When Vadim and I finally scraped together enough savings for a modest apartment, I thought things would change. We signed the papers, painted the walls, bought secondhand furniture, and planted a small fern by the window that I affectionately named “Freedom.” It was the first place that was truly ours.
But we barely lived in it for three months before the storm arrived—in a beige coat and a heavy perfume that lingered in the corners long after she left.
“Your new house will be rented out, and you will live in a rental. I need the money,” my mother-in-law declared, sitting on our new couch like it already belonged to her. “It’s only fair. I helped Vadim when he was little, now it’s his turn.”
I blinked at her, stunned. “We bought this apartment. We saved for it.”
“With Vadim’s money,” she snapped. “And Vadim is my son. He owes me. Don’t get so comfortable.”
Vadim stood in the doorway, silent. His jaw was clenched, but he said nothing.
And just like that, our fern began to wilt.
I had always known Elena Vladimirovna was manipulative, but I hadn’t anticipated this level of audacity. She wanted us out—not for some emergency or necessity—but because she had decided to rent out our apartment for a higher profit and pocket the earnings. The apartment she hadn’t lifted a finger to help purchase.
At first, I fought. “No one kicks me and my child out of our home,” I said.
But Vadim, always trying to keep the peace, convinced me to “temporarily” agree. “Just until things settle down,” he whispered. “It’s only for a few months.”
So we moved—again. This time into a dingy rental with thin walls and a leaky bathroom. Pasha cried more often here, and I couldn’t blame him. I cried too—when no one was looking.
Over the following year, the situation got worse. Elena Vladimirovna began micromanaging our lives from afar, turning Vadim into a marionette. She had his bank card details, passwords, and control over the rental payments for our apartment. When I confronted Vadim, he always had excuses: “She’s just borrowing,” “She raised me,” “She’ll stop soon.”
But she didn’t stop. Instead, she bought a new car.
One night, I saw the receipts. Not just the car—but spa days, gold jewelry, fancy dinners. All from money siphoned from Vadim. From us.
I’d had enough.
I took action in silence. I consulted a lawyer. Quietly transferred my share of the apartment into a trust for Pasha. I got a part-time job from home, began building financial independence. I contacted the rental agency managing our property and showed them the ownership documents. Legally, they had no right to lease the apartment without my permission.
Then I asked Vadim to come with me to the flat—our flat—one sunny afternoon.
We stood in the living room, where the fern had long since been discarded.
“I want to move back,” I said.
He looked around, guilt clouding his face. “I… don’t know if my mom will agree.”
“She doesn’t have to. I’ve already filed the documents. The lease is terminated. We move in next week.”
Vadim stared at me, torn between loyalty and logic. “She’s going to be furious.”
“I’m not living my life for her anymore.”
It took time, but Vadim began to see clearly. His mother, outraged, called him day and night—but I didn’t flinch. When she showed up at the door, demanding explanations, I handed her a folder.
Inside were records of all the money she’d taken. Screenshots. Bank statements. A list of every breach of trust.
She went quiet.
“I’m not forbidding you from being in our lives,” I said calmly, “but you don’t get to run it anymore.”
From that day on, she kept her distance.
The fern at the window was replaced with a new one—stronger, taller, harder to kill.
Pasha took his first steps in that living room.
And for the first time in years, I could breathe.