She Put Her Foot Down: “My Apartment Is Not for My Husband and His Mother”

Chapter One: The Apartment That Still Belonged to Her

Katya sat on the wide windowsill of her two-bedroom apartment, knees drawn to her chest, watching the courtyard below. A group of teenage boys were chasing a soccer ball across the worn asphalt, shouting, laughing, occasionally kicking it far too close to the parked cars. Once the ball slammed into a window on the first floor, but the boys only laughed louder, as if the entire world existed for their noise.

Katya watched them with a strange mix of envy and melancholy.

She used to be like that too — careless, loud, convinced the future would sort itself out. Back then, she thought adulthood meant freedom. Now she knew it meant something else entirely: explanations, compromises, swallowing irritation, and endlessly proving that you had the right to exist comfortably in your own life.

The apartment should have been her refuge. It was the one thing that truly belonged to her.

Her grandfather had left it to her in his will — not to her parents, not to distant relatives, but to her alone. He had done it deliberately, telling her once, half-joking, half-serious:

“Everyone needs one place in the world where no one can tell them to leave.”

At the time, she’d laughed.

Now, those words echoed in her mind almost daily.

The problem wasn’t the apartment.

The problem was Dima.

And right behind him — like a shadow that refused to detach — came his mother, Tamara Ivanovna.

Chapter Two: When Love Moves In With a Suitcase

When Katya and Dima had first started dating, he’d seemed light and easy. He knew how to make her laugh, how to brush off problems with a joke, how to talk about the future without sounding heavy or demanding. He admired her independence. He told her how lucky he felt that she was “so self-sufficient.”

The first cracks appeared the day he moved in.

He arrived with one suitcase and a grin, announcing it like a victory.

“Well, that’s it,” he said cheerfully. “I’m officially homeless. Guess I’ll have to stay with you forever.”

She laughed, thinking it was a joke.

Two weeks later, Tamara Ivanovna started “dropping by.”

Except she didn’t drop by.

She invaded.

The first time, Katya tried to be polite. She made tea, offered cookies, listened to stories about Dima’s childhood that painted him as a fragile genius constantly misunderstood by the world.

The second time, Tamara Ivanovna rearranged the kitchen cabinets “for convenience.”

The third time, she brought her own spare keys.

“Just in case,” she’d said brightly.

That was when Katya realized something was deeply wrong.

Chapter Three: The Sound of Boots on Her Floor

“Did you even wash the floors today?”

Tamara Ivanovna’s voice cut through the apartment the moment she stepped inside, boots still on, umbrella dripping water onto the parquet.

Katya, standing at the sink, dried her hands slowly on a towel.

“It’s clean, Tamara Ivanovna.”

“Clean is when the kitchen smells fresh, not like cutlets,” her mother-in-law sniffed theatrically. “Do you know what it smells like in here?”

She inhaled deeply.

“Like a cheap dinner.”

Dima snorted, as if it were a brilliant joke.

Katya shot him a look. He didn’t notice — or pretended not to.

“Mom, stop it,” he said lazily. “Katya’s trying.”

“Oh, she’s trying,” Tamara Ivanovna rolled her eyes. “In our day we didn’t ‘try.’ We did things properly.”

Katya clenched her teeth.

If this weren’t her apartment, she would have slammed the door long ago. But leave? Where would she go? This place wasn’t just housing — it was her inheritance, her safety net, the only solid ground she had.

Am I really going to let them turn it into a hallway people pass through? she thought.

Chapter Four: Tea With Conditions

That evening, over tea in the kitchen, Tamara Ivanovna launched into her favorite topic.

“Katya, let’s be honest,” she said, stirring sugar she didn’t need. “Why do you need this apartment? You’re young — you need money. We’ll sell it, buy a bigger three-bedroom. This little cave of yours is pointless.”

Katya smiled thinly.

“My ‘little cave,’ huh? Funny, because you seem very comfortable sitting in it every single day.”

Tamara Ivanovna narrowed her eyes.

“Are you being cheeky with me?”

“No,” Katya replied calmly. “I’m reminding you that legally, this apartment belongs to me.”

Dima immediately intervened.

“Katya, why are you so sharp? Mom means well.”

“For your mom, ‘meaning well’ means I sign whatever she puts in front of me,” Katya said, her voice shaking despite her effort to stay composed.

“Girl,” Tamara Ivanovna sneered, “the man is the head of the family. And the man is my son.”

“If your son is the head,” Katya shot back, “why is he sitting there silently while you hand out orders?”

Dima stiffened.

“Katya, you’re crossing the line.”

“Crossing the line?” Katya stood. “Fine. Then starting tomorrow, the only keys to this apartment stay with me.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Tamara Ivanovna’s face went pale with fury.

“So that’s how it is,” she hissed. “You’re throwing us out?”

“I’m throwing strangers out of my apartment.”

“Strangers?” Dima echoed, stunned.

“And who am I to you?” Katya asked quietly. “The maid? The wallet? Or your wife?”

Tamara Ivanovna shot to her feet.

“Dima — either you put her in her place right now, or I’m never coming here again.”

“That would be the best news I’ve had all week,” Katya said flatly.

Dima’s eyes darted between them.

“Mom, just wait… Katya, why are you starting this? We’re family…”

“Family?” Katya stared at him. “Then decide. Are you with me, or with her?”

Chapter Five: The Night of No Answers

That night was unbearable.

Katya lay awake listening to Dima toss and turn.

“Katya, please,” he whispered finally. “Mom isn’t the enemy. She just wants to help.”

“Help?” Katya gave a bitter laugh. “If she could, she’d sell me along with the apartment.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not. Dima, she sees me as nothing but a name on the deed.”

He exhaled heavily.

“I don’t want to choose between you.”

“And I don’t want to live like my voice doesn’t matter.”

She turned toward the wall.

His silence was worse than any insult.

Chapter Six: Papers on the Table

The next day, Tamara Ivanovna returned — this time with a folder.

“Here, Katya,” she said briskly. “Just sign a power of attorney. We’ll handle everything like civilized people.”

Katya laughed — sharp, almost hysterical.

“So I end up on the street?”

“Not on the street. In a new apartment.”

“One you pick. With money I’m expected to hand over voluntarily.”

“You’re selfish,” Tamara Ivanovna snapped. “Think about the family’s future.”

Katya stood.

“And think about the fact that I’m part of this family too. Or am I just temporary — until you find someone more suitable for Dima?”

“Well, if you already understand that…” Tamara Ivanovna smiled thinly.

“Mom!” Dima shouted.

Katya felt tears burn but refused to let them fall.

“If anyone brings papers into my home again,” she said firmly, “the door closes for good.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No,” Katya replied coldly. “I’m warning you.”

Chapter Seven: The Choice

A week later, it happened.

Tamara Ivanovna came unannounced. Dima followed, his father trailing behind.

Katya was ready.

The documents lay neatly on the table.

“Well?” Tamara Ivanovna began. “Have you changed your mind?”

“I have,” Katya said calmly. “About tolerating this.”

Dima slammed his hand on the table.

“You want me to choose?”

“That’s exactly what I want.”

He looked at his mother.

“Then I choose Mom.”

Something snapped — and lifted — inside Katya.

“Perfect,” she said. “Pack up. Leave the keys.”

“You have no right!” Tamara Ivanovna shrieked.

“This apartment is mine,” Katya replied. “Argue in court if you like.”

His father pulled Dima toward the door.

“This is over.”

Chapter Eight: The Fall

A week later, court.

The judge barely glanced up.

“The apartment is inherited personal property. No division.”

Tamara Ivanovna protested. Dima stared at the floor.

Outside, Dima tried to speak.

“Katya… maybe we still could—”

“No,” she said. “You chose.”

She walked away lighter than she had in years.

Epilogue: Her Home Again

That evening, Katya sat alone in the kitchen.

The apartment was quiet. Peaceful.

She poured tea, looked around, and smiled.

“Well, Grandpa,” she said softly, “I kept it.”

And for the first time in a long time, she knew:

This wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning.