“Don’t shove those blue folders under my nose, Natasha. Just looking at all your hospital stuff makes my blood pressure shoot straight up to one-eighty.”
Valentina Petrovna demonstratively pushed away the edge of the blue plastic folder with a hand adorned with a neat burgundy manicure. A heavy leather handbag the color of ripe cherries landed on the kitchen table with a dull thud. The table was covered with oilcloth torn at the corners. On the golden plaque, the brand name gleamed faintly: “Leo Ventoni.”
“Oh, the girls at the Bars department store talked me into buying it,” her mother-in-law said, lovingly stroking the glossy side of the bag. “They told me, ‘Petrovna, it’s genuine Italian leather, and with your wool coat it’ll look absolutely perfect.’ So I bought it. Twenty-two thousand rubles, Natasha! But at least it’s a proper thing. I won’t be ashamed to carry it to the pension office.”
I silently watched as the cherry-colored leather bag settled directly on top of the fresh referral form to the Bakulev Center, which I had struggled so hard to obtain through acquaintances at the Ministry of Health.
The referral itself was free, but the accompanying tests, travel expenses, and Mashenka’s rehabilitation were swallowing every last bit of our already meager resources.
Under the bottom of the cherry-colored bag, a yellow slip of paper crumpled—the prescription for imported beta blockers.
Six thousand rubles for a one-month supply.
“Nice bag, Mom,” Andrei said.
He was sitting on a stool by the window without having changed out of his work clothes. The knees of his blue trousers were shiny with automotive grease, and the motor oil embedded under his fingernails could not be washed away even with strong abrasive paste.
“Want some tea? Natasha, pour Mom some.”
“Oh, I don’t need your tea,” Valentina Petrovna said, waving her hands. “It only gives me heartburn. You should clean your kettle, by the way. Look at all that reddish limescale on the spout. And honestly, both of you look pale. You eat nothing but cheap pasta from Svetofor, save money at the child’s expense, and then wonder why the girl has a heart murmur. You’re driving yourselves crazy!”
I felt anger begin to boil inside me.
I pressed hard on the buttons of an old Citizen calculator whose plus key kept sticking.
The display showed the number:
92,300.
That was our combined monthly income after paying utilities for this Khrushchev-era apartment on the outskirts and buying the cheapest possible groceries.
“We are not saving money at our daughter’s expense, Valentina Petrovna,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
It was a professional habit from my work as a senior tax inspector—not showing emotion too soon.
“This month alone, we spent thirty thousand on examinations. And there’s no telling how long we’ll have to wait for a government quota for surgery in Moscow. The doctor told us directly that if we don’t have it done privately within six weeks, the valve will begin to fail. One and a half million rubles, Valentina Petrovna. We don’t have that kind of money, and no bank will approve a loan that large on our salaries. We’ve already tried three banks.”
My mother-in-law instantly shrank back.
She pressed the cherry-colored handbag to her chest as though I were about to tear it away along with her arms.
“And what exactly are you trying to say, Natasha dear? That a mother should be left without a crust of bread?”
“Mom, what crust of bread are you talking about?” Andrei leaned forward. “You have a three-bedroom Stalin-era apartment. And Grandpa’s two-bedroom place on Chkalov Street is standing empty. Well, not exactly empty—you rent it out by the day. To business travelers, couples. You bragged yourself that on weekends you charge five thousand a day. Sell it, Mom! One and a half million is exactly what Masha needs for the surgery. We’ll save our girl, and whatever is left over, we’ll put into an interest-bearing account for you. You’ll have extra income on top of your pension.”
“Sell my own apartment?! Have you completely lost your minds from living too comfortably? I fought tooth and nail for that two-bedroom apartment after your father abandoned us! I rent it by the day so I can at least feel like a human being in my old age, so I can buy decent face cream instead of that cheap Gerontol rubbish!”
“Mom, your granddaughter is dying!”
Andrei jumped to his feet, brushing the curtain with his shoulder.
A plastic flowerpot containing a dying geranium fell to the floor, spilling soil across the linoleum.
“Don’t you dare yell at your mother!”
Valentina Petrovna rose as well, pressing one palm against the chest of her synthetic lurex blouse.
“Dying?! You’re deliberately exaggerating everything so you can squeeze money out of me! You think I’m a fool? Neither of you has lifted a finger yourselves! Andrei tinkers with his bits of metal for pennies, your Natasha sits around in a warm office all day, and now you want to take away the last thing your mother has! You want to throw me onto the street and leave me living beside a heating pipe?! You’ll be waiting forever!”
She grabbed her precious handbag, knocking the blue folder of medical test results to the floor.
Sheets containing ultrasound results scattered everywhere.
“You’ll never see me in this house again! Extortionists!” my mother-in-law shouted as she squeezed into the narrow hallway.
The metal front door slammed shut.
Andrei slowly sank to his knees and began picking up the medical forms smeared with soil.
I silently stared at the place where my mother-in-law’s cherry-colored handbag had been sitting.
Twenty-two thousand rubles.
Our family’s entire monthly food budget.
Forty minutes later, Andrei’s phone, lying on the table, vibrated.
A message appeared in the family group chat from Aunt Lyuba, Valentina Petrovna’s older sister:
“Andrei, have you no conscience?! After your visit, your mother collapsed with a hypertensive crisis! We had to call an ambulance! How could you even think of taking housing away from an elderly disabled woman? You monsters, you and that bastard Natasha of yours! God will punish you!”
More furious messages followed from his cousin Denis and his godmother.
Two days later.
“Natasha, I stopped by one of those payday-loan places near the depot. Bystrodengi. They’ll give me three hundred thousand immediately if I use the title to our old Priora as collateral. They took my passport for verification.”
Andrei stood in the kitchen doorway without turning on the light.
“Have you lost your mind?”
I spun around from the sink.
“Three hundred thousand at three hundred percent annual interest? Andrei, we need one and a half million! The interest will swallow your three hundred thousand in two months, and we’ll be left without a car, without money, and buried in debt.”
“What am I supposed to do?!”
Andrei suddenly shouted.
He covered his face with both hands, and I saw tears glistening between his oil-stained fingers.
He smeared them across his cheeks together with the grease.
“My daughter gets out of breath when she runs! My mother won’t answer the phone, Aunt Lyuba cursed me… I’ll sell a kidney, Natasha. I’ll search online. People do sell them. I’ll stay in garages at night and take extra jobs…”
I walked over and embraced him.
After putting my husband to bed, I sat down at the computer.
My head felt heavy, but my thoughts flowed with perfect clarity.
I opened Avito.
In the apartment rental search box, I typed:
“Ryazan, Chkalov Street.”
There it was.
Grandpa’s two-bedroom apartment.
The familiar faded carpet with deer on the wall. The old Czechoslovakian display cabinet.
Description:
“Cozy apartment available by the day. Owner. From 2,500 rubles. For business travelers and couples in love.”
Seller’s name:
Valentina.
More than five hundred reviews.
A real miniature hotel in a residential district.
I refreshed the page and noticed another listing posted only three hours earlier.
“URGENT SALE! Two-bedroom apartment on Chkalov Street. Price: 2,100,000 rubles. Cash payment only. Quick transaction.”
The price was almost a million rubles below market value.
Valentina Petrovna had decided to dump the property quickly on real-estate speculators before Andrei and I could begin laying claim to it through lawsuits or pressure from relatives.
The next morning, Andrei’s phone rang.
It was his mother.
“Andryusha,” she said coldly. “I sold Grandpa’s apartment. I don’t have the money anymore. I invested everything in safe stocks through the bank. So stop looking. You won’t get anything from me. And for Mashenka, I’ll light a candle in church. God will help, if you pray.”
And she hung up.
I went into the child’s room.
Masha was sitting on her little bed, hugging a stuffed rabbit to her chest.
Her lips had a bluish tint, and her breathing was quick and shallow.
“Mommy, are we going to see the big doctor in Moscow? You promised they’d fix my little heart there, and then I’d be able to jump rope…”
I smiled at her, kissed her cool forehead, and went into the bathroom.
I locked the door.
I gripped the porcelain edge of the sink so tightly that my joints cracked and my fingernails turned white.
I was trembling with rage.
“Oh no, Valentina Petrovna,” I thought, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
At my temple, the first silver streak in my hair was clearly visible.
“I’m not going to pray.
I’m going to act.”
At work, in the building of the Federal Tax Service Directorate for the Ryazan Region on Svoboda Street, I sat in front of my monitor.
I was a senior state inspector in the field-audit department.
If I personally began investigating my mother-in-law, it would be a blatant conflict of interest.
Valentina Petrovna would immediately file a complaint with internal security, I would be fired on disciplinary grounds, and the results of the audit would be invalidated.
But the law allows citizens to report cases of tax evasion.
I opened the database.
My mother-in-law had been renting out the apartment since 2018.
Eight years.
And she had been receiving income without registering as an individual entrepreneur or obtaining self-employed status.
Using my personal phone rather than my work device, I went to the listing website.
I took screenshots of all the tenants’ reviews, complete with dates going back to 2021.
I obtained archived copies of her listings, which was possible because the tax service had access to specialized analytical software.
Then I called Lena, a former university classmate of mine who worked in the department handling desk audits of private individuals on another floor.
“Hey, Lena. I’ve got something for you. An official complaint from a vigilant citizen.”
During my lunch break, I went down to her office and placed a thick folder on her desk.
Inside was a statement supposedly submitted by an acquaintance of mine who claimed to have rented the apartment on Chkalov Street for a year without ever receiving a receipt.
Attached to the statement were printed WhatsApp conversations in which Valentina Petrovna herself had written:
“Transfer the money to my Sberbank card. It’s linked to this phone number.”
There was also a complete three-year breakdown of transactions on her bank card, which I had helped obtain through an official request because the evidence in the complaint was rock-solid.
The figure stood out clearly:
4,600,000 rubles in regular transfers from various private individuals.
“Wow,” Lena whistled as she flipped through the documents. “This isn’t just unpaid tax. This qualifies as a large amount. Criminal charges could be involved if she doesn’t pay off the debt. Who is this enterprising person?”
“My mother-in-law, Lena. Handle it strictly according to the law. Freeze both apartments today before she manages to dump the two-bedroom place. The Rosreestr transaction is already being monitored.”
Lena looked at me knowingly.
She knew about Masha’s illness.
“We’ll do it, Natasha. We’ll send the official demand tomorrow.”
The next day.
“Natasha, you snake! You poisonous viper! Was this your doing?!”
The phone in my hand practically screamed.
“Have you decided to send me to prison?! Me? Your husband’s mother?!”
I calmly moved the phone to my other ear and lowered the volume.
“Calm down, Valentina Petrovna. What happened?”
“Don’t pretend to be innocent! I went to Rosreestr today to register the sale. The buyer was sitting there with a suitcase full of money! And the registrar tells me, ‘Rejected! The property has been frozen at the request of the tax service.’ Then he shoves a piece of paper at me! It says I owe one million six hundred thousand! Tax, some kind of fines, penalties for eight years! And there’s a letter from the prosecutor’s office saying that if I don’t pay within two weeks, the case will be handed over to the Investigative Committee! You set your hounds on me!”
“You should obey the law. You were taking millions under the table. The government doesn’t like that sort of thing.”
“Natasha dear, sweetheart…”
My mother-in-law’s tone changed.
I heard sobbing through the phone.
“They’ll put me in prison! Where am I supposed to find that kind of money? That buyer, that crooked real-estate dealer, is going to demand double his deposit back! Two hundred thousand! Call Andryusha. Let me speak to my son!”
“Andrei won’t speak to you,” I said sharply. “Do you want a way out of this situation? Come to the notary’s office on Lenin Street at seven this evening. Andrei and I will be there. Bring the ownership papers for the apartment on Chkalov Street.”
In the notary’s office, Valentina Petrovna looked pitiful.
Her cherry-colored Leo Ventoni handbag was pressed against the side of her coat.
Her fingers trembled as she placed the ownership certificate for Grandpa’s two-bedroom apartment on the desk.
“Here,” she whispered, looking at Andrei with the devoted eyes of a beaten dog. “Son, say something to her… You can’t treat family like this.”
Andrei stared out the window at the gray Ryazan sky.
His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles bulged in his cheeks.
He did not even turn toward the sound of her voice.
Without a word, the notary slid three copies of a deed of gift transferring the apartment to Andrei across the desk toward Valentina Petrovna.
“Sign it.”
I placed a pen in front of her.
“Here’s the plan. We accept the apartment as a gift. Tomorrow, we sell it to the same buyer. Fortunately, the restriction on registration can be lifted within twenty-four hours once I provide the debt-settlement department with a letter of guarantee. From the two million one hundred thousand rubles we receive, we pay for Masha’s operation in Moscow. The remaining six hundred thousand, plus our savings, go toward paying off your entire debt to the Federal Tax Service. The criminal case will be closed before it even gets opened. You stay free and keep your three-bedroom Stalin-era apartment.”
“And…?”
My mother-in-law looked up at me, greed filling her eyes.
“Could I at least have a hundred thousand for repairs? The tiles in my bathroom are falling off…”
“You get your freedom, Valentina Petrovna. Be grateful you won’t have a criminal record in your old age.”
I tapped the contract with one fingernail.
“Sign it. Or we leave, and tomorrow the bailiffs come to inventory your three-bedroom apartment.”
She signed.
A year passed.
The operation at the Bakulev Center was successful.
Masha’s heart valve had been repaired, and now my daughter, round-cheeked and rosy like a ripe Antonov apple, ran shrieking across the green grass of our small country-house garden.
She jumped rope, and her little heart beat steadily, without those terrifying fading pauses.
Andrei completely changed our phone numbers.
We blocked Aunt Lyuba and every other relative on every social network once and for all.
From mutual acquaintances, we occasionally heard rumors about Valentina Petrovna.
Each month, bailiffs deducted exactly half of her pension to pay off the remaining fines and penalties that the sale of Grandpa’s apartment had not covered.
Valentina Petrovna had aged dramatically.
She went to the cheapest Krasnoye & Beloye store for discounted bread and tea bags, and complained to the neighborhood women about her “ungrateful, extortionist children.”
But the new neighbors quickly saw through her deceitful nature and simply avoided the angry old woman.
I sat on the veranda of our country house, pouring Andrei fresh tea with mint.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon.
“Thank you, Natasha.”
“For the tea?” I smiled.
“For teaching me how to protect my family.”
I looked at Masha, who was laughing as she tried to catch soap bubbles between her little hands.
My heart felt clean and peaceful.
