“Do you even realize what this means?” the angry mother asked. “Today is the first, and the fifth is the final deadline! Is your mind capable of grasping that fact?”
Svetlana Viktorovna had been lecturing her son for ten minutes already. The reason—his wife Kira had once again failed to transfer the mortgage payment.
Artyom sat with his head down, silent. He looked like a schoolboy caught misbehaving, not daring to raise his eyes.
“Today she deigned to announce there will be no money! How am I supposed to take that?” Svetlana Viktorovna wouldn’t let up, drawing out her words with poisonous sweetness.
“Mom, I’ll sort it out, I’ll talk to her,” the son tried to stem the flow.
“You’ll talk?” she snorted. “You trail after her like you’re on a leash! She twists you around her little finger and you, my poor simple child…”
“Enough,” her son cut her off sharply.
“‘Enough’ what? Don’t you dare shut me up! I need the money tomorrow, did that sink in?” Svetlana Viktorovna’s voice rose to a shrill pitch. “If I’m late, the bank will pin me to the wall in a heartbeat! I was the one who did you a favor, my treasure! So why can’t you handle the bare minimum?”
“Mom, I said I’d take care of it,” Artyom repeated wearily.
“He’ll ‘take care of it’!” she mimicked. “Did you hear how your precious wife saw fit to speak to me? Your ‘golden girl’ announced there won’t be any money!”
“And how am I supposed to understand that?” Artyom finally lifted his gaze.
“Ask your better half—if she’s still your better half!” Svetlana Viktorovna fired back.
She went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and downed it in one gulp. When she returned, she ran an icy glance over her son.
“Here’s the bottom line, sonny: tomorrow the money is in my account. Now—out!” she snapped.
Like a subject before a fearsome queen, the man stood and slunk toward the door. He put on his shoes in silence. Yes, she really had done them a favor when he and Kira signed the papers…
“Fine, Mom, I’ll talk to her,” Artyom said dryly and left, gently closing the door.
Artyom sped home. He was boiling inside. He snapped at passersby, unable to make sense of Kira’s logic: she’d always paid like clockwork—and suddenly, a refusal?
An hour later the young man burst into the apartment, slamming the door in anger. Kicking off his shoes, he rushed into the bedroom—Kira wasn’t there. He turned around—his wife was calmly drinking tea in the kitchen.
“How am I supposed to take this?” Artyom barked, skipping any greeting.
“Did something happen?” Kira’s voice was as calm as a still lake.
“Something did happen! I was just at my mother’s! She’s hysterical—you didn’t transfer the money. Is that true?”
“Quite true. There isn’t any money,” Kira confirmed.
“What do you mean, ‘isn’t any’? Today’s the first! Payday!” He dropped into the chair across from her.
“And?” the woman parried, topping up the kettle.
“Are you kidding me? It’s the first. The fifth is the deadline!”
“I’m tired,” she said, her voice still icy. “Tired of paying the mortgage.”
“I don’t understand,” Artyom froze. “What do you mean, ‘tired’?”
“Tired of working. I’ve slogged for three years without weekends or vacations. Every day—the hamster wheel.” She took a sip of tea. “Enough.”
“Everybody works!” he hissed, grabbing his cup.
“I worked too. But now—I’m tired. Tired,” she enunciated each syllable. “I need a break.”
“A break? For a day? Two? The fifth is almost here! And what does your rest have to do with your salary?”
“It has to do with this: I don’t work anymore.”
Artyom went pale, then red; sweat beaded on his forehead.
“You… quit?” he ground out.
“Listen closely,” Kira set down her spoon. “I’m tired. Three years of work. Three years of mortgage. Three years of utilities. Enough. I want to rest.”
“But Mom’s mortgage… What about it?”
“You’re her son. You deal with it.” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Here’s what’s going to happen: tomorrow I get the money. I’ll take it to my mother,” he declared, matching her cadence.
“No,” Kira cut him off. “There won’t be any money.”
“Then find it!” Artyom shouted so loudly Kira’s ears rang. She winced.
“I’ve said all I’m going to say. There won’t be any money,” she repeated without looking at him.
“There will be! Tomorrow!” Artyom roared, sprang up, and stormed out of the kitchen—an echo of his mother.
Kira spent that night in the living room. She didn’t want to talk to Artyom. She was out of strength. She went to the bathroom, made herself a modest supper, and curled up on the couch. But sleep wouldn’t come. Her husband’s barking still rang in her ears. He really did remind her of a vicious guard dog.
Kira remembered her youth. Once an old man came up to her and her friends:
“Why are you barking?”
“We’re talking!” they laughed.
“For you, it’s a conversation,” he smirked. “But as I was walking past, you cursed seven times. Swearing is the same as a dog’s bark. Or, more simply put, verbal diarrhea. Take your pick.”
The old man left. Now her husband… an exact copy of that snarling mutt.
“I’m tired,” Kira repeated in her head, staring at the ceiling. “Just tired.”
The next day, while Artyom was brushing his teeth, Kira quietly got dressed and left. Not for work—to her friend Miroslava’s place; Miro had flown south. Kira fed the cat and watered the plants. She didn’t want to go home. She made herself breakfast, ate unhurriedly, and fell into Miroslava’s bed. She just wanted to sleep.
Several days passed like that. In the morning she’d leave; in the evening she’d return. Artyom bored into her with his gaze, demanding an answer. Kira would silently undress and go to bed. The walls of their apartment pressed in harder and harder.
The fifth came. Kira got home late. She had barely changed when a tightly wound Artyom rushed up to her.
“I paid the mortgage this month,” he exhaled coldly.
“Good for you,” Kira nodded.
“When will you pay me back?”
“Never,” she said, frighteningly calm. She looked at him as if at a stranger. Was this the same Artyom she had loved? No. Over the years he had changed beyond recognition.
“When will there be money?” he asked darkly.
“In the next few months—there won’t be,” Kira replied, heading to the kitchen.
“You’re putting me in an impossible position!” he shouted after her. “My mother’s blood pressure is through the roof, we’ve called an ambulance twice!”
“What’s there to worry about? She has a son. You. So pay,” Kira took out a yogurt.
“That’s not what we agreed!” he exploded.
“True, we didn’t agree,” Kira turned sharply and planted her fists on the table. “We didn’t agree that I’d carry everything alone.”
“Mother met us halfway! Thanks to her we have a roof over our heads!” Artyom retorted.
“Your memory’s a sieve,” Kira said acidly. “Yes, we signed the papers and lived in a rented hole. Then your mommy proposed a ‘deal’: she gives us her old three-room place, and buys herself a new one three times bigger. ‘Good deal,’ right?”
“Yes, a good deal!” he insisted.
“We got a roof. What changed for me?” her voice rang. “You refused to register my residency. Your mother put everything in your name. It’s your home. Not ours. Yours.”
“What difference does it make? We’re a family! Joint income, joint expenses!” he shouted hotly.
“Oh, please!” Kira sank into a chair, exhausted. “Remember our agreement? We split the mortgage fifty–fifty. You paid for two months. Then—it was me. For three years. I’ve been paying for your mother. For her roomy apartment.”
“Just consider it our apartment!” he waved it off.
“Let me repeat myself: for three years I’ve been paying the mortgage for you and for me. And I pay the utilities here. And you?” She leaned forward. “What do you pay, besides the loan on your fancy SUV? Enlighten me, please.”
Artyom growled. He saw where she was headed.
“The car is necessary! For the family!”
“It is,” Kira agreed. “But you pay for it six times less than I pay for your mother’s mortgage. Where’s the logic? Why should I fund her housing appetite?”
“Because that’s my mother’s condition! Without it we wouldn’t have the apartment!” he snapped.
“Brilliant!” Kira laughed without an ounce of mirth. “This is a three-room place. Your mother’s is a three-room place too. But hers is almost twice as big. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? A mortgage for a flat this size would have cost me half as much. I’m paying for her luxury. Where’s the fairness, oh genius of family diplomacy?”
“We agreed!” Artyom insisted, but doubt flickered in his eyes.
“Stop chanting that like a mantra!” Kira stood. “My money for your mother is finished. Along with my strength and my desire.”
Artyom understood she was right, but the thought of his hysterical mother erased everything. Where could he get the money? A pension wouldn’t cover it…
“Fine, leave it. When will there be money?” he asked hoarsely.
“I have no idea,” she shrugged.
“Borrow some!” he blurted out.
“Excellent,” she smirked. “I’ll borrow, give it to your mother, and then pay off the debt—to her. A brilliant little pyramid scheme. No thanks.”
“I don’t care!” Artyom yelled. “I need the money! Otherwise Mother will throw us out!”
“Then let her return everything I’ve already paid,” Kira replied coolly. “With interest for use of funds.”
“Figure out where to get it!” he threw over his shoulder as he left the kitchen.
In the morning Kira headed again to Miroslava’s apartment. There she felt real freedom, a lightness her own home lacked; even the walls there seemed to close in on her. By habit, she pulled on her friend’s soft robe and walked along the sills, checking the moisture in the flowerpots. The elderly cat Barsik shadowed her, rubbing against her legs and purring hoarsely. She truly loved that furry friend. When Kira settled into bed, he would immediately curl up at her side, stretch out his paws, and set his loud, soothing motor going.
Miroslava’s brother, Gleb, had once lived in the next room. Kira had had a brief fling with him: kisses, embraces, the sensation of flying. But that was long ago, before the wedding. Back then she had been as happy and free as never before. Then Gleb suddenly moved to another city and vanished from her life altogether. And in any case, it had been a fleeting, romantic infatuation that promised no future.
She caught up on sleep; now she could read, flip through other people’s albums, and ponder the future. Sooner or later, Artyom would put on his old record about his mother’s mortgage, and she was already worn out from carrying both the home and her mother-in-law on her back.
“Barsik, old boy,” Kira murmured, stroking the cat’s scruff, “where’s the way out of this labyrinth?”
The cat only purred louder in reply.
Two weeks flew by in a flash. At last Miroslava came back. She hugged Kira tight; gratitude shone in her eyes.
“Thank you, darling!” Miro exclaimed. “Barsik is not only alive, he’s clearly put on weight, and my green treasures haven’t withered. You’re a miracle worker!”
“Oh, stop,” Kira smiled. “I just couldn’t let your garden turn into a herbarium or Barsik into a bag of bones. He’s practically family.”
Miroslava looked closely at her friend.
“And you? Is your prince in the white Mercedes tormenting you again?” she asked, with a hint of irony.
Kira only sighed:
“The standard repertoire. Rest is a crime, money is a sacred cow, and I’m the source of all woes. Time to go home; the sun is shining… on a new portion of reproaches.”
Kira returned to her cage. There was no refuge anymore. And as soon as Artyom noticed she wasn’t hurrying back to work, his patience snapped.
“Freeloader!” Artyom shouted, pacing the room. “You’ve got some nerve!”
“My lawful rest, dear, in no way cancels my ability to work,” Kira parried with icy calm. “Though your reaction is… telling.”
“I’m the one working! I’m slaving away like cursed! Now it’s all on me, and you…” his voice slid into a shrill note.
“Funny,” his wife replied, glancing at him sidelong. “Somehow you managed not to notice my three-year ‘plowing record.’ Selective memory is a wondrous thing.”
“Stop digging up the past!” he barked, stamping his foot.
“Oh yes, of course. We pamper you, and conveniently forget me. How very comfortable.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything!” Artyom snorted. “Thanks for paying for Mother and the apartment. Satisfied?”
“Oh, no need to thank me,” Kira replied evenly, looking at him as though he were a stranger. The Artyom who once thrilled her had vanished without a trace. His touch, his kisses, even their bed—everything had become alien, unpleasant. She didn’t even want to cook for him, but a glance at the clock reminded her of mundane necessity.
“The fifth is soon; I need the money,” he said, holding out his hand as if it were self-evident.
“Your sacred ritual again?” Kira asked, not moving.
“Yes, mine!” Artyom growled. “Don’t stall!”
“I’ve already told you. There is no money. The budget—as you love to say—is stretched thin.”
“Then borrow! From someone!” he squeaked.
“I won’t. My credit history has already suffered for your shared pleasures.”
“So what are we supposed to do?” he asked helplessly, almost childlike, spreading his hands.
“I have no idea,” Kira said, and headed to the kitchen to peel potatoes, pointedly turning away.
“You do realize my mother has a mortgage!” he started, following her.
“Of course. That fact is hammered into my consciousness daily.”
“Maybe you could take out a loan? In your name?” he suggested, trying to soften his tone.
“Why me and not you?” Kira turned, a potato in her hand. “I’d love to hear the logic there.”
“I already have a car loan! They won’t give me a second one!” he protested.
Kira gave a short, dry chuckle. After a pause, wiping her hands methodically, she turned to her husband:
“I talked to my father about a possible loan.”
“And?” A hopeful note crept into Artyom’s voice and his eyes brightened.
“He’s willing to help.”
“Excellent!” his face broke into a joyful smile. “That’s what I’m talking about—Dad-in-law!”
“But against collateral,” Kira added, watching the smile drain from his face.
“Specify,” he demanded, wary.
“Against something substantial. Your car is with the bank. Which leaves only one option—the apartment.”
“Has he lost his mind?!” the man glared at his wife, fists clenched. “My apartment as collateral?!”
“No. He’s simply a man who understands the price of money,” Kira replied calmly. “His condition: we continue living here, the two of us. He’ll provide half the market value as assessed by an independent appraiser, but you’ll sign a promissory note listing the apartment as collateral. And, of course, a purchase contract with the right to buy back within a year for the same amount. Formalities.”
“Outrageous impudence!” Artyom hissed, drumming his fingers on the table. “Buy it back in a year? Impossible!”
“If you have the money now, my father’s offer is automatically withdrawn,” Kira remarked, more interested in getting an even peel on the potato.
Artyom’s phone rang. He snatched it up and glanced at the screen.
“Yes, Mom.”
He slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door tight. Five minutes later he came out. His face was flushed, but his eyes held resolve.
“He’ll give half? Half the value?” he asked his wife, ignoring what she was doing.
“Yes. According to an appraisal he orders.”
“Fine… I agree,” Artyom exhaled, as if granting a great favor. “Let him draw it up.”
“My father will only do it with all documents notarized. Tomorrow—if you’re ready.”
“To hell with it, we’ll do it,” Artyom nodded, already counting the money in his head. “Call him. The apartment is in my name, right?”
“Yes,” Kira replied in an icy tone.
“No one else is registered there? My mother isn’t listed?”
“No.”
“Then tomorrow we go,” Kira took out her phone, hiding a slight tremor in her fingers. The game had begun.
The stuffy notary’s office smelled of dust and old paper. Soon Kira’s father, Grigory, appeared. Silver-haired, with a stern, inscrutable gaze, he only gave Artyom a curt nod. Artyom, bowing obsequiously, hurried to shake his hand.
“Grigory Petrovich! Hello! Thank you for agreeing!”
“Hello, Artyom,” the old man barely touched his palm. “Shall we begin?”
They went in to the notary. The worn leather chairs creaked plaintively under their weight. The formalities took about twenty minutes—reading, signing, stamps. Artyom fidgeted.
“Here are the papers,” he handed the stack to Grigory, trying to look businesslike.
The old man slowly, scrupulously reviewed every line, checked the passport details. Only when he was sure everything was in order did he give the notary a brief nod and extend his hand to Artyom for the deal-sealing handshake.
“And the money?” Artyom couldn’t help himself, losing the last of his patience. “Grigory Petrovich?”
The old, firm hand reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He took out two thick bundles of banknotes. Artyom grabbed them greedily and, his fingers trembling, began counting right there on the notary’s desk.
The notary watched lazily, sipping tea from a faceted glass. At last the counting ended. Artyom hastily scrawled a receipt for the money.
“That’s it! I’m off! Mother’s waiting!” he shouted delightedly, no longer hiding his relief.
By force of a long-forgotten habit, he automatically hugged Kira, pecked her on the cheek, and bolted from the office without looking back.
“How are you, Dad?” Kira asked her father, stepping closer. “Are your legs hurting?”
“They ache, daughter. I’m tired of these endless injections,” Grigory grumbled, leaning on his cane with effort. “Old age is no joy, as they say.”
“You should get some electric massage slippers,” Kira suggested, taking his arm. “They say they help with cramps.”
“Sensible idea,” Grigory agreed, and a warm spark flickered in his eyes. “I’ll look into it. Where to now? Shall I see you home?”
“No, Dad, I’m going home.”
“All right. Take care of yourself. We’ll see each other… in a month? Per the terms?” He gave his daughter a meaningful look.
“In a month,” Kira nodded. “And thank you… for everything.”
She hugged her father tightly and kissed his cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of cologne and the reliability of his shoulder.
Svetlana Viktorovna stopped picking on her husband. The young man didn’t bother her with questions about work and the mortgage. The owner of the apartment behaved tolerably, brought groceries, and spoke as if nothing had happened.
Two weeks flew by. Seeing that Kira wasn’t looking for a job, her husband finally asked:
“When are you going to get one?” His voice sounded more like a demand than a question.
“I don’t know yet,” the woman answered without looking up from her book. The calm in her tone was almost offensive.
“But you need to get one so you can pay me back,” Artyom pressed, looming over her.
“Do I owe you?” Kira asked, finally raising her eyes. Her gaze was clear and cold.
“Of course you do! I’m giving my mother the money I borrowed from your father against the apartment. That means you owe me now.” He jabbed a finger in the air.
“Listen, baby,”—that’s what she used to call Artyom tenderly—”is your memory really that short? We agreed the mortgage would be split in half, but I’ve been the only one paying. Why don’t you return to me half of what I paid before you deigned to show up?” A thin smile touched her lips.
Artyom growled, his breathing quickened.
“There you go again! Enough! We have the apartment thanks to my mother. She met us halfway; we live here only because of her!”
“If I had my own mortgage, I’d be paying half as much. I’ve told you more than once, sweetheart. I’m not paying for your mother anymore—get yourself out of it.” Kira set the book aside and stood. Her movements were smooth and assured.
His face turned beet red. He slammed his fist on the table, making the cup jump.
“How dare you!”
“If I’d had my own mortgage, I’d have paid off most of it by now. In short, dear, sort it out yourself. You have money; it’ll last a year or two if you don’t blow it. Give it to your mother.” She caught his gaze without blinking. “Those are your obligations, not mine.”
“How I spend my money is none of your business,” Artyom snapped, looking away.
“As you wish,” Kira parried lightly and headed for the hall.
“Where are you going?” her still-fuming husband barked.
“To the store, to buy groceries. In five minutes you’ll announce you’re starving like a wolf cub.” Her voice drifted from the entryway.
“Fine, go,” the man grumbled.
He stalked to the refrigerator and yanked the door open. Inside sat a lonely potato, some bread, and a carton of milk. The sight was depressingly bare.
A few more weeks passed. Artyom came home from work irritable. He took out his keys, put one in the lock—it wouldn’t turn. He tried again—the same. Realization hit him like a shock: the lock had been changed! Anger flared instantly. He hammered on the door with his fist.
A moment later the door opened. Kira stood on the threshold, unruffled, as if she’d been expecting him.
“There’s something wrong with the lock,” Artyom blurted, trying to push inside. She blocked the way.
“Everything’s fine. It’s a new lock,” she said calmly, not so much as raising an eyebrow.
“Why change it?”
“Not me—my father,” she clarified, watching his reaction.
“Why?!” he roared, losing the last drops of self-control.
“Because the apartment is his,” came the crisp reply.
“What?” Artyom froze, not believing his ears. “How the hell did it become his?!”
“Memory gone again, sunshine?” Kira’s voice turned venomously sweet. “You sold the apartment to my father, you got the money in full, the papers were notarized. Today my father received the official documents. Everything is clean. Legally impeccable.”
“What?!” Artyom shouted, and shoved the woman hard in the chest. Blind rage flooded him.
Kira lost her footing and slammed into the wall. Artyom lunged into the hall—and ran into the solid chest of his wife’s father. Grigory Ivanovich stood there like a stone.
“Got a problem, boy?” the older man said in an icy tone. “You dared shove my daughter? In my house?”
“I… You… how did you… I don’t know,” Artyom stammered, retreating under that gaze. Rage gave way to animal fear.
“Leave my house,” Grigory said evenly, with unarguable authority. He didn’t raise his voice, but every word hit like a whip.
“I live here…” Artyom tried to protest, eyes wild.
“You did. As of today, the apartment is mine. Get out. Now.” The man took a step forward, pushing Artyom toward the landing.
“But I…” He glanced at his wife, who had recovered and stood by her father, then at Grigory. “You tricked me! You dirty—”
“No, Artyom,” Kira answered calmly, like a teacher. “I explained the terms to you more than once, in detail, as if to a child. You nodded, you agreed. You signed the papers. You sold your apartment, you got the money. Everything’s fair. You just didn’t listen. Or didn’t believe words carry weight?”
“To hell with you! I’ll sue!” the young man screamed. His voice cracked into a whine.
“Your right,” Grigory replied without a hint of concern, and firmly nudged Artyom toward the stairs.
“Be damned!” Artyom yelled at Kira. “I’ll get the apartment back in court! You’ll pay it all back!”
“You won’t, dear,” his wife answered calmly, almost gently. “It isn’t mine. It’s my father’s. Legally everything is airtight. Go on, don’t linger.” She softly closed the door.
Artyom hissed something inarticulate, full of hatred. The door shut before his nose—quietly, but definitively.
“Damnation,” the man hissed, pressing his forehead to the cool wall in the stairwell. Despair clenched his throat. “Damnation,” he moaned again.
Behind the door, Artyom’s muffled curses could still be heard—his vicious muttering, punctuated by the thud of a fist on the wall. Kira paid no attention anymore. She drew a deep breath, letting go of the tension of the last few minutes.
Her slender figure moved toward her father. She nestled against him like in childhood, seeking support and protection. Her voice quivered, betraying the stress she’d endured:
“Dad… thank you. For everything. For your support… And for that brilliant idea. You helped me get rid of a pesky deadweight.”
The man embraced his daughter gently and pulled her close. Carefully, with a father’s tenderness, he kissed the crown of her head. His voice was soft, yet unshakably firm:
“It’s all behind you now, darling. Live in peace. Remember, this is your safe harbor. Your stronghold.”
“Yes, Daddy,” the girl answered barely audibly, but with enormous relief. Kira pressed closer to her father, soaking in his strength and calm. Here, in this quiet hallway, she felt safely shielded from all the storms and troubles left beyond the threshold of their small but now inviolable world. The air seemed cleaner; it was easier to breathe.
