“You’re going to buy me furniture!” Ivan’s mother declared, planting herself firmly in the middle of their new living room.
Irina didn’t even blink. Calmly, without raising her voice, she looked the older woman straight in the eyes and quietly said, “Out. This is my apartment. I want you to leave.” Then, with a half-smile, she lifted her hand and gave her a slow, deliberate fig sign—the old-fashioned gesture that said exactly what needed to be said.
It all started a few weeks earlier, when Irina and her husband, Ivan, had moved into a beautiful new three-bedroom apartment. The walls still smelled of fresh paint. The sleek furniture had just been delivered. Ivan had been practically glowing with pride, showing it off to anyone who came by—as if he had paid for all of it.
Irina said nothing. She let him brag. That’s how he was. He needed praise like air. But she kept the truth to herself: it was her apartment, a gift from her father. She had paid for every chair, every rug, every blind and appliance. And the silence? That was her choice too. She didn’t want to bruise Ivan’s ego. Or so she thought.
Until his mother showed up.
Tatyana Yakovlevna, the ever-demanding, ever-critical matriarch, walked into the apartment like she owned it. She inspected every room, every corner, and made sure to loudly ask, “And how much did all of this cost?” Her eyes gleamed with unspoken expectations.
Later that night, as the sun dipped low and cast golden light across the living room, Ivan walked his mother and sister to the door. But right before she left, Tatyana turned and smiled.
“You’re doing well now, son. It’s time you helped me replace my furniture.”
Ivan didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Mom.”
When the door shut, Irina’s smile vanished.
“Did you just promise her furniture?” she asked, arms crossed.
Ivan looked sheepish. “It’s just a sofa and maybe a bed—nothing major.”
“And are you paying for it with the money you didn’t spend on our apartment?” Her voice was cold. “Because, just to remind you, you didn’t spend a single ruble.”
Ivan tried to laugh it off, but Irina wasn’t smiling.
Days passed.
Then one morning, Irina came home from work, her face lit with joy. Ivan was in the kitchen, fumbling with a frying pan.
She hugged him from behind and whispered in his ear: “Guess what? I got promoted. Senior analyst!”
Ivan beamed. “That’s amazing!” He lifted her off the ground and spun her around. “You’re incredible.”
And then, just as he turned back to the stove, he said it: “So now we can finally buy my mom that furniture.”
Irina didn’t flinch. She simply walked over to the fridge and tapped it with her finger.
“This was bought on credit,” she said. Then she pointed at the countertop. “So was this. And the couch. And the bed. All on my credit.” She paused and looked him in the eye. “So don’t even think about spending a single ruble of my salary on your mother’s furniture. You want to help her? Get a second job.”
Ivan’s face turned red. But he said nothing. He just returned to the stove.
The next day, he visited his mother. Predictably, she was already choosing new furniture and showing him pictures on her phone. When Ivan hesitated, she exploded.
“Your wife is bleeding you dry! Spending money on restaurants instead of family! She’s selfish, and I won’t tolerate it.”
Ivan didn’t respond. He never did.
Saturday came, and Irina’s promotion party was set in a cozy restaurant with friends from work. She waited for Ivan—and when he arrived, he didn’t come alone.
In walked his mother and sister.
Irina’s heart sank.
“Why are they here?” she whispered.
“You invited your mom. Why can’t I invite mine?”
The evening unraveled quickly. Tatyana started loudly criticizing the menu, the prices, even the salmon on her plate. She muttered about extravagance, waste, how that money should’ve gone to her new couch.
And then—of course—she brought it up again.
“If you hadn’t thrown this party, maybe I’d have that new furniture by now!”
Irina stayed calm. Until Ivan, instead of defending her, nodded in agreement.
That was it.
She got up and danced with a colleague. Just a dance. Nothing more.
But Tatyana shrieked like she’d seen a scandal.
“Right in front of her husband! With her lover!”
Ivan stood up, finally, but not to defend his wife. He tried to intimidate the man she danced with.
When Irina returned to the table, she calmly said:
“Control your mother. I will not be humiliated again.”
Ivan sneered. “What, should I tape her mouth shut?”
Irina didn’t respond. She returned to her friends.
The next morning, while she was still in bed, the doorbell rang. Ivan dragged himself to answer it.
“It’s my mom,” he said wearily.
“Of course it is.”
Moments later, the bedroom door burst open, and Tatyana stormed in.
Irina, clutching the sheet, screamed: “Get out!”
And that was the end of it.
In the living room, with her robe tied tightly around her waist, Irina stood tall.
“You do not enter my bedroom. Ever.”
“He’s my son!” Tatyana shouted.
“This is my home. Show some respect or leave.”
Tatyana didn’t leave. She ranted. She demanded money. She accused Irina of spending her son’s earnings—until Irina finally snapped.
She raised her voice, for the first and last time.
“Let me make this very clear.” She pointed at the walls. “This apartment? Mine. That furniture? Mine. The party? Paid for by me. My husband has contributed nothing. Not a cent.”
She turned to Ivan. “What have you bought here? Your gaming chair and your laptop. That’s it.”
The silence was suffocating.
Then Irina said the words that ended it all:
“Get out. Both of you.”
Ivan tried to calm her down.
She slapped him.
It echoed.
Tatyana gasped. “How dare you!”
Irina didn’t flinch. “You are no longer welcome in my home.”
Ivan, stunned, slowly walked to the bedroom. Dressed. Packed. Followed his mother out the door.
Irina watched them leave. Then, slowly, she locked the door, turned, and let out a breath.
The apartment felt peaceful again.
The phone rang.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Too early?” her mother asked.
“Not at all. I’ve been up for a while.”
“Your father and I thought we’d stop by tonight. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” Irina smiled. “I’ll bake your favorite apple pie.”
As the call ended, the sunlight poured through the east-facing windows. Irina stripped the sheets from the bed she no longer wanted to share and tossed them into the wash. She bagged up Ivan’s things—his games, his gadgets, his pride—and stacked them in the hall for delivery.
Then, in her quiet kitchen, she opened her old recipe book and began to bake.
And for the first time in a long time, Irina smiled—not for anyone else, but for herself.