“Artyom, we need to talk seriously,” my father said, folding his newspaper while my mother switched off the television. “Your mother and I have decided to sell our share of the apartment. Either you buy it from us for three million, or we sell it to strangers. You have one month to decide.”
“Are you out of your minds?” I nearly choked on my tea. “Three million? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”
“That’s not our concern,” my mother replied, her lips tightening. “We’ve done enough. Now we want to live for ourselves, travel, enjoy life. You’re grown up now. You’ll manage.”
I looked at them as though they were people I had never met. The same parents who, twenty years earlier, had sworn there would always be love, care, and loyalty in our family.
The three-bedroom apartment on Taganka had come to us from my grandmother ten years ago. Back then, my parents put it in all three of our names — theirs and mine. I was a third-year university student then.
“It’ll make the family stronger,” they used to say.
I still remember my father clapping me on the shoulder.
“You’re a full owner now, son. This is your home too.”
My mother cooked a праздничный dinner, took out my grandmother’s fine china, and smiled.
“We’ll live peacefully, all together, as one family. Just like in the old days.”
After university, I found work as a programmer. My salary was enough not only to support myself, but to help my parents too. My father had lost his job then, and my mother was earning next to nothing as a sales clerk.
“Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll get through it,” I would say, handing him an envelope with money. “What matters is that we’re together.”
He would shove it awkwardly into his pocket and avoid my eyes.
“Just for now, son… only for now…”
Three years ago, I got married. Alyona is a pediatrician, warm-hearted and kind, the sort of person people trust immediately. She got along with my mother at once. They made jam together, went shopping together, whispered over tea in the kitchen.
“You struck gold with that wife of yours,” my mother used to say admiringly. “You’re lucky, Artyom.”
When our daughter Masha was born, my parents softened even more. My father would spend hours pushing the stroller through the park, and my mother knitted tiny booties and sweaters.
“Our granddaughter is such a beauty,” they cooed. “The whole neighborhood must be jealous.”
Then Alyona went on maternity leave, and money became tight. I took on side jobs and stayed up coding late into the night. By then, my parents had retired — fifteen thousand rubles between the two of them.
“Could you help with the utility bills, at least a little?” I once asked carefully. “Things are really hard right now.”
“We don’t have money either,” my mother cut in. “We’re pensioners. You’re young — figure it out.”
Six months ago, my father suddenly seemed to grow younger. He started going to the gym, bought a trendy jacket, and created an account on Odnoklassniki. My mother got a new haircut and signed up for yoga.
“Life is only beginning!” they declared at dinner. “We’re tired of wasting away inside these four walls.”
After that, things started getting strange. My parents began shutting themselves in their room, whispering on the phone, meeting with unfamiliar people.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing special,” my father answered vaguely. “We’re just talking to new friends.”
Then, a week ago, everything exploded.
“We met a wonderful couple,” my mother said, glowing. “They travel everywhere! They showed us the most amazing photos!”
“And?” I asked while feeding Masha her porridge.
“They sold their apartment in Moscow and now live entirely for pleasure!” my father said dreamily, gazing out the window. “Six months in Thailand, six months traveling through Europe. That’s real living!”
“Good for them,” I muttered.
“We want that too!” my mother blurted out. “While we still have our health. While our legs still work.”
Alyona silently gathered toys from the floor. Masha smeared porridge across her little tray.
“And how exactly do you imagine this?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
“It’s very simple. We sell our share, buy a little house in Krasnodar Krai, and live happily for ourselves.”
“And what about us?”
“What about you? You’re young. You’ll manage.”
The next few days were hell. My parents walked around the apartment like landlords, discussing the sale, meeting with real estate agents.
“We’ve been offered a good price!” my father announced cheerfully. “The buyers are ready to move in immediately!”
“Dad, this is our home. Where are we supposed to live?”
“Rent a place, like every other young family. Or take out a mortgage and buy out our share.”
“I can’t carry a mortgage right now. My wife is on maternity leave, and we have a baby!”
“You should’ve thought of that sooner,” my mother snapped. “Stop living off your parents.”
Alyona burst into tears and ran into the bedroom. Masha stared wide-eyed at the shouting adults.
I tried to appeal to their conscience. I reminded them how I had helped them all these years. How I had paid for my father’s heart surgery. How I had bought my mother a stay at a sanatorium.
“That was your choice,” my mother answered coldly. “We never asked.”
“But I’m your son!”
“So what? We raised you, gave you an education. Our duty is done.”
My father added, “It’s time you learned to stand on your own feet. In our day, nobody clung to their parents.”
“You spent your whole lives living in Grandma’s place!”
“Don’t raise your voice at your father!” my mother shouted. “We have a right to our own life!”
I went to a lawyer. He spread his hands helplessly.
“Legally, they’re within their rights. Co-owners can dispose of their share. The only thing you have is the right of first refusal.”
“But where am I supposed to get three million?”
“Try to negotiate. Maybe they’ll agree to installments.”
They refused.
“We need the money all at once,” my mother said. “We’ve already found a little house by the sea.”
Yesterday, the buyers came. A young couple with two children. They walked through the apartment, talking about renovations.
“We’ll knock down this wall,” the woman said. “And over here we’ll make a walk-in closet.”
“Great apartment,” the man said happily. “Plenty of room for the kids.”
Their children ran from room to room, peering into Masha’s crib.
“Can we live here?” the little boy asked.
“Of course, sweetheart,” his mother said. “We’ll be moving in soon.”
Alyona sat in the kitchen with her face in her hands. Masha was unusually quiet in her playpen.
That night I didn’t sleep. I did the math over and over. Sell the car — four hundred thousand. Borrow from friends — maybe five hundred. Take out a loan — perhaps eight hundred, if I was lucky. Altogether, not even two million. Still short.
In the morning, I found my parents having breakfast, discussing what furniture they would buy for the new house.
“Mom, Dad, let’s talk one more time…”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” my father said, standing up from the table. “Either you buy our share, or you move out.”
“But she’s your granddaughter! Don’t you feel sorry for her?”
My mother turned toward the window.
“She’ll survive in a rented apartment. She’s no princess. We lived in dormitories when we were young, and nothing happened to us.”
Today is the final day of the deadline. Early this morning, my parents packed their things and called a taxi.
“We’re moving in with friends,” my mother announced. “We’ll finalize the sale and then head south. All the best.”
My father added, “Don’t touch our belongings. The realtor will collect them.”
They left without saying goodbye to their granddaughter. They didn’t hug her. They didn’t even look back. They simply turned around and walked out.
Alyona is sitting in the nursery now, sorting through Masha’s things. What should we pack first? Toys? Clothes? The stroller?
“Maybe your parents can help?” I ask my wife.
“They have a one-room apartment in Podolsk. We wouldn’t all fit there…”
Then the doorbell rings.
On the doorstep stands the realtor, the buyers, and a notary.
“Are you ready to sign?” the realtor asks briskly. “Or will you be buying the share?”
I say nothing.
In my pocket is a resignation letter. The only thing I can offer my employer in exchange for a large sum is five years of what amounts to indentured labor. I’ll sign it. For my family, I’ll sign anything.
“I’ll pay the three million,” I tell the buyers. “But I need one week to gather the money.”
“We’ll wait,” the man says with a nod. “One week.”
Evening falls. Alyona is putting Masha to bed. She sings the same lullaby my mother used to sing long ago. Back when she still loved me.
The phone stays silent. My parents do not call. They are probably celebrating their freedom with those new friends, making plans for trips, rejoicing in their new life.
And here we are, sitting among packed bags in an apartment that no longer feels like home.
Masha smiles in her sleep. She does not yet know that her grandparents traded her for a little house by the sea. She does not know that parental love turned out to have a price tag — exactly three million rubles.
Tomorrow, I will go sign away my freedom. Five years of servitude for the right to remain in the apartment where I grew up. Where I took my first steps. Where my parents once promised endless love.
Alyona strokes my hair and whispers,
“We’ll get through this. The important thing is that we’re together.”
The same words I once said to my father.
The circle has closed.
Only now my parents are standing on the other side of it.
And their ticket is one-way.
