Artyom sat in the kitchen, turning a small silver spoon between his fingers — the one his grandmother had given him when he was still a child. Kira stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot. It was already the third time that week he had brought up the same subject, and every time he ran into the same wall.
“Kira, Mom asked when we’re going to come by. She wants to meet you before the wedding. Just sit together, have some tea.”
“Artyom, I already told you. I don’t need those introductions. Valeria’s mother-in-law made her life hell. Same with Zoya. I’m not planning to step on the same rake.”
“But my mother is a different person. She isn’t Valeria’s mother-in-law, and she isn’t Zoya’s either. You understand that, don’t you?”
Kira turned and looked at him with the kind of expression that meant the discussion was over. Artyom inhaled deeply and placed the spoon down. Patience had always been something he considered one of his strengths.
“Listen, Dasha has a wonderful relationship with her mother-in-law. They go to exhibitions together, they call each other every day. Doesn’t that prove that not all mothers-in-law are the same?”
“Dasha is Dasha. I’m me. My sisters have real experience, not fairy tales about perfect families.”
“But you haven’t even given my mother a chance.”
Kira put the spoon on the table and sat down across from him. She took his hand and gently stroked his palm. There was tenderness in the gesture, but behind it stood something unbending and stubborn.
“I’m not forcing you to communicate with my mother. She would become your mother-in-law, and mothers-in-law always mean conflict. Let’s just live separately from everyone. You and me. No one else.”
“Kira, I’d be happy to talk to your mother. Where did you get the idea that I wouldn’t want to?”
She shrugged and returned to the stove. Artyom understood that there would be no progress today.
Galina Petrovna called on Sunday morning. Artyom was in the bathroom, and his phone was lying on the coffee table. Kira glanced at the screen, saw the word “Mom,” hesitated for one second, and answered.
“Don’t call anymore.”
She ended the call and placed the phone back where it had been. When Artyom came out, drying his hair with a towel, Kira was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a magazine as if nothing had happened. He picked up his phone, saw the missed call, and called back.
“Mom, did you call? Sorry, I didn’t hear it.”
Galina Petrovna was silent for a few seconds. Then she said quietly:
“Artyomushka, someone answered your phone. A woman’s voice. She said, ‘Don’t call.’”
Artyom slowly lowered the towel. He looked at Kira. She kept turning the magazine pages with the expression of someone studying something extremely important.
“Mom, I’ll call you back.”
He sat down beside Kira and took the magazine from her hands. She raised her eyes. There wasn’t a drop of remorse in them.
“Why did you do that?”
“What’s the big deal? I simply set a boundary. She calls too often.”
“That is my mother. She calls me. On my phone. You are going to call her right now and apologize.”
“Artyom, are you serious?”
“Completely.”
Kira rolled her eyes, but one look at his face told her he wasn’t going to back down. She dialed the number, forced out a few polite words, hung up, and went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Artyom remained sitting there. A heavy, sticky feeling settled inside him.
Three days later, Kira came home with a new idea. She sat beside him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and spoke in that honeyed voice he used to love so much.
“Let’s go to the seaside before the wedding. For a week. Turkey or Egypt — your choice. We’ll rest, get a tan, and get into the mood for the celebration.”
“Kira, I just finished paying off the mortgage. I still have two loans hanging over me. What money are we supposed to travel with?”
“Well, ask your mother. She lives alone, doesn’t she? She doesn’t have much to spend money on. I’m sure she has savings.”
Artyom pulled away and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. The air between them seemed to thicken.
“Wait. You don’t want to meet her. You don’t want her calling. You were rude to her on the phone. But taking money from her is fine?”
“That’s different.”
“No, Kira. It’s exactly the same thing. It’s called conscience.”
Kira got up silently and went into the bedroom. This time the door closed quietly, but that silence was louder than any slam.
Galina Petrovna came to the city to visit her sister. Aunt Rita was in the hospital after a bad fall — a broken ankle, a cast, IV drips. Galina Petrovna stayed with her until evening, adjusting her pillows and telling her the latest news.
“Ritulechka, I’ll stop by Artyom’s, all right? He left his keychain at your place last time, the one with the lighthouse. It means a lot to him. It was his grandfather’s.”
“Of course, go. But be careful with that fiancée of his. Artyom told Dasha, and Dasha told me.”
“I’ll just give him the keychain and leave.”
Galina Petrovna reached her son’s building, climbed to the fourth floor, and rang the doorbell. Kira opened the door. She was wearing a house robe, her hair gathered into a bun. Her eyes instantly turned icy.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Artyom’s mother. Galina Petrovna. I brought him something he left at his aunt’s.”
Kira didn’t move aside. She stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance, looking down at the woman even though she was half a head shorter.
“Artyom isn’t home. Leave it and go. And don’t come here again.”
“My dear, I only wanted—”
“I am not your dear. And this is not your home. Goodbye.”
The door slammed shut. Galina Petrovna stood for a moment in front of the closed door, placed the keychain on the mat, and slowly went down the stairs. She didn’t call her son. She didn’t want to complain. He was an adult. He would figure it out himself.
That evening, Artyom came home. Kira was having dinner in the kitchen, and Zoya was sitting beside her — she had stopped by to discuss details for the wedding banquet. Artyom hung up his jacket and walked into the kitchen. Kira looked up and smiled.
“By the way, your mother came here today. I didn’t let her in. There’s no need for her to show up without warning.”
Artyom froze. Zoya was chewing a sandwich and flipping through a restaurant catalog.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. She came, and I told her to leave. Artyom, we agreed.”
“We did not agree. You decided for both of us.”
“What difference does it make? The result is the same. She left, everything is calm.”
Artyom went into the hallway and dialed his mother’s number. She answered after the first ring.
“Mom, did you come by today?”
“Yes, Artyomushka. I wanted to give you your grandfather’s keychain. I left it on the mat, look there. Don’t worry, everything is fine.”
“Mom, what did she say to you?”
Galina Petrovna paused.
“Son, don’t take it to heart. I understand. Young people have their own rules.”
“Mom. What exactly did she say?”
“She said it wasn’t my home. That I shouldn’t come again.”
Artyom closed his eyes. Then he opened them. Suddenly the world around him became crystal clear, like a lens finally brought into focus.
He returned to the kitchen. Kira kept eating. Zoya looked up from the catalog.
“Kira, stand up.”
“Why?”
“Please stand up.”
She stood, still smiling. Artyom went into the bedroom, took a suitcase from the closet, and began packing Kira’s things. Methodically. Neatly. Without rushing. Blouses, skirts, dresses — everything went in even stacks.
Kira appeared in the doorway a minute later.
“Artyom, what are you doing?”
“Packing your things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You’re leaving.”
Zoya rushed in after her, still clutching the restaurant catalog.
“Artyom, have you lost your mind? The wedding is in three weeks! The dress has been bought, the hall is booked, the invitations have been sent!”
Artyom looked at her the way one looks at a stranger who has accidentally walked into the wrong apartment.
“Zoya, who are you to me?”
“What do you mean, who am I? I’m Kira’s sister! I’m going to be your sister-in-law!”
“No. Kira refused to acknowledge my relatives. She didn’t allow my mother past the threshold. That means we don’t have any shared family ties. And you are a stranger standing in my apartment.”
Zoya opened her mouth but found no words. Kira grabbed Artyom by the sleeve.
“You can’t do this. Because of one visit? Because I didn’t open the door?”
“You didn’t just refuse to open the door. You humiliated my mother. A woman who came from another city, visited her sick sister in the hospital, and only wanted to give me something. You told her this wasn’t her home. Her — the mother of the only person who actually lives here.”
“Artyom, I was protecting our future!”
“From what? From a woman holding a keychain?”
Kira tried another approach. Her voice became soft, pleading.
“All right. Fine, I was wrong. Let’s talk. I’ll call her, I’ll apologize. We’ll invite her for dinner.”
“It’s too late. You already apologized after that phone call. An apology without change is just a set of words.”
“But I’ll change!”
“Kira, for three months you refused to meet her. Then you were rude to her on the phone. Then you suggested taking money from her. Then you slammed the door in her face. And you told me about it proudly. At what point exactly were you planning to change?”
Zoya tried to interfere.
“Listen, maybe you should cool down? Things look different in the morning.”
“Zoya, I’m asking you to leave. This is not your conversation.”
“I’m not leaving without my sister!”
“Excellent. Then you’ll leave together.”
Artyom zipped the suitcase shut. He carried it into the hallway and placed it by the door. Then he returned and took the wedding dress in its cover from the chair — Kira had hung it there the previous evening and admired it before going to bed.
“Take this too.”
Kira took the dress. Her hands trembled slightly. She looked into his eyes, searching for even a drop of doubt. She found none.
“You’ll regret this. You’ll never meet another woman like me.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
The door closed.
Artyom stood in the middle of the apartment. The cover from the dress had left a white rectangular mark of dust on the floor. He walked through the rooms and collected the small things she had forgotten: a hairpin, a magazine, a phone charger. He put everything into a bag. Tomorrow he would send it by courier.
He put the kettle on. Took out that same silver spoon. Brewed strong tea and sat at the table. Then he dialed his mother.
“Mom, forgive me. There won’t be a wedding.”
“Artyomushka… What happened?”
“A woman who doesn’t respect my mother will never respect me either. I only understood that today. Forgive me for realizing it so late.”
Galina Petrovna sighed softly on the other end.
“Son, I’m sorry. But better now than ten years later.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Come on Saturday. Aunt Rita is being discharged, Dasha will come too. We’ll sit together.”
“I’ll definitely come.”
Artyom finished his tea, washed the cup, and placed it on the shelf.
A week passed.
On Saturday, he sat at Aunt Rita’s place, helping her move around on crutches. Dasha was cooking in the kitchen. Galina Petrovna was peeling apples. It was quiet, warm, and right.
Dasha’s phone rang. She answered, listened, and returned to the table with wide eyes.
“That was Valeria. Kira’s older sister.”
“And?” Aunt Rita asked, settling herself on the sofa.
“Kira went back to her parents. She couldn’t return the dress — the store won’t take it back. The restaurant hall — the deposit is gone. The invitations had already been sent out, and now everyone they know keeps asking what happened.”
Artyom shrugged.
“I’m sorry about the wasted money, but the hall and the deposit were her initiative. She chose the restaurant. She made the advance payment.”
Dasha continued:
“But that’s not all. Valeria said Kira had a fight with both of her sisters. Zoya refused to support her — said Kira brought it on herself. Valeria said the same.”
“Zoya? The same one who was yelling at me in the hallway a week ago?”
“The very same. She says she reconsidered the situation. And that her own mother-in-law isn’t actually that bad — they both simply never made an effort.”
Aunt Rita snorted and bit into an apple.
“So the girl ended up alone. No fiancé, no support from her sisters, stuck with a useless dress and a burned deposit.”
“Looks that way,” Dasha nodded.
Galina Petrovna silently looked at her son. Artyom caught her gaze.
“Mom, don’t worry. I’m fine.”
“I can see that. I’m just thinking… maybe I should have insisted on meeting her earlier. Then everything would have become clear before you applied for the marriage registration.”
“No. Everything happened at the right time. If I hadn’t found out now, I would have found out a year later. Only then there would have been a stamp in the passport and shared debts.”
Aunt Rita raised her cup of tea.
“To clarity. The most underrated thing in the world.”
“To clarity,” Artyom repeated.
They drank tea. Dasha told funny stories. Aunt Rita taught Artyom how to adjust a crutch properly. And the phone on the table remained silent. Not one message from Kira. Not one call.
Artyom smiled. For the first time in a month, it came easily.
Two days later, one final piece of news arrived — something he hadn’t expected. Dasha called, her voice both astonished and a little sympathetic.
“Artyom, sit down.”
“I’m sitting. What happened?”
“Remember how Kira wanted to go to the seaside?”
“I remember.”
“She went. To Turkey. With the same money that had been set aside for the wedding banquet.”
“The money we both contributed?”
“No. She only took her own part, don’t worry. But here’s the funny thing. She posted photos online with the caption: ‘Freedom is the best wedding.’”
Artyom was silent for a moment. Then he laughed.
“Well. At least that’s honest. She always wanted the seaside more than she wanted marriage.”
“But there’s more. The comments under the photos. Her former friends, colleagues, even Valeria and Zoya — everyone wrote what really happened. The whole story. About your mother, the door, the phone call. Kira deleted the post two hours later, but screenshots had already spread.”
Artyom put the kettle on. He took out the silver spoon. His grandmother really had known how to choose gifts — such a small thing, yet when you held it in your hand, it felt as though everything would be all right.
“Dasha, tell Mom I’ll come again on Saturday. And tell Aunt Rita not to hop around the stairs on her crutches. I’ll get the groceries myself.”
“I’ll tell them. Artyom?”
“Yes?”
“You did the right thing. Not everyone would have had the courage.”
“I didn’t have courage. I simply saw clearly. And once you see clearly, there’s no choice left.”