“Mom called,” Vitya said without looking up from his plate. “She says her blood pressure keeps fluctuating. She’s asking me to transfer three thousand rubles for medicine.”
Rita put the frying pan down on the stove with such a loud bang that Barsik the cat jumped off the windowsill in fright.
“Three thousand,” she repeated quietly. “Vitya. This is the third time this month.”
“She’s a sick woman. What do you want from me?”
“I want just one thing from you.” Rita turned around, and her husband finally looked at her. The expression in her eyes made him wish he hadn’t. “I want you to open your eyes.”
But Vitya was already reaching for his phone. The money was transferred to his mother-in-law within forty seconds. Rita silently counted to ten and went to the bedroom without slamming the door or saying a word.
That was even more frightening.
Galina Ivanovna lived in a two-bedroom apartment on Komsomolsky Prospekt and knew how to be ill with such theatrical flair that any actress would have envied her. The moment her son came to visit, she would lie down on the sofa, pull a blanket up to her chin, and begin speaking in a weak, halting voice, as if she had, at most, until Friday to live.
“Vitenka, my legs are swelling. I can’t sleep. I barely eat—a bite simply won’t go down my throat, can you imagine?”
Vitya would sit beside her, hold her hand, and nod. Whenever Rita came along, she would stand in the doorway and watch the scene with the same expression one might wear while watching a badly staged play. Galina Ivanovna ignored her presence—or rather, acknowledged it only enough to sigh occasionally:
“Rita, you could at least put the kettle on, since you’re already here.”
Rita would put the kettle on.
Silently.
Because starting a scandal in the home of a sick old woman was more trouble than it was worth.
But when they returned home, something inside Rita tightened more and more. She worked as a senior manager at a construction company, handled complicated contracts, and dealt with contractors who constantly tried to outmaneuver her—and she managed them just fine.
Yet here she was, unable to handle one elderly woman who supposedly “couldn’t swallow a single bite,” although her cheeks looked perfectly rosy.
Everything changed on an ordinary Tuesday.
Rita stayed late at work, going through documents for a new construction project, and returned home around eight in the evening. In the elevator, she took out her phone and accidentally noticed a message in the family group chat from Vitya’s sister, Oksana, who lived in Yekaterinburg and reminded everyone of her existence about once every six months.
The message was brief:
“Vit, do you even know that Mom opened a bank account? Aunt Vera saw her at the branch last week. She says they were talking about some kind of large deposit.”
Vitya had replied:
“I don’t know anything about it. She probably mistook her for someone else.”
Rita read the exchange three times.
Then she entered the apartment, changed her clothes, put the kettle on, and sat down at the table. Her thoughts slowly but clearly fell into place, like blocks in a game of Tetris.
A deposit.
A large sum.
The very same Galina Ivanovna who supposedly had “no money for medicine.”
Over the past year and a half, Rita herself had transferred around 120,000 rubles to her mother-in-law. Vitya had sent roughly the same amount.
And that didn’t include the groceries they brought her or the coat Rita had bought for her birthday because:
“I’m freezing, Ritochka, always freezing, and my pension is so small.”
When Vitya came home and asked what was for dinner, Rita stared at him for a long time.
“Vitya, call the bank. Or ask your mother to show you her bank statement.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“I’m talking about what Oksana wrote.”
He waved her off quickly and habitually, as though brushing away an annoying fly.
“Aunt Vera is ancient. She could have mistaken someone else for Mom. Mom lives on her pension. What kind of deposit could she possibly have?”
“That kind,” Rita said. “I want to know the truth.”
“You want to insult a sick woman with your suspicions.”
“I want to understand where our money is going.”
The conversation went nowhere. Vitya went into another room. Rita cleared away the untouched dinner and stood at the window for a long time, staring at the lights of the avenue.
Somewhere below, a car honked. People walked by. A traffic light blinked.
Everything was as usual.
But inside her, something had shifted irreversibly.
The next day, she went not to work but to the bank.
Not the one where she had her own account, but another branch on Pervomayskaya Street, the one Aunt Vera said Galina Ivanovna had visited. Rita understood that no one would give her any information. Banking confidentiality and all that.
But she wasn’t planning to ask directly.
She simply called Aunt Vera.
Aunt Vera was a friend of Vitya’s late grandmother, eighty years old, with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. She was so delighted by Rita’s call that it seemed as though she had been waiting for it.
“Rita! I told Oksana right away—I didn’t mistake anyone. Galya was standing there. I recognized her from behind. She always carries her handbag the same way, like this, hanging from the crook of her elbow. I wanted to go over to her, but she had already gone to speak to the manager. I only caught a few words—‘add funds,’ ‘interest,’ ‘principal amount’… I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was just standing nearby.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Last Thursday. She was alone and looked so lively that I was surprised. She was speaking completely normally.”
Rita thanked her, said goodbye, and sat in her car for several minutes without starting the engine.
Lively.
Completely normal.
The same woman who, three days earlier, had told Vitya that she “couldn’t get out of bed and couldn’t even make it to the pharmacy.”
That evening, when Vitya once again announced that his mother was asking for “just a little money, only until the next pension payment,” Rita didn’t explain.
She didn’t argue.
She didn’t try to prove anything.
She simply said calmly, distinctly, and without unnecessary words:
“Know this, darling: not another penny for your mother! Support her yourself—I’m not your ATM!”
And she walked out.
The door closed behind her—not loudly, but with complete finality.
Vitya remained standing in the middle of the kitchen with his phone in his hand.
On the screen was a message from his mother.
A sum of money.
A heart emoji.
He stared at that little heart for a long time.
And for some reason, he suddenly felt uneasy.
Galina Ivanovna called the next morning at seven-thirty, before Rita had even managed to drink her coffee.
Vitya grabbed the phone so quickly that it was as though he had been waiting for the call all night.
“Mom, yes, I’m listening… What? When?”
Rita spread butter on a slice of bread and listened as his voice changed—from sleepy to worried, then from worried to panicked.
“Rita, Mom ended up in the hospital. She called an ambulance during the night. Says it was her heart.”
Rita set down the knife.
“Which hospital?”
“City Hospital Number Three. I’m going there now.”
“Wait.” She looked at him carefully. “Did you call the admissions department?”
“Why would I? Mom told me herself.”
“Vitya. Call and confirm that she’s actually there.”
He stared at Rita as though she had suggested something monstrous.
But eventually, he dialed City Hospital Number Three. He listened for a long time. Then he repeated his mother’s last name.
Afterward, he slowly lowered the phone.
“She wasn’t admitted,” he said quietly.
Rita nodded and finished her coffee.
Galina Ivanovna was, of course, quickly located.
She called back herself twenty minutes later, sounding perfectly energetic and offering a new version of events. Apparently, the ambulance had arrived, examined her, and said hospitalization was unnecessary. She had simply lain down for a while, taken some valerian, and now felt better.
“Vitenka, my blood pressure is still high, though. I really need one of those automatic monitors. My old one isn’t accurate anymore…”
Vitya glanced sideways at Rita.
At that moment, she was buttoning her coat in front of the hallway mirror and pretending not to hear anything.
Although she heard every word.
She left the apartment without saying anything.
In the elevator, she took out her phone and sent Oksana a brief, businesslike message:
“Oksana, we need to talk. Do you have time this evening?”
Oksana joined a video call at nine that night, looking tired, dressed in a casual hoodie, and holding a cup of tea. They had seen each other in person only twice over the past three years, but Rita had always felt something familiar in her—a clear-headedness that her brother so desperately lacked.
“I’ve suspected it for a long time,” Oksana said without any introduction. “She calls me too. ‘Oksanochka, my pension is so small, medicine is so expensive.’ I used to transfer money. Regularly. Then I stopped when I accidentally found out that she had gone to the seaside last summer.”
“To the seaside?” Rita didn’t immediately know what to say.
“To Anapa. One of her friends let it slip by accident. Mom later said it was ‘a union-sponsored vacation package, practically free.’” Oksana snorted. “But those kinds of vacation packages stopped existing about fifteen years ago.”
They talked for another hour.
By the end of the conversation, Rita no longer had just a suspicion. She had something resembling a complete picture.
For years, Galina Ivanovna had cultivated the image of a poor, sick old woman—methodically, consistently, with a genuine talent for manipulation.
And she wasn’t doing it because she was destitute.
She did it out of habit.
Because she was used to sympathy working.
Because it was easier that way.
“Vitya won’t believe it,” Rita said.
“Vitya never believes anything,” Oksana agreed. “He’s been that way since childhood. Mom cries, therefore she’s right. Ironclad logic.”
That same week, something happened that Rita had not planned.
She accidentally ran into her mother-in-law at a shopping mall on Leningradskaya Street. Rita had stopped by during her lunch break to buy a printer cartridge when she spotted Galina Ivanovna near the escalator.
She was standing in front of a jewelry store window, studying a pair of earrings carefully and confidently, without any hurry.
And she looked completely healthy.
Straight back.
Confident posture.
Freshly styled hair.
Rita stopped.
Galina Ivanovna hadn’t seen her.
Then she entered the store.
Driven by some inner impulse, Rita followed her inside and stood by a display of necklaces, pretending to study the price tags.
“Show me these,” her mother-in-law said to the sales assistant, pointing at the display. “And these too. Yellow gold, eighteen karats?”
“Yes, eighteen.”
“I’ll take these.”
Galina Ivanovna didn’t even flinch when the sales assistant named the price. She simply opened her handbag and took out a bank card.
Rita stared at her back and thought about one thing.
Three thousand rubles for medicine.
The day before yesterday.
Vitya had transferred the money without hesitation.
Rita left the store before her mother-in-law turned around.
She stood beside a pillar a little farther away and waited.
Galina Ivanovna came out carrying a small branded bag, adjusted her hair, and took out her phone.
Through the quiet hum of the shopping mall, Rita heard her voice—ordinary and normal, without a trace of elderly weakness.
“Tamara, I’m ready. I’ll be at your place in half an hour. Yes, I got everything. No, I have money, don’t worry…”
I have money.
Rita recorded a short video on her phone as Galina Ivanovna walked toward the exit.
Energetically.
Quickly.
Her heels clicking against the tile.
No blood pressure problems.
No swelling.
No “weakness in her legs.”
Vitya was eating dinner alone because Rita had stayed late at work. When she entered, he didn’t even look up.
“Mom called,” he said. “She says she doesn’t feel well. Maybe we should visit her this weekend?”
Rita took off her coat.
Hung it up neatly.
Walked over to the table and placed her phone in front of him with the video already open.
“Watch.”
He watched silently.
The video lasted about thirty seconds.
Then he pushed the phone away.
“So what? It means she felt better today.”
“Vitya,” Rita said very calmly. “She just bought a pair of gold earrings. Eighteen karats. She paid with a card without batting an eye. This is the same woman who asked you for money for medicine three days ago.”
“Maybe she had some savings…”
“Stop.” Rita raised a hand. “Just stop. You’re about to defend her again. I understand. But I want you to know something. I hired someone who specializes in financial investigations. Unofficially. Just to understand what is really happening with her accounts.”
Vitya looked up at her.
“You did what?”
“What I should have done a long time ago,” Rita said, and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Behind her, it was quiet.
Very quiet.
The man Rita had mentioned was named Pavel. He was a former bank employee who now worked as a financial consultant. A colleague from work had recommended him as someone experienced in “complicated family situations.”
Rita met him in a small café on Sadovaya Street.
A table by the window.
Two coffees.
A folder of documents.
Pavel turned out to be a dry, reserved man of about fifty who knew how to listen and didn’t ask unnecessary questions.
“I’m not asking for anything illegal,” Rita said immediately. “I need to understand the general picture. Only whatever can be discovered without breaking any rules.”
“I understand,” he nodded. “Give me a week.”
For a week, Rita lived in a strange state.
She worked, came home, talked to Vitya about everyday matters, and tried not to think about what would happen.
After that evening, Vitya had become quiet, as though something inside him had switched.
He didn’t get angry.
He didn’t defend his mother.
He simply remained silent.
That silence was heavier than any argument.
Meanwhile, Galina Ivanovna showed no signs of stopping.
She called on Wednesday, complaining about “blood sugar spikes” and asking them to bring her special dietary food.
She called on Friday saying a radiator had “burst,” that she needed a plumber, and that she “didn’t even have enough money to pay for the call-out.”
Vitya went to check.
The radiator was perfectly fine.
He came home strangely quiet and sat in the kitchen for a long time, staring into space.
Pavel called eight days later.
They met again at the same café.
He placed several printouts in front of Rita, neatly and without unnecessary commentary.
“The deposit account was opened two years ago. The initial amount was eight hundred thousand rubles. Money has been added regularly. According to an approximate estimate, there is now around 1.2 million.”
Rita stared at the numbers and didn’t immediately know what to say.
“Where was she getting the money to add to it?”
“That’s harder to trace. But if we add up the amounts you and your husband transferred every month, they roughly correspond to what was regularly being deposited.” Pavel paused. “And apparently, there was a similar situation with her daughter in Yekaterinburg. There were transfers from there too.”
Rita closed the folder.
“Thank you.”
“Good luck,” he said simply.
She hadn’t planned to make the conversation with Vitya theatrical.
She simply put the printouts on the table when he came home from work and said:
“Sit down. This is important.”
He read for a long time.
Read it again.
Then leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
“Mom was saving,” he finally said. “She was saving our money.”
“Yes.”
“While telling us she didn’t have enough money for bread.”
“Yes, Vitya.”
He didn’t explode.
He didn’t defend his mother or search for excuses.
He simply sat there, and Rita watched something inside him slowly and irreversibly turn upside down.
It was painful even to watch.
“My whole life, I thought she was barely surviving,” he said quietly. “I turned down business trips to stay nearby. I didn’t take that job in St. Petersburg three years ago—remember? I said Mom was alone and I couldn’t leave.”
Rita remembered.
She remembered very well.
“Call her,” she said. “Talk to her yourself. I’m not getting involved in this anymore.”
Vitya went to his mother’s apartment the next day, alone and without warning.
Rita didn’t know the details of the conversation.
He returned two hours later, silent, his lips tightly pressed together, and said only:
“She didn’t deny it. She said she was ‘saving for her old age’ and that we were ‘young and would earn more.’”
“And that was all?”
“And she said I had ‘betrayed her by allowing an investigation.’”
Rita only nodded.
There were no words left—only exhaustion and something resembling relief.
Long-overdue relief.
Rita hadn’t expected what happened next, although, in retrospect, perhaps she should have.
Three days later, Galina Ivanovna called her son herself.
Her voice was dry, without the usual moaning or breathlessness.
A completely different voice.
Her real voice.
“Vitya, I’m leaving. Don’t expect me.”
“Where?” he asked in shock.
“To Thailand. I’ve wanted to go for a long time. I bought a vacation package.”
The silence lasted so long that Vitya thought the connection had dropped.
“Mom. You just said you had blood pressure and blood sugar problems.”
“Sea air is good for you,” she snapped. “And anyway, stop controlling me. I’m an adult.”
She flew out four days later.
She packed a large wheeled suitcase that Rita had never seen before, despite having visited that apartment many times, and left.
Vitya found out from a brief message:
A photograph of a boarding pass.
And a palm-tree emoji.
When Rita found out, she was silent for a long time.
Then she said:
“So her health is fine.”
“Apparently, yes,” Vitya replied.
They sat silently together in the kitchen.
Outside, the city hummed.
Somewhere in the building, a door slammed.
Barsik rubbed against Rita’s leg and jumped onto the windowsill.
“I’m an idiot,” Vitya said quietly. “Do you understand? Just an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Rita said. “You’re a son who loved his mother. She took advantage of that. Those are two different things.”
He looked at her for a long time, the way one looks at someone they are suddenly seeing for the first time.
Galina Ivanovna stayed in Thailand for three weeks.
She posted photographs in the family chat.
The sea.
Cocktails.
Excursions.
In one photograph, she was standing beside an elephant with a broad smile, tanned and wearing a bright sundress.
No blood pressure problems.
No swelling.
Just a happy woman on vacation.
Vitya looked at the photographs and replied to none of them.
When she returned and called in her usual voice, with her usual intonations—
“Vitenka, I’m so tired from the trip. You could bring me something…”
—he answered briefly:
“Mom, I’m glad you’re back. But I’m not transferring any more money to you. Ever. If you want to see me, come over and we’ll have tea. But I’m not working as an ATM anymore. Neither am I, nor is Rita.”
Galina Ivanovna began saying something about “blood being thicker than water” and “how could you,” but Vitya calmly said:
“Bye, Mom.”
And ended the call.
Rita stood nearby in silence.
Then she simply placed a hand on his shoulder.
No words.
Outside, the June city hummed.
Barsik slept curled up on the windowsill.
The kettle was boiling on the stove.
Everything was quiet.
Truly quiet.
For the first time in a very long time.
Galina Ivanovna called again a week later.
Then again.
Then she stopped.
Each time, Vitya answered the same way—calmly, without arguments or explanations.
Simply:
“No.”
Briefly and finally.
Rita watched him and thought that perhaps this was what growing up really looked like—not when you turned eighteen, but when it finally happened for real.
Oksana called from Yekaterinburg herself after hearing about Thailand from Aunt Vera and laughed for a long time into the phone, although there was little happiness in that laughter.
“I’m not transferring money anymore either,” she said. “I finally made up my mind. Enough.”
“Good,” Rita replied.
They never discussed the subject again.
In August, Vitya took a vacation.
For the first time in three years, without worrying about “how Mom was doing all alone.”
They left for two weeks.
Not far away.
To Karelia.
With a tent and very few belongings.
Rita had never before realized that he was capable of simply sitting beside the water in silence without checking his phone every twenty minutes.
One evening, while the campfire was dying down and the lake stretched completely still before them, he said:
“Forgive me. For all those years.”
Rita looked at the water.
“I already did,” she replied. “A long time ago.”
He nodded.
They never returned to the subject.
Galina Ivanovna resurfaced in September.
She sent a message saying that she “held no grudges” and was “ready to communicate.”
Vitya replied that he was glad and invited her over for tea on Sunday.
No money.
No requests.
Just tea.
She came.
She sat neatly at the table without moaning or complaining, drank tea, and talked about Thailand.
Rita listened politely and smiled exactly as much as necessary.
After her mother-in-law left, Vitya asked:
“So? What do you think?”
“Fine,” Rita said. “She can come over. Just without the old stories.”
He grinned.
For the first time in a long time, easily and without tension.
Barsik jumped onto the table and seriously sniffed Galina Ivanovna’s cup.
Then he sneezed and went back to the windowsill.
Rita cleared the table and thought about how strange life was.
Sometimes, for everything to finally fall into place, all it took was one conversation.
Or one ticket to Thailand.
