Polina stood back to admire the new curtains she had just hung.
They were a soft shade of blue with a delicate floral design—exactly what she had envisioned for the living room. Carefully adjusting the folds, she stepped away and smiled at the overall effect.
— Sergey, what do you think? — She asked her husband, who was sunk into an armchair, eyes glued to his phone.
— They’re fine, — he replied distractedly, without lifting his gaze.
Polina sighed, disheartened. Lately, Sergey seemed distant, preoccupied by something he wouldn’t share. She moved to sit beside him on the edge of the sofa, gently touching his hand.
Sergey hesitated, then set his phone down and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
— Polina, we need to talk, — he began, his voice carrying an unusual seriousness. — Mom’s retiring next week.
He continued: — I was thinking she could come stay with us for a little while. Just until she adjusts to not working anymore.
Polina’s heart sank. His mother, Larisa Arkadyevna, had never made an effort to hide her disapproval of her.
— For how long? — she asked cautiously.
— A month or two, maybe until autumn, — Sergey replied vaguely.
A week later, Larisa arrived with two massive suitcases and a scrutinizing glance at the hallway.
— I trust you’ve prepared a proper room for me, — she remarked coldly.
— Would you like some tea? — Polina offered with forced politeness.
— Yes. No sugar, — Larisa snapped. Then, glancing at the new curtains, she added, — Take those hideous floral rags down. They’re an eyesore.
The promised two months quietly expanded into six. Larisa made herself at home—filling cabinets with jars of preserves, moving around furniture, and even tossing out Polina’s favorite pillows, calling them “dust collectors.”
One evening, Polina sat beside her husband, her voice barely a whisper.
— I can’t take it anymore, — she said. — She acts like this is her home.
These nighttime complaints had become routine. But nothing ever changed. Worse, Larisa had begun openly criticizing Polina, and even Sergey now seemed to side with his mother more often than not.
Then, one morning while dressing for work, Polina noticed her favorite white blouse was missing.
— Larisa Arkadyevna, have you seen my blouse? — She asked from the kitchen doorway.
— That tasteless thing? I washed it. You’ve been ruining it with your sloppy laundry methods.
— But I needed it today! — Polina said, barely containing her frustration.
— Let’s not fight over clothes, — Sergey interjected. — Polina, wear something else. And Mom, please ask next time.
That evening, she met her friend Natasha at a nearby café. After hearing the full story, Natasha offered her spare room.
— Move in with me for a while, — she suggested.
But Polina shook her head.
— No. This is my apartment. Why should I be the one to leave?
She resolved to have one more talk with her husband, calmly, reasonably.
When she got home, she was sh0cked to find her mother-in-law in her bedroom, clearing space in the closet.
— What are you doing? — Polina demanded.
— Making room. Sergey said I could use some of your closet space, — Larisa answered nonchalantly.
That was the breaking point.
— This is my room. My closet, — Polina said, stepping forward. — Please leave.
— You don’t get to order me around, girl, — Larisa shot back. — You’re just my son’s wife. Nothing more.
Sergey entered the room, exhausted.
— She’s taken over the guest room, the kitchen, thrown away my things—now our bedroom? — Polina pleaded.
— Don’t exaggerate, — Sergey muttered.
— I’m not exaggerating! — She snapped. — This is my apartment. I bought it before we got married. And I’ve had enough.
— You can’t talk to my mother that way! — he shouted. — Apologize!
— Apologize? For defending myself in my own home? — She said, stunned.
— So what if she’s been here longer than planned? She’s my mother. I won’t throw her out.
Polina stood frozen, then something shifted inside her. The years of silent endurance, her constant efforts to avoid conflict—all of it came crashing down.
She turned to her mother-in-law.
— You were a guest. Now you’ve become an intruder. Get out.
— You can’t make that decision alone, — Sergey objected.
— Yes, I can. And I am. This is my apartment, and I say who stays in it.
She looked at them both.
— You have two hours to pack.
And she left the room, feeling only a strange, quiet relief, like a burden had finally been lifted.
Two days later, Sergey appeared at the door.
— I tried to make peace, — he said.
— No, — Polina replied. — You chose convenience. You let her shout, and I stayed silent—so you assumed I was fine. That’s not love. That’s laziness.
— I still love you, — he whispered.
— Love is action, — she answered. — And you chose her. Now I choose myself.
She gently closed the door. Tears welled in her eyes, but strength surged in her chest. She had reclaimed her space, her voice, her dignity.
A week later, she repainted the bedroom lavender, rehung her favorite curtains, and bought new pillows. Her apartment finally felt like home again.
A month after that, Natasha introduced her to Andrei—a quiet, kind man who truly listened, valued her, and, most importantly, lived alone.
Sometimes, losing someone becomes the beginning of something better. Polina had learned that her peace was non-negotiable—and she would never surrender it again.
