“My father brought home a young wife and asked me to move out: ‘We’re a family, and you’re in the way.’ But the neighbor upstairs opened my eyes just in time.”
Polina thought the worst was behind her: her mother’s death, her father’s long depression, and the cold silence in their huge Stalin-era apartment. But when her father brought the bright and loud Larisa into the house, life turned into a battlefield. Her stepmother decided there was only one person who didn’t belong in that apartment — Polina herself. And her methods were anything but gentle.
“Don’t you think you’ve overstayed your welcome, sweetheart? This apartment isn’t made of rubber. Time to know your place,” Larisa said affectedly, sticking out her little finger as she stirred her tea, as if she were not in our peeling-paint kitchen but at a reception with the Queen of England.
I nearly choked on my cookie.
“Excuse me? Are you talking to me?”
“To you, Polenka, of course. Who else? Your father is a handsome man; he needs personal space. For love, for freedom of movement, so to speak. And then there’s you with your blueprints and that sour face.”
My father, sitting across from me, guiltily lowered his eyes into his soup. He always did that when he felt uncomfortable — hid. Before, he used to hide behind Mom’s back. Now he hid behind a bowl of borscht.
“Dad?” I looked straight at him. “Don’t you want to say anything?”
“Sweetheart, well…” He raised his eyes to me with the look of a beaten dog. “Larochka is just thinking out loud. About the future. She cares about us.”
“About us? Or about getting me out of the home where I was born as fast as possible?”
Larisa burst out laughing. Her laugh was loud and shrill, like the screech of an old tram’s brakes. She adjusted a neckline far too deep for a Tuesday lunch.
“Oh, how sensitive we are! ‘Get you out’ — honestly. You’re twenty-three. At your age, I’d already had two husbands and my own business. And you’re still sitting around playing with dolls.”
“I’m an architect, Larisa. I work.”
“An architect!” she mocked. “You paint walls. Anyway, Andrey, either we solve the issue with the nursery, or I don’t know how we’re supposed to live like this.”
I froze.
“What nursery?”
Larisa smiled triumphantly and laid her bright red manicured hand over my father’s.
“Ours, darling. We’re planning to expand the family. And your room is the sunniest one. It’ll be perfect for the baby.”
I jumped up from the table. The chair crashed to the floor, but I didn’t even turn around. There was a rushing in my ears. Mom had died three years ago. Three years of silence, tears, and the smell of medicine.
And then she appeared. Larisa. A “sales consultant for luxury perfumes,” as she called herself. Though by her manners, she seemed more like a market trader from the nineties. Dad met her by chance while choosing a gift for me for March 8, and that was it — he was gone.
I ran into the entryway, pulling on my sneakers as I moved.
“Polya! Polina, wait!” my father shouted, but he didn’t get up. I heard Larisa whisper something to him, calming him down.
It was raining outside. Our Stalin-era building in the city center had always seemed like a fortress to me. High ceilings, oak parquet floors. Mom had loved this house. Now that fortress had been captured by the enemy. And the enemy had no intention of taking prisoners.
I came back late. On purpose, I wandered through the wet streets, sat in a café staring blankly at my laptop. The thought of going home made me feel sick.
A surprise was waiting for me in the hallway. Suitcases. Lots of suitcases. And a pair of strange men’s boots, size eleven, dirty, planted right on the clean mat.
“Oh, look who’s here!” Larisa came sailing out of the kitchen. She was wearing Mom’s robe. The blue terry-cloth one.
A wave of rage hit me.
“Take that off. Right now.”
“What?” She widened her eyes, thickly lined in black. “The robe? Andryusha said I could. He said there was no point in letting things go to waste, feeding the moths.”
“Take it off!” I screamed so loudly the crystal in the cabinet rattled.
A guy came out of the room. Tall, hunched, with greasy hair and an insolent look. He seemed about my age.
“Mom, what’s all the fuss? Did this hysterical girl come back?”
I stared at him.
“Mom?”
“Meet him, Polina,” Larisa said, pulling the robe tighter around herself as if to mock me. “This is Vitalik. My son from my first marriage. He’s going through a rough patch right now, so he’ll be staying with us.”
“Where?!” I could barely breathe from outrage.
“In the living room. For now. Then we’ll see.”
My father came out of the bedroom in baggy sweatpants with sagging knees, disheveled.
“Polenka, why are you shouting? Vitalik just needs a place to crash for a couple of weeks. He’s looking for work. Things are hard in Moscow right now…”
“Dad, have you lost your mind? You brought some strange man into the house?”
“Hey, watch it,” Vitalik stepped toward me, reeking of alcohol. “I’m not a stranger. I’m practically family now.”
“I’ll call the police,” I hissed.
Larisa’s face suddenly changed. The predatory grin vanished, replaced by a grimace of suffering. She clutched at her heart.
“Oh, Andryusha! Oh, I feel awful! She’s driving me to an early grave! I’m pregnant, I’m not allowed to get upset! You ungrateful little bitch!”
My father rushed to her, fussing helplessly around her.
“Larochka, easy, easy! Polina, go to your room! Now! How can you do this?”
“Dad, she’s manipulating you!” I shouted, but he was already helping the “dying” Larisa over to the couch.
Vitalik winked at me and gave me a nasty smirk.
“So, little sis? Are we going to be friends? Is your laptop any good? Let me use it.”
I slammed the door to my room and slid down the wall. The lock was flimsy. I needed to put on a bolt. Urgently.
The week passed like hell. Vitalik wasn’t looking for work. He lay on the couch in the living room, watched TV at full volume, and stuffed his face. Stuffed his face — leaving crumbs, dirty plates, and empty beer cans everywhere.
Larisa behaved like the absolute mistress of the house. She rearranged the kitchen furniture, threw out my mother’s flowers (“Allergens!”), and constantly nagged my father.
“Andryusha, we’re cramped. That elephant”—a nod toward my door—“takes up so much space. And Vitalik’s back hurts sleeping there.”
“Lar, just be patient,” my father mumbled.
On Wednesday, I came home from work and found my door open.
“Who was in here?” I rushed into my room.
The things in my wardrobe had been gone through. My desk was a mess. The jewelry box with my mother’s jewelry was missing. Not gold or diamonds, but silver — a memory.
I flew into the kitchen. The whole trio was there, eating fried potatoes straight from the pan.
“Where’s the jewelry box?” My voice was shaking.
“What jewelry box?” Larisa didn’t even turn around.
“The one from my room! You went through my things!”
“As if I needed to,” Vitalik snorted, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth. “There’s nothing in there but junk.”
“Dad! My mother’s earrings are gone!”
My father raised his eyes, full of misery.
“Polya, maybe you put them somewhere yourself? Why would Larisa or Vitalik need your earrings?”
“Because they’re thieves!”
“You little brat!” Larisa shrieked. “Andryusha, tell her! She’s insulting my family!…”
To be continued just below in the first comment.
Polina had thought the worst was behind her: her mother’s death, her father’s long depression, and the cold that filled their huge Stalin-era apartment. But when her father brought bright, loud Larisa into the house, life turned into a battlefield. Her stepmother decided there was only one person in that apartment who did not belong — Polina herself. And her methods were anything but gentle.
“And haven’t you overstayed your welcome, sweetheart? The apartment isn’t made of rubber. Time to know your place,” Larisa said, daintily sticking out her pinky as she stirred her tea, as if she were not sitting in our kitchen with its peeling paint but attending a reception with the Queen of England.
I nearly choked on my cookie.
“Excuse me? Are you talking to me?”
“To you, Polenka, of course. Who else? Your father is a distinguished man. He needs personal space. For love, for maneuvering, so to speak. And there you are with your blueprints and that sour face.”
My father, sitting across from me, guiltily stared down into his soup. He always did that when he felt uncomfortable — hid. He used to hide behind Mom’s back; now he hid behind a bowl of borscht.
“Dad?” I looked straight at him. “Don’t you want to say anything?”
“Sweetheart, well…” He lifted his eyes to me with the look of a beaten dog. “Larochka is just thinking out loud. About the future. She cares about us.”
“About us? Or about how to drive me out of the home where I was born as fast as possible?”
Larisa burst out laughing. Her laugh was loud and shrill, like the screech of an old tram’s brakes. She adjusted her neckline, which was far too low-cut for a Tuesday lunch.
“Oh, listen to you, so sensitive! Drive you out! What a thing to say. You’re twenty-three years old. At your age, I already had two husbands and my own business. And you’re still sitting around playing with dolls.”
“I’m an architect, Larisa. I work.”
“An architect!” she mocked. “You paint walls. Anyway, Andrey, either we settle the matter of the nursery, or I don’t know how we’re going to live like this.”
I froze.
“What nursery?”
Larisa smiled triumphantly and laid her red-manicured hand over my father’s.
“Ours, darling. We’re planning to expand the family. And your room is the brightest. It would be perfect for the baby.”
I jumped up from the table. The chair crashed to the floor, but I did not even turn around. My ears were ringing. Mom had died three years ago. Three years of silence, tears, and the smell of medicine.
And then she appeared. Larisa. A saleswoman at a luxury perfume boutique, as she called herself. Though by her manners, she was more like a market trader from the nineties. Dad had met her by chance while choosing a gift for me for International Women’s Day. And he was gone.
I ran into the entryway, pulling on my sneakers as I went.
“Polya! Polina, wait!” my father shouted, but he did not get up. I heard Larisa whispering something to calm him down.
Outside, it was raining. Our Stalin-era building in the city center had always seemed like a fortress to me. High ceilings, oak parquet floors. Mom had adored this place. Now that fortress had been taken by the enemy. And the enemy had no intention of taking prisoners.
I came back late. On purpose, I wandered the wet streets, sat in a café staring blankly at my laptop. The thought of going home made me sick.
A surprise was waiting for me in the hallway. Suitcases. Lots of suitcases. And a pair of men’s size-forty-five boots. Muddy. Right on the clean doormat.
“Oh, look who’s here,” Larisa said, coming out of the kitchen. She was wearing my mother’s robe. The blue terry-cloth one.
A wave of fury washed over me.
“Take that off. Right now.”
“What?” She widened her heavily lined eyes. “The robe? Andryusha said I could wear it. Said there was no point letting things go to waste and feeding the moths.”
“Take it off!” I screamed so loudly that the crystal in the china cabinet rattled.
A guy came out of the room. Tall, hunched, with greasy hair and an insolent stare. He looked about my age.
“Mom, what’s all the commotion? Did this hysterical girl come back?”
I stared at him.
“Mom?”
“Meet him, Polina,” Larisa said, pulling the robe tighter around herself as if to mock me. “This is Vitalik. My son from my first marriage. He’s going through a rough patch right now, so he’ll be staying with us.”
“Where?!” I was choking with outrage.
“In the living room. For now. Then we’ll see.”
My father came out of the bedroom in sagging sweatpants, rumpled and sleepy.
“Polenka, why are you shouting? Vitalik just needs a place to crash for a couple of weeks. He’s looking for work. It’s hard in Moscow right now…”
“Dad, have you lost your mind? You brought some strange man into the house?”
“Hey, watch it,” Vitalik said, stepping toward me, his breath reeking of alcohol. “I’m not some stranger. I’m practically family now.”
“I’ll call the police,” I hissed.
Larisa’s face changed at once. Her predatory grin turned into a mask of suffering. She clutched at her heart.
“Oh, Andryusha! Oh, I feel faint! She’s going to send me to an early grave! I’m pregnant, I’m not supposed to get upset! Ungrateful little wretch!”
My father rushed to her, fussing helplessly.
“Larochka, easy, easy! Polina, go to your room! Now! How can you behave like this?”
“Dad, she’s manipulating you!” I shouted, but he was already leading the “dying” Larisa to the sofa.
Vitalik winked at me and smirked nastily.
“So, little sis? Are we going to be friends? You got a decent laptop? Let me borrow it.”
I slammed the door to my room and slid down the wall. The lock was flimsy. I needed to install a bolt. Urgently.
The next week was hell. Vitalik did not look for a job. He lay on the sofa in the living room, watched TV at full volume, and stuffed his face. And I mean stuffed it — leaving crumbs, dirty plates, and empty beer cans everywhere.
Larisa acted like the absolute mistress of the house. She rearranged the kitchen furniture, threw out Mom’s flowers (“Allergens!”), and constantly nagged my father.
“Andryusha, we’re cramped. That elephant,” she said with a nod toward my door, “takes up so much space. And Vitalik has nowhere comfortable to sleep.”
“Lar, just be patient,” my father muttered.
On Wednesday I came home from work and found my door open.
“Who was in here?” I rushed into my room.
The things in my closet had been gone through. My desk was a mess. The jewelry box with my mother’s things was missing. Not diamonds and gold, but silver — memories.
I stormed into the kitchen. The three of them were sitting there, eating fried potatoes straight from the pan.
“Where is the box?” My voice was shaking.
“What box?” Larisa did not even turn around.
“The one from my room! You went through my things!”
“As if we’d bother,” Vitalik snorted, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth. “You’ve got nothing but junk in there anyway.”
“Dad! My mother’s earrings are gone!”
My father looked up, his eyes full of anguish.
“Polya, maybe you put them somewhere yourself? Why would Larisa or Vitalik need your earrings?”
“Because they’re thieves!”
“You little brat!” Larisa shrieked. “Andryusha, tell her something! She’s insulting my family!”
“Polina, apologize,” my father said quietly.
“What?”
“Apologize to Larisa and Vitalik. You can’t just throw words around like that.”
I looked at my father and did not recognize him. Where was the strong, cheerful man who used to carry Mom and me in his arms? In front of me sat a weak old man entangled in a web of lies.
“I’m not apologizing. And I’m putting a lock on my door.”
“Go ahead, put in an armored one,” Vitalik muttered. “Nobody needs you anyway.”
That night I heard them whispering in the kitchen.
“We’ve got to keep the pressure on, Mom. She won’t leave on her own. She’s stubborn.”
“Don’t worry, Vitalka. Water wears away stone. Andryusha’s almost ready. The main thing is the documents.”
The next day I decided to act. I could not just sit and wait until they threw me out into the street. I went to a legal consultation office, but they quoted such a ridiculous fee that I left empty-handed.
I was sitting on a bench in the park, crying from helplessness, when someone said:
“Miss, your mascara has run. You look like a panda now. A very sad panda.”
I looked up. A guy in work overalls stood in front of me, covered in plaster dust.
“Go to hell,” I snapped.
“And a good day to you too. I’m Gleb. Your upstairs neighbor. We’re doing renovations up there, making a lot of noise sometimes. You’re from apartment twenty-four, right?”
“I am. And yes, you hammer like woodpeckers.”
“That we do,” he said with an open, easy smile. “So why are you crying? The noise getting to you?”
I do not know why, but I told him everything. About Mom, about my zombie father, and about the “sweet pair” of occupiers.
Gleb listened carefully, no longer smiling.
“Wait. Vitalik, you said? Red-haired, with a barcode tattoo on his neck?”
“Yes… How do you know?”
“I’ve seen him in the building. And his face looked familiar. My brother works in criminal investigations. Let me check him out. Something tells me he’s no son of hers.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly that. They don’t look alike at all. And they behave… like accomplices, not relatives.”
For the first time, I felt a flicker of hope. Tiny, but hope.
That evening there was another scandal at home. Larisa threw a fit because I had not washed Vitalik’s plate.
“I have morning sickness, and you can’t even help me?” she screamed.
“You’ve got brain sickness,” I shot back.
This time my father really did clutch his heart.
“Stop it! Both of you! I can’t take this anymore!”
“See? You’re driving your father to this!” my stepmother shrieked triumphantly. “Andrey, this has to be decided. The apartment is large and expensive. We’ll sell it, buy a two-room place for us, and a studio apartment outside the city for Polina. And there’ll still be money left for a business.”
“What business?” my father asked dully.
“A beauty salon! I’ve been dreaming of one for ages. And Vitalik will be the manager.”
There it was. All the cards on the table.
Gleb called me two days later.
“Polina, come out to the courtyard. Urgent.”
I ran downstairs. Gleb was standing by his old Niva, looking serious.
“So here’s the deal. Your Vitalik is no Vitalik. He’s Denis Korotkov, twice convicted for fraud and theft.”
“And Larisa?”
“Larisa is his common-law wife. Or his accomplice. They’re not officially wanted, but they’ve left quite a trail in Ryazan. Same scheme every time: they find a lonely man or widower, she seduces him, he plays the role of the ‘poor relative,’ they squeeze him out of his home and disappear.”
My knees nearly gave way.
“Oh God… Dad. They’re going to strip him of everything. Or…”
“Or worse,” Gleb nodded. “If the apartment gets sold, your father won’t be useful to them alive. They’ll take the money and vanish.”
“What do we do? Call the police?”
“They won’t arrest them without evidence. So far they haven’t broken the law — they’re living there with the owner’s consent. We need them to expose themselves. Or your father to wake up.”
“He won’t believe it. He thinks she’s a saint and pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Gleb snorted. “Sure, by the Holy Spirit. Listen, I’ve got a plan. But you’ll have to play a role. Think you can throw a hysterical fit?”
“I’ve had plenty of practice lately.”
We went up to the apartment. The house was quiet. My father was asleep, and Larisa and her “son” were sitting in the kitchen, calculating something on a calculator.
“Oh, you’re back,” fake Vitalik muttered. “And you brought your boyfriend.”
I took a deep breath.
“Dad! Dad, come in here!”
My father came out, squinting sleepily.
“I agree,” I said loudly.
Larisa practically jumped.
“Agree to what?”
“To selling the apartment. I’m tired. I want my share, and I never want to set foot in this place again.”
Larisa’s eyes lit up with predatory delight.
“At last! Good girl! Andryusha, do you hear that? She agrees!”
“But… Polya… This is your mother’s home…” my father said, confused.
“Mom’s gone, Dad. And I can’t live in this madhouse anymore. Just one condition: I want my money in cash, on the day of the deal.”
“Of course!” Larisa nodded eagerly. “Vitalik… I mean, we’ll find a realtor. We know someone.”
Gleb winked at me discreetly. The fish had taken the bait.
Things moved fast. Larisa brought in some slippery guy with shifty eyes — the “realtor.” The documents were prepared in three days. They set the price below market value so it would “sell faster.”
My father wandered around in a daze. He clearly did not want to sell, but Larisa kept pushing: “The baby! The future! The business!”
The deal was set for Friday.
On Thursday evening Larisa and Denis — also known as Vitalik — put on a celebratory dinner.
“To a new life!” Larisa raised her glass of wine.
“But you’re pregnant, you shouldn’t drink,” my father said.
“Oh, Andryusha, one sip won’t hurt. Doctors even recommend it for hemoglobin.”
I sat there waiting for the signal. Gleb had installed a hidden camera in the kitchen — tiny, tucked into the вентиляция vent. He was upstairs in his apartment, recording everything.
“And where are the documents?” fake Vitalik asked. “Your father’s passport, the ownership papers?”
“They’re all in my purse,” Larisa said, patting her handbag. “Tomorrow we’ll sign, get the money, and… start living.”
“And what are we going to do with him?” Denis nodded toward my father, who had gone to the bathroom.
Larisa lowered her voice, but we could still hear.
“We’ll dump him in a psych ward. Or take him to some village. We’ll say he went on a drinking binge and disappeared. Who needs him? The daughter will get her money and leave.”
Everything inside me turned cold.
“And what if he refuses?”
“He won’t. I’ve been slipping him pills. Haven’t you noticed? He’s already like a vegetable.”
Just then my father came back. He looked pale.
“Lar, I don’t feel well. My head is spinning.”
“That’s happiness, darling,” she said sweetly, stroking his hand. “Drink some water.”
Then the doorbell rang. Hard, insistent.
“Who the hell is that?” Denis jerked.
Larisa went to open the door.
People in uniform came into the hallway. And Gleb was with them.
“Citizen Sinitsyna, Larisa Petrovna? Citizen Korotkov, Denis Ivanovich?” a police officer asked sternly.
“Who are you? What do you want? We haven’t done anything!” Larisa screeched.
“That’s what we’re here to find out. We received a report about attempted fraud and a threat to life. And we have video evidence. Quite an interesting movie, I’ll tell you. The part about the pills was especially good.”
My father stood leaning against the doorframe, staring at his “beloved wife.” In his eyes, the horror of understanding slowly began to appear.
“Lara? You… you wanted to put me in a psych ward?”
“Andryusha, it’s a mistake! She set it all up, that little bitch!” She pointed at me. “She’s lying! I’m pregnant!”
“We’ll check that too,” the detective said. “Citizen Korotkov, hands on the wall! Feet apart!”
Denis made a move toward the window, but Gleb neatly tripped him. The “son” crashed face-first onto Mom’s beloved parquet floor.
“Stay down!” the officer barked.
Six months passed.
The apartment smelled of paint and fresh pastries. Gleb and I were finishing the renovation in the living room. Those same high ceilings now shone bright white.
My father had aged terribly after that story. He spent a long time recovering — from the poisoning by the psychotropic drugs his “bride” had been feeding him, and from the emotional trauma. He felt guilt. Huge, heavy guilt — toward me and toward my mother’s memory.
The three of us sat in the kitchen: Gleb, Dad, and me.
“You know,” my father said, looking at the newly painted walls, “I really thought it was a chance. That I could start over. Foolish old man.”
“Dad, stop,” I said, covering his hand with mine. “You just wanted to be happy. Everyone makes mistakes. The important thing is that we saved the house.”
Larisa and Denis were sent to prison. It turned out we were not their first victims. There had been a whole series of cases. The pregnancy, of course, was fake — the certificate had been bought in an underground passage.
Gleb put his arm around my shoulders.
“On the bright side, now we’ve got an excellent renovation crew,” he said with a wink. “Free of charge. Family discount.”
I smiled.
“And you’re not afraid? I’m not exactly easy to deal with. What if I’m crazy too?”
“I can see whose daughter you are,” Gleb said seriously. “Your mother would have been proud of you. You defended this house like a lioness.”
My father suddenly smiled. For the first time in a long while, sincerely.
“How about we have some tea?” he said. “With cake. I bought one.”
“Let’s do it,” I agreed. “But no guests for the next ten years.”
“Agreed,” my father said, raising his hands. “Only grandchildren.”
I blushed, and Gleb laughed, pulling me closer.
Outside, the city was humming, but inside our fortress it was quiet and peaceful again. And most importantly — safe. We got through it. We survived. And now we knew for sure: a stranger may enter a house, but becoming family is something that has to be earned. And swindlers have no place here.
