The First Taste of Freedom

The first weeks in our new apartment felt like breathing after years of suffocation. From the kitchen window, I could see the courtyard below — flowerbeds, benches, an old lady feeding cats, kids racing on scooters. I stood there, hands wrapped around my mug of tea, still marveling at the simple luxury of peace — no one watching over my shoulder, no one counting how much salt I put in the soup, no one saying, “In my day, young wives knew how to iron their husbands’ shirts properly.”

“Len, where are you?” Dima’s voice echoed from the hallway.

“In the kitchen!” I called back.

He appeared in the doorway — relaxed, smiling — the way he’d looked lately whenever he came home to silence instead of his mother’s cross-examinations about where he’d been or whether he was eating properly.

“Dinner plans?” he asked, kissing me on the temple.

“I was thinking — let’s just order something. Sit, talk. No fuss.”

Dima nodded. In the month since we’d moved out, he’d changed. The tension had left his shoulders. He no longer flinched at unexpected sounds, waiting for his mother’s voice to bark from the corridor. He didn’t have to justify every hour spent alone with me anymore.

“You know,” he said, stretching, “I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to come home and not report to anyone.”

I smiled. Because I remembered all too well.

Three years of living with Galina Petrovna had taught me how to quietly escape her endless monologues about “how real wives behave,” how to nod and agree while she corrected my cooking, and how to feign interest in her stories about the neighbor Klavdia and her grandkids.

Her favorite topic, though, was my career. “Why does a woman need a job when she has a husband?” she’d say. When I got a promotion, she sulked for two weeks, muttering that “in her day, women knew their place.”

Dima always tried to smooth things over. “Mom’s just worried,” he’d say. “She likes to be in control.”

Sure — if “control” meant inspecting the fridge and scolding me for buying the expensive cheese instead of the cheap one.

But now, that was all behind us. The tiny one-bedroom was ours — mortgage and all — but at least it was ours. Finally, I could breathe.

The Third Ring

I didn’t hear the first doorbell — I was in the shower. The second came as I wrapped my hair in a towel. The third was long and insistent.

“I’m coming!” I shouted, tying my robe tighter.

Peeking through the peephole, my heart stopped. A familiar silhouette — dark blue coat, upright posture.

“Galina Petrovna?” I opened the door, startled. “Is something wrong?”

She stood there with a large suitcase and a shoulder bag, her expression calm, almost triumphant.

“Hello, Lenochka,” she said, stepping inside without waiting to be invited. “Where’s my son?”

“He’s still at work… Did something happen?”

“No,” she said cheerfully, setting down her bag. “I just missed you. Decided to stay for a little visit.”

That word — visit — had a dangerous ring to it, especially paired with a suitcase big enough for an extended stay.

“Galina Petrovna,” I began cautiously, “it might’ve been better to call first. We, um, don’t have much space.”

She gave me that signature look — part disbelief, part superiority.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. I’m not picky. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Before I could reply, she was already in the living room, testing the sofa. “Quite comfy,” she said. “And the TV is in perfect view.”

I stood frozen. One blissful month of independence — gone in an instant.

“Make yourself at home,” I said faintly. “I’ll just get dressed.”

In the bedroom, I dialed Oksana. My best friend. My lifeline.

“Oksi, emergency. My mother-in-law just arrived. With a suitcase.”

“Oh no. How long?”

“Judging by the suitcase, forever. Says she has ‘every right’ to live here.”

Oksana laughed. “You remember my sister-in-law? Tried the same thing. Claimed it was a family home.”

“And what did you do?”

“Got her out in two days. Want the recipe?”

“Please.”

Ten minutes later, I hung up — grinning. The plan was brilliant in its simplicity.

The “Brilliant” Plan

Dima came home around seven. I met him at the door.

“We have a guest,” I whispered.

“What guest?”

“Your mother.”

He blinked. “For how long?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

He sighed heavily and walked into the living room. There she was — already plating dinner. My meat and buckwheat, divided neatly into three portions. Salad chopped with military precision.

“Dimochka!” she cried, rushing to embrace him. “I missed you!”

“I missed you too, Mom,” he said automatically, though I saw his back stiffen.

Over dinner, she chattered about the neighbors, the weather, his job. Nothing new. But I saw him slipping back into old habits — nodding, smiling, apologizing.

When she started complaining about our mortgage, I saw my opening.

“You know,” I said casually, “I’ve been thinking about how to pay it off faster.”

Dima looked up. “Oh?”

“Let’s rent out this apartment short-term. It’s trendy now — business travelers, tourists, even people throwing parties. They pay really well.”

Galina Petrovna nearly choked on her tea.

“Rent? Parties? In our apartment?”

“Of course,” I said sweetly. “Why let it sit empty? The neighborhood’s perfect for it. We could make great money.”

Dima looked intrigued. “That’s true… And since Mom’s here now, we won’t need to live here full-time.”

“Exactly!” I nodded eagerly. “We can even do it professionally — photos, online listings. My friend’s a realtor; she’ll help.”

His mother’s face turned white.

“But where will I live?” she stammered.

“Here, of course!” I smiled innocently. “You brought your suitcase, didn’t you?”

Dima jumped in, almost too helpfully. “Or we could rent you a nice little dacha for the summer. Fresh air, birds, garden. You’d love it.”

“And then in the fall, when we finish repairs, you can come back!” I added brightly.

“Repairs?” she squeaked.

“Well, naturally! After so many renters — especially the ones who throw parties — something’s bound to need fixing. We’ll do a full renovation.”

“Dimochka,” she gasped, “maybe I should go home for now? I don’t want to interfere with your plans.”

“Don’t be silly, Mom!” I said. “This is a family decision. Thanks to you, we finally thought of it!”

“Exactly,” Dima said. “It’s a solid plan.”

The Departure

The next morning, I woke to the sound of quiet zippers.
Galina Petrovna was in the hallway, packing.

“Heading out?” I asked.

“Yes, dear,” she said briskly. “I just remembered things I need to take care of at home. Besides, I don’t want to get in the way.”

“That’s a pity,” I said softly. “We were looking forward to family life.”

“Next time,” she muttered, dragging her suitcase to the door.

By the time Dima woke up, she was gone.
On the kitchen table lay a note: “Son, I remembered something important at home. See you soon. Mom.”

That evening, Dima stared at the note, then at me.
“You didn’t come up with that rental idea on purpose, did you?”

I tried to look innocent but burst out laughing.
“Completely on purpose. Credit goes to Oksana.”

He shook his head, smiling. “So… what now?”

“Now we enjoy the peace. If she comes back — we’ll think of something else. Oksana has a whole arsenal.”

We sat there, sipping tea, the May sunlight spilling across the kitchen.
For the first time in weeks, everything was still. Peaceful. Ours.

The Moral

A week later, Galina Petrovna called, pretending casual. “So, have you decided against that rental idea?”

“Of course not!” I said cheerfully. “Summer’s just starting. And then there are the autumn holidays, winter breaks… There’s always demand!”

She never mentioned moving in again.
Now, she visited only when invited — always calling ahead, always brief, always polite.

And our little apartment stayed just what we’d dreamed of:
small, modest, but ours alone — peaceful, warm, and free.