The Apartment
Marina was slowly wiping down the glass surface of the dining table, her movements careful and precise, almost meditative. The faint squeak of the cloth on the glass was the only sound in the quiet apartment. That is, until she heard the familiar rattle of keys in the lock.
Her body tensed instinctively before she relaxed. Ilya was home. Earlier than usual.
She stood up straight, quickly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and smoothed down her blouse. As he stepped in, she met him with a warm, practiced smile.
“Hi, dear,” she said, walking over to him. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” Ilya replied wearily, loosening his tie with one hand while closing the door with the other. “Did Mom stop by?”
Marina nodded, careful to keep her tone light.
“Yes, she left about half an hour ago. She was... complimenting your sister again.”
Ilya glanced at her, his expression unreadable, but she noticed the slight tightening of his jaw. That name — Svetlana — always changed the atmosphere.
“What was it this time?” he asked, heading for the fridge without looking at her.
“The usual,” Marina replied as she sat on the couch, folding her hands on her knees. “Svetlana’s an amazing cook. Svetlana knows how to keep her husband happy.”
She said the words softly, but the edge in her voice was unmistakable. The apartment — their bright, modern three-room home — had always been Marina’s pride. Every plant, every cushion, every picture frame was placed with love. This was her territory, her comfort. And yet, even here, the comparisons followed her like an unwanted shadow.
“She’s just worried about Svetka,” Ilya said, grabbing a juice carton. “Pregnancy’s a big deal.”
“Worried,” Marina repeated, her lips tightening. “That’s why she reminded me again that we have three rooms and no children?”
Ilya froze mid-motion, the fridge still open. He hesitated before slowly closing it.
“She didn’t say that.”
“Not directly,” Marina murmured, standing and walking toward the window. “But she always hints. Always comparing. Always judging. It’s exhausting.”
Outside, the late sun hung low, painting the buildings in soft gold. This neighborhood had been their dream — quiet, clean, full of families and small playgrounds. She imagined children riding bikes along the path. Her children. Once, that dream had felt so close.
“She means well,” Ilya said, his voice quiet. “Svetka’s apartment is falling apart. Leaky pipes. Bad windows. She’s got it rough.”
“So what?” Marina turned sharply. “That’s not our fault.”
“I know. I’m not saying it is.”
“Then what are you saying, Ilya?”
He rubbed his forehead, clearly torn.
“Mom thinks maybe we could... help out.”
Marina stared at him, her arms slowly crossing over her chest.
“Help. How exactly?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted away, avoiding hers.
“Well... we have space.”
The words fell like a stone between them. Marina’s hands curled into fists. She already knew where this was heading.
“You’re suggesting we invite Svetlana to live with us?”
“Not forever,” Ilya said quickly, lifting his hands in defense. “Just until the baby’s a bit older. You know, while she recovers, gets back on her feet.”
“And how long do you think that’ll take?” Marina began pacing. “A year? Two? Longer?”
“She’s my sister, Marish.”
“And I’m your wife!” she snapped, then caught herself. Her voice dropped. “I’m your wife. Don’t I matter?”
“You do,” he said. “You matter more than anyone. But family is—”
“Family is a word your mother throws around when she wants something.”
He turned away, walking to the window. Silence thickened in the room. Marina could feel it—something deep was shifting between them.
“Let’s not talk about this now,” Ilya said eventually. “I’m tired.”
She nodded. But inside, a storm was brewing. This wasn’t over. Far from it.
Two weeks later, Svetlana gave birth to a baby boy. Marina bought a delicate blue blanket, a soft stuffed bear, and a bouquet of lilies, and visited her at the maternity hospital.
The baby was beautiful—plump cheeks, curious eyes, and tiny, perfect hands. Svetlana looked radiant, albeit tired.
“Thanks for coming,” Svetlana said, adjusting the blanket around the baby. “Mom said you don’t really like kids.”
Marina forced a smile, ignoring the jab.
“Congratulations. What’s his name?”
“Artyom,” Svetlana replied, brushing her fingers over the baby’s cheek. “Mom’s already talking about how we’ll manage.”
Marina didn’t ask what that meant. She already had an idea.
The next morning, Valentina Petrovna arrived unannounced, holding a cake and wearing a serious face. She walked straight into the kitchen like she owned the place.
“The baby needs fresh air,” she began abruptly. “There’s a park near your house. The elevator works. That’s important.”
Marina poured tea, her hands trembling just slightly.
“Yes, the neighborhood is nice,” she said cautiously.
“It’s perfect for strollers,” Valentina continued. “Svetka’s building has steep stairs. No elevator.”
Marina set the cup in front of her. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears.
“Valentina Petrovna, if you’re getting at something, say it plainly.”
“I’m thinking about my grandson,” the older woman said. “Babies grow fast. They need space.”
Marina sat down across from her, her gaze steady.
“Artyom is still tiny. He’ll be fine in a one-bedroom for now.”
“For now,” her mother-in-law echoed. “But soon he’ll be crawling. Walking. Climbing. It will be hard for Svetka.”
Marina stood and looked out the window. Kids were playing below, their laughter floating up through the open glass.
“We’ll help where we can,” she said. “We’ll buy what they need. Babysit sometimes.”
“That’s not enough,” Valentina’s voice hardened. “He needs proper conditions.”
Marina turned. The woman’s eyes were full of challenge.
“What exactly do you want?”
“Think about it,” the woman said. “You have space. You don’t have children. Svetka has a son.”
That night, Marina told Ilya everything. His reaction was the same—avoidant, dismissive.
“She’s just worried. Don’t read too much into it.”
“Ilya,” Marina said quietly. “She wants our apartment.”
He frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”
But she saw it—the doubt in his eyes. He was torn, and she was scared of which way he’d lean.
A month later, during a family dinner, everything came to a head.
Marina had made his favorite food. Set the table perfectly. Lit candles. She wanted peace.
But peace wasn’t on the menu.
“Temporarily swap apartments with my daughter,” Valentina Petrovna said after her salad, her tone firm. “She has a baby now. She needs space.”
Marina froze. The room shrank around her.
“What?” she whispered.
“You heard me. Just for a year or two.”
She looked at Ilya. He sat still, his hands clenched.
Then something changed.
“Mom,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Stop.”
“What did you say?”
He stood, shoulders back.
“The apartment belongs to Marina. There will be no swapping.”
For a moment, Marina forgot to breathe.
“Ilyusha, be reasonable—”
“I am being reasonable,” he said. “And respectful. Of my wife.”
“You’re choosing her over your own family?” Valentina’s voice rose.
“She is my family.”
The words struck like lightning. Valentina turned to Marina, furious.
“You’ve poisoned him!”
“No one poisoned me,” Ilya said. “I made this choice. Finally.”
Valentina’s face turned red. “You’re selfish. You have three rooms and won’t share!”
“I was wrong before,” Ilya continued. “But now I understand. Our home is not up for negotiation.”
Marina stepped beside him. They stood together.
“This is our life,” she said.
“Your life?” Valentina spat. “And my daughter’s life doesn’t matter?”
“Svetlana is a grown woman,” Ilya said. “She’ll manage.”
“And you have no children,” Valentina snapped. “Why should you get to live in such luxury?”
The words cut, but Marina didn’t flinch.
“Enough,” Ilya said. “Leave.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
“I’m setting boundaries.”
Valentina gathered her things, glaring.
“You’ll regret this,” she hissed at Marina.
The door slammed behind her.
That night, Marina sat quietly on the sofa. Ilya joined her, wrapping his arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve stood up for you sooner.”
She leaned against him. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone.
A week later, Valentina called.
“Ilyusha,” she pleaded. “The baby’s sick. Svetochka’s crying every day.”
“We talked about this,” he said.
“There’s dampness! Mold! He’s coughing!”
“The matter is closed.”
“You’ll let your nephew suffer?” she pushed. “Just for a
