— Kostya, look at this, — Natasha said, holding out her phone to her husband. Something in her voice made him put the remote aside.
He took the smartphone and scrolled through the list of files in the voice recorder app. There were several recordings, all without titles.
— Where did these come from?
— I don’t know. Just press play.
He did. And immediately recognized his mother’s voice — except she wasn’t speaking the way she usually did when Natasha was around. There was no warmth, no politeness.
“Did you see what she wears when she goes to the market? Dressed like that, she should only be going out to buy potatoes. And then she has the nerve to lecture me about taste…”
Natasha silently took the phone back and deleted the file. Her cheeks had turned red.
 
— Don’t let it bother you, — Kostya said. — You know what she’s like. She complains, then forgets about it.
Natasha didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen and started rearranging things, clattering dishes for much longer than necessary. Kostya returned to the television, but he was no longer really watching it.
That evening Natasha was making pancakes while Kostya tried to figure out what was wrong with the water heater. It had started leaking again where it connected to the pipe. It was the third time that month.
— Maybe we should call a plumber? — Natasha asked without turning away from the stove.
— I’ll take a look myself. It’s probably just the gasket.
— That’s what you said last time.
Kostya didn’t reply. He reached into the cabinet for his tools.
The apartment had belonged to Natasha’s father, and she inherited it after he passed away. It was a two-bedroom place in an older apartment building on Profsoyuznaya Street. It wasn’t new, but it was solid and comfortable. They had renovated it properly: replaced the pipes, enclosed the balcony, and put up fresh wallpaper in what would eventually become the child’s room.
Their son Sasha was approaching his second birthday. He didn’t have a separate bedroom yet, but they were already thinking about how to create one — perhaps by moving a partition or dividing off part of the larger room.
 
Most importantly, there was no mortgage. That alone allowed them to live without counting every last coin the way many of Kostya’s coworkers had to.
The doorbell rang just as Natasha placed the finished pancakes on a plate.
— I came to see my little Sashenka! — announced Galina Petrovna, Kostya’s mother, the moment she stepped inside.
She carried a bag from a children’s store and a small box of marshmallows.
— I bought him a new rattle. And these are for you, for tea.
— Thank you. Come in, — Natasha said, taking the sweets and putting them on the table.
Her mother-in-law immediately went into the room to see her grandson, and affectionate baby talk could soon be heard from inside.
Natasha poured tea and remembered how, only a week earlier, Galina Petrovna had sat at the same table talking about the present she had bought for her daughter Oksana — the newest tablet model.
“She studies remotely. She needs it,” she had said.
At the same time, she had looked at Natasha’s old laptop as though its very existence offended her personally.
There had been another incident about nine months earlier.
 
Galina Petrovna had arrived carrying a folder filled with old printed photographs.
— Kostya, look. Do you remember Yulia from the class next to yours? I ran into her mother. Yulia lives in Moscow now. Her husband is a department manager at a bank…
Natasha had quietly picked up one photograph from the folder. It showed a much younger Galina Petrovna standing beside her husband.
— You look very nice here, — Natasha had said.
She put the picture back and refused to continue the subject.
Galina Petrovna eventually took the folder home, but for some reason that conversation stayed in Natasha’s memory.
— Children, — Galina Petrovna said now, returning from the room and sitting down at the table. — I wanted to discuss something important with you. Something serious.
She pulled several printed pages from her handbag. They were apartment listings from some real-estate website.
 
— Look. Three-bedroom apartments in a new residential complex on Varshavskoye Highway. It’s a good development, and construction is supposed to be completed next year. Here’s what I’m thinking. We sell my apartment, sell yours, combine the money, and buy one large apartment for all of us. Sasha gets his own room, you two get a bedroom, and I’ll take the smallest room. We divide the household expenses between us. Everyone benefits.
Natasha looked at Kostya.
He was staring at the printouts with an unreadable expression.
— Interesting, — Natasha said calmly. — We’ll think about it.
— Just don’t think too long, — Galina Petrovna replied, gathering the papers. — Half the apartments are already sold.
After she left, Kostya sat down on the sofa and stretched out his legs.
— No, — he said simply.
— I’m against it too. But why did you decide so quickly?
He remained silent for a moment, then got up, walked to the window, and came back.
 
— Did you know that when I was about six, Mom sometimes made me wear Oksana’s dresses?
Natasha looked at him.
— She called it a game. Dad saw it once and yelled at her. Later Oksana was born, and somehow I just moved into the background.
Natasha listened without interrupting.
— Things were always different with her, — Kostya continued. — If Oksana broke one of my toy cars, it was an accident. If I got the highest grade at school, Mom said, “Good, that’s what you’re supposed to do.” If Oksana got one, we had cake and celebrated. When I got into technical college, Mom said I was lucky to have gotten a reasonable examiner.
— Kostya…
— I’m not complaining. I just understand something now. If we all move in together, Sasha is going to grow up in exactly the same kind of situation.
Natasha didn’t say anything. She simply reached over and took his hand.
Kostya stared at the wall.
— We are not selling the apartment, — he said. — That is not up for discussion.
 
Life continued as usual.
Sasha got sick, recovered, and then got sick again — the normal cycle of life with a small child. Kostya worked overtime. Natasha started working part-time and found some online freelance work.
On Saturdays they drove to the supermarket for groceries. On Sundays they sometimes visited Natasha’s family.
One weekend, Galina Petrovna asked Natasha to help prepare for her sixtieth birthday celebration. There would be guests, and she wanted everything done properly.
Natasha arrived early in the morning.
Galina Petrovna’s kitchen looked spotless and almost impersonal, like a showroom. Built-in appliances, polished surfaces, an induction stove Natasha had once seen in a store with a price tag of eighty thousand rubles.
— Roll the dough thinner, — Galina Petrovna instructed. — And put those napkins away. Use the ones from the top drawer, the patterned ones.
At one point the intercom buzzed. A flower delivery had arrived.
Natasha went to open the entrance door and helped the courier bring several boxes to the elevator. Then she returned to the kitchen.
She left sometime after three.
 
Back at home, she started the washing machine and reached into her bag for her phone.
It wasn’t there.
— Damn it.
She couldn’t call from Kostya’s phone because he had taken it to work. Instead, she messaged Galina Petrovna and asked her to keep the phone safe until morning.
The next day Natasha stopped by after work.
Her phone was lying near the bread box at the edge of the kitchen counter.
She slipped it into her pocket, said goodbye, and went home.
Later, while Sasha was asleep, she opened the phone and noticed that the voice recorder app was still running.
The recording icon was active.
Apparently it had been recording since the previous day.
Natasha stopped it and pressed play.
For the first five minutes there were ordinary kitchen sounds — dishes, footsteps, voices of guests.
Then the apartment became quieter.
Most of the guests had apparently left.
 
Two people remained.
“…we’ll sell their apartment and mine. We can rent them a room somewhere, or they can figure things out for themselves. Then you and I can finally live properly.”
It was Galina Petrovna’s voice.
Calm. Matter-of-fact. Without the slightest embarrassment.
Then came Oksana’s voice.
“And what if Kostya refuses?”
“Kostya doesn’t know how to argue with me. And I’ll deal with her. I have other ways of putting pressure on her.”
Natasha stopped the recording.
She got up, went into the kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and drank it.
So that was the truth.
When Kostya returned home, Natasha silently handed him a pair of headphones and played the recording from the important part.
He listened while standing in the hallway, still wearing his jacket.
When it finished, he slowly took off his shoes, hung up his jacket, and walked into the kitchen.
— All right, — he finally said.
 
— What does “all right” mean?
— No deals. None.
Galina Petrovna called four days later.
She said she wanted to bring Sasha a treat and, while she was there, discuss the apartment question again. She claimed she had found another option that was too good to ignore.
Kostya opened the door.
His mother stood there holding a bag containing cookies and a small ball.
— Come in, — he said.
He took the bag and placed it on a shelf in the hallway.
 
Galina Petrovna stepped inside and looked around.
— I found another building. There’s a place on the fourth floor with exactly the right layout…
— Mom, we’re not selling the apartment.
She stopped.
— What do you mean, you’re not selling it? But it makes perfect financial sense!
She turned toward Natasha.
— Explain it to him.
— I agree with Kostya, — Natasha said.
Galina Petrovna was silent for a second.
Then the smile disappeared from her face.
— This was her idea, wasn’t it? She convinced you! She’s turning you against your own mother!
— Nobody is turning me against anyone, — Kostya replied. — We heard what you said to Oksana after your birthday celebration. The whole conversation.
The color drained from Galina Petrovna’s face.
— What conversation? I don’t know what you’re talking about…
— The part about renting us a room. The part about how you and Oksana would live comfortably while we could figure things out for ourselves.
— You misunderstood everything! Oksana was joking. She always makes things up…
 
— It wasn’t a joke, — Kostya said. — And we both know that.
Galina Petrovna grabbed her handbag.
— Fine! Then keep living in this miserable little box! — she snapped, raising her voice. — You’ll come crawling back to me when things get difficult! Ungrateful people!
The door slammed behind her.
Silence filled the hallway.
Kostya stood there for a moment before returning to the living room.
Three weeks passed without a single call.
Kostya checked his phone several times, but he never called her himself.
Natasha didn’t ask about it.
Then one evening, after Sasha had already gone to sleep, Kostya’s phone finally rang.
He answered, listened for a while, thanked the caller briefly, and ended the call.
— Mom fell, — he said, looking past Natasha. — She broke her ankle. A neighbor took her to the emergency clinic. She’s in the hospital now.
— Does Oksana know?
— She’s away on a trip. Says she can’t come back right now.
The clock on the refrigerator ticked steadily.
The child’s room was quiet.
— Go, — Natasha said. — It’s okay.
Galina Petrovna was lying in a hospital bed beside the window. She wore no makeup, only a hospital gown, and her injured leg was immobilized.
The moment she saw her son, her eyes filled with tears.
— You came, — she said.
 
— How are you feeling?
— How do you think I’m feeling? I’ll be in a cast for six weeks. Who’s going to help me?
— I’ll hire a caregiver. Someone good, with experience.
She frowned.
— A stranger? You’re my son.
— Mom, I’ll come to visit. I’ll bring groceries. If you need help with paperwork or anything important, I’ll take care of it. But I’m not moving in with you, and you’re not moving in with us.
She turned her face toward the window.
She said nothing else.
Several weeks later, Kostya came home in an unusually good mood.
Natasha noticed it immediately from the way he took off his shoes and walked into the kitchen.
— How is she? — Natasha asked without looking away from her laptop.
— They discharged her. The caregiver is good. They’ve already gotten used to each other.
Kostya poured himself some tea and sat across from her.
— You know something? Today Mom said thank you.
Natasha looked up.
— Just like that, — he continued. — Not because she wanted anything. She simply said thank you.
Natasha closed the laptop.
 
In the other room, Sasha was playing with building blocks, carefully constructing something only he understood.
— That’s good, — she said.
Kostya nodded.
Outside the window, the streetlights were beginning to come on.
Maybe something really would change.
But trust is not something that returns after one conversation or one apology. It takes time, consistency, and effort to rebuild.
And neither Kostya nor Natasha knew yet whether Galina Petrovna was truly prepared to do that work.