At first, it all seemed reasonable.My son was twenty-six. His wife, twenty-four. Newly married, no savings, terrified of mortgages and interest rates that stretched into retirement.Come stay with me,” I said. “It’s a three-room apartment. Save money. Get on your feet.”I thought I was being a good mother.I imagined shared dinners. Weekend pies. Laughter drifting down the hallway.Naive.A GUEST WHO WALKED LIKE AN OWNERMarina entered my home with a confident step, as if she were granting me a favor by being there.The first few weeks, they were perfect tenants.Polite. Quiet. Doors closed gently.Then the apartment began to feel… unfamiliar.One evening I came home from work and froze in the kitchen.The spice jars—lined up in the same place for ten years—were gone. A gleaming coffee machine occupied the counter like a trophy.“Lena, have you seen the sugar bowl?” I asked.“I reorganized everything,” she replied calmly. “It was chaotic. Now it’s categorized.”
Categorized.In my kitchen.I swallowed the irritation.Let her play hostess, I told myself.REWRITING MY LIFE, ONE SHELF AT A TIMEA month later, she decided I didn’t eat properly.Containers of seeds and greens filled the refrigerator. My pot of borscht was pushed into the farthest cornerNina Sergeyevna, you bought sausage again?” she asked as if I’d committed a crime. “It’s unhealthy. We’ve decided to give it up.”We.I stood in my own kitchen while they explained what I was allowed to eat.That evening I spoke to my son.“Igor, I don’t interfere in your habits. Eat whatever you like. But don’t decide for me.”He sighed, tired already.“Mom, she’s trying. She wants the best for everyone. Just be patient.”o I endured.HE BATHROOM THAT WASN’T MINEThen I returned from the dacha one weekend and opened the bathroom door. didn’t recognize it.My bright curtain was gone—replaced by beige fabric. My shampoos were hidden in a drawer. Her jars stood perfectly aligned on the shelf like a display case.And my soft rug was missing.Where is the rug?” I asked.
