— And what is that mess supposed to be? Some people actually work for a living, but our daughter-in-law just draws little pictures. It’s laughable, really!
Zinaida Petrovna said this loudly, in a measured tone, as if she were handing down a sentence. Everyone was at the table — her husband Lyosha, his sister Tamara, Uncle Seryozha with his wife, and some distant cousin whose name Vera hadn’t managed to remember after three years of marriage. It was a cozy autumn Sunday, the family gathered for lunch, windows fogged from the pots on the stove — and then, just like that, came this.
At that very moment, Vera was carrying a salad bowl from the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway. Her hands didn’t tremble — she was the kind of person whose whole world could turn upside-down inside, but outwardly, not even a wrinkle would show.
Tamara — that was the sister-in-law — was already giggling, covering her mouth with her hand. She was thirty-four, still lived with her mother, and worked at some municipal office, where the main activities seemed to be drinking tea and gossiping about other people’s lives.
— Mom, why do you have to say things like that, — Lyosha said. He said it quietly. Into his plate.
That was the full extent of his effort to defend his wife.
Vera set the salad bowl on the table and took her seat. She lifted her eyes to her mother-in-law.
— Zinaida Petrovna, have you ever actually seen any of my work?
— What?
— You just called it ‘a mess.’ I’m asking if you’ve seen what I actually do?
The table went awkwardly quiet. Uncle Seryozha reached for some bread. The distant cousin stared out the window.
— There’s nothing to see, — Zinaida Petrovna snorted. — I spent twenty years working at the factory. Now that’s real work. Drawing is just a childish hobby.
— I see, — Vera replied.
She didn’t say another word through lunch. Ate, smiled at the right moments, poured the tea. But something inside her shifted that day — not with a bang or a crack, but like a branch quietly breaking under heavy snow: silent and final.
She’d met Lyosha five years ago at a mutual friend’s birthday. He was good-looking, calm, knew how to listen — or pretended to, Vera wasn’t so sure anymore. They married a year later. Zinaida Petrovna wept at the wedding — so gracefully, delicately dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Then, later in the evening, she said to Lyosha, loudly enough for Vera to hear: “Well, son, you made your choice — now live with it.”
Back then, Vera thought things would smooth out. That, with time, everything would fall into place.
It didn’t.
Zinaida Petrovna lived just two bus stops away and managed to visit with impressive regularity. She’d show up unannounced, always at the worst moments — while Vera was working, in the middle of a client call, or finally enjoying a rare moment of quiet for herself. She’d walk in, look around like some kind of health inspector, and start: “Lyoshenka, there’s dust on your shelf,” “Lyoshenka, you’ve lost weight, she’s not feeding you right,” “Lyoshenka, I brought your favorite pies.”
Lyoshenka. The man is thirty-six, but still, it’s Lyoshenka.
At times like these, Lyosha would come alive. He’d settle in, munch on pastries, and listen to his mom’s updates about the neighbors, everyone’s health, and how prices kept going up. Meanwhile, Vera would retreat to her room—she called it her studio, though in reality it was just a small space with a large table, good lighting, and a shelf filled with paints, tablets, and stacks of paper.
Vera worked as an illustrator. She created artwork for books, magazines, and occasionally for ads. Her income was solid—she even made more than Lyosha did as a manager. But to Zinaida Petrovna, none of that mattered. She recognized only one way of life: the factory, shifts, and a work record book. Everything else just didn’t count as serious in her eyes.
After that Sunday lunch, Vera didn’t speak to her husband for three days. It wasn’t on purpose—there just wasn’t anything to say. Lyosha pretended nothing had happened. He’d eat, watch TV, occasionally ask something about the household. On the fourth day, he couldn’t take it anymore:
“So, why are you sulking?”
“I’m not sulking.”
“Come on, it’s obvious you’re upset.”
Vera put down her pencil and turned to him.
“Lyosha, at the table, your mom called my work a bunch of scribbles in front of everyone. Your sister laughed. And you just sat there and said nothing.”
“You know how Mom is…”
“I do know. That’s exactly why I’m saying this.”
“She didn’t mean any harm.”
“Whether she meant it or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that you didn’t say a single word.”
Lyosha just shrugged. Vera knew that gesture all too well by now—it meant, “I don’t want to argue with Mom,” and nothing more.
Vera stood up and grabbed her jacket.
“Where are you going?” he asked, surprised.
“Just going for a walk.”
It was September outside—that special kind when the trees were already yellow but hadn’t lost their leaves yet, and the air smelled like something between summer and autumn. Vera walked down the leaf-covered sidewalk, thinking how she’d spent three years pretending everything was fine. Smiling. Enduring. Telling herself that family was family, that her mother-in-law just had a tough personality, that Lyosha was a good man, just weak.
But she couldn’t get that scene from lunch out of her head.
It wasn’t even the words—she’d heard them before, and worse ones too. No, it was something else: the way Tamara laughed. So lightly and unoffensively, as if it was just an obvious fact. Like everyone at the table already knew Vera’s work didn’t matter, and were just waiting for someone to finally say it out loud.
She reached a small park and sat down on a bench. She took out her phone and opened the folder with her latest work. She looked through her illustrations for a children’s book—watercolors, gentle colors, a funny little fox in oversized boots. The editor had messaged her yesterday, saying it was the best work Vera had done all year.
So it’s just a bunch of scribbles, huh.
Vera put her phone away and looked up—the branches of the lindens above the park were bare, and through them she could see the pale autumn sky.
In that moment, she decided something. She didn’t quite know what yet—but she knew she had made a decision.
Tamara called on Friday. She called herself, which was unusual—they normally didn’t call without a specific reason.
“Vera, hi. Listen, I just wanted to… well, apologize. For Sunday. I overreacted a bit.”
Her voice sounded fake. Vera could always pick up on things like that.
“It’s fine, Tamara.”
— That’s great! Mom says maybe we can all get together again next Sunday?
Vera almost burst out laughing.
— We’ll see.
She hung up the phone and stared out the window for a long time. Outside, the branches swayed, dropping leaves onto the windowsill. On the table nearby lay an open notebook — lately, she’d started writing some things down. Not a diary, no. More like a list. Just a short list so far, with only three items.
A list of things she planned to do.
The list was written in plain pencil, no decorations, no underlines. Three points — each as brief as a diagnosis.
Vera reread it, closed the notebook, and locked it in the desk drawer. Not because she was afraid — just because some things shouldn’t be left out in the open.
That evening, Lyosha came home later than usual, smelling of cold air and, for some reason, his mother’s pies. Vera didn’t ask. She warmed up dinner, set the plate down, and sat opposite him with her cup.
— Tamara called, she said.
— I know, she messaged me too. — Lyosha blew on his spoon. — You’re not upset with her, are you?
— No.
— Good. She really is a kind person, she just blurts things out sometimes…
— Lyosha.
— What?
— Eat, it’ll get cold.
He looked at her a moment longer than usual. Maybe he sensed something — or decided he did. But he didn’t ask. That was another one of his traits: never following a conversation all the way to the end, stopping exactly where something important might begin.
An unexpected phone call came on Wednesday, around noon.
Vera was sitting at the table, finishing another illustration — a forest clearing, mist, a small figure on the path. Her phone vibrated; she glanced at the screen and didn’t recognize the number right away. It was unfamiliar, from Moscow.
— Hello?
— Hi, am I speaking with Vera Sokolova?
— Yes, that’s me.
— My name is Ilya Borisovich Renz. I’m the art director at Polar Star Publishing. We publish books for children and teens — you may have heard of us.
Vera had heard of them. Oh, she definitely had — it was one of the most well-known illustrated publishers in the country; their books were on every decent bookstore shelf.
— I have, — she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
— We came across your work through Lena Zaitseva — did you work with her last year?
— Yes, we did “The Story of a Little Hedgehog” together.
— Exactly. Lena recommended you. So, we’re starting a big new project — a series of eight books, original fairytales, a major print run. We need an illustrator. We’ve looked at many artists, but your style is exactly what we want. Would you like to meet and talk?
Vera looked at the unfinished clearing on her tablet. Mist, the path, that little figure.
— I’d love to, — she said.
She didn’t tell anyone. Not Lyosha, not her friend Rita, who she usually told everything. She just bought a train ticket — Moscow, Friday, there and back — and wrote in her planner: “meeting, 2:00 PM”.
Not because she was hiding it. More out of superstition. Or perhaps something else, something she hadn’t found a name for yet.
On Thursday evening, Zinaida Petrovna showed up unexpectedly. Vera overheard her talking with Lyosha in the hallway—her voice was loud and cheerful, with that special tone she always reserved for her son.
“Lyoshka, I brought some sauerkraut for you—you love it. And some blueberry jam, from the dacha, last year’s, but it’s still good…”
Vera stepped out of the studio.
“Good evening, Zinaida Petrovna.”
Her mother-in-law gave her a quick once-over—from head to toe, just like someone checking out something in a store to decide if it’s worth buying.
“Good evening. Working?”
“Yes, I’m working.”
“Alright then.” She turned back to her son.
Vera went back to her studio and closed the door. She sat down. Through the wall, she could hear her mother-in-law’s voice—something about their neighbor Klava, mentioning that they should probably redo the hallway wallpaper, and a bit about Lyosha’s health. Lyosha just replied with short, agreeing sounds.
Vera opened her desk drawer. She took out her notebook. She reread her list.
She added a fourth item to it.
The train arrived in Moscow early in the morning. Vera grabbed a coffee in a paper cup, stepped out onto the square in front of the station, and just stood there for a few minutes, taking in the city. The autumn here was just like back home—yellow, windy, a little tired. But something in the air felt different. Or maybe it was Vera herself who had changed.
The publishing office was in an old mansion in the center—high ceilings, wooden staircases, and illustrations from books framed on the walls. Ilya Borisovich turned out to be a short man of about fifty, glasses on his nose, his jacket a bit wrinkled, speaking quickly and with an attentive gaze.
They talked for two hours.
When Vera left, she held a contract in her hands—it was just a preliminary agreement for now, but it had numbers, deadlines, and conditions. A series of eight books. Two years of work. The payment was enough that she had to read the line twice.
She made her way to the nearest park and sat down on a bench—just like she had back home after that Sunday lunch. But this time, it felt different. Leaves at her feet, pigeons nearby, the distant city sounds—and inside her, something quiet and steady, something she still couldn’t name.
She got out her phone. She wanted to call Lyosha—but didn’t. She put the phone away.
Instead, she texted Rita: “We need to talk. Evening?”
Rita replied instantly: “Of course. What happened?”
“Nothing yet. But soon, something will change.”
The train home was leaving at six. Vera had three hours to spare, and she spent them wandering through the city, popping into stores, sitting in a café with her sketchbook and doodling. A little fox in boots, mist at the forest edge, a tiny figure on a path. Suddenly, she just wanted to draw—right now, without waiting.
On the train, she opened her notebook. The list of four items stared back at her from the page.
The first item was already done.
Three left to go.
And then—right at that moment, with autumn woods and scattered village lights blinking past the window—her phone vibrated. The number was unfamiliar, but it wasn’t from Moscow. Local.
She answered.
“Vera Sokolova?” A woman’s voice, unfamiliar but official. “This is Svetlana Igorevna, I’m a lawyer. I was asked to contact you… Well, it’s about your husband. Alexey Gromov. Actually, about his mother.”
Vera straightened up.
I’m listening to you.
The thing is, this week Zinaida Petrovna contacted us with a request. She wants to gift the apartment—where you live right now—to her son. Solely to him. Do you understand what that means?
Outside, the sky was getting darker. The forest gave way to a field, then the field turned back into forest.
Vera understood. She understood very well.
“Thank you for letting me know,” she said evenly. “When can we meet?”
The meeting with Svetlana Igorevna happened on Monday, in a small office on the third floor of a typical prefabricated five-story building. The lawyer turned out to be a woman around forty-five—composed, with short hair, and a habit of looking over her glasses.
“Please, have a seat.” She pointed to the chair across from her desk. “I’ll explain the situation in detail.”
The apartment where Vera and Lesha lived officially belonged to Zinaida Petrovna. Vera had always known that. Her mother-in-law bought it back in the nineties, registered it in her own name, and when Vera and Lesha got married, she simply allowed them to live there. No paperwork, no agreement, just a word of honor.
“A deed of gift in your son’s name leaves you completely out,” explained Svetlana Igorevna. “If things become difficult in your marriage later, you’ll find yourself in a very vulnerable position.”
“I understand,” Vera replied.
“You can claim a share if you invested your own money in the apartment—renovations, utility payments, anything that’s documented.”
“We did renovations three years ago. I paid from my own card.”
“Do you still have the receipts?”
“Most of them, yes.”
Svetlana Igorevna gave a slight nod—the look of someone used to people coming to her too late, but seeing that this case was not hopeless yet.
“Then let’s get to work.”
Vera got home at half past two. Lesha was at work. The apartment was quiet, filled with the scent of his morning coffee and, faintly, the smell of homemade pies her mother-in-law had brought on Thursday—which were still sitting on the kitchen counter in a container.
Vera went into her studio and sat down at her desk. She stared for a long time out the window, looking at the courtyard where the branches of an old rowan tree, covered with red berries, were swaying. Then she opened a drawer and took out a notebook.
The second item on the list—talk to a lawyer—was done.
She picked up a pencil and placed a check mark. Small and neat.
There were two items left.
She didn’t plan on postponing the talk with Lesha. Not because she was in a hurry—she just knew: the longer you wait, the harder it gets to start. And she’d have to start sooner or later.
He came home at seven, tired, carrying a bag from the supermarket. Vera had already made soup—just because, for something to do with her hands. They sat down at the table and ate almost in silence. Then Lesha reached for his phone—out of habit, automatically—and Vera said:
“Wait. I need to tell you something.”
He put his phone down and looked at her.
She told him everything. About the lawyer’s call, about the deed of gift, about the renovation receipts. She spoke calmly, without drama, almost like she was discussing work. Meanwhile, she watched his face closely.
Lesha’s expression changed several times. First—surprise. Then something like confusion. Then—and this was interesting—not his usual defense of his mother, no. It was something else. Almost like shame.
“She never told me,” he finally said.
“I know.”
“Ver, I honestly had no idea.”
“I believe you.”—And it was true.—”But that doesn’t change the situation.”
He got up and paced around the kitchen. That was unusual—normally, during tough conversations, he would sit completely still, as if not moving might make the conversation dissolve on its own.
“I’ll call her,” he said.
“Go ahead.”
“Right now?”
“That’s your choice, Lesha. Not mine.”
He looked at her again—and this time his look was different. As if he saw something he’d never noticed before. Or maybe never wanted to see.
He stepped out into the hallway. Vera could hear his voice—quiet at first, then stronger. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unfamiliar. Not the soft, accommodating, slightly guilty tone he usually reserved for his mother. It was different.
The conversation lasted about twenty minutes.
When Lesha came back, he sat down, took his cup of cold tea, and stared at it for a long time.
“She said she meant well,” he finally said. “She’s worried about the future.”
“Whose future?”
He didn’t reply. But the answer was written on his face.
“Lesha,” Vera said. “I have some more news. Good news.” And she told him about the publishing house, about the contract, about the series of eight books.
He listened. And the longer he listened, the more something changed in his expression—slowly, the way the lighting in a room shifts as a cloud moves away from the sun.
“That’s huge,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“Because I needed to understand it myself first.”
Zinaida Petrovna arrived on Wednesday. This time—she called ahead, which was an event in itself. Vera opened the door, stepped aside, and let her in.
Her mother-in-law looked like someone who had rehearsed one conversation, but kept rewriting it along the way. She walked to the kitchen, sat down, and folded her hands on the table.
“Well,” she began. “Lesha told me everything.”
“I know,” Vera replied, setting a cup of tea in front of her. No fuss, no theatrics. Because tea is just tea, and it has nothing to do with all this.
“You think I’ve been plotting something against you.”
“Zinaida Petrovna, I don’t think anything. I’m just protecting my own interests.”
Her mother-in-law stayed silent. That was unexpected—normally, silence wasn’t her style.
“So you already saw a lawyer.”
“I did.”
“And you found the receipts.”
“I did.”
Zinaida Petrovna picked up her cup and took a sip. She stared at the table. Suddenly Vera saw not a strict, ever-critical mother-in-law, but simply an older woman with a son she’s terrified of losing. Not just worried, not hiding it gracefully—truly, deeply afraid.
It didn’t change anything. But it made the whole picture feel more complete.
“I’m not going to issue the deed,” her mother-in-law said unexpectedly. “Lesha asked me. And I…thought about it.”
“Alright,” Vera said.
“That’s it, then?”
“What did you expect to hear?”
Zinaida Petrovna looked at her—carefully, in a way that felt new.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” she finally said.
“I know,” Vera replied.
Tamara called two days later. Again, with that same unnatural tone, again with questions about Sunday lunch. Vera listened, paused a second.
“Tamara, do you remember when you called my work a mess?”
“Well, I did apologize…”
Yes. I remember. I just wanted to let you know: there’s an illustrators’ exhibition opening this Friday at the city gallery. I’m one of the participants. If you’re interested, come by.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“I’ll come,” Tamara said. Unsure, but I’ll come.
On Friday, Vera stood by her artwork at the gallery—six framed illustrations, the lighting just right, people stopping to admire them. Rita was next to her, discreetly counting how many times visitors took photos of Vera’s pieces.
Lesha arrived too. He stood beside her and held her hand—silently, without words. And that silence was completely different from before.
Tamara showed up at half past seven. She walked along the walls, paused in front of Vera’s work. She spent a long time looking at the little fox in the huge boots.
Then she turned around.
“Listen,” she began, as if it was hard for her. “It’s really beautiful.”
Vera nodded.
“Thank you.”
She didn’t add anything more. There was no need.
Later that night, when everything was quiet, she opened her notebook at home. She looked at the list. Four points, four checkmarks.
She closed it and put it back in the drawer.
A new list would start tomorrow.
Six months passed.
Vera sat at a large table in her studio—now truly a studio, not just a room with a drawing tablet. A new shelving unit, a lamp with proper cool lighting, sketches for the fourth book in the series taped to the wall. The little fox had grown up, made friends, and the story had become bigger than Vera had first imagined.
Ilya Borisovich wrote every two weeks—brief messages, to the point, sometimes ending with an exclamation mark. That was his way of giving praise.
Outside, it was March—gray, slushy, but there was already a hint of something alive. Sparrows screamed on the rowan tree as if fighting over an inheritance.
Lesha had changed. Not quickly or suddenly, but gradually, like all real change. He started talking to his mother differently—calmer, but more firm. At first, Zinaida Petrovna was hurt, stayed silent for days, but eventually began calling back herself. Now she visited by arrangement, acted a bit more carefully. One day, she stopped near the studio, peeked through the half-open door and said—quietly, almost to herself: “You’re working.” Not a question, just a statement. Vera took it as peace.
Tamara bought one of the books—the first, which came out in February. She sent a picture over messenger: the book on a table, next to a cup of coffee. No comment. Vera replied with a heart emoji. That was enough.
The notebook with the list still lay in the drawer of Vera’s desk. She opened it from time to time—not to reread, just because. It was a reminder. Not of what was hard, but of the fact that she spoke up. Not only that autumn night at the table. But after, too.
That turned out to be more important than she realized.
She picked up her pencil and returned to her sketch. The little fox looked up from the paper with a sly, slightly sad expression—like someone who already understands a little about life, but still knows how to be amazed.
Vera smiled at him.
And started drawing.