— Kostya, look at this, — Natasha held out her phone to her husband. Something in her voice made him put down the remote.
He took the smartphone and scrolled through the list of files in the voice recorder app. Several untitled recordings.
— Where did these come from?
— I don’t know. Play one.
He tapped the screen. He immediately recognized his mother’s voice, only she wasn’t speaking the way she normally did to her daughter-in-law. There was no softness, no politeness:
“Have you seen what she wears to the market? You’d only go buy potatoes dressed like that. And then she lectures me about having taste…”
Natasha silently took the phone back and deleted the file. Her cheeks had turned red.
— Don’t take it personally, — Kostya said. — You know what she’s like. She grumbles and then forgets about it.
Natasha said nothing. She went into the kitchen and started rearranging things, clattering dishes for longer than necessary. Kostya went back to watching television, but he was no longer interested.
That evening Natasha was making fritters while Kostya tried to figure out what was wrong with the water heater. It had started leaking around the pipe connection. For the third time that month.
— Maybe we should call a plumber? — Natasha asked without turning away from the stove.
— I’ll take a look myself. It’s probably the gasket.
— You said that last time too.
Kostya didn’t answer and reached into the cupboard for his tools.
Natasha had inherited the apartment after her father’s death — a two-room apartment in a prefab building on Profsoyuznaya Street. It wasn’t new, but it was solid. They had done a decent renovation: replaced the pipes, enclosed the balcony, and put up new wallpaper in what would eventually become the child’s room.
Their son Sasha was approaching his second birthday. He didn’t have a separate room yet, but they were already thinking about how to make one — perhaps move a partition or section off part of the larger room.
There was no mortgage, which, frankly, meant they didn’t have to count every penny the way Kostya’s coworkers did.
The doorbell rang just as Natasha placed the fritters on a plate.
— I’ve come to see little Sasha! — Galina Petrovna, Kostya’s mother, announced from the doorway. She was carrying a bag from a children’s store and a small box of marshmallows. — I bought him a rattle. And something for you to have with tea.
— Thank you. Come in, — Natasha said, taking the marshmallows and carrying them to the table.
Her mother-in-law went into the room to see her grandson, and affectionate baby talk immediately drifted out from inside.
Natasha poured tea and remembered how, only a week earlier, Galina Petrovna had sat at this same table talking about the gift she had bought for her daughter Oksana — the latest model of a tablet.
“She studies part-time, she needs it.”
As she said it, she had looked at Natasha’s old laptop as though its existence were a personal insult.
There had been another incident about nine months earlier. Galina Petrovna had brought over a paper folder filled with old printed photographs.
— Kostenka, look. Do you remember Yulia from the class next to yours? I ran into her mother. Yulia lives in Moscow now. Her husband is a department head at a bank…
Natasha had quietly picked up one of the photographs — an old family picture showing a young Galina Petrovna standing beside her husband.
— You look very nice here, — Natasha had said.
She put the photo back into the folder and never returned to the subject.
Her mother-in-law had taken the folder home with her.
But for some reason, Natasha had never forgotten that conversation.
— Children, — Galina Petrovna said as she returned from Sasha’s room and sat down at the table, — I wanted to discuss something with you. Something serious.
She pulled several printed pages from her handbag — apartment listings from some real-estate website.
— Look. Three-room apartments in a new residential complex on Varshavskoye Highway. It’s a decent development, scheduled to be completed next year. Here’s what I’m thinking: we sell my apartment, sell yours, put the money together, and buy one large place for all of us. Sasha gets his own room, you two get a bedroom, and I’ll take the small room. We split the utilities three ways. Everyone benefits.
Natasha looked at Kostya.
He was staring at the printouts with an unreadable expression.
— Interesting, — Natasha said evenly. — We’ll think about it.
— Just don’t think for too long, — Galina Petrovna said, putting the papers away. — Half the apartments have already been sold.
After she left, Kostya sat down on the sofa and stretched out his legs.
— No, — he said simply.
— I’m against it too. But tell me — why did you decide so quickly?
He was silent for a moment. Then he stood, walked to the window, and came back.
— Did you know that when I was about six, Mom sometimes dressed me in Oksana’s dresses? She said it was a game. Dad saw it once and yelled at her. Then Oksana was born, and somehow I got pushed into the background.
Natasha listened without interrupting.
— Things happened differently for the two of us, — Kostya continued. — If Oksana broke one of my toy cars, well, it was an accident. If I got the highest grade at school, I was told, “Good, that’s what you’re supposed to do.” If she got one, everyone sat down for tea and cake to celebrate. When I got into technical college, Mom said I was lucky to have had a reasonable examiner.
— Kostya…
— I’m not complaining. I just understand that if we all move in together, Sasha will end up in the same situation.
Natasha didn’t answer. She simply took his hand.
Kostya stared at the wall.
— We are not selling this apartment, — he said. — It’s not even up for discussion.
Life went on as usual. Sasha got sick, recovered, got sick again — the usual cycle with small children.
Kostya worked overtime, while Natasha returned to work part-time after finding an online job. On Saturdays they drove to the supermarket for groceries. On Sundays they sometimes visited Natasha’s parents.
One weekend, her mother-in-law asked Natasha to help prepare for her sixtieth birthday celebration. There would be guests, and everything had to be done properly.
Natasha arrived early in the morning.
Galina Petrovna’s kitchen was spotless and almost impersonal, like a showroom — built-in appliances and an induction cooktop that Natasha had once seen in a store for eighty thousand rubles.
— Roll the dough thinner, — her mother-in-law instructed. — And put those napkins away. Take the patterned ones from the top drawer.
At one point the intercom buzzed — flowers had arrived.
Natasha went to open the door, helped the courier carry the boxes to the elevator, then returned to the dough.
She left shortly after three.
At home, she started a load of laundry, reached into her bag for her phone — and couldn’t find it.
— Damn it.
She didn’t want to call from Kostya’s phone because he had left it at work. So she sent her mother-in-law a message from another device and asked her to keep the phone until morning.
The next day she stopped by after work.
Her phone was lying on the edge of the kitchen counter beside the breadbox.
Natasha slipped it into her pocket, said goodbye, and went home.
Later, while Sasha was sleeping, she opened the phone and noticed that the voice recorder was running. The icon was still active. It had apparently been recording since the previous day.
She stopped it and pressed play.
For about five minutes there were kitchen noises, clinking dishes, guests talking.
Then everyone left, and only two people remained.
“…we sell their apartment and mine. We’ll rent them a room somewhere, or they can figure it out themselves. And then you and I can finally live properly.”
Galina Petrovna’s voice sounded completely matter-of-fact, without the slightest embarrassment.
“And what if Kostya refuses?” Oksana asked.
“Kostya doesn’t know how to argue. And I’ll deal with her. There are other ways to put pressure on her.”
Natasha stopped the recording.
She stood, walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of tap water, and drank it.
So that was how it was.
When Kostya came home, Natasha silently handed him a pair of headphones and started the recording at the relevant point.
He listened while standing in the hallway, without even taking off his jacket.
When it ended, he removed his shoes, hung up his coat, and walked into the kitchen.
— All right, — he finally said.
— What do you mean, “all right”?
— No deals. None.
Galina Petrovna called four days later.
She said she wanted to bring Sasha a little treat and discuss the apartment issue one more time. She had supposedly found another option that was extremely promising.
Kostya opened the door.
His mother stood there holding a bag with cookies and a small ball.
— Come in, — he said.
He took the bag and placed it on the shelf in the hallway.\
Galina Petrovna stepped inside and looked around.
— I found another building. There’s an apartment on the fourth floor with exactly the right layout…
— Mom, we’re not selling the apartment.
— What do you mean, you’re not selling it? But it’s obviously a good deal! — She turned toward Natasha. — Explain it to him.
— I agree with Kostya, — Natasha said.
Galina Petrovna was silent for a second.
Then the smile disappeared from her face.
— This is her idea, isn’t it? She convinced you. She’s turning you against your own mother!
— Nobody is turning anyone against anyone, — Kostya replied. — We heard what you and Oksana said after your birthday party. The entire conversation.
Galina Petrovna’s expression changed.
— What conversation? I don’t understand…
— About the rented room. About how you and Oksana would live comfortably while we were supposed to figure things out ourselves.
— You misunderstood everything! Oksana was joking. She’s always making things up…
— It wasn’t a joke, — Kostya said. — And we both know that.
Galina Petrovna grabbed her handbag.
— Fine! Keep living in your little dump! — Her voice rose. — You’ll come crawling back to me yourselves when things get difficult! Ungrateful people!
The door slammed shut.
The hallway became silent.
Kostya stood there for a moment, then returned to the living room.
Three weeks passed without a single phone call.
Kostya looked at his phone several times, but he never called his mother himself.
Natasha didn’t ask him about it.
Then one evening, after Sasha had gone to sleep, the phone finally rang.
Kostya answered, listened for a while, briefly thanked the caller, and hung up.
— Mom fell. She fractured her ankle, — he said, looking past Natasha. — A neighbor took her to the emergency clinic. She’s in the hospital now.
— Does Oksana know?
— She’s away on a trip. Says she can’t get back.
The clock on the refrigerator ticked.
Sasha’s room was quiet.
— Go, — Natasha said. — It’s okay.
Galina Petrovna was lying in a bed beside the window, without makeup, wearing a hospital gown, her injured leg immobilized.
The moment she saw her son, her eyes reddened.
— You came, — she said.
— How are you feeling?
— How do you think I feel? I’ll be in a cast for six weeks. Who’s going to help me?
— I’ll hire a caregiver. Someone good, with experience.
— A stranger? — she frowned. — You’re my son.
— Mom, I’ll come visit you. I’ll bring groceries. If you need help with paperwork or anything else, I’ll take care of it. But I can’t move in with you, and we can’t bring you to live with us.
She turned toward the window.
She said nothing more.
Several weeks later, Kostya came home in a noticeably good mood. Natasha could tell immediately from the way he took off his shoes and walked into the kitchen.
— How is she? — Natasha asked without looking away from her laptop.
— They discharged her. The caregiver is good. They’ve already gotten used to each other.
Kostya poured himself some tea and sat across from Natasha.
— You know, she said “thank you” to me today. Just like that. Not because she had to.
Natasha closed the laptop.
In the other room, Sasha was playing with building blocks, putting something together.
— That’s good, — she said.
Kostya nodded.
Outside the window, the streetlights were beginning to come on.
Maybe something really would change.
But trust isn’t something that can be restored with a single conversation. It takes time and effort.
And neither Kostya nor Natasha knew yet whether Galina Petrovna was truly prepared to make that effort.
