“My son did well for himself,” her husband’s mother said with obvious satisfaction. “He got married and, just like that, he has an apartment. Now I’ll have somewhere to stay in the city, too.”
Emily stood by the window, watching the season’s first snow settle across the roofs of the neighboring buildings. The apartment had come to her from her grandfather: two rooms in an old brick building, with high ceilings and parquet floors that creaked under every step. He had lived there for more than thirty years, and every corner still seemed to hold a trace of him—the bookshelves he had built with his own hands, the heavy desk beside the window, the worn rug in the living room.
After the wedding, moving in had felt like the obvious choice. Their rented one-bedroom on the outskirts had long since become a burden, while here they had two real rooms, no rent, only utilities to pay. Her husband agreed without much discussion. Over one weekend, they carried their things over and settled in.
A week later, they hosted their first family dinner. They invited her husband’s parents—his father and mother. Emily set the table and took her grandfather’s old dinnerware out of the cabinet. At first, everything went peacefully. They spoke about work, the weather, and how quickly the year had slipped by.
Then her mother-in-law leaned back in her chair, looked around the room, and said with a pleased smile:
“My son did well for himself. He married, and now he has an apartment right away. Looks like I’ll have a place in the city as well.”
The remark was delivered lightly, almost as though it meant nothing, but Emily felt her shoulders tighten. Her mother-in-law kept smiling and poured herself more tea. Her father-in-law nodded and focused on the salad. Her husband gave no reaction at all, as if nothing unusual had been said.
Emily picked up her fork and stared down at her plate. She did not want to ruin the evening. Maybe it was only an awkward joke. Maybe the woman had not meant anything by it.
Still, the sentence stayed lodged inside her like a splinter.
A few days later, her mother-in-law called and announced that she would drop by for a little while—she had some jars of jam to bring. She arrived around lunchtime and stayed until evening. Sitting in the kitchen, she asked questions about the neighbors and offered advice on how the furniture in the entryway ought to be arranged.
“It’s cozy here, of course, but the flowers on the windowsill should be moved to the other side. Then there will be more light,” she said, adjusting the pot with the ficus.
After the guest finally left, Emily silently moved the plant back where it had been.
The next visit came three days later. This time, her mother-in-law appeared with shopping bags full of groceries.
“I thought I’d help out. Young people are always short on money,” she explained while unloading items onto the table: cereal, canned goods, packages of pasta.
Emily thanked her, though the refrigerator was already well stocked. Again, the woman remained until late in the evening. Emily’s husband came home from work, ate dinner, and turned on the television. His mother settled beside him and began discussing the news. Emily sat in the kitchen washing dishes, listening to their voices drift in from the living room.
After that, the visits became more frequent. Once a week became twice, then three times. Her mother-in-law would arrive in the morning and stay until deep into the evening. Sometimes she claimed it would be too dark to go back to the village and spent the night. Emily made up the sofa for her in the living room.
One day, the woman brought a pillow.
“It’s mine. I’m used to it. I can’t sleep on someone else’s,” she said, placing it on the couch.
The next time, a pair of house slippers appeared as well. Her mother-in-law set them in the hallway next to Emily’s husband’s shoes.
“This is easier than carrying them back and forth in a bag every time,” she said.
Emily said nothing. The slippers stayed.
By the beginning of winter, her mother-in-law was showing up almost every day. She arrived with bags, took out ingredients, and started cooking. Emily would come home from work to find pots on the stove, dirty dishes in the sink, and her mother-in-law seated at the table with a cup of tea.
“I came early and thought I’d make soup. Men need a hot meal,” she would say.
Her husband was pleased. He praised the soup and thanked his mother. Emily ate in silence.
One evening, when her husband was kept late at work, Emily finally gathered the courage to speak.
“Listen, maybe you shouldn’t come over quite so often. We can manage on our own.”
Her mother-in-law raised her eyebrows.
“What do you mean, ‘so often’? I come to see my son. Am I not allowed to visit him anymore?”
“Of course you are. It’s just… we need some privacy.”
“Privacy?” the older woman repeated, and smiled. “My son has a share in this apartment too. I come here for him, not for you.”
Beneath the table, Emily’s hands clenched into fists.
“What share are you talking about? This apartment is mine. I inherited it.”
“And where does your husband live?” her mother-in-law shot back. “Here. So he has rights. And I have the right to visit my son.”
The conversation went nowhere. Late that night, her mother-in-law finally left, slamming the door behind her. Emily remained in the kitchen, staring out the window. Snow was falling in large flakes, covering the courtyard in a white blanket.
When her husband came home, Emily told him everything that had been said. She hoped he would take her side and ask his mother to come by less often.