Her husband listened from where he stood leaning against the doorframe. After a moment, he let out a tired sigh.
“Mom is just worried,” he said. “She wants to help.”
“Help?” Emily could no longer hold herself back. “She doesn’t help. She lives here.”
“Don’t exaggerate. She only stops by sometimes.”
“Sometimes? She comes every single day.”
“So what? My mother has the right to see her son.”
“In my apartment?”
His face darkened.
“In our apartment,” he corrected her. “I live here too.”
“You live here because I allowed it. This apartment belongs to me.”
“Really?” His voice turned colder. “So I’m just some temporary guest here?”
Emily shut her eyes. She had not wanted another fight. She had not meant to say it that way. But the words had already escaped.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m only asking you to tell your mother to come less often.”
“I’m not going to do that. My mother matters more to me than your moods.”
He went into the bedroom, leaving Emily alone in the kitchen. She sat there until late into the night, until her feet were numb from the cold floor. Then she lay down on the couch in the living room, but sleep never came.
The next morning, her mother-in-law arrived early, carrying bags stuffed with belongings.
“I’ve decided to stay with my son for a while,” she announced as she took off her coat. “It’s freezing out in the village, and I’m sick of dealing with that stove.”
Emily stood in the entryway and watched as the woman lined her bags against the wall, hung her coat on the rack, and pulled off her boots as if she had every right to settle in.
“How long are you planning to stay?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a week, maybe longer. The weather is awful, and I don’t feel like going back and forth.”
“There isn’t enough space here. The apartment is small.”
“Small?” Her mother-in-law looked around the hall. “Two rooms. Perfectly fine. I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m not picky.”
Emily opened her mouth to object, but the older woman had already walked into the kitchen and switched on the kettle.
That evening, when her husband came home, he was pleased.
“Mom, are you staying long?”
“For a week, son. I’ve had enough of the village. It’ll be nice to spend some time in the city.”
He nodded and sat down at the table. His mother served dinner. Emily ate without lifting her eyes. Afterward, she cleared the dishes and went into the bedroom. Her husband remained in the living room with his mother, and Emily could hear their voices, then their laughter.
One week quietly turned into two. Her mother-in-law made herself comfortable. She unpacked her things, took over half the entryway closet, and arranged her own jars and containers on the kitchen shelves. Each day, Emily came home from work and found the woman at her table, beside her stove, inside her apartment.
One evening, Emily tried again to speak with her husband.
“When is your mother leaving?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because I’m tired of the three of us living here.”
“She’s my mother.”
“I know. But this is my apartment.”
“Here we go again.” He put down his phone. “I’m sick of hearing about ‘your apartment’ all the time.”
“And I’m sick of your mother acting like the mistress of this place.”
“Mom isn’t doing anything wrong. She cooks. She cleans. You should be grateful.”
“Grateful? For being pushed out of my own home?”
He got to his feet.
“Nobody is pushing you out. You’re just selfish. You can’t even tolerate family.”
“She is your family, not mine.”
He slammed the door and went back to the living room. Emily stayed behind by herself. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clenched into fists. Everything inside her was boiling, but no tears came. There was only anger and humiliation.
In the morning, her mother-in-law announced that she would be staying until New Year’s.
“It’s boring in the village, and it’s livelier here. We’ll celebrate together,” she said while spreading the groceries she had bought across the table.
Emily said nothing. She left for work earlier than usual and came home late. All day, one question circled in her mind: what was she going to do?
That night, after her husband had gone to bed, Emily took out the apartment documents. The inheritance certificate. The property registry extract. Everything was registered in her name. The apartment belonged only to her. Her husband had no share in it at all. And his mother had no rights there whatsoever.
Emily put the papers away and lay down. By then, the decision had formed on its own. Words were useless now. It was time to act.
The next morning at breakfast, her mother-in-law said, “I need to go back to the village for two days. A neighbor asked me to help with some paperwork. But I’ll leave my things here so I don’t have to drag them back and forth.”
Emily nodded while eating her oatmeal. The older woman packed a small bag, said goodbye to her son, and left. Her belongings remained in the entryway: two bags, a plastic sack with slippers inside, and a box of jars.
Emily waited an hour. Then, calmly and methodically, she packed everything into large bags and carried them to the storage room. She placed them neatly against the back wall and slid the bolt shut.
After lunch, Emily went to the public services office. She brought the apartment papers and her ID. She waited in line for about twenty minutes. When she reached the window, she explained the situation in an even, steady voice.
“I need to have the locks changed on my apartment. The keys may have ended up in the hands of someone who should not have them.”
The clerk nodded and took her application. Then she asked Emily to sign several forms. Emily signed them and received a claim ticket.
“When can I get the new keys?”
“Tomorrow after lunch,” the clerk replied. “The locksmith is scheduled to come in the morning.”