Julia shut down her computer and stretched. It had been a tough day—the client presentation dragged on, then a series of demanding meetings, then last-minute contract edits. Her head throbbed with a dull ache and her shoulders were stiff with tension. All she wanted was to get home, take a long, hot shower, and collapse on the couch with a book.

The two-room apartment on Leninsky Prospekt had become her sanctuary and fortress two years ago. Julia had saved for a long time and took on a sizeable mortgage, but when she finally got the keys to her own place, she felt an overwhelming relief, as if she’d shrugged off a heavy, lifelong backpack. She set it up gradually, meticulously—bought furniture, chose comforting textiles, and arranged books on the shelves. Every corner was thought out, every object in its designated place, reflecting her personality and her need for order. This space represented her hard-earned independence.

She met Igor in the spring at a company party hosted by a mutual friend. Tall, athletic, with an open, easy smile—he caught her eye right away. They struck up a conversation at the buffet table and exchanged numbers. Their dating quickly became serious. Igor proved to be attentive—he walked her home after work, brought unexpected flowers, and remembered important dates. Six months later, he proposed marriage.

Julia didn’t say yes immediately. She paused, considering it for a week. She weighed the pros and cons meticulously. In the end, she decided—yes, this man would do. He was calm, reliable, and seemingly without the emotional quirks that had derailed past relationships. They set the wedding for the following summer. For the time being, the groom kept renting an apartment on the far side of the city, and Julia continued to enjoy her own space.

A month ago, Igor asked:

“Yulya, how about you give me a spare key? It would just be convenient—if something urgent comes up, I can drop by. Or water the plants when you’re on a business trip. Grab the mail from the box. It just makes sense since we're getting married.”

Julia thought it over and agreed. It seemed reasonable and practical. They’d be married soon, sharing a life and living together. What difference did it make whether she gave him the key now or in a few months?

“Just let me know when you’re planning to come by,” she requested, a small, reasonable boundary.

“Of course, darling,” the groom smiled, kissing her forehead.

Since then, Igor had stopped by a couple of times—he brought groceries when Julia was stuck working late, and once he really did water the plants while she was away. He always warned her in advance. Everything was perfectly fine. The trust felt justified.

That day, she left the office around eight in the evening. A cold November night greeted her with a chilling wind and a fine, stinging rain. Julia pulled up her hood and hurried to the metro. On the way, she was thinking about the savory casserole left in the fridge—it just needed heating up. Then a shower, then a book. A perfectly simple, restful plan.

The entranceway smelled of damp concrete and old, overheating radiators. Julia climbed the four flights to her floor, fishing for her keys in her purse. And she froze.

By her door stood three large shopping bags and a sizable rolling suitcase. They were not her belongings.

She frowned. Neighbors? But why were they blocking her door? Maybe they mixed up the floor?

She turned the lock, pushed the door inward, stepped into the hallway—and heard voices. Women’s voices. Loud, bustling, coming from the bedroom.

“Mom, where are you going to put the iron?”

“Right here on this little table. It’s convenient for quick touch-ups!”

Julia stood motionless, her keys still dangling from the lock. Her heart plummeted, replaced by a cold knot of incomprehension. What in the world was going on?

She mechanically hung her coat on the rack and slowly walked down the corridor. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Inside, two women were busy unpacking. One was older, around fifty, in a dark blue dress with a neat hairstyle. The other was younger, about thirty, in jeans and a sweater.

Julia instantly recognized them both. Lyudmila Petrovna—Igor’s mother. Oksana—his sister. They had met a couple of times at formal family dinners.

The older woman was laying clothes out neatly on the bed. Oksana was dealing with the suitcase, pulling out folded garments.

“Excuse me,” Julia said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the domestic noise.

Both women turned abruptly. Lyudmila Petrovna smiled broadly, as if she’d just met an old friend she’d been expecting.

“Oh, Yulechka! There you are! We’ve almost finished unpacking our essentials.”

“Finished… unpacking?” Julia repeated slowly, the words alien in her own apartment.

“Well, yes. Our things. We’ll settle in here for a bit while we’re having renovations done at my place. Isn't that nice of Igor?”

Julia blinked. Once. Twice. The sheer audaciousness of the information refused to process in her logical brain.

“What renovations are you talking about?”

“At my place, dear,” Lyudmila Petrovna explained readily, without any hint of shame. “The pipes burst last night. The neighbors upstairs flooded us completely. The whole apartment got soaked! We had to call in workers right away. They said—at least a week just to dry it out, then repairs. So Oksanochka and I decided to move in with you. Igor gave us the key and said he didn’t mind at all.”

Julia stood in the doorway, trying to metabolize the facts: Igor had given them the key. Without telling her. He’d simply granted his mother and sister access to her apartment, her sanctuary, her property.

“Does Igor know you’re here right now?”

“Of course! He’s the one who gave us the key just this afternoon! He said, ‘Make yourselves at home, she won't mind.’”

“And he couldn’t warn me about this before you arrived and unpacked?” Her voice was even, dangerously controlled, but inside, something hot and unpleasant was beginning to boil.

Lyudmila Petrovna waved a dismissive hand.

“Julia, we’re practically family! The wedding’s next summer! Why make such a fuss? Igor said you would be absolutely fine with it. He knows you’re kind.”

“He was mistaken.”

The smile on Lyudmila Petrovna’s face became rigid and strained.

“What do you mean, mistaken?”

“He was deeply mistaken. I mind very much.”

Oksana, who had been silent up to then, chimed in with immediate indignation:

“Come on, Julia, don’t be like that! Our place is uninhabitable! We literally have nowhere to go! Do you want Mom to live in a miserable hotel?”

“You can rent a short-term apartment or a suite. There are plenty of options online.”

“Are you serious? That costs money!” Oksana protested, her voice rising. “Why should we spend money when you’ve got two perfectly good, empty rooms here?”

Julia walked into the bedroom and looked at the bed. The linens had been changed. The lavender-patterned set that had been on it that morning—her favorite, expensive set—was gone. In its place was something beige and unfamiliar.

“Where are my sheets?”

“Oh, we took those off,” Lyudmila Petrovna answered breezily. “We’ve already washed them; they’re drying in the bathroom. It’s terribly uncomfortable to sleep on someone else’s things for days!”

“That is my bed. Those are my things.”

“Well, we’re only here temporarily! A week or two and we’ll be out! You're overreacting.”

Julia left the bedroom and went to the kitchen. A large pot sat on her stove. Inside—something cooking with meat. On the table nearby—several bags of groceries, clearly belonging to them. Bread, milk, vegetables. Their supplies now crammed into the fridge, pushing aside Julia’s carefully organized containers.

She opened the refrigerator. Her casserole—the simple dinner she’d been looking forward to—had been shifted down to the bottom shelf, almost by the freezer. On the top shelf now sat a plastic tub with some kind of foreign salad.

“Lyudmila Petrovna,” Julia called, her voice low.

She came into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel—Julia's dishtowel.

“Yes, dear? I was just about to start dinner.”

“We did not agree that you’d be residing here. This is not a discussion about dinner.”

“Oh Julia, really now! We’ll soon be one family! You’re not going to throw us out onto the street, are you? That would be a terrible look before the wedding.”

“I am not throwing you out. I am asking you to respect my ownership of this property and find another, suitable solution immediately.”

Lyudmila Petrovna frowned, the pleasant façade finally cracking. Her voice hardened with the authority she was used to wielding over her son.

“Julia, my apartment is flooded. I have nowhere to live. Igor gave us permission. Do you want to start a massive quarrel with your fiancé and your future in-laws over a few days?”

“I want to understand why he didn’t ask me, his partner and the owner of the apartment.”

“Because he knew you wouldn’t say no! You’re a kind girl! And you know, deep down, he has the right!” She forced another smile, but it was purely tactical. “Isn’t that right?”

Julia pulled out her phone and dialed Igor. It rang a while before he picked up, sounding slightly breathless.

“Hi, Yulya! How are you? I was just about to call you.”

“Igor, your mother and sister are currently in my apartment. They are fully unpacked.”

“Oh, right! I wanted to tell you, but you were in that long presentation and I didn’t want to distract you. My mom’s place got flooded; we had to act fast. I took the initiative, darling. I figured you wouldn’t mind, considering the emergency.”

“You figured wrong, Igor.”

“Yulya, it’s my mother! And my sister! They are genuinely homeless right now! You really won’t help them with a roof over their heads?”

“There are different ways to help, which I suggested. But unilaterally moving them into my private apartment without my knowledge or consent is an unacceptable breach of trust and boundaries.”

Igor sighed loudly. Voices came through the receiver—apparently, he wasn’t alone.

“Yulya, don’t start this drama. Please. They’ll stay a week, two at most. Then they’ll leave. You understand they truly have nowhere else they can go right now.”

“I understand the crisis. But that does not give anyone the right to invade my space and usurp my home.”

“Yulya, really, I’m busy with something important right now. Let’s talk calmly this evening, okay? Don't make a scene.”

“Igor…”

“Yulya, really, I have to go. Till tonight.”

The call cut off abruptly. Julia looked at the phone in her hand. Her hands were shaking. Inside, anger, bewilderment, and a deep, cutting sense of betrayal seethed together.

Lyudmila Petrovna stood in the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed, a look of smug victory on her face.

“Well? Did you talk to your fiancé? Did Igor explain everything clearly?”

“He did.”

“Splendid! Then let’s not quarrel over something so trivial. Oksana and I will take your room, and you can sleep on the living room couch. I hear it’s quite comfortable for one person.”

Julia turned slowly to face her future mother-in-law. She looked at her for a long time without blinking, her gaze unwavering. Lyudmila held the eye contact for a strained five seconds, then nervously looked away.

“I will sleep in my room. In my bed. And you will find somewhere else to stay tonight.”

“Julia, we’ve already fully unpacked our clothes and toiletries!”

“You will pack it all back up.”

“Are you being serious? You would actually do this?” There was sudden, hard steel in Lyudmila’s voice.

“Absolutely.”

Oksana came out of the bedroom and stood defensively beside her mother.

“Listen, Julia, you’re being absolutely stingy and unreasonable! The apartment is huge, there’s plenty of room for everyone!”

“The apartment is mine. I did not invite you into it.”

“But Igor did! He’s the man of the house!”

“Igor has no legal right to do that. And he is not the man of this house.”

“How can he not?! He’s your fiancé! You’re getting married soon—you belong to us now!”

“Until we are married, this apartment belongs only to me. And I decide, alone, who sleeps here.”

Lyudmila took a step forward, towering slightly. Her face flushed a dark red, her eyes narrowed with furious entitlement.

“So you’re throwing us out? Into this weather? When my apartment is destroyed by a flood?”

“I am not throwing you out. I am asking you to respect my space, my boundaries, and my property rights, and find a respectful, temporary solution.”

“There is no other option that we can afford!”

“There is. Hotels, short-term rentals, extended-stay hostels. For every single budget.”

“How dare you be so heartless!” Oksana flared. “My mother is an older woman! She needs a high level of comfort!”

“Then provide that comfort for her yourselves. But not at my expense, and not in my home.”

Lyudmila spun around and headed back to the bedroom, the defeat and rage palpable. The door slammed behind her. Oksana shot Julia a venomous, hateful glance and followed her mother.

Julia stayed in the kitchen. She sat down, placing her hands on the table. Her fingers clenched into tight fists, then slowly unclenched. Her breathing began to calm. The adrenaline was replaced by resolution.

Ten minutes later, the bedroom door opened again. Lyudmila Petrovna came out dragging the suitcase. Her face was stony, her lips pressed into a thin, spiteful line. Oksana followed, carrying the three large bags.

“Well then,” Lyudmila said coldly, stopping in the hallway. “We’ll remember your hospitality, Yulechka. We’ll remember this very well when the time comes.”

“Goodbye, Lyudmila Petrovna. I hope your repairs go smoothly.”

“I’ll tell Igor absolutely everything! Everything! We’ll see what he thinks of his fiancée’s cruel, cold behavior!”

“Do tell him everything.”

Lyudmila grabbed the last bag and stormed out. Oksana lingered on the threshold, leaning in conspiratorially.

“You know what, Julia? You’ll end up old and alone. Igor won’t forgive how you treated his family. You just sealed your fate.”

“Maybe.”

“You will regret this! This much I promise you!”

“We’ll see about that.”

Oksana slammed the apartment door so hard the windowpanes rattled violently. Julia sat still, listening to the distant echoing thud of the building’s main door below.

Silence. Finally, absolute silence and peace.

Julia walked to the bedroom. The bed was still made up with the beige, foreign linens. She methodically stripped the duvet cover, the sheet, and the pillowcases—everything went straight into the laundry basket. She pulled her own clean, familiar set from the wardrobe and made the bed carefully, smoothing the creases, fluffing the pillows. Reclaiming her space.

Then she checked the fridge. The tub of foreign salad went straight into the trash. She carefully put her own containers and casserole back where they belonged, on the top shelf. Everything was as it should be.

The pot of meat sat on the stove. Julia thought for a second, then poured the entire contents down the sink drain. She washed the pot until it gleamed and put it out on the balcony—let Lyudmila Petrovna come and pick up her cookware another day.

---

The Gavel Falls

The phone rang around nine. Igor.

“Yulya, Mom told me everything! What in the world happened?!”

“Exactly what you heard from Lyudmila Petrovna, no more, no less.”

“You actually threw my mother out?! Into the street in this freezing weather?!”

“I didn’t throw anyone out. I asked them to leave my apartment, which they entered and occupied without my knowledge or consent.”

“Julia, my mom’s place is severely flooded! She has a real crisis! She has nowhere else to go right now!”

“Igor, there are hotels, there are rentals, there are hostels. Your mother is a resourceful, adult woman; she will figure out a temporary solution.”

“You are unbelievably selfish and cold! Do you know that? This is not the woman I planned to marry!”

“Possibly. But this is my apartment. I did not consent to anyone living there, least of all people who immediately displaced me in my own home.”

“I’m your fiancé! I have the right to give keys to my family when they are in need!”

“No, Igor. You don’t. I gave the keys to you, as a courtesy. Not to your mother and sister, and certainly not to facilitate a military occupation of my private space.”

He fell silent, his breathing heavy, his irritation barely restrained.

“Yulya, let’s talk calmly. I’ll come over now, we’ll discuss everything face-to-face.”

“Don’t come.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to think. And I need to think without a hostile presence in my life.”

“Think about what, for God’s sake?!”

“About a lot of things, Igor. About boundaries, respect, and who I want to spend my life submitting to. Goodbye.”

She hung up and set the phone on the table. She walked to the window. Outside, a light drizzle still fell; the streetlights cast a yellow glow on the wet asphalt.

Inside, she felt surprisingly calm. No panic, no emotional torment. Just a clear, sharp understanding—this pattern of control, this expectation of submission, could not continue.

The night passed with little sleep. Julia lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the past months. She remembered their meeting, the first dates, the proposal. But she also remembered how Igor met with his mother every week, how Lyudmila Petrovna called constantly, asked about plans, and freely dispensed unwanted advice.

It had seemed then that the groom was simply a caring, filial son. Now it looked fundamentally different. The mother was a controller, and Igor was an obedient subject who expected the same total obedience from his fiancée.

In the morning, Julia got up, showered, and had coffee. She took out her phone and dialed a locksmith she knew from a previous job.

“Good morning, Viktor Semyonovich. I need to change the entire lock mechanism. Today, if at all possible.”

“Hello, Julia. Of course. I can be there in an hour and a half.”

“Thank you. I’ll be waiting.”

She hung up and looked at the front door. By today, Igor would no longer be able to enter her home without her explicit, conscious permission. No one would. She was resetting the perimeter.

Viktor Semyonovich arrived on time. He worked silently, focused on the task. Forty minutes later, the new, high-security lock was installed. Shiny, reliable, with a fresh set of three new keys.

“All set. Try it.”

Julia inserted the key and turned it. The lock clicked softly, smoothly, decisively.

“Perfect. Thank you very much for your speed.”

The locksmith left. Julia closed the door and leaned her back against the solid wood. She exhaled—long, slow, a physical release of tension.

Her phone exploded all day. Igor called about ten times. Lyudmila Petrovna—about five. Oksana sent several angry, accusatory messages. Julia didn’t answer a single one.

By evening, a text arrived from the groom: “Julia, let’s meet. Please, let’s talk calmly. I understand you’re very upset. But we can work this out. I’ll do whatever you want.”

She looked at the message. Her fingers hovered over the screen. Then she typed: “We’ll meet. Tomorrow at 7 p.m. At the café on Tverskaya. We will not be fixing this.”

“Okay. I’ll be there. I love you.”

Julia didn’t reply.

The next day, work proceeded as usual. Julia delivered a project, held successful negotiations with a new client, and signed a lucrative contract. Her coworkers noticed nothing—she was composed, confident, and utterly professional. No one guessed that the biggest decision of her life had already been sealed.

At half past six, Julia left the office and headed to the café.

Igor sat by the window, two cappuccinos already on the table. When he saw her he stood up, tried to hug her—but Julia subtly sidestepped the physical contact and sat across from him.

“Hi, Yulya! Thank you for meeting me,” the groom began cautiously.

“Hello.”

“Yulya, I want to formally apologize. I understand I acted completely wrong. I should have asked your permission before giving my mom the key to your apartment.”

“You absolutely should have.”

“It all happened so fast. Mom called, the apartment was flooded, it was a panic situation. I was rattled. I wanted to help them immediately. And I genuinely thought you wouldn’t mind. The wedding’s soon; we’ll be one family, sharing everything.”

Julia listened in silence. She looked at the familiar face, the familiar features. And realized she simply didn't know the man sitting opposite her.

“Igor, you gave out a key to my apartment without asking me. Your mother and sister came over, unpacked their belongings, changed the linens on my bed, took over the entire fridge. Lyudmila Petrovna instructed me that I should sleep in the living room because they would occupy the bedroom. Do you truly believe that is the behavior of a normal, respectful person?”

He looked away, unable to hold her gaze.

“Mom, of course, went too far with the bed and the fridge. But you know how she is. She’s used to being in charge. It’s just her nature—it’s not meant personally.”

“Nature doesn’t excuse extreme rudeness, disrespect, and an invasion of property.”

“Fine, fine! Mom was wrong, I was wrong. I admit the mistake. But let’s not blow this one argument out of proportion. We’ll get married in six months, and this absolute crisis won’t happen again. We will be a united front.”

“It won’t?”

“Of course not. I’ll consult you on absolutely everything. I promise you.”

Julia lifted the cappuccino, took a sip. The coffee was hot and surprisingly bitter. She set the cup down carefully.

“Igor, there won’t be a wedding next summer.”

He froze, utterly still. He was silent for several agonizing seconds, trying to process the finality of her tone.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m calling off the wedding. Effective immediately.”

“Julia, are you serious? Over one silly, stressful family argument about a key and a flooded apartment?”

“No. Because I finally realized we are fundamentally incompatible.”

“Incompatible?! We’ve been dating for half a year! Everything was fantastic!”

“Everything was fantastic until I saw how you treat my most fundamental boundaries. You gave out the key to my apartment without asking. You defended a mother who brazenly invaded my private space. You do not see the problem with what happened; to you, it is a trifle, an overreaction. To me, it is a glaring red flag about your loyalty, your respect, and your autonomy from your family.”

Igor ran a hand over his face. He was nervous, grasping desperately for the right words to use.

“Julia, please, let’s talk this through calmly! Don’t make a snap decision you’ll regret!”

“I’ve already thought it through, Igor. The decision is final.”

“But the ring! The down payments! The invitations! The restaurant is already booked!”

“Cancel it. Or reschedule it for another bride who will tolerate Lyudmila Petrovna’s permanent presence.”

“Julia!”

She took a small, velvet box out of her bag. Opened it, took out the engagement ring, and placed it gently on the table in front of him.

“Take it back.”

Igor looked at the ring, then at her. His face went pale, his denial shattering.

“You really are serious about this.”

“Absolutely.”

“And what about… what about me? What about our future?”

“You’ll find someone else, Igor. Someone who won’t object to the weekly visits and permanent access for Lyudmila Petrovna and Oksana.”

“Julia, you are making the biggest mistake of your life! We can absolutely fix this!”

“No, Igor. I made a mistake—when I agreed to marry you. But better to see the truth now, before the marriage, than a year later when the damage is irreparable.”

She stood, pulling on her jacket.

“I’m sorry for the pain. I genuinely wish you happiness.”

“Julia, wait! Don't just walk out!”

But she was already walking decisively toward the door. She pushed open the café door and stepped out into the cold night air. The air struck her face, but breathing felt easy. Incredibly, wonderfully easy.

At home, she kicked off her boots and hung up her jacket. She went to the kitchen and brewed a strong cup of tea. She sat by the window, wrapped in a blanket. Outside, the city lived its life, indifferent to her small tragedy.

Her phone lay on the table. The screen kept lighting up—calls, furious messages. Julia didn’t look. She just sat, sipped the hot tea, and gazed out the window, savoring the profound silence of her reclaimed home.

Igor called for several more days. He sent long, emotional messages, begged to meet and talk it out, cycling between apologies and angry accusations. Lyudmila Petrovna left several rambling voice notes—accusing her of ingratitude, selfishness, and coldness. Oksana sent vicious texts.

Julia maintained her silence. She didn’t answer, didn’t justify, didn’t engage. She simply blocked all the contacts and went on with her life.

A week later, a colleague at work asked:

“Yulya, how’s the wedding planning? It’s soon, right?”

“I canceled it,” she replied calmly, signing a document.

“What?! Why?!”

“I realized I was wrong about the person. A fundamental mismatch.”

The colleague wanted to press for details, but Julia steered the conversation back to the new project. She had no desire to discuss her private life—it was hers again, and she intended to keep it that way.

At home, it became truly, fundamentally quiet. No one came over unannounced anymore. No one unpacked strange bags, changed her bed linens, or took over the fridge. Julia came back from work knowing that her order awaited her behind the door. Her space. Her rules.

In the evenings, she read, watched movies, and cooked dinner for herself. Sometimes she invited friends over—they’d chat, trade news, and laugh. Life went on at its own pace, calm, measured, and free.

A month later, her mother called.

“Yulechka, how are you really? Igor isn’t calling anymore, is he?”

“No, Mom. It’s absolutely over.”

“And how are you coping? Are you sad about the future you lost?”

Julia paused, thinking. Sad? No. Offended? Not really. Relief? Yes, overwhelmingly so.

“No, Mom. Not sad at all. On the contrary, I feel exceptionally good and safe.”

“That’s the right way to see it. It means he wasn’t yours. The right one will come along.”

“Maybe. And maybe not. And I’ve realized that’s perfectly fine too.”

Her mother laughed, a sound of understanding. “That’s my clever girl. Just don’t lose yourself in your independence.”

After the call, Julia sat by the window with a cup of green tea. November had turned into December; the first snow was falling outside. Big, soft flakes drifted slowly to the ground, covering the city in a clean, white blanket.

She watched the snow and thought—how incredibly fortunate she was that she understood in time. In time she saw who was who. In time she put a stop to the encroaching control.

The apartment was still her fortress. Cozy, quiet, bright. No one ordered her around, no one laid down rules, and no one violated the sanctity of her boundaries. There was only order. Julia’s order.

And that was more than enough.