For seven uninterrupted years, I have lived in this apartment. Each morning, I awaken beside Anton, and every single day I endure the sharp comments from his mother. Her recurring taunt echoes constantly: “You came from some small town and just settled right into this ready-made nest.” Valentina Petrovna never misses an occasion to remind me that I’m merely an outsider in what is supposed to be our home.
“Lena, the dishes are still in the sink again,” she demands as she appears unexpectedly in our kitchen—unannounced and without invitation. Anton handed her a key long before we were married, one I’ve pleaded for him to retrieve, but he brushes me off saying, “She’s my mother.”
Without looking up from my plate, I respond, “I was planning to wash them after lunch.” Five-year-old Maxim sits next to me, quietly eating his porridge while stealing nervous glances at his grandmother. Children instinctively sense tension in the room.
“You’re always just ‘planning to,’” Valentina Petrovna scoffs. “Then Anton returns home exhausted, and the apartment is a mess. At least the child is turning out well—not like you.”
My hands clench tightly under the table. Not like me? I’m the one who wakes up each night to care for Maxim when he’s ill. I’m the one who reads stories and plays with him. I enrolled him in kindergarten and attend every parent meeting. Still, I hold my tongue, as I always have.
Valentina Petrovna scans the kitchen with the self-assurance of a true hostess. Ironically, she too was once a newcomer—moving from a village near Kaluga to Moscow in the 1980s to marry Anton’s father. But that part of her past she prefers to forget. Now, she’s established as a Muscovite, and I remain the provincial “newcomer.”
“This apartment came to our family through Anton’s grandmother,” she proclaims, repeating her usual refrain. “And you, here, are just… a guest. A temporary guest.”
For seven years, I’ve been branded a “temporary guest.” Despite giving her a grandson, working tirelessly, and investing every penny I had to renovate this place, she persists in her stance.
“Mom, that’s enough,” I say, my voice tired from the constant battle.
“Don’t call me ‘Mom’! It’s Valentina Petrovna! Remember your place. I’m the elder, so I’m the one in charge here.”
Maxim pokes at his plate, displeased.
“Grandma, why are you angry at Mom?” he asks.
“Finish your porridge, dear. Your mother needs to learn how to maintain the household.”
Later that evening, when Anton arrives home from work, I attempt to address the problem again.
“Antosha, we can’t keep living like this. Your mother enters whenever she pleases, berates me, and insults me in front of Maxim. Please, take her keys away,” I plead.
He removes his shoes without meeting my eyes.
“Len, she’s just my mother. She’s older and alone. And the apartment was inherited from Grandma…”
“Anton!” I grasp his hand. “We’ve been married seven years, have a child. This is our home!”
“Yes, ours. But legally, the apartment belongs to me. She’s used to dropping by since I lived here alone…”
“Then transfer half of the ownership to me—officially.”
His face tightens, like I’ve caused him a sudden ache.
“Why bother with paperwork? We love each other.”
We love each other, perhaps. But love doesn’t replace legal matters. I hadn’t fully grasped this until now.
A week later, my parents arrive for a ten-day stay to help watch Maxim as our vacation winds down. They are humble, hardworking people—my father at a factory, my mother at a hospital. They have supported us countless times: two hundred thousand for the bathroom renovation, another hundred for new furniture, and money to cover Maxim’s illness.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I hug my mother. “Maxim has missed his grandparents.”
“We hope we’re not intruding,” Dad murmurs, concerned about the small space.
“Nonsense! This is our home. Make yourselves comfortable,” I assure them.
Anton greets my parents warmly, clearly appreciative of their assistance. Yet, I detect unease as he calls Valentina Petrovna to inform her of their arrival.
“Mom, Lena’s parents are staying with us for a week… Yes, everything’s fine…”
The following day, Anton and I leave for work, leaving my parents to care for Maxim with stories, games, and lunches. Maxim is delighted; Grandma Vera shares stories about animals, and Grandpa Misha amazes him with magic tricks.
Midday, my mother calls me, her voice shaking.
“Lenochka, your mother-in-law arrived… She’s yelling that we moved in without permission…”
My heart drops.
“Mom, what is happening?”
“She demands we pack up and leave. She claims this apartment is hers and that no one invited us.”
I hear Valentina Petrovna’s harsh voice protesting in the background:
“All these outsiders! They think they can just settle wherever they want. This is private property!”
“Stay calm, Mom. I’m on my way now. Let me speak with her.”
“She won’t listen. Maxim is frightened.”
“Where is Maxim?”
“In his room. Grandpa is comforting him.”
I hurriedly leave work and call Anton on the way.
“Your mother is throwing my parents out!” I exclaim.
“What? Lena, I’m heading home now too.”
“And take away her keys, finally! I won’t tolerate this any longer.”
Arriving in half the usual time, I find my parents’ suitcase abandoned by the entrance—thrown out onto the street!
As I ascend the stairs, shouting reaches me:
“No settling here! You have your own daughter—let her care for you!”
Using my key, I enter to see my disoriented parents in the hallway, my mother in tears. Maxim’s crying echoes from the adjacent room.
“Valentina Petrovna, explain this!” I demand.
Her face flushes with rage.
“Talk to your parents! They decided to move in here without asking! I’ve told them this isn’t a hotel—it’s private property!”
“This is our home!” I shout back. “It’s ours—Anton’s and mine—and my parents are our guests!”
She laughs bitterly.
“Ours? Yours? You’re nobody here! Do you have ownership papers? No! But my son does! So I’m in charge!”
My mother moves closer.
“Lenochka, maybe we should go to a hotel…”
“You’re staying!” I embrace her tightly. “Valentina Petrovna, apologize to my parents now.”
“Never! They should apologize for barging in!”
Anton arrives, face darkened by the confrontation.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“Antosha, I’m protecting our home! They want to move in here!”
“They’re guests—for a week.”
“A week? And then what? They’ll never leave! I know that type.”
I check on Maxim in his room: he sits sniffling, Grandpa Misha stroking his hair.
“Mom, why did Grandma Valya shout at Grandma Vera?” he asks quietly.
A lump rises in my throat.
“Sometimes adults argue, darling. But everything will be okay.”
“Will Grandma Vera and Grandpa Misha leave?”
“No, dear, they’ll stay just as planned.”
Back in the living room, Anton attempts to pacify his mother.
“Mom, why are you behaving like this? It isn’t right.”
“Not right? Nobody told me! I found out by surprise there were strangers living here!”
“They aren’t strangers. They’re Lena’s parents.”
“They mean nothing to me.”
I pull Anton aside.
“Anton, we need to talk alone.”
In the kitchen, I close the door.
“That’s it, Anton. I cannot continue living like this. Either you confront your mother for good, or I leave.”
“Len, don’t be hasty.”
“This isn’t rashness. She threw my parents out onto the street and made a scene in front of Maxim. How much more should I endure?”
“She’s just worried.”
My tone soft but firm.
“Anton, I’m serious. If you don’t confiscate her keys and transfer half the apartment to me, I’m filing for divorce.”
His face pales.
“Lena…”
“No ‘Lena.’ For seven years, I’ve lived with humiliation. My parents funded our renovation from their last pennies, and she treats them like uninvited guests.”
“But formal ownership…”
“It’s not about formality. It’s about security. I want to know this home belongs to me too—that I am not a ‘temporary guest.’”
Anton falls silent, looking out the window.
“How do I explain this to my mother?”
“I’ll file the papers tomorrow—and take Maxim with me.”
He realizes I’m determined. Though seven years is long, I can no longer live where I feel unwanted.
“Okay,” he concedes. “Tomorrow, we’ll settle it.”
Back in the living room, Valentina Petrovna sits fuming on the sofa.
“Mom,” Anton says, “give me the keys.”
“What?”
“The apartment keys. Hand them over.”
“Antosha, what are you doing?”
“Mom, this is wrong. Lena’s right. This is our home.”
Her face drains of color.
“So, you’re kicking me out? For her?”
“I’m not kicking you out, but give me the keys. And apologize to Lena’s parents.”
“Never!”
“Then don’t come again.”
Shaking, she pulls the keys from her purse and slams them on the table.
“Fine! We’ll see how you live without your mother! And that wife of yours will be the first to leave when trouble comes!”
She slams the door so violently, the windows rattle.
Silence fills the room. My parents stand in the hallway, unsure what to do.
“Please forgive them,” I say, embracing them warmly. “Make yourselves at home. This is your home too.”
My mother hugs me enfolding me in warmth.
“Lenochka, maybe you shouldn’t have done this…”
“I should have, Mom. A long time ago.”
The next day, Anton and I visit a notary, and half the apartment is officially transferred to me. No longer a “temporary guest,” this is now my rightful home.
For three days, Valentina Petrovna stays silent, then calls Anton, tearfully apologizing.
“Son, I didn’t mean it. I was just worried.”
“Come over, Mom. But behave,” Anton replies.
She arrives bearing cake and flowers, offering apologies to my parents. Though they seem insincere, she makes an effort.
“I got nervous. You know, older people tend to get suspicious.”
- Peace has been restored between us.
- Valentina Petrovna now calls ahead before visiting.
- She no longer criticizes my housekeeping.
- She addresses me simply as Lena, not as a guest.
- When my parents returned for Maxim’s birthday, no one attempted to expel them.
- Valentina Petrovna even helped set the table.
Key Insight: Firmly establishing boundaries and clarifying legal ownership transformed hostile relationships into respectful coexistence, demonstrating the importance of standing up for one’s rightful place within a family.
My mother quietly admitted, “You did the right thing. It should have been done long ago.”
Now, with my name on the title, Valentina Petrovna no longer regards me as an interloper. Her attempts to displace my family nearly cost her the invaluable relationships she holds dear: her son and her grandson.
This house is no longer a place where I am just passing through. Today, I am the woman of the house.
These events remind us that respect and recognition in a family require clear communication, boundaries, and sometimes, legal affirmation. True belonging extends beyond love alone—it requires acknowledgment and inclusion. Only then can a home be a place of peace and unity.