Lena carefully moved the tiny vase with a sprig of gypsophila to the center of the table so that nothing would block her view of her mother-in-law’s face. The café was quiet, almost like a temple, and even the sounds were muffled — as if it was forbidden to speak loudly or express emotions too openly here. But Lena knew: today’s conversation would be loud. At least inside her.
Anastasia Ivanovna looked impeccable — a strict hairstyle, a pearl necklace around her neck, a light shawl on her shoulders, even though it was warm spring outside. Her appearance was perfectly thought out to the smallest detail, as if she were preparing for a theatrical debut. Perhaps that was exactly the case.
“Did he not tell you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, and something like sympathy flashed in her eyes. “My son likes to keep quiet about things that aren’t in his favor. Especially when it’s something important.”
Lena slowly shook her head. She didn’t know exactly what he had omitted, but she understood one thing: the topic of selling the country house had come up suddenly for her, as if out of nowhere. Dima, her husband, had dropped the phrase casually — as if it was already decided, an agreement that didn’t require discussion.
“He said that you yourselves want to move to the city. Closer to us,” Lena said cautiously, trying not to offend her interlocutor.
“Closer…” Anastasia Ivanovna repeated, and the corners of her lips twitched barely noticeably, as if in a semblance of a smile. “Yes, he has always been a master of wording.”
Calling “closer” the desire to settle me in a rented one-room apartment and direct the money from the house sale into yet another one of his ‘projects of the century.’ As if I am not his mother, but just a source of funding.
At that moment, the café door swung open, and Dima himself entered. His arrival was as impressive as always. He walked confidently, with a broad smile, radiating the special energy of a businessman who can afford half an hour for his family.
“So here you are, my beauties!” he kissed his mother on the cheek and tousled Lena’s shoulder — a bit patronizingly, a bit indifferently. “Already gossiping?”
He sat down at the table, the chair scraping loudly as he pushed it back, and immediately beckoned the waiter:
“We don’t need anything,” Anastasia Ivanovna stopped him softly but firmly.
“Oh, Mom, don’t be modest. I’m treating. Lena, you know, I have a deal soon. There will be money; we don’t need to save.”
Those words instantly stirred irritation in Lena. Again, he talks about money that doesn’t exist yet. He disposes of someone else’s future as if it’s already decided. As if the house, the apartment, the life of his mother — are just pawns in his business plan.
“Dima, we were just talking about the house,” Lena decided to speak up. “Your mother doesn’t seem very happy about moving.”
He waved his hand dismissively — like brushing off a pesky fly.
“Here we go again! What does she understand? It’s for her own good. She needs care and attention. To live nearby so Lena can check on her every day, help out.”
His gaze hardened as he looked at his wife. As if they had really discussed everything and agreed. And Lena was only now learning that she would have to be a caretaker for his mother.
“Dima, I work,” she answered quietly but firmly.
“So what? Work’s not a wolf. And a mother is sacred. My mother,” he added with particular emphasis.
A pause hung over the table. Then he spoke again — slowly, confidently, with the tone that brooks no objection.
“Let’s do this, Len. From now on, taking care of her is your full responsibility. You will have to provide her with a decent old age while I build our common future. Consider it your contribution to the family.”
He said it as simply as if he were asking to pass the salt. Not ordering. Not persuading. Just stating a fact. Lena felt a wave of protest rising inside her. Her future, her time, her energy — all of it he distributed as if she had no voice.
She slowly shifted her gaze to her mother-in-law. She was looking at her son with an expression that was hard to define — there was bitterness, disappointment, and some strange, almost cold determination. And at that moment Lena realized: the performance was just beginning, and the main role belonged not to her husband.
Dima threw a few bills on the table without even glancing at the check.
“Well, I’m off, business doesn’t wait. Mom, expect a call from the realtor tomorrow, please show the house. Lena, keep an eye on things.”
He winked and left without waiting for a response, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume and an awkward feeling.
They sat in silence for some time. The clinking of dishes, laughter at neighboring tables, music — all suddenly became an irritating background. Unnecessary. Excessive.
“Don’t worry, Lenochka,” Anastasia Ivanovna suddenly spoke. Her voice was surprisingly calm, almost serene. “He won’t sell anything.”
Lena looked at her in puzzlement.
“Why are you so sure?”
The mother-in-law leaned forward slightly, took a thin folder out of her elegant handbag, and placed it on the table. The gesture was practiced to perfection — like declaring war, but without a single shout.
“Because you can’t sell what no longer belongs to you.”
She opened the folder. Inside lay a document with blue stamps, familiar to anyone who has ever dealt with real estate.
“This is a gift deed. Already registered with Rosreestr. The house is no longer mine. And certainly not his.”
Lena’s breath caught. She looked from the paper to the face of the woman who had just announced her last move in the family game.
“But… to whom?”
“To a worthy person,” Anastasia Ivanovna replied evasively, closing the folder. “Dima needs to learn a lesson. He’s used to the world revolving around him. It’s time for him to learn what gravity is.”
That evening Dima was in an excellent mood. He walked around the apartment, waving his arms, making plans where to invest the money, mentally buying a new car and flying to the Maldives. His energy was contagious, but Lena could not share his enthusiasm. She silently watched as he rummaged through a drawer full of documents, talked about his ideas, spoke easily and freely about other people’s lives as if they belonged to him.
“Len, I arranged it. Tomorrow at eleven an appraiser will come. So you’ll have to go to Mom’s in the morning and help her pack some things for the first time. The keys to the rental apartment will arrive the day after tomorrow.”
His words hung in the air. Lena felt the fear that had gripped her chest all day replaced by a cold, clear rage. She knew the moment had come — the point of no return. The moment when she must either submit or say “no.” And for the first time in many years, she chose the latter.
“Dima,” she began quietly, “are you sure you still own this house?”
He froze. Turned around. The smile on his face slowly began to slip off like a mask that needed to be removed.
Then Lena took out her phone. Opened the photo of the document her mother-in-law had shown her. And, looking straight into her husband’s eyes, said:
“I think you should talk to Mom first. Or maybe the notary.”
She did not yell. Did not cry. Spoke calmly. And in that calm was more power than in all his plans and projects combined.
Because at that moment Lena felt for the first time: she was no longer just a daughter-in-law, not just a wife, not just a background in someone’s life. She was a woman who makes decisions.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Lena said calmly, almost emotionlessly. But it was precisely this evenness of voice that made Dima freeze. He was long accustomed to her compliance, to her quiet agreement with his decisions. This was something new. Something unusual.
He slowly turned, as if trying to understand whether she really said it.
“In what sense?” he asked, squinting.
“In the most direct sense. I have a job. And I’m not going to participate in this…” Lena faltered, searching for a word, “…in this theater of the absurd.”
Dima snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Are you serious? I’m trying to build a future for our family, and you oppose me? Again on my mother’s side?”
“I’m not on anyone’s side, Dima. I just won’t allow myself to be used as a background anymore. I won’t let you decide for me what I do, where I live, who I am. Did you ever ask Mom if she wants to move? Did you ever ask me if I’m ready to give up everything to become your home caregiver?”
“I don’t have to ask!” he exploded. “I’m a man. Head of the family. I decide what’s best for everyone! I won’t let you two women ruin my plans!”
His words hung in the air. They were not just rude — they reflected his worldview: man the decision-maker, women the executors. But today one of these women stopped being a submissive executor.
At that moment the phone rang. The screen showed “Mom.” Dima smirked wickedly and pressed speakerphone:
“Well, Mommy? Decided to call and have a cry? Try to pressure me through Lena?”
“Dima, darling,” came the soft, almost affectionate voice of Anastasia Ivanovna from the speaker. “Why shout like that? I’m calling to save you unnecessary trouble. Don’t send an appraiser tomorrow. It will be a waste of time.”
“We’ve been through this!” he burst out again. “Enough with the tantrums!”
“I’m not throwing tantrums, son. I’m informing,” the mother-in-law’s voice grew colder. “The house was re-registered. A month ago. If you don’t believe me — check. So your grand plans will have to be built on something else. Not on my inheritance.”
The call ended. Dima looked at the phone as if it had betrayed him. His face reddened with anger, then flushed, then blotched. He couldn’t believe it.
“She’s bluffing,” he ground through his teeth, mostly convincing himself. “The old woman wanted to scare me. She couldn’t have done that. Who could she have left the house to? She has no one!”
He grabbed his laptop, feverishly typed queries, opened Rosreestr sites, checked the information. After a few minutes, he froze. His shoulders slumped, his eyes went empty, and his confidence evaporated without a trace.
“It can’t be…” he whispered. “She… gifted it…”
He slowly looked at Lena. His eyes were full of fury, pain, and complete confusion.
“It’s you! You talked her into it! Decided to grab everything for yourself?!”
Lena looked at him without fear. The last remnants of sympathy disappeared. What she saw before her was not a person capable of love or respect. It was a selfish man convinced the world belonged to him.
“I found out two hours ago, Dima. Just like you now. Exactly when your mother laid the documents on the table.”
“To whom?!” he screamed, unable to control himself. “To whom did she leave it?!”
At that moment, Anastasia Ivanovna herself entered the room. She came in quietly, as if she knew she didn’t need a theatrical entrance — all attention was already on her.
In her hands was the familiar folder. She placed it on the coffee table and spoke calmly but with iron certainty:
“I brought you a copy, son. So you don’t waste time guessing. And now I’ll answer your question: the house went to Lena.”
Dima sat as if struck by thunder. He opened and closed his mouth, unable to utter a word. Then he finally croaked:
“To her? To his daughter-in-law? A stranger? And what about me? I’m your only son!”
“You stopped being my son the moment you decided I was just an asset to be sold profitably,” the woman answered coldly. “And Lena over the years has become closer to me than you. She’s the only one who saw me as a person. Not a source of income.”
Dmitry slowly sank onto the couch. All his ambitions, all his dreams, projects, plans — all of it crumbled to dust. He looked pitiful. Small. Lost.
“Lenochka,” he turned to his wife, his voice trembling, pleading notes appearing. “Darling… we’re family. Sell the house. We’ll buy a smaller apartment, and the rest of the money… we can invest in something good. Together…”
“No, Dima,” Lena interrupted firmly. She went over to her mother-in-law and gently took her hand. “There is no ‘we’ anymore. And you no longer have a family. You destroyed it yourself.”
She looked at him one last time. Not with hatred, not even with pain — with slight contempt. Not the kind that hurts, but the kind that ignores. Complete insignificance.
“As for your mother… You were right about one thing. Someone really has to take care of her. But that someone will not be me. That will be you. Now it’s your duty. And Anastasia Ivanovna and I will live for now in her… rather, now my house. There’s fresh air, a garden, and most importantly — you’re not there.”
She turned and, supporting her mother-in-law by the arm, headed for the exit.
Anastasia Ivanovna looked back at the door. Her voice was quiet, but every word hit like a blow.
“Good luck with your ‘deal of the century,’ son. I hope your future will be as bright as you imagined it.”
The door slammed shut.
He was left alone. In an empty apartment. Without money. Without family. Without a home. Without a future.
The silence around was thick and oppressive. And for the first time in his life, he realized he had lost absolutely everything. Not because he was deceived or betrayed.
Because he himself chose the path where he lost his humanity.
