— Olya, don’t make me laugh. The apartment is registered to me, — Valentina Ivanovna’s voice turned icy. — You know that perfectly well. So only I will decide when to sell it.
— Mom, but we have a small son. Maxim isn’t even three yet, he doesn’t go to kindergarten. I’m not working. We’re saving for our own place, but for now… Where are we supposed to live?
Olga never waited for calls from her mother. Over the years she had grown used to it: if Valentina Ivanovna remembered her at all, it meant she needed something.
That evening the phone rang at half past seven, just as Olga was sitting down to dinner with her husband and little son.
— Olya, hi! — her mother’s voice was brisk and deliberately friendly. — Viktor and I decided to stop by. We’ll be there in about thirty minutes.
— That’s so unexpected, and it’s already late… — Olga began, but her mother cut her off:
— I warned you we could come at any time. So set the table! After all, the apartment you live in was bought with our money, so have some decency.
Olga hung up and sat for a while staring at a single point. Her husband Andrey sighed knowingly:
— Your mother?
— Yes, — his wife answered shortly. — Says she’ll be here in half an hour. And she didn’t forget to remind me whose apartment this is… — she added with a displeased smirk.
Memories flashed through Olga’s mind. When her father died, she was only ten. She missed him, she grieved, and she didn’t understand how to go on living. And her mother… only a couple of months later she was dazzling in a new dress, on Viktor’s arm. He never showed any interest in the life of his new flame’s daughter—let alone her homework, friends, or dreams. He could, however, bring an expensive cake and promptly eat half of it without even asking whether Olya liked that kind.
From that moment, it seemed, Valentina Ivanovna crossed her daughter out of her life. Luxury resorts, restaurants, fashionable boutiques—that became her new reality. And Olya learned to make soup out of whatever there was, sew on buttons, and brew tea in her grandmother’s old teapot.
Grandmother Katya was the only one who kept the girl from feeling utterly abandoned. She was the one who taught her granddaughter how to hold on when there was no one around.
When Olga turned eighteen, her mother handed her the keys to a small apartment in a typical old high-rise. The building wasn’t in the best neighborhood, but the flat, though small, had two rooms.
— I wrung the apartment out of Viktor for you. After all, he doesn’t owe you anything, — she said. — So from now on, I’d ask you not to bother us. And if you ever get it into your head to have children, that’ll be your problem alone.
Since then they had met rarely. Valentina Ivanovna remembered her daughter only when she needed to brag to acquaintances about “what a grown, independent daughter” she had. Of course, she never went into the details of how that “independence” had been achieved. She didn’t care in the least.
And now, for the first time in a year, her mother decided to call. Olya grew very wary. Her heart told her something was wrong, and she began to worry.
— Then let’s set two more places? — Andrey touched his wife’s hand. — What do you think? Or does your mother not eat ordinary food?
Olga gave a bitter smile:
— Mom believes guests should be fed. But she constantly criticizes us for living too modestly…
— Well then… — Andrey said. — We’ll do what we can.
And though Andrey earned good money and they were even saving for their own apartment, to Valentina Ivanovna that was a drop in the ocean of her indifference. She had already formed her opinion of her son-in-law and wasn’t about to change it.
As soon as Olga learned her mother was coming, she rushed to the bedroom—to fix her hair, get a clean shirt for Andrey, and change their son into his new little lion-print outfit. Over the years she had developed a reflex: if her mother was coming, everyone had to look as if they lived no worse than she did.
Exactly half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
Valentina Ivanovna and Viktor Anatolyevich looked as if they had stepped off a glossy magazine cover. He—in a perfectly tailored suit and an expensive watch; she—in a pastel silk dress, with impeccable hair and large gold earrings.
The woman walked into the kitchen, letting her gaze slide over the table where Olga was hurriedly laying out plates. She snorted, brushed invisible dust from a stool, and sat down with her hands folded on her knees. Viktor remained standing nearby, one hand propping his hip, staring out the window.
— Olya, don’t trouble yourself, — her mother suddenly halted her fussing. — We didn’t come to eat, just to talk.
A nasty chill ran through Olga. Those words from Valentina Ivanovna never boded well.
— The thing is, Viktor is having… small difficulties with his business right now, — her mother threw her husband a quick glance. — But we’re prudent people, so we’ve decided to sell some property to stabilize everything.
— Serious problems? — Olya asked cautiously.
— Yes, — her mother nodded. — We’ve decided to sell two of our six cars. And… your apartment.
— What?! — Olya’s breath caught. — But… this apartment isn’t that expensive. Viktor’s cars are worth much more.
— Olya, don’t make me laugh. The apartment is in my name, — Valentina Ivanovna’s voice turned icy. — You know that perfectly well. So only I will decide when to sell it.
— Mom, but we have a small son. Maxim isn’t even three; he doesn’t go to kindergarten. I’m not working. We’re saving for our own place, but for now… Where are we supposed to live?
— That’s your problem, — her mother interrupted, rising to her feet. — You have a husband; let him figure it out. In two weeks the apartment must be empty.
Viktor didn’t even deign to look at Olya. They headed to the door as if they’d just come to pick up a forgotten item, not to wreck the life of Olga and her family.
She was left standing in the middle of the kitchen, feeling the ground slipping from under her feet. In the next room Maxim played quietly, unaware that soon someone else would be playing in his room.
Andrey walked into the kitchen and, seeing his wife slump into a chair with an empty stare, came over, put his arm around her shoulders, and said softly:
— So, we’re moving out, then?
Olga lifted her eyes to him, tears already glistening there, but Andrey was remarkably calm.
— You… aren’t angry? — she asked in a small voice.
— At whom? At you? — he smiled slightly. — You haven’t done anything wrong. As for your mother… I’ve long understood what kind of woman she is.
He sat down beside her, took her hand, and gently went on:
— I’ll call my mom first thing tomorrow. Her place is empty right now. Larisa got married, so there are two rooms free. Mom lives alone, and she’ll be glad if we move in with her.
Olga frowned:
— She won’t mind?
— Are you kidding? — Andrey chuckled. — That’s exactly what she dreams about. Because of her bad back she doesn’t socialize much and hardly leaves the house. We’ll keep her company, and she absolutely adores Maxim!
He was already dialing, and the conversation with Svetlana Anatolyevna took only a couple of minutes. On hearing the news, the woman was genuinely happy:
— Of course, come! It’s not up for discussion. You’ll live with me until you get back on your feet. And I won’t feel so shut in within four walls.
When Andrey hung up, he already knew everything was settled.
— That’s that, — he told his wife. — We’re moving in with Mom. We’ll stay until Maxim starts kindergarten and you go back to work. And then… we’ll save up and buy our own apartment, one no one will dare kick us out of.
Olga nodded.
Valentina Ivanovna didn’t call again. She just sent a message demanding the keys and specifying the date by which the apartment had to be vacated. Not a single question—where her daughter and grandson would live—not a hint of concern.
Olga was no longer surprised by such behavior. She simply silently thanked fate for Andrey and for his family, which had become her true support.
Olga decided not to drag it out to the last. Within a week, all their things were neatly packed into boxes, the furniture disassembled, and the clothes folded into bags. Andrey helped on weekends, and on weekdays the neighbor watched Maxim so his wife could focus on the packing.
On moving day, Olga called Valentina Ivanovna:
— We’ve moved out. Come pick up the keys.
Forty minutes later a gleaming SUV slowly pulled into the yard. Her mother didn’t even get out—she lowered the window and waved. Olga walked up in silence and handed over the key fob. Their eyes met for a couple of seconds—in her mother’s there wasn’t a drop of regret, only the usual cold indifference.
— Well, all the best, — Valentina Ivanovna tossed out and stepped on the gas.
Olga watched the car disappear around the corner, not knowing that this would be their last meeting for the next five years. But deep down she already understood: the farther from her mother, the easier life would be.
Life at Svetlana Anatolyevna’s apartment settled into its rhythm. Her mother-in-law welcomed them warmly, and Maxim immediately took to his grandmother. Despite her bad back, the woman gradually began going outside more often with her grandson. Olga helped her with gentle exercises, showing routines to strengthen her muscles. Over time, Svetlana Anatolyevna not only sat on the bench in the courtyard but also took independent walks in the park.
When Maxim grew and started kindergarten, Olga went back to work. They chose a kindergarten near her mother-in-law’s home so it would be convenient for her to pick the boy up if Olga was delayed. Everyone got along, and for the first time in a long while Olya felt she was in a real family.
Some time later Andrey came home from work with a mysterious smile:
— I’ve found a good option. Let’s go see it tomorrow.
It turned out to be a two-room apartment in the neighboring building—spacious, with rooms on two sides, and a big kitchen. Inside, though, was total chaos: bare walls, old pipes, not a hint of renovation.
— But the layout is great, — Andrey said, already mentally placing their bedroom and Maxim’s room. — We’ll take out a mortgage and renovate bit by bit while we live with Mom.
Olga and Andrey quickly settled into a new rhythm. In the mornings they went to work and Maxim to kindergarten. In the evenings, Svetlana Anatolyevna happily looked after her grandson, took him out to the yard, organized little picnics together, and even started socializing more with the neighbors.
In the evenings, when they returned from work, Olga and Andrey threw themselves into the renovation—spackling walls, replacing wiring, ordering windows. During that time, Maxim either played at his grandmother’s or watched with interest as his dad turned screws and laid out tools.
Sometimes Larisa and her husband visited. At first she was reserved about her brother and his family moving in with their mother and even made a couple of barbed remarks. But when she learned that Olga had lost her apartment because of her mother’s decision, Larisa softened a bit.
And when a few months later Larisa announced she was pregnant, her attitude changed completely. She began to call Olga often, asking advice on everything—from choosing a stroller to diet during pregnancy. Olga, being a pediatrician, gladly helped and shared her experience.
After a year and a half of renovation, dust, and trips to building-supply stores, the long-awaited moving day arrived. Olga, Andrey, and Maxim finally moved into their own apartment. There was still plenty of work ahead, but it was already livable.
Even so, they still gathered at Svetlana Anatolyevna’s in the evenings. Over dinner they discussed the news; Maxim showed his grandmother his drawings; and she, laughing, told stories from her youth.
Svetlana Anatolyevna became more than just kin to them. She was their guardian angel who had been there at the very moment when Olga’s own mother turned away.
Five years later, when Maxim turned seven, Olga and Andrey’s life was calm and settled. They were getting their son ready for school, Olga was expecting their second child, and their cozy apartment was filled with the smell of fresh baking and laughter.
It was precisely then that Valentina Ivanovna reappeared on the horizon. The call was unexpected; her voice—uncertain and almost plaintive.
It turned out Viktor had taken up with a young twenty-year-old mistress. Apparently he wanted a bit of excitement. Officially, Valentina Ivanovna and Viktor Anatolyevich had never been married. In that difficult period, Viktor proposed selling exactly those assets that were in Valentina’s name. Namely two cars and the apartment. He threw her out without ceremony, leaving her without a roof over her head and without any money.
— Olya, — her mother’s voice trembled, — I have nowhere to go. May I stay with you? Just for a little while…
Her mother’s words unexpectedly called to mind a children’s cartoon about The Cat’s House. Once upon a time Aunt Cat had proudly pushed her little niece and nephew out the door, and now she herself had nothing and came to beg their help. Only Olya wasn’t a kitten—she was a grown woman who remembered all too well how her mother had coldly erased her from her life.
— Mom, — she answered calmly, — I’m sorry, but no. We don’t have the space. I’m pregnant; the second baby is on the way. You’ll manage on your own, just like before.
Silence hung between them. In the receiver there was only a heavy sigh, and then a short:
— I see.
Olga set down the phone and drew a deep breath. The decision hadn’t come easily, but she knew it was the right one. Valentina Ivanovna had never done anything to earn her goodwill, much less her help.
It was time to settle accounts.
