A bang on the bedroom door shattered the silence at precisely seven-three.
“It’s seven in the morning, and she’s asleep again!” Galina Sergeevna’s voice pierced the door. “Oleg’s already at work, and that lady’s still lying in bed!”
Polina opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Over the past four weeks, her body had become accustomed to this alarm clock. Yesterday, she’d finished a report at two in the morning; the client had paid handsomely for the rush. But she didn’t need to tell Galina Sergeevna—for her, work meant being in the office by eight, and the rest was just a treat.
“I hear you’re awake! Get up, I have to clean!”
Polina sat up and slipped her feet into her slippers. She looked at herself in the mirror—there were shadows under her eyes, her hair was disheveled. Thirty-two, but she looks forty. Thank you, Galina Sergeevna.”
Mikhail Semyonovich was sitting at the table when Polina walked into the kitchen.
In front of him was a plate of chicken breast and vegetables. He picked at it with his fork, not touching it.
“What is this?” He looked up at her. “I won’t eat grass. I need meat, real meat.”
“It’s chicken,” Polina said, pouring herself some water.
“Chicken isn’t meat,” Galina Sergeyevna said, leaving the room, wiping her hands. “You should have asked what we’re eating. A hostess should think about her guests, not just herself.”
Polina set her glass down on the table, too abruptly. The water splashed over the rim.
“I work at night. I cook what I can. If you don’t like it, cook it yourself.”
“Working?” Galina Sergeyevna chuckled. “You mean you sit at the computer. And Oleg is on his feet all day, earning real money.”
“Oleg makes a third of what I do,” Polina said quietly. “And I bought this apartment, by the way.”
There was silence. Galina Sergeyevna turned pale and clutched the back of her chair.
“You… you dare point to my son’s salary?” She turned to her husband. “Mikhail, are you hearing what she’s saying?!”
“I hear you,” Mikhail Semyonovich stood up. “But the apartment is registered to Oleg, by the way. So it was our son who let you in.”
“The down payment is my money. The monthly payments are mostly mine,” Polina picked up her laptop bag. “Do you want to continue the conversation about who let whom in?”
Galina Sergeyevna shouted something about mercantilism and callousness. Polina wasn’t listening. She got dressed, went out, and closed the door. Something inside her finally snapped.
She worked at the café until evening, closing two projects. The phone was ringing off the hook—my mother-in-law was firing off messages one after another. “You’re a snake,” “Oleg will divorce you,” “We’ll hold it against you.” Polina took screenshots and saved them. She wrote to Oleg: “We’re meeting. Today. No options.”
He arrived at ten, tired, still wearing his jacket.
“Your mother took her pills because of you,” he said by way of greeting. “Have you completely lost your nerve? Are you making a scene and dragging me into it?”
Polina put the phone on the table and turned the screen. Screenshots. One after another.
“I don’t make a scene. I’m protecting my boundaries.”
“Boundaries?” Oleg chuckled. “They’re my parents. Just wait another week, they’ll be leaving soon.”
“They’re not going to leave,” Polina took the phone. “Your mother bursts into my bedroom every morning.” Your father tells me what to cook. And you remain silent.
“I’m working! I don’t have time to sort out your women’s squabbles.”
“Then I’ll sort it out myself,” Polina stood up and grabbed her bag. “Either they leave today, or I do. And I’m filing for divorce.”
Oleg was silent for about ten seconds. He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“Are you serious?” he finally asked.
“Absolutely,” Polina turned and headed for the exit.
She spent the night at her friend Dasha’s. In the morning, Oleg sent a message: “The parents are staying. Leave if you want.” Polina dialed the lawyer’s number.
The divorce was finalized without a fuss—coldly, quickly, just signatures on the papers. Oleg looked at her in the office as if he couldn’t believe she’d gone through with it. Polina didn’t even look at him.
The property was divided over a long period of time. Oleg refused to sell the apartment, didn’t want to pay compensation. The court divided the shares, and Polina got one room. She immediately rented it out to a young couple, and rented a studio apartment on the outskirts.
Oleg kept calling, demanding that they remove the strangers from the apartment. Polina hung up, writing briefly: “My share. My rules.” Galina Sergeevna stayed with her son; now the three of them shared a three-room apartment with tenants.
Three months later, the realtor who had been helping with the rental called.
“Polina, there’s a problem. Oleg hasn’t paid his mortgage for two months. The bank is starting foreclosure.”
She froze, the phone to her ear.
“What if I buy out his share? Right now, paying off the entire debt?”
“Yes, if I have the money.”
“There will be,” Polina hung up and opened her client list.
She worked without sleep for two weeks. She took on every project imaginable—urgent, complex, overnight. Clients paid for speed; she didn’t haggle. She slept for four hours, her eyes glued to the keyboard. Dasha came in with food, scolding her, but Polina didn’t stop.
A week later, she was at the bank. Documents, signatures, transfers. Oleg’s share was bought out, the debt was paid off. The apartment was hers entirely.
“Congratulations, you’re now the sole owner,” the manager smiled.
Polina went out and sat down on a bench by the entrance. Her hands were shaking. She wrote to Oleg: “The apartment is mine. Move out in a month.”
He called a minute later, screaming that it was illegal, that he would sue. Polina listened silently. Then she said:
“You stopped paying the mortgage. The bank would have taken the apartment from both of us. I saved the situation. And yes, now it’s my home alone.”
Oleg tried to challenge it in court, unsuccessfully. He moved out three weeks later, taking his things while she was away. Galina Sergeevna sent a message: “You’ve ruined the family.” You’ll remember this.” Polina blocked the number.
A team was working on the renovations; the foreman, Kirill, was a man of about thirty-five, quiet, with tired eyes. He worked precisely, without chatter. One day, as Polina sat on the windowsill, watching the work, he said:
“I rarely see a woman making her own decisions. Usually, husbands boss her around.”
“I don’t have a husband,” she replied.
“I see,” Kirill nodded and continued working.
A month later, the renovations were finished. Polina stood in the middle of the empty apartment—bright, clean, smelling of paint. Her apartment. Without Oleg, without his mother, without strangers’ voices.
Kirill stopped by one last time to get some tools.
“If you need anything, call me,” he handed her his business card.
She called a week later. Not about work. They met at a café and got to talking. Kirill listened to her story without interrupting or offering advice. Then he said:
“You’re strong. That’s rare.”
Polina smiled—for the first time in a long time, truly.
Six months later, Oleg wrote late in the evening. Polina was sitting in the kitchen with her laptop, Kirill sketching something nearby.
“Mother’s sick. No money for treatment.” “Can you help?”
She glanced at the message, then at Kirill. He read the screen and looked up.
“What will you say?”
“Nothing,” Polina locked her phone. “Galina Sergeevna liked to say that family is sacred. Let her son take care of it.”
Oleg didn’t write anymore. She found out through friends: he rents a one-room apartment with his mother, works two jobs, and barely makes ends meet. Galina Sergeevna complains to everyone that her daughter-in-law took the house away.
Polina felt neither pity nor schadenfreude. A void where something important had been. They had chosen whose side to stand on. She responded in kind—she chose herself.
One day, Kirill and I were walking past the shopping center where Oleg worked. He was standing at the entrance, wearing a consultant’s uniform, smoking a cigarette, hunched over. He had aged. Galina Sergeevna was waiting for him on a bench with heavy bags.
Polina passed by without stopping. Kirill squeezed her hand.
“Don’t you regret it?”
“What? That you left? Not for a second.”
That evening, they sat in the kitchen, had dinner, and talked about plans. A typical evening—quiet, calm, without shouting or complaints.
Polina walked to the window. The city was aglow with lights, the evening was softly approaching. She ran her hand along the windowsill—here Galina Sergeyevna had once stood, indicating where to place flowers. Now, there were Polina’s books, photographs of him and Kirill.
“You know,” she said without turning around, “when they lived here, I thought every day that this wasn’t my life. That I’d made a mistake somewhere.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m home,” Polina closed her eyes.
Oleg never understood what he’d lost. Not the apartment. He’d lost the chance to protect the one who was there for him. And she’d found someone who protects not because he has to, but because he wants to.
Galina Sergeevna got what she’d been looking for—complete control over her son. But now they must live in cramped quarters, on someone else’s terms, counting every penny. And Polina wakes up every morning in silence, in her bedroom, and the first thing she sees isn’t her mother-in-law’s stern gaze, but the sunrise outside the window.
Kirill put his arm around her shoulders and held her close. They stood there by the window, silently, and Polina suddenly realized: justice doesn’t come naturally. You don’t wait for someone else to make a decision for you. You have to achieve it. Sometimes it’s painful, sometimes it’s scary. But when you take a step—even the most difficult one—life suddenly becomes yours.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” Kirill didn’t understand.
“For simply being there. By your side.”
He kissed the top of her head, and they returned to the table to finish dinner. An ordinary evening in an ordinary apartment. Only now there were no strangers, no rules, no anger. This was home. Her home. And no one could take it away from her, because she had chosen what was worth fighting for.
Oleg, somewhere out there, outside the window, was paying for the choice he made back then, in the café. When he decided that his mother was more important than his wife. Galina Sergeyevna received her son whole—and now lives with the consequences of that victory in a cramped rented apartment. And Polina was free. From people who considered her a stranger. From the obligation to please those who didn’t appreciate her. From the fear of being alone.
She wasn’t alone. She became whole.
