The Price of Freedom

The final mortgage payment cleared on Friday evening. I stared at the banking app on my phone, watching the transaction confirm, and a wave of disbelief washed over me. Eight years. For eight years, I had meticulously set aside that sum every single month, ruthlessly cutting expenses, and working two jobs for the first three years just to make it happen. It was a modest two-room apartment on the city outskirts, but it was mine. Completely and unequivocally mine.

“Lena, why are you standing here frozen?” Igor hugged me from behind, peering at the screen. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s finally done?”

“It’s done,” I turned to him, and only then did I feel the crippling tension of the past decade—the knot of anxiety—release from my shoulders, my neck, and my temples. “Igor, I’m free.”

He laughed, sweeping me up and swinging me around the kitchen of our—now truly our—apartment. We’d married three years prior, while I was still deep in the repayment process. Igor never asked any foolish questions or demanded to be added to the deed. He simply said, "Let's do this together." And for the last three years, we had paid it off as a team. Having two incomes made the burden much, much lighter.

“We have to celebrate,” he said, setting me down. “A proper, big celebration. Let’s call Katya and Dima, and your friend Natasha. Tomorrow evening, all right?”

“Let’s do it,” I nodded, still light-headed from the news. “Just keep it modest, please. No fanfare or fuss.”

“What fanfare?” Igor dismissed the idea. “We’ll just sit, share some wine, and relax. You have earned this moment.”

We have earned it, I wanted to correct him, but held my tongue. Igor already knew the truth of the sacrifice.

The Unexpected Arrival

Saturday dawned warm and bathed in that perfect, golden autumn light. I spent the morning cooking, setting the table with our best dishes, while Igor ran out for wine. Our friends were due at six. At half-past four, the intercom buzzed.

“Someone is very early,” I muttered, wiping my hands on a towel.

Igor frowned and walked to the receiver. “Hello?” A long pause. His face went slack with shock. “Mom? Where are you?... Okay, I’m buzzing you in.”

I felt a cold dread with claws squeeze my stomach. Svetlana Petrovna. My mother-in-law. She lived three hundred kilometers away in her own city and typically visited us precisely twice a year—always with weeks of advance notice.

“She’s here,” Igor said, his voice laced with confusion. “With all her bags. She’s moving in.”

We stepped onto the landing. Svetlana Petrovna stood by the elevator, leaning heavily on two immense suitcases. She wore a dark blue coat, a headscarf, and an expression of fatigue mingled with a strange, resolute finality.

“Igoryok,” she reached out a hand to her son. “Help me, these are terribly heavy.”

“Mom, what’s going on?” Igor grabbed the luggage and wrestled them into the entryway. “Are you staying long?”

“Where else would I be?” Svetlana Petrovna took off her coat and surveyed our entryway with an appraising, critical eye. “Now that you’ve finally paid off the mortgage.”

I froze, the towel clutched in my hand. “How do you know?”

“Igor called me yesterday,” my mother-in-law walked straight into the kitchen and sat down, radiating the air of someone who had just won a minor, significant battle. “He was so happy and shared the good news. And I thought: well then, the time has come.”

“Time for what?” I exchanged a worried glance with Igor.

Svetlana Petrovna deliberately pulled a pill bottle from her purse and set it on the table. “Time to prioritize my health. I am seventy-three, Lenochka. I’m not made of steel. I live completely alone, and every day I live in fear that I’ll suddenly feel unwell—and who will come to my aid? The neighbors? They’re at work all day long.” She swept us both with a look of righteous, self-pitying indignation. “‘As soon as the mortgage was paid off, the mother-in-law showed up with her demands,’ that’s exactly what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Lena? But I’m not here with demands. I just want to live. To live normally, do you understand?”

“Mom,” Igor sat opposite her. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong with your health?”

“Oh, what isn’t wrong,” she waved a dismissive hand. “My blood pressure is spiking, my heart is playing tricks. The doctor insisted I need IV infusions, specialized massage, physiotherapy. A long, expensive course of treatment. And my pension, well, you know what that’s like. So I reasoned: since you two are now free of those huge mortgage payments, surely you can help your mother? Igor, you helped pay off your wife’s debt for three years. Now you owe me. It's only fair.”

A heavy, suffocating silence descended. I could hear the thumping of my own pulse in my ears.

“Svetlana Petrovna,” I began, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Of course we will help. If you need it, we will transfer money for the treatment. But why, exactly, do you need to move in?”

“Because I need an attendant,” she looked at me with unexpected, chilling firmness. “Someone must drive me and accompany me to my appointments. And what if I have an episode there? In the queue or on the massage table? The heart is unpredictable. No, I need constant supervision. And I won't be able to pay for such intensive treatment and live on my pension. So I’ll stay here with you. Not for long. Just until I complete the full course.”

“Mom,” Igor ran a frustrated hand over his face. “But we’re having friends over today. It’s our celebration.”

“I know,” she nodded placidly. “But it’s perfectly fine, I’ll sit quietly in the bedroom. I won’t interfere with your fun. By the way, which room will be mine?”

I felt a genuine, terrifying panic well up. I wanted to scream, or cry, or smash something.

“We only have our master bedroom and the living room,” I managed, my voice strained.

“Then I will settle into the bedroom,” Svetlana Petrovna stood up, having already decided. “And you two can take the sofa. You’re young, you’ll manage. Now, where are those heavy suitcases?”

The Oppressive Silence

Our friends arrived, and we "celebrated" the end of the mortgage. I drank wine and maintained a brittle smile, but inside, everything was wound into one huge, agonizing knot of rage and helplessness. Svetlana Petrovna did indeed retreat to the bedroom, emerging only for tea, each time casting pointed, disapproving glances at the wine bottles, the lively table, and our faces.

After the guests finally left, Igor and I lay down on the uncomfortable couch, huddled under a single blanket.

“It’s only temporary,” he whispered weakly in the darkness. “She’ll finish her procedures and go back home. She can’t just permanently move in and stay.”

“She absolutely can,” I replied flatly. “You know her better than that.”

“Lena, she’s my mother. I cannot simply throw her out onto the street.”

“I’m not asking you to throw her out. I am asking you to set the proper boundary. To state clearly that this is our apartment, this is our life.”

“I will,” he promised, his voice thick with guilt. “I will talk to her tomorrow.”

But he didn’t talk to her the next day. Or the day after that.

Svetlana Petrovna settled in with a profound sense of permanence. She immediately replaced the curtains in the bedroom—she hated the color. She rearranged the furniture—it was "more convenient" for her to maneuver. Every morning, she came to breakfast with the air of a sovereign to whom everyone around owed a debt, and began her daily lecture:

“Lenochka, do not fry the eggs on such high heat, they will burn. Igor, do not wear that shirt, it’s far too wrinkled. Lenochka, what type of bland bread did you buy this time?”

Igor was gone at work until evening, leaving me entirely alone with her. I worked remotely, from home, and every single workday quickly became an absolute trial.

“Lenochka, stop banging on the keyboard like that, I have a blinding headache. Lenochka, what unhealthy thing are you preparing for lunch? I can’t eat that. Lenochka, when was the last time you mopped the floor? I see dust everywhere.”

I cleaned. I cooked separate, special meals for her. I worked with noise-canceling headphones to block her out. Yet she still found reasons to interrupt, to hover over me, and to deliver some carefully phrased, hurtful remark disguised as genuine maternal concern.

My schedule became hers. Wednesdays and Fridays were for the IV infusions. Tuesdays and Thursdays were for the massage therapy. Mondays were the cardiologist. Saturdays were the neurologist. Each appointment consumed hours—sitting in endless queues, waiting, transporting her, and listening to her constant monologue about her suffering and how terribly hard her life was.

“It’s a blessing Igor is helping with the money,” she would loudly declare on the minibus. “A proper son. Not like some people who forget their elderly parents.” I remained silent, my hands clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms.

In the evenings, Igor returned exhausted. His mother would immediately pounce, launching into detailed reports about her procedures and her health. He listened patiently, nodded, and hugged her. Then he would find me standing by the stove and quietly say:

“I’m sorry, Lena. I know this is incredibly hard for you. But she will leave soon.”

“When, Igor?” I asked, my voice flat.

“Soon. The treatment course can’t last forever.”

But the course stretched on. A week passed. Then two. Then three.

The Line is Drawn

After a full month, I hit my absolute limit. Svetlana Petrovna had no intention of leaving. She had made herself completely at home, established her routines, and successfully turned our apartment into her oppressive domain. She dictated the menu, the cleaning schedule, and the bedtime. She demanded absolute silence during the day—her “doctor-mandated rest.” She made sharp, cutting remarks if Igor and I dared to laugh too loudly in the evening.

“Don’t you realize there is a sick person in this house?” she hissed. “I require peace and quiet!”

I had stopped sleeping. The sofa was hard and unforgiving, and I spent the nights staring into the dark, listening to Igor breathe beside me. He had adapted—he could sleep through anything. I could not.

One morning, I got up at five, sat at the kitchen table, and simply stared out the window. Gray, suffocating dawn. Gray buildings. A gray, unbearable life. I had paid a mortgage for eight years to own my space. My own. And now that space had been forcefully claimed by a woman who didn't even deem it necessary to offer a single word of thanks.

That evening, I spoke to Igor. It was an ultimatum.

“Either your mother leaves, or I do,” I stated, my voice eerily calm. “I absolutely cannot live like this for one more day.”

He went pale. “Lena, don’t say that. I will talk to her. I mean it this time. Tomorrow I will tell her it’s time to go back home.”

“How many times have you promised that to me?”

“Tomorrow. I swear.”

The next day, Igor genuinely tried. I heard their voices—his low and placating, hers loud and insistent. Then she emerged from the bedroom with red, furious eyes, shot me a look of cold hatred, and locked herself back in. That evening, she made her announcement:

“The doctor has determined I require another month here. More IV infusions. My heart is in a critical state. If I discontinue treatment now, I am as good as dead.”

Igor stared at the floor, defeated.

“So what?” she sniffed, seeing his hesitation. “Illness isn’t a common cold that passes in a week. It’s serious. But if you two don’t need your mother, if you begrudge me a simple corner and a piece of bread—just say so outright. I will leave. I will go home and die alone in my apartment, but I won’t trouble your fragile consciences any longer.”

She began to cry—real, wrenching sobs. Igor immediately embraced her, struggling to offer comfort. I walked out of the room, knowing that if I stayed one second longer, I would say things that would shatter our marriage irrevocably.

The Ultimate Boundary

That night, I did not sleep at all. I lay on the uncomfortable couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking for hours—coldly, clearly, and without emotion. By morning, a plan had formed in my mind.

Tuesday was Svetlana Petrovna’s massage day—a long, two-hour session, plus travel time. She would be out from ten until at least one. Igor would be at work until seven. I had the window I needed.

At nine in the morning, I saw her to the door. I told her I had an urgent meeting with the CEO, and she agreed to go to the massage on her own.

“Lenochka, buy the cottage cheese, but make sure it’s not sour. And get that special bread I like, remember?”

“I remember,” I said. “Have a good massage.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, I sat on the couch and counted to one hundred, feeling the cold certainty of my decision. Then, I got up and began.

First, I called a locksmith. I explained I’d lost my keys and needed an urgent lock replacement. He arrived within half an hour and worked quickly. A brand-new lock, new keys. One set for me, one for Igor.

While the locksmith was busy, I methodically packed Svetlana Petrovna’s possessions. Suitcases, bags, medications, clothes—everything she had brought with her. I folded it, zipped it up, and carried it all into the hallway. Two huge suitcases, one overnight bag, and several packages. Her entire presence, which had consumed our spare room.

The locksmith finished and left. I ordered a taxi for one o’clock sharp. Then, I carried the suitcases out onto the landing. Carefully, placed right outside our apartment door. So she would see them immediately.

And I locked the door. With the brand-new lock. I sat down on the entryway floor and waited.

She arrived at quarter to one. I heard the elevator stop, her heels clicking, and then—the rattle of keys. An attempt to turn the lock. A second. A third.

“What is this?” her voice was bewildered. “Igor? Lena? Is the door jammed?”

I stood up and went to the door.

“It’s not jammed, Svetlana Petrovna. The lock has been changed.”

A long, shocking silence. Then:

“Have you completely lost your mind? Open this door immediately!”

“I won’t. Your things are out here in the hall. There is a taxi waiting for you downstairs. You are going home.”

“Lena!” her voice turned piercing. “You have no right! This is my son’s apartment!”

“This is my apartment,” I said, my voice steady and firm, despite the frantic hammering of my heart. “I paid for it for eight years. Alone. Your son helped for the last three, and I am grateful for his help. But that does not give you any right to own it. And it certainly doesn’t give you the right to dictate how we live our lives.”

“How dare you!” her fists hammered on the solid wood. “I am sick! I require treatment! Open up, I said!”

“Get treated at home. We will transfer the money for your procedures. Igor will not abandon his mother. But you will not live here anymore.”

“Igor!” she screamed. “I’m calling Igor! He will throw you out of this apartment! You wait and see!”

“Call him,” I leaned my back against the door. “I have already discussed everything with him.”

It was a lie, but I prayed that Igor, for the sake of our life together, would finally understand.

My mother-in-law called her son repeatedly. I heard her wailing into the phone, crying, making demands. Then my own phone vibrated—Igor. I declined the call and sent a single text: “I’ll explain later.”

She sobbed and lamented on the landing for perhaps twenty minutes. Then, she sat down heavily on a suitcase.

“Lena,” her voice finally softened. “What are you doing? I’m not doing this out of malice. I genuinely am terrified of being alone. And I truly need the money for my treatment.”

“Then say that plainly,” I answered. “Ask for help, like a normal person. Don't show up with suitcases and demands to take over. We are not refusing to help you. But you cannot live here. We have our own life, and our own home.”

“What plans,” she scoffed, though the venom had drained from her tone. “Young people. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And we intend to live it ourselves.”

Another long pause. Then: “Is the taxi still waiting downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“And all my things are out here?”

“Everything is on the landing.”

She let out a rattling, heavy sigh. “Very well. So be it. Just remember this, Lenochka: today, you threw me out. But when you are old yourself, your own children will do the exact same thing to you. You will see.”

“I’ll see,” I agreed, without malice. “And then, I will have earned whatever comes my way.”

I listened as she gathered her luggage, dragged the heavy cases to the elevator, grumbling under her breath the entire time. I heard the elevator call, and then the sound of it fading below.

Only when the quiet returned did I allow myself to exhale. I sank down onto the entryway floor, covering my face with my hands. My entire body shook—from the physical toll of the tension, from the sharp fear of confrontation, and from the overwhelming, liberating relief.

Aftermath and Understanding

Igor returned home at eight. He came in, tried his old key, and looked surprised. He rang the intercom.

“Lena, what’s going on?”

I opened the door. He stood there with a deeply guilty expression, a shopping bag in his hand.

“Mom called. She said you kicked her out. Is that true?”

“It’s true,” I stepped aside. “I’m sorry, Igor. I simply could not take it any longer.”

He walked into the apartment and looked around. The space felt different—light, airy, and suddenly spacious. It was as if some dense, suffocating fog that had been pressing in on the rooms had finally lifted.

“She was crying,” Igor said quietly. “She said you changed the locks.”

“I did. Here are your new keys.”

He took the ring and turned it over and over in his hands. “Lena, she’s my mother.”

“I know that. And I am not forbidding you from taking care of her. Send her money, visit her, call her every day. But she cannot live here. Not like that. Not by unilaterally taking over our space, our decisions, and our entire life.”

He was silent for a long moment, and I braced myself for the inevitable fight, for the possibility that he would walk out.

But he simply walked to the couch and put his head in his hands.

“I know,” he said in a low, exhausted voice. “I know everything you’re saying is true. I just… I couldn’t bring myself to refuse her. She’s my mother, Lena. She raised me alone. And when she cries, I feel like the worst, most ungrateful bastard in the world.”

I sat next to him and placed my hand firmly on his shoulder.

“You’re not a bastard. You are a very good son. But you also have a wife. You have your own family now. And when a mother tries to take over that new family, dictate terms, and occupy your bedroom and your life—that is wrong. Even if she is old. Even if she is sick. There must be boundaries.”

“She said her heart is acting up.”

“Her blood pressure spikes. Like half the women her age. We will pay for her treatment. We will call and check on her. But she will live in her own place.”

Igor lifted his head and looked at me.

“Did you really put her suitcases out in the hall?”

“I did.”

He suddenly broke into a smile—faint, weary, but a genuine smile nonetheless. “You know, you’re probably right. I didn’t have the courage. But you did.”

“I just wanted to live in my own apartment,” I confessed. “The one I paid for for eight years. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” he tightened his arms around me, holding me securely. “I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you sooner. That I let it go this far.”

“You protected me by helping with the mortgage,” I said softly. “By being here. Now, let’s just live. The two of us. In our apartment. Without someone else’s curtains in the bedroom.”

And so we sat—on the sofa, holding one another, engulfed in the profound silence of our apartment. The very silence we hadn’t heard for an entire month.

Svetlana Petrovna did not call for three days. Then she phoned Igor, and in a matter-of-fact tone, informed him she had arrived fine, that a neighbor had helped carry up her bags. She mentioned she was going to a local massage therapist. And finally, she stated that she was short on money for the IV infusions—would we be able to transfer some funds?

Igor transferred the money immediately. I didn't object. It was his money, his mother, and his conscience. Our home, finally, was our own.