“You don’t even have children! What are you going to do with the apartment?”** Galina Petrovna’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief as Nastya calmly held out the keys to her new place.
**“I’m telling you, Seryozha: it’s either me or her!”** Her voice echoed through the kitchen like a siren.
Sergey sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
**“Mom, please, not again…”**
**“You’re on her side?! Have you forgotten who raised you? When you came to me like a lost kitten — with holes in your shoes and a diploma tied with string?”**
Nastya stood by the window, sipping her bitter instant coffee in silence. Arguing with Galina was like shouting at a boiling kettle — noisy, pointless, and bound to burn someone.
**“This isn’t your apartment, dear,”** Galina pressed on. **“It’s my husband’s inheritance. My son owns it. You? You’re just a guest here.”**
**“I understand,”** Nastya replied calmly, turning to face her. **“But this ‘owner’ has been living on my salary for two years. And I bought that refrigerator that eats electricity like candy.”**
Galina blinked but recovered quickly. She had lived her whole life knowing how to speak louder, faster, stronger.
**“Money doesn’t give you the right to boss him around! I’m his mother. A mother belongs next to her son!”**
**“Even if it means standing right between us?”** Nastya said, her tone dry. Her coffee, like the last two months of their marriage, was without sweetness.
Sergey tried to step in.
**“Mom… let’s not escalate. Maybe you could stay with Aunt Valya for a while?”**
**“Me? In the countryside? With her and those noisy chickens? Absolutely not!”**
**“Then maybe it’s time to move out,”** Nastya said quietly. **“You say it’s not my apartment. Then it can’t belong to your family either.”**
Galina collapsed into a kitchen chair with a dramatic sigh. The room froze. Only the faucet kept dripping — like the slow leak in their marriage.
**“You think I don’t see how you’re pulling him away from me?”**
**“I just want a peaceful life, Galina Petrovna. One without morning TV dramas, nightly interrogations, or your perfume on my pillowcases.”**
**“How can you talk to me like this? You don’t even have children! What kind of home do you think you deserve?”**
**“Exactly,”** Nastya replied. **“You don’t actually care about Sergey — you care about property. You’d rather divide up a will than build a family. Your love feels more like a performance.”**
Sergey stood abruptly.
**“Enough! Both of you! Mom, please. Nastya… this isn’t helping.”**
She gently placed her mug in the sink. The dripping faucet didn’t stop — it just counted down the silence.
**“I applied for a mortgage,”** she said.
**“What?!”** they both gasped.
**“I was approved. I’m moving out. I need peace. I need a place where the decisions are mine — and the air doesn’t carry someone else’s opinions.”**
She left the kitchen slowly, as though one wrong move might break what little was left.
Sergey followed her.
**“Wait… I thought we agreed to be patient.”**
**“I thought you were a partner,”** she said softly, turning. **“Not someone who compares his wife and mother like they’re grocery items.”**
Galina stood at the kitchen doorway, stunned.
**“Are you serious, Nastya? You’ll take a mortgage at your age?”**
**“Better that,”** she said, putting on her jacket, **“than hearing I’m a guest for the rest of my life.”**
The door closed firmly behind her.
—
The bus stop was cold. Her suitcase bumped against her legs. Each step was a small ache, and inside, a strange hollowness — as if she’d left a part of her life behind.
Irina opened the door with firm kindness.
**“Here are the keys. My room’s free. My son’s in Petersburg. Stay until you find something.”**
**“Thank you. It’s temporary. Just until I sort out the mortgage.”**
**“Been there,”** Irina shrugged. **“Five years under the same roof as my ex’s mother. Ever want to scream?”**
**“Every day. Mentally,”** Nastya replied.
They laughed. It wasn’t carefree laughter. But it meant hope.
At the factory, the machinery roared, supervisors buzzed, and lunch tasted like aluminum.
**“Hey, Nastya,”** said Valera. **“Where’s Seryozha?”
“Almost divorced.”
“Oh… Who got the apartment?”
“I got a mortgage. A studio.”
“Outside the MKAD? That’s practically another country! Alone? At your age?”**
**“Thanks, Valera. Always so uplifting.”**
She walked away. The studio wasn’t perfect. It was small, dusty, and cold. But it was hers.
No one else’s furniture. No judgment. No expectations.
Three weeks later, she stood in her new place. Concrete walls, a flickering bulb, peeling paint — but hers.
**“Shall we start?”** asked the foreman.
**“Let’s. But no plastic tiles, no ceiling mirrors, and definitely no mother-in-laws hiding in closets.”
“Understood.”**
Her phone buzzed. Sergey.
**“Hi, Nastya. Mom fell. Broke her arm. Says you ‘abandoned’ her… I thought maybe… you’d come back?”**
**“Sergey, I’m busy.”**
**“With what?”**
**“Renovating.”**
Click.
Nights were long. Cold. The apartment echoed too much. But the silence was hers.
One message:
**“I’m still waiting. Sorry.”**
Another:
**Photo of a cast. Caption: ‘Happy now?’**
She turned off her phone. Lay down on the floor. The cold was better than living with guilt that wasn’t hers.
—
The next morning, Irina arrived with kefir and sarcasm.
**“So, how’s it going?”**
**“Like a nail in a wall. Everyone bumps into it, no one wants to fix it.”**
**“And Sergey?”**
**“He calls. We both stay quiet. Like waiting to see who blinks first.”**
**“Do you want him back?”**
**“I wanted peace. Not constant battles. But now… I don’t know.”**
A week later, he showed up. No knock. Holding a grocery bag.
**“Hi. Brought yogurts. Your favorite. Apricot.”**
**“You hate apricot.”**
**“Learning to like what you like.”**
**“Might be too late.”**
They stood there in quiet. Not anger — just reality.
**“I thought I could balance it all. I was wrong.”**
**“I’ve been strong for so long, Sergey. I don’t want to carry everyone anymore. I’m tired.”**
He offered his hand.
**“Can I sit next to you?”**
She nodded.
**“Put the bag down carefully. The tiles are new.”**
He sat.
Later, as she lay on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, she whispered to the dark:
**“I’m tired too. Just better at hiding it.”**
And for the first time in a long time — it felt a little lighter.
