Maria had always shied away from extravagant weddings, yet it was at one such event—with a drunken DJ and a three-tiered fuchsia fondant cake—that she encountered Sergey. Leaning quietly at the bar, stirring his whiskey with a straw and appearing utterly lost, Sergey caught Maria’s weary attention amidst the dancing and chatter.
She approached him and asked, almost teasingly, if he was a relative of the bride or just there for whiskey. Sergey’s smile was faint, as though he had long lost his own desires, decisions, and even the authenticity of the smile itself, all seemingly following a set script.
“I’m a relative of the groom,” he replied. “And you?”
“A friend of the bride. Guilty parties, we can reconcile,” Maria smiled.
Within six months, they were cohabiting, and after just three more, Sergey proposed. His offer was unpretentious—amidst crumpled shopping bags from a local store and the aroma of fried chicken in their small entryway, he simply knelt and asked, “Let’s get married, yeah?”
Maria thought the moment was surprisingly calm—without butterflies or dramatic flair. But after her painful breakup with Pasha, who left her for a fitness instructor in Bali, this quiet felt like a luxury.
Their wedding was intimate. Maria’s parents had passed away—her father years earlier, and her mother only a year prior, who had left her a modest two-room apartment on Vernadsky Avenue. Bright and spacious, filled with childhood memories, the smells of borscht, and faint traces of her father’s long-ago cigarettes. Sergey moved in immediately after their registration.
However, not everyone welcomed Sergey’s arrival.
Irina Viktorovna, her mother-in-law, was the sole objector. Referred to later by Maria’s friend as the “Gestapo in stiletto heels,” her presence was daunting.
Their initial encounter came abruptly on a Saturday morning at eight. Irina rang the doorbell with such insistence it seemed she might break in. Sleepy Maria opened the door, pancake in mouth, instantly regretting it.
“Here I am!” Irina announced joyfully, the heavy scent of her perfume thick in the hallway.
“Are you here to see us?” Maria asked cautiously.
“So, you must be Maria,” Irina said, scrutinizing her with a sharp glance. “You look different in the photos.”
Maria felt like a contestant on a harsh fashion makeover show—except here, the stylist was a threatening mother-in-law and she was the accused.
Sergey appeared from the bedroom, startled and bewildered. “Mom, why are you here so early?”
“I think clearer in the mornings,” Irina replied. “I checked the apartment. Sergey, it’s a hot market! You could sell it profitably now!”
Maria nearly dropped her pancake. “Excuse me?!”
“I’m just helping around the house. I figure we can sell this place and buy a three-room flat in Korolyov. The schools there are better for kids. You’ll want kids, won’t you?”
Maria tried to remain calm, asserting, “Actually, I thought this apartment was mine.”
“Well, now you’re family. Everything is shared. That’s always been our tradition. The husband leads, the wife supports.”
Maria laughed bitterly. “A supporter in the property division? Excuse me.” She escaped to the bathroom, resisting the urge to throw her pancake at Irina.
Sergey insisted later that his mother was joking, testing them all. “You’ll see, you’ll become friends.”
Friends they became—like a cat and a vacuum cleaner. Maria hissed continuously while Irina buzzed relentlessly.
Irina’s unannounced weekly visits soon began. She wielded the spare key Sergey had foolishly handed over, entered with freely removed shoes, and inspected the refrigerator.
- “Why did you buy this salmon again? Do you know how expensive that is?”
- “Sergey needs to pay the mortgage, you know,” she scolded.
“What mortgage?” Maria smoked defiantly.
“Well, maybe soon. You can’t expect to live in someone else’s apartment until retirement.”
“Someone else’s? I own this place. I have the papers.”
“For now.”
That evening, tension exploded between Maria and Sergey.
“Are you serious? You gave her a key without my consent?” she fumed, standing barefoot in a shirt that read ‘While you sleep, I’m already angry.’
“You said we were family… I thought…”
“Have you ever tried thinking for yourself and not just following your mother’s script?!”
He went silent, retreating to the sofa; the next morning he brewed coffee as if nothing had happened. Maria decided not to argue, choosing to endure, having fallen for him for real despite everything.
Yet Irina didn’t relent. A few weeks later, Maria noticed important documents missing from her desk: property ownership certificate, BTI certificate, even a copy of her mother’s will. Sergey pretended ignorance.
“Maybe you misplaced them? Your place is always messy.”
“Messy? So now your mother is a thief?” Maria’s eyes blazed.
“You’re overreacting. Mom is experienced; she wouldn’t do something like that.”
“True, she wouldn’t. But you sure would help.”
Maria then installed a lock on her room door and began her own investigation. Taking leave, she visited the MFC office and obtained a Rosreestr extract; all property was still under her name. But where were the documents?
The answer came late Friday evening. Coming home with shopping bags, Maria encountered a woman in a bright orange blazer carrying a folder.
“Are you Maria?” the woman asked.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m from Domovoy+ agency, here to view the apartment. Your husband and his mother said you agreed to everything…”
Maria let her bags drop, oranges rolling down the stairs. She laughed nervously and loudly, startling the visitor.
“Tell your agency the next meeting will be at the police. And they better wear helmets. I’m in the mood.”
She ascended to her floor, realizing this was no longer a game—this was a declaration of war.
Maria spent almost no sleep that night, pacing her apartment like a caged lion. The kitchen revealed signs of her restless evening: half-drunk tea, apple cores, burnt eggs—a frustrated attempt to eat culminated in her dramatically dumping the pan into the sink and yelling loud enough for neighbors to hear both above and below.
Sergey returned close to midnight, feigning casualness.
“You’re noisy,” he muttered while removing shoes. “The neighbors will complain again.”
Maria stood firm at the kitchen door, eyes aflame, cheeks flushed—not with embarrassment, but with fury and indignation.
“Who was that woman?” she asked softly.
“What woman?”
“The real estate agent. The redhead with the purple folder. She said she was viewing my apartment.”
Sergey faltered, went to the bathroom to splash water on his face, then returned as if rehearsed for a performance.
“Maria, you misunderstood… It was just a consultation. Mom wanted to know how much properties cost here. Just in case…”
“Just in case?” she shrieked. “Are you going to put me in debt for ‘just in case’? Or take me straight to the madhouse?”
“Don’t get upset… We’re family. We have to plan our future. We have nothing of our own. You have your apartment, I’m with you. Isn’t that normal?”
Maria crossed her arms, replying sharply, “Normal is not trying to sell your wife’s apartment behind her back. That’s a criminal offense, Sergey. Fraud, to be precise.”
Sergey snapped, “Don’t shout! I’m the man of this house!”
“Whose house?!” Maria stepped closer so that the tension between them was palpable. “This is the home my parents left me. I’m the only one who truly lives here. Don’t you dare remind me you’re the head of this household—you don’t even have your own pillow. Everything here belongs to me: the coffee, the spoons, even the curtains…”
“You said ‘curtains’,” Sergey noted calmly.
“I meant drapes!” Maria snapped, then spat. “Damn it! You’ve annoyed me so much that I’m breaking my own rules.”
That evening ended with Maria leaving to stay at a friend’s place, taking only a toothbrush, passport, and a flash drive containing all her important documents. Her mind echoed like a transformer substation.
“Now you’re going to think, Maria. Not feel. Enough trusting. It’s time to think,” she told herself.
The next morning, Maria visited a notary, the MFC, and a lawyer friend who had long promised to help if trouble arose. Trouble had found her. Her plan was now in motion.
Three days later, Maria returned with a robust man named Ivan, carrying a folder under his arm.
“Who’s this?” Sergey emerged from the kitchen, wearing casual shorts and a Spartak T-shirt, looking bewildered—as if forgotten at the sauna.
“Ivan is a legal expert specializing in property rights. We’re changing the locks today,” Maria stated, her voice icy.
“What? That’s illegal!” Sergey barked.
“Illegal is what you tried to do. From now on, only I have the apartment keys—myself and the cat.”
“We don’t have a cat.”
“I’ll decide whether to get one. I am the mistress here. A free woman. Almost divorced. Now I just need to erase you.”
Sergey tried to block the doorway, but Ivan’s fierce gaze made it apparent he could be thrown not only out the door, but out the window as well.
“Can we talk calmly?” Sergey gritted his teeth.
“We will—at the notary’s, with witnesses present.”
Maria remained unyielding though inwardly shaken. This was no longer fear, but a cold, righteous anger.
That same evening, Irina Viktorovna called, her voice trembling—a woman losing control, control she treasured most.
“Maria, why are you making this such a big deal?”
“I’m not exaggerating. You’re simplifying, including what ‘someone else’s apartment’ means.”
“Why so harsh? We only wanted the best. Family should be united.”
“Our fronts differ, Irina Viktorovna. Yours is retreat; mine is counterattack.”
“You’re destroying the marriage!”
“No, greed, lies, and your relentless urge to command did that. I’m just exposing it.”
The following day Sergey disappeared, taking most belongings with him, though Maria later discarded his old sneaker, razor, and plastic vitamin jar—a reminder never to be complacent, even in marriage.
She filed for divorce through a lawyer. Sergey didn’t appear in court and sent a document consenting to the dissolution.
It’s striking how swiftly a man can deflate when deprived of all support—mother, home, illusions—like a balloon drifting until it bursts.
Maria spent evenings on her balcony, smoking and watching sunsets reflected from nearby windows. A friend texted: “You’re a machine. Dumped your husband and stayed unbroken. Neighborhood pride!”
Maria chuckled, feeling a pang in her chest—not sorrow, but anticipation for what lay ahead.
“I’m ready,” she thought.
But soon, an unexpected visit would bring clarity.
Maria never shed tears—neither in court nor after, even when discarding Sergey’s cooled electric razor wrapped in a grocery bag. She remained composed, focused, as if rehearsed her entire life to be the woman who lives alone and enjoys it.
At work, she flourished. Colleagues grew respectful, and even her financial department boss brought her coffee, asking if her evenings felt lonely.
“Lonely? I’m the director, scriptwriter, and lead role of my own drama,” Maria smiled silently.
One quiet Sunday, as she took out the trash, a familiar voice startled her.
“Hi, Masha.”
She turned. There he was—Sergey again, deflated, rumpled, unkempt like a forgotten dumpling in a microwave.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, gripping the trash bag tighter.
“I wanted to talk. Understand what happened. You just kicked me out like a dog—with no chance.”
“Did you want a chance?”
He hesitated, touched his nose—a familiar sign of dishonesty, though now less convincing.
“Mom… she apologized. Said she overstepped. Dreamed you chased us off with slippers in hand.”
Maria laughed—bitter but sincere.
“She was right, but the slippers were on me—I walked over your conscience, apparently.”
Sergey stepped closer.
“I was truly confused. I had a loan, mom had debts. She said, ‘She lives alone, but you two could buy a bigger place outside the city…’”
“Mine doesn’t mean yours, Sergey. My home came from my parents. Mom died of a stroke, dad a year later from cancer. And you wanted to hand it to that realtor with the purple folder to build your ‘own place’—with your mom?”
He averted his eyes, then suddenly met hers. Something stirred.
“I loved you, Masha. Honestly.”
Maria regarded him as one would a once beloved but tragically shattered vase—too damaged to mend, even for beauty’s sake.
“I thought I loved you too. You seemed comforting, warm, a home. Yet, you turned out to be a splinter: small, hidden under the nail, painful but invisible until pulled out.”
He nodded silently.
“So what now?” he asked.
“Now we’re both free. But I still have an apartment, a steady job, and…” she paused thoughtfully, “a cat. I did get one after all. His name is Max, after the lawyer who helped me remove you.”
“You’re joking?”
“No—just life’s irony. You tried to evict me, but you evicted yourself.”
Before Sergey could respond, a neighbor, who often shot Sergey distrustful looks, appeared from the entrance.
“Good day, Maria Sergeevna! How’s your handsome man? Sitting by the window like a sphinx again.”
“Hello, Arkady Petrovich. Max has been demanding tuna since morning. Now I wonder—Is he you in cat’s form or just a cheeky cat?”
Sergey turned away.
“Alright,” he muttered. “I’m going. Good luck.”
“Wait,” Maria called, pulling a yogurt lid from the trash bag. “Here. A souvenir. Our ‘honey of love’ from 2000. You once said you’d eat even bad yogurt for me, remember?”
He took the lid, looked at it, and sighed.
“Maria… I never expected it would end like this.”
“I knew. I just pretended not to.”
He walked away without looking back. Maria went upstairs, opened her door, and found Max perched on the windowsill, gazing at pigeons with a philosopher’s calm.
“Did you see that, Max?” she asked. “We won. We did good.”
The cat purred and stretched lazily.
In the kitchen, the kettle boiled. The city hummed outside, and peace filled her heart—a calm that follows the storm, when everything is over but you remain standing because you chose yourself.
In conclusion, Maria’s journey highlights the fierce determination required to protect one’s rightful possessions and self-respect amidst betrayal and manipulation. Through courage and careful planning, she reclaimed not just her apartment, but her independence and peace of mind.