“Sign it, or my son will find someone smarter!” his mother-in-law announced. She didn’t know that Olga had just discovered the whole truth about her husband’s plans. The scandal was in full swing: the sound of porcelain clattering against tiles, a scream, the front door slamming so hard it rattled the glass on the cupboard. “You’re a traitor!” Marina Petrovna shouted, pointing her finger at her son. “You’ve framed us all!” “Mom, it’s not my fault!” Mikhail defended himself, trying to snatch the phone from his wife. “Olya, give it back, you don’t understand!” “I understand everything perfectly,” Olga replied, stepping back and holding the screen so everyone at the table could see. “I understand better than you think.” But to understand how everything degenerated into that scream in the middle of the living room, we have to go back three months, to when it all began with an innocent joke about boxes of plates. “Well, now I’m officially living off my wife,” Mikhail laughed, placing the last box on the doorstep and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Fantastic.” “Yes, the kept woman in reverse,” Olga snorted, looking around the still-empty apartment—her apartment, bought long before the wedding, when Mikhail hadn’t even planned it. Everyone was laughing then—Olga herself, her friend Irina, who had helped her with the move, and even Mikhail was laughing sincerely, without ulterior motives. Three years earlier, immediately after the wedding, they had rented a studio apartment in the suburbs. Their apartment was rented, and the tenants had recently moved in. Olga’s parents had contributed the down payment, but Olga had paid the rest herself—she had paid off the mortgage for almost six years, forgoing vacations and a new phone. The apartment was in her name alone; Mikhail hadn’t contributed a cent, and no one seemed to care—at least not at the time. Now no one laughs anymore. It all started with that joke about the kept woman—the harmless one, carelessly thrown behind the boxes of dishes. From their first visit, Marina Petrovna had taken her daughter-in-law’s apartment as a personal insult. “Well, well,” she said listlessly, looking around the spacious kitchen, the new appliances, and the view of the park from the window. “So you’re alone here?” “Mom, what kind of housewife are you?” Mikhail murmured shyly, pouring tea. “We live together.” “You live together,” Marina Petrovna nodded, “and the apartment, if I understand correctly, is registered solely in Olga’s name?” “That’s how it happened,” Olga replied calmly, placing a bowl of cookies on the table. “I bought them before the wedding.” “Well, how convenient,” her mother-in-law smiled.whose smile already betrayed everything he thought about the matter. Pyotr Ivanovich, his father-in-law, remained silent the entire time, stirring his tea with a teaspoon and staring out the window. Over the years, Olga had become accustomed to the idea that if Marina Petrovna started a conversation, her husband would either nod or remain silent. It was as if Pyotr Ivanovich’s voice didn’t exist in the family. For years, methodically, like a drop eroding a stone, Marina Petrovna had instilled the same concept in her son’s mind. “Misha, think about it for a moment,” he said during another family dinner. “You’re husband and wife, you should have everything in common. But what if something were to happen—God forbid, of course—and you were left with nothing?” “Mom, what happened?” Mikhail had downplayed the first year, still laughing as he thought back to those conversations. “We’re fine and alive.” “You’re still young,” Marina Petrovna said, shaking her head. “Life throws you all sorts of obstacles. At least ask permission to stay, for starters. Or to share the house, symbolically.” At first, Mikhail was just joking. “Mom, leave me alone,” he said, waving his hand as if it were a pesky fly. “Olya isn’t greedy; if you need anything, she’ll help you.” But time passed, and the jokes became less frequent. After a year, Mikhail was no longer shy, he thought. “Maybe Mom’s right,” he said one evening, as he was getting ready for bed. “After all, we’re a family; everything should be shared.” “Misha, we already share everything,” Olga replied, patting him on the shoulder. “Shared budget, shared refrigerator, shared life. The apartment is just a piece of paper with my name on it.” “Good, good,” Mikhail muttered and turned away, but the topic kept coming back, like a buoy that couldn’t sink. The attacks came in waves—Olga had long noticed. Marina Petrovna would casually bring up the subject of wills and “who knows” during Sunday dinner, and then Mikhail would suddenly ask, yawning and looking at his phone: “Olya, have you ever thought about making me a co-owner, just for your peace of mind? So that I have the papers in order, just in case.” “Misha, my papers are in order,” Olga would reply almost always in the same way, calmly and without irritation. “The apartment is mine, I bought it before the wedding; it’s my insurance. Let’s not go over this again.” “I was just asking,” Mikhail shrugged and remained silent for a moment. But not for long. A week or two later the conversation returned, worded slightly differently.But with the same content: the apartment needs renovation. Register, divide, and enter your husband in the land and mortgage register. Olga discussed this with her friend Irina over coffee. “Listen, this is really driving me crazy,” Olga admitted, stirring her cappuccino. “Every week someone starts talking about re-registration.” “Ola, have you lost your mind or something?” Irina asked bluntly, hanging up the phone. “You’ll never get over it. I know dozens of similar stories.” “Come on,” Olga laughed. “Misha isn’t like that. His mother keeps pressuring him, and he can’t say no, so he keeps repeating what she says.” “Oh, I know all about that ‘wrong’ thing,” Irina shook her head. “By the way, how are you? Did you say he has a new colleague at work?” “Anna, or what?” Olga shrugged. “Yes, there is one. He’s been talking about her a lot lately: she’s smart, she helped him with a project, she helped him with something else. He’s staying late more and more often. And that doesn’t bother you?” Irina narrowed her eyes. “What are you ashamed of? They’re friends,” Olga dismissed, although something inside her was throbbing with unease, perhaps because of her friend’s words or her own thoughts, which she preferred not to dwell on. Marina Petrovna had arranged for a “women’s” conversation without warning, showing up on a day when Mikhail was at work. “Come in, Marina Petrovna,” Olga said, opening the door, already sensing that the visit wasn’t accidental. “Olga, we need to talk seriously,” her mother-in-law announced from the door, taking a folder of documents from her bag. “Without Misha, just a women’s conversation.” Olga led her into the kitchen and put on the kettle, knowing that tea wouldn’t be the most important thing. “I’ve got everything ready,” Marina Petrovna said, placing the documents on the table and smoothing them out with her hand. “The lawyer prepared them; I decided so. You just have to sign them; everything’s fine.” “What is this?” Olga took the paper, even though she had already guessed it. “A deed of gift,” Marina Petrovna said casually, as if asking for a cake recipe. “For half the share. Your son doesn’t have his own apartment, Olga, understand me as a mother.” “Your son has his own apartment,” Olga replied calmly, putting the document aside. “He lives there. With me.” “He lives there, but he has no rights,” Marina Petrovna raised her voice. “That’s not true, Olga! You are husband and wife!”

“Sign or choose: apartment or divorce. There’s no third option!” Marina Petrovna shouted, thrusting a pen into Olga’s hand.

Olga didn’t abruptly withdraw her hand. She simply stepped back and looked at her mother-in-law so calmly that she remained silent for a moment.

Three months later, in Marina Petrovna’s living room, porcelain clattered against the tiles with such a crash that everyone at the table froze. Someone screamed. The front door slammed so hard that the glass on the sideboard rattled.

“Traitor!” Marina Petrovna shouted, pointing her finger at her son. “You’ve framed us all!”

“Mom, I had nothing to do with this!” Mikhail defended himself, trying to snatch the phone from his wife. “Hey, give it back. You don’t understand anything!”

“I understand everything perfectly,” Olga replied, stepping back and holding the screen up so everyone at the table could see it. “Better than you thought.”

But to understand how all this commotion could have happened in the living room, we need to go back to the day it all began with an innocent joke about dirty dishes.

“Well, now I’m officially living off my wife,” Mikhail laughed, placing the last box on the doorstep and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Excellent.”

“A kept man, only backwards,” Olga snorted, looking around the still-empty apartment.

My apartment.

She had bought it long before their wedding, when Mikhail wasn’t even in their plans. Three years earlier, when they were married, they had been living in a rented studio apartment on the outskirts of the city, while her apartment was rented. The tenants had only recently moved out.

Olga’s parents had helped her with the down payment, and she had paid the rest herself for almost six years. She had deprived herself of vacations, a new phone, or expensive clothes. The apartment was registered solely in her name. Mikhail hadn’t invested a cent in it, and at the time, no one seemed to care.

At least that’s what she thought.

On moving day, everyone was laughing: Olga, Mikhail, and Irina, the friend who helped them carry the boxes. The joke about the kept man went unnoticed and was lost among the boxes, the dust, and the smell of freshly mopped floors.

Today no one would laugh at him.

Marina Petrovna, during her first visit, considered her daughter-in-law’s apartment a personal insult.

“Well,” she drawled, taking in the spacious kitchen, the new appliances, and the view of the park from the window. “So there’s only one housekeeper here?”

“Mom, what a hostess,” Mikhail muttered embarrassedly, pouring tea. “We live together.”

“You live together,” Marina Petrovna confirmed. “And the apartment, if I’m not mistaken, is registered solely in Olga’s name?”

“It happened by chance,” Olga replied calmly, placing a bowl of cookies on the table. “I bought them before the wedding.”

“How convenient,” smiled the mother-in-law.

In that smile Olga immediately read everything that Marina Petrovna really thought.

Pyotr Ivanovich, Olga’s father-in-law, remained silent. He stirred his tea with a teaspoon and stared blankly out the window. Olga had grown accustomed to this situation over the years: when Marina Petrovna initiated a conversation, her husband would nod or remain silent. It was as if, in that family, he had no say.

For years, Marina Petrovna instilled a single idea in her son’s mind. Methodically, patiently, like a drop of water eroding a stone.

“Mishenka, think for yourself,” he said during another family dinner. “You’re husband and wife; everything should be shared. What if, God forbid, something were to happen? Would you be left with nothing?”

“Mom, what if something happens?” Mikhail laughed during his first year. “We’ll just live normally.”

“You’re young,” Marina Petrovna said, shaking her head. “Life holds all sorts of surprises. At least ask for an accounting. Or a nominal fee.”

At first Mikhail was just joking.

“Mom, come on,” she said, waving her hand as if swatting away a pesky fly. “Ola isn’t greedy. If you need anything, she’ll help you.”

But time passed and the jokes became increasingly rare.

After a year, Mikhail stopped laughing. He got lost in his thoughts.

“Maybe Mom’s right,” she said one evening as she lay down in bed. “After all, we’re family. Everything should be shared.”

“Misha, we share everything,” Olga replied, stroking his arm. “The budget, the refrigerator, the living room. The apartment is just a piece of paper with my name on it.”

“Well, yes, yes,” Mikhail muttered, turning his back on him.

Since then, the issue continues to recur like a floating problem that cannot be definitively sunk.

The attacks came in waves. Olga noticed immediately. Once, during Sunday dinner, Marina Petrovna began talking nonchalantly about wills and “various situations.” Another time, it was Mikhail himself, yawning and looking at his phone, who blurted out:

“Hey, have you ever thought about making me a co-owner, just to be safe? Just like that, out of the blue. Just to make sure the paperwork is in order.”

“Misha, my papers are in order,” Olga replied almost always in the same way, calmly and without irritation. “The apartment is mine; I bought it before the wedding. It’s my security. Let’s not go over this again.”

“I just asked,” Mikhail shrugged.

And he remained silent.

But not for long. After a week or two, the conversation returned in a slightly different form, with the same underlying message: the apartment needed to be reassigned, divided, and a husband needed to be added.

Olga told Irina about it over coffee.

“Look, they’re exhausting me,” he admitted, stirring his cappuccino. “Every week someone starts talking about renting the apartment again.”

“Hey, are you stupid?” Irina asked bluntly, hanging up the phone. “You give it back to me and then you don’t even pick up the bones. I know at least ten stories like that.”

“Come on,” Olga laughed. “Misha isn’t like that. His mother pressures him, and he can’t say no. So he repeats his words to me.”

“I know those ‘not-so-good’ people,” Irina said, shaking her head. “By the way, how are things going? You said he has a new friend at work.”

“Anna?” Olga shrugged. “That’s just the way she is. She’s been talking about you a lot lately. She says you’re smart, that you helped with a project, things like that. And she’s staying late more often.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Irina closed her eyes.

“What’s there to worry about? They’re co-workers.”

Olga waved her hand, but something was tormenting her insides. She didn’t know if it was her friend’s words or her own thoughts, which she didn’t want to end.

Marina Petrovna arranged the “women’s” conversation without warning. She arrived just as Mikhail was at work.

“Please come in, Marina Petrovna,” said Olga, opening the door and immediately realizing that the visit was not accidental.

“Olga, we need to talk seriously,” my mother-in-law announced from the doorway, pulling a folder of documents from her purse. “Without Mishenka. As it should be, like women.”

Olga led her into the kitchen and put the kettle on, even though she knew right away that tea wouldn’t be the most important thing there.

“I have everything ready,” Marina Petrovna said, placing the documents on the table and smoothing them with her hand. “The lawyer has prepared everything. I traveled especially for this. You just have to sign; everything is in order.”

“What is this?” Olga took the piece of paper, even though she had already guessed.

“A donation,” Marina Petrovna said, as if asking for a cake recipe. “Half the fee. My son doesn’t have a home of his own, Olga. Understand me, I’m a mother.”

“Your son has a job,” Olga replied calmly, putting the document aside. “He lives there. With me.”

“He lives there, but he has no rights,” Marina Petrovna exclaimed, raising her voice. “This is not normal, Olga! You are husband and wife!”

“Marina Petrovna, I won’t sign this,” Olga said firmly. “The apartment was purchased before the marriage. It’s my property, and that won’t change.”

My mother-in-law’s face froze for a moment, then it burned. Not with a blush, but with a dark stain of anger that spread from her neck to her cheeks.

“How dare you talk to me like that!” Marina Petrovna jumped up, grabbed Olga’s wrist, and pressed the pen into her hand. “Sign! Either choose: an apartment or a divorce. There’s no third option!”

Olga freed her hand. She didn’t resist. She simply backed calmly toward the door.

“Olga! I’m talking to you!” Marina Petrovna shouted after her.

– I have something to think about, you can go now.

Olga accompanied her mother-in-law out with her briefcase full of documents.

That evening, Mikhail left his phone on the kitchen table and went to take a shower. A notification lit up his screen. Olga looked up automatically, a habit she’d developed over the years of living together, when other people’s messages had long since ceased to seem forbidden to her.

She immediately noticed Anna’s sentence.

“As soon as the apartment is in your name, file for divorce immediately. Don’t delay.”

Olga’s fingers went cold.