“This is our shared debt,” my mother-in-law said about her loan. So I asked exactly whose “our” she meant.
“— This is our shared debt, my children,” Tamara Nikolaevna announced solemnly, carefully dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a perfectly dry paper napkin.
“— A family must pull together in hard times, otherwise why do we even need each other on this earth?”
“— Just a second, Tamara Nikolaevna,” I said calmly, pushing away my half-finished cup of tea.
“— Let’s get our bearings straight. Exactly whose ‘our’ is this? Mine, Oleg’s, or that curly-haired Edik’s, the one who rode off into the sunset three weeks ago in a brand-new financed SUV?”
“— Veronika, how can you be so mercenary and heartless at a moment like this?!” Yulia shrieked.
“— Mom could have a hypertensive crisis! We’re talking about saving the family apartment!”
I work with clay. I’m an artistic ceramics master. My profession has taught me one simple thing: if you don’t center a lump properly on the potter’s wheel, the piece will fly apart all over the workshop, no matter how hard you try to smooth it with wet hands.
That was exactly what was happening in my family now — the axis had shifted into complete absurdity, and my mother-in-law and sister-in-law were trying to shape a pretty vase out of a catastrophe.
The backstory to this drama was embarrassingly ordinary, though no less destructive for that. Thirty-two-year-old Yulia, a perpetual stylist’s assistant, had a weakness for beautiful living and for men who merely pretended they could provide it.
Her latest acquisition was Edik — a man with a velvety baritone, the ambitions of an oil tycoon, and a wardrobe worth more than a healthy person’s kidney.
Edik spoke beautifully about prospects, tossed around terms he’d picked up from business blogs, and convinced Yulia that if he was going to break into the big leagues, he absolutely needed a status car.
Since Yulia only had enough money for oat-milk lattes, she went to her mother. Tamara Nikolaevna, a former sewing-and-tailoring club director, had always thought her daughter was an underappreciated princess. Swayed by Edik’s sugary songs about a coming wedding and future grandchildren, my mother-in-law did something worthy of an award for outstanding financial blindness: she took out an unsecured loan against her gorgeous three-room apartment. Five million rubles turned into a gleaming black SUV. Naturally, the car was registered in Edik’s name — “so there won’t be any problems with taxes and insurance, mommy, that’s what the lawyers advised.”
A month later, Edik vanished. Dissolved into thin air together with the SUV, after blocking both Yulia’s and Tamara Nikolaevna’s numbers. And yesterday, the first payment came due — one hundred ten thousand rubles.
And now here we were, sitting in my mother-in-law’s kitchen, where I was being asked to share responsibility for someone else’s unbelievable spectacle of generosity.
“— In the end, the apartment will go to you and Oleg and to Yulia!” Tamara Nikolaevna kept pressing the emotional angle.
“— It’s your inheritance! If we don’t start paying together now, the bank will take the place. Oleg, son, tell your wife! You both earn well, and Veronika sells her pottery successfully…”
I glanced sideways at my husband. Oleg, a boiler maintenance engineer, a man with a mathematical mind and ironclad principles, slowly finished chewing his cookie.
“— Mom,” Oleg said evenly, without a trace of hysteria in his voice.
“— Let’s call things by their proper names. You mortgaged a real apartment for the sake of an imaginary son-in-law. This wasn’t an investment in the future — it was a monument to Yulia’s stupidity. My family is not going to pay for decisions made behind our backs.”
Yulia shot up from her chair.
“— You’re traitors!” she screamed, waving her hands with their perfect manicure…
The continuation is a little lower in the first comment.
“— This is our shared duty, my children,” Tamara Nikolaevna solemnly declared, carefully dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a perfectly dry paper napkin.
“Family must come together in hard times, otherwise why do we even need each other on this earth?”
“— One second, Tamara Nikolaevna,” I said calmly, pushing my half-finished cup of tea away.
“Let’s get our bearings straight. Whose exactly is this ‘our’? Mine, Oleg’s, or that curly-haired Edik’s, who three weeks ago rode off into the sunset in a brand-new SUV bought on credit?”
“— Veronika, how can you be so mercenary and heartless at a moment like this?!” Yulia shrieked.
“Mom could have a hypertensive crisis! We’re talking about saving the family apartment!”
I work with clay. I’m an artistic ceramics master. My profession has taught me one simple thing: if you don’t center the lump properly on the potter’s wheel, the piece will fly apart all over the studio, no matter how hard you try to smooth it with wet hands.
That was exactly what was happening in my family now — the axes had shifted into complete absurdity, and my mother-in-law and sister-in-law were trying to mold a pretty little vase out of a catastrophe.
The backstory of this drama was embarrassingly banal, but no less destructive for that. Thirty-two-year-old Yulia, a perpetual stylist’s assistant, had a weakness for a beautiful life and for men who merely imitated one.
Her latest acquisition was Edik — a character with a velvety baritone, the ambitions of an oil magnate, and a wardrobe worth more than a healthy person’s kidney.
Edik talked beautifully about prospects, tossed around terms he’d picked up from business пабликs, and convinced Yulia that in order to break into the big leagues, he absolutely needed a status car.
Since Yulia only had enough money for oat-milk lattes, she went to her mother. Tamara Nikolaevna, a former head of a sewing and dressmaking club, had always considered her daughter an underappreciated princess. Swayed by Edik’s sweet songs about a wedding soon to come and future grandchildren, my mother-in-law committed an act worthy of an award for outstanding financial blindness: she took out a non-purpose loan secured against her luxurious three-room apartment.
Five million rubles turned into a gleaming black jeep. Naturally, the car was registered in Edik’s name — “so there won’t be any problems with taxes and insurance, Mommy, that’s what the lawyers advised.”
A month later, Edik vanished. Dissolved into thin air along with the jeep, after blocking both Yulia’s and Tamara Nikolaevna’s numbers. And yesterday, the first payment came due — one hundred ten thousand rubles.
And now here we were, sitting in my mother-in-law’s kitchen, where I was being asked to share responsibility for someone else’s unprecedented carnival of generosity.
“— In the end, the apartment will go to you and Oleg and to Yulia!” Tamara Nikolaevna kept pressing, trying to tug at our heartstrings.
“It’s your inheritance! If we don’t start paying together now, the bank will take the home. Oleg, son, tell your wife! You both earn well, and Veronika sells her pots successfully…”
I glanced sideways at my husband. Oleg, a boiler maintenance engineer, a man with a mathematical mind and ironclad principles, slowly finished chewing his cookie.
“— Mom,” Oleg said, his voice even, without a trace of hysteria. “Let’s call things by their proper names. You mortgaged a real apartment for the sake of an imaginary son-in-law. That’s not an investment in the future — it’s a monument to Yulia’s stupidity. My family will not pay for decisions made behind our backs.”
Yulia shot up from her chair.
“— You’re traitors!” she screamed, flailing her hands with their perfect manicure.
“You have money in savings, you bought a new car last year! You could sell your foreign car, cover part of the debt, and then all of us together…”
“— Stop.” I raised my palm, cutting off the verbal waterfall.
“Yulia, my car was bought with money I earned with my own hands. I kneaded clay, fired dishes, and paid taxes. Your Edik, on the other hand, was bought with your mother’s apartment. If the family nest means that much to you, then take out a consumer loan, work double shifts, and save your mother’s property. Where exactly do I come into this?”
We left ten minutes later to the accompaniment of curses and tears. But I knew that was only the beginning. People like a sister-in-law don’t give up when they need to get into someone else’s pocket.
A methodical siege began. Over the next week and a half, my phone was ringing off the hook. Some distant aunts from the provinces called, reproaching Oleg for being heartless. Yulia lurked near my husband’s workplace, trying to shove bank payment slips into his hands. The climax came when Tamara Nikolaevna visited my workshop. She arrived with a blood pressure monitor in her purse and the face of a martyr, announcing from the doorway that debt collectors had already called her twice.
“— Veronika, you must take this loan on yourselves. Re-register it in Oleg’s name. He has an official salary, they’ll refinance him at a lower rate,” she lectured, brushing nonexistent dust off my shelves.
“Otherwise I’ll be left out on the street. That will be on your conscience.”
I looked at her with a faint half-smile. In her version of the world, she was a victim of circumstances, and my husband and I were greedy villains refusing to save a drowning person. But I already had my answer prepared. I don’t like pointless arguments. I like facts.
“— Tamara Nikolaevna, this Friday we’re expecting you and Yulia at our home. ‘We’ll settle the matter once and for all,’” I said, ushering her out of the workshop.
By Friday, I had prepared thoroughly. When my mother-in-law and sister-in-law, encouraged by the expectation of our capitulation, crossed our threshold, they found a surprise waiting for them. Sitting at the table besides Oleg and me was Matvei Borisovich — Mom’s longtime friend, a lawyer with the appearance of a retired general and the grip of a bulldog. He knew how to lay out legal consequences in such a way that people lost all desire to fantasize.
“— Have a seat, ladies,” Oleg said pleasantly, gesturing toward the chairs.
Yulia cast a wary glance at Matvei Borisovich but stayed silent. Tamara Nikolaevna, sensing a trap, nervously twisted the strap of her purse.
“— So,” Matvei Borisovich began.
“The situation is crystal clear. The apartment is collateral. The debt, with interest, already exceeds the current market value of the property. You cannot make the payments.”
“— We can, if Oleg…” my mother-in-law began, but I cut her off:
“— Oleg will not. We’ve made our decision, Tamara Nikolaevna. And it is not open for discussion.”
Yulia snorted contemptuously.
“— Fine, sit there with your money! Let the bank take the apartment — Mom will come live with you! By law, a son is obliged to support his mother!”
“— Obliged, yes,” Matvei Borisovich agreed, squinting good-naturedly. “But the law does not require a son to house his mother in his living room if she has habitable property of her own.”
I placed my hands on the table and looked my sister-in-law straight in the eyes.
“— Here’s the plan. We are not giving a single kopek to the bank for your Edik, Yulia. The apartment will be sold at auction — that is inevitable. But you won’t be left on the street. Mom has legal square meters of her own.”
Tamara Nikolaevna tensed.
“— What square meters? I only have this apartment!”
“— And exactly half of the parental house in the village of Klyuevka,” Oleg calmly reminded her. “With stove heating and a vegetable garden.”
The room fell so silent that you could hear the refrigerator compressor humming monotonously. In Klyuevka, Mom’s older sister, Aunt Zina, ruled supreme. A convinced old maid with the temperament of a border collie. She kept goats, planted potatoes by the acre, and fiercely hated her city relatives. She and Tamara Nikolaevna could get into a fight even over the shape of the clouds, and for the last seven years they had communicated exclusively through curses shouted over the fence while arguing about the boundary line.
“— With Zinka?!” my mother-in-law screeched.
“She’ll make my life hell! She won’t let me set foot on the property!”
“— She will. Half the house is officially yours,” Matvei Borisovich remarked coolly.
“I’ve already prepared notice of your move. Zinaida Nikolaevna, of course, promised to set the dogs on you.”
“— I’m not going to the village!” Yulia jumped to her feet, her face stretching into something resembling an overfried pancake.
“I work in the beauty industry! What goats?! It’s a three-hour train ride to the city! You’re using this situation to snatch everything away and send us into exile!”
“— Your inheritance, Yulechka, is currently going swish-swish with its windshield wipers somewhere on a federal highway,” I shot back without changing my tone.
“You already got your advance payment. And you helped Mom lose her comfort. We are saving not some mythical family wealth, but a roof over your mother’s head. On terms we can actually afford. And as you yourself said today, Tamara Nikolaevna: family must come together in hard times. So come together with your sister.”
Tamara Nikolaevna shifted her bewildered gaze from her son to her daughter. The illusion of a “close-knit family,” where everyone pays for everyone else’s whims, crumbled into dust. Yulia’s glamorous life shattered against the harsh reality of an outhouse in the yard, and my mother-in-law realized that instead of being a status-conscious retiree, she was turning into the housemate of her greatest enemy.
“— Son…” my mother-in-law wailed pitifully.
“— Mom, start packing the boxes. The bank will put the apartment up for auction very soon. And buy rubber boots — the roads in Klyuevka turn to mud in autumn.”
Oleg stood up, making it clear that the audience was over.
They left in silence. Yulia didn’t even look at her mother, slamming the front door on her way out. And I walked over to the window, watching as the two figures moved away across the yard in different directions. The clay had finally settled exactly in the center of the wheel. The shape was rigid, but now it was impossible to break.”
