Part 4 — My mother-in-law moved into my apartment, and I gave my husband a choice — his face suddenly went pale

I stood in front of the clinic at seven o’clock in the morning. After the rain, the asphalt looked like a mirror, while the phone in my hand trembled as if the message still represented a living creature.

Roma stood behind me.

“You will not go in alone,” he told me.

“Now you are coming with me for the first time.”

He could not answer.

Lida Semyonovna stayed at home. Before leaving, Dato told her that he would not sign that document and would not help create any right for her in my apartment.

Then she called every acquaintance who had influence over Roma. She told one that I was throwing an old woman into the street. Another was told that Roma obeyed his wife and was destroying the family.

Roma’s phone rang one call after another.

“It’s Mother,” he said.

“Answer.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Listen to her all the way, at least once.”

He answered the call.

“Mom, we are at the clinic now.”

The reply was so loud that I heard it too.

“Do not follow that woman! She has hidden your whole life from you!”

Roma closed his eyes.

“What did she hide from me?”

For several seconds only breathing could be heard on the other side of the line.

Then Lida Semyonovna said:

“I am not your mother.”

Roma’s hand froze on the phone.

“What are you saying?”

“You were little. Your real mother died after giving birth. I was your stepfather’s sister. I signed over your property, kept your documents, and lived my whole life on your gratitude.”

Roma slowly lowered the phone.

I looked at him, but felt nothing. Neither victory nor relief. Only such exhaustion as if I had held a heavy door for years and now it had slipped from my hand.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Roma asked.

“Because if you forgot your real mother, you would no longer need me.”

A sharp smell of antiseptic stood in the clinic corridor. The clock hanging on the wall ticked loudly every second.

When the doctor, Nana, saw my surname, she immediately took us into the office.

“Did she send you these messages?” she asked.

“Probably.”

The doctor put a folder on the desk.

“Your old medical history really exists here, but there is nothing about a child. You have never had a child, nor do you have a diagnosis that would have made motherhood impossible.”

Roma looked at the folder.

“Then what was she using?”

“A forged certificate,” Nana replied. “And one more document that someone requested from the clinic yesterday. It says that during Alina’s pregnancy the child died. That is a lie.”

A lump stuck in my throat.

Then everything became clear. Lida Semyonovna was turning Roma against me so that she could first obtain the apartment and then completely establish control over him through my vulnerability and guilt.

“You should contact the police,” Nana said. “Save the messages. We also have cameras and the request record.”

That same day Dato prepared a statement. In the evening, two investigators came to the apartment.

Lida Semyonovna met them at the door.

“This is a family matter!” she shouted. “Alina is turning my son against me!”

One of the investigators answered calmly:

“Madam, your messages and forged documents have already been registered as evidence.”

Roma stood against the wall. For the first time I saw him understand his own words from other people’s mouths.

The investigator turned on the recording:

“Sign it, or I’ll throw Alina out. The apartment belongs to you too.”

His voice sounded in the room.

Roma raised his head.

“I said that.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I really said that.”

“That is why I can no longer save you.”

Lida Semyonovna covered her face with her hand. But this time her tears moved no one to protect her.

That night Roma packed a suitcase.

His room slowly emptied. Only one black sock remained on the bed, while my old wooden box stood in the cabinet. The little box where I kept the apartment documents and which I had not dared to open that evening.

Roma stood at the door for a long time.

“Could you ever forgive me?”

“Forgiveness is possible. Returning is not.”

“I loved you.”

“Maybe. But love can also respect boundaries.”

He left.

Three weeks later, the court began an investigation against Lida Semyonovna for forgery and threats. She had to leave the apartment. Dato told me that Roma had gone himself to give testimony and confirmed everything.

I was not happy at the trial.

I simply no longer had to defend my own truth for the first time before the person who had known from the beginning that I was right.

Two months later I moved to another company for work. In the mornings I drank coffee in a small café, and in the evenings I read by the window. No one moved my things around at home anymore.

The salt was still in the same plastic jar.

One evening I received a letter from Roma. It said that Lida Semyonovna was asking for help, that she regretted it, and that Roma believed our marriage could be saved.

I looked at the screen for a long time.

Then I sent only one reply:

“I can no longer return to your life. In the home that you must now build on your own truth, I no longer live.”

The next morning there was snow on the windowsill. In the kitchen I boiled water, cut bread, and sprinkled salt from the little jar that I had once thought was a symbol of my humiliation.

Now it was simply my belonging.

And for the first time in a long time, my home was mine again.

The salt no longer formed lumps.