The warm water had just been turned off when the dishwasher began to rumble on its “express wash” cycle. Marina shut the door, smoothed her apron. Friday dinner had gone more smoothly than she expected: her signature mushroom pie disappeared so fast that Igor asked for another slice. Even Nastya—her sister-in-law who loved to curl her lip and call Marina “that upstart”—ate two pieces, though she kept the same sour face as if she were about to take bitter medicine.

“I’m hopping in the shower,” Igor called cheerfully from the hall. “We’ve got an early soccer game tomorrow. Need a good sleep.”

“Go ahead,” Marina waved, grabbing the dish towel and polishing the countertop.

Nastya sat in the living room, glued to her phone. She’d arrived the night before—as usual, without warning; as usual, with a pile of bags and a heap of bad moods. “Just for the weekend,” she always said, but Marina knew how it went: take over the living room, turn on the TV, eat like it was her own place.

“Want tea?” Marina poked her head in, keeping her voice pleasant.

“No,” Nastya clipped, eyes never leaving the screen.

Marina shrugged and went back to the kitchen. Three years of marriage had taught her one thing: don’t waste energy answering the sister-in-law’s barbs. Whenever she grumbled, Igor would just laugh: “Nastyukha’s prickly. She’ll come around. Don’t take it to heart.”

Water rushed in the bathroom. Marina turned on the kettle and reached up for her favorite porcelain mug. Just then Nastya’s voice floated in from the living room:

“Mom, how are you? … Yeah, I’m at their place … No, she cooked her awful stuff again … So, the lawyer— I asked already.”

Marina froze mid-reach. Nastya lowered her voice, but the quiet apartment carried every word straight into the kitchen.

“Yeah, it can be done through the court … Because the apartment came to Igor from his grandmother, not to both of them … No, that idiot doesn’t even suspect you can remove her from registration … Igor will sign anything if you pitch it right …”

The mug slipped from Marina’s fingers and smashed on the tile.

“What’s that?” Nastya shot up.

“Dropped a mug,” Marina managed, feeling a cold bloom through her middle.

The apartment … The three-room flat in the center where she and Igor had lived for three years. A gift from his grandmother. “For the newlyweds,” the old woman had said, placing the keys in their hands. And now this snake wanted to throw her out?

“As usual,” Nastya appeared in the doorway, disgust written on her face. “Hands made of the wrong stuff.”

“Sorry, I got distracted,” Marina bent to gather the shards, glad the girl couldn’t see her face.

“Why are you smearing it around? Get the dustpan.”

Marina obeyed, taking out the dustpan and brush. Her hands trembled so hard the pieces clicked together.

“Why are you shaking?” Nastya squinted. “You broke a cup, big deal.”

“Just startled,” Marina lied.

“Our delicate little flower,” Nastya sniffed and returned to the couch.

Only one thought beat in Marina’s head: “They want to kick me out. Of my own home. That’s why she suddenly showed up…”

Igor came out of the bathroom, hair wet, whistling.

“Oh, a broken cup?” he smiled. “No worries, we’ll buy ten more tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Marina forced her lips into a smile.

He kissed her hair and strolled back to the bedroom.

—

That night Marina didn’t sleep. Igor breathed evenly beside her while she stared at the ceiling. Tell her husband? But he adored his sister and always defended her. Tell her mother-in-law? She and Nastya were in this together! Since the wedding, the woman’s politeness had always been cool and distant.

“I’ll have to handle it myself,” Marina decided in the gray of early morning. “But how?”

She tiptoed to the kitchen. Her hands shook so much she clinked the spoon against the rim twice.

“Breathe,” she told herself. “Think.”

Her eyes landed on a business card taped to the fridge: Sergey Valentinovich— the attorney who had helped their neighbor divide property. Marina grabbed her phone.

“Hello, is this Mr. Sergey? I’m Marina Kotova—Olga Petrovna’s neighbor.”

She spoke in a hush, glancing toward the door.

“I need urgent advice. Today, if possible? One o’clock? Perfect.”

Igor shuffled in, pillow crease on his cheek.

“Morning,” he kissed her. “Why so early?”

“I … slept enough,” Marina looked away. “I’m going to a friend’s this afternoon, okay? Haven’t seen her in ages.”

“Which friend?”

“Lenka,” she blurted the first name that came to mind.

“Ah, fine,” he yawned. “I’m going to the movies with Nastya—she asked last night.”

“Of course she did,” Marina thought, but kept quiet.

—

The law office smelled of coffee and new paper. Sergey Valentinovich, balding and bespectacled, listened closely.

“So the apartment came from your husband’s grandmother … Are you registered there?”

“Yes, right after the wedding.”

“And whose name is on the title?”

“Meaning?”

“I mean, who owns it on paper—your husband alone, or both of you? Was it a gift deed? A will?”

Marina blinked. She truly had no idea.

“I … don’t know. Igor handled it.”

He sighed.

“First, you must find out who the owner is. If it’s only your husband—trouble. If it’s both of you—his sister can’t do a thing.”

“How do I find out?”

“Order a registry extract through the public services portal or at the MFC. Today.”

—

Back home with a plan, Marina nearly tripped over a pair of shoes dumped in the hall.

“Well, look who finally showed,” Nastya poked her head out. “Where were you? You disappeared.”

“At a friend’s,” Marina kept her tone flat.

“We went to the movies,” Nastya leaned against the wall, smirking. “Kid brother never grows up—picked some dumb shoot-’em-up.”

Marina nodded and walked past, closing the bedroom door behind her. She pulled out her phone, went to the state services site, ordered the property extract, paid. Now: wait.

That night, with Igor asleep and Nastya behind a closed guest-room door, Marina checked her email. The extract had arrived. Her fingers trembled as she opened it.

“Owner: Sokolov Igor Alekseevich.”

Her breath caught. Nastya had been right: the title listed only Igor. She was merely registered there. Anxiety sharpened into anger. “No way.”

At dawn she called the lawyer again.

“Mr. Sergey, here’s the situation—”

“Listen carefully,” he said. “Have you been registered there more than three years?”

“Almost three.”

“Good. You have a right of use. Also, anything purchased during the marriage—from furniture to appliances—is marital property. If you can prove you invested in renovations…”

“We did renovate!” Marina remembered the receipts she’d kept so carefully.

“Then your prospects are good. Gather documents. Most important—do not sign anything your husband or his family put in front of you.”

“Thank you.”

“And one more thing: it’s best to tell your husband—”

Marina sighed. “I’m not sure he’d take my side.”

—

For two days Marina moved like she was crossing a minefield. She smiled, cooked, pretended everything was normal—while quietly building her case: receipts for furniture, appliances, materials; bank statements showing her transfers for paint, tiles, lighting; the prenuptial agreement clause stating that assets acquired during marriage are joint.

On Monday, Nastya announced she’d stay another week.

“I suddenly got some vacation,” she cooed at her brother. “You wouldn’t kick out your own sister, would you?”

“Stay as long as you like!” Igor laughed.

Marina clenched her teeth and said nothing.

That evening she heard Nastya whispering again:

“Mom, all according to plan… Yeah, I’ll stay longer… No, the fool suspects nothing… The papers are almost ready… Igor will sign; he has no choice…”

Marina boiled inside. “Not happening, darling.”

The next day she took a day off: notary in the morning, MFC at noon, certified copies in the afternoon. By sunset she had a thick folder and a clear plan.

“Honey, how about we invite your parents over for dinner this weekend?” she asked casually over the meal. “We haven’t all gotten together in a while.”

Nastya snapped her head up, eyes narrow.

“Great idea!” Igor brightened. “Nastyuk, Mom will be thrilled you’re here too.”

“Of course,” Nastya ground out. “I’m all for it.”

—

On Saturday, Marina was in the kitchen from morning on: simmering, steaming, braising, pan-searing—she put her whole heart in. “Might be our last ‘old-style’ family dinner,” she thought, chopping vegetables.

By six, the table was groaning. Igor’s parents arrived—Alexey Petrovich quiet and steady; Vera Sergeevna with her usual measuring glance for the daughter-in-law.

“You look well, Marina,” Vera said, polite but forced.

“Thank you,” Marina smiled. “Please, sit.”

When everyone had settled, Igor raised his glass.

“To family! To us being together!”

“To family,” Marina echoed, taking a sip. She caught the tiniest smirk on Nastya’s lips. “That smile will fade in a moment,” she thought.

“By the way,” she said clearly, setting down her glass, “I’d like to discuss something.”

Heads turned. Nastya went pale.

“What is it?” Igor frowned.

“Two days ago I happened to overhear a conversation between your sister and your mother,” Marina said evenly. “About persuading you to put the apartment solely in your name and remove my registration. In other words—to throw me out.”

“Nonsense!” Vera flared. “Igor, your wife is delirious!”

“Marina, what are you saying?” Igor looked from his wife to his mother and sister, bewildered.

“I heard everything,” Marina held firm. “Word for word. Nastya said, ‘that idiot doesn’t even suspect she can be taken off the registration,’ and ‘Igor will sign anything if you pitch it right.’”

Nastya sprang up.

“You were eavesdropping on me?”

“You were speaking loudly in the living room while I cleaned the kitchen,” Marina shot back. “But that’s not the point. The point is: you want to kick me out of my home.”

“Your ‘home’?” Vera cut in. “The apartment belongs to Igor! His grandmother gave it to him!”

“Marinka, this is silly,” Igor squeezed her hand. “Nobody’s kicking you out.”

Nastya and Vera exchanged a look. Marina unzipped the document folder.

“Here is the file I prepared. Everything you need to know is in here.”

Igor opened it and flipped through.

“What are these?” he asked, confused.

“Receipts for furniture, appliances, and renovation materials—mostly bought during the marriage,” Marina tapped the first stack. “Here are bank statements: about half the expenses were my transfers. And this,” she lifted a sheet in a protective sleeve, “is a legal opinion on my housing and property rights.”

Nastya blanched.

“You went to a lawyer?” she hissed.

“Of course,” Marina sat straighter. “The moment I heard your plan. You won’t push me out of a place I’ve poured my money and effort into for three years.”

Igor looked up at his mother and sister.

“Hold on— Is this true? You really planned this?”

Vera forced a laugh. “Don’t be silly, Igoryok. We were only discussing—”

“Discussing what, exactly?” Marina cut in. “How best to trick your own son?”

“Don’t you dare talk to my mother like that!” Nastya exploded.

“And don’t you dare plan to toss me out of my home!” Marina’s voice rose to meet hers.

“Enough!” Igor slammed his fist on the table. “Nastya—truth.”

Nastya pressed her lips tight. “We only wanted to protect your interests. Suppose … suppose you two divorced—”

“So you were paving the way for our divorce?” Igor asked quietly, pinning his sister with a look.

Nastya bit her tongue. Silence fell.

“You know what,” Marina gathered the papers, oddly calm. “I’ve already filed. I’ve submitted a claim to establish my share in this apartment as property acquired during marriage. Counting investments in renovation and furnishings—no less than thirty percent. If you want a war, fine. But I won’t surrender what’s mine.”

“Marinka…” Igor rubbed his temples. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Would you have believed me?” She smiled sadly. “You always say Nastya would never lie to you.”

Igor turned to his mother and sister as if seeing them for the first time.

“I’m asking you to leave,” he said softly, firmly. “Both of you. Now.”

“Igoryok!” Vera gasped.

“Leave,” he repeated, louder. “I need to speak with my wife.”

Nastya snatched her bag and bolted. Vera rose slowly, sent Marina a scorching look, and walked out. On the threshold, Alexey Petrovich paused, hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what they were up to.”

When they were gone, Igor sat across from Marina.

“Forgive me … I didn’t think they were capable of that.”

“And I never imagined I’d have to defend myself from your family,” she answered softly.

—

A month later, it was officially settled. Marina became a co-owner of the apartment—her share set at forty percent. Igor insisted on more than the lawyer had asked, to make up for what she’d been put through.

Nastya stopped visiting. Occasionally she called her brother, never asking about Marina. Vera, when they met, was pointedly polite—and frigid. Family dinners were tense; conversation fizzled; the clink of cutlery was louder than laughter.

One evening, Igor pulled Marina into his arms.

“You know, I’m glad you turned out stronger and smarter than all of them. And that you didn’t let them fool you.”

“I just realized no one fights for me better than I do,” she smiled. “Not even you.”

“It won’t happen again,” he kissed her forehead. “I promise.”

Marina nodded. The fear of losing her roof had vanished. More importantly, she understood this with perfect clarity: no one would decide her fate behind her back— not her mother-in-law, not her sister-in-law, not even her husband. From here on out, she would be the one signing off on the decisions of her own life.