My mother-in-law thought she could secretly sell my parents’ apartment — but when the buyers came, she walked right into the trap I had set.

When the doorbell rang, I couldn’t have imagined that within the hour my entire world would shift. Two smiling strangers stood outside, leaving me puzzled — after all, we weren’t selling anything. Only then did I discover that my mother-in-law, Valentina Petrovna, had taken it upon herself to put my late parents’ apartment on the market without saying a word to us. But let me begin at the beginning.

From the day we first met, my relationship with my husband’s mother had been strained, even hostile. Valentina Petrovna always regarded me as stuck-up because I came from a family of academics. My parents were true Soviet intellectuals, both holding advanced degrees. Yet every milestone I reached was my own achievement — I gained admission to university not because of connections, but through my own knowledge and perseverance. My parents devoted their lives to physics, while I pursued philology with the intention of becoming a teacher. Life, however, had other plans — I defended my dissertation and remained at the very university where I studied.

About a year and a half ago, my mother passed away after fighting a long illness. My father, who had spent forty years at her side, couldn’t bear life without her. Within twelve months, grief and memory loss consumed him. Watching a brilliant, dignified man fade before my eyes was devastating. He passed three months ago, and I struggled to accept a world without either of them.

People claim that losing parents as an adult is easier. That is a cruel lie. You need your mother and father at any age — and my orphanhood was unbearable.

After my father’s death, I inherited his spacious one-bedroom apartment. Back in Soviet times, he’d been granted a three-room flat through a special program for scientists, but in retirement, my parents no longer needed such a large space, so they moved into something smaller, closer to me.

My husband, Maksim, never pushed me about the inheritance. The grief was still too raw. I couldn’t set foot inside without breaking down. Everything there remained exactly as it had been — my father’s glasses resting on the desk, his favorite armchair waiting as if he might sit down again; my mother’s crystal tea set still neatly arranged beside her jewelry box. I used to tease her for clinging to those outdated dishes, but she lovingly washed them three times a year and proudly set them out each New Year’s Eve.

Unable to cope, I began therapy. The doctor prescribed medication and slowly helped me process my grief. Yet even months later, I sometimes caught myself picking up the phone to call my father — to ask if he wanted pears or his favorite cookies.

One evening, Maksim gently asked, “Tanya, do you feel ready to talk about your father’s apartment? Or is it too early?”

I sighed, then nodded. “It’s time. Let’s discuss it.”

“Bogdan’s grown now,” he continued. “He doesn’t want high school; he’s applying to culinary college. I think we should let him live there on his own. What do you think?”

I agreed without hesitation.

Maksim and I had been married nearly twenty years. We hadn’t rushed into parenthood; I was buried in dissertation work, and later we bought our current apartment with a heavy mortgage. It was an old two-bedroom that needed major renovation. For years we rented elsewhere, doing repairs bit by bit. Sometimes money was short, sometimes our son was born, sometimes work consumed us — but we managed together. Bogdan was our anchor.

Children truly shape you. The first time I held my son, I felt such fierce strength that I could have conquered anything to protect him. Fortunately, life demanded no heroics — Bogdan was healthy, adapted well to kindergarten and school, and by middle school he already dreamed of becoming a chef. At first I thought it was just a phase, but by ninth grade, he was determined. When Maksim suggested giving him the apartment, it felt only natural. Bogdan was serious, hardworking, and deserved independence.

“It’s already furnished,” I told Maksim. “Let him move this summer, if he likes. The only priority is his exams.”
“Of course. That’s most important. And besides, he already has Kristina,” Maksim smiled.

Bogdan had been dating Kristina, a lovely, bright girl, for two years. I adored her — polite, beautiful, thoughtful. They made a wonderful pair, and I promised myself I would be the kind of mother-in-law mine never was.

But tension at home rose again when Maksim’s mother began pressuring him to buy her a country house. When Maksim hinted we might contribute toward the down payment — because “parents deserve respect” — I exploded.

“Why should I spend my hard-earned money on your mother’s whims? We have a son to raise, I want to finally travel, to rest. And she demands a whole house? Enough!”
“I’m not saying we cover everything,” Maksim said cautiously. “Just help with some of it.”
“I’m tired of her demands! Always wanting groceries, medicine — and last time she came, she opened our fridge, inspecting what I cooked. I will not be humiliated in my own home!”

Her intrusions had been constant from the start. When I was younger, I endured them. After Bogdan’s birth, I grew stronger, and that’s when the war truly began. She criticized everything, even quarreled with Bogdan when he was fourteen — until he boldly told her never to insult me again. Since then, she held a grudge even against her own grandson, claiming he “took after me.” We could only laugh.

When Bogdan passed his exams with flying colors and was accepted to culinary college, we celebrated with cake and pizza. He was overjoyed when we told him he could move into his grandfather’s apartment. Then — the doorbell rang. Maksim opened it, and I immediately heard Valentina Petrovna’s voice.

“I came to talk, son. Is your wife home?”

We invited her in politely.
“Join us, Valentina Petrovna — we’re celebrating Bogdan’s admission.”
“Congratulations, Bogdanchik,” she said with a mocking smile. “Smart boy — like his mother.”

“And why have you come?” I asked bluntly.

“Your apartment has been listed for sale. Buyers will arrive in thirty minutes.”

“What do you mean, our apartment?” I demanded.

“Simple. Tatiana inherited one. You don’t need such a big place anymore. Bogdan’s grown. With the money, you’ll buy us a country house. Whatever’s left, buy him a small studio.”

Maksim finally snapped. “Why should we sell? We worked for years, paid off the mortgage, repaired this place with our own hands.”

“You’ll move into Tatiana’s parents’ flat. It’s plenty. Stop clinging to so much property when we need a home in the countryside,” she insisted.

I laughed bitterly. “Have you lost your mind, Valentina Petrovna? You have your own apartment — sell it and buy whatever you want. But don’t touch what’s ours!”

She turned red. “You’re selfish, greedy! We raised Maksim, and this is the gratitude we get in old age?”

“Grandma, sorry, but having a child was your choice. Don’t expect to strip him bare now,” Bogdan cut in sharply.

She stood up, refusing the cake. “Choke on your apartments!” she snapped, slamming the door.

Silence followed. “What just happened?” Bogdan asked, wide-eyed — and somehow that lightened the mood.

But then, another ring.

“Hello, we came to view the apartment!” a young woman smiled, holding the hand of a small boy.

I smiled warmly at the child. “There’s been a misunderstanding — my mother-in-law misled you. We’re not selling. But would you like some candy, if your mom allows?”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Auntie!”

His mother blushed. “I’m so sorry. Valentina insisted it was urgent. This neighborhood is wonderful, so I rushed over.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find something else nearby,” I reassured her.

When I returned, Bogdan grinned. “Mom, do you mind if Kristina and I marry after school? Dad’s fine with it.”
“You’re old enough to decide for yourself. I adore Kristina,” I answered.
“You won’t demand we sell an apartment to buy you a country house?”

We all burst out laughing.

Later that evening, my father-in-law phoned, embarrassed, to apologize for his wife’s behavior. I told him not to worry — no harm was done.

A week later, Bogdan moved into the apartment. We stayed close. Our ties with Valentina ended for good — and I didn’t regret it.

Years later, Bogdan and Kristina married after graduation. They soon welcomed a daughter, little Polina, and Maksim and I became proud grandparents. Though I considered selling my father’s apartment to help them, Bogdan soon found steady work at a restaurant, and together they bought their own place. Instead, we kept my dad’s apartment as a rental, turning the past into a source of stability for the future.