A Confrontation Over Family Inheritance
“I don’t get it,” Margarita squinted, running her hand across the dusty windowsill as if trying to wipe away not just the dust but all this futility. “Are you serious? You just said it’s all nonsense?”
“Yeah,” Viktor shrugged, collapsing onto the old stool that surely remembered deeper conversations. “What do you want? The apartment is old, the building is crumbling, and the hall looks straight out of a gloomy film. It’s nothing but trouble—money, nerves. Why do you want this, Rit?”
He spoke as if they were discussing a bad purchase at a market rather than an inheritance. This ‘old two-room apartment’ on Baumanskaya was a legacy from their grandfather, who had almost reached a century and had meticulously hung shirts and ironed sheets until the very end. For Margarita, this was more than just square footage.
“Because it’s my home. Mine, do you understand?” Her voice trembled, resonating somewhere deep inside, and she hurried to stifle it by exhaling. “I won’t just sell it for a pittance because you’re too lazy to deal with repairs.”
“Lazy?” Viktor sneered but without joy. “Come on, Rit, repairs feel like a black hole. No amount of money will suffice, nor nerves. It’ll fall apart anyway. We could rent it out, maybe to someone who has more patience.”
“Oh, great,” she shot back sarcastically, “so I can live with your mother and listen to how I’m a ‘hopeless forty-five-year-old with my quirks’, right?”
Viktor snorted and stood up. “Don’t exaggerate. We’re just trying to be realistic. You’re too sentimental.”
This word hit her like an electric shock. She felt genuinely hurt. “Sentimental?” she echoed bitterly. “Because I don’t want to dump the apartment just to ease your family’s budgeting?”
“Rit…” He looked at her as if he was suddenly facing a stranger who had begun shouting on the subway. “Let’s not. You’re an adult; you should understand…”
“I’m an adult, Viktor. That’s why I won’t let you and your mother push me around regarding what I rightfully inherited.”
He sighed, took out his phone, and started dialing. “Who are you calling?” she asked suspiciously.
“Mom. Let her come take a look. She’s got experience in these matters, you know?”
“I forbid her to come here. This is my apartment. She’s not stepping foot in here.”
“What’s with the hysteria? We’re family. Mom wants to help,” he said, slightly irritated.
“Especially if ‘help’ means signing over ownership to you, and then you’ll ‘accidentally’ move away to your new house with ‘fresher’ walls,” she retorted.
“Something clicked inside. Like an old socket, from which you only expect a spark—and then it short-circuits, beginning to melt the wires.”
He approached, cautiously and almost smiling, a smile that emerged when one steps on a rake and tries to convince oneself that it was meant to be. “Rit, do you really think I want to deceive you?”
She remained silent, pondering. She didn’t know how to respond without lying.
He looked at her, turned around, and walked down the hallway where a sunbeam struggled to slip through a gap in the shutters and lay on old newspapers.
“Who needs this apartment?” he shouted from the bathroom, where a rusty faucet dripped. “These walls and the smell of grandpa’s slippers! Do you want to go crazy?”
“I just want something that belongs to me,” she cried out, her voice shaking as if it were glass on the verge of shattering, “something that no one can take away from me. Something where I—am me, and not just an appendix to your paycheck or your mother’s remarks!”
He didn’t leave the bathroom. He splashed water, washing away what felt like something dirty—or perhaps their conversation.
Margarita approached the window and looked out into the yard. Everything was familiar: a playground, a rickety fence, a neighbor with a beer. Yet the world seemed different.
Her phone vibrated. A text message:
“Hi, dear, mom said I’d drop by tomorrow to check the apartment. She needs a place to stay. Are you okay with that?”
It took her a moment to grasp who was writing. Then she remembered—a nephew who had failed to recall her name a year ago at a family gathering.
She stood in the middle of the room. Dust tickled her nose, and the kitchen smelled of burnt food—somebody had turned on the old stove. The house seemed to awaken, and all its ghosts were against her.
“So, have you thought about it?” Viktor emerged, rubbing his hands together. “Shall we talk to mom together? She doesn’t bite.”
“Doesn’t bite,” she replied quietly but firmly. “She chews. And so do you.”
He shrugged—clearly, he was worn out. His spirit had long been off fishing, watching TV with dumplings and beer—just not here in this old house where suddenly a wife capable of standing her ground had appeared.
He left, slamming the door.
And Margarita remained.
In her apartment. With stains on the ceiling, a clogged pipe, and a wardrobe door hanging by a single nail.
But for the first time in many years—alone. Without mockery, without lectures, without the usual “you won’t succeed anyway.”
And perhaps it was this crack that signaled the start of a new renovation.
“You’ve lost your mind!” Viktor yelled, so loudly that the glass on the balcony door shook. “You changed the locks?! Without me? Without consultation? Do you even know if that’s legal?”
“It is legal, Viktor,” Margarita answered evenly, though her cheeks burned. “And by the way, this is my apartment. Or did you forget who’s in charge here?”
“Oh, I’m no one?” He gasped. “What do you mean now? Thirty years together, and I’m no one?”
“Twenty-four,” she smirked. “Don’t add extra years. And to be honest, for the last ten years, you’ve been living not with me, but beside me.”
Viktor stepped forward. Spots crept up his neck—his skin always gave him away. In his youth—when he lied, then—when he was angry. Right now, it was both.
“Is this your mother whispering in your ear? She has disliked me from day one!”
“Yeah,” Margarita nodded. “Because she immediately saw who you are. I, the fool, only realized it after twenty years.”
He opened his mouth, wanted to say something but thought better of it and barked: “Do you realize what you’re doing? We’re family! Decisions are made together! Me, you, mom…”
“Mom?!” Her laugh was bitter and sharp, making her want to cover her ears. “You don’t have a family; you have a matriarchy named Antonina Petrovna! She plans your breakfasts, what underwear to wear on Friday—she’s deciding that too?”
“Don’t you dare!” He stepped closer. “That’s my mother! If it weren’t for her, you’d be on the street. Let’s see what you could achieve alone!”
“Let’s see,” she pointed at the door. Behind it, a familiar voice rang out:
“Viktor! What are you yelling about? You’ll embarrass yourself in front of the neighbors!”
“Here she comes,” Margarita said dryly.
Antonina Petrovna entered as if to meet a deputy—regally, with a bag in hand and a gaze that suggested, “I see everything and will tell all.” She wore her beloved coat, which was about fifteen years old and which she referred to as “Bosco classic.” She surveyed her daughter-in-law with an expression of confidence and disdain.
“Dear girl,” she began, “stop playing these key games. Have you forgotten who helped you with the mortgage?”
“First of all, I owe it to grandpa, not you. You called him a senile old man and said he wouldn’t live long. Secondly, I changed the locks because I’m tired of people walking in and out of my apartment like it’s a grocery store.”
“Oh, listen!” Antonina threw her hands up. “People walking in! I cleaned up after your disastrous workers! You know, the sink isn’t attached; everything is leaking!”
“You wanted to steal it, I know. And what were you saying behind my back? That ‘Margarita has always been a bit dim-witted but lucky with real estate’?”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“What, you thought in the 21st century walls don’t have ears? Grandpa had a radio and a dictaphone, if you forgot. I heard everything.”
“Ungrateful!” Antonina waved her hands. “Is this how you speak to those who helped you? No man with your character would endure! It’s remarkable that Viktor is still with you.”
“Enough!” Margarita stood up. Her voice trembled, her hands too, but her eyes were dry. “I owe nothing to anyone. You’ve bent me, pushed me down, and now it’s over. I’m an adult; I want to live without you. Is that clear?”
Silence. Somewhere in the basement, pipes hummed. Viktor looked at her as if she were a stranger. Antonina blinked as if something had gotten into her eyes.
“I’ll file for division,” Viktor mumbled. “You can’t prove that the apartment is yours.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “Let’s see how mommy helps you out. Bringing you meals from your salary, I suppose.”
He lunged for the door but stumbled over a bucket of paint. Nearly fell. There were no curses, but the hissing was expressive.
Antonina jumped in to help. Like in a bad comedy, both stumbled.
“You’ll regret this!” the mother-in-law shouted from the stairs. “Do you think you’ve won? This is war, Margarita! War!”
“For God’s sake,” she whispered into the void. “Only now—without me.”
The door closed. Slowly. Deliberately. Like the lid of a coffin.
She took out the new keys, hung them on a hook. Sat down on the floor, her back against the wall.
She cried. Soundlessly.
From anger. From pain. From freedom.
She knew it would get worse. But it couldn’t get worse than this.
Margarita sat on the windowsill in an old sweater—soft and slightly stretched, as if it were the story of her life itself. Outside the thin glass, the spring city buzzed as usual: teenagers screamed at football players in front of the building, Aunt Zina exchanged gossip about potato prices by the store, and somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s dog barked. The world moved on, while inside her, everything felt just the opposite—calm and restless at the same time.
The apartment had changed. It was quiet. And surprisingly clean—Margarita scrubbed everything until it shined, as if she wanted to wipe away the scent of Viktor and the voice of his mother, which had clung to the wallpaper for so long. The corridor smelled of paint and fresh sealant—her renovation, her apartment, her life. Finally—hers.
But inside, between her ribs, she still felt a stabbing and scratching pain.
Suddenly—there was a knock at the door. She jumped.
“Open up, it’s me,” a voice called from outside. A male voice, unfamiliar, but with something recognizable in hand. A folder. Legal papers.
Margarita squinted through the peephole: a tall, strange man, but with documents from Viktor.
“Hello. Are you Margarita Konstantinovna?” he began evenly, using that tone people take when they’re sure everything is resolved with paperwork.
“Let’s say so. And who are you?” she smiled weakly through her exhaustion.
“I represent Viktor Sergeyevich’s interests. I’d like to discuss a peaceful resolution to the property division issue.”
“Great,” Margarita thought and quietly added, “I wanted to talk about the prospects of single life without idiots on my doorstep. You’re at the wrong address, I guess.”
He didn’t flinch: “This is not a threat. Just a wish to resolve everything peacefully. You will be offered to sell the apartment and split the money. Otherwise—a lengthy trial.”
“Let it be lengthy,” Margarita replied, leaning against the door frame. “I’m tired of living by other people’s rules. Let it be the law. And the law is on my side.”
He stepped back as if he had collided with something solid, but not with a woman in a fit, but rather with someone who has long known their worth.
“Tell Viktor,” she stated, “to get his firm a calendar: the 21st century has arrived. A woman is no longer obliged to live for someone else’s desires.”
The door slammed shut with a dull click. Only after a couple of hours, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of already cold tea, did Margarita feel how fear and anxiety wrestled for dominance. Because now the real hell would begin: trials, paperwork, humiliation, interrogations…
And what if it doesn’t work? If he takes it away? What happens then—back to mom and her little one-room, a stranger’s cup, an old bed…?
“Margo,” her mother, Raisa Ivanovna, said as she sat with a kettle nearby, “why do you look so pale? You fought hard for that apartment. Your father and I helped from our pension; if you need us, we’ll help again.”
“Mom, I don’t want to drag you down. I want to do this alone.”
“We’re not forcing you to be a hero. Just know—we’re here.”
“And Viktor? He sent a lawyer.”
Raisa snorted: “A lawyer? This, excuse my French, man has never made a decision himself in his life. Mama did everything for him. Remember—Mom even registered your wedding at the registry office, while you waited for the picture with the cake!”
Margarita chuckled and for the first time in a long while truly smiled.
Two weeks later, a court notification arrived. Viktor had seriously filed a claim for half the apartment. The basis—“jointly acquired property.” Although Margarita didn’t even know they had shared money—he only bought beer at the nearby grocery store.
And then she came.
“Hello,” a young blonde in a lilac puff jacket quietly said. “Are you Margarita? I’m Kira. Viktor’s girlfriend… well, ex…”
Everything blurred for Margarita for a moment.
“Ex?” Kira quickly added. “We dated for six months. He said things were bad between you, that you were only together on paper…”
“Enough,” Margarita raised her hand. “I will not listen to the excuses for someone else’s stupidity. What do you want?”
“He promised me an apartment… I even transferred money for the repairs—250 thousand. Look, here’s the transfer.”
Margarita glanced at the paper, then at Kira.
“You’re smart, I see.”
“He said you were mean and didn’t appreciate him…”
Rita closed her eyes, counted to ten, then twenty—anger subsided, but regret remained.
“Listen, had I not known Viktor, I would have believed you. But I’ve known him for twenty-four years. You’re not the first he’s deceived. You’re somewhere between a market vendor and his hairdresser, kid.”
Kira paled.
“What should I do?”
“File a police report. With a copy of the transfer. He’s not just a jerk—now he’s a fraud.”
A month later, Viktor withdrew his claim. He disappeared. Rumor had it he went to Crimea for a new project where he would “definitely shine.” Antonina Petrovna called and yelled that Margarita had destroyed the family. She silently declined the call and deleted the number.
In April, Margarita finished her renovations. She hung shelves, ordered her favorite lamp. For the first time, she allowed herself an evening of silence: no one roared at the TV, critiqued the soup, or showed up unannounced.
She sat in the kitchen, turned on the radio, and unexpectedly burst into tears. Not from sorrow, but from relief.
This was not a victory. This was a return. To herself. To herself.
To her life.