“You turned the TV up full blast again, didn’t you?”
“So what if I did, Polya? It helps Mom feel calmer.”
“She feels calmer when she gets her injection on time, Artyom. Not when you sit there glued to the screen.”
“Don’t start…”
“Oh, I’m starting. Because I’m not a robot. I’m a sign language interpreter, not a twenty-four-hour live-in nurse. I have a life too.”
“A life… with you, it’s always about you.”
“About me? I’ve been paying for your mother’s medicine for a year. And if you tell me one more time that everything is ‘about me,’ I’m going to answer with one word: NO.”
Polya stood in the entryway of their apartment on Belinsky Street, clutching a folder of printouts to her chest—an injection schedule, a list of medications, numbers for the clinic and private nurses. The papers in that folder felt like a second skin: thin, necessary, endless.
Something creaked in the room beyond the wall. Margarita Nikitichna, Artyom’s mother, called out:
“Polya! What are you doing out there? Hanging on your phone again?”
Polya closed her eyes. For one brief moment, she wanted not to answer. Just not answer—for the first time in a very long time. But she knew how it worked: if she stayed silent now, another kind of music would begin. The kind where she was always the one at fault.
“I’m here, Margarita Nikitichna. I’m coming.”
Jaw clenched, Artyom went to the bedside table where the ampoules were kept. He picked one up and turned it in his fingers as if it were not medicine but some complicated little bolt from work.
He worked as a lighting technician at the Yekaterinburg theater—a profession that wasn’t exactly rare, but not common enough to see on every corner either. He was always stuck at rehearsals, technical runs, stage setups. He came home late, exhausted, and reached for one simple comfort: the couch and a screen.
Polya worked in a world where people spoke with their eyes and hands. She interpreted sign language in court and at the city consultation center on 8 Marta Street. Sometimes she taught online lessons for beginners—how not to be afraid, how not to freeze up, how to hear without ears.
That evening she had a class, and she taught it the way she always did: smiling at the camera, demonstrating signs, joking, encouraging everyone. In the next room her mother-in-law grumbled under her breath, and Polya played soft music so her students would not hear someone else’s bitterness.
When the class was over, Polya slipped out of her formal blouse and pulled on a cardigan. She wanted something simple: hot tea, a little silence, someone—anyone—to ask her, How are you holding up?
Instead, Artyom dropped a pharmacy bag onto the table.
“Here. Bought everything.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“From what money, Artyom?”
“Well… yours, obviously. You’d left money on the card.”
“I left money for medicine. Specific medicine. The ones on the list. And here…” Polya unfolded the receipt and saw that half of what they needed was missing, while half of what had been bought was extra. “Are you serious?”
He looked at her as though she were nitpicking sunspots.
“Polya, don’t get worked up. The pharmacist said this was ‘fine’ too.”
From the room came Margarita Nikitichna’s voice:
“Fine! Of course it’s ‘fine’! She’s always the smart one in this house! Never mind, son, just put up with it. There are worse wives than this…”
Polya went into her mother-in-law’s room. Margarita Nikitichna was lying in the tall bed. Beside her stood a nightstand with a glass of water, pills, a remote, a newspaper, and scattered scraps of paper.
“Would you like some water?” Polya asked quietly.
“Not water. Give me my normal life back! I ended up bedridden because of you!”
“You ended up bedridden because of a stroke.”
“Oh, look at that—Miss Know-It-All. Knows everything. And do you also know that my son has no children because you nag him to death?”
Polya froze for a second. That was the cruelest thing about conversations like this—they always hit the exact same place. The hollow place inside her chest that had been growing for years.
“I want a child,” Polya said, carefully keeping her voice from turning sharp. “I do. I’ve told Artyom that.”
Margarita Nikitichna smirked.
“As long as I’m alive, there will be no screaming baby in this house. NO. I’m barely hanging on as it is.”
That word—NO—had already sounded twice that day. And Polya caught herself realizing that inside her, it was beginning to change. It was no longer a punishment. It was becoming rescue.
Later that night, when Margarita Nikitichna had fallen asleep, Polya stood in front of the mirror pinning up her hair. Artyom sat on the edge of the bed in silence—the kind of silence people use when they have already decided the conversation will not go in their favor.
“Artyom,” Polya said. “Five years. We’ve been together for five years. I don’t want to keep living like there’s a third person in our marriage giving all the orders.”
“That’s my mother.”
“I know. But you’re my husband. And I’m not twenty anymore. I want a family. A real one.”
“Polya, just be patient. Mom is weak.”
“Weak doesn’t mean she gets to humiliate me. And it doesn’t mean you get to forget injections and medication.”
“I don’t forget.”
“You forgot today. Yesterday you mixed up the pills. The day before that, you said ‘later.’ Everything with us is ‘later.’”
He got up and paced around the room as if looking for the corner where he could hide more easily.
“There you go again, making everything dramatic.”
“No, Artyom. Drama is when someone is hurting and all they get fed is ‘later.’ I’m tired.”
The next day Polya went to see her mother in the apartment on Chapayeva Street. That place always had warmth in its own way—not coziness, exactly, but familiarity. Like an old coat that was long out of style but still saved you when it was cold.
Her younger sister Dasha was in the kitchen. She was in college, and in recent months she had become louder, more demanding, always needing something urgently.
“Polya!” Dasha threw her arms around her. “Listen, my birthday’s coming up soon. I need a new phone. This one lags like crazy.”
“I bought you a good one last year.”
“Yeah, but now the camera kind of sucks. Everybody else has a decent one. You know what I mean.”
“What I know is that I’ve got a bedridden mother-in-law, medicine bills, paid caregivers, and a husband who thinks everything handles itself.”
“Oh please, here we go…”
Their mother, Larisa Pavlovna, put on the kettle and looked at Polya closely.
“You’ve lost weight. Are things all right at home?”
‘All right’ is a pretty generous word,” Polya answered.
“Polya… maybe you should spend less on your mother-in-law. Who is she to you, really?”
“She’s my husband’s mother.”
“Exactly. And Dasha is your own sister. She needs help.”
“Mom, I don’t have endless money.”
“You’re the older one. You’re supposed to be the wiser one.”
Polya did not argue. All at once she understood: here too, they did not see her as a person. They saw her as a role. The eldest. The one who should. The one who must.
And standing right there in that kitchen, something clicked inside her: if everyone around her was playing the game of you have to, why was no one ever playing the game of you’re allowed to?
She looked at Dasha and said,
“You want that phone?”
“Yes!”
“Then you help with Margarita Nikitichna for two weeks, and I’ll buy it. Fair deal. But no ‘ugh, I’m tired’ or ‘ugh, I’m not doing that.’ Two weeks. Can you handle it?”
“And what exactly would I have to do?”
“Two injections a day, pills on schedule, feed her, change her, wipe her down, call a doctor if anything happens. And don’t slip into princess mode.”
“Well…” Dasha chewed her lip. “Fine. Two weeks is easy.”
The word easy sounded overconfident in her mouth. Polya almost believed her.
That evening Polya said to Artyom,
“I’m taking leave. I’m going to a sanatorium near Verkhnyaya Pyshma for ten days. I need room to breathe.”
“With who?”
“With Mila. She’s been inviting me forever. And yes, Dasha will help here. You’ll be home too. The two of you can manage.”
“Polya…”
“No. I’ve already decided.”
Margarita Nikitichna reacted exactly the way Polya expected—no surprises there.
“THEN GET OUT! So now she wants to go have fun while I lie here dying!”
“I’m only leaving for a short time,” Polya said. “The medicine will be here. Dasha knows the routine. Artyom does too.”
“Your Dasha can go to hell. I never asked for her!”
“You never asked for me either. I still did it,” Polya answered quietly, and walked out.
Before leaving, she gave Artyom money and the list. No shouting. No scene. She simply set it on the table and said,
“You buy exactly what’s written here. Not what ‘the pharmacist said.’ This list.”
He nodded without looking at her, and something tightened inside Polya. That was the kind of nod people gave when they had already decided to do things their own way.
The sanatorium did not greet her with beauty so much as with a pause. There, she did not have to ask anyone for anything, convince anyone of anything, persuade anyone of anything. Mila—Polya’s friend, a restorer of old shop signs and display windows—walked briskly, talked nonstop, made plans.
“Polya, you look like your battery’s permanently on low,” she said during a walk. “Who drained you like that?”
“Home,” Polya answered shortly.
“Home is supposed to recharge you, not squeeze you dry.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s not nice. It’s basic.”
Polya called Dasha every day.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine. Gave her the pills. Turned on the TV. She complains, but that’s just her style.”
“And Artyom?”
“He’s off somewhere. Said he had ‘theater stuff.’ But I’m handling it. Don’t worry.”
On the fifth day at the sanatorium, things suddenly became chaotic: smoke from a forest fire had spread through the area, and the administration began relocating guests closer to the city. Polya and Mila left early.
She stepped into the apartment on Belinsky Street in the middle of the day, without warning, travel bag in hand—and froze in the hallway.
A strange woman in her fifties sat in the kitchen, neat, calm, with a notebook in hand.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Nadezhda Semyonovna. A caregiver. I was hired.”
“By who?”
“A man. Artyom Sergeyevich. He left me the keys. Said, ‘The routine here is complicated, and I don’t have time.’ And then… disappeared. I haven’t seen him for four days.”
Polya slowly took off her shoes. She did not feel like making a scene. She felt something else instead—a cold understanding that everyone here had been treating her like a fool. While she was useful, she was wonderful. The second she stepped away, everything fell apart, and somehow she still would have been blamed.
She called Artyom.
“Hi. Where are you?”
“At the theater. Rehearsals.”
“The caregiver says she hasn’t seen you for four days.”
“Well… I’ve been busy.”
“And Dasha?”
“Everything’s fine there. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
Polya hung up and went to check the medication. Half of it was gone. In its place were herbal calming remedies and vitamins Margarita Nikitichna did not need.
A voice came from the room:
“Polya! What are you rustling around for out there?”
Polya walked in. Margarita Nikitichna looked at her warily, as if Polya herself were unpleasant news.
“You called?”
“And why did you come back? Get enough fresh air at your little resort?”
“I came back because the care routine has fallen apart. And because having a caregiver in the house is not what I call ‘everything’s fine.’”
“A caregiver is the right decision. You’re always walking around with that look like someone owes you a medal.”
“I don’t need a medal. I needed a normal family.”
Margarita Nikitichna’s mouth twitched.
“A normal family… please. Don’t make me laugh. My son will get the apartment, and that’s that. As for you… you’re temporary.”
Polya stopped cold. The word apartment rose to the surface like a hook.
She went into the hallway and called Dasha.
“Where are you?”
“Oh… I’m… at a friend’s. Just for a couple of hours.”
“Dasha, you are supposed to be here.”
“Polya, come on. She’s lying down. What’s going to happen to her?”
“You took money for helping. You accepted the promise of a phone. Do you understand that?”
“Oh, don’t start, come on…”
Polya ended the call. No theatrics. She just ended it.
That evening, while Nadezhda Semyonovna was getting ready to leave, she said,
“A notary came to see you today.”
“A notary?”
“Yes. Margarita Nikitichna called one herself. I signed as a witness.”
Polya did not ask anything more. Not because she was not curious—because she had no strength left for yet another layer of other people’s schemes.
That night Margarita Nikitichna took a turn for the worse. Not dramatically—just sharply: her blood pressure spiked, her breathing became uneven, weakness washed over her. Polya called an ambulance. At the hospital, her mother-in-law was taken into intensive care, while Polya was left sitting in the corridor with her thoughts like a heavy bag she could not set down.
Toward morning, the doctor came out and said it plainly: Margarita Nikitichna was gone.
Polya went home and the first thing she did was call Artyom.
“Your mother died.”
“When?” he asked too quickly.
“Last night.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was with her. Where were you, Artyom?”
He was silent for a moment, then said,
“I’m coming.”
A couple of hours later, Polya found a folder in Margarita Nikitichna’s room. Not hidden under the mattress or tucked in some secret place—just sitting in the drawer of the bedside table. Inside was a will. Fresh date. Signature. Seal.
Heir: Polina Andreevna. Daughter-in-law.
Polya read it twice. Then once more. The words did not change.
She went to the notary’s office on Lenin Avenue. The female notary looked over the papers, checked everything, and nodded.
“Yes. The will is valid.”
“Why would she do this?”
“Sometimes people become more honest at the end of their lives than they were the entire rest of the way. I don’t know your story. But legally, everything is clear.”
Polya stepped outside, got on a trolleybus, and held the folder as if it contained not paper but the possibility of finally stopping her endless need to justify herself.
When she opened the door to the apartment on Belinsky Street, suitcases were already standing in the hallway. Her suitcases.
Artyom was home. Dasha was there too. Dasha sat on the little bench by the wall, picking at her bag strap with one fingernail as if this were not her war.
“Don’t bother taking your coat off,” Artyom said. “I packed everything. It’d be better if you left.”
“Seriously?” Polya looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Yes. There are… circumstances.”
“By circumstances, do you mean you and my sister?”
Dasha jerked upright.
“Polya, don’t twist this into something—”
“Be quiet. Just be quiet.”
Artyom stepped closer and grabbed the handle of one of the suitcases.
“Let’s do this without a scene. Just leave quietly.”
“Quietly?” Polya pulled a copy of the will from the folder and set it on the console table. “There’s your ‘quietly.’”
Artyom read it. His face went still.
“What… what kind of joke is this?”
“Not a joke. Your mother called a notary. And she left the apartment to me.”
“She couldn’t have.”
“She could. And she did.”
Dasha reached for the paper, skimmed it, and said softly,
“Polya… you do understand… this isn’t fair.”
“Unfair was when you promised ‘two weeks, easy,’ and then turned it into your own vacation while sleeping with my husband. Unfair was when the two of you left her without proper care. And when you kept calling me saying ‘everything’s great,’ while a hired caregiver was already living here.”
Artyom tried to go on the attack.
“You still won’t be able to prove anything. I’m registered here.”
“You deregistered yourself. Remember? For the benefits, and so the utility bill would be lower. You bragged about it yourself.”
“Polya…”
“No. Listen carefully. You have two options: either you pack your things and leave right now, or I call the local officer and a lawyer. And one more thing—I’m filing a report with social services about why a bedridden woman was left without proper care while I was away.”
Dasha stood up.
“What, you’re going to snitch? This is Artyom…”
“That’s not snitching. That’s being held responsible for what you did.”
Suddenly Artyom softened his tone—too much, the way people do when they are trying to charm a seller into giving them a discount.
“Polya… come on, let’s make a deal. We’ll sell it and split it…”
“You’re not talking about a deal. You’re talking about money.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m talking about living without people who see me as a wallet and a free caregiver.”
The next day Polya filed paperwork to have the locks changed and temporarily moved in with Mila. No drama—just the safest choice.
Then came six months of waiting to officially enter the inheritance. Artyom tried to pressure her through acquaintances. Some people texted her things like, Come on, you understand, others called and said, Don’t take it too far. Dasha showed up a couple of times at Larisa Pavlovna’s place, playing the victim: Polya is ruining my life. Their mother called Polya too and said:
“But you’re the older one. Give in.”
“Mom, no. I’ve given in my whole life. That’s enough.”
Polya worked. She interpreted in courtrooms, answered calls from clinics, taught her lessons. And for the first time, in those lessons she started talking not just about signs, but about boundaries.
“If something feels wrong, that is a signal. If you feel bad, the answer is not ‘endure it.’ The answer is ‘stop.’”
When the time came, the notary issued the documents. Polya returned to the apartment on Belinsky Street in the middle of the day. Artyom was not home.
She called in a locksmith, changed the locks, and calmly—without hysteria—packed Artyom’s and Dasha’s things into bags and boxes. She labeled them in marker: Artyom. Dasha. Then she left them neatly on the landing by the shared vestibule door so they would not block anyone.
That evening there was furious pounding on the door.
“Open up!” Artyom’s voice was angry, but now there was panic underneath it.
Polya opened the door with the chain still on.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m at home.”
“This is my home!”
“If it were, the documents would say so. The documents say me.”
“I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Humiliate me? Intimidate me? You’ve tried everything already. It doesn’t work.”
Dasha stood a little behind him, hood up, as if fabric could hide her from responsibility.
“Polya, don’t be like this…”
“Like what? Grown-up?”
“Well… harsh.”
“Harsh was when you lied to me on the phone. This is just fair.”
Then Artyom said, “I’ll take you to court. I’ll make sure you don’t stay here.”
“Go ahead. I have a very good lawyer now. And he’s the type who doesn’t care about doing things ‘humanely.’ He cares about the law.”
She took the chain off and opened the door wider—not to invite them in, but to show that she was no longer afraid.
“Take your things. That’s all. From here on, we each live our own lives.”
Artyom grabbed the first box. At that exact moment, his phone rang. He answered, listened, and went pale.
“What?”
A pause.
“What inspection?”
Polya did not ask, but she heard fragments: cash register, report, write-off, internal.
Later Mila explained it simply: the theater had uncovered irregularities in procurement and payments. Someone had been signing off on lighting equipment that never actually arrived. Artyom’s name had not surfaced by accident—he had long been the one “handling things,” using the fact that during stage setups everyone was in a rush and hardly anyone checked the details.
Polya did not celebrate. She only noted to herself: there it was—punishment not through shouting, not through curses, but through fact.
A week later Artyom was fired. Friends from the theater who had happily invited him for tea after rehearsals suddenly became very busy. Dasha quickly realized that romance tends to end where money does. She moved back in with their mother on Chapayeva Street and tried to call Polya.
“Sis, you know I have nowhere to live…”
“Dasha, you’re an adult. You’ll figure it out.”
“Polya, please help me…”
“No.”
A month passed. Polya bought a new table for the apartment—not expensive, just solid. She got a proper guest couch. She hung a board on the wall and wrote out her plans in marker: work, classes, a visit to Mila’s workshop, a doctor’s appointment.
One morning, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood Nadezhda Semyonovna, the same caregiver.
“Am I coming at a bad time?”
“No. Come in.”
“I brought you this…” The woman handed her an envelope. “Margarita Nikitichna asked me to give it to you if ‘things turned out this way.’ I didn’t understand what she meant then. Now I do.”
Polya opened the envelope. Inside was a short note in shaky handwriting:
Polya. You are neither my daughter nor true family. But you were the only one who actually did what needed to be done. Forgive my words. Don’t give up the apartment. At least here, they remember you.
Polya slipped the note back into the envelope. Sat down. Stayed silent for a while. Then she picked up her phone and called Mila.
“Where are you?”
“At the workshop. Why?”
“Come by tonight. I’ve got tea. And I’ve got one piece of paper I want to show you.”
“Oh, now I’m intrigued. I’ll be there.”
That evening they sat in the kitchen, talking about life, work, and how strangely things turn out: sometimes the kindest thing comes from the last place you would expect.
The next day Polya sent Dasha a short message—without attacks, but firm:
I love you. But I’m not supporting you anymore. Study. Work. Grow up.
What surprised Polya most was that, for the first time in her life, she felt she was not alone. Not because someone had moved in beside her, but because inside her, that constant fear was finally gone—the fear that maybe she was the bad one.
She was never bad.
She had just been convenient for far too long.
And now—at last—she belonged to herself.
