“Sveta, just think about it sensibly,” my mother said, putting a fourth helping of herring under a fur coat onto my plate, even though I had already refused three times. “Dimochka is thirty. He has a family to provide for. And you’re living alone in a two-room apartment like some queen. That’s not right.”
I put my fork down. Carefully, on the edge of the plate. Then I looked at my mother for a long moment.
“Mom. Did I understand correctly? You invited me to Sunday lunch so you could ask me to transfer my apartment to Dima?”
My father made a strange choking sound into his glass of compote. My mother pressed her lips together.
“Not transfer it. Sign it over as a gift. That’s different.”
“That is exactly the same thing, Mom. Legally. It just sounds softer.”
“Oh, please, don’t act clever. You can see for yourself — Dimochka and Lena are expecting their second child. They have nowhere to live…”
“They do have somewhere to live, Mom. They have a three-room apartment in Biryulyovo. The one you gave them four years ago. Remember?”
“It’s too small!”
“Seventy-two square meters. I checked the listing when you were buying it. Out of curiosity.”
My name is Sveta. I’m thirty-four. I work as a QA tester at an IT company. My salary is decent — one hundred eighty thousand after taxes. I own a two-room apartment in Kuzminki, forty-eight square meters. I bought it with a mortgage seven years ago and paid it off early three years ago. By myself. With my own money. Without a single kopeck from my parents.
And I have a brother. Dima. Four years younger than me. The beloved son. The provider. The hope of the family. A man with a capital M.
Here is what my parents have done for Dima over the past ten years — I keep count not out of spite, but with the curiosity of an anthropologist:
They paid for his private university. I studied on a state-funded scholarship because I got in on my own.
They bought him his first car after graduation. To me they said, “You have legs.”
They gave him a one-room apartment as a wedding gift. For my wedding, they gave me a dinner set. True, I wasn’t getting married at the time, but the dinner set was “for the future.” It’s still lying in its box.
Then, when their first grandson, Kiryusha, was born, they exchanged that one-room apartment for a three-room one and covered the difference.
The year before last, they gave Dima all their savings — one million eight hundred thousand — for a new Haval, because “a man needs a respectable car for work.”
Where does Dima work? In Uncle Borya’s office, my mother’s brother. As a manager. His salary is ninety thousand. Lena is on maternity leave.
And I, apparently, am a queen in my two-room apartment.
Unfair.
“Sveta, try to understand,” my mother said, pulling out her strongest argument. “We won’t live forever. When we die, everything will go to the children anyway. And Dimochka needs it more.”
“And I don’t need it?”
“You’re a woman! One day you’ll have a husband, and he’ll provide for you. Dimochka has to provide for his family himself.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-four. What husband? I’ve been alone for seven years. And I provide for myself perfectly well. Including that very apartment, which I bought without your help. Without any help at all.”
“We didn’t help you because you’re strong! Dimochka is weaker. He needs support.”
I laughed. Loudly. From the heart.
“Mom, do you even hear yourself? So my reward for being strong is that you take my apartment away and give it to my ‘weaker’ brother? Is that supposed to motivate me to become helpless?”
My father said nothing. He always stayed silent when Mom spoke. In thirty-four years, I had probably heard his own opinion six times.
“Sveta, don’t get so worked up,” my mother said, pouring me some tea. “We’re not demanding it this second. We’ll do it as a family. You sign the apartment over, and you move in with us. Your room is still there, just as it was. We’ll live together. I’ll cook borscht for you…”
I set the cup aside.
“So the plan is this: I give Dima my two-room apartment in Kuzminki. Then I move into your three-room apartment in Perovo, back into my childhood bedroom. At thirty-four years old. With my mother. And I eat borscht. Did I miss anything?”
“What’s so wrong with that? It makes no difference to you. You’re alone.”
“Mom. Do you remember that I had a mortgage? That I paid off this apartment early, crying at night over the interest rates? That for three years I only vacationed in the Moscow region because I was saving every ruble?”
“But you did well! You’re strong!”
“Mom, stop using that word. In your mouth, it means ‘the one we can take things from without consequences.’”
Then my father finally spoke. For the first time that evening.
“Sveta. I’ll tell you this as a man. Dima is about to have a second child. They’re cramped. And you’re a young woman, you’ll earn more. Don’t be greedy.”
I turned to him.
“Dad. As a man, you say? Fine, let’s talk like adults. Tell me: when was the last time you visited me? In my apartment.”
He thought for a moment.
“Well… I don’t remember.”
“I’ll help you. Never. Not once in seven years. Neither you nor Mom. You visit Dima every weekend. You’ve never come to my place. And now you’re telling me I should give away the apartment where you have never even set foot.”
“Well, Dima invites us…”
“And I don’t. Exactly. Because a long time ago I understood that you don’t need me. You need Dima. I’m just the reserve. For a rainy day. Like a can of stew in the cellar.”
My mother pressed her lips together and brought out the heavy artillery.
“Svetlana. I gave birth to you for eighteen hours. Eighteen! I fed you, dressed you, took you to music school!”
“Mom, I walked to music school by myself. On foot. From the age of seven. You were at work.”
“That doesn’t matter! I gave you life! And now you’re being greedy over an apartment!”
“Mom,” I smiled. “How many hours did you spend giving birth to Dima?”
“Six.”
“So I owe you three times more? Logical.”
My father coughed. My mother inhaled sharply, ready to explode, but I got ahead of her.
“Right. Dear parents. Since we’re having an honest family conversation, let me tell you something too. One small secret.”
I took a sip of tea.
“Six months ago, I went to a notary. I made a will. Just in case something happens to me — a car accident, who knows. So. According to my will, the apartment in Kuzminki goes to the ‘Old Age in Joy’ foundation. The one that helps nursing homes.”
Silence.
“What do you mean?” my mother slowly put down her fork.
“I mean, Mom, if something happens to me, Dima gets nothing. And you get nothing. The apartment goes to the foundation. It’s legally confirmed, signed, and registered.”
“You… are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“But why? We’re your family!”
“Exactly, Mom. Family. That’s why it hurt so much. And that’s why I made this decision — so I wouldn’t even be tempted one day to change my mind and leave anything to you. So I would know: mine is mine. Yours is Dima’s. That’s fair.”
My father clutched his chest. Not theatrically — for real. I poured him water and gave him Corvalol. He caught his breath.
“Sveta… cancel the will.”
“Dad, I won’t. It’s my insurance. Against conversations like today’s.”
“Svetlana!” my mother stood up. “You’re heartless! We raised you, and you’re giving everything to some foundation!”
“Mom, there are grandmothers in that foundation who also once had children come to them and ask them to sign over their apartments. And they did. Then those children put them in nursing homes. I’m simply closing the cycle from the beginning.”
“We would never send you anywhere!”
“Of course not, Mom. Because I’m not moving in with you. I’m staying in my apartment. Mine. Do you understand? M-i-n-e.”
Do you know what the funniest part was?
Two weeks later, Lena called me. Dima’s wife. Whispering like a spy.
“Sveta, hi. Listen… is it true that you left your apartment to some foundation?”
“It’s true.”
“And… can I tell you something? Just don’t tell Dima.”
“I won’t.”
“I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time. Your parents are driving me insane. They come every weekend and teach me how to live. I cook wrong, raise the child wrong, dress wrong. Dima never stands up for me — because it’s Mommy, of course. And you know what? I told him that if they come over one more time without being invited, I’ll take the kids and go to my mother in Tver. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Lena.”
“And one more thing. That whole situation with your apartment… I told Dima right away: don’t get involved with Sveta. Everything she has is hers. She earned it. It’s low. And he said, ‘Mom asked.’ I told him, ‘You’re thirty years old. What do you mean, Mom asked?’”
I smiled into the phone.
“Lena. How about I come over on Saturday? I’ll bring cake. I’d like to properly meet Kiryusha. Last time I saw him was two years ago.”
“Come, of course! Dima will be glad. But… we’re not inviting your parents, okay?”
“Agreed.”
A month later, I went to visit them. With a big Napoleon cake from VkusVill. Kiryusha turned out to be a great kid — four years old, serious, and obsessed with dinosaurs. Lena was a normal woman, simply exhausted by pregnancy and her mother-in-law.
Dima was… well, Dima. Sitting there, playing on his console, complaining about life. Not evil, just weak-willed. A classic mama’s boy.
I didn’t talk to him about the apartment. What was the point? He wouldn’t have understood. He lives in a world where an older sister owes him. Where Mother knows best. Where a Haval means success, and debt is normal.
Let him live in that world.
I live in mine.
And now Lena and I call each other once a week. I tell her about work and TV shows. She tells me about the kids and how she told off my mother again. So, it turns out, I gained a sister-in-law.
But not relatives.
Sometimes that’s how it happens. Blood doesn’t automatically make a family. Family is made of the people you’re not afraid to show your tiredness to.
And my apartment is still there. In Kuzminki. With a geranium on the windowsill, bookshelves covering an entire wall, and my cat Vaska sleeping on the radiator.
Mine.
Left to the foundation in my will.
And I sleep peacefully.
