— Irina Petrovna, did you by any chance not notice that no one invited you over?” Marina pressed her lips together, wiping her hands on her apron.

“— Oh, come on, Marish! We’re like at home here. We’re your own people. What, were you expecting strangers or something?” Sveta laughed, setting her boots right down on the white rug.

“— Exactly, like home. Only, you know, you don’t have a key. A pity. I’d have changed the lock.”

Marina opened the fridge and shut her eyes. The chicken drumsticks—gone. The Caesar salad she’d quietly made without garlic so Irina Petrovna “wouldn’t say it smells”—half eaten. The Korean-style carrots—just yanked out by hand, as if a pack of savages had swooped in. And there, standing amid the chaos, for the first time she thought clearly: “How about you lot take your ‘but we’re family’ and go. Straight out, without looking back.”

“— Well, you knew they were coming,” Andrey muttered guiltily, standing at the sink with a plate, trying to drop the bones in neatly.

“— Not ‘they were coming,’ Andrey. This isn’t the Sochi–Vnukovo flight. It’s a swarm of locusts. And yes, I suspected it. I could feel it: I took some valerian and left a farewell note for the cat.”

He sighed. Awkwardly. As if it wasn’t his wife on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but as if he’d forgotten a bag at the checkout.

“— So what? You yourself used to say, ‘Family is sacred.’”

“— When you had a fever and they didn’t come. When we took out a mortgage and they said, ‘Handle it yourselves.’ But now it’s sacred? They couldn’t care less about sacred—as long as there’s my borscht and your TV.”

“— Marin, don’t start…”

“— I’m not starting. I’m finishing, Andrey. I’m a waitress to your relatives. Only they don’t tip—at most they give advice on how to cook borscht and how I, supposedly, should lose weight…”

Peals of laughter rolled in as Irina Petrovna walked into the kitchen. Her scarf was askew, her lips in a shade called “Cheerful Peach.”

“— Well, Marish, the salad had a bit of a tang. Is that how you cook now? A new trend?”

“— It’s lemon. And it’s for flavor, not to indulge you, Irina Petrovna,” Marina said through her teeth.

“— Well, well. You can tell—my son’s wife. With a temperament, yes. Only where’s the care, the warmth? What, tired again?”

“— No, I’m just tired. Period. Constantly. Of you.”

Silence. Even Sveta in the living room stopped crunching chips. Irina Petrovna slowly walked up to Marina, set her cup in the sink, stood there a couple of seconds, and almost in a whisper said:

“— We are his family. And you are temporary.”

“— Don’t be mistaken, Irina Petrovna. You’re guests. And you’ve overstayed.”

A WEEK EARLIER

Andrey’s family is like a TV series you don’t want to watch the new season of, but you keep watching out of habit and because you’ve got nothing else to do. And there they were—showing up without warning, as always: brother Kirill, forever bare-chested under a vest, and Sveta, in clip-on earrings, like straight from a collective-farm fashion show. They brought “meat for shashlik,” which they marinated right there in Marina’s mixing bowl without asking.

And then—it was like someone hit a timer. In two hours they:

Broke the sofa (Kirill fell because he was “jumping with his nephew like in childhood”).

Ate all the chocolates, including the ones that were “for the doctor and the tax inspector.”

Explained to Marina that the apartment was in Andrey’s name, which meant “everything here is his, even the armchair.”

Andrey drifted around like a crow at a wedding. Neither one of them nor entirely apart. He smiled, but his eyes were on the floor.

“— What are you grumbling about?” he whispered when he and Marina were in the kitchen alone for a couple of minutes.

“— I’m grumbling? I’m only breathing so far. And if loud breathing counts as grumbling, you were clearly born into a family of the deaf.”

“— They’re just being family-ish. You and I are on the same team.”

“— Are you sure, Andrey? Because if this is a ‘team,’ I’m the cleaning staff on it.”

LATE EVENING

They finally all left. Sveta, carrying off a plastic bag with meat “for later,” kissed Andrey and even gave Marina a little wave, as if everything had been great. Irina Petrovna, the last, lingered at the door.

“— Well… I hope you do understand that kin is sacred. And don’t break my son. He’s soft. Like his father. And my father, by the way, lived to 84 with that temperament!”

“— And you decided your son should live just as long playing the role of furniture?”

“— You’re smart. And smart women are always trouble in a family.”

“— Trouble, Irina Petrovna, is when your mouth opens and the air in the room goes bad.”

The door closed.

“— Marin…” Andrey began.

“— No, Andrey. Today you keep quiet. And think. Tomorrow you decide. Or I will.”

“— You—what?”

“— What to do about all this. Because in my home there will be no ‘guests’ who think they’re the owners. From either side.”

He didn’t answer. And maybe for the first time—he thought.

THE NEXT DAY

Marina sat in the kitchen staring at an empty cup. Next to it lay a list:

— change the locks
— talk to a lawyer
— copies of the title deed

She wasn’t planning to divorce. Yet. But she was planning to live. Not just survive. Especially on Sundays.

And then the doorbell rang. She stood up and went to the door. On the screen—Irina Petrovna. Alone.

Marina took a deep breath.

“— Do I open or not?”

At that moment Andrey came out of the bedroom, looked at the screen, and said:

“— Don’t open. I’ll talk to her myself.”

And for the first time in a long while, Marina sat back down. And finished her coffee. Bitter, but hers.

“— So, Andrey, have you decided who you love more: your mother or your wife? Or will you say again, ‘I’m caught between two fires’? In that case, remember: one of them warms you, and the other scorches you to a crisp.”

Marina slapped the table as if she were signing a contract to sell one’s soul. Andrey sat like a man trying to recall where he’d hidden his willpower but had probably thrown it out with his student ID.

“— I just don’t want a scandal,” he exhaled, prodding his omelet with a fork.

“— Too late. The scandal already lives with us. It’s even registered to your passport. And its name, by the way, is the same as yours—Irina Petrovna Andreevna.”

“— Marin, come on… you understand… She’s an elderly woman.”

“— Elderly? She runs through the market like a badger on a sprint, and she remembers who didn’t give whom a towel for their birthday in 2009. Her memory, Andrey, is better than my phone’s.”

“— She’s worried. Thinks you’re pulling away.”

“— No, I’m pushing her away. Physically. Forced to. Because this isn’t a branch of a nursing home for an active grandma’s criticism.”

He stood. Stretched. Put on that face that says “let’s just go on living.” Classic Andrey. Conflict? We’ll wait it out. Maybe it’ll dissolve on its own like a cheap joint gel.

Marina stood up after him.

“— By the way. Whose name did we put this apartment in?”

Andrey froze.

“— Well… mine. But we…”

“— Yeah, yeah. Yours. Because back then you said, ‘Marish, what difference does it make? We’re family.’ And silly me believed it. Now I think: I should’ve bitten the notary on the leg so he’d think twice.”

He sat down again.

“— Do you think I could have…”

“— While you’re thinking—your mother has already decided. Didn’t you see her last time circling the wardrobe with a notebook and a measuring tape?”

“— What?”

“— Measuring. In silence. And then she asked, ‘Where are your load-bearing walls, I wonder?’ Obviously not for rearranging furniture in The Sims.”

Andrey’s mouth fell open. He closed it slowly. Then opened it again.

“— Are you saying…”

“— I’m saying that if we burn up in a household fire tomorrow, your mother already knows exactly where to put the sideboard. The old one, from the dacha. And believe me—she’ll move in with the cat and the attitude of ‘I’m the mistress here now.’”

Meanwhile—Irina Petrovna. Somewhere in her kitchen.

“— Svetočka, can you imagine, the steel in her voice. Just like an investigator’s. All about ‘boundaries,’ about ‘my labor’…”

“— Yeah. And what did you say to her?”

“— I told her she’s only temporary. So she knows where to stick her nose. She’s made herself at home—re-papered the walls, bought a throw, and thinks now everything here is hers.”

“— Isn’t it hers too? She and Andrey pay together.”

“— For now. Until she gets tired. She’s our sensitive one. A year or two will pass—she’ll run off. And me? I’m kin. I’m here for good.”

“— And if she decides to sue for half?”

“— Let her try first. I have a lawyer. Neighbor Larisa. She’ll explain everything—how it should be done. And for now—we hold the line.”

Irina Petrovna snorted, took a sip from her cup, and dialed Andrey.

“— Son, are you home? I need to talk…”

“— Mom, I’m busy. With Marina…”

“— You’re busy with her. Forgot about your mother. I see. Well then. I’ll just tell you one thing: in life, the main thing is to remember who’s been with you since childhood and who’s with you until the first quarrel.”

The following morning

Marina stood on the balcony with a cup of coffee. The neighbor’s dog was howling below. The air smelled of change. Or possibly of cutlets, because someone had been frying since six a.m.

Andrey came out, rubbed his neck, and said quietly:

“— I’ve been thinking… We could do a marital agreement.”

Marina spun around so fast she almost sloshed her coffee.

“— Is this a bout of courage? Or did someone whack you with a saucepan without telling me?”

“— I just don’t want you to have doubts. The apartment is yours too. Half and half. I know a lawyer.”

“— Uh-huh. Not the one who told your mom how to ‘protect the property from outsiders’?”

“— No. This one’s normal. He immediately said that if I don’t choose where I stand, I’ll end up living alone.”

“— Smart man.”

She stepped closer, stroked his shoulder.

“— Andrey… I don’t want to be at war with you. I’m just tired of being a stranger in my own home. Do you understand?”

“— I understand.”

“— Then let’s live like adults. With respect. With a contract. With locks that don’t open to ‘all relatives by a ring.’”

He nodded.

“— And one more thing…”

“— What else?”

“— We’re changing the lock today. Keys—only for us. And if anyone wants to come in, they call first. And if Sveta puts her boots on the white rug again—I will personally carry her out in those boots like a Christmas tree.”

That same evening. Apartment chat “Family.”

Irina Petrovna: Son, I don’t get it. Why doesn’t the key work? Did I try to go into a stranger’s door?
Andrey: Mom, Marina and I changed the locks. From now on we do things by the rules.
Irina Petrovna: She put you up to it?
Andrey: I decided this myself. Don’t look for culprits, Mom. It’s just—this is how it is now.
Irina Petrovna: Fine. Then I’ll think about how to put the apartment completely in your name. So that this… one of yours doesn’t try to pull anything later, if it comes to that. And also. I’ll temporarily go to the dacha. The air is better there. Not like in your scandalous penthouse.

Marina, reading the chat, smirked:

“— A penthouse… Fifty-four square meters, Andrey. Fifty-four. And among them—one decent man. And one woman who’s done being convenient.”

He came up behind her and hugged her.

“— So from now on we live honestly.”

“— For now, yes. But this, Andrey, is only the beginning.”

And just like that—toward evening, with the smell of freshly washed floors, fresh coffee, and a note of calm—their new life began. With keys. With a contract. And with the thought: “Could things really be different?”

Everything was quiet. Suspiciously so. Even the downstairs neighbor, Aunt Lyuda, hadn’t turned on “This is Moscow Speaking and Showing” in the morning. Marina was mopping the floor, mentally mapping out an evening with wine and a series where people solve problems instead of burying them for years.

And then—the doorbell.

Andrey was in the living room, headphones on, immersed in work chats. The apartment was filled with a light scent of cleaning products and a premonition of trouble.

Marina opened the door.

On the threshold—Irina Petrovna. With a suitcase. In a housecoat. With a cat. No warning. No explanations. Only a phrase that instantly turns life into hell.

“— I’ve come. Temporarily.”

“— No.”

“— Yes.”

“— Andrey!” Marina shouted, not moving.

“— Mom?!” he called back, stunned.

“— I’m having a flare-up. Blood pressure. Hypertension. And my veins, Andrey! My veins! Larisa’s pipes burst—I nearly drowned! And here with you it’s cozy. Warm. And I made space—I moved the armchair, my mattress will go there.”

“— I’m sorry, what?” Marina didn’t even try to be polite.

“— You yourself said family is support! So I’m supporting myself—by being close to my son.”

“— Andrey, can I talk to you for a second?” Marina’s voice cracked. She clenched her teeth and pulled her husband into the hallway.

“— What is this circus? Is she serious? With a cat? With her things?!”

“— Marin, you heard her—she has problems…”

“— She has problems understanding other people’s boundaries! This is not a sanatorium! Is she moving in here to live?!”

“— Temporarily…”

“— If she stays, I go. That’s it.”

He lowered his head.

“— Mom, you… you can’t live here. Marina and I… we’ve only just started to set things right.”

“— I see. I’m superfluous.”

“— That’s not the point!”

Irina Petrovna turned to Marina.

“— I gave birth to my son. I changed his diapers, do you understand?! I nursed him, raised him, brought him up. And who are you? A newcomer! From nowhere!”

“— I’m his wife. I’ve been with him ten years. I’ve invested in this apartment, in the household, in the relationship. I was with him when you called once a week and only said your leg was ‘acting up.’”

“— So you’re the mistress here, then? Look at her talk. This apartment is in Andrey’s name. So it’s not for you to decide who lives here!”

Marina silently went to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and took out a folder.

“— Here. A marital agreement. Signed. Notarized. Half is mine. And in my half, your rose-print sheet will definitely not be.”

“— Son, you allowed this?!”

“— I decided this, Mom.”

Silence. Irina Petrovna seemed to freeze.

“— Well then…” she exhaled. “— Remember this, Andrey. You’re a traitor. And you’ll remember how you drove your mother out. And you, Marina… you… you’ll lose everything. People like you don’t last. If not today, then tomorrow he’ll come back to me.”

“— He won’t,” Marina snapped. “— Because now he’s a man. Not a boy hiding behind his mother’s apron.”

Irina Petrovna left. Not right away. Slowly. Dragging her suitcase, the cat, and her sense of wounded grandeur.

Andrey stood by the window for a long time. Then he said:

“— She won’t come back.”

“— She will. Only as a guest.”

“— You sure?”

“— Now—yes. Because this time you were with me. All the way.”

She stepped closer. Hugged him.

From the kitchen came the meow of the cat Grandma had forgotten.

“— Do we keep the cat?”

“— Of course. At least he doesn’t stick his nose in other people’s business.”

Marina smiled. For the first time—genuinely, calmly. The apartment smelled like freedom. And a kind of new life. Without intrusions. Without threats. Without suitcases on the threshold.

Andrey poured them each a glass of wine.

“— To boundaries?”

“— No. To love that finally has teeth.”

And they drank. Without a toast. But with meaning.