Are you out of your mind?” Victor exclaimed, dropping his fork into the macaroni-filled plate. “Dragging us into that… wreck?!”
“This is not a wreck. It’s my grandfather’s apartment, and I won’t sell it. End of discussion,” Margarita said as she stood by the window, wiping away the thick layer of dust on the windowsill that seemed to be as old as the Khrushchyovka building itself.
The scent of age, peeling paint, and an old gas water heater that required both a prayer and a shove to ignite. Everything appeared terrible yet familiar. Here, her grandfather used to play dominoes with her; there, she and her grandmother peeled potatoes; and over there… once lived bright, lively years.
“End of discussion,” Victor mocked, rising from the table. “Can you even hear yourself? We could have sold this place and purchased a two-bedroom apartment in a new building — the mortgage would cover it. There’d even be room for a car if we got a discount. Living normally, like decent people, not surrounded by this… archaeological junk.”
“Victor, I didn’t ask you to come here. You can choose not to be involved,” she responded quietly, though her voice betrayed a slight tremor. “I’ll manage everything on my own.”
“Sure. You’ll pay for the repairs, haul construction materials, and live on a dusty mattress with cockroaches… Rita, you’re not twenty anymore. Have you lost your mind?”
“Thanks for the support,” she smiled bitterly and wiped her hands on her old t-shirt. “Listen, either help or don’t interfere. But make up your mind already, okay? We’re not standing in a grocery line.”
Victor scoffed, grabbed his jacket, and slammed the door behind him without a goodbye or a promise to return that evening. The sudden silence was surprising yet made breathing feel lighter.
Everything began a month earlier when her grandfather passed away. Margarita had always felt close to him—not by blood, but more so than with anyone else. Even conversations with her mother never matched those with him. He once quietly told her, almost whispering:
“Remember, Rita: never lease out your territory — neither in life nor in soul.”
At first, she didn’t understand his message. Now, standing in that “territory,” she realized it was about more than just the apartment.
At the funeral, her mother-in-law, Antonina Petrovna, hugged her tightly as if trying to extract information about the inheritance with the embrace.
“Stay strong, dear. But don’t burn out with that renovation. You’re already forty-six, not a young girl anymore.”
Thanks for reminding her age, mother-in-law—heartwarming as always.
Later, in the kitchen, Antonina Petrovna took a slow tone as she stirred a teaspoon in her teacup.
“You and Vitya should think this over. This apartment suits him perfectly. You know, a man’s property. You’re a woman; the last name isn’t your grandfather’s, and it’s more convenient if it’s registered under Victor.”
“Great,” Margarita replied, sipping her tea. “Everything fits so neatly in your mind, Antonina Petrovna.”
“I’m just suggesting it. You mentioned his mortgage wasn’t successful. And you’re buried in debts… Just think of the family.”
For them, “family” meant Victor with his mother. Margarita was merely a burden to their “investment ideas.”
Choosing a different path, Margarita applied for her inheritance rights, took a small loan for cosmetic repairs, and buried herself in bathroom fixture catalogs where even a toilet cost the price of a Boeing wing. She worked around the clock at the pharmacy, taking night shifts. Meanwhile, Victor said:
“I don’t understand why you work like a horse,” he said from the couch. “We’ll sell it eventually anyway. You’re just wasting time. Fatigue is fast-forwarded aging.”
“Idleness is decay while alive,” she shot back, throwing paint receipts on the table.
He didn’t laugh; in fact, he hadn’t laughed for a long time—even when she accidentally wore her jeans inside out to work. He only buried himself in his phone, scrolling through news, bets, or funny videos. Not interested in her.
In the third week of renovation, she tumbled down the stairs carrying drywall.
Sprawled on the floor like discarded furniture, phone far away, door banging in the draft, her back aching into her leg, she suddenly burst into tears. Not from pain, but from fury, helplessness, and loneliness.
“Alone, like a fool, on this damn construction site of life,” she muttered. “And I could have been with someone who…”
Then she remembered him.
Sashka. Her first love at university. The one who drew her notes and brewed Turkish coffee. The one she left because “Vitya is more serious.” Then she found that “serious” man—with loans, empty eyes, and a mother-in-law treating her like rolling real estate.
“Did I set up a good life for myself, didn’t I, Rita?” she spoke aloud and laughed.
A laugh clenched between teeth. That of a weary woman whose tasks fall from hands but still resolutely pastes wallpaper.
Two days later, Victor came back—without apologies.
“You made quite a circus. Screaming all over the building. The neighbor called, thought you had a stroke.”
“And I thought I had a husband,” she retorted wearily without turning around. “Both of us wrong.”
“Alright, enough. You know I worry about you. Just tired… All this renovation noise.”
“Yeah. Especially exhausting—pressing the remote and flipping channels. That’s why people spend years in sanatoriums.”
He was silent. Then sighed, sat on the windowsill, and said:
“How about… maybe we move my mother in here? You’re at work anyway, and she needs a place after her surgery. Can’t have her in our two-room with us.”
Margarita turned sharply, as if he had spit in her face.
“Are you serious?”
“What’s wrong with that? You won’t be here often, and she’ll look after the apartment. Everything will be in order.”
“You call that care?” her voice turned icy. “You want me to renovate, work hard, go into debt, and then hand it over to your mother?”
“Not everything. We’re family, Rita.”
“Family is those who stand by you when you’re in a cast, not just in wagers. Those who say ‘well done,’ not ‘why did you start this.’ Those who hold you up, not drown you.”
She slowly took off her gloves and wiped her hands.
“I’m changing the locks tomorrow.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Vitya. Or as you say? End of discussion.”
“Oh, playing hardball, are we? Changing locks, kicking out the husband… Turns out you’re tougher than the investigative committee,” Antonina Petrovna snorted sarcastically, wrapped in a scarf, standing in the doorway with a bag in hand.
“Is this some villain audition?” Margarita crossed her arms. “Or just passing by and decided to check if nobody’s expecting you?”
“I’m your husband’s mother. And you, by the way, live in his apartment!”
“Wait a moment…” Margarita reached into her bag like a prosecutor. “This is the inheritance certificate, and this is the registration. Everything is registered in my name. Victor is nobody here. He hasn’t even lived here in socks for a while.”
“You’re such a snake,” her mother-in-law hissed. “We used to seat you at the table, give you salad—properly.”
“And now you’re dividing the apartment behind my back. All very ‘proper,’ huh? Leave, Antonina Petrovna. This is not an inn for elderly schemers.”
That same evening, Victor called. His voice buttery, tinged with offense:
“What did you do? Mom was standing outside like an orphan. She couldn’t even use the restroom; we had to go to the mall…”
“Did it occur to you that people don’t break into someone else’s apartment uninvited?”
“It’s not someone else’s, it’s family!”
“We’re no longer family, Vitya. Not even a partnership. We’re two separate planets. I’m Mars; you’re Mercury. Your head is too hot.”
“You’ve gone too far. While you’re at work, she would’ve kept things in order. And now…”
“Now both of you are without a rear, and honestly, I feel lighter,” her voice remained calm—surprisingly so.
Inside, a storm brewed, for this conversation meant only one thing: They won’t leave quietly. The apartment is as essential to them as air, especially now that Rita fixed it up.
Two days later, Antonina Petrovna lingered near the entrance, sitting like a monument, “Woman with a Bag.” She petted a neighbor’s cat, gazing out the window.
“Hi, Rita,” she smiled as if yesterday she hadn’t sought to take over the apartment. “Maybe you acted too hastily. Life’s hard for all of us. We’re family.”
“I’ve separated my family from you already,” Margarita answered without looking. “Now my family is just me and my microwave.”
“Sounds like you lost your mind.”
“Yeah. Freedom plays tricks on the brain, you know.”
“Think about it. Mom really struggles. Where would she go? After surgery, she needs peace…”
“Am I supposed to send her to a sanatorium? A 24/7 mercy ward?”
“Rita…” her voice softened suddenly. “We can go to court. Victor is your husband. Everything is shared. We’ll divide even if you don’t want to.”
The chill hit Rita like a frozen wave. Court, division, nerves, documents, lawyers, money… Could she handle it all alone? Would she again work sleepless nights to defend her rights?
But from deep inside, beneath her ribs, came her grandfather’s voice:
“Your territory. Never give it up.”
She went to a lawyer’s office—a young man in a checked jacket with a perpetually surprised expression.
“Inheritance is your property, not marital joint property. Victor has no rights to it.”
“What if he sues, claiming the renovation was done during marriage?”
“Then he must prove he contributed money or labor. Receipts, transfers, photos. Do you have any?”
“Only if you can putty sofas,” she smiled. “He didn’t give a single penny.”
“Exactly. No worries. Just don’t register anyone else there or let him bring in belongings. Otherwise, you’ll end up involving the police to remove them.”
“Already done. Together with the husband,” she said calmly.
Yet, Victor refused to give up easily.
He called neighbors, claiming Rita kicked him out and he lived in a rental, asserting his rights. One neighbor stopped Margarita at the entrance:
- “Rita, what are you doing? Throwing your husband out? He’s suffering! We saw him yesterday at the shawarma stand with sad eyes…”
“He always looks that way when not playing ‘Tanks Online,’” she scoffed. “How much did he pay you for sympathy?”
“Don’t be mad. I just wanted to talk. After all, husband and wife…”
“A husband is when you’re not alone carrying bags in Leroy. He’s just someone we once shared plates with.”
One day, she realized it was truly over with this “family.”
In the morning, waking up, she noticed someone fiddling with the lock, inserting a key.
Victor. Or his mother. Doesn’t matter. It was an attempt at seizure without words or agreements, only entitlement and audacity.
At that moment, Margarita sat down and filed for divorce.
No drama. Just calm. First coffee, then paperwork. Like a mature, tired woman no longer willing to carry others’ “plans” in bags full of potatoes.
That evening he came with a sorrowful face, lips trembling but cold, calculating eyes.
“Do you really want to destroy everything?”
“I’m not destroying, I’m just leaving the ruins.”
“But you… you weren’t like this before. Where is the Rita who dreamed of a home?”
“She’s stuck in the hallway where her husband hid the apartment behind his mother’s back.”
He fell silent, then nodded and left. This time, no slamming door.
The next day, Margarita bought a beautiful, heavy, expensive vase. Set it in the kitchen corner, even put flowers in it—simply because she could, and no one could ask, “Why spend money?”
Outside, lilacs blossomed.
For the first time in a long while, she felt no anxiety, knowing it would soon end—once and for all.
“This is my home, and I will not let your family destroy it,” Olga said, closing the door behind her.
Conclusion: Margarita’s journey captures the resilience required to protect one’s heritage against selfish claims. Despite hardship and betrayal, her unwavering determination to preserve her grandfather’s apartment showcases the strength in standing for what is rightfully hers. In the face of familial pressure and legal battles, she chooses self-respect and independence, proving that safeguarding one’s own space and peace is a profound act of courage.