Veronika strolled down the boulevard, feeling the small grains of April sand crunching under her sneakers. The poplar trees were still bare, but the air was already soft and alive, making her want to slow her pace and savor it. She purposely skipped the bus—walking these three stops felt like a gift.
Half an hour ago, her phone buzzed in her pocket, lighting up with a name she’d long filed under ‘weather’: it comes and goes, but it’s not worth discussing. Rodion. She only answered because her finger accidentally brushed the screen.
“Veronika, listen, it’s about something,” he began right away, skipping the usual greetings. “My mother wants to talk to you.”
“No,” Veronika said and hung up.
And that was the whole conversation. No drama, no outburst. She was even surprised at how brief her own voice could sound when she had not a single question inside.
Their divorce was loud—like a fire alarm going off in a quiet house. Rodion left with all the dignity of a man who’d been suffocating for eight years. He took forever to pack his bags, as if waiting for someone to grab him by the sleeve and beg him to stay.
No one tried to hold him back. But a week later, Zhanna—Rodion’s new woman—burst into the lobby where Veronika was sorting papers, shouting so loudly the whole floor could hear. She yelled with such passion, you’d think she was being paid by the line.
“She robbed him!” Zhanna screamed. “Took everything, left him with nothing, while she sits there like a lady in a three-room apartment!”
But nothing came of it. Zhanna was politely escorted out, without any bruises, and Veronika apologized to everyone for the noise before getting back to her papers. Her hands, by the way, behaved perfectly well.
Her phone buzzed to life again. Mom.
“Nika, do you remember that Alisa is arriving today?”
“Of course I remember,” Veronika smiled. “Her train is at seven. I’ve bought all the groceries. She’ll stay with me—I’ve already aired out the third room.”
“Are you happy?”
“I’m so happy, I could meet her with balloons. It’s been a year since we last saw each other!”
Alisa got married last year and moved to another city with her husband, and now she was finally coming back home. As the call ended, Veronika realized she was walking faster. Good news always makes you pick up the pace.
The screen flashed with a message. An unfamiliar set of numbers, but the text made it clear who it was: “Where are you?”
Veronika read it and put her phone away. The woman who sent it had become a stranger the day she told her son, “If it didn’t work out, don’t hold on, and you too, Veronika, don’t get in the way.” Veronika hadn’t gotten in the way. The only thing stuck, like a stone in her throat, was the apartment—a three-bedroom inherited from her grandfather, signed over to her long before the marriage, hers and hers alone.
Her phone rang again as she turned toward the square.
“Where are you?” Rodion spoke as if they still lived together, sharing the same hallway. “Mom’s been waiting for you forever.”
“Well, imagine that,” Veronika actually stopped. “You remembered I exist. But you left with such flair—with speeches and music. I thought they gave you a medal for it.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting, I’m finishing,” she said, cutting him off halfway through his next sentence.
A second later, someone hugged her tightly from behind—so tight she nearly dropped her bag. It was Kseniya—shrieking with laughter, glowing, her jacket unzipped.
— I spotted you from the car! Gleb, stop, I yell, there’s our Nika walking! Why are you on foot? Why are you alone? And what’s with that face?
— With what kind of face?
— The kind of face like someone called you from the past and asked to borrow the past back, — Ksenia laughed. — Come on, let’s head to the cafe, we’ve got twenty minutes and a huge craving.
Gleb shook her hand and led her to a corner table that smelled of fresh rolls and cinnamon. They sat down, and right away Ksenia started talking about their renovations, the new couch, about how Gleb spent three hours choosing the fabric.
— He’s a true aesthete, — Ksenia said proudly.
— I’m your martyr, — Gleb corrected her.
Veronika’s phone buzzed on the table. A message: “How much longer are we going to wait for you?”
Veronika calmly typed her reply, like filling out her last name on a form: “Don’t wait.”
— Who was that? — Ksenia squinted.
— Rodion’s mother.
— Ohhh. What does she want?
— I’m not sure yet. But from her tone, she’s not after a conversation—she wants a whole battlefield.
Call. Rodion.
— Stop tormenting my mother! — he shouted so loud into the phone that Gleb raised his eyebrows. — She’s sitting there waiting for you, are you even human?
— Let her wait, — Veronika answered calmly. — I’ll explain this once, so write it down if your memory fails. We got divorced three months ago. We have no kids. No shared pots and pans. Which means you and your mother are strangers to me now. Case closed.
— You…
Dial tone.
— That was powerful, — Gleb said with respect.
— That’s not powerful, that’s hygiene, — Veronika said, putting her phone in her bag. — Anyway, I’ve got to run. My sister’s coming, and I still haven’t finished chopping everything.
She walked up to her building in the dusk and first caught sight of the bag. Huge, checkered, the kind that moves with whole lives. Next to it was a suitcase. And beside it—Tamara Ignatievna, upright as a ruler.
— Finally! — her ex-mother-in-law got up from the bench. — I’ve been sitting here for two hours, you know.
— Hello, — Veronika said. — Are you leaving or is this something worse?
Tamara Ignatievna didn’t answer. She grabbed the suitcase businesslike and wheeled it toward the door like the door belonged to her.
— Stop, — Veronika didn’t move from her spot. — Where are you going?
— I’ll stay at your place, — her former mother-in-law tossed over her shoulder, not turning to see her face. — Divorce is one thing, but I still need somewhere to live. You’ve got a home and a spare room.
— I have no spare room. What I do have is my own apartment, — Veronika crossed her arms. — And right now, you’re just like any passerby from a bus stop to me. And I don’t let strangers into my home, even with a suitcase.
— What are you thinking?! — her former mother-in-law spun around sharply. — Divorce is no reason not to let me in! I’m not just anybody, I’m your husband’s mother!
— Ex-husband. Just one tiny word, but it changes everything, like a minus sign before a number.
Veronika took out her phone and dialed Rodion. He answered instantly, as if he’d been sitting there warming the handset.
— Rodion, explain why your mother is putting on a circus outside my building. Let me make it clear: I’m not letting her in.
— Stop being difficult, — he barked. — Just let her in! You’ve got three rooms, you live alone, there’s an echo in your apartment! Let her stay, I said!
Veronika hung up without listening to the end. There was nothing more to hear: he wasn’t talking to her, he was talking to her square footage.
— Well? — Tamara Ignatievna lifted her chin. — What did he say?
“He said, ‘I said.’ That’s the only phrase he ever says with real feeling,” Veronica sighed. “Alright, now be honest. What happened? You had a two-bedroom place, everything was peaceful, and suddenly there’s a suitcase involved.”
Her mother-in-law was silent for a long time. Then her lips twitched.
“I just can’t live with that woman,” she blurted out. “Zhanna. Rodion brought her to me. She picks fights from morning to night, told me I breathe too loudly in my own room. Can you imagine? Loud breathing!”
“I can imagine,” Veronica replied. “I’ve seen that woman in action. She put on a show for our whole floor.”
She stepped forward to get around the bags and walk inside. Honestly, she couldn’t care less about Tamara Ignatyevna—not even a little. But her mother-in-law gave her such a lost look from below that Veronica stopped mid-step.
“One night,” Veronica said firmly. “It’s late, the buses are hardly running, fine. One night on the couch. In the morning, you deal with your own son. I don’t care about your problems, and never will.”
“Thank you, dear,” Tamara Ignatyevna said hurriedly, and with surprising energy shoved the heaviest bag into Veronica’s hands. “Carry this one, it’s full of dishes.”
“Dishes,” Veronica echoed. “For one night. Makes perfect sense.”
In the room, Veronica pointed to the couch, pulled out fresh bedding, and placed it on top.
Tamara Ignatyevna immediately unzipped her suitcase and started stacking her things in neat piles, quick and practiced, like someone who planned to stay a while and knew her way around better than the actual host.
“Veronica, where should I put my things? In the wardrobe or the dresser?”
Veronica silently walked over, neatly folded the piles back inside, zipped the suitcase, and set it against the wall.
“Just to be clear—one night. In the morning, you’re out.”
“Why are you acting like a warden?” her mother-in-law flared up. “I put up with you for eight years!”
“You didn’t put up with me very gracefully, but you tried,” Veronica nodded. “Only our math is different. I never put up with anyone, not for a year, not for a day. I’m not interested in tolerating people—I care about respect. That’s what never worked out between us.”
She went to take care of dinner. Meat in the oven, salad, tartlets, cherry pie—everything Alice loves. Tamara Ignatyevna wandered the hallway, peeked into rooms, felt the wallpaper, clearly drawing satisfied and far-reaching conclusions.
Once the table was set, her mother-in-law sat down first, pulled a plate toward herself, and waited expectantly.
Veronica did not pass her the fork.
“That’s not for you,” she said. “That’s for guests.”
The doorbell rang. Veronica ran to open it, and immediately the hallway exploded with squeals—double, happy, excited and completely joyful.
“Aliska!”
“Nikusha!”
They hugged each other, hopping up and down like schoolgirls, both talking at once. Alice pulled off her hat, tossed her hair, dragged a travel bag into the room, and handed her sister a big paper bag filled with treats.
Tamara Ignatyevna watched this little celebration with a face that said her carefully written script had just been ruined.
“Tamara Ignatyevna, this is my sister Alice,” Veronica introduced. “Alice, this is… our guest for one night.”
“Very nice to meet you,” Alice said politely.
At the table, Veronika made sure to serve her sister the best parts: the crusty edge, two tartlets, and a big slice of the pie. She didn’t forget about her mother-in-law either—gave her a modest, fair helping, and silently removed the wine bottle from her side of the table.
“And for me?” Tamara Ignatievna burst out, unable to hold back.
“You get water. You have a big day ahead tomorrow and you’ll need a clear head.”
The mother-in-law pressed her lips together, finished her meal, and retreated to the couch. The sisters stayed for a long time, still whispering so they wouldn’t disturb her.
“Did you really let her stay?” Alisa whispered.
“Just for the night. She showed up with a suitcase and said, ‘You have a spare room.’ By the way, Rodion yelled over the phone that my apartment has echoes bouncing off the walls.”
“Well, yeah, it was Grandpa’s flat,” Alisa snorted. “Her nerve is just out of this world. Nika, just so you know: we’re heading to the lake tomorrow; I already called Ksyusha, and Gleb is bringing the car by ten.”
“By ten,” Veronika suddenly smiled, slow and very pleased. “You know, Alisa, that’s just perfect timing.”
In the morning, the apartment looked like a suitcase had exploded. Sweaters on the armchair, skirts draped over chair backs, slippers at the door, jars of homemade jam lining the windowsill—overnight, Tamara Ignatievna had well and truly settled in.
Veronika looked at all this calmly, made breakfast, and called out.
“Come eat. Omelets.”
Her mother-in-law ate with gusto and was already talking out loud about where to move the armchair. But when she left the table, all her things were gone. No sweaters, no jars, no suitcase.
“Where?!” she panicked. “Where are my things?!”
“In the car,” said Veronika. “Gleb, my friend’s husband, kindly agreed to take you to your home. Completely free, out of respect for your age.”
“I don’t have a home!” Tamara Ignatievna shrieked. “That woman’s there, my son’s there, there’s no place for me!”
“If there isn’t, there isn’t,” Veronika handed her the coat. “Get dressed and head on out. Anything after this is not my concern.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Veronika opened the door to find Rodion dragging two huge duffel bags inside, red-faced and looking satisfied, confident everything was settled and all he had to do was bring in the luggage.
“So, it’s settled then,” he grunted. “Let her stay here, you don’t mind, you’ve got…”
He didn’t get to finish. Veronika gave him a quick, steady, and very direct knee to the gut. Rodion doubled over and collapsed onto the bags, making a sound you’d be hard pressed to spell out.
Veronika walked back into the room and said in an everyday tone:
“Your son’s here. Rolling around on the floor.”
Tamara Ignatievna dashed into the hallway, and the door clicked softly behind her. She tugged at the handle, realized everything instantly, and began yelling—at her doubled-up son, at the closed door, at the ceiling, at everyone all at once.
“Open up! You tricked me! You liar! You ungrateful brat!”
Five minutes later, the door opened. Veronika and Alisa came out in jackets, with bags, and Veronika locked the door behind them.
“Rodion,” she said, looking down at him. “Listen closely, because I hate repeating myself. If you try to mess with my lock, I’ll file a complaint for unlawful entry. This is no longer a family matter, it’s a criminal offense. Do you want me to explain just how quickly a charge like that gets your imagination back in check?”
“You… you’re crazy,” he croaked.
“I’m healthy. That’s what bothers you.”
“So what am I supposed to do?!” Tamara Ignatievna shouted. “Where am I supposed to go?!”
Veronika stopped on the landing between floors and turned back.
“There’s your son. Talk to him. You have two choices. First: bare your teeth and kick his woman out of your apartment. Second: kick them both out. The third option called ‘move into someone else’s three-room place’ is off the table and always will be.”
“Mom, don’t listen to her,” Rodion croaked from the floor.
Tamara Ignatievna stared at her son with a long, heavy gaze. Then she swung and slapped him so hard that the sound echoed through the staircase.
“Get out!” she yelled. “Get out of my apartment with your woman! Tonight!”
Rodion sat down on the steps. His lip was split, blood ran from his nose, he wiped it with his sleeve and looked up at his mother from below, like someone whose entire foundation had just been pulled out from under him.
“It’s her,” he mumbled. “This is all Veronika’s doing. She could’ve had some mercy—a three-room place, and you have just two! Three and two, do you hear?! Was it so hard for her?!”
“It’s not hard for her, she simply doesn’t want to,” Alice said as she walked by. “Those are two different things.”
Veronika was already heading downstairs. She didn’t look back, didn’t hurry, and at the bottom, Gleb was waiting for her, giving a brief, friendly beep.
Tamara Ignatievna followed down the stairs, scolding—not her son. Her son was big, warm, one of her own, but the blame fell on her former daughter-in-law, who had the nerve to kick her out.
“Why on earth should I move out of my own place?” the mother-in-law thought, striding more decisively. “It’s mine. Mine. We’ll settle this right now.”
By evening, Rodion and Zhanna had rented a one-room place on the other side of the city. The landlady asked for a month upfront, and their last money went to that.
Zhanna paced around the unfamiliar room, talking non-stop.
“You’re a doormat!” she yelled. “A doormat, you hear me! Your mother slapped you, and you just sat there! Your ex kneed you out, and you just sat there! She has three rooms, you lived there eight years, and you took nothing, absolutely nothing!”
“It’s mine, that apartment,” he said in a dull voice. “I mean hers. Granddad’s.”
“Granddad’s!” Zhanna mocked him. “And whose brains do you have? Granddad’s too? Only they don’t work! Because of you I’m stuck in this hole! Because of you!”
She kept yelling for a long time, then went into the bathroom and turned the water on.
Rodion sat for exactly one minute. Then he got up, grabbed both bags, and left, quietly closing the door.
Out on the street, his phone buzzed—it was Zhanna. He immediately blocked her number without answering. She used to be different: so cheerful, stroking his shoulder, calling him strong. Now he wanted to run so far that the whole city separated them.
He stopped under a streetlight and wondered: maybe he should take a risk? Go back, stand in the doorway, say something about those eight years.
His phone chimed. A message from Veronika: “Happy Birthday. Go live your life, just not with me.”
Rodion froze. Today really was his day. Neither his mother nor Zhanna remembered—both just yelled, both kicked him out, neither noticed. But the one he’d erased from his life and called sick in the stairwell, she remembered and wrote.
He picked up his bags and headed toward the bus stop. There was only one place left to go—to his mother, who had told him that morning to leave her apartment. Whether she would let him in or not was still up in the air. But he had no other place left to go.