“That’s it. Pack your things. My mother and the rest of the family are moving in here until New Year’s, and not one of them is happy about you.”
The apartment had come to Emily from her parents. It was a modest two-bedroom on the fourth floor of an aging brick building. The windows overlooked the inner courtyard, where poplar trees swayed above a few worn benches. Her parents had left everything in careful order, and six months later the place officially became hers.
She transferred the deed into her own name, obtained all the paperwork, and little by little grew used to the idea that this space now belonged to her alone.
She and Michael married a year after she inherited it. The wedding was small and quiet, no unnecessary guests, no extravagance. Michael moved into her apartment, sold his tiny one-bedroom place on the outskirts of the city, and put the money into a savings account.
Their life together was calm. There were no grand joys, but no serious quarrels either. Michael worked for a construction company and often stayed late. Emily handled bookkeeping for a small firm; she usually got home earlier and prepared dinner.
The first months of their marriage passed peacefully. Michael didn’t interfere with the household, didn’t attempt to rearrange furniture or impose his own style. Emily kept the apartment much as it had been: her parents’ photographs still hung on the walls, the old sideboard remained filled with neatly stacked dishes. Michael never objected.
Gradually, however, his mother began appearing more and more often. Linda stopped by once a week at first, then sometimes even more frequently. She arrived with grocery bags in hand, let herself in without waiting to be invited, and surveyed the apartment with a sharp, appraising gaze. Emily did her best to stay courteous—she offered tea, listened politely to advice she had never asked for.
“Someone ought to think about your husband for a change,” Linda remarked one afternoon, scanning the living room critically. “Michael comes home exhausted to this chilly place. You should hang proper curtains, maybe choose wallpaper with some life in it.”
Emily kept silent. The apartment was hers—her parents’ before that. She had no intention of replacing the wallpaper or redecorating to satisfy someone else’s taste. Still, she didn’t want open conflict. It was easier to nod and let the comments drift past.
“She inherited everything and still can’t make a real home,” Linda continued, pulling a jar of jam from her bag. “Michael works day and night, and what greets him here? Cold walls and emptiness.”
Beneath the table, Emily’s hands tightened into fists. Outwardly, she remained composed.
“Michael hasn’t complained,” she replied evenly.
“He never complains. That’s just how he is,” Linda sighed dramatically. “But a mother can see when her child isn’t happy.”
A child. Michael was thirty-two, yet in Linda’s eyes he was forever her little boy. Emily had learned to let such words slide past her. Listen, nod, and then carry on with her own routine.
Michael himself didn’t seem to notice how his mother’s steady criticism poisoned the atmosphere. On the contrary, he appeared pleased when Linda visited. Care, homemade food, attention—perhaps these filled something that had been missing in his childhood. His father had left early; Linda had raised him alone, juggling two jobs and often leaving him with neighbors.
Now she seemed determined to compensate for lost time. She called her son every evening, asking questions, offering advice. Sometimes Emily overheard fragments of their conversations.
“Mom, everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“Michael, you know I only think about you.”
“Yes, Mom, I understand.”
Emily didn’t interfere. Everyone has their own bond with their parents. The only thing that mattered to her was that those bonds didn’t intrude on their marriage.
Autumn settled in completely. The air turned sharp and damp; rain fell more often than not. Emily took warm sweaters from the closet, replaced the light summer bedspreads with thicker ones, and set candles along the windowsills. Small touches, but they made the rooms feel inviting.
December crept closer. Emily began thinking about New Year’s Eve. She imagined a modest gathering—just a few close friends, some simple decorations, soft lights, a comfortable evening with people she cared about. Nothing extravagant, just warmth.
Around that time, Michael grew increasingly preoccupied. He would come home quiet, scrolling through his phone, lost in thought. When Emily asked if something was wrong, he brushed it off.
“It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”
One evening during dinner, he finally spoke.
“My family wants to spend New Year’s in the city. They don’t really have space, and since it’s just the two of us here, they could stay with us.”
Emily slowly lifted her head from her plate. The fork paused midair.
“All of them? How many people are we talking about?”
Michael shrugged without meeting her eyes.
“Well… Mom, Aunt Karen, my nephew Daniel, and Olivia. About six in total. Not more.”
“Six people? In a two-bedroom apartment?”
“It’s only from December thirty-first to January second,” he said quickly. “What’s the big deal?”
Emily set her fork down carefully on the table.
“Michael, this is my apartment.”