The zipper on my autumn boot jammed completely. I yanked at the pull in irritation, nearly breaking a nail, just as my phone started vibrating in the pocket of my jacket. Olga Nikolaevna’s name flashed on the screen—the quiet music teacher who rented my little one-room apartment on Prospekt Avenue.
“Zhenya, please forgive me,” the woman said, her voice trembling. In the background, a neighbor’s dog was barking itself hoarse. “I wouldn’t call at nine in the evening if it weren’t serious… but your mother came by half an hour ago. Nina Vasilyevna.”
I froze, still wearing one boot. Damp leather gave off a cold, musty smell.
“And why did she come?”
“She told me to start packing my boxes. She said the apartment urgently needed to go to your brother Matvey because he’s going to be a father soon. She gave me three days to move out. Zhenya, we only discussed replacing the utility meters yesterday… Where am I supposed to go now with a piano and a cat?”
It suddenly felt hot and tight beneath my ribs. I leaned my forehead against the cold hallway mirror, trying to steady my breathing.
“Olga Nikolaevna, take your medicine and don’t worry about anything. We have an official lease. Tomorrow morning I’ll call a locksmith and have the locks changed. And I’m going to speak to my mother right now.”
I ended the call and dialed my parents’ number. The phone was answered immediately, as if she had been waiting with it in her hand.
“Mom, have you completely lost your mind?” I blurted out, stepping over the shoes scattered in the hallway. “What right do you have to go to my tenant and try to throw her out onto the street?”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that!” Nina Vasilyevna snapped at once. Her voice had that hard, ringing tone that never allowed objections. “I was actually trying to do something nice for you. Matvey and Dasha have filed their marriage papers.”
“Congratulations. What does that have to do with my property?”
“Your brother is getting married, so give him the apartment!” my mother declared. “Dasha is pregnant. I’m not going to drag my future daughter-in-law into our cramped little house in the settlement. You and Anton live in a big three-room place, you have plenty of space. Your apartment is just sitting there empty anyway.”
“It’s not empty. People live there. They pay me rent. That is my income.”
“Income!” she scoffed. “Your own brother is supposed to keep drifting from one rental to another while you make money off strangers? Your Anton earns perfectly well at the car repair shop, you won’t starve. Matvey needs a start in life. I already promised Dasha’s mother that the young couple would move into the city.”
“Then take your promise back. I’m not giving him the keys. Matvey is thirty years old. Let him go get a job.”
I hung up and tossed the phone onto the upholstered bench. A bitter lump rose in my throat. Matvey needs a start. That refrain had been playing in our family for the last ten years.
Seven years earlier, when our grandfather passed away, my brother and I had received equal shares from the sale of his old house and land.
I was twenty-one then. I took my share and bought a tiny room in a communal apartment on the outskirts of the city. At night I pasted wallpaper there with my own hands, and during the day I worked as a cashier in a building supply store. I always smelled of dust and cheap vending-machine coffee. In the room next to mine lived an elderly woman who was half deaf and completely alone. I bought kefir for her, changed her light bulbs, and when she became too weak to care for herself, I helped her with everything. Before she died, she signed her room over to me. I sold both rooms, added my savings, took out a small loan, and bought that very one-room apartment.
And what had Matvey done with his “start”? He bought a used SUV so he could show off in front of girls. Two months later, on an empty road, he got into an accident and drove it into a ditch. The car was beyond repair. He burned through the rest of the money on new phones and nights out in bars.
That evening Anton came home from work. He listened to my halting story in silence while slicing cheese in the kitchen.
“Your mother is an unbelievable woman,” my husband sighed, sliding a mug of tea toward me. “Matvey got a girl pregnant, and somehow you’re the one expected to pay for it. Did you tell her anything about what’s going on with us?”
“I didn’t get the chance. She wouldn’t even listen.”
“Well, then you’ll tell her in person. She’s not going to let this go easily.”
Anton was right.
On Saturday morning, when he had gone to the tire shop, the doorbell rang insistently. I looked through the peephole and silently groaned. My mother and Matvey were standing on the landing. My brother shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, holding a large plaid bag.
I unlocked the door and opened it halfway.
“Come in,” I said dryly.
My mother swept into the hallway first. Her coat smelled faintly of smoke, as though she had been standing outside the building for a while. Matvey squeezed in after her, carefully avoiding my eyes.
“Let’s skip the drama, Zhenya,” my mother said, kicking off her shoes and marching straight into the kitchen, where she shoved a stool aside as if she owned the place. “Zinaida—Dasha’s mother—has been nagging me nonstop. She doesn’t like the idea of her daughter drifting around in rented apartments. So give me the keys. Matvey will move his things in today, and you can deal with your tenants yourself.”
I leaned against the kitchen doorway and folded my arms across my chest. Then I looked at my brother. He was sitting on the edge of a chair, fiddling with the strap of his watch.
“Matvey, and how does this feel to you personally?” I asked. “Are you really okay sitting here while Mom begs for someone else’s home on your behalf? Doesn’t anything about this bother you?”
He turned red, but stubbornly lifted his chin.
“Zhenya, why are you making a big deal out of this?” he muttered. “You and Anton have two cars and a huge apartment. You can always earn more. Dasha and I don’t have a spare cent. She needs fruit, peace, stability. What, you can’t do this one thing for your own nephew?”
The sheer, shameless entitlement knocked the breath out of me. I stepped closer to the table and braced both hands against it.
“It’s not the nephew I feel sorry for!” My voice cracked and rang through the tiny kitchen. “I refuse to hand over what I earned with my own back to a thirty-year-old man who’s spent his entire life riding on other people’s shoulders! I spent years caring for a helpless old woman and saving every penny. And while I was doing that, you were blowing Grandpa’s money in garages and nightclubs!”
“Don’t you dare throw that in your brother’s face!” my mother snapped, slamming her palm on the table so hard the cups rattled. “He was young and stupid! That’s what family is for—to help when life gets hard!”
“This isn’t life getting hard, Mom! These are the consequences of his laziness!” I could feel my knees trembling, but by then I couldn’t stop. “And did you ask me even once this past month why I look pale? Why I quit my job?”
My mother twisted her mouth with contempt.
“Oh please. Poor thing must have gotten tired shuffling papers around an office. Don’t be ridiculous.”
I turned, walked into the hallway, pulled a folded sheet of A4 paper from my handbag, and came back into the kitchen. I placed it directly in front of her.
“Look at it. Read it out loud, if your eyesight still works.”
She pursed her lips, annoyed, and lowered her gaze to the document. It was my ultrasound report and a doctor’s letter stamped by a private clinic. Her eyes darted across the lines. For a second she blinked, as if she thought there must be a mistake. Then the skin on her face seemed to sag all at once, turning gray.
“Sixteen weeks,” I said quietly, but with absolute clarity. “Four months. I’ve been so sick I could barely get out of bed. The doctors forbade stress of any kind. I had to leave my job. And the money Olga Nikolaevna sends me every month is my only safety net. I need it to pay the clinic, to buy a stroller, a crib, baby things.”
Then I looked at my brother. He was sitting there with his mouth slightly open, staring at the paper.
“You and Mom came here to take money away from my unborn child and hand it to you. Because, Matvey, you don’t feel like unloading freight cars or working double shifts.”
The kitchen fell so silent I could hear the low hum of the refrigerator. My mother swallowed hard.
“Zhenya…” she whispered, still not lifting her eyes. “But why didn’t you tell us?”
“Did you ask?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Did you call me even once just to ask how I was sleeping? No. You only ever call when Matvey needs rescuing again.”
Matvey suddenly shoved his chair back. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He simply grabbed the plaid bag from the floor. Red blotches spread over his face.
“Let’s go, Mom,” he said hoarsely. “That’s enough.”
“Matyusha, sweetheart, wait…” my mother fluttered helplessly between me and the hallway.
“I said let’s go!” he shouted so loudly that she flinched.
They put on their shoes in total silence. Nina Vasilyevna tried to say something to me before leaving, but the words died in her throat. The door slammed. My legs gave out, and I just sank to the floor, covering my face with my hands. It had been a brutal blow—but at the same time, I felt impossibly lighter.
Two days later, a long message arrived from my brother. No apology. No extra words. It simply said:
Dasha and I rented a room on Mira Avenue. I got a job at an electronics warehouse and I’m taking night shifts. Don’t listen to Mom. Live your life in peace.
After that, Zinaida—Dasha’s mother—stopped trying to call and start scandals. Apparently Matvey had shut those conversations down for good. He and his wife live very modestly now, counting every ruble until payday, but for the first time in his life, my brother is carrying his own weight.
My tenant, Olga Nikolaevna, still pays the rent right on time. Recently she even sent, through Anton, two pairs of tiny wool socks she had knitted herself.
My mother calls often now. She no longer gives orders or makes demands. She speaks softly, cautiously asks about my test results, offers to come over and make soup. I answer politely, but I do not let her too close. Distance is the healthiest medicine for relationships like these.
I stroke my rounded belly and know one thing for certain: my child will have an ocean of love and care. But I will never become the kind of mother who tears food from one child’s mouth to feed another. The most important thing is to teach your children to take responsibility for their own choices before life teaches them instead—and life is always far harsher.
