“Mom, we’ve been thinking,” my son Oleg began cautiously, barely stepping across the threshold. His wife Anya, standing behind him, nodded vigorously, as if to confirm the wisdom of his every word.
She carried into the hallway the scent of expensive perfume — and a sickly-sweet hint of unease.
“That always ends badly,” I muttered as I closed the door behind them. “When you two start thinking.”
Oleg pretended not to hear. He walked into the living room, looking around as though he were appraising every single piece of furniture. Anya fussed with a sofa cushion — one she had just deliberately shifted out of place — before smoothing it back again.
“We’re worried about you,” she announced with exaggerated concern. “You’re alone. At your age… anything can happen.”
I sank into my favorite armchair, feeling the familiar creak of its worn fabric beneath my fingers. I knew this chair better than I knew my own children.
“Such as?” I asked. “High blood pressure from your ‘concern’?”
“Oh, Mom, don’t start,” Oleg frowned. “It’s a great idea. We sell your apartment and our one-bedroom, take out a small mortgage, and buy a big house outside the city! With a garden! You’ll be with the grandchildren, breathing fresh air.”
He said it like he was handing me a ticket to paradise. Anya’s eyes glistened with feigned sincerity. She was a good actress.
I looked at their faces, at the rehearsed smiles and gestures. In their eyes, I saw the glint of realtors closing the biggest deal of their lives. No warmth. No honesty.
And in that moment, I understood everything. The cruelest lie is when your children say, “We love you,” but what they really love is your pension and your apartment.
The realization didn’t sadden me. It simply set everything in its rightful place.
“A house, you say,” I drawled. “And whose name would it be in?”
“Well, ours, of course,” Anya blurted, then bit her tongue, realizing she’d said too much. Oleg shot her a sharp look.
“So you don’t have to deal with the paperwork, Mom,” he rushed to explain. “We’ll handle everything. All the hassle.”
I nodded slowly, stood up, and walked to the window. Outside, people hurried along, each wrapped up in their own lives and troubles. And here I stood — facing the choice: surrender or declare war.
“You know what, kids,” I said without turning. “It’s an interesting idea. I’ll think about it.”
A sigh of relief sounded behind me. They thought they had won.
“Of course, Mommy, take your time,” Anya chimed sweetly.
“Only I’ll do my thinking here, in my apartment,” I turned back to them. “You two should go. Lots to do, I’m sure. Mortgages to calculate. House plans to study.”
I looked them straight in the eyes, and their smiles began to fade. They understood: this wasn’t over. This was only the beginning.
From that day, the “campaign” began. Daily phone calls, each one carefully staged.
Mornings were Oleg’s turn — brisk and businesslike:
“Mom, I’ve found an amazing plot! Pines everywhere, a river nearby! Imagine how great it’ll be for the kids. Don’t you want your grandchildren breathing fresh air instead of city dust?”
By afternoon, Anya’s honeyed voice would come:
“We’ll set up a cozy room just for you, Mommy! With a window overlooking the garden. Your own bathroom! We’ll even move your armchair and your ficus. Everything exactly as you love it!”
They pressed on every weak spot: grandchildren, loneliness, my health. Each call was a performance, with me cast as the frail old woman in need of saving.
I listened, nodded, told them I was still thinking. And meanwhile, I acted.
My old friend Lyuda had once worked in a notary’s office. One phone call, and I was sitting in her kitchen while she laid out all the scenarios.
“Nina, don’t you dare sign a gift deed,” she warned. “They’ll throw you out on the street and won’t even blink. A lifetime maintenance contract — maybe. But they won’t go for that. They want it all, right now.”
Her words steeled my resolve. I wasn’t a victim. I was a veteran of life, and I wasn’t about to surrender.
The climax came on Saturday. The doorbell rang. Oleg and Anya stood there — and behind them, a stranger in a suit, carrying a folder.
“Mom, meet Igor, the realtor,” Oleg said casually as he walked inside. “He’s just here to take a look, evaluate our… asset.”
The man entered, eyes scanning my apartment like a hawk. Walls, ceiling, floorboards. He didn’t see a home. He saw square meters. Marketable goods.
Something inside me snapped.
“Evaluate what?” I asked, my voice suddenly sharp.
“The apartment, Mom. Just so we know what we’re working with.” Oleg was already opening the door to my bedroom. “Igor, go ahead.”
The realtor took a step, but I blocked his way.
“Out,” I said quietly. So quietly, they all froze.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Oleg stammered.
“I said out. Both of you.” My eyes shifted to Anya, who had pressed herself against the wall. “And you tell your husband that if he ever brings strangers into my home without permission again, I’ll call the police. And file a fraud report.”
The realtor, sensing danger, was the first to retreat.
“I’ll, uh… wait for your call,” he mumbled, slipping out the door.
Oleg glared at me, the mask of the loving son gone.
“You’ve lost your mind, you old—” he hissed.
“Not yet,” I cut him off. “But you’re trying hard. Now leave. I need a rest. From your ‘love.’”
A week of silence followed. No calls, no visits. I knew it wasn’t the end. They were just regrouping.
The next Friday, Anya phoned, her voice dripping remorse.
“Nina Petrovna, forgive us, we were fools. Let’s meet for coffee, just like old times. No apartment talk, I promise. Just family.”
I knew it was a trap. But I went.
They were waiting at a table in the corner. A dessert sat untouched between them. Oleg looked dejected, Anya clung to his hand.
“Mom, forgive me,” he muttered. “I was wrong. Let’s forget it.”
But behind his lowered eyes, I saw not guilt, but impatience.
“I’ve been thinking too,” I said calmly, pulling a folded sheet of paper from my bag. “And I made a decision.”
It wasn’t a will. It was a letter.
“Let me read it to you,” I began. “I, being of sound mind and memory, state that my children, Oleg and his Anna, by their actions and persuasion attempted to force me into selling my only home. Due to loss of trust and concern for my future, I have decided…”
I paused. Oleg’s eyes shot up, cold and sharp.
“…decided to sell the apartment.”
Anya gasped. Oleg lurched forward.
“What?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “I’ve already found buyers. A lovely young couple. They’re happy to wait until I move into a small house in the countryside. Just for me.”
Shock, disbelief, rage — their faces twisted through them all.
“And the money?” Anya blurted.
“Don’t worry,” I smiled. “Part will go into the bank at a good interest. The rest? I’ll spend it. Travel, maybe even a cruise. After all, you just want me to be happy, don’t you?”
Oleg’s jaw tightened until the muscles jumped. His whole scheme was collapsing.
“You… you wouldn’t,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Why not?” I stood, leaving the letter on the table. “It’s my apartment. My life. Good luck with your mortgage, children. Without me.”
I walked away without looking back.
I didn’t feel triumphant. Only empty. Where love for my son had once been, there was only scorched earth.
But I did sell it. My bluff turned into the best decision of my life.
I bought myself a bright little studio in a quiet green neighborhood. Ground floor, shared garden. I moved my armchair, my ficus, my most cherished books.
At first, the silence after breaking with my son felt like a wound. I didn’t go on any cruises. Instead, I did something I’d long dreamed of: signed up for watercolor classes.
Three times a week, I painted. My first attempts were terrible, but the gentle strokes of color on paper filled me with a quiet joy.
The money sat safely in the bank. Not a burden, but a foundation for peace. For the first time in years, I wasn’t afraid of the future.
Half a year passed. One evening, watering flowers in my little garden, I saw a familiar figure at the gate.
Oleg. Alone. No Anya. He looked tired, older.
“Hello, Mom,” he said.
“Hello,” I replied, setting down the watering can.
We sat on the small bench by the entrance. He stared at his hands for a long while before speaking.
“Anya and I… we split up. After what happened, everything fell apart. She said I was weak. That I couldn’t push you.”
He said it plainly, without self-pity.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. And I meant it.
“Don’t be,” he looked up. His eyes were no longer greedy. Just weary. “Back in that café… when you walked away… I realized I hadn’t lost the apartment. I’d lost you. Took me months to admit it. Stupid, huh?”
“Life’s complicated, Oleg.”
We sat in silence. Not heavy, but distant. Two people once connected by love, now strangers.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” I nodded toward my window, where another watercolor dried on the sill. “I’m okay.”
He stood. “Well… I’ll go. Forgive me, if you can.”
“I don’t hold grudges, Oleg. Things are just… different now. Stop by for tea sometime.”
He nodded, turned, and walked away. I watched until he disappeared around the corner.
I didn’t cry. I closed the gate, brewed myself herbal tea, and sat in my favorite chair.
The emptiness was gone. In its place was peace.
I hadn’t just defended an apartment. I had defended myself.
And that victory — quiet, without fanfare — was no less important.