“Get out of my house!” Tamara Petrovna yelled, brushing my favorite vase off the table. The shards scattered across the kitchen floor, creating a harsh sound. “I said, leave!”
I stood frozen, holding a cup of coffee. The hot liquid splashed onto my fingers, but I barely registered the pain.
“Tamara Petrovna, are you out of your mind?” My voice faltered. “This is my apartment.”
“Yours?!” My mother-in-law cackled, sounding genuinely malicious. “Without my Andrey, you’d still be living in a dorm with cockroaches! He earned this place, not you, you penniless girl!”
I set my cup down slowly, anger bubbling inside me.
“Andrey? He earned it?” I chuckled bitterly. “Tamara Petrovna, your son hasn’t contributed a dime to the mortgage in three years of our marriage. My parents gifted me this apartment before we even got married. Do you want to see the documents?”
Her face turned crimson, patches forming on her neck.
“You’re lying! Andrey told me he bought it! That he’s the owner! You’re just a temporary resident! Pack your bags before I call the police!”
This is it. My husband, it turns out, is a storyteller. And I’m just the main character in his absurd play.
Andrey was supposed to be home in an hour. I decided not to ignite a scene now. Let Tamara Petrovna remain in her delusions a little longer.
I quietly left the kitchen and locked myself in the bedroom to call my husband.
“Hi, darling. Your mother broke a vase and is kicking me out. She claims this is your apartment. Any chance you want to explain?”
Silence lingered on the line. A heavy, sticky silence.
“Masha, you see…” he hesitated. “I didn’t want to upset her. I told her we bought it together… that I’m the main breadwinner. It gives her a sense of security.”
“Security?! She’s throwing me into the street! Right now! Andrey, are you serious? You’ve been lying to your mother for three years?”
“Why do you have to be like this? I just embellished the truth. I’ll handle it when I get home. Just wait an hour.”
An hour? I should tolerate a crazy woman in my own apartment because her son is a coward and a liar?
I stepped out of the bedroom again. Tamara Petrovna had taken over the living room, removing my curtains.
“What’s going on?” I couldn’t believe my eyes as she scrunched up my expensive tulle.
“Dust collectors!” she barked. “I’m allergic. We’ll hang new ones tomorrow — proper ones. And this sofa has to go, it’s too stiff. Andrey will buy a new one.”
“Put the curtains back.” I took a step toward her.
“Don’t you give me orders! I’m the mother of the owner! And you are nobody!”
She swung the cloth at me. I caught her arm.
“Tamara Petrovna, listen carefully.” I spoke quietly but firmly. “The apartment is mine. It was a gift from my father. Andrey is just registered here — temporarily. If you don’t stop this circus right now, I’ll call the police. They’ll remove you handcuffed.”
She jerked her arm free.
“Liar! My son couldn’t possibly lie to me! He’s a businessman! He has a company!”
“A company?!” I laughed. “He had a sole proprietorship for computer repairs which he closed last year due to debts. Now he drives a taxi.”
Her expression fell.
“What do you mean he drives a taxi? He’s a director…”
“A director of the steering wheel and pedals. Tamara Petrovna, sit down.”
She plopped onto the sofa (yes, the same one she complained about). Confusion etched on her face.
“It can’t be… Andrey has sent me money… for medicine, for the sanatorium…”
“With my salary,” I shot back. “He borrowed under the guise of ‘business development,’ but in reality, supported you to keep up appearances.”
Just then, I heard the key turn in the lock. The “director” had arrived.
Andrey walked in, beaming, carrying a cake.
“Ladies, don’t fight! I brought something sweet!”
He froze, seeing our expressions.
“Andrey…” Tamara Petrovna whispered. “Is it true? The apartment isn’t yours?”
Andrey’s eyes darted around. He placed the cake on the side table. Removed his jacket.
“Mom, what difference does it make? We’re family. Everything is shared. Masha just…”
“Masha just got tired of your lies!” I shouted. “Tell her the truth! Right now!”
He hesitated.
“Well… legally, yes, the apartment belongs to Masha. But we live here together! I did the repairs! I hung the wallpaper!”
“You hung wallpaper for two days, then whined about your back for a month!” I couldn’t hold back. “I bought the materials! The furniture is mine! You just lay on the sofa dreaming about a great business!”
Slowly, Tamara Petrovna stood up. She walked to her son and slapped him hard across the face.
“Shame on you!” she spat. “I told all my friends about how successful my son is! He bought an apartment, supports his wife! And look at you… a freeloader!”
Andrey clutched his cheek.
“Mom, what’s wrong? I haven’t succeeded yet! But I’m trying!”
“Trying?” she turned to me. “Masha, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. He told me such tales…”
I exhaled, my anger easing a bit.
“Fine. Let’s move on. But return the curtains to their place.”
It felt like a happy ending? Not quite.
Later, when we were drinking tea (without cake; one piece felt stuck in my throat), Andrey started whining.
“Masha, why did you tell Mom everything? Her heart is weak. You could have played along.”
“Play along?!” I nearly choked on my cup. “She tossed me out! Broke my vase! Ruined the curtains! And I was supposed to stay silent and smile?”
“But she’s an old lady… It makes her happy to think her son is successful. Are you really that selfish?”
“Yes, Andrey. I am selfish. Selfish of my nerves. And the money you apparently took from our budget to maintain your facade before your mother.”
“I didn’t take anything! I borrowed! I’ll pay it back!”
“When? When you make a million as a taxi driver?”
He sulked and went to sleep on the couch.
The next morning brought unexpected excitement.
I awoke to the smell of burnt food. I dashed into the kitchen to find Tamara Petrovna (who stayed overnight, too late to leave) frying pancakes over smoke, scratching away with a fork on my new non-stick frying pan.
“Tamara Petrovna!” I shrieked. “You can’t use a fork on Teflon! You’ve ruined it!”
“Oh, come on!” she waved dismissively. “A scratch is nothing. But these pancakes are tasty. Sit down, eat.”
I looked at the skillet. The bottom was all scratched up. Three thousand rubles wasted.
“I’m not eating that. You’ll buy me a new pan.”
“You’re so petty, Masha!” she scoffed. “Andrey, come eat! Mother made pancakes!”
Andrey shuffled in, sleepy and disheveled.
“Oh, pancakes! Nice! Masha, why do you look so sour?”
“Your mother ruined my cookware. And thinks that’s okay.”
“Masha, we’ll buy you a new pan! With my first paycheck!” he stuffed his mouth with a pancake.
“With which paycheck? You haven’t even paid for the car rental yet.”
He choked.
“Are you counting my money?”
“I’m tallying our joint losses! Andrey, this is it! I’m tired.”
At that moment, Tamara Petrovna chimed in:
“By the way, kids. I’ve been thinking. Since the apartment is spacious, I’ll stay with you for a month. My neighbors are noisy during renovations, and it’s peaceful here.”
I froze.
“No.”
“What do you mean ‘no’?” She planted her hands on her hips.
“No, you won’t live here. Not for a month, not for a day. Guests are three days. Three days are up. You are leaving today.”
“Andrey!” she squeaked. “Your wife is kicking me out! Again!”
Andrey paused chewing, looking at me imploringly.
“Masha, can’t she stay?” he pleaded. “There’s plenty of space…”
“Andrey, either she leaves today, or you go with her.”
A silence fell. The sound of water dripping from the tap was audible.
“Are you blackmailing me?” Andrey whispered.
“I’m laying down conditions. I did not sign up to babysit your mother or put up with her antics. And your deceptions too.”
Andrey stood up.
“Fine. If you’re putting it that way… Mom, get ready. We’re leaving.”
“Where to?!” Tamara Petrovna gasped. “To you? To that tiny room you are renting?”
“Mom, I’m not renting anything. I live here. And if I leave… We’ll go to your place.”
“To mine?!” She almost jumped. “I have a one-room place! And cats! Where will I fit you both?”
“Well, I’ll go by myself. Without Masha.”
Tamara Petrovna looked at her son, then at me.
“You know what, son?” She took off her apron. “Figure it out yourselves. I’m going home. My cats are more important than your squabbles. And I don’t want to live with you. You snore.”
She quickly packed and left, not even finishing her tea.
We were left alone.
Andrey sat with his head down.
“Are you really going to kick me out?”
“Yes.”
“Because of my mother?”
“Because of everything. Because of the lies. Because of the money. Because you aren’t a man, Andrey. You’re a mama’s boy trying to look cool. But in reality, you’re nothing.”
He silently gathered his belongings: a bag of clothes and his laptop.
“I love you, Masha.”
“I know. But that’s not enough.”
He left.
I was left alone in my apartment. With a ruined frying pan, a broken vase, and emptiness inside.
But you know what? I felt relief. Like a massive stone fell off my shoulders.
I washed the floor. Threw away the skillet. Bought a new vase.
After a week, Andrey called.
“Masha, I found a job. A decent one, as a manager. Maybe we could try again?”
I looked at my phone. At the clean, empty apartment. At my peace.
“No, Andrey. We won’t try.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be a prop in your theater anymore.”
I hung up and blocked his number.
By the way, Tamara Petrovna called later. Apologized. Asked for money for “dentures.” I told her I had to pay a nonexistent mortgage and her son’s fictional debts. She grumbled and left me alone.
I live for myself now. And there won’t be any more freeloaders or their crazy mothers in my home.
How would you act? Would you forgive your husband for lying to save the family? Or would you have done what I did?