The stack of documents on the lawyer’s polished desk looked out of place, like a shard of rock in the middle of a lake.
I stared at my husband’s signature, and the line of his stroke seemed mocking, wrong. It looked similar, but it wasn’t his.
“As you can see, Anna Viktorovna, everything is done according to the law,” the lawyer said, adjusting his glasses. His voice was even and indifferent — he was just doing his job.
Sitting next to him was Tamara Pavlovna, my mother-in-law. She delicately dabbed the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Her grief was always performed flawlessly.
“I understand this is a blow to you, dear child,” her voice dripped with sympathy. “Oleg didn’t want to upset you. He made this decision himself, for our common good.”
For our common good. The phrase echoed in my head. A good in which, clearly, I had no place.
According to this document — a deed of gift — the apartment Oleg and I had built brick by brick now belonged to her.
“He couldn’t have signed this,” I said quietly but firmly. “We were planning to renovate the nursery.”
Tamara Pavlovna sighed heavily, turning to the lawyer as if seeking support.
“She’s not herself from grief. My boy loved her so much, but he understood she couldn’t be trusted with finances. She was always too… simple.”
I raised my eyes to her. Simple. That’s what she had called me all ten years of my marriage. It was her favorite weapon — soft, almost affectionate humiliation from which there was no defense.
The lawyer coughed.
“The signature is notarized. If you want to contest it, you’ll need a handwriting examination. That’s long and expensive.”
Of course, long. That was the point. By the time I ran around courts and experts, the apartment would be sold, and the money would vanish into the accounts of her numerous “needy” friends.
I remembered that evening. Oleg had a fever, and Tamara Pavlovna came “to help.”
She bustled in the kitchen and then asked Oleg to sign some urgent tax papers. He was weak, barely conscious. I had been surprised by her insistence but chalked it up to excessive care.
She brought him the documents in the bedroom. I stood in the doorway. He picked up the pen, but his hand trembled. “Mom, tomorrow, my head’s not working,” he croaked.
She smiled gently, took the papers back, and said: “Sleep, son, I’ll handle everything myself.”
That scene now flashed in my mind with blinding clarity. Back then, I hadn’t given it weight. A mistake.
I rose, feeling cold, crystalline anger replacing panic inside me. I walked to the table, picked up the deed, and looked again at the crooked signature.
“Let’s not put on a circus, Tamara Pavlovna,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Just withdraw this document.”
Her mask of grief cracked for an instant, her face turning sharp and predatory, before she slipped it back on.
“My dear girl, what are you saying? This is my son’s last will.”
“This is not his will. And I’ll prove it.”
She smirked subtly, only with the corners of her lips, so the lawyer didn’t notice. Her eyes shone with pure, unclouded superiority.
“You won’t be able to prove it,” she whispered, low enough for only me to hear. Her tone was certain, final.
I just looked at her — at her confident face, at the hands clutching her handkerchief. She was already celebrating victory.
But she didn’t know one thing. That evening, when she was “handling matters” in our bedroom, a small camera, disguised as a charger on the bookshelf, was recording.
A camera I had installed to keep an eye on our new dog when we were away.
Slowly, I took my phone out of my bag.
My fingers easily found the right folder in the gallery. I didn’t rush. I let her savor her triumph for a few more seconds.
“What are you planning?” Tamara Pavlovna’s voice showed a flicker of irritation. “Going to show me photos of my poor boy? Don’t try to play on my pity.”
The lawyer watched us with professional curiosity, like two exotic animals. His face was blank, but he leaned slightly forward.
“These aren’t photos,” I said, turning the screen so they both could see.
I pressed play.
Our bedroom appeared on the screen. Oleg lay turned toward the wall, wrapped in a blanket. And there was Tamara Pavlovna, sitting on the edge of the bed.
She glanced at the door, listened, then pulled that very sheet from a folder, laid it on a book, and bent over it, carefully tracing a signature.
The video had no sound, but her concentrated puffing seemed almost audible. Her hand moved clumsily, halting — she was clearly copying from a sample.
Tamara Pavlovna’s face changed before my eyes. First confusion, then recognition, then a crimson flush spread across her cheeks. The mask of the grieving mother shattered.
“What filth is this?” she hissed, eyes blazing. “You installed cameras in your own home? You spied on your husband?”
She tried to snatch the phone from me, but I held it tight.
The lawyer cleared his throat — loud, uneasy this time. He took off his glasses and wiped them, glancing between the screen and his client. His professional calm was cracking.
“Tamara Pavlovna…” he began, but she cut him off.
“This is fake! A forgery! She staged it all! That wretch never loved my son — she only wanted his money!”
Her scream filled the small office. The lace handkerchief was forgotten, her fingers digging into the armrests.
I stopped the video and calmly set the phone on the table, screen up.
“I have the original file with metadata. The date and time match the day of the deed signing. Any examination will confirm it. And this,” I nodded at her furious, distorted face, “is the best proof of authenticity.”
The lawyer stood, walked to the window, and turned his back. His shoulders were tense.
“Tamara Pavlovna, I think we need to speak privately,” he said. “Anna Viktorovna, could you wait outside?”
“No,” I replied firmly. “I’m not leaving. All conversations will be only in my presence.”
My mother-in-law jumped up.
“How dare you! You disgrace my son’s memory! You turn his home into your spy games!”
“I’m defending his home,” I cut her off. “From you. You have two options: either you sign a withdrawal from this deed right now, and we walk away. Or this video goes straight to the prosecutor’s office. Article 159 — fraud on a large scale. Plus document forgery. That’s serious.”
She gasped with outrage.
“You… you threaten me? Your own mother?”
“You’re not my mother,” my voice was cold as steel. “You’re a thief who tried to rob me and her own grandchild.”
At the mention of the grandchild, she flinched. It was a low blow, but I felt no remorse. She had chosen this battlefield herself.
The lawyer spun around, his face pale.
“Anna Viktorovna, I strongly advise resolving this peacefully. A public scandal will help no one.”
“This isn’t just a scandal,” I looked at Tamara Pavlovna, who was clutching her chest, breathing heavily. “It’s a crime. And I don’t just want my property back. I want justice.”
A heavy silence followed. The only sound was her ragged breathing. In her eyes, rage fought with panic.
“What grandchild?” she whispered. “Trying to soften me with fairy tales?”
“I’m three months along,” I said simply. “Oleg knew. We found out a week before… everything. He was so happy.”
I laid a hand on my stomach. It wasn’t for show — it was for me. A reminder of what I was fighting for.
The lawyer closed his eyes as if his head hurt. He turned to his client, and his voice had no sympathy left.
“Sign the withdrawal, Tamara Pavlovna. Now. Do you realize what this looks like? Fraud against a pregnant widow. The press will feast on it. You’ll get the maximum sentence.”
The word sentence sobered her. She deflated, collapsed like a punctured balloon. All her arrogance drained away, leaving only a frightened, aging woman.
“But… the apartment…” she stammered, clinging to her last hope. “I only wanted the best… so it would stay in the family.”
“Enough lies,” I cut her off. “You wanted to sell it and move away. I found your correspondence with a realtor in another city. You were discussing buying a house by the sea.”
It was a bluff. Pure bluff. But it hit home. She looked at me in horror, realizing she had lost on every front.
The lawyer was already printing the paperwork. He silently set it before her and handed her a pen.
Her hand shook — the same hand that had forged her son’s signature. She tried several times before scrawling a crooked, pitiful squiggle. Her own. Real.
She rose without looking at us and staggered to the door. At the threshold, she turned.
“I’ll curse you,” she whispered. “You and your—”
“Don’t bother,” I replied calmly. “Your magic doesn’t work on me anymore. Goodbye, Tamara Pavlovna.”
The door shut behind her.
I remained seated, staring at the papers that gave me back my home. My future. The lawyer quietly gathered the documents into a folder and handed them to me.
“My condolences. And… congratulations. Your husband would be proud of you.”
I nodded, speechless.
Outside, I inhaled fresh air deeply. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel heavy.
I looked at the gray sky, and it seemed a thin ray of sun was breaking through the clouds.
I didn’t feel triumph. Only immense, all-consuming relief. And a quiet, gentle sorrow.
We did it, my love, I thought, clutching the folder to my chest. I protected us. I protected our baby.
Ahead lay a new life. Hard, but mine. And I knew I would manage.
