The phone suddenly trembled in the silence — like a frightened creature coming to life amid the calm. Zinaida Alekseevna flinched in sync with it, as if an invisible connection linked her to that sound. Straining, she reached toward the edge of the table, grabbed the receiver, and pressed it to her ear, as if touching something alive.
Her son-in-law’s voice burst out unexpectedly, sharp and loud:
“Well, Mom, how are you there? Ready to sign the agreement?” — it seemed he pictured her bent over papers as if facing her own sentence. “Don’t worry, we’ll arrange everything properly.”
Zinaida Alekseevna slowly glanced around the rooms. This two-room apartment had been her home for fifteen years, a witness to her loneliness after her husband’s death. Now the walls suddenly felt distant, the space filled with echoes of the years lived. Her daughter and son-in-law had long urged her to move in with them — “into the warmth of the family hearth.”
“Yes, yes, Igor,” she said, gripping the phone so tightly her fingers turned white. “I just… need to read it again. One must be sure…”
“Oh, come on!” he laughed, but the laugh sounded fake, like the crackle of an old record. “What could you possibly understand in these legal scribbles? I checked everything, accounted for everything. This will be our shared home, family comfort. You understand?”
She nodded absentmindedly, forgetting he couldn’t see her.
“Mom, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Igor… I understand. But this is all I have… All my savings…”
“Well, we’re not strangers!” His voice softened, sticky-sweet. “We’re doing this for the family! For Olya, for you. We’ll live together, as one family. You’ll have your own room, your own bathroom… What more could you want? Better than this Khrushchyovka, right?”
She nodded again, silently agreeing, and whispered:
“All right.”
“Great!” Igor cheered. “Then tomorrow at two we meet. Olya will come get you.”
After he hung up, only silence and the contract papers remained, where her small apartment turned into numbers, and those numbers into a share of their common home.
“We’ll sell your apartment, add our money — and build a big family house. We’ll all live together,” her son-in-law told her. And Zinaida Alekseevna, trustingly bowing her head, believed every word.
Days in the new house flowed easily, like pearls strung on a silk thread. Zinaida Alekseevna settled on the second floor — in a bright, cozy room with windows overlooking the garden. Every morning she, like a guardian of flowers, went out to water the violets that now bloomed on the wide windowsill. Sometimes, overcome by memories, she baked homemade pastries, filling the house with the scent of warmth and care.
Olya often stopped by before work, bringing news and smiles. Igor was always polite, though conversations with him were short and formal. Everything was exactly as she once dreamed: calm, harmonious, cozy.
But one Thursday morning, that peace seemed shattered by a clatter. Zinaida Alekseevna woke to a multitude of noises downstairs — muffled voices, doors slamming, footsteps, suitcase thuds. She quickly threw on her robe, hastily combed her hair, and went downstairs.
In the living room stood a tall woman dressed in a strict, expensive suit. Her hairstyle, adorned with large earrings, radiated cold luxury. With the air of a mistress returned to her domain, she surveyed the room.
“Mom, you’re up already?” Olya greeted her, confused and slightly guilty. “This is Svetlana Konstantinovna, Igor’s mother.”
The woman turned, and her sharp, piercing gaze scanned Zinaida Alekseevna as if appraising an object.
“Ah, finally! I wondered who the third resident here was. Igor told me a lot about you.”
Zinaida Alekseevna froze in the doorway. Bags, boxes, and belongings were being carried up the stairs. Her heart tightened with a premonition of something unpleasant.
“Mom’s moving in with us,” Olya whispered, lowering her eyes.
Igor appeared beside them like a shadow and addressed his mother:
“Mom, have you unpacked your things yet?”
Then he glanced at Zinaida Alekseevna — indifferent, cold, almost disdainful.
“You’re already up? Just wanted to say — Mom will be living with us too. We’re renting out her apartment — extra income won’t hurt.”
Svetlana was already bossing the movers:
“Upstairs! Into the right bedroom. Be careful with the wardrobe — it’s antique!”
“But…” Zinaida Alekseevna began, her voice trembling like a string in the wind. “That’s my room…”
“You’ll move to the storage room next door,” Igor said, barely looking back. “Mom needs space. Your mom,” he nodded toward Olya, “has stayed enough. Now it’s my turn.”
He said it with such impassiveness, as if discussing the weather. Then he disappeared, leaving Zinaida Alekseevna alone in the house that was no longer her home.
“Olenka… what’s happening?” she whispered, feeling everything inside tighten.
Her daughter fidgeted with the hem of her blouse like a frightened animal.
“I only found out yesterday… He said he planned this a long time ago…”
Meanwhile, Svetlana Konstantinovna was busy in the kitchen, opening cupboards with businesslike impatience, as if preparing to start a new life.
At lunch, Zinaida Alekseevna couldn’t eat. Her fingers nervously crumpled a napkin as if it held some clue.
“Why do you act like a guest?” Svetlana said, piling food on her plate. “Eat! It’s not bad, but I’d add more pepper.”
Olya was silent, not raising her eyes. Igor ate without paying attention to his mother.
“But we had an agreement…” Zinaida Alekseevna finally said. “That I would move and have my own room.”
Igor drank water, wiped his lips with a napkin as if preparing for an important talk.
“Zinaida Alekseevna, let’s be frank. Your share in this house is at most twenty percent. The rest is our money with Olya. We decide who lives where.”
“Igor!” Olya tried to stop him.
“What, ‘Igor’?” he shrugged. “Why lie? No one’s throwing anyone out. My mother needs a good room. With a view of the garden. So you don’t mind, Olya?”
Olya cast a glance between her mother and husband, her fingers gripping the tablecloth.
“But Mom sold her apartment…”
“Exactly!” Svetlana interjected. “Sold it and settled in nicely! Many pensioners don’t even have a little corner, and here — a whole house! Live and be happy.”
Zinaida Alekseevna slowly stood. Her legs felt like stone, refusing to move.
“Sorry,” she whispered and could say no more.
The room she was to move to resembled a closet. Small, with a tiny window facing the wall of the neighboring house. Zinaida Alekseevna sat on the hard bed, staring at her hands, covered with a network of wrinkles.
“Could I have been so mistaken? How could I have been so trusting?..”
There was a cautious knock on the door. Olya entered — pale, with red spots on her neck.
“Mom… I’m sorry, I didn’t know… He used to be different…”
“It’s okay,” Zinaida Alekseevna tried to smile. “This is your home.”
“Our home, Mom. Our shared home,” Olya said, as if repeating a vow.
But soon the days crushed Zinaida Alekseevna under a heavy burden. Svetlana Konstantinovna ruled the house like a queen who had conquered new territory. Everything old was ruthlessly reviewed: the favorite cup from which Zinaida Alekseevna drank morning tea, the touching little vase with a spiderweb of cracks — all disappeared, replaced by soulless modernity. To timid objections, the woman responded with a saccharine smile full of cold disdain:
“Why cling to these trinkets? At your age, it’s time to think about eternity, not broken dishes!”
One Friday evening Igor entered her room without knocking.
“You know… I was thinking,” he began with deliberate casualness, “maybe you should look into a nice nursing home? They have decent conditions now, food, care. Even more light than here.”
Zinaida Alekseevna slowly raised her eyes. There was pain in them that words couldn’t express. Only after a moment she whispered like an echo:
“A nursing home?”
“Oh, come on!” Igor grimaced. “That’s normal nowadays. Besides, it’s getting crowded here. It’s hard for Mom when there are too many people in the house.”
“Too many?” she repeated, her voice turning to stone. “There are only four of us.”
“Exactly,” Igor said, casting one last glance before turning and leaving. “Think about it. I expect an answer by the end of the week.”
Olya found her mother in the garden, where violets were cautiously blooming. Zinaida Alekseevna sat on a bench, staring at one spot as if trying to find meaning in what was happening.
“Mom…” Olya sat down beside her, gently touching her hand. “I heard everything.”
Unable to hold back, she burst into tears, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder:
“I talked to him… He planned everything long ago. Even before you sold the apartment. He wanted to use your money to buy the house, then… just send you away somewhere far.”
Zinaida Alekseevna silently stroked her daughter’s head. Inside, deep down, a wave of pain rose — sharp, bitter, almost liberating.
“Well, that’s it,” she whispered as if making a decision. “Now it’s clear.”
Morning came with crystalline clarity. Zinaida Alekseevna woke with the first rays of light, lay for a long time staring at the ceiling as if rereading every page of her life in her mind. Then, with quiet resolve, she got up, dressed, and as if before an important outing, ran a comb through her hair. The beads — a shimmering trace of a jubilee — became the final chord.
In the kitchen, like a lost bird, sat Olya. Her eyes were red, her face frozen.
“Mom, why are you up so early?” she asked, looking at her mother in surprise.
“I talked with Igor,” Olya nodded toward the second floor. “Late at night. He didn’t even try to hide it. Said he ‘thought strategically.’ His mother had long agreed to rent out her apartment, and the money would go to them. Your room was always meant for her.”
“And me…” Olya continued, her voice trembling, “he immediately saw me in the storage room or even in a nursing home.”
Zinaida Alekseevna nodded. The pain was no longer acute — it had become a part of her, like a shadow that would now always follow.
“And you?” she asked quietly. “Did you know?”
“No, Mom, I swear!” Olya squeezed her hand tightly. “I thought we’d be one family…”
Igor appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. Seeing them, he hesitated for a second, then put on a mask of bewilderment.
“Oh, early birds,” he tried to smile. “What, whispering secrets?”
Olya stood. For the first time, Zinaida Alekseevna saw her like this — standing tall, like a tree, with her head proudly raised.
“I told Mom everything.”
The mask slid off Igor’s face.
“What are you talking about?”
“About your plan. That you used her money for a house meant only for you two.”
Igor slowly lowered the tablet, ran his hand over his forehead.
“That’s called care. The money would have lain dead weight anyway. She’s old, why does she need an apartment?”
“And now a nursing home?” Olya stepped toward him. “Is this what love looks like?”
“I thought of the good!” he flared. “My mother deserves peace. And yours — just lived at our expense.”
“So that’s how it is?” Olya’s voice turned cold as steel. “I’m filing for divorce. Today.”
“Olya, what…” Igor felt the ground slipping away beneath him.
“Don’t interrupt. Divorce. House sale. We split the money. Mom gets hers.”
“Ridiculous,” he hissed. “After everything I’ve done for you…”
“What have you done?” Olya laughed, but the laughter was joyless. “Deceived. Used. Insulted my mother.”
“It’s for the common good!” he shouted. “She’s old, she won’t be here much longer…”
At that moment, Zinaida Alekseevna suddenly laughed — loud, almost hysterical. Both turned around.
“You’re right, Igor,” she said, rising. “I’m old. But even my withered eyes see the truth. I realized you can’t throw the pearls of your soul under the feet of people like you. There are values more important than a roof over your head. For example — dignity. You and your mommy never learned this simple rule.”
Six months passed like an autumn wind, clearing the soul of old dust.
“Mom, imagine!” Olya ran into the room, towel drying her hair. “I got a promotion!”
“Well, well!” Zinaida Alekseevna put down her book and hugged her daughter. “Will you manage?”
“Of course!” Olya shook her head as if shaking off memories. “You know, everything’s somehow clear now. Like a veil has fallen. Only now I really woke up.”
Zinaida Alekseevna nodded. She understood that feeling well. She returned to the museum, even if not full-time, but she again tasted life.
Olya never regretted the divorce for a minute. Igor floundered — threatening, humiliating, begging. But the bridge was burned. The house, a witness to past love, was sold. The money was divided. Svetlana Konstantinovna threw such a tantrum that the neighbors called the police. But the storm passed, and only desert remained. The chapter was closed.
Quietly, almost in a whisper, Zinaida Alekseevna said:
“Thank you. For choosing me.”
Olya smiled and squeezed her hand tightly:
“How else, Mom? You are my closest person. And family must be protected. Always.
