“Konstantin, 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 unnamed recordings.
“Where did these come from?”
“I don’t know. Just play one.”
He tapped the first file.
Almost immediately, he recognized his mother’s voice. But she didn’t sound anything like she did when speaking directly to Natasha. There was no warmth in her tone, no politeness.
“Did you see what she wore to the market? You’d dress like that only if you were going to buy a sack of potatoes. And then she has the nerve to lecture me about taste…”
Without saying a word, Natasha took the phone back and deleted the recording. Her cheeks had turned red.
 
“Don’t let it get to you,” Konstantin said. “You know what Mom is like. She complains about everything and then forgets about it.”
Natasha didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen and began moving things around, making more noise with the dishes than necessary.
Konstantin turned back to the television, but he was no longer interested in what was on.
That evening, Natasha was frying pancakes while Konstantin tried to figure out what was wrong with the water heater. It had started leaking again where it connected to the pipe.
For 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 a gasket.”
“You said the same thing last time.”
Konstantin didn’t reply. He opened a cabinet and reached for his tools.
The apartment had belonged to Natasha’s father. After his death, she inherited it—a two-bedroom place in an older apartment block on Profsoyuznaya Street. It wasn’t modern or luxurious, but it was solid.
They had renovated it properly. The pipes had been replaced, the balcony enclosed, and the small room had fresh wallpaper. Their son Sasha was approaching his second birthday. He didn’t have his own bedroom yet, but they were already thinking about how to create one—perhaps by moving a partition or separating part of the larger room.
Most importantly, they had no mortgage.
That alone gave them a level of freedom many of Konstantin’s coworkers didn’t have. They didn’t need to calculate every purchase down to the last ruble.
The doorbell rang just as Natasha finished stacking the pancakes on a plate.
 
“I came to see my little Sasha!” Galina Petrovna, Konstantin’s mother, announced the moment the door opened.
She was carrying a shopping bag from a children’s store and a small box of marshmallows.
“I bought him a rattle. And this is for you two, for tea.”
“Thank you. Come in,” Natasha said, taking the sweets and placing them on the table.
Her mother-in-law immediately went into the room where the child was playing, and within seconds they could hear her cooing affectionately over her grandson.
Natasha poured tea and suddenly remembered a conversation from the week before.
Galina Petrovna had been proudly telling them about the expensive tablet she had bought for her daughter, Oksana.
“She studies remotely. She needs a good one.”
As she said it, she had glanced at Natasha’s old laptop with an expression that made it seem personally offensive to her.
There had been another strange incident about nine months earlier.
 
Galina Petrovna had arrived carrying a paper 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 taken one of the pictures from the folder. It showed a much younger Galina Petrovna standing beside her husband.
“You look very nice here,” Natasha had said.
Then she returned the photograph to the folder and refused to continue the conversation.
Galina Petrovna took the folder home with her.
Yet for some reason, Natasha had never forgotten that evening.
“Children,” Galina Petrovna said now, returning from Sasha’s room and sitting down at the table. “I wanted to discuss something important with you.”
She pulled several printed pages from her handbag.
They were property listings.
“Look. These are three-bedroom apartments in a new development on Varshavskaya. It’s a decent project. The building will be finished next year.”
Natasha glanced at Konstantin.
His mother continued.
“This is what I’m thinking. We sell my apartment and yours. We combine the money and buy one large place for all of us. Sasha gets his own room, you two get a bedroom, and I take the small room. We split the utility bills three ways. Everyone benefits.”
Natasha looked at Konstantin again.
 
He was studying the pages with an unreadable expression.
“Interesting,” Natasha said evenly. “We’ll think about it.”
“Just don’t think too long,” Galina Petrovna warned as she gathered the papers. “Half the units are already sold.”
The moment his mother left, Konstantin dropped onto the sofa and stretched out his legs.
“No,” he said.
Natasha looked at him.
“I’m against it too. But why did you decide so quickly?”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he stood, walked to the window, and came back.
“You know, when I was about six, Mom sometimes used to put me in Oksana’s dresses.”
Natasha stared at him.
 
“She called it a game. Dad saw it once and yelled at her. Then Oksana was born, and somehow I ended up becoming less important.”
Natasha listened without interrupting.
“It wasn’t always terrible,” Konstantin continued. “It was just… different. If Oksana broke one of my toy cars, it was an accident. If I got the highest grade at school, I was told, ‘Good, that’s what you’re supposed to do.’ If she got one, Mom bought cake and they celebrated.”
He gave a humorless smile.
“When I got accepted into engineering school, Mom said I was lucky the examiner had been reasonable.”
“Kostya…”
“I’m not complaining,” he said. “I just understand something now. If we all move into one apartment together, Sasha could end up living the same story.”
Natasha said nothing.
She simply reached for his hand.
Konstantin stared at the wall.
“We’re not selling this apartment,” he said. “That’s not even up for discussion.”
Life returned to its usual rhythm.
Sasha got sick, recovered, then caught something else—the ordinary cycle of life with a small child.
Konstantin worked overtime. Natasha took on part-time online work. On Saturdays they bought groceries, and on Sundays they sometimes visited Natasha’s parents.
One weekend, Galina Petrovna asked Natasha to help prepare for her sixtieth birthday.
There would be guests, and everything had to be done properly.
Natasha arrived early that morning.
Galina Petrovna’s kitchen looked almost like a showroom. Everything was spotless and carefully arranged. There were built-in appliances and an induction cooktop Natasha had once seen in a store for nearly eighty thousand rubles.
 
“Roll the dough thinner,” Galina Petrovna instructed. “And don’t use those napkins. Take the patterned ones from the upper drawer.”
At some point, the intercom buzzed.
Flowers had arrived.
Natasha went to open the entrance door and helped the delivery man carry several boxes to the elevator.
Then she returned to the kitchen and continued working.
She left after three in the afternoon.
Back home, she started a load of laundry and reached into her bag for her phone.
It wasn’t there.
“Damn.”
Konstantin’s phone was with him at work, so she couldn’t call herself. Instead, she messaged her mother-in-law and asked her to keep the phone somewhere safe until the next day.
After work the following evening, Natasha stopped by.
Her phone was sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter near the bread box.
She slipped it into her pocket, said goodbye, and went home.
Later, while Sasha was asleep, she opened her phone.
That was when she noticed something strange.
The voice recorder was still running.
Apparently, it had been recording since the previous day.
 
Natasha stopped it.
Then she pressed play.
For the first few minutes, there was nothing important. Kitchen noises. Plates. Voices. Guests talking.
Then, gradually, everyone left.
Only two women remained.
“…we sell their apartment and mine,” Galina Petrovna was saying calmly. “Then we rent them a room somewhere—or they can figure things out themselves. You and I will finally be able to live properly.”
Natasha froze.
Oksana’s voice came next.
“And what if Kostya refuses?”
“Kostya doesn’t know how to argue. And as for her, I’ll deal with her. There are other ways to put pressure on someone.”
Natasha stopped the recording.
She stood up, walked into the kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and drank it slowly.
So that was the real plan.
 
When Konstantin came home, Natasha handed him a pair of headphones without saying a word and started the recording from the relevant moment.
He listened while still standing in the hallway, without even removing his jacket.
When the recording ended, he took off his shoes, hung up his coat, and walked into the kitchen.
“All right,” he said at last.
Natasha looked at him.
“What does ‘all right’ mean?”
“It means there will be no deals. None.”
Galina Petrovna called four days later.
She said she wanted to bring Sasha a little gift and discuss the apartment issue again. Apparently, she had found another property that was supposedly perfect.
Konstantin opened the door.
His mother stood there holding a bag with 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 immediately began talking.
“I found another building. There’s a layout on the fourth floor that would work perfectly…”
“Mom,” Konstantin interrupted, “we’re not selling the apartment.”
 
She stared at him.
“What do you mean, you’re not selling it? It’s obviously the smart thing to do!”
Then she turned toward Natasha.
“Explain it to him.”
“I agree with Kostya,” Natasha said.
For a second, Galina Petrovna said nothing.
Then her smile vanished.
“This is her idea, isn’t it?” she demanded, pointing toward Natasha. “She talked you into it. She’s turning you against your own mother!”
“No one is turning me against anyone,” Konstantin replied. “We heard what you said to Oksana after your birthday.”
Galina Petrovna’s expression changed.
“What conversation? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The one about renting us a room somewhere while you and Oksana use the money to live comfortably.”
His mother went pale.
 
“You misunderstood everything! Oksana was joking. You know how she is—she makes things up all the time.”
“It wasn’t a joke,” Konstantin said. “And we both know that.”
Galina Petrovna grabbed her handbag.
“Fine! Stay in your little dump, then!” she snapped, raising her voice. “You’ll come crawling back when life gets difficult. Ungrateful children!”
The door slammed behind her.
The hallway went silent.
Konstantin stood there for a few moments before walking back into the room.
Three weeks passed without a single call.
Konstantin checked his phone more often than usual, but he never called his mother himself.
Natasha didn’t comment on it.
Then one evening, after Sasha had already fallen asleep, Konstantin’s phone rang.
He answered, listened quietly, thanked the caller, and hung up.
“My mother fell,” he said, staring somewhere past Natasha. “She fractured her ankle. A neighbor took her to the emergency room. She’s in the hospital now.”
“Does Oksana know?”
“She does. She’s traveling. Says she can’t come back.”
 
The clock on the refrigerator ticked softly.
Sasha’s room was quiet.
“Go,” Natasha said. “It’s okay.”
Galina Petrovna was lying in a hospital bed near the window when Konstantin arrived.
She had no makeup on and wore a plain hospital gown. 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 feel? I’ll be in a cast for six weeks. Who’s going to help me?”
“I’ll hire someone. A professional caregiver with experience.”
“A stranger?”
She frowned.
 
“You’re my son.”
“Mom, I’ll visit. I’ll bring groceries. If you need help with paperwork or appointments, I’ll handle it. But I can’t move in with you, and you can’t move in with us.”
Galina Petrovna turned toward the window.
She didn’t say another word.
Several weeks later, Konstantin came home in a noticeably lighter mood.
Natasha could tell immediately from the way he took off his shoes and walked into the kitchen.
“How is she?” Natasha asked, looking up briefly from her laptop.
“She’s home now. The caregiver is great. They’ve actually gotten used to each other.”
Konstantin poured himself some tea and sat across from Natasha.
Then he smiled slightly.
“You know what? Today she said thank you.”
Natasha closed the laptop.
 
“For what?”
“For everything, I guess. She just said it. Not because she wanted something. Not because she thought she was supposed to.”
In the next room, Sasha was building something out of toy blocks.
“That’s good,” Natasha said.
Konstantin nodded.
Outside the window, the streetlights were beginning to glow.
Maybe something really would change.
But trust was not something that could be repaired with one apology, one conversation, or one polite word.
It took time.
It took effort.
And neither Natasha nor Konstantin knew yet whether Galina Petrovna was truly ready to do that work.