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

That morning my mother-in-law opened my kitchen cabinet and told me that I was doing everything wrong in my own home.

“Alinochka, why do you keep salt in this plastic container?” Lida Semyonovna turned the jar in her hands. “It absorbs moisture and turns into lumps. I had one like that, and I threw it away immediately.”

I was stirring vegetables in the frying pan. The oil was quietly sizzling, while raindrops collided with one another on the windowpane. I wanted to answer calmly, but my fingers gripped the pan handle so tightly that my fingernails turned white.

“I like it in this jar, Lida Semyonovna.”

“As you wish, mistress of the house,” she sighed. “Roma has loved order since childhood. He prefers everything to be in its place.”

Roma. My thirty-two-year-old husband, the head of a department at work, became a little boy again beside his mother. For the last seven days he had been adjusting her laptop, buying drops at the pharmacy, explaining the weather app to her, and asking every evening whether she needed anything.

A week ago my apartment was our home. Now she was everywhere: she rearranged the spices “more logically,” folded the towels into thirds, moved the sofa remote onto the armrest, and put the books from my desk into the cabinet.

“Mom, have you started again?” Roma entered the kitchen, kissed his mother on the head, and then put his hands on my shoulders. “Alina is an excellent housewife, isn’t she, darling?”

I saw his smile, but I did not feel support. Only the way his kind joke shielded me from his mother’s invisible attacks.

In the evening we tried to watch a film. Twenty minutes later Lida Semyonovna called from the living room:

“Romochka, come, I can’t figure out how to turn down the sound on this device!”

“Right away, Mom.”

He got up. The screen went dark. I was left alone on the sofa and heard their whispering from the kitchen. At that moment the anger disappeared. In its place, coldness remained.

The next day, at six in the evening, we were coming from the store with heavy bags. The sky was low and gray. One of the bags tore, and tangerines rolled onto the sidewalk.

“Mother told me I should check the iron,” Roma began the conversation. “The printer broke too. Maybe I’ll deal with it in the evening.”

I stopped. I put the bags on the ground and turned toward him.

“This is my apartment, Roma. I want your mother to leave today. Otherwise, you will look for a new home.”

He blinked twice.

“What are you saying? She is a guest.”

“A guest gives advice and leaves. Your mother is beginning to live here. You do not see it, or you do not want to see it.”

“Alina, you can be patient.”

“I was patient for one week. Now you have a choice: either you explain to her that the visit is over, or you leave with her.”

Only the hum of the engine could be heard in the elevator. When we entered the apartment, Lida Semyonovna was sitting in my favorite armchair and folding Roma’s shirts.

“My darlings have returned!” she smiled. “The pie is in the oven. I also left Roma a clean shirt for tomorrow.”

I went into the kitchen and began putting away the groceries. I put the jar in the cabinet, the milk in the refrigerator, and the bread in the basket. My hands moved calmly, while something in my heart was finally closing.

From the living room Roma heard his mother’s voice:

“Son, you wouldn’t allow your mother to be thrown out into the street, would you?”

I lowered my eyes. Then I saw a small wooden box on the table—the one where I kept the apartment documents. My hand moved toward the box. I wanted to open the lock, but at that very moment Roma appeared in the doorway and said to me:

“Alina, before you decide anything, look at this first…”

His hand reached toward the folder…

A heavy silence descended in the living room. The smell of vanilla and burnt apples came from the oven.

“What am I supposed to see?” I asked.

Roma put the folder on the table, but did not open it.

“Mother says she also has a share in the apartment.”

Lida Semyonovna raised her head.

“I didn’t say that I have a share. It’s just that Roma should have everything. A wife can be here today and gone tomorrow.”

“This is my apartment,” I said.

“After marriage everything becomes common,” she replied.

Roma looked away.

“I spoke to a lawyer. Maybe there really is some way for Mother to be safe.”

My chest tightened. I realized that this was no longer merely a bad visit. Someone had prepared documents in advance for staying in my home.

“Who did you speak to?”

Roma lowered his voice.

“Dato. He is Mother’s acquaintance. They are coming tomorrow.”

At that very moment the doorbell rang.

A strange satisfaction appeared on Lida Semyonovna’s face.

“That is probably him.”

A man’s voice sounded from behind the door:

“Mr. Roman, I brought the documents.”

Roma took hold of the handle. I locked the wooden box and for the first time felt that I was no longer alone in this home. As he opened the door, I pressed my finger on the recording hidden in my phone…

The door opened slightly and a short, bald man appeared on the threshold. He was holding a brown leather bag.

“Dato Kapanadze, lawyer,” he introduced himself. “Mrs. Alina, there is no need for an argument. Lida Semyonovna can obtain the right to register and live in this apartment.”

“Can she?” I repeated.

“If the spouse agrees, the process is simple.”

Roma did not look toward me.

Lida Semyonovna settled more comfortably in the armchair and straightened the collar of the shirt with her fingers.

“I am only asking for security, Alinochka. I am old. Where should I go?”

“To the home that you have.”

Silence fell over the room.

Dato opened the bag and took out papers.

“Here is the agreement. The right to use half of the apartment, and, if necessary, the obligation to transfer it.”

I did not touch the paper.

“You cannot do this without my consent.”

“Your husband agrees,” Dato said.

Roma’s face changed.

“Alina, you only had to sign for temporary protection.”

“Were you giving half of my apartment to your mother?”

“I… that wasn’t how it was put.”

I put the phone on the table and turned on the recording. Roma’s voice from yesterday sounded in the room, clear and cold:

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

Lida Semyonovna’s face stiffened. Dato lowered his eyes.

Roma jumped up from the chair.

“How did you record this?”

“Because I already knew you would no longer tell me the truth.”

“Mother, did you tell him this?”

“I only asked him to think about my future,” she whispered.

Dato listened to the recording once more and slowly put the papers back into his bag.

“I will no longer sign this agreement. And you should know one thing: the apartment belonged to Alina before the marriage. It cannot be considered joint property.”

Roma went pale.

“But I live in this home.”

“Living there does not mean ownership.”

At that moment a message arrived on my phone from an unknown number. It contained only one sentence: “If you tell Roma everything, your child will stay with me.”

I had no children.

My blood froze. A second message arrived immediately: “We have your old medical history. Come to the clinic tomorrow morning, or Roma will learn the truth.”

Roma watched my face.

“Who is writing to you?”

I turned off the screen. Now I understood that Lida Semyonovna had planned much more than the apartment. But the most dangerous answer was waiting for me at the clinic…