“Windows overlooking the courtyard, first floor,” Dasha said briskly into the phone, pacing nervously across the wooden floor of the veranda. “Forty-five square meters. We’ll give only a small discount. The old woman will move into a studio on the outskirts, and we’ll keep the difference.”
The rough fibers of the cheap country-house blanket scratched unpleasantly against my neck. The wooden chair beneath me felt like the most uncomfortable seat in the entire region. I had arrived here only recently, sincerely believing my daughter’s sweet talk about the healing forest air. In the morning, she had sung praises about how badly I needed rest in nature. But once darkness fell, the real reason for my exile became clear: my enterprising heiress was selling my only home right now.
Dasha went on talking, completely unaware of my presence. She irritably adjusted the collar of her soft cashmere cardigan. Her voice was calm and flat, as if she were reading a dull report about writing off old furniture from a warehouse.
“Yes, Kirill is there now. He’ll let you see the layout. He has the keys,” she said to the invisible person on the other end, then ended the call.
I gripped the rough upholstery of the chair even harder. My foolish habit of always looking for excuses for people worked automatically, offering me thin straws of hope. Maybe a pipe had burst. Maybe they had huge debts, and that was why my only daughter had gone to such extremes.
With difficulty, I forced myself up from that miserable seat and stepped onto the veranda.
“Are you selling my home?” I asked, trying to keep my voice as even and restrained as possible.
My daughter did not even flinch. She lazily shifted her gaze toward me, her entire expression full of unbelievable condescension.
“Oh, Mom, please, let’s not start with provincial drama and hand-wringing,” she said, grimacing with irritation. “It’s simply an optimization of space. It will be more convenient for everyone.”
She took a step toward me, bringing in the chill from outside. There was not a single trace of remorse or embarrassment in her eyes.
“You absolutely don’t need three rooms all to yourself. You just collect dust there,” Dasha continued in a confident, lecturing tone. “We found you a lovely studio in a new residential district. It has a great view of the highway and a shop on the ground floor. And Kirill and I urgently need money to renovate the townhouse.”
A cold draft crept under my sweater through a gap in the frame. I looked at this grown, polished woman and could no longer recognize my own child.
“My home is not just concrete and wallpaper, Dasha. My neighbors are there, my clinic is there, the little park where I walk every evening is there,” I tried to object. “I am not moving to the edge of nowhere for the sake of your new flooring.”
My daughter let out a long, heavy sigh. She skillfully performed unbearable exhaustion at my hopeless stupidity.
“Mom, your sentimental memories have no market value. Our design project does,” she snapped. “I already brought boxes. Tomorrow morning we’ll start packing your crystal and those awful Soviet dinner sets that should have been thrown away years ago.”
She confidently reached for my worn leather handbag, which was lying on the small cabinet by the door.
“Take out your passport. The realtor wants a photo of it to prepare the preliminary contract. Kirill is showing them the bathroom right now. We need to strike while the iron is hot.”
Her strange fingers, with their perfect manicure, touched the clasp of my bag without the slightest hesitation. In that exact moment, my endless faith in my daughter’s good intentions vanished completely.
She was not saving the family from disaster. She was simply moving money from my pocket into hers, treating me as an annoying obstacle on the way to a luxurious renovation. I covered her hand with my palm and firmly pushed it away from my things.
“There will be no passport, Dasha,” I said with absolute calm. “And there will be no move to a lovely studio with a view of the highway either.”
My daughter blinked her painted lashes in confusion. Her well-groomed face twisted with sincere, genuine outrage.
“You are acting selfish again! You’re ruining a perfect deal because of your stubbornness!” Her voice rose into an indignant shriek. “We’ve already paid a deposit for Italian tiles!”
I did not try to appeal to her conscience. There is no point preaching morality to a person who measures her mother in square meters. I simply slung the long strap of my handbag over my shoulder and headed toward the gate.
“Where do you think you’re going at this hour?” my daughter shouted after me, nervously tugging at her expensive cashmere. “The buses aren’t running, and no city taxi will ever come all the way out here!”
“I called Mikhailich from the neighboring plot. For a thousand rubles, he’ll be delighted to take me back to the city in his old Niva,” I answered, buttoning up my warm coat. “The most rational thing I can do right now is return to my legal territory.”
I took the country-house keys from my pocket and silently placed them on the smooth surface of the plastic table. The dry clatter of the keyring against the plastic became my only answer to her outraged speeches.
Mikhailich turned out to be wonderfully punctual. All the way back, he cheerfully told fishing stories while I watched the streetlights flicker past and gathered my thoughts. By midnight, I was already standing on the landing outside my apartment.
The door opened easily. A bright light was on in the hallway, and from the living room came the enthusiastic voice of my son-in-law.
“Here we’ll knock down the load-bearing wall and create a luxurious kitchen-living room. Buyers will be thrilled by the amount of light,” Kirill announced to someone unseen.
I silently slipped off my shoes and looked into the room. My son-in-law, with an extremely focused expression, was stretching a measuring tape from one corner to the other. Beside him stood a thin young man in an inexpensive suit, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.
“Good evening, gentlemen architects,” I said loudly, leaning against the doorframe.
The yellow tape snapped back with a loud crack, striking Kirill painfully across the fingers. My son-in-law jumped comically in place, while the realtor dropped his notebook straight onto the old parquet floor.
“Olga Ivanovna?” Kirill turned pale, nervously hiding the measuring tape behind his back. “Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying nature? Dasha said you really liked it there.”
“The nature turned out to be too aggressive. I decided to return to my natural habitat,” I said, smiling sweetly at the thin young man. “Young man, the tour is over. The showroom is closed indefinitely.”
The young man turned out to be quite quick-witted. He mumbled an indistinct apology, snatched up his notebook, and disappeared from the apartment faster than I could blink. My son-in-law and I were left alone.
“Now listen carefully, aspiring builder,” I said, nodding toward the exit. “You have exactly one minute to leave the premises. Otherwise, I’ll call the police, and we’ll spend a very long time discussing unlawful entry into someone else’s home.”
“Olga Ivanovna, this is practically our shared living space in the future!” my son-in-law protested, slowly backing into the hallway. “We’re only trying to take care of you!”
“In the future, you’ll be walking back to your country house on foot if you don’t hurry up,” I said, taking his jacket from the hanger and thrusting it into his hands. “My apartment is not a sponsorship fund for your townhouse. It is my personal fortress.”
Kirill shot out the door like a bullet, leaving his cursed measuring tape behind on the cabinet. I clicked the lock twice, securing every turn. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I would call a locksmith and have the strongest reinforced door in the entire neighborhood installed.