The anniversary celebration ended well, which in itself felt like a small miracle. The candles were blown out on the first try, the cake with the golden number arrived intact, and no one argued over where they were sitting at the table. Ksenia was on her way home in the lightest mood she had been in for months.
— Did you see the way she was holding that knife over the frosting? — Artyom laughed as he turned the steering wheel. — As if the cake had personally offended her.
— You spent half an hour straightening the number sixty-five yourself, — Ksenia replied. — It kept sliding sideways, like your mood by Friday evening.
— At least the photos came out nice.
— They did, — she agreed. — I even put my phone away so I wouldn’t spoil the moment.
At home, it was quiet, warm, and pleasantly empty. Ksenia took off her shoes, placed them neatly side by side, stretched, and rolled her neck. The hallway smelled of nothing, and that was comforting — just their own home, just an evening, just the end of a long day. 😌
— I’m glad it’s all over, — she said. — Another week of preparations like that and I’d have started talking to the dishes.
— Speaking of a week, — Artyom walked into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and rested his elbows on his knees. — We need to talk.
— Intriguing opening. Like one of those ads saying, “Kitten free to a good home,” and then it turns out the kitten is four years old and weighs eight kilos.
— You’ll stay with my mom for a week. She’s still shaken up after the anniversary, — her husband said calmly.
Ksenia stopped in the middle of the room. Her expression did not change. She merely raised her eyebrows slightly and stepped closer so she could look him in the eyes. The conversation was clearly beginning somewhere other than where it appeared to.
— Shaken up? — she repeated. — Yesterday we practically carried her around like a queen. She was singing. Twice.
— She was singing, and then she looked at the photos, — Artyom grimaced. — And realized she’s sixty-five. She sat up until morning saying her life was over. Are you capable of feeling sympathy for anyone at all?
— I am. But sympathy isn’t a subscription with automatic billing, — Ksenia replied. — Give me the details. Why me, and why a week?
Artyom straightened, and the hard metallic note he reserved for decisions that had already been made appeared in his voice. Ksenia knew that tone well. It meant the decision had been made without her and she was the last person being informed.
— Because you’re a woman. This sort of thing comes easier to you, — he said. — You’ll talk to her, sit with her, distract her. I have nothing to say to her. I’m not good at this kind of stuff.
— Wonderful logic, — Ksenia nodded. — You don’t know how to talk to your own mother, so the person who’s spent eight years communicating with her through you like you’re an interpreter is supposed to go talk to her instead.
— Don’t exaggerate. You two get along fine.
— We’re polite to each other. That’s a different sport, — she said, sitting in the armchair opposite him. — And you know, politeness is fragile. It’s very easy to break when two people live in the same apartment and share the same bathroom.
— A week isn’t “living together,” — he dismissed.
— A week with her isn’t a week, — Ksenia said. — It’s a probationary period. After that it’ll be, “Well, you’re already used to it.”
Artyom looked away, and at that moment she knew she had hit the mark. He reached for his phone too quickly, scrolled through the screen too carefully, and stayed silent far too long for someone who had nothing to hide.
— Artyom.
— What?
— How many weeks is it really?
— You’re about to make a huge scandal out of nothing, — he snapped. — Like always. I come to you with a perfectly reasonable suggestion and get interrogated.
— You’re coming to me with a schedule for my life, — she corrected him. — I like to read schedules all the way to the end. Especially the fine print.
He stood up, paced back and forth across the room, then began speaking quickly, swallowing his words as if afraid she might interrupt him.
— Fine. Fine! Not a week. Three months. Maybe four. She needs someone nearby. She’s scared. She finally came to her senses and saw an old woman in the mirror! Meanwhile, this apartment is sitting empty while we throw money away every month!
— Hold on, — Ksenia raised a hand. — The apartment is sitting empty? We’re sitting in it right now. I even sleep here occasionally, when I find the time.
— You know perfectly well what I mean! I’m talking about money! We rent it out, we get income. You stay with my mother, make yourself useful, and I…
— And you? — she asked quietly.
— And I’ll live separately for a while, — Artyom exhaled. — I need some time alone. I’m tired. I want to feel like I have a life of my own, you understand? Just a little freedom!
Ksenia slowly leaned back in the armchair. She watched him closely and calmly, and that calmness made his cheek twitch. 😐
— So, here’s the plan, — she said. — Me: sent to your mother as a caregiver and emotional lightning rod. The apartment: given to tenants. The money: into a “shared pot” that, for some reason, seems to sit entirely in your hands. And you: off to freedom, where you can finally feel that you have a life. Tell me, does this freedom of yours include a wife at all? Or is she an optional extra you have to pay for separately?
— Don’t twist things around!
— I’m not twisting anything. I’m simply reading out loud what you wrote, — Ksenia said. — By the way, you forgot one tiny detail. This apartment is mine. My grandfather left it to me. You’re a guest here. A guest I love very much, but still a guest.
— There you go again with your apartment! — His voice rose almost to a shout. — I’ve been hearing this for eight years! We’re fam—
— Don’t, — she interrupted gently. — That word in this context sounds like a discount coupon.
He sat down again, rubbed his knees with his palms, and tried to switch to a reasonable tone. It did not work very well. His voice kept rising like water coming to a boil.
— Ksyusha. She’s sixty-five. She’s alone. Do you want her sitting there talking to the walls?
— I want her talking to her son, — Ksenia replied. — Her own son. The same one who spent years imagining her as a convenient grandmother and has suddenly discovered that she’s a human being who’s afraid of dying.
— I don’t have time!
— And apparently I don’t have time for myself, — she said. — Listen, I have a counterproposal. You go stay with your mother. For three months. I’ll stay here, miss you sincerely, and bring groceries once a week. How does that arrangement sound?
— That’s absurd!
— Why? — She spread her hands. — She’s your mother. You’ve known her for thirty-eight years. You know what TV shows she watches and how she feels about open windows. I don’t even know which side of the bed she sleeps on.
— Because a man can’t…
— He can, — Ksenia said. — A man can do anything a human being can do. Sometimes it’s simply more convenient for him to call it “women’s work.”
Artyom jumped to his feet and stepped toward her. There was so much anger in his face that she involuntarily thought: there it is. Finally honest. No wrapping paper this time.
— You’re heartless! — he burst out. — You’re completely empty inside! You don’t care about anyone but yourself!
— Notice something, — Ksenia replied evenly. — I haven’t said I don’t care about anyone. I simply refused to move out. The difference between “I won’t live with your mother” and “let her die” is roughly the difference between “I don’t want borscht” and “burn the entire field.”
The phone rang at the worst possible moment, and Artyom grabbed it as though someone had thrown him a lifeline. He put it on speakerphone — either out of habit or deliberately, so Ksenia would hear the “right” words.
— Artyom darling, well? Did you talk to her? — Lyudmila Arkadyevna’s voice came through the speaker, trembling and broken in a way so polished it sounded rehearsed. — Did she agree?
— We’re discussing it, — he said quickly.
— What is there to discuss? — Her voice immediately grew stronger. — I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I looked at those photographs and saw some strange woman staring back at me. I need a living person beside me, not an empty apartment! Ksenia, can you hear me?
— I can hear you, Lyudmila Arkadyevna, — Ksenia answered. — Happy anniversary again. The cake turned out very well.
— What cake?! — the older woman snapped. — You’re talking to me about cake when my whole life is falling apart! You have nothing to do anyway. You sit at home with your little pieces of glass…
— I don’t work with stained glass, if that’s what you mean, — Ksenia calmly clarified. — And I don’t simply sit at home. I work from home. It’s like fishing: the person may be sitting, but the fish are still being caught.
— Don’t get clever with me! — her mother-in-law snapped. — You’re being asked to help the family!
— I’m being asked to move out of my home and provide full-time service, — Ksenia said. — Those are different requests. I’d be willing to discuss the first. The second is a no.
— Do you hear her, Artyom?! — the voice shot upward. — She’s refusing! Me! After everything!
— After what, exactly? — Ksenia asked politely. — Just so I know how large the debt is supposed to be. I have a good memory. I don’t owe anyone anything, and I don’t let people issue invoices in my name.
Artyom switched off the speaker so abruptly he nearly dropped the phone. He went into the bedroom and talked there for about fifteen minutes — quickly, quietly, in the apologetic tone he used only with his mother. Ksenia did not eavesdrop. She simply sat there assembling the facts in her head the way someone fits together pieces to understand what sort of machine is being built behind their back.
When he returned, he looked composed and almost ceremonial. Like someone returning after receiving instructions.
— Here’s what’s going to happen, — Artyom announced. — The tenants are coming on Sunday to look at the place.
— Coming where?
— Here, — he paused. — A couple. Quiet, no pets. I’ve already shown them photos.
Ksenia stood up. Slowly, without any sudden movements, and the very slowness of it made him instinctively take a step backward.
— You showed my apartment to strangers without saying a single word to me, — she said. — Artyom, this is no longer a conversation about your mother. This is a conversation about you.
— I’m handling practical matters! — he flared. — Somebody has to think about money!
— Thinking is wonderful. But you weren’t thinking. You were making decisions with someone else’s property, — she said. — There’s a difference between “let’s run the numbers” and “I sold everything, now sign here.”
— You always make everything complicated! Normal women…
— Stop, — Ksenia raised one finger. — The moment “normal women” appear in an argument, it means the actual arguments have run out and the scenery has been rolled onto the stage.
— You’re going to ruin everything! — he shouted. — Everything I’ve been putting together!
— What you’ve been putting together is a scheme in which I’m a piece of furniture equipped with a sympathy function, — she replied. — Furniture, believe it or not, sometimes has an opinion too. Especially when it owns the premises.
The doorbell rang shortly before nine. Veronika walked in without taking off her coat, looked around the room, at her brother, then at Ksenia — and it immediately became clear that she had not come to make peace.
— So, is this the family council? — she asked. — Artyom, have you told her about the vacation package yet?
The silence lasted exactly two breaths. Artyom opened one hand as though he was about to explain something, then failed to find the words.
— What vacation package? — Ksenia turned toward her husband’s sister.
— Twelve days, — Veronika said. — Yesterday he spent half an hour telling me how exhausted he is and how badly he needs to reset. Alone. He paid for it with the money he took in advance from those tenants of yours — three months’ rent.
— Veronika! — Artyom roared.
— What, “Veronika”? — She took off her coat and tossed it over the armrest. — I’m sick of this. I’m sick of listening to Mom moan into the phone every day about how her life is over while you agree with everything she says and promise to bring Ksenia over. Do you know what he told her? “Don’t worry, she’ll come. What choice does she have?”
Ksenia looked at her husband. He stood there breathing rapidly and angrily, like someone whose carefully prepared blueprint had just been torn out of his hands. 😳
— So you’ve already taken the deposit, — she said. — For an apartment that doesn’t belong to you. And you spent it on a vacation that doesn’t include me.
— I had the right! I invested in this renovation!
— You chose the tiles and argued with the contractor once, — Ksenia replied. — For heroic accomplishments like that, people give you a thank-you card, not a share of the property. And anyway, darling, I have one question for you. You wanted freedom. Nobody was stopping you from having freedom. Why did obtaining that freedom require renting out my apartment and renting me out as well?
— Because it’s more convenient this way! — he shouted. — It’s more convenient for everyone! She’ll calm down, you’ll have something useful to do, and I’ll get some rest!
— “Everyone” means you, — Ksenia said. — You’ve simply confused the words “family” and “service.”
Veronika took out her phone, found what she was looking for, and placed it screen-up on the table so everyone could see.
— Here are the messages, — she said. — Here he writes, “My wife will stay with Mom until winter, and after that we’ll see.” And here he writes, “I need to dump Mom on somebody. I can’t take it anymore.” “Dump,” Ksyusha. That’s the word he used about his own mother.
— Is that why you came here? — Artyom said through clenched teeth. — To sink me?
— I came because I refuse to be an accomplice anymore, — Veronika snapped. — I love Mom. But I’m not going to help you turn another person into a servant so you can go lie somewhere in the sun. And by the way, she doesn’t need a caregiver. What she needs is for her son to come over at least once a week and spend two hours sitting with her without staring at his phone.
— I work!
— You avoid responsibility, — Ksenia said. — That’s an occupation too, but it doesn’t pay very well.
Artyom spun toward her, and his voice broke into a high, ugly shout.
— Who the hell do you think you are?! Who are you without me?! You’ll end up alone, do you understand? Nobody needs you with that personality of yours!
— Artyom, — Ksenia did not even raise her voice. — You’re threatening me with loneliness while standing in an apartment I can ask you to leave before the evening is over. I’d say that puts you in a rather weak position for making threats.
He fell silent. Veronika snorted and sat down, crossing one leg over the other like an audience member who had finally been shown a good scene.
Ksenia walked over to the table, picked up a sheet of paper — the same one that had held the grocery list that morning — turned it over, and wrote three lines. Then she placed it in front of her husband.
— Read it.
— What’s this? — he grimaced.
— The conditions. First: tomorrow, you return the money you took in advance to those people. With an apology. There will be no tenants in my apartment.
— You don’t have the right—
— I do, — she said. — Second: you go to your mother yourself. Not for three months. You can go every weekend. And instead of bringing her sympathy on credit, you bring her your actual living presence. I’m willing to visit her, help with doctors, bring groceries, talk to her. Help — yes. Move in — no.
— And the third? — he asked dully.
— Third, — Ksenia looked him straight in the eyes. — You decide whether you need freedom from me. If you do, take it. I’ll even hold the door open for you. But if you choose freedom, you choose it without my apartment, without my energy, and without me as your service staff. Freedom does not come bundled with conveniences.
— You’re forcing me to choose? — he hissed.
— You? No, — she shook her head. — You put yourself in this position. Three times in one evening. I’m simply presenting the bill.
Artyom picked up the sheet, crushed it in his fist, then slowly opened his fingers and put it back on the table. Crumpled, but intact.
— And you’re not willing to put up with anything, — he said, almost resentfully. — You’ve never tolerated anything.
— Correct, — Ksenia agreed. — Patience is a bad currency. It always loses its value at exactly the moment you try to spend it. I respect your mother. I respect Veronika. I respected you. But respect doesn’t give anyone the right to reach into my life with both hands.
Veronika stood up, picked up her coat, and turned around at the doorway.
— Ksyusha, I’ll call her myself, — she said. — And I’ll tell her the truth. About the deposit, the vacation, and “what choice does she have.” Let her hear what kind of son she raised.
— Don’t say anything about “what kind of son she raised,” — Ksenia replied tiredly. — She’s having a hard enough time already. Just tell her I’ll come on Wednesday. Without a suitcase. We’ll sit together, talk, look through her photo albums. She likes her albums.
— You’re seriously going to go? — Artyom raised his head.
— I am, — she nodded. — Because I don’t begrudge two hours to someone who’s scared. What I do begrudge is eight years spent on someone who considers me a disposable resource.
The door closed behind Veronika. Two people remained in the room, along with the crumpled sheet of paper on the table and a very loud, very clear silence that neither of them was in any hurry to fill.
— Ksyusha, — Artyom finally said. — What happens now?
— Now you call those people, — she replied. — Then you call your mother. Yourself. And tell her you’re coming on Saturday. Alone. Without bringing me along as a gift.
— And us? — He swallowed. — What about us?
— Us, — she looked at him for a long moment, without anger. — We’re hanging by a single thread, Artyom. I didn’t tear that thread. You kept pulling it tighter. If you want to find out whether it’ll hold, go ahead. Just remember: the thread doesn’t have to.
He reached for his phone. His hand was uncertain, like that of a schoolboy about to take an exam he had assigned himself. Ksenia sat back down in the armchair, placed her hands on the armrests, and prepared to listen.
It was going to be a long evening, and it was ending very differently from the way her husband had planned that morning. 🕯️
