“Anya, hello, dear! Are you coming for the May holidays to congratulate Zhenya on the housewarming? Your brother did well for himself — he really scored a great house!”
The voice of Aunt Shura, my mother’s neighbor, came through the phone bright and full of excitement. I was in the middle of packing my things — I had just bought seeds and some sturdy plastic sheeting for the greenhouse.
“What housewarming, Aunt Shura? Zhenya rents a place in the city,” I said, freezing with a bag of seed-starting soil still in my hands.
“You mean… you don’t know?” The neighbor cut herself off, and her tone instantly turned secretive. “Valentina signed the house over to him. They оформed the gift deed last Tuesday. I saw them myself walking out of the public services office — Zhenya was glowing. Valya was boasting that now her son had a place to bring his future wife. And no one told you… Oh, Anya, I probably said too much. I’d better go, my milk is boiling over.”
The line went dead.
The bag of soil slipped from my weak fingers, hit the linoleum with a dull thud, and burst open, scattering dark, damp clumps across the floor.
For twelve years, I had poured every spare ruble into that house. A new roof. Foundation work. Windows. Heating. Three million rubles in total. I kept track of every receipt, every invoice — denied myself everything, stopped going out for coffee with friends. All that time, I genuinely believed I was securing my mother a peaceful old age, and myself a place I could always come back to.
My brother Zhenya is five years younger than I am. In all those years, he never hammered a single nail into that house. He was too busy searching for his perfect life, hopping from one job to another, falling into debt that my mother quietly paid off behind the scenes. He came to the village only on holidays — bringing a cheap cake, flashing a broad smile, and melting my mother on the spot. “Zhenya’s here, my precious boy, my own blood!” He got the best food and all the attention. I was the one washing dishes or out in the garden pulling weeds.
I sank onto a stool, staring at the soil scattered on the floor.
A gift deed. Done behind my back. My mother had simply handed everything away — without a word, without a call, without even an explanation.
With a heavy heart, I picked up a broom, swept the soil into a dustpan, and threw it away. The seeds went into the trash too.
The first thing I did was call a lawyer. A friend had given me the contact ages ago, but I kept putting it off. I never wanted to believe I might actually need it one day. The lawyer listened carefully and then said out loud what I had already sensed deep down, but had been afraid to admit: twelve years of documented investment was not just a sad story — it was evidence. She explained the legal prospects and told me to gather every receipt and payment record. I had them. Every single one, neatly filed in a separate folder. I had always been meticulous.
The days passed one after another. My mother didn’t call. I didn’t call either.
Exactly one week later, on a Saturday morning, my phone rang. My brother’s smiling face flashed across the screen.
“Hey, sis!” Zhenya sounded cheerful, as though nothing had happened. “Listen, we’ve got a problem. I came by Mom’s place, and it’s freezing in here. The boiler’s done for. The repairman says the heat exchanger cracked, so the whole thing needs replacing. Can you chip in? Or better yet, just buy it yourself — you know all this stuff, and you used to have discounts. Mom’s freezing.”
I listened to his voice while all I could see in my mind was my old coat — the one I used to stand in at bus stops, shivering, while I was still paying off the loan for that very same boiler.
“No, Zhenya.”
“Anya, what’s wrong with you? Mom could get sick! Don’t be so stingy.”
“The house has a legal owner,” I said. “Let the owner make sure Mom stays warm.”
I ended the call.
My brother tried calling back twice. I rejected both.
A minute later, my mother called.
“Anya, what was that supposed to mean?! Is that how you speak to your brother? We’re in trouble and you’re acting difficult! How did you grow up so heartless? That’s not how your father and I raised you!”
She went on and on — about how family should help each other, about how Zhenya was going through a hard time, about how I lived comfortably in the city and had everything handed to me.
I stared at my reflection in the dark glass of the oven door. Somewhere at the edge of my mind, the old reflex stirred — the urge to say, “All right, Mom, we’ll figure it out,” and become the obedient daughter again. But I let that reflex go, the way you let go of a balloon — just by opening your hand.
“Mom,” I said quietly, but firmly, when she finally paused, “you traded your own daughter for three million rubles. And now you’re calling to ask for change.”
Silence fell on the other end. I could hear only her quick breathing.
“My charity ended last Tuesday, inside that public services office. You and Zhenya made your choice. It’s his house now, his boiler, his responsibility. Do not call me asking for money again. Ever.”
My mother started crying — loudly, dramatically. But by then, I already understood: it wasn’t remorse. It was anger that her obedient daughter had suddenly stopped obeying.
“God will judge you, Anna,” she hissed, and hung up.
I filed the lawsuit three weeks later.
The lawyer had been right. Twelve years of receipts, contractor agreements, and bank transfers formed an ironclad chain. The judge spent a long time turning through the folder of documents, almost in silence. Zhenya sat through the hearing looking like none of it had anything to do with him. My mother didn’t show up even once.
The court ordered my brother to pay compensation. Not the full three million — court practice rarely awards total reimbursement, and my lawyer had warned me about that. But it was enough. Enough for me to finally take a trip to the sea, buy myself a proper coat, and open a savings deposit in my own name.
The house stayed with Zhenya. Let it. Walls without warmth are just a shell.
Aunt Shura called again in October.
“Anya, have you heard? Zhenya sold the house. They say he already found a buyer — even while the case was still going on, he got everything arranged. Valya is beside herself, saying she has no idea where the money went. He says it all went to debts. What debts, Anya? That was your house, really — you put so much into it…”
I listened to her, but I wasn’t thinking about the house.
I was thinking that in one week, I had a flight to catch. My first vacation in years. I chose Montenegro for no reason other than the fact that I wanted to. No justification, no practical explanation. I simply wanted to go — so I bought the ticket.
“Aunt Shura,” I said calmly, “that’s not my house anymore. And it’s not my story anymore.”
