“I told you—don’t run the dishwasher after ten. The whole house vibrates, and I can’t relax!”

Natalya froze with a plate in her hands. Vladimir Sergeyevich stood in the doorway, pulling his terry robe tighter. His gray hair was sticking up in every direction, flattened from the couch.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Natalya set the plate back on the table. Dried bits of Olivier salad clung to the porcelain.

“In someone else’s home, you follow the rules,” her father-in-law said, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “How many times do we have to tell you?”

Natalya nodded, staring at the stack of dishes by the sink. Salad bowls, cups, saucers—everything was piled into a teetering tower. On the stove, a frying pan sat with burnt oil hardened to the surface.

Vladimir Sergeyevich turned away and shuffled down the hallway in his slippers. The clock above the refrigerator showed half past ten. Natalya turned on the tap and reached for the sponge. Hot water stung her fingers.

Natalya was dusting porcelain shepherd figurines in the living room when she heard the familiar throat-clearing behind her.

“You’re wiping with the wrong side again,” Lyudmila Pavlovna said from the doorway, arms folded. “How many times must I explain—microfiber is for glass, flannel is for porcelain.”

“Alright, Mom,” Natalya answered automatically, flipping the cloth. The fourth year of the same routine. The fourth year of “temporary.”

From the kitchen came her father-in-law’s voice:

“Artyom! Don’t grip the spoon in your fist! Like some brute!”

Their three-year-old sat at the heavy oak table, his legs swinging in the air. Vladimir Sergeyevich loomed over him, repositioning the small fingers on the spoon.

“Dad, he’s still little,” Igor tried to step in, but his father waved him off.

“In our family, everyone held utensils properly by two.”

Natalya bit her lip. Four years ago, when Igor was laid off from the factory, they’d thought it would be a month or two at most. Renting was too expensive, so they saved every kopek for a mortgage down payment. “Stay with us for now—there’s space,” her mother-in-law had offered grandly. Igor found a new job half a year later, but his salary was half of what it used to be. After Artyom was born, the dream of their own home had to be shelved—diapers, formula, doctors swallowed their savings. “For now” had stretched into four years.

Natalya’s phone buzzed in the pocket of her apron. Mom.

“Natushka, call me back as soon as you can—when you’re alone,” her mother said, voice trembling with excitement. “Do you remember Uncle Kostya—Dad’s second cousin? He died a month ago and left me a plot of land near Klin. I spoke to a realtor—we can sell it for a very good price. The money is yours, Natasha. It’s enough for an apartment. Small, but your own.”

Natalya went still, the cloth clenched in her hand. The porcelain shepherd girl smiled up at her with rosy painted cheeks.

“Did you fall asleep?” her mother-in-law snapped. “You still have the whole cabinet to wipe down.”

Natalya woke up to the smell of burnt porridge. Her mother-in-law had forgotten to turn off the stove again. She went down to the kitchen and silently scraped the blackened crust from the bottom of the pot. Her hands moved mechanically, while her thoughts drifted far away—to the apartment Igor kept describing.

For several days she walked around as if in a haze. Falling asleep on the narrow couch in their pass-through room, she imagined white walls without the darkened old portraits of other people’s relatives. She pictured a child’s room where Maksim could toss his toys without fearing a sharp shout. A kitchen—her kitchen—where no one would step behind her and mutter, “You’re cutting the onions wrong.”

“Daydreaming again?” her mother-in-law shuffled into the kitchen in worn-down slippers. “Did you buy milk?”

“It’s in the fridge,” Natalya said, turning to the window.

Yesterday Igor brought up the apartment again. He showed her photos on his phone—an ordinary two-bedroom in a quiet district, nothing fancy, but theirs. Natalya could see how anxious he was.

“How do we tell your parents?” she asked.

Igor was quiet for a moment, then wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“We’ll handle it.”

But Natalya remembered their last attempt at that conversation. Vladimir Sergeyevich had stood up from the table, pushing away his half-eaten borscht.

“We took you in. Independence is something you have to earn.”

Now, drying plates with a towel, Natalya felt something different inside. Not fear—determination. Let there be a blowup. Let them stop speaking for weeks. She would survive it—for Maksim, for their small family.

Artyom was spreading puzzle pieces across the floor when Lyudmila Pavlovna marched into the living room.

“Put it away right now! We have guests coming in an hour!”

The boy hurriedly gathered the cardboard pieces into the box. One slipped free and rolled under the couch.

“Hopeless!” his grandmother snapped, jerking his arm. “Who did you get those clumsy hands from?”

Natalya was ironing Igor’s dress shirt in the corner. In the kitchen, a housekeeper hired especially for her father-in-law’s anniversary clattered dishes.

“Natalya, you are going to wear a proper dress, aren’t you?” her mother-in-law looked her up and down. “Don’t disgrace the family in front of the Smirnovs.”

By seven, the apartment was filled with guests. Vladimir Sergeyevich sat like a king in his armchair, accepting congratulations. Gifts crowded the coffee table—cognac, books, an expensive pen.

Natalya set a boxed collection of her father-in-law’s favorite author in front of him. A third of her paycheck—but she’d been hoping it might soften him.

“Thanks,” he said dryly, not even opening it.

At the table, Artyom reached for bread and clipped a glass of juice with his elbow. A bright orange puddle spread across the white tablecloth.

“Artyom!” Grandma screeched. “Hands like hooks! How many times do I have to tell you—you don’t wriggle at the table!”

The boy shrank into his chair, tears swelling in his eyes.

After the third toast, Igor stood up and cleared his throat.

“Dad, Mom… we wanted to tell you… We’ve decided to move out. Natalya’s mom is helping us buy an apartment.”

Silence settled over the table. Mrs. Smirnova froze with her glass near her lips.

“So,” Vladimir Sergeyevich said, his voice trembling with rage, “you’ve decided to abandon us?”

“Dad, we just want to live separately…”

“She’s poisoned you against us!” his father jabbed a finger at Natalya. “She’s ruined this family!”

Lyudmila Pavlovna burst into tears into her handkerchief.

“We helped you, and you… you traitors!”

“This isn’t betrayal,” Natalya said firmly, rising to her feet. “This is normal life.”

“Out!” her father-in-law roared, flinging his napkin onto the table. “I don’t want to see you in this house ever again!”

The front door slammed behind them. Natalya carried a sleepy Artyom; Igor dragged a bag of the child’s things—there hadn’t been time to grab more. On the stairwell, only the emergency bulb glowed.

Inside the car, silence pressed down. Artyom snuffled on the back seat, nose buried in his stuffed bunny. Igor couldn’t start the engine for a long moment—his hands were shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, staring through the fogged windshield. “I didn’t think Dad would…”

Natalya said nothing. Tears ran down her cheeks, but inside she felt oddly light—like someone had finally taken a heavy backpack off her shoulders after a long climb.

“Natalya… I’m so sorry. I only understand now what it was like for you. Every single day.”

She turned toward him. In the dim cabin light his face looked much younger—like it had ten years ago, when they first met.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “We’ll be okay.”

Igor found her hand and squeezed her cold fingers. Natalya laced hers through his—tight, the way she had on their first date in the park.

The engine finally caught. They drove out of the courtyard, leaving behind the bright windows of his parents’ apartment. Artyom smacked his lips in his sleep, hugging the bunny closer.

“Where are we going?” Igor asked at the traffic light.

“To my mom’s,” Natalya said. “And tomorrow we start looking for our own place.”

The future was uncertain—but Natalya smiled through her tears.

Cardboard boxes were stacked in the entryway of their new apartment. Artyom hauled a plush teddy bear over the threshold, dragging it across the dusty floor. Natalya unpacked dishes, unwrapping them from old newspaper.

“Mom, can I jump on the couch here?” her son asked, peeking into the living room.

“You can,” she smiled—and he sprinted forward and flopped onto the cushions.

Igor was painting the wall in the child’s room. Pale blue paint went on unevenly over the old plaster, but he patiently laid down a second coat. The dried parquet creaked underfoot.

“They delivered the table,” he called from the room. “We’ll pick it up tomorrow—our neighbor said he’ll help with his car.”

They’d found the dining table in a classified ad—solid wood, the varnish chipped, but sturdy. Like most of their furniture: a dresser from a thrift shop, chairs borrowed from friends. Only the couch was new—for Artyom.

That evening they sat in the kitchen, drinking tea from mismatched mugs. Artyom drew at his little table, tongue sticking out in concentration. He didn’t keep looking over his shoulder. He didn’t flinch at every sound.

“You’re smiling,” Igor said, slipping an arm around his wife.

“Am I?”

Natalya hadn’t even noticed. In the past weeks they hadn’t argued once. Igor came home from work and hugged her first—instead of going to report to his parents.

The phone stayed quiet. Igor’s mother didn’t answer calls. His father rejected them, claiming he was busy. Igor frowned at the dark screen.

“They’ll come around,” Natalya said softly. “Time heals.”

Natalya was flipping pancakes when the intercom buzzed. Artyom ran to the handset, rising onto his toes.

“Who is it?”

A pause—then a familiar voice.

“It’s Grandpa. Open up.”

Igor froze with his coffee halfway to his mouth. Natalya turned off the stove.

Vladimir Sergeyevich stood on the doorstep. His gray hair was mussed by the wind, shadows carved under his eyes. In his hands he held a cardboard box.

“Artyom’s toys,” he muttered. “Found them in the garage.”

Artyom peeked from behind his mother’s leg and reached for the box. Inside were his old toy cars and building set.

His grandfather shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, looking somewhere above their heads.

“I think…” He cleared his throat. “I should’ve understood sooner that children have the right to live their own lives.”

“Come in,” Natalya said, stepping aside. “Would you like some tea? I just made pancakes.”

Vladimir Sergeyevich entered slowly, taking in the hallway and the homemade coat rack. From the kitchen, soft music played from an old radio. A checkered tablecloth covered the table; a vase held dry rowan branches.

He sat where she pointed and accepted the cup. Artyom climbed onto his lap, proudly holding up a new drawing.

“It’s nice here,” the older man said quietly.

Natalya nodded. The hatred had vanished along with the fear. Here, inside their own walls, she could finally be herself.