I was getting home late. It was a Friday night—the kind filled with traffic jams and a desperate urge to collapse face-first into a pillow and not move for a week. The key turned in the lock with its familiar click, but the first thing I saw in the hallway were two massive, battered, «tired burgundy» suitcases and a plaid rolling cart with an onion sprouting out of the top.
My heart did a somersault. A wild, irrational fear collided with pure confusion. A robbery? No, the luggage was way too tacky for burglars. I walked into the kitchen, and that’s when it hit me.
Sitting in my kitchen, in my favorite armchair by the window (the one I fought my ex-husband for in court), was her. Galina Pavlovna. My former mother-in-law. She was eyeing my new curtains with judgmental curiosity while sipping tea from my good china.
«Hello, Galina Pavlovna,» I forced out, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks. I couldn’t tell if it was from anger or sheer awkwardness.
She turned toward me. She had a look on her face like she’d just won the lottery but was doing me a massive favor by existing in my presence.
«Oh, look who finally showed up,» she drawled. «Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling. My old key still worked—lucky for me Dima never changed the locks.»
Dima. My ex-husband. The man I divorced six months ago. The man who, rumor had it, had been living with a hairstylist named Lena in a studio on the South-West side for the last three months.
«Galina Pavlovna, where is Dmitry? Have you called him?» I asked cautiously, trying to buy some time. My head was spinning. I desperately wanted to cry, but I held it back. I had been this woman’s daughter-in-law for far too long to show her any weakness now.
«Yes, he’s on his way,» she said, waving me off. «Come on now, help me bring the rest of the bags in. I’m moving in for a while. I started some renovations back at my place in Podolsk, and I can’t stand living with the neighbors. I decided I’ll stay with you guys for the time being. It’s a nice neighborhood, close to the subway. I see you’ve kept the place clean—good for you.»
She looked at me with a hint of disdain, like I was a maid who had failed to bring her slippers on time.
«Galina Pavlovna,» I repeated, trying to speak slowly and clearly. «Which son exactly did you come to live with?»
She choked on her tea.
«Have you lost your mind?» she snapped. «Dima’s, obviously. And stop with these little games. I know you’ve always disliked me, but now is not the time to settle scores. My blood pressure is up; I need peace and quiet.»
«Galina Pavlovna,» I sighed, leaning against the doorframe because my legs felt like lead. «Dima and I are divorced. We have been for six months.»
She froze with the cup halfway to her lips. Her eyes narrowed. Then, she set the cup down so hard the saucer let out a pitiful clink.
«Stop playing the fool,» she said, her voice turning icy. «That is a stupid joke. I am his mother. I know everything is fine between you two.»
«It’s not a joke.» I gestured toward the suitcases. «You can call Dima yourself. He’s with Lena now. And this apartment, Galina Pavlovna, is in my name. My mother gave it to me before the wedding. Dima just lived here—at least until he started drinking and wrecked the car. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I filed for divorce.»
She went pale. First, she turned white as a sheet, and then her face began to flush a deep beet-red. I knew this cycle. First shock, then denial, then rage.
«You’re lying!» she hissed, jumping to her feet.
She clutched at her heart. Usually, this was the moment I would rush to her with heart medication. Not today.
«I’ll call an ambulance if I have to,» I said calmly. «But I’m not making up a bed for you. Finish your tea.»
«You ungrateful brat!» she screamed. «I made you who you are! I got you that job through my connections! I—»
«You got me a job as a courier making peanuts when I was a student,» I interrupted. «And in exchange, I washed your underwear and nursed Dima through every single one of his benders. We’re even.»
At that moment, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood Dmitry. He looked disheveled, wearing sweatpants and sporting a fresh bruise under his eye. He saw his mother, then he saw me, and his face dropped.
«Mom? What are you doing here?» he asked, his voice raspy.
«My boy!» Galina Pavlovna wailed, throwing herself around his neck. «She’s saying you two got divorced! She says you’re with some girl named Lena! It’s not true, right? Tell me she’s lying!»
Dima shifted his gaze to me, then back to his mother. To be honest, I almost felt bad for him. He looked like a puppy that had just been caught making a mess on the rug.
«Mom, yeah… we got divorced,» he muttered. «But why do you have all your stuff? I told you, you can’t stay at my place right now.»
«Where on earth are you living?!» she shrieked, clutching his jacket.
«Mom, I’m staying at a friend’s for now,» Dima exhaled. «Lena’s mother moved in, so they kicked me out. I was going to head to your place, but you’re doing renovations. I… I basically don’t have a place to stay.»
A heavy silence hung in the air. Galina Pavlovna slowly turned her head toward me. Her face twisted into a mask of pure loathing and disgust.
«This is all your fault,» she hissed. «You’re the one who threw him out of this apartment. Now he’s homeless while you sit here in a palace.»
«Yes, I am,» I nodded. «In my palace. One that I earned myself. And one I have no intention of sharing with anyone.»
Dima sighed, grabbed one of his mother’s suitcases, and started nudging her toward the exit.
«Let’s go, Mom. Don’t embarrass yourself.»
She struggled, looking back at me, and I could read everything in her eyes—from «I’ll destroy you» to «Help me, I have nowhere to go.» I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
When the door finally slammed shut behind them, I leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. The silence was ringing in my ears. For six months, I had been putting this apartment back together—changing the curtains, tossing his old socks from under the sofa. I thought I had finally purged myself of all those «relatives.»
I was wrong. You don’t get rid of people like Galina Pavlovna once and for all. They bob back up like corks in a swamp at the worst possible moment. But today, I won the battle. And tomorrow… tomorrow I’m calling a locksmith to change the locks.
Back in the kitchen, her mug of half-finished tea was still sitting on the table. I poured the tea down the drain and tossed the mug into the trash. It went down with the very last thread connecting me to that old life—the life where I was the convenient, patient, perpetually submissive daughter-in-law.
A different woman lives here now. The kind who doesn’t open the door for people with suitcases.
