neighbor on Myasnitskaya Street.
“Victoria Sergeyevna, did anyone ask you for the keys today?”
“No. Why?”
“Your husband came here with that brother of his. They tried to get inside the apartment. The door was locked, and they wandered around the landing, arguing. I heard them from my balcony. Then they left. But I think he… I think he is trying to take revenge on you.”
Victoria sat in her car outside the building for a long time before gathering the courage to go upstairs.
She tested the key in the lock twice.
Everything was exactly as she had left it.
Except for one thing.
A note was lying on the doormat.
I never thought you were this kind of person. Traitor. You’ll end up alone in this cage.
There was no signature, but Victoria knew Dmitry’s handwriting with her eyes closed.
“You don’t understand,” she told Lena at work on Monday, pouring out the entire story. “He isn’t cruel. It is simply as though he doesn’t see me. To him, I’m a function. Cooking, cleanliness, healthcare, support. But the moment I said, ‘Enough,’ he reacted as though I had become a threat.”
“Have you ever considered that this is how he was raised his entire life?” Lena asked. “That to him, ‘family’ means staying silent and enduring everything?”
“And that means I’m supposed to remain silent and endure his family?”
“No, Vika. It’s just that perhaps he is incapable of standing up for you. Not because he is evil, but because he can’t. He has no backbone.”
By evening, Victoria had made her decision.
She went to the government services office, submitted an application concerning the lock replacement, and formally documented the apartment’s status under her ownership.
It was largely procedural, but she knew that steps like these taught people to respect boundaries—especially those who did not understand boundaries at all.
Three days later, Dmitry returned.
“The key doesn’t work,” he said from the doorway. “Did you change the locks?”
“I did not dare to do anything improper. I am the owner, and I acted according to the law—not according to emotion.”
“So now you’re using the law against all of us?”
“I’m standing up for myself, Dima. I no longer want to be a target in my own life.”
He stood there, not knowing what to do with his hands.
“They’re still family,” he said dully. “And you… you betrayed all of us. You sold us out.”
Victoria laughed. Dryly, loudly, almost hoarsely.
“You know who sells people out? Those who trade their own mother’s memory for some man and a serving of shawarma. I am simply saving whatever remains of normal life.”
He turned around without saying another word and left.
Late that evening, Victoria switched on the phone that had spent the entire day in airplane mode.
There were dozens of messages.
Not one was from Dmitry.
Three were from Ilya.
Every one of them contained threats.
You’ve taken this too far. We’ll see who has the last laugh.
“Funny,” Victoria whispered. “I’m not afraid anymore.”
That night, she slept in the apartment on Myasnitskaya Street.
Alone.
And peacefully, for the first time in a very long while.
Victoria woke early the following morning.
Cold light filtered through the blinds, and a ringing silence filled the apartment—the kind of silence that frightened you at first and then became a form of salvation.
No snoring. No clicking light switches. No grumbling from the kitchen.
“Where did you hide the butter this time?”
Nothing.
Victoria put on a robe, made strong coffee, and sat by the window.
Her phone was still on silent.
Let it stay that way.
A call came during the day from an unfamiliar number. She did not want to answer, but the instincts of a doctor took over.
“Is this Victoria Sergeyevna?” a stern male voice asked.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Senior Lieutenant Kulakov. Your address has been mentioned in a complaint concerning the unlawful obstruction of access to a residential property. You need to come to the police station. Preferably today.”
At the station, they treated her politely but coldly.
The complaint had been filed by Ilya.
He claimed that he had been living in the apartment legally and that some of his possessions remained inside. He had attached a fraudulent rental agreement bearing a forged version of Dmitry’s signature, as well as a document claiming that he had personally paid for renovation work in the apartment.
“Have all of them lost their minds?” Victoria sat in front of the officer as though perched on top of a volcano. “This is my property. I inherited it. None of them are registered there. This is a circus!”
“We’ll verify everything. Don’t worry,” the lieutenant replied calmly. “But you understand that there will be an investigation. Your husband will be questioned as well. He is named in the complaint as an accomplice.”
That evening, Victoria returned to the government services office.
She already had a draft statement of claim prepared for the protection of her property rights.
She filled in every section, signed it, and submitted it.
Her fingers did not tremble.
Everything had become clear.
They had chosen total war, and she needed to be prepared.
Dmitry came to see her himself.
“Why did you file a lawsuit?” His face looked exhausted, but his eyes were aggressive.
“Because you left me no alternative. Because all of you decided that I was furniture. Or an ATM. Or a public passageway anyone could use.”
“I wanted us to reach an agreement. I wanted to explain that Olga is pregnant. They have nowhere to live. We could have found some temporary arrangement.”
“No, Dima. Stop right there.” She raised her hand like a barrier. “Pregnancy, hunger, or even war does not give anyone the right to force their way into my apartment. Because I am not ‘we.’ And I will no longer allow you or anyone else to hide behind me.”
He lowered his eyes.
Then he suddenly flared up.
“What if I file for the division of marital property? You’re my wife! Half of the apartment belongs to me!”
“Go ahead,” Victoria said calmly. “Considering that I inherited the apartment before our marriage and it is registered solely in my name, your chances are about as good as a slipper marching in a military parade.”
He let out an angry breath, but he understood.
He had lost.
Not merely an argument, but the battle for control.
A week later, a letter arrived stating that Ilya had withdrawn his claims.
Someone had probably explained to him that courts were stubborn institutions and that filing false police complaints was far more serious than settling matters according to his own street rules.
Dmitry packed his belongings.
Silently.
Without arguments.
Victoria did not interfere. Before he left, she handed him a plastic container filled with neatly folded shirts.
“These are yours. Perhaps being clean will come in useful somewhere.”
He nodded.
At the doorway, he paused.
“You know,” he said suddenly, “I thought you were simply angry. But it turns out you’re… strong.”
“No, Dima,” she answered with a smile. “I’m simply no longer weak.”
A month later, she sat in the public services office, arranging her will.
The apartment would pass to her niece—a quiet university student and the daughter of Victoria’s late brother.
There was no dramatic gesture.
No relatives clinging to her while endlessly repeating that family was sacred.
Everything was legal.
Everything was humane.
“How does it feel?” Lena asked when they went for coffee afterward.
“As though I’ve finally escaped from a cramped elevator that smelled of someone else’s dirty socks,” Victoria said with a snort. “At last, I can breathe.”
That evening, she removed the chain holding the keys to the apartment on Myasnitskaya Street and hung it on a nail beside the door.
The home was no longer a trap.
It had become a fortress.
And she was its only owner.
