“Mom, what are you saying? What deed of gift? You promised the apartment would be divided between us. Or that you would help us expand our place. You know how we live!”
Vera sank tiredly onto a tiny children’s chair, which creaked pitifully under her weight. At last, the long-awaited silence settled over the playroom. Twenty-five restless four-year-olds, worn out from the first half of the day, were snuffling in their little beds in the sleeping room. The air was filled with the smells of warm boiled milk, cottage-cheese casserole, and the faint scent of children’s soap.
Vera closed her eyes and rubbed her throbbing temples. Her back ached unbearably after the morning walk, during which she had had to dress, put shoes on, and tie shoelaces and scarves for two dozen toddlers. Working as a kindergarten teacher had never been her dream. She had a degree in economics, ambitions, and excellent prospects, but reality had made its harsh adjustments.
When her son Ilyusha turned three, it became clear that the queue for a state kindergarten was moving at a snail’s pace, and she and her husband simply could not afford to give up half a salary for a private kindergarten. The only solution was for her to go work in the preschool education system herself. That was how she obtained the cherished place for her son, a tiny salary that went almost entirely on groceries, and daily stress multiplied by enormous responsibility for other people’s children.
She worked there solely for Ilyusha’s sake. He was now sleeping peacefully in the next room, in a little bed by the window. Vera knew that as soon as her son started school, she would immediately quit and return to her profession, but for now all she could do was endure.
The silence was broken by a short vibration from the phone in the pocket of her uniform smock. Vera flinched, quickly took out the device, and went into the changing room so she would not wake the children. The name on the screen read: “Mom.”
“Yes, Mom, hi,” Vera answered in a whisper.
“Vera, why did it take you so long to pick up?” Nina Vasilyevna’s demanding, loud voice rang through the speaker. “I was already starting to worry. What’s going on over there?”
“It’s quiet hour here, Mom. The children are sleeping. I can’t shout into the phone. Did something happen?”
“Nothing happened. I’m just calling to see how you are. And you’re always dissatisfied.”
Vera sighed heavily.
“Mom, since you called… I really need your help this Friday evening. Kostya and I have a meeting at the bank. We need to sign the documents for refinancing the mortgage. Both of us have to be there. Could you pick Ilyusha up from kindergarten at five and stay with him at your place at least until eight? We’ll come get him right after the bank.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, after which Nina Vasilyevna’s voice took on a suffering tone.
“Oh, Verochka… This Friday? I really can’t. You know, my blood pressure has been jumping since yesterday. Magnetic storms, they said on TV. I can barely stand on my feet.”
“Mom, on Wednesday you said you felt perfectly fine and were planning to go to the construction market for new wallpaper.”
“Wednesday was Wednesday! And now I feel bad!” her mother said indignantly. “And anyway, Stasik is coming to see me on Friday evening. The boy exhausts himself at work all week. He needs to rest properly and eat homemade food. I was planning to make his favorite stuffed cabbage rolls. How am I supposed to handle Ilyusha? He’s hyperactive, always getting into everything, making noise. My head splits from his shouting!”
Vera clenched her teeth. Stasik. Her younger brother Stanislav, who had turned twenty-eight that year. The “boy” who changed jobs every six months because his bosses “didn’t appreciate him,” lived for his own pleasure, changed girlfriends like gloves, and regularly drained money from their mother.
“Mom, Ilyusha is four. He’s an ordinary child. Put cartoons on for him, give him a coloring book, and he’ll sit quietly. Kostya and I really do need to be at the bank together. If we miss this meeting, we’ll lose a favorable rate, and for our budget that’s critical.”
“Then take him with you to the bank!” Nina Vasilyevna declared categorically. “He’ll sit on a chair, nothing will happen to him. Or let Kostya handle everything himself. He’s the man, isn’t he? Why do you need to drag yourself there?”
“Because the apartment is registered in both our names, Mom. They need both signatures.”
“Vera, don’t pressure me! I said I can’t. I raised my children. Don’t I have the right to a peaceful old age? You had a child for yourselves, so deal with it yourselves. That’s it, I have to go, the water is boiling on the stove. Bye!”
Short beeps sounded in the receiver. Vera lowered the hand holding the phone, feeling a bitter, suffocating lump rise in her throat. It had always been this way. In the four years of Ilyusha’s life, his grandmother had watched him perhaps five times at most. Nina Vasilyevna always had urgent matters: magnetic storms, a visit to the clinic, TV series to watch, and most often, caring for “poor, tired Stasik.”
Vera returned to the group, sat down at her desk, and began mechanically filling out the attendance register. The numbers blurred before her eyes.
That evening, after the last child had been picked up, Vera dressed Ilyusha, and they went outside together. The city was sunk in damp autumn slush. They walked to the bus stop and got onto a crowded bus to get to their neighborhood. Vera looked out the window at the flickering lights and thought about her life.
She and her husband Konstantin were squeezed into a tiny one-room apartment bought with a mortgage. Kostya worked as an engineer at a factory, took extra shifts, and did side jobs on weekends, but money was still catastrophically short. More than half his salary was eaten up by the monthly bank payment; the rest went to utilities, groceries, and clothes for fast-growing Ilyusha. Vera’s salary at the kindergarten was so ridiculous that it was barely enough to pay for transportation and small household needs.
They dreamed of expanding. They dreamed of the day when they could sell their one-room place, take out a new mortgage, and buy at least a modest two-room apartment so Ilyusha would have his own nursery and she and her husband could sleep on a proper bed instead of a folding sofa in the kitchen.
At home, they were greeted by the delicious smell of fried potatoes. Kostya had come back from work earlier, picked up groceries from the store, and had already managed to cook dinner.
“Hello, my dear ones,” he said, stepping into the hallway, wiping his hands on a towel. He scooped Ilyusha up in his arms and kissed Vera loudly on the cheek. “How was your day? You look tired.”
“As usual. Noise, chaos, an inspection from the methodological office,” Vera said, wearily pulling off her boots. “Kostya, I called Mom about Friday. She refused to stay with Ilyusha.”
Kostya set their son down on the floor and sent him to wash his hands. His face became serious. He came over to his wife and put his arms around her shoulders.
“I thought so. What was it this time? Blood pressure or her beloved son?”
“Both. She said Stas is coming, she’ll be making stuffed cabbage rolls for him, and Ilyusha is too noisy. She suggested taking him with us to the bank.”
“Then we’ll take him with us,” Kostya replied calmly. “We’ll buy him a new construction set, sit him in an armchair beside us, and give him the tablet. Don’t worry. We’ll get through it. We’ll manage without her.”
At dinner, while Ilyusha devoured the potatoes, Vera absentmindedly picked at her plate with her fork.
“You know, Kostya… It hurts so much. And it’s not even that she doesn’t help with her grandson. It’s her attitude. Grandma passed away a year ago. Mom inherited her gorgeous two-room apartment in a good district. Back then she told all the relatives that she would rent it out for a couple of years, save money for renovations, and then exchange it or sell it to help Stas and us with housing. We were so happy then. We thought, finally, this was a chance to close this debt trap and move.”
Kostya covered her hand with his.
“Vera, we’re adults. We have to rely only on ourselves. A promise doesn’t mean a commitment. Your mother has always favored Stas. You know that yourself.”
“Yes, I know. But we’re family. We can barely make ends meet, I work at the kindergarten for pennies, you sleep five hours a night. And she rents out Grandma’s apartment, gets good money, and spends it all on Stas’s whims. He recently changed cars. Did you see? Where did he get the money if he works as a sales manager with a pitiful base salary?”
“Don’t fill your head with other people’s money,” her husband said gently. “Let’s think instead about which documents we still need to print before Friday.”
Three weeks passed.
The bank deal went successfully. Ilyusha behaved perfectly, absorbed in his new toy, and they managed to lower the interest rate, which eased their modest budget a little. Life flowed along as usual: kindergarten, factory, rare weekends in the park.
One evening, a call came from Nina Vasilyevna.
“Verochka, hello. Are you free this Saturday?” Her voice sounded unusually lively and solemn.
“We’re free, Mom. Why?”
“Come over to my place for lunch. Bring Kostya and Ilyusha too. Stasik will also come. I need to tell you all something important. Family-related.”
Vera felt a cautious hope stir inside her chest. Family-related. Important. Maybe her mother had finally decided to discuss the apartment? Maybe she had realized that her daughter’s family needed help?
“Alright, Mom. We’ll come.”
On Saturday, Vera, Kostya, and Ilyusha arrived at Nina Vasilyevna’s three-room apartment. The table was laden with food: herring under a fur coat, Olivier salad, cutlets, mashed potatoes, homemade pickles. Stanislav was already sitting in the place of honor, relaxed in a new expensive sweater. Beside him, giggling affectedly, sat his latest girlfriend, a blonde with extended eyelashes named Angela.
Nina Vasilyevna fussed around her son, placing the best pieces on his plate.
“Stasik, try the cutlets, I made them just the way you like, with cheese inside. Angela, dear, don’t be shy, eat.”
Vera sat modestly at the edge of the table, feeding Ilyusha and exchanging glances with Kostya. After the meal, when tea and cake were served, Nina Vasilyevna tapped a spoon against her cup.
“Well, my dears. I have gathered you all here for a reason. I have decided to resolve the housing issue with Grandma’s apartment.”
Vera’s heart began to pound loudly. She straightened in her chair.
“You know that I inherited the two-room apartment from my mother. It’s a good apartment, bright, in a good area. And I have thought for a long time about what to do with it. I consulted knowledgeable people, weighed everything carefully. And I made a decision.”
Nina Vasilyevna paused dramatically and looked at Stanislav with tenderness.
“I am transferring this apartment to Stasik as a deed of gift.”
The room fell silent. Vera felt the ground drop out from under her. The cup in her hand trembled, tea splashing onto the saucer.
“Mom…” she said slowly. “What?”
“I said I’m making a deed of gift for Stas,” Nina Vasilyevna repeated with satisfaction. “He’s young, he needs a start in life. He and Angela are thinking about a family, children. A man must have his own corner.”
Stanislav smirked, not even looking at his sister. Angela squealed and kissed him on the cheek.
“Nina Vasilyevna, you are simply wonderful!”
Vera set the cup down on the table. Her fingers were icy.
“Mom, what are you saying? What deed of gift? You promised the apartment would be divided between us. Or that you would help us expand our place. You know how we live!”
Nina Vasilyevna frowned.
“Vera, don’t start. I didn’t promise anyone anything officially. I said maybe, someday, if there was a possibility. And now the situation is such that Stas needs it more.”
“More?” Vera’s voice broke. “He lives with you in a three-room apartment, drives a new car, and changes jobs twice a year! We live three people in one room, pay a mortgage, and count every ruble!”
“Don’t count other people’s money!” her mother snapped. “Stas is a man. He’ll need to support a family. And you have a husband. Let him support you. Why did you marry if your husband can’t provide you with housing?”
Kostya turned pale but remained silent, only putting his hand on Vera’s arm.
“My husband works from morning till night,” Vera said quietly. “And I work too. We are not asking for the whole apartment. We were asking for fairness.”
“Fairness?” Stanislav finally joined in, leaning back in his chair. “Vera, stop pretending to be a victim. You chose to get married, give birth, and take out a mortgage. Those are your problems. Mom isn’t obligated to solve them.”
“Stas…” Vera looked at her brother as if seeing him for the first time. “You don’t even have a family yet.”
“So what? I will. Angela and I are serious. And anyway, I’m the younger one. I need support.”
Nina Vasilyevna nodded approvingly.
“That’s right. Vera, you’ve always been strong and independent. You’ll manage. And Stas is sensitive, vulnerable. He needs a reliable foundation.”
Vera suddenly remembered dozens of episodes from childhood. How Stas was forgiven for everything, while she was scolded for the smallest mistake. How he was bought expensive sneakers while she wore her cousin’s old boots. How her mother would say, “You’re the older one, you must understand.” How she worked after classes at the institute to pay for her own textbooks, while Stas was given money for entertainment.
And now the last hope for justice was being taken from her, wrapped in beautiful words about vulnerability and a reliable foundation.
“I understand,” Vera said, standing up.
“Where are you going?” her mother asked, displeased.
“Home.”
“Vera, don’t be dramatic! We haven’t even eaten the cake!”
“Eat it without us.”
She took Ilyusha by the hand. Kostya silently stood beside her.
“Mom,” Vera turned at the doorway, “remember this day. Remember it well. Because from today on, you no longer have a daughter you can call only when it’s convenient for you. You have made your choice. Now live with it.”
Nina Vasilyevna flared up.
“How dare you speak to your mother like that? I gave birth to you, raised you! Ungrateful girl!”
“You raised me to be strong. Thank you. I’ll use it now.”
They left.
For the first few days, Nina Vasilyevna called nonstop. Vera did not answer. Then messages began pouring in: accusations, complaints, demands to “come to her senses,” reminders of “a mother’s sacred rights.” Vera deleted them without reading them.
Kostya supported her quietly and firmly. He did not say, “I told you so.” He did not rejoice that his mother-in-law had finally shown her true colors. He simply hugged Vera when she cried at night and repeated:
“We’ll manage. Together.”
And they did manage.
A year passed. Vera quit the kindergarten. Ilyusha started attending a preparatory group at school, and she found work in her field — first as an assistant accountant, then quickly grew into the position of financial analyst in a small but steadily developing company. Her education, which had seemed useless for years, suddenly became needed. Vera worked eagerly, studied in the evenings, completed online courses, and absorbed new information like a sponge.
Kostya was promoted at the factory, and their combined income began to grow. They still lived modestly, but no longer on the edge of survival.
They learned to plan, save, and invest small amounts. Two years after the memorable lunch at Nina Vasilyevna’s, Vera and Kostya sold their one-room apartment and bought a two-room apartment in a new district. Small, with a mortgage, without luxury renovation — but their own. Ilyusha got his own room with blue wallpaper and shelves for cars. Vera cried the first night they slept on a real bed in their own bedroom.
During all that time, she had almost no contact with her mother. Rare holiday congratulations, dry and brief. Nina Vasilyevna sometimes sent offended messages saying that her daughter had “exchanged her mother for square meters,” but Vera no longer felt pain from those words. Only fatigue.
Stanislav moved into Grandma’s apartment. For the first six months, he posted photos of a beautiful life on social media: parties, restaurant dinners with Angela, new furniture bought on credit. Then Angela disappeared from the photos. Then the car was sold. Then rumors reached Vera that Stas had lost another job and was renting out one of the rooms to a friend.
Three years after that Saturday lunch, the phone rang late in the evening. Vera was helping Ilyusha with his math homework, while Kostya was assembling a shelf in the hallway.
The screen showed: “Mom.”
Vera looked at the phone for a long time before answering.
“Yes.”
“Verochka…” Nina Vasilyevna’s voice was hoarse, aged, frightened. “Daughter, I don’t know what to do.”
Vera went out onto the balcony and closed the door behind her.
“What happened?”
“Stas… Stas took loans. A lot of them. First for business, then to cover the old ones. He said he would open an auto parts store. He asked me to be a guarantor. I thought he had finally come to his senses, started doing serious work…”
Vera silently looked at the lights of the evening city.
“And?”
“And everything collapsed. The business never opened properly. He spent part of the money, part of it vanished somewhere. Now collectors are calling. The bank filed a lawsuit. They said they might seize the apartment.”
“Which apartment?”
“Grandma’s,” Nina Vasilyevna whispered. “He used it as collateral. I signed everything. I didn’t understand… Verochka, you’re good with these things. You understand documents. Come, please. Help us. We need to save the apartment.”
Vera closed her eyes. The very apartment that was supposed to become the “reliable foundation” for sensitive Stasik had become collateral for his irresponsibility.
“Mom,” Vera said quietly, “I can look at the documents. But I can’t promise anything.”
“Thank you, my girl! I knew you wouldn’t abandon us. You have such a good heart. And then… maybe you and Kostya could take out a loan? Just temporarily, to close part of Stasik’s debt. You have a good job now, an apartment…”
Vera opened her eyes.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. I will not take loans for Stas. I will not risk my family’s apartment. I will not pay for his mistakes.”
“But he’s your brother!”
“And I am your daughter. But that didn’t stop you from taking away from me even the chance of help.”
“How can you remember old grievances when your family is in trouble?”
“I’m not remembering grievances. I’m remembering facts.”
Nina Vasilyevna began to cry.
“Vera, don’t be cruel. I’m an old woman. What will I do if Stas loses the apartment? Where will he live?”
“With you. In your three-room apartment. Like he used to.”
“But he’s used to living separately now!”
“Mom, I’m used to living without your help.”
Silence fell over the line.
“You’ve become heartless,” Nina Vasilyevna said bitterly.
“No. I’ve become fair.”
Vera hung up.
The next day, she still went to her mother. Not for Stas. Not for the apartment. For herself — so she would know she had done everything that did not destroy her own family.
She carefully studied the loan agreements, the collateral documents, and the bank notices. The situation was bad but not hopeless. Vera explained to her mother and brother that they needed to hire a lawyer, try to restructure the debt, sell the apartment voluntarily if necessary, and close the debt before the court ordered a forced sale at a reduced price.
Stanislav shouted, accused her of greed, demanded that she “just give money,” and called Kostya a loser. Vera listened calmly, gathered the papers, and stood up.
“I have given you advice. Professional, free, and honest. I will not give money.”
Nina Vasilyevna sat at the table, aged and lost.
“Verochka, maybe just a little? At least for the lawyer?”
Vera took out an envelope and placed it on the table. Inside was enough money for one consultation with a good specialist.
“This is all I can give. And this is the last time. After this, each of us handles our own life.”
She left without looking back.
Six months later, Grandma’s apartment was sold. Not at the best price, but enough to cover most of the debts. Stanislav moved back in with his mother. The car was gone, Angela was gone, the beautiful life was gone. Only resentment remained — at the banks, at failed partners, at his sister who had “refused to save him.”
Nina Vasilyevna called Vera less and less. Her voice no longer sounded commanding. Now it contained caution, uncertainty, and a late understanding that love cannot be built on endless indulgence of one child at the expense of another.
One day she came to visit Vera without warning. She stood on the threshold of their small but cozy two-room apartment, holding a bag of apples and a toy car for Ilyusha.
“You have a good place,” she said quietly, looking around the hallway.
“Yes,” Vera replied. “We earned it ourselves.”
Nina Vasilyevna lowered her eyes.
“I was wrong.”
Vera did not answer immediately. She looked at her mother — aged, confused, no longer omnipotent. For many years, Vera had waited for those words. She had imagined them differently: with tears, explanations, hugs. But in reality, they sounded simple and tired.
“Yes, Mom. You were.”
“I wanted to help Stas. I thought he was weaker.”
“You made him weak.”
Nina Vasilyevna flinched, but did not argue.
“And me?”
“And you,” her mother whispered, “I thought you could handle everything.”
“I did handle it. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
For the first time in many years, Nina Vasilyevna began to cry silently — not loudly, not theatrically, without accusations. Vera stood beside her and felt neither triumph nor the desire to punish. Only the quiet weariness of a long road finally coming to an end.
She did not rush to hug her mother. She did not say that everything was forgiven. Forgiveness, she had learned, is not a switch that can be flipped with one apology.
But she let her come into the kitchen. She poured tea. She called Ilyusha, and he politely thanked his grandmother for the toy car.
A new relationship between mother and daughter did not begin with tears, but with boundaries. Nina Vasilyevna no longer had keys to Vera’s soul, no longer had the right to demand, accuse, or manipulate. She could come — if she respected them. She could call — if she spoke normally. She could be part of their life — but no longer at the cost of their peace.
In the evening, after her mother left, Vera stood by the window for a long time. Kostya came up behind her and gently hugged her by the shoulders.
“How are you?”
Vera thought about it.
“Calm.”
“That’s good?”
“Yes. Very.”
In the children’s room, Ilyusha laughed, playing with the new car. In the kitchen, there were cups after tea. In the hallway stood the shoes of people who had built their life without gifts, without inheritance, without someone else’s belated generosity.
Vera looked at her reflection in the dark glass and suddenly realized: she no longer wanted to prove anything to anyone. Not to her mother. Not to her brother. Not to herself.
She had her home. Her family. Her dignity.
And that was worth far more than any apartment.
“Mom, what are you talking about? What deed of gift? You promised the apartment would be divided between us. Or that you’d help us upgrade to a bigger place. You know how we live!”
Vera sank wearily onto the tiny children’s chair, which creaked pitifully under her weight. At last, the long-awaited silence had settled over the playroom. Twenty-five restless four-year-olds, having run themselves ragged during the first half of the day, were now snuffling in their little beds in the sleeping room. The air was filled with the smells of warm boiled milk, cottage cheese casserole, and the faint scent of children’s soap.
Vera closed her eyes and rubbed her throbbing temples. Her back ached unbearably after the morning walk, during which she had had to dress, shoe, and tie the laces and scarves of two dozen toddlers. Working as a kindergarten teacher had never been her dream. She had a degree in economics, ambition, and excellent prospects, but reality had made its harsh corrections.
When her son, Ilyusha, turned three, it became clear that the waiting list for a state kindergarten was moving at a snail’s pace, and she and her husband simply could not afford to give up half their salary for a private kindergarten. The only solution was for her to go work in the preschool education system herself. That was how she secured the coveted spot for her son, along with a tiny salary that went almost entirely toward groceries, and daily stress multiplied by enormous responsibility for other people’s children.
She worked there solely for Ilyusha’s sake. He was now sleeping peacefully in the next room, in a little bed by the window. Vera knew that as soon as her son started school, she would immediately quit and return to her profession. But for now, all she could do was endure.
The silence was shattered by the short vibration of the phone in the pocket of her uniform smock. Vera flinched, quickly pulled out the device, and stepped into the cloakroom so she would not wake the children. The name glowing on the screen was: “Mom.”
“Yes, Mom, hi,” Vera answered in a whisper.
“Vera, why did it take you so long to pick up?” Nina Vasilyevna’s demanding, loud voice came through the speaker. “I was already starting to worry. What’s going on over there?”
“It’s nap time, Mom. The children are sleeping. I can’t shout into the phone. Did something happen?”
“Nothing happened. I just called to ask how you are. And you’re always dissatisfied.”
Vera sighed heavily.
“Mom, since you called… I really need your help this Friday evening. Kostya and I have an appointment at the bank. We need to sign the refinancing documents for the mortgage. We both have to be there. Could you pick Ilyusha up from kindergarten at five and stay with him at your place at least until eight? We’ll come straight from the bank and pick him up.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, after which Nina Vasilyevna’s voice took on a suffering tone.
“Oh, Verochka… This Friday? I absolutely can’t. You know, my blood pressure has been jumping since yesterday. Magnetic storms, they said on television. I can barely stand on my feet.”
“Mom, on Wednesday you said you felt wonderful and were planning to go to the construction market for new wallpaper.”
“Wednesday was Wednesday! And now I feel terrible!” her mother said indignantly. “Besides, Stasik is coming over Friday evening. The poor boy wears himself out at work all week. He needs proper rest and homemade food. I was planning to make his favorite stuffed cabbage rolls. How am I supposed to handle Ilyusha? He’s hyperactive, always getting into everything, making noise. My head splits from his screaming!”
Vera clenched her teeth. Stasik. Her younger brother, Stanislav, who had turned twenty-eight that year. The “boy” who changed jobs every six months because his bosses “didn’t appreciate him,” lived for his own pleasure, changed girlfriends like gloves, and regularly drained money from their mother.
“Mom, Ilyusha is four. He’s a normal child. Put cartoons on for him, give him a coloring book, and he’ll sit quietly. Kostya and I really need to be at the bank together. If we miss this meeting, we’ll lose the favorable rate, and that’s critical for our budget.”
“Then take him with you to the bank!” Nina Vasilyevna declared categorically. “He can sit on a chair. Nothing will happen to him. Or let Kostya handle everything himself. He’s the man, after all! Why do you need to drag yourself there?”
“Because the apartment is registered in both our names, Mom. They need both signatures.”
“Vera, don’t pressure me! I said I can’t. I raised my children. Do I have the right to a peaceful old age? You had a child for yourselves, so deal with it yourselves. That’s it, I have to go, my water is boiling on the stove. Bye!”
Short beeps sounded in the receiver. Vera lowered the phone, feeling a bitter, suffocating lump rise in her throat. It had always been like this. In the four years of Ilyusha’s life, his grandmother had watched him maybe five times at most. Nina Vasilyevna always had urgent business: magnetic storms, a trip to the clinic, TV shows, and most often, taking care of “poor, tired Stasik.”
Vera returned to the group room, sat at her desk, and began mechanically filling out the attendance journal. The numbers blurred before her eyes.
That evening, after the last child had left, Vera dressed Ilyusha, and they went outside together. The city was immersed in a damp autumn slush. They walked to the bus stop and got onto a crowded bus to reach their district. Vera looked out the window at the flickering lights and thought about her life.
She and her husband, Konstantin, were crammed into a tiny one-room apartment they had bought with a mortgage. Kostya worked as an engineer at a factory, took extra shifts, did side jobs on weekends, but money was still catastrophically scarce. More than half of his salary was eaten up by the monthly bank payment, and the rest went to utilities, food, and clothes for rapidly growing Ilyusha. Vera’s kindergarten salary was so laughable that it barely covered transportation and small household needs.
They dreamed of moving to a bigger place. They dreamed of the day when they could sell their “one-room box,” take out a new mortgage, and buy at least a modest two-room apartment, so Ilyusha could have his own nursery and she and her husband could sleep in a normal bed instead of a fold-out sofa in the kitchen.
At home, they were greeted by the delicious smell of fried potatoes. Kostya had come home from work early, picked up groceries from the store, and already managed to cook dinner.
“Hello, my dears,” he said, stepping into the hallway and wiping his hands on a towel. He scooped Ilyusha into his arms and kissed Vera loudly on the cheek. “How was your day? You look tired.”
“As usual. Noise, chaos, an inspection from the methodology office,” Vera said, tiredly pulling off her boots. “Kostya, I called Mom about Friday. She refused to watch Ilyusha.”
Kostya set his son down and sent him to wash his hands. His face became serious. He approached his wife and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
“I figured as much. What was it this time? Blood pressure or her beloved son?”
“Both. She said Stas is coming, she’ll be making cabbage rolls for him, and Ilyusha is too noisy. She suggested we take him with us to the bank.”
“Then we’ll take him with us,” Kostya replied calmly. “We’ll buy him a new construction set, sit him in a chair nearby, give him the tablet. Don’t worry, we’ll get through it. We’ll manage without her.”
During dinner, while Ilyusha was devouring his potatoes, Vera absentmindedly poked at her plate with her fork.
“You know, Kostya… It hurts so much. And it’s not even that she doesn’t help with her grandson. It’s her attitude. Grandma passed away a year ago. Mom inherited her gorgeous two-room apartment in a good district. Back then she told all the relatives that she would rent it out for a couple of years, save up money for renovation, and then exchange it or sell it to help both us and Stas with housing. We were so happy then. We thought, finally, this was our chance to close our debt trap and move.”
Kostya covered her hand with his.
“Vera, we’re adults. We have to rely only on ourselves. Promising something doesn’t mean actually doing it. Your mother has always singled out Stas. You know that yourself.”
“Yes, I know. But we’re family. We’re barely making ends meet, I work at the kindergarten for pennies, you sleep five hours a night. And she rents out Grandma’s apartment, gets good money, and spends it all on Stas’s whims. He changed cars recently. Did you see? Where did he get the money if he works as a sales manager with a salary worth three kopecks?”
“Don’t fill your head with other people’s money,” her husband said gently. “Let’s think instead about which documents we still need to print before Friday.”
Three weeks passed.
The bank appointment went successfully. Ilyusha behaved perfectly, absorbed in his new toy, and they managed to lower the interest rate, which slightly eased their modest budget. Life flowed on as usual: kindergarten, factory, rare weekends in the park.
One evening, Nina Vasilyevna called.
“Verochka, hello. Are you free this Saturday?” Her voice sounded unusually cheerful and solemn.
“We’re free, Mom. Why?”
“I’m inviting you to a family dinner. Stasik will be there, Aunt Lyuba is coming too. I’m setting a big table. I have an important, joyful announcement for all of us. I expect you at four. Don’t be late!”
Vera hung up, feeling a tiny, naive hope ignite inside her. An important announcement. A family council. Could her mother have finally resolved the matter with Grandma’s apartment? Maybe she had found a buyer and planned to divide the money, as promised? If they received even a third of that apartment’s value, they could close their current mortgage and calmly take a larger home.
On Saturday, Vera dressed carefully. She put on her best dress, Kostya wore a clean shirt, and Ilyusha was dressed in a smart little outfit.
Nina Vasilyevna’s apartment greeted them with the smells of expensive perfume and festive food. In the spacious living room, a large table had been extended and covered with salads, sliced meats, and hot dishes. Aunt Lyuba, her mother’s sister, was already sitting at the head of the table. Beside her, Stas lounged lazily, absorbed in scrolling through something on his newest-model smartphone.
“Oh, the relatives have arrived!” Stas smirked without looking up from the screen. “Hi, sis. Kostyan, hey.”
“Come in, come in, wash your hands and sit at the table!” Nina Vasilyevna fussed, carrying a dish of roasted meat out of the kitchen. She was practically glowing with self-satisfaction.
When everyone had taken their seats, Nina Vasilyevna filled the glasses.
“Well then, my dears,” she began, dabbing her lips with a napkin. Her gaze was fixed exclusively on Stas. “I gathered you here today for a very important reason. As you know, for the past year I’ve been renting out our late grandmother’s apartment. And I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. About our family’s future.”
Vera’s heart stopped. She looked at Kostya, and he encouragingly squeezed her knee under the table.
“Life is difficult now, prices are rising,” her mother continued, sighing theatrically. “And young people need some way to get on their feet. That is why I have made a final, well-considered decision. Yesterday, Stasik and I went to the notary. I signed a deed of gift. Grandma’s two-room apartment now officially belongs to Stas.”
A ringing, dead silence hung in the room. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock.
Vera sat motionless. Her mother’s words reached her mind with a delay, as if through a thick layer of water. A deed of gift. To Stas. The whole apartment.
“Hooray! Congratulations, my dear nephew!” Aunt Lyuba was the first to break the silence, clapping her hands joyfully. “That’s right, Nina, well done! A young man needs his own base!”
Stas smiled smugly, raised his glass of mineral water, and winked at his mother.
“Thanks, Mom. I won’t let you down. The guys and I have already sketched out a design project. We’ll knock down the walls, make a huge loft-style studio. There’ll be a place to hang out.”
Vera slowly placed her fork on the table. Her hands were trembling slightly.
“Mom…” Her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat and repeated louder, “Mom, what are you talking about? What deed of gift? You promised the apartment would be divided between us. Or that you’d help us upgrade to a bigger place. You know how we live!”
The smile instantly disappeared from Nina Vasilyevna’s face. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Vera, what kind of tone is that? Relatives are sitting at the table, and you’re making a scene! This is my property, and I have the right to dispose of it as I see fit!”
“Your property?” Vera felt rage boiling inside her, rage that had been building for years. “Mom, Ilyusha is growing up in a tiny kitchen! We count every kopeck, I break my back at the kindergarten for pennies so our child has a place there! And Stas hasn’t worked properly a single day in his life! He sits on your neck, and now you’re giving him a huge apartment so he can ‘hang out’ in it?”
“Shut your mouth!” Stas barked, slamming his palm on the table so hard the glasses rang. Ilyusha flinched in fear and pressed himself against Kostya. “Don’t count my money, you loser. If your little husband can’t earn enough for a decent kennel for you, that’s your problem.”
Kostya slowly stood up. His face was pale, and his jaw muscles were twitching.
“Apologize to my wife, Stas,” he said quietly, but very threateningly. “Now.”
“Kostya, sit down!” Nina Vasilyevna shrieked, jumping up from her chair. “Don’t you dare threaten my son in my house! Vera, you’ve gone mad from envy! What apartment are you talking about? You’re already married!”
“So what?!” Vera cried out in despair, feeling hot, angry tears roll down her cheeks. “Because I’m married, does that mean I’m no longer your daughter? Does that mean you can erase me from your life?”
“Exactly!” Her mother’s face flushed with anger, and she no longer held back her words. “You are a cut-off slice! A woman leaves for her husband’s family! So let your Kostya figure out how to provide for you. He’s a man. It’s his sacred duty to bring the mammoth home! And Stasik is a boy. He needs to build his future. He needs somewhere to bring a young wife! What normal girl needs a man without an apartment? I will not allow my son to wander around rented corners or take out that idiotic mortgage of yours! He needs a start! And you don’t need anything anymore. You have a husband!”
Vera looked at the woman who had given birth to her and did not recognize her. Or perhaps, on the contrary, she was seeing her true face for the first time. A mother who had never truly loved her. A mother for whom her daughter had been merely a convenient backdrop for her adored son. A mother who justified her blind, selfish love for Stas with absurd patriarchal clichés.
“So according to you, Kostya and I should work ourselves to death, pay loans, deny ourselves everything because we’re ‘already settled,’ while your thirty-year-old son deserves a luxurious life simply by virtue of being born?” Vera wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Her voice stopped trembling. A strange, icy clarity came over her.
“Don’t twist my words!” her mother waved her off. “I did what was fair. Kostya knew what he was getting into when he married you. And Stas needs a nest.”
Aunt Lyuba nodded in agreement.
“Ninochka is right, Verochka. Why fight? A man should bring his wife into his own home. And you’re doing fine. You’re still young, you’ll earn more.”
Vera laughed bitterly.
“We’ll earn more. Of course we will. Only without you. Kostya, please dress Ilyusha. We’re leaving.”
“Go then!” Nina Vasilyevna shouted after them. “You’re always dissatisfied with everything! No gratitude to your mother! We’ll see what tune you sing when things get hard!”
Vera stopped in the doorway. She turned around. She looked at the lavishly set table, at her smug brother, who had already buried himself in his phone again, at her red-faced, angry mother.
“Things have already been hard for us, Mom. More than once,” Vera said calmly and clearly. “And when we asked you simply to sit with your grandson so we could save our mortgage, you chose to make stuffed cabbage rolls for your grown-up oaf. You are right about one thing. I am married. I have a family. My husband and my son. And you… you are strangers. Live in your nest. Just remember this: since I’m a ‘cut-off slice’ and fully provided for by my husband, then in your old age, Mom, don’t come to me. You have a son with start-up capital. Let him be the one to bring you a glass of water. Goodbye.”
They left the apartment to Aunt Lyuba’s indignant shouts. The door slammed shut with a heavy, dull thud, cutting them off from their past life.
When they stepped outside, Vera inhaled the cold evening air. She was still shaking from the stress she had just endured, but suddenly her soul felt incredibly light. As if a heavy stone she had carried for years, trying to earn her mother’s love, had finally fallen from her neck.
Kostya wrapped his free arm tightly around her, holding Ilyusha with the other.
“How are you?” he asked softly, looking into her eyes.
“I’m fine. You know, I’m not even sorry about the apartment. I’m sorry for the time I wasted expecting fairness from her.”
“That’s right,” Kostya said, kissing the top of her head. “We’ll earn it ourselves. We won’t humiliate ourselves before anyone. Let’s go home. We still have yesterday’s pie there.”
Five years passed.
Vera and Konstantin kept their word. They sold the small one-room apartment, took out a new mortgage, and moved into a spacious three-room apartment in a green residential district. Ilyusha started first grade, and Vera, just as she had dreamed, happily quit the kindergarten and got a job as an economist at a large logistics company. Her career quickly took off, and the family’s income stabilized. Yes, they were still paying off a loan, but this was their home, earned by their own labor, without anyone’s favors or reproaches.
Vera had not spoken to her mother or brother all those years. Nina Vasilyevna tried calling on holidays during the first few months, pretending nothing had happened, but Vera answered dryly with formal phrases and quickly hung up. Then the calls stopped.
News about the relatives reached her through a few mutual acquaintances and her husband’s family.
As expected, Stas’s “start” led to nothing good. He never renovated Grandma’s apartment. At first he rented it out and successfully squandered the money in clubs. Then, deciding to become a great businessman, he sold the apartment, invested all the money in a dubious startup selling some kind of electronic devices, and went completely broke.
Left without an apartment, without money, and with a pile of debts, thirty-three-year-old Stas returned to live with his mother. Now the two of them were crammed together. Stas drank, survived on occasional odd jobs, and constantly demanded money from Nina Vasilyevna’s pension for his needs.
One evening, while Vera was checking Ilyusha’s homework in his new, bright children’s room, her phone rang. The number was unfamiliar, but for some reason her intuition told her to pick up.
“Hello, Verochka?” Nina Vasilyevna’s aged, broken voice came through the receiver. She had deteriorated greatly over the years; her voice trembled and cracked. “Hello, daughter. It’s Mom.”
Vera stepped out of the children’s room and closed the door behind her.
“Hello, Nina Vasilyevna. What do you need?” Vera’s voice was completely calm.
“Verochka… don’t call me that. I’m your mother,” the woman sobbed. “I feel so bad. Stasik has completely gotten out of hand. He drinks, shouts at me. Yesterday he carried the television out of the house and sold it. I have no money to pay rent and utilities, no money for medicine. My heart pains me every day…”
Her mother cried as she told Vera about her troubles, trying to squeeze pity out of her daughter, trying to find that old thread of guilt she had pulled so conveniently all her life.
“Verochka, you live well now, Aunt Lyuba told me. You bought a big apartment. Maybe… maybe you could take me in? Or at least help me with money? I raised you, I didn’t sleep nights… We’re blood, after all. We’re family.”
Vera listened to the sobbing, looked out the window at the evening city, at the glowing windows of other people’s homes, and not a single muscle twitched inside her. There was no gloating, no sympathy. Only an icy emptiness and a clear understanding of her own boundaries.
“I’m sorry, Nina Vasilyevna,” Vera replied evenly, interrupting the stream of complaints. “But you seem to have forgotten our last conversation. I am a cut-off slice. I am married, and my husband provides for his family, in which there is no place for you. You have a son. You gave him a wonderful start in life. You provided him with a foundation because he needed somewhere to bring a wife. So let your man take care of you now. It is his sacred duty.”
“Vera! How can you?! I’m your mother! I’ll die here alone!” Nina Vasilyevna screamed hysterically into the phone.
“All the best,” Vera said shortly and pressed the end-call button.
Then she went into her phone settings and blocked that number forever.
She returned to the children’s room, where Ilyusha was carefully writing letters in his copybook, while a cat they had recently adopted from a shelter purred on the windowsill. Kostya looked into the room, bringing them hot tea with cookies.
“Who called?” her husband asked, placing the cups on the table.
“Wrong number,” Vera said with a smile, wrapping her arms around her son’s shoulders. “Complete strangers.”
She took a sip of sweet tea and looked at her family. Her real family. Loving and reliable. In their world, there was no place for betrayal or false excuses. Their happiness had been built with their own hands, and Vera knew for certain: she would never allow anyone to destroy that happiness. Not under any pretext.
