Seven years. For seven years I’ve lived in this apartment, for seven years I’ve woken up next to Anton, for seven years I’ve put up with his mother’s barbs. For seven years I’ve heard the same thing: “You came from your backwater and settled yourself right into a ready-made little nest.” Valentina Petrovna never misses a chance to remind me I’m a stranger in this house.

“Lena, you’ve left the dishes in the sink again,” she says as she walks into the kitchen, showing up in our apartment—as always—uninvited and without warning. She has a key Anton gave her even before our wedding. I’ve asked many times for him to take it back, but my husband just waves me off: “Come on, she’s my mother.”

“I was going to wash them after lunch,” I answer, without lifting my eyes from my plate. Five-year-old Maxim sits beside me, carefully eating his porridge, glancing sideways at his grandmother. He feels the tension—children feel everything.

“‘Was going to!’” Valentina Petrovna snorts. “You’re always ‘going to.’ Then Anton comes home tired from work and the place is a mess. At least the child is turning out normal—not like you.”

I clench my fists under the table. Not like me? I’m the one who gets up with him at night when he’s sick. I’m the one who reads him stories and builds with him. I’m the one who got him into kindergarten and goes to every parent meeting. But I keep quiet. Like always.

Valentina Petrovna surveys the kitchen with a hostess’s eye. And yet once upon a time she was a newcomer herself—moved from a village near Kaluga to Moscow in the eighties and married Anton’s father. But she prefers not to remember that. Now she’s a Muscovite, and I’m the provincial “newcomer.”

“This apartment came to our family from Anton’s grandmother,” she launches into her favorite refrain. “And you here are just… a guest. A temporary guest.”

“Temporary guest”—she’s called me that for seven years now. A temporary guest who gave her a grandson, who works from morning till night, who put all her savings into renovating this apartment.

“Mom, that’s enough,” I say wearily.

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me! It’s Valentina Petrovna! And don’t forget your place. I’m the elder here, which means I’m in charge.”

Maxim frowns and pushes his plate away.

“Grandma, why are you mad at Mom?”

“Finish your porridge, grandson. And let your mother learn how to keep a house in order.”

In the evening, when Anton gets home from work, I try once again to talk to him.

“Antosha, we can’t go on like this. Your mother comes whenever she wants, scolds me, says nasty things in front of the child. Take her keys away.”

Anton takes off his shoes without looking at me.

“Len, come on. She’s my mother. She’s old, alone. The apartment really did come from Grandma…”

“Anton!” I grab his hand. “We’ve been married seven years! We have a child! This is our home!”

“Ours, ours. But Mom’s right—formally the apartment is in my name. And she got used to dropping in on me back when I lived alone…”

“Then transfer half to me. Officially.”

Anton winces like he has a toothache.

“Why all the paperwork? We love each other.”

We love each other. Yes, probably we do. But love and documents are different things. I didn’t realize that right away.

A week later my parents arrive. They’re going to stay ten days and watch Maxim while our vacation winds down. My dad and mom are simple people—he works at a factory, she at a hospital. But how many times they’ve helped us! When we redid the bathroom—two hundred thousand. When we bought new furniture—another hundred. When Maxim got sick—it was their money that saved us again.

“I’m so glad you came,” I hug my mother. “Maxim missed his grandparents.”

“We hope we won’t get in the way,” my dad worries. “It’s cramped as it is…”

“Don’t be silly, Dad! This is our home, our family. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Anton greets my in-laws warmly, as always. He respects them, appreciates their help. But I can see he’s nervous. He calls his mother to warn her my parents have arrived.

“Mom, Lena’s parents are staying with us for a week… Yes, everything’s fine, what are you… Right.”

The next day Anton and I have to go to work. My parents stay with their grandson—reading, playing, making lunch. Maxim is happy: Grandma Vera tells him about birds and animals, Grandpa Misha shows him magic tricks.

I work as a manager at a travel agency. At half past one my mother calls; her voice is trembling.

“Lenochka, your mother-in-law came… She’s yelling that we moved in without permission…”

My heart sinks.

“Mom, what’s happening?”

“She says we should pack our things and leave. That it’s her apartment and she didn’t invite anyone…”

I can hear Valentina Petrovna in the background:

“All these outsiders! Think they can settle wherever they like! This is private property!”

“Mom, stay calm. I’m coming right now. Let me talk to Valentina Petrovna.”

“She won’t talk. Lenochka, she’s very angry… Maxim got scared…”

“Where’s Maxik?”

“In his room. Grandpa is with him.”

I drop everything and rush home. On the way I call Anton.

“Your mother is throwing my parents out!”

“What?! Lena, I’m on my way too.”

“And take her keys away, finally! I’m done!”

I make it in half an hour instead of the usual hour. My parents’ suitcase is sitting by the entrance. A suitcase! She threw their things out on the street!

I run up the stairs and hear shouting:

“No settling in here! You’ve got your own daughter—let her support you!”

I open the door with my key. My parents are standing in the hallway looking lost. My mother is crying. From the room I hear Maxim crying too.

“Valentina Petrovna, what is going on?”

She turns to me, face red with anger.

“Ask your parents! Decided to set themselves up here, did they! I’m explaining to them: this isn’t a hotel, this is a private home!”

“This is our home!” I shout. “Ours with Anton! And my parents are my guests!”

“Ours? Yours?” she laughs hysterically. “Yours? You’re nobody here! Do you have papers for the apartment? No! But my son does! So I’m the one in charge!”

My mother comes over to me.

“Lenochka, we’d better go to a hotel…”

“You’re not going anywhere!” I hug her. “Valentina Petrovna, apologize to my parents. Now.”

“As if! They should apologize for barging in!”

Anton arrives. His face is dark; he understands this is bad.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“Antosha, I’m protecting our home! They want to settle in here!”

“Mom, they’re guests. For a week.”

“A week! And then what? They’ll stay for good! I know the type!”

I go to the nursery. Maxim is sitting on the bed, sniffling. Grandpa Misha is stroking his head.

“Mom, why did Grandma Valya yell at Grandma Vera?” my son asks.

There’s a lump in my throat.

“Maximka, sometimes adults can’t agree. But it’s going to be all right.”

“Are Grandma Vera and Grandpa Misha going to leave?”

“No, sweetheart. They’ll stay, just like we planned.”

I go back to the living room. Anton is trying to calm his mother.

“Mom, why are you acting like this? It’s not right.”

“Not right?! But no one asked me—is that right? I find out by chance there are strangers living here!”

“They’re not strangers! They’re Lena’s parents!”

“They’re nothing to me!”

I go up to Anton.

“Anton, I want to talk to you. Alone.”

We go to the kitchen. I close the door.

“Anton, that’s it. I can’t do this anymore. Either you deal with your mother once and for all, or I’m leaving.”

“Len, don’t be rash…”

“I’m not being rash! She threw my parents out onto the street! She made a scene in front of our child! How much more am I supposed to take?”

“She’s just worried…”

“Anton.” I speak very quietly, but he understands I’m serious. “I’m filing for divorce if you don’t take her keys right now and transfer half the apartment to me.”

He turns pale.

“Lena…”

“No ‘Lena.’ For seven years I’ve endured humiliation! My parents put their last money into our renovation, and she throws them out like dogs!”

“But the formalities…”

“Not formalities. Guarantees. I want to know this home is mine too. That I’m not a ‘temporary guest.’”

Anton is silent, staring out the window.

“How am I supposed to explain this to my mother?”

“Tomorrow I’m filing for divorce. And I’m taking Maxim.”

He realizes I’m not bluffing. Seven years is a long time, but I can’t live in a house where I’m treated as an outsider anymore.

“All right,” he says at last. “Tomorrow we’ll go take care of it.”

We return to the living room. Valentina Petrovna is sitting on the sofa, still fuming.

“Mom,” Anton says, “give me the keys.”

“What?”

“The apartment keys. Give them to me.”

“Antosha, what are you—”

“Mom, this isn’t right. Lena’s right. This is our home.”

Her face goes white.

“So you’re throwing me out? For her?”

“I’m not throwing you out. But give me the keys. And apologize to Lena’s parents.”

“Never!”

“Then don’t come anymore.”

She stands, pulls the keys from her purse with shaking hands, and throws them on the table.

“Fine! We’ll see how you live without your mother! And that wife of yours will be the first to leave you the moment something happens!”

She slams the door so hard the windows rattle.

Silence falls.

My parents are standing in the hallway, not knowing what to do.

“Please forgive them,” I say. “Make yourselves at home. This is your home too.”

My mother hugs me.

“Lenochka, maybe you shouldn’t have…”

“I should have, Mom. I should have a long time ago.”

The next day Anton and I go to a notary. We put half the apartment in my name. I’m no longer a “temporary guest.” Now this is my home.

Valentina Petrovna doesn’t call for three days. Then she calls Anton, crying into the phone:

“Son, I didn’t mean it… I was just worried…”

“Mom, come over. But behave yourself.”

She comes with a cake and flowers. She asks my parents for forgiveness. It’s insincere, phony—but she asks.

“I got nervous,” she says. “Older people, you know, get suspicious.”

My parents, of course, forgive her. They’re kind.

But now we have new rules. Valentina Petrovna calls before visiting. She no longer criticizes my housekeeping. She calls me not a “temporary guest,” but simply Lena.

And when a month later my parents come again—this time for Maxim’s birthday before he starts school—no one throws them out. Valentina Petrovna even helps set the table.

“You did the right thing,” my mother tells me when we’re alone in the kitchen. “You should’ve done it long ago.”

“Yes, Mom. Long ago.”

And Valentina Petrovna no longer considers me a temporary guest. Because now my name is on the title. And because she understood that by trying to drive out my parents, she nearly lost her son and grandson. Her plan to break up our family backfired on her.

Now she knows: in this house I’m not a guest. I’m the woman of the house.