— I just wanted to do something nice for you.
— Doing something nice is good, but I’m used to managing my own kitchen. Forgive me, dear, but every hostess has her own rules.
After dinner, Zhanna Borisovna demonstratively washed all the dishes herself, loudly arranging the plates and sighing. Kira sat in her room, feeling a knot of resentment tightening inside her.
— Don’t pay any attention, — said Artem, lying on the sofa with his phone. — She’s always like that, she’ll get used to it.
But Zhanna Borisovna didn’t get used to it. She started finding fault with everything: the way Kira hung the towels in the bathroom; the fact that the girl supposedly spent too long in the shower; that the light in their room was on late at night — electricity is expensive these days, you know. The shoes in the hallway, the shampoo that smelled too strong.
Artem would brush it off:
— Mom, that’s enough. Kira lives here, she’s not a guest.
— Exactly, she lives here, — retorted Zhanna Borisovna, — and she could at least say thank you. Or do you think it’s normal to just move into someone else’s apartment like that?
— What do you mean, someone else’s? I’m registered here too.
— Registered, — his mother nodded coldly, — but I am the owner. And I’m not reminding you of this for no reason.
Kira tried to stay out of these squabbles. She cooked quietly in the kitchen, cleaned up quickly, wiping everything sparkling clean behind her. But it wasn’t enough. Zhanna Borisovna seemed to look for reasons to be dissatisfied. One day, she threw a tantrum because Kira had washed her own laundry with the towels.
— That’s not how we do things in our family. Laundry is washed separately.
— Okay, — Kira answered quietly. — I won’t do it again.
— Good. One needs to understand who is the boss of the house from the very beginning.
Artem remained silent. And then the story with the money began. One morning at breakfast, Zhanna Borisovna announced that since there were now three people living in the apartment, the utility bills had increased, and it would be fair if the young couple chipped in.
— How much? — Kira asked.
— Ten thousand from each of you.
Kira was stunned. The utility bills for a three-room apartment, even in winter, didn’t exceed eight thousand.
— Where did twenty come from? Mom, that’s too much, — Artem began.
Zhanna Borisovna interrupted him:
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