She walked the dog along the park alley, feeling the tension in her shoulders turn into a dull, aching pain.
Duke was lunging forward, nearly yanking the leash from her weakened hands. Every pull echoed inside her with the words of her son and daughter: “selfishness,” “so much time,” “hard to help?”
Coming toward her with a light, almost dancing gait was Zinaida, her former colleague. A bright scarf, a stylish haircut, laughing eyes.
“Hi, Ninochka! I didn’t recognize you right away! Busy as always! Babysitting the grandson again?” She nodded at Duke.
“It’s my son’s dog,” Nina replied dully.
“Oh, I see!” Zina laughed carelessly. “You’re always the lifesaver for everyone. And me, can you believe it, I’m flying to Spain in a week! Signed up for flamenco classes, imagine?
At my age! I’m going with the girls from my dance group. My husband grumbled at first, then said, ‘Go, have fun, you’ve earned it.’ When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
The question hung in the air. Nina couldn’t remember. For her, vacation had always meant the dacha, the grandkids, helping the children.
“You look tired,” Zinaida said with sincere sympathy. “You can’t carry everything on your shoulders like this.
Your kids are adults, let them handle things themselves. Otherwise, you’ll spend your whole life babysitting their dogs while life passes you by. Anyway, I’ve got to run, I have a rehearsal!”
She flitted away, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume and a ringing emptiness.
“While life passes you by.”
That simple phrase worked like a detonator. Nina Petrovna stopped so abruptly that Duke looked at her in surprise.
She looked at the huge dog, at her hands clenching the leash, at the gray buildings around her.
And she realized she couldn’t do it anymore. Not another day. Not another hour.
Enough.
She pulled out her phone. Her trembling fingers opened the search bar. “Best dog hotel Moscow.”
The very first link led to a site with glossy photos: spacious kennels, a pool, a grooming salon, individual training sessions with a handler. And prices that took her breath away.
Nina Petrovna firmly pressed the phone number.
“Hello. I’d like to book a room. Yes, for a Great Dane. For two weeks. Full board and spa treatments.”
She called a taxi right from the park. In the car, Duke behaved surprisingly calmly, as if sensing the change.
The hotel smelled not of dogs, but of lavender and expensive shampoos. A sweet girl in uniform handed her the contract.
Without blinking an eye, Nina Petrovna filled in the Owner field with Kirill’s name and phone number.
In the Payer field—his again. She paid the deposit with the money she had been saving for a new coat. It was the best investment of her life.
“We’ll send daily photo updates to the owner’s number,” the girl smiled, taking the leash. “Don’t worry, your boy will love it here.”
Back in her peaceful, if worn-out, apartment, Nina Petrovna felt, for the first time in years, not loneliness but calm.
She poured herself tea, sat on the surviving corner of the sofa, and sent two identical messages. One to Kirill. One to Olya.
“Duke is safe. He’s at a hotel. All questions to his owner.”
Then she put her phone on silent.
The phone began vibrating on the table three minutes later. Nina Petrovna looked at the glowing screen with Kirill on it and took another sip of tea.
She didn’t answer. A minute later it vibrated again. Then a message from Olya came: “Mom, what does this mean? Call me back immediately!”
She turned up the TV volume. She knew exactly what was happening on the other end.
Panic. Indignation. Trying to figure out how their convenient, compliant mother could do such a thing.
The real storm broke two days later. The doorbell rang insistently, almost aggressively.
Nina Petrovna walked slowly and looked through the peephole. On the porch stood Kirill and Olya. Tanned, but angry. Their vacation clearly ruined.
She opened the door.
“Mom, have you lost your mind?!” Kirill shouted from the doorway. “What hotel? They sent us the bill, did you see those numbers? You want to bankrupt us over some dog?”
“Hello, children,” Nina replied calmly. “Come in. Take your shoes off, I’ve just washed the floors.”
Her calmness threw them off better than any shouting. They stepped into the apartment. Kirill looked at the torn sofa, the knocked-over plant.
“Look,” he jabbed a finger at the sofa. “What’s this?”
“This, Kirill, is the result of your well-trained dog staying in my apartment. I called a repairman, he assessed the damage. Here’s the invoice for reupholstering the furniture and buying a new ficus.”
She handed him a neatly printed sheet.
“You’re even billing me?!” Kirill choked with indignation. “You were supposed to watch him!”
“I was supposed to?” For the first time in many years, Nina Petrovna looked at her son not with love, but with cold curiosity.
“I don’t owe you anything, children. Just as you don’t owe me. I take it you didn’t come here to return my deposit for the hotel and reimburse the damages?”
Olya stepped in, trying to smooth things over.
“Mommy, why all this? We’re family. We could have figured it out. Kirill lost his temper, who doesn’t? Why go to extremes?”
“Extremes are when your own son calls you selfish because you don’t want your home turned into ruins.
Extremes are when your own daughter says you have ‘so much time’ to serve her brother. And this,” she nodded at the invoice, “this is just the consequence of your choices.”
Kirill turned crimson.
“I won’t pay for this! Not a penny! And for that stupid hotel of yours either!”
“Fine,” Nina replied simply. “I didn’t expect you to. Then I’ll sell the dacha.”
It was like a punch to the gut. The dacha they had already made plans for: barbecues, the sauna, relaxing with friends. Their dacha. The place they came only to rest while their mother spent the whole summer weeding the beds and painting the fence.
“You have no right!” Olya yelled, forgetting her peacemaking tone. “It’s ours too! We spent all our childhood there!”
“The documents are in my name,” Nina shrugged. “And childhood, Olya dear, is over.”
The money raised would be just enough to cover expenses, compensate her moral damages, and maybe let her go to Spain.
Zinaida said it was lovely there.
They stared at her as if she were a stranger. Before them stood not their quiet, submissive mother, but a woman with a steel core they’d never known existed.
A woman who no longer feared their anger, their manipulation, their resentment.
For the first time in many years, a tense silence filled the room. It was the awkward lull of realization. They had lost.
A week later, Kirill transferred the entire amount to her account down to the last penny. No apologies, no further calls.
And Nina Petrovna didn’t expect any. She pulled her old, nearly unused suitcase down from the closet. Called Zinaida.
“Zinochka, hi. Do you still have one more spot for flamenco?
