My husband secretly moved his mother into my home, but after one question from me, his face suddenly turned pale

That evening my husband brought his mother’s suitcases into the house and demanded that I vacate the room as if I were only a guest in this apartment.

I returned from work at half past six. In the stairwell I could still smell the rain, water was dripping from my gloves onto the floor, when I opened the door and saw a huge dark-blue suitcase in the living room.

A small bag stood beside it. Under the mirror lay a bunch of keys, on which a small wooden house was hanging.

I had never seen such keys in my life.

My mother-in-law’s voice came from the bathroom.

“Be careful with the white bag, Artyom! There are medicines in it!”

I froze in the doorway.

Artyom was dragging two more bags from the car. As soon as he saw me, that tense smile appeared on his face, the one he always used when he had already decided something and was only afraid of my reaction.

“You’re already home?” he asked me.

“As you can see.”

He put the bags beside the suitcases.

“A pipe burst in Mother’s apartment. She will live with us while they repair it.”

I slowly took off my coat.

“For how long?”

“Not very long.”

“Artyom, for how long?”

He looked toward the kitchen.

“About two months.”

“Two months?”

“Maybe less.”

At that moment Valentina Stepanovna came out of the bathroom. She was already wearing home clothes, and her hair was wrapped in my white towel.

“Larisochka, don’t be angry. I couldn’t find your towels, so I used mine. I can’t stand other people’s things.”

Behind her I noticed an open suitcase in my bedroom.

“Why is my room open?” I asked.

Valentina looked away.

“Artyom told me I would sleep there. You can manage in the living room for a few nights, can’t you?”

At that moment something broke inside my heart. Not because my mother-in-law was coming to live with us. Because they had already decided where I should sleep without asking me anything.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” I told my husband.

I closed the door. On the table stood a small ceramic blue bowl that I had inherited from my grandmother and used only on special days. Valentina had already put her medicines in it.

“When were you planning to tell me?” I asked.

“Today.”

“Before she came or after?”

Artyom fell silent.

I received my answer.

“Why did you hide it from me?”

“Because I knew you would resist.”

“Resist? Is resisting the moving of a stranger into your own home?”

“Larisa, she is my mother.”

“And I am your wife. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He lowered his voice.

“You have to endure two months.”

“Do I have to endure it, or do you have to take responsibility?”

Artyom tapped his fingers on the table.

“Mother is going through a difficult period now. Don’t make it more difficult.”

“Where is the document about the apartment damage?”

His hand stopped.

“What document?”

“If a pipe burst, there should at least be a plumber’s report, an insurance letter, or a neighbor’s statement.”

Artyom looked at me. For the first time that evening his smile disappeared.

“Do you not trust me at all?”

“If you had not hidden it from me today, I would not have asked you that question.”

Valentina’s voice came from the bedroom.

“Artyom, come, please! I can’t find my medicine box!”

My husband looked toward the door, as if he intended to escape through it.

I looked at the bunch of keys. The little wooden house was slowly swinging. On its back I noticed a thin black scratch, as if it had once rubbed against something.

“Where did you get these keys?” I asked.

Artyom fell silent.

Then he took his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen.

At that very moment a message arrived from an unknown number. Only one sentence was visible: “If you don’t make her sign today, everything is over.”

I looked at the screen, but he immediately turned the phone over.

“Who wrote to you?”

“No one.”

“Artyom.”

He went toward the door.

“I’ll take care of Mother first.”

But before he touched the handle, I stood in front of him.

“You will stay with me first. Now you will tell me what I am supposed to sign…”

Artyom stood silently for several seconds. Then he slowly smiled.

“Nothing, Larisa. You simply have to help Mother arrange temporary housing.”

“Why me?”

“Because the apartment is in your name.”

He said these words as if I had only just remembered that I lived here.

Valentina entered the kitchen and put a thick folder on the table.

“Let’s not turn a family matter into an interrogation,” she told me. “Sign it and let’s have dinner peacefully.”

I did not touch the folder.

“I’ll read it first.”

“It’s legal text, you won’t understand anything,” she snickered.

“Then I’ll have a lawyer read it.”

Artyom’s face changed.

“Larisa, don’t ruin everything.”

That night I slept in the living room. I put the folder in my bag, and at four in the morning, when everyone in the house was asleep, I took photographs of the documents with my phone.

On one sheet there was my signature.

But I had never written it.

Below was the amount that was supposed to be taken against our apartment. Fifty thousand.

Then the phone lit up again. This time a message came from Valentina’s number: “Tomorrow we are going to the bank. If she resists us, we also have plan B.”

My breath caught.

Then I realized that my mother-in-law’s arrival was only the beginning. In the morning, before they woke up, someone knocked on the door three times…

The knock on the door sounded at half past six in the morning. The sound was so clear that Valentina immediately came out of the bedroom, while Artyom stopped on the stairs.

A man with a dark umbrella was standing at the door. He was holding a small wooden box.

“Mrs. Larisa Menavtobiani?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

“I am from the bank’s security department. I came after the message you sent us yesterday.”

Artyom quickly came downstairs.

“There is a mistake here. My wife did not write anything to anyone.”

The man looked at him calmly.

“That is exactly why I am here.”

From the wooden box he took out a small recorder and put it on the table. My hands froze. Attached to the recorder was the memory card that I had found in Artyom’s car the previous evening, under the seat.

“The bank sent this recording,” he said. “During the loan application, someone called in your name. The voice is a woman’s, but the personal data given in the application turned out to be yours.”

Valentina’s face flushed.

“Absurd.”

The man turned on the recorder.

Words spoken in my name sounded in the room, although the voice had clearly been artificially processed.

“I, Larisa Menavtobiani, agree that the apartment be used as collateral. I need the money for family needs.”

I turned off the recorder.

“I did not say that.”

“We know,” he replied. “There are several technical inconsistencies in the recording. Besides, the camera at the bank shows that you did not enter the building at all on the day of the application.”

Artyom leaned against the wall.

“Mother told me that this was simply a preliminary agreement,” he said. “I did not think they would take out a loan.”

Valentina turned toward him.

“Be quiet.”

“You told me that Larisa would sign in the end anyway!”

“Because she is your wife and is obliged to help us!”

I looked at them and could not believe that I had shared one table, one bed, and one life with these people.

The bank representative took out a second document.

“Here is your husband’s electronic consent. He confirmed that the apartment belonged entirely to his family.”

“That is a lie!” Artyom shouted.

“Then why is your personal code written in the confirmation letters?” I asked.

He could not find an answer.

I took the folder out of my bag.

“I found this document at night. My signature has been forged. Where was the loan money going?”

Valentina pressed her lips together.

This time the bank representative took out his phone.

“The money has already been transferred to another account. The account holder is your husband’s former business partner.”

It was as if the air left Artyom.

“I did not do this.”

“But you and your mother were going to the bank yesterday to obtain final approval,” I said.

The man nodded.

“There is one more problem. This morning a statement was filed with the police claiming that you threatened your husband and are psychologically unstable. The statement is signed by your husband.”

Artyom turned pale.

“I filed it only for protection. Mother told me that if something happened…”

“If something happened?” I repeated.

Someone knocked on the door again.

This time two police officers were standing on the threshold.

One of them looked at my husband and said:

“Artyom Sokolov? You have another message. But this one did not come from the bank. Your partner was arrested this morning, and he admitted on whose orders he took the money…”