“Transfer the Apartment into My Name, or We’re Getting Divorced,” Her Husband Declared, Without Knowing How His Wife Would Respond
“Transfer the apartment into my name, or we’re getting divorced,” Artyom said so calmly that he might have been asking her to pass the salt at dinner.
Marina froze with the kettle in her hand. The water had already boiled, and the lid trembled as steam escaped, but she remained standing there, unable to understand whether she had heard him correctly.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. Mom is right. As long as the apartment belongs only to you, we’re living like strangers. A family should own everything together.”
Outside the window hung a wet February evening. A cartoon murmured quietly in the next room. Five-year-old Tyomka was watching a show about cars, resting his cheek on his palm. Marina placed the kettle back on its stand, moving slowly so that her trembling hands would not betray her.
“This was my grandmother’s apartment. You know that perfectly well.”
“Your grandmother has been gone for three years. But I’m here. I’m your husband.”
She stared at him without recognizing him. The Artyom she had married six years earlier had never spoken to her in that tone. That Artyom used to bring her coffee in bed, make her laugh in the mornings, and promise that they would achieve everything together.
This man was a stranger, with tightly pressed lips and his mother’s intonation in his voice.
Her mother-in-law. Of course Tamara Leonidovna was involved.
“Let’s not discuss this now,” Marina said. “Tyomka is still awake.”
“With you, it’s always ‘not now,’” he said, rising from the table. “Think carefully. I’m serious.”
He left the kitchen, and Marina remained there alone. She poured herself some tea and wrapped both hands around the mug. Something ached inside her chest, dull and painfully familiar.
This conversation had not appeared out of nowhere. It had been developing for months like an abscess, and now it had finally burst.
It had all started the previous autumn, when Tamara Leonidovna developed the habit of visiting without warning.
She would simply ring the doorbell at ten in the morning on a weekend, when Marina had barely managed to cook porridge for her son. Her mother-in-law would enter the hallway and inspect the apartment with the sharp gaze of a property appraiser.
Then she would always say the same thing.
“You’ve settled in quite nicely here. It’s a good apartment. It just needs a real mistress.”
At first, Marina laughed it off.
Then she stopped.
“Tamara Leonidovna, perhaps you could call before coming next time? I’m not always prepared to receive guests.”
Her mother-in-law pressed her lips together in exactly the same way Artyom had the previous evening.
“I’m a guest now? I’m his mother. I come to see my son in his home. Or is this no longer his home?”
That was the entire issue.
Whose home was it?
Marina had inherited the apartment from her grandmother, Zoya. It was a two-room apartment in an old brick building on a quiet street, with high ceilings and windows overlooking linden trees.
Her grandmother had raised Marina from the age of eight, after her parents divorced and went their separate ways. The apartment was more than walls. It contained her whole life, her childhood, the smell of her grandmother’s pies, and the sound of the old clock in the hallway.
And now the daughter-in-law was supposed to give it away.
Simply transfer ownership because her mother-in-law wanted it.
The next morning, Artyom behaved as though nothing had happened. He drank coffee, scrolled through his phone, and ruffled Tyomka’s hair.
“I’ll be home late tonight. I’m going to sit in the garage with the guys.”
“What guys?” Marina asked.
“The usual ones. Am I not even allowed to see my friends anymore?”
He used to work. He had worked well as a craftsman at a furniture factory. He had golden hands and could assemble any wardrobe with his eyes closed.
But a year earlier, he had quit.
He said he was tired of breaking his back for someone else and wanted to start his own business. The business never appeared, but his salary disappeared.
Now the family lived on what Marina earned in the accounting department, along with Artyom’s occasional jobs. Sometimes he assembled someone’s kitchen cabinets. Sometimes he repaired a wardrobe.
Marina had been carrying the entire family for a long time.
Kindergarten fees, groceries, utilities, and clothes for their son—all of it rested on her shoulders.
And she remained silent.
She thought he would get over it, find himself, and become the old Artyom again.
He never did.
On Saturday, her mother-in-law came again.
This time, she was not alone. She brought a woman in a formal suit who carried a folder under her arm.
“Meet Svetlana Arkadyevna, Marinochka. She’s a lawyer and a very good friend of mine.”
Marina froze in the doorway, refusing to let them come any farther.
“Why do we need a lawyer?”
“Why do you think?” Tamara Leonidovna asked with a sugary smile. “To prepare the documents. For the apartment. So everything can be handled fairly, as a family. Artyom is your husband. By law, he’s entitled to half. But it would be better if the whole apartment belonged to him, so there wouldn’t be any disputes later.”
“I’m not signing any documents.”
Her mother-in-law’s smile vanished.
“What are you saying, Marina? Are you turning against the family? My son gave you everything—his youth, his strength—and you’re unwilling to give him an apartment?”
“What exactly has he given me?” Marina felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “He hasn’t worked for a year. He lives on my money, and now he’s demanding my apartment?”
Svetlana Arkadyevna shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.
“Tamara Leonidovna, perhaps I should come another time. This doesn’t seem convenient.”
“It’s extremely inconvenient,” Marina said sharply. “Goodbye.”
Then she closed the door.
Her heart was pounding wildly. She leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath.
On the other side of the door, her mother-in-law was saying something indignantly to the lawyer. Then the sound of high heels echoed down the staircase.
That evening, there was a scandal.
Artyom returned home furious. His mother had already called and complained to him.
“You threw the lawyer out?” he shouted, bursting into the kitchen. “You humiliated my mother in front of someone she knows!”
“Why did she bring a lawyer into my home without asking?”
“Our home!”
“My home,” Marina said firmly. “The apartment is registered in my name. It came from my grandmother. You have nothing to do with it.”
Artyom grabbed a mug from the table, and for a moment, Marina thought he was going to throw it.
Instead, he squeezed it so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“So I’m nobody, is that it? We’ve lived together for six years, had a son, and I’m still nobody?”
“I didn’t say that. You came to me with an ultimatum: transfer the apartment or we get divorced. So which one of us doesn’t value the family?”
He said nothing.
The cartoon in the next room suddenly went quiet. Tyomka was listening.
Marina lowered her voice.
“Let’s not do this in front of the child.”
“I don’t care!” Artyom slammed the mug onto the table. “Let him know what kind of mother he has! A greedy one!”
Tyomka began crying in the next room.
Marina rushed to him, lifted him into her arms, and held him close. The little boy trembled, pressing his wet face against her neck.
“Hush, hush, sweetheart. Everything is all right. Daddy is just tired.”
Artyom stood in the doorway for a moment and looked at them. Then he turned sharply and went into the bedroom.
A minute later, the door slammed.
He went to sleep without wishing his son goodnight.
Marina barely slept that night.
She lay in the dark on the living room sofa because she did not want to go into the bedroom, and she thought.
She thought about how everything had come to this.
How she had spent six years yielding, smoothing over arguments, and making excuses.
How she had ignored the fact that her mother-in-law had viewed her as an intruder from the very beginning—someone who had taken the place beside her precious son.
How Artyom had gradually become more and more like his mother: easily offended, demanding, and convinced that the world owed him something.
And now the two of them had decided to take away the last thing Marina had.
The only thing her grandmother had left her.
Near morning, she finally dozed off.
For the first time in a long while, she made a decision calmly, without tears or hesitation.
The next morning, she called her mother, Galina Petrovna. Their relationship had grown warmer over the years, and now they spoke on the phone every week.
“Mom, hello. Listen… could you come for a couple of days? Something has happened.”
“What is it, Marisha? Your voice sounds strange.”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. Not over the phone.”
“I’m coming. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Then Marina called a number she had found online during the night.
A notary’s office.
She scheduled a consultation for Monday.
Artyom spent the entire weekend walking around with a dark expression and refusing to speak.
His mother called about three times. Each time, he locked himself in the bedroom and whispered to her for a long time.
Marina did not interfere.
She took care of her son, brought him outside to play on the snow hill in the courtyard, and read him a bedtime story about a kind crocodile.
Something inside her had hardened.
A determination she had never possessed before.
Her mother arrived on Sunday evening.
She was small and gray-haired, carrying a large plaid bag that, as always, contained homemade pies, a jar of jam, and new socks for her grandson.
Tyomka squealed and threw his arms around her neck.
Artyom greeted her through clenched teeth and went back into the bedroom.
After Tyomka fell asleep, Marina told her mother everything.
From beginning to end.
She told her about Artyom quitting his job, her mother-in-law’s endless hints, the ultimatum, and the lawyer appearing at the door.
Galina Petrovna listened in silence with tightly pressed lips.
Then she shook her head.
“Oh, my dear girl. Why did you keep quiet for so long? I knew something was wrong between you.”
“I didn’t want to complain. I thought it would work itself out.”
“Things like this don’t work themselves out,” her mother sighed. “Grandmother Zoya didn’t leave you this apartment so you could give it to the first person who demanded it. She raised you within these walls. Do you remember how fiercely she protected this place? In the nineties, when there was hardly anything to eat, people offered her money to sell it and move to a village. She refused. She knew this was your corner. Your protection.”
Marina’s eyes began to sting.
“I’m going to a notary tomorrow.”
“Good. I’ll go with you.”
On Monday morning, they took Tyomka to kindergarten and went to the notary’s office.
Artyom was still asleep. These days, he slept until noon because he had nowhere to go.
The notary, a middle-aged woman with attentive eyes, listened to Marina and nodded.
“You inherited the apartment, and it was not purchased during the marriage. Is that correct?”
“Yes. My grandmother left it to me in her will.”
“Then it is your personal property. Your husband has no legal claim to it—not half, not even a quarter. It will not be divided in the event of divorce.”
Marina exhaled.
A fear had been hiding deep inside her. What if her mother-in-law was right? What if Artyom truly had some legal rights?
But he did not.
The law was on Marina’s side.
“Can he somehow challenge it? Force me?”
“He cannot force you to sign anything against your will. The only way ownership could change is if you voluntarily signed a deed of gift. My advice is simple: don’t sign anything. Especially papers someone places in front of you ‘for the sake of the family.’”
They left the office, and for the first time in weeks, Marina felt solid ground beneath her feet again.
“Thank you, Mom. For being here.”
“Where else would I be?” Galina Petrovna took her daughter’s arm. “You’re my only one.”
A surprise was waiting for them at home.
Tamara Leonidovna was sitting in the kitchen. Apparently, Artyom had given her a set of keys.
She was drinking tea from Grandmother Zoya’s cup, and the sight made Marina feel sick.
“Finally,” Tamara Leonidovna said, setting down the cup. “Where have you been wandering around? Artyom said you rushed out early this morning.”
“That’s none of your business,” Marina said, removing her coat. “And give me the keys. I never gave you permission to enter this apartment while I’m away.”
“You’ve become very rude.” Her mother-in-law turned toward Galina Petrovna. “And this must be your mother. How did you raise your daughter so badly that she has no respect for her husband’s family?”
Galina Petrovna calmly removed her raincoat and hung it on a hook.
“I raised my daughter not to let people mistreat her. And judging by what I see, my efforts were not wasted.”
Her mother-in-law nearly choked.
“How dare you? Artyom! Artyom, come here!”
A sleepy Artyom emerged from the bedroom wearing a wrinkled T-shirt.
“Why are you shouting?”
“Your wife and her mother have conspired against us!” Tamara Leonidovna jumped to her feet. “They don’t want to give you the apartment! I told you she doesn’t love you. She only cares about grabbing everything for herself!”
Artyom looked at Marina with a heavy expression.
“Where were you?”
“At the notary’s office,” Marina replied evenly. “I confirmed that this apartment is my personal property. Neither you nor your mother has any legal right to it. Not now, and not if we divorce.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Tyomka was not there. He was at kindergarten, thank goodness.
“So you ran to a notary,” Artyom said slowly. “Behind my back.”
“You brought a lawyer here behind mine. That makes us even.”
“I was trying to protect the family!”
“What family?” Marina finally released everything that had accumulated inside her for months. “Where is this family? You haven’t worked for a year. Everything is on me—the child, the home, the money. I spend every bit of strength I have making sure Tyomka lacks nothing, while you and your mother think only about how to take my apartment away. Is that your idea of a family?”
“Don’t you dare speak to my son like that!” her mother-in-law shrieked.
“And you should keep quiet!” Marina turned toward her.
There was so much strength in her voice that Tamara Leonidovna fell silent.
“You started all of this. You have tormented me since the first day. The hints, the criticism, the uninvited visits. It isn’t enough that your son lives at my expense. Now you want my apartment too. Well, you will not get it. Ever.”
“Artyom!” his mother grabbed him by the sleeve. “Do you hear how she speaks to your mother? Leave her! Divorce her! You’ll find a decent woman who appreciates you!”
Then something happened that Marina had not expected.
“You know what, Mom?” Artyom slowly pulled his arm free. “Be quiet.”
Tamara Leonidovna blinked.
“What?”
“I said be quiet.” Artyom sat down on a stool and rubbed his face with his hand. “She’s right. I haven’t worked for a year. I sit here like… like a dependent. And you’ve been filling my head with this nonsense: make her transfer the apartment, she owes you, she doesn’t love you. Why should she love me when I don’t lift a finger?”
Marina stared at her husband, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“Artyom, what are you saying?” his mother asked in confusion. “I only want what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for me?” He gave a bitter laugh. “You’ve wanted what’s best for me since I was a child. At one job, you decided people were mistreating me, so you called my boss. You didn’t approve of another woman I dated, so you drove away my first love. Now it’s the apartment. And I’m the fool who listens to you and destroys his own life.”
The kitchen became very quiet.
Galina Petrovna moved silently toward the window and did not interfere.
“I’ll get a job tomorrow,” Artyom said, staring at the floor. “Seryoga invited me to work at the factory as a supervisor. He’s been asking me for a long time. I kept refusing because I was too proud. But what do I have to be proud of? Nothing.”
“Artyom…” Marina did not know what to say.
“I’m sorry.” He looked up at her, and there was no anger in his eyes now.
Only shame.
“I really was an idiot. And the apartment… I don’t need it. I’m sorry things went this far.”
Tamara Leonidovna stood in the middle of the kitchen, pale and tight-lipped.
Then she grabbed her handbag.
“Fine. Do whatever you want. But don’t come to me for help later!”
“We won’t,” Marina said calmly. “Leave the keys on the cabinet.”
Her mother-in-law threw down the keys, turned around, and stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the windows shook.
Artyom remained seated with his shoulders slumped.
Galina Petrovna quietly put the kettle on and took out the pies.
“Well, you must all be hungry,” she said casually, as though a storm had not just passed through the kitchen. “Sit down and eat. It’s easier to think on a full stomach.”
They sat at the table in silence.
Marina looked at her husband and did not know what to feel.
Her resentment had accumulated for too long and settled too deeply. One conversation could not wash it away.
“I’m not promising that everything will immediately return to normal,” she said at last. “Too much has happened.”
“I know,” Artyom nodded. “I’m not asking for everything at once. Just… give me a chance to fix it. For real.”
“A chance is not words. It’s actions. Get a job, and then we’ll talk.”
“I will. Tomorrow.”
Galina Petrovna poured the tea, and for the first time in a long while, the kitchen felt almost warm.
Artyom kept his word.
The next day, he went to see Seryoga, and a week later, he started his first shift at the factory.
He came home tired, but somehow different—calm, organized, more like the man he used to be.
In the evenings, he played with Tyomka, repaired things around the apartment that had been broken for months, went grocery shopping without being reminded, and took responsibility for the household.
Tamara Leonidovna was deeply offended.
She did not call for a month.
Eventually, she called because she missed her grandson.
Artyom spoke firmly to her over the phone.
“You can come over, Mom. But if you start talking about the apartment again or insult Marina, I won’t let you through the door anymore. She’s my wife. And this is my home. Her home.”
Strangely enough, his mother calmed down.
Perhaps she realized she had gone too far. Perhaps she was afraid of losing her son completely.
She began visiting less often and behaved more quietly.
Sometimes, she even complimented Marina’s cooking. She did it through clenched teeth, but it was still a compliment.
Galina Petrovna stayed for another couple of weeks. She helped with Tyomka, completed countless household tasks, and then returned home after making her daughter promise to call more often.
“You did well, Marisha,” she said at the door, hugging her daughter goodbye. “You weren’t afraid to defend what was yours. Grandmother Zoya would have been proud.”
Six months passed.
On a warm September evening, the three of them sat together in the kitchen—Marina, Artyom, and Tyomka.
Outside the window, the linden trees rustled. Years earlier, Grandmother Zoya had hung bird feeders among their branches.
Tyomka was describing how his kindergarten teacher had praised his drawing. He waved his spoon so enthusiastically that jam flew across the table.
Marina looked at her son, her husband, and the old clock in the hallway, which continued measuring time just as it always had.
She thought about how fortunate it was that she had stood firm that day.
She had not surrendered the apartment.
She had not been afraid of being left alone.
Sometimes, to save a family, you must first stop being afraid of losing it.
You must stop giving in when surrender is impossible.
Then, if there is something genuine left inside a person, they will hear you.
They will wake up.
They will come back.
And if they do not—well, at least you will still have your home.
Your walls.
Your foundation.
Your grandmother’s apartment with windows overlooking the linden trees.
The place from which no one will ever throw you out.
“Mom, can I have another pie?” Tyomka asked, staring at her with wide, round eyes.
“You can, sweetheart. You can have anything.”
Artyom smiled, reached across the table, and covered her hand with his.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For not giving up. And for giving me another chance.”
Marina said nothing.
She only squeezed his hand in return.
Outside, the sunset slowly faded. Birds chirped among the linden trees, and for the first time in a very, very long while, Marina felt completely at peace.
