“Why did you decide that your younger son can move into my apartment?”
“Come on, we’re family…”
“Well then, of course, he can. Rent is seventy thousand a month.”
Lyudmila and Andrey had been married for about twenty years. They had an older son, Denis, who had just graduated from school and entered university, and a younger daughter, Milana, who had just started eighth grade. The family lived harmoniously: there were hardships, there were misunderstandings, but they tried to solve all problems together, without unnecessary noise or scandals.
Three years ago, over dinner one evening, Andrey’s parents, Aleksandr Nikitich and Svetlana Yegorovna, announced that they had decided to leave their three-room apartment in the city center—where they currently lived—to their younger son, Nikita, after their death.
Supposedly, he needed the apartment more: he was a creative person with an unstable income, hadn’t started a family yet, while Andrey already “had everything.” He had moved out from his parents into a dorm room at twenty, then met Lyuda, and soon afterward they married.
Aleksandr Nikitich’s words sounded casual, without any malice, but something inside Andrey broke. It wasn’t about the square meters—his family had a place to live. Over twenty years of marriage, he and Lyudmila had arranged their own three-room apartment, bought with a mortgage, and had almost paid it off.
The pain was in something else: the unequal treatment of the sons. The fact that his parents seemed to push Andrey into the background—he was the eldest, so he was supposed to manage on his own and didn’t need help.
Since then, Andrey had never directly brought up the topic, but Lyudmila saw how he withdrew whenever the conversation turned to family. He continued buying gifts for his parents on holidays, visited them on weekends, but his smile in those moments was strained, and his gaze distant.
One day this year, an incident happened that put everything into perspective—for Andrey and for his parents.
Lyudmila’s grandmother, Elena Arkadyevna, passed away quietly in her sleep. She was nearly ninety and had lived her last years peacefully, without serious illness, surrounded by care. Lyudmila and Milana took care of her almost daily: cooking, helping with cleaning, taking her for walks in the yard. Milana even massaged her hands and read books aloud that her grandmother loved but could no longer read herself because of poor eyesight.
The funeral was modest and family-like—just as Elena Arkadyevna had wanted, no pomp. The one-room apartment where the elderly woman had lived for almost forty years now passed to Lyudmila.
She and Andrey sat at the kitchen table and immediately discussed everything. They decided not to sell it—for now, it would be a “backup airfield” for the kids. They would rent it out and use the income to pay for Denis’s education and save up. It made sense: time flies, and soon their son would want to live separately—and there would already be a place ready for him.
Everything remained peaceful until the day Svetlana Yegorovna found out about the inheritance. That evening, before Andrey had come home from work, his mother-in-law appeared at their doorstep. In her hands—a cake in a snow-white box, on her face—an unusually sweet smile.
“Lyudochka, dear,” she cooed as she crossed the threshold, “how are you holding up after such a loss?”
Her tone was sympathetic, but her eyes shone more with curiosity than pity. Lyuda, barely removing her apron, sensed this was not just a courtesy visit. She politely smiled and offered tea. She perfectly understood Svetlana Yegorovna hadn’t come for nothing, and decided to play along.
A few polite remarks about health, the weather, Milana—and then Svetlana Yegorovna carefully, as if casually, steered the conversation to Elena Arkadyevna.
“God rest her soul… She was a good woman. And her little apartment, I remember, was cozy. By the way, um… who did she leave it to?” she asked with feigned innocence, peering into Lyudmila’s eyes.
“To me,” Lyuda replied calmly and directly, sipping her tea.
Something flickered in Svetlana Yegorovna’s eyes, and she barely restrained a smile, as if she’d heard exactly what she wanted.
“Well, that’s just wonderful,” she drawled with an intonation that sounded as if she were happy not for Lyudmila, but for her own daughter. “Just perfect! You see, Nikitka… well, he’s in a difficult situation right now…”
Then came the familiar record Lyuda had heard before: Nikita, poor thing, broke, no job, all his savings “invested in a project” that for now brought no income, and of course he was living off his parents.
And according to Nikita, his parents’ apartment was his too, so everything was fine. Technically, that was true, since Aleksandr Nikitich had already written the will.
“So I thought,” Svetlana Yegorovna said with a sly smile, “maybe you could, you know, as family, let Nikita stay in your grandmother’s apartment for a while?”
Lyudmila almost choked on her cake at such audacity. She pretended to clear her throat and coldly said:
“Why did you decide that your younger son can move into my apartment?”
“Come on, we’re family…”
“Well then, of course, he can. Rent is seventy thousand a month.”
Svetlana Yegorovna choked on her tea and instantly turned red.
“Seventy?! Who would pay that for an old one-bedroom? He’s family! I thought he could stay free for a couple of months, until he gets back on his feet.”
Lyudmila raised an eyebrow slightly:
“He can stay free at his parents’ house. This apartment is for our children. And how old is Nikita again, that he’s still trying to get on his feet? If I recall, he just turned thirty-four.”
A silence fell, broken only by the sound of the front door opening. In the hallway mirror Lyudmila saw Andrey’s reflection, bending wearily to take off his shoes.
He entered the kitchen, and Lyuda, without changing her tone, said:
“Andryusha, look, your mom decided to stop by… and not just empty-handed, she brought cake.”
Svetlana Yegorovna immediately seized the moment, as if she had been waiting for it:
“Andryushenka, son, you know what kind of wife you have…” she paused dramatically, “she doesn’t want to let Nikitka stay in Elena Arkadyevna’s apartment. We’re family! How could she?”
Andrey, unhurried, poured himself tea, sat down opposite his mother, and looked her straight in the eye.
“Mom,” he said firmly, “I fully support my wife.”
Svetlana Yegorovna blinked, as if not immediately understanding.
“Support her?..” her voice trembled. “But he’s your brother!”
“Yes. And Lyuda is my wife. She has the right to do whatever she wants with her property. Fortunately, her relatives love her. Unlike mine.”
“How could you say that?” Svetlana protested. “We’d give you our last shirt, and you think so badly of us?”
“I don’t think—I know. And stop playing innocent. Enough coddling Nikita. He needs to grow up. He spends his salary in the first week, then borrows and never pays back. Nikita will squander your apartment too. You won’t even know where it went.”
“That’s jealousy talking,” muttered his mother.
“Jealousy?” Andrey laughed.
“Of course. Nikita has a gorgeous car, a good job, and his girlfriends were always beauties.”
Lyuda’s face fell slightly. Andrey noticed and said:
“What’s the use of girlfriends? After thirty, you need a woman who’ll go through fire and water with you. I have one, and she’s a beauty too! And what about Nikita? Who can vouch for him? No one? Exactly.”
“Stop it already!” Svetlana finally screamed.
“You stop,” Andrey replied loudly. “This is Lyuda’s apartment, and she’ll decide what to do with it. Topic closed.”
Lyudmila smiled softly at her husband; gratitude flashed in her eyes.
Svetlana Yegorovna, breathing heavily with indignation, jerked up from the table. The chair creaked slightly on the floor.
“Well fine then!” she hissed, snatching the half-eaten cake off the table. “Since your kids now have an apartment, they don’t need cake either. Let their mother buy it for them!”
Lyudmila, her tone unchanged, calmly said:
“You’re far too petty, Svetlana Yegorovna. Don’t bother coming near your grandchildren again.”
The mother-in-law snorted, throwing over her shoulder with a contemptuous grin:
“As if I ever needed them…”
She slammed the door loudly, and silence hung in the hallway. Andrey lowered his eyes and sighed heavily. Lyudmila knew—in that moment, a fat period had been put in her husband’s relationship with his parents.
But as it turned out, the period was only a comma.
Two days later, when Andrey came home from work, Nikita called:
“Andryukh, help me out… I’m in trouble. Need a lot of money. Might even have to sell our parents’ apartment.”
Andrey was about to ask what exactly had happened and how he could help, but Nikita, as if on purpose, added:
“But to avoid that, to save our parents’ place, you need to sell Lyuda’s apartment. I mean, what’s the big deal? It’s empty anyway.”
Those words hit like a cold shower. Andrey felt blood pounding in his temples and simply pressed “decline.”
The phone rang again. And again. Nikita kept calling, relentlessly. But Andrey stared at the screen, unable to find a single decent word to answer such nerve. He only clenched his teeth harder, feeling the usual fatigue from work and family replaced with cold, pure anger.
Seeing her husband’s changed mood, Lyudmila asked what happened.
“Nikita wants you to sell the apartment.”
“Anything else he wants?” Lyuda replied in shock. “I was just about to tell you I found tenants.”
“Nothing else. He’s in debt…”
“Well, let him sell his fancy car,” suggested his wife.
“It’s on credit.”
“Then… no one can help him anymore.”
“Someone will. Mom will surely bail him out again,” Andrey said sadly.
“Let her. I get that they’re your parents, but saving your brother isn’t your duty.”
A few months later, everything fell into place.
Andrey heard from a mutual acquaintance that his parents had canceled the will and already sold their downtown apartment. The money they got was just enough to pay off part of Nikita’s debts and buy themselves a tiny apartment on the outskirts.
Now they lived in a cramped Khrushchevka, far from the old bustle and comforts. Nikita was still in debt, but his exhausted mother, tired of his endless requests and failures, for the first time in her life insisted he get a real job. The creative projects were over—now he woke up to an alarm and went to an office, grumbling at first.
And Andrey and Lyudmila’s life flowed smoothly and calmly. They still lived in their own apartment, and Grandma’s flat steadily brought rental income. No one could dictate how to manage their property, and they owed no one anything.
For their children, they wanted only the best—both for Denis and for Milana, without dividing them into “the favorite” and “the independent.” In their family, it was customary to help both, not only the one who complains the loudest.
And perhaps that was the main difference between their family and the one Andrey was born into.
