Mommy, live to be a hundred!” my son Dmitry raised his glass, and the crystal answered with a thin chime.
His wife Lilia gazed at him devotedly, silently mouthing the same toast.
My daughter Olga, propping her cheek in her fist, gave a lazy smile from the other end of the table.
“Yeah, Mom, to a hundred and twenty! So you’ll have time to babysit your great-grandchildren.”
I nodded, accepting their words. Taking this farce at face value, the way I had for the last twenty years.
Only yesterday I had walked out of the notary’s office, and in my bag lay a document that turned all their wishes to dust.
“Thank you, my children, thank you,” my voice sounded even, without a single false note. I’d learned how.
Dmitry dug into the hot meat with relish.
“Mom, have you ever thought about glazing in the balcony? Lilia and I were thinking, a panoramic frame would fit here perfectly. Makes the space feel bigger.”
I looked at my balcony. In pots there, the petunias we had planted with Katya, my neighbor, were in bloom.
She came over every day. Just because. She’d bring some special kind of bread or a jar of farm sour cream. Not because it was a holiday. But because she actually cared.
“I haven’t,” I replied. “I like it when in summer you can smell the rain.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Mom, what rain?” Lilia snorted. “We’ll put in an air conditioner and you can have any smell you want. It’s a matter of liquidity. An apartment like this in the center, and the balcony’s not glazed? That’s a minus when it’s valued.”
Slowly, I turned my head and looked at my daughter-in-law. At her well-groomed face, frozen in a look of mild distaste for everything that didn’t fit into her glossy-magazine picture of the world.
“Lilechka, and is someone planning to have my apartment valued?”
Dmitry coughed awkwardly and kicked his wife under the table.
“That’s not what she meant! She just wants you to be more comfortable. We want you to live in the best conditions. Long and happy.”
Olga suddenly perked up, putting her phone aside.
“Oh, speaking of comfort! Mom, remember I told you about the new school for Vanechka? The entrance fee there is something else… I was thinking, maybe you could help? It’s for your grandson, after all.”
She looked at me with her huge, honest eyes. The very same eyes she’d used as a child when she asked for a new doll. Only now the dolls had become much more expensive.
I pictured how yesterday Katya, seeing how tired I was before my birthday, had simply, silently washed all the dishes left from lunch. And hadn’t asked for anything in return.
“I’ll think about it, Olya.”
My son raised his glass again.
“Well then, let’s drink to Mom! To her health! May she always be our rock!”
Their glasses clinked again. And I looked at their faces and saw not love, but cold calculation.
They wished me a long life, but not because they needed me. Because my life was their resource. A guarantee of their future comfort.
And at that moment I realized that leaving my will to my neighbor wasn’t revenge. It was the only right decision. An act of higher justice.
The celebration ended, leaving behind a mountain of dirty dishes and a sticky feeling of falseness. My children kissed me on the cheek and drove off to their comfortable lives, and I remained in the echoing apartment.
The pressure started the next day. I hadn’t even finished my morning chicory drink when Dmitry called.
“Hi, Mom! How are you feeling? Does your head hurt?” he began with his usual nagging concern.
“I’m fine, Dima. Thank you.”
“Listen, I talked to some guys I know… about the balcony. They’ve just got some time free and could come by today to take measurements. For free. Just so you can get an idea of the price.”
There was a businesslike grip in his voice that didn’t tolerate objections. He wasn’t asking, he was presenting me with a done deal.
“Dima, I already said I don’t want to glaze in the balcony. I like the open space.”
“Mom, what kind of whims are these? It’s not for you to decide. I mean, it’s for your own good. It’ll be warmer, quieter. Less dust. Lilia and I already sketched out the design. You’ll have a lounge area out there.”
A lounge area. In my apartment, where I’d lived for forty years. Where I’d dried laundry and grown flowers on the balcony.
“I don’t need a lounge area. I need my petunias.”
“For God’s sake, we’ll put your petunias in a corner!” he was starting to lose his patience. “Mom, don’t be stubborn. They’ll come at three. Just to take a look.”
And he hung up.
I hadn’t had time to process that conversation when Olga’s name lit up on the screen.
“Hi, Mommy!” she chirped. “About the school. I called them and said we’re ready to pay the fee. They’re waiting till the end of the week. You’ll help, right?”
Her voice dripped honey, but behind it I could feel steely insistence.
“Olya, that’s a lot of money. I need time.”
“Mom, what time? We’re talking about Vanechka’s future! You want him to study in the best place and get a good education, don’t you? Or do you not care about your grandson?”
The blow hit its mark. “You don’t care?” — that phrase had been her main weapon since childhood.
“I do care,” I answered, feeling everything inside me clench at the unfairness. “But I can’t just pull that kind of money out of my wallet.”
“What about the dacha?” she was quick to suggest. “Sell the dacha. You hardly ever go there anyway. That way you’ll help me and make your own life easier.”
Sell the dacha. The place where my husband and I had spent our best years. Where every apple tree had been planted by his hands.
“I’m not selling the dacha,” I cut her off.
There was a heavy silence on the line. Then Olga said coldly:
“I see. So you really don’t care about your grandson. I didn’t expect this from you, Mom.”
Short beeps.
At exactly three, the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood two sullen men in work overalls, and behind them loomed Dmitry.
“Mom, these are the guys. They’ll just be a minute,” he said, pushing his way into the apartment.
They marched unceremoniously out onto the balcony and started measuring things with a tape measure, talking loudly among themselves.
I stood in the middle of the room, feeling like a stranger in my own home. This was no longer just testing my boundaries. This was an invasion.
When they left, Dmitry handed me a sheet of numbers.
“Here. This is the preliminary estimate. I told them to give you a discount, like for a pensioner.”
I looked at the amount with five zeros. Then at my son.
“I didn’t ask you for this.”
“Mom, stop it,” he rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. “We just want what’s best. For you to live a long time, in comfort. Appreciate our care.”
He left, and I remained standing there with that piece of paper in my hands. “Live a long time.” It no longer sounded like a wish, but like a sentence.
Live a long time so we can have time to squeeze every last drop out of you and your apartment.
For a week I lived as if under siege. The calls stopped, but something ominous hung in the air. They were giving me time to “think it over.” I knew it was the calm before the storm.
The climax came on Saturday morning. I went out to the kitchen to water the plants and opened the balcony door.
And froze.
The balcony was empty. Completely. No boxes with my petunias, no old wicker chair, no little table. Just bare concrete floor. In the corner, a shard from a broken pot lay forlornly.
They hadn’t just thrown away my flowers. They’d torn out a piece of my soul. The part where hope still flickered.
Where there were my friendship with Katya, the morning air, and the quiet joy of seeing a bud open.
I didn’t cry. Something snapped inside, and in place of the pain came an icy, crystalline calm. That was it. Enough.
The “good mom syndrome” that had made me forgive, understand and make allowances for decades, died that morning.
It wasn’t just that they didn’t love me. I simply didn’t exist for them. There was only the living space, the dacha, and potential money.
I went back to the room. I picked up the phone. My fingers did not tremble.
First I dialed Olga.
“Olya, good afternoon.”
“Mom? Has something happened?” there was a hint of anxiety in her voice.
“I want to talk to you. To you and to Dima. Today at seven at my place. It’s very important.”
“What’s it about? Have you decided about the school?”
“You’ll find out at seven,” my voice was calmer and firmer than it had ever been. “Both of you be here. It’s not optional.”
Then I dialed Dmitry. He picked up almost immediately.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Dima, I’m expecting you and Olga at my place at seven this evening.”
“We were just planning to stop by,” he replied cheerfully. “I found some guys who’ll haul off the old junk from the balcony.”
I paused, letting him enjoy his lie.
“The junk has already been hauled away. Thanks for the concern. See you tonight.”
I hung up without waiting for a reply.
I spent the rest of the day in a strange, almost meditative state. I cleaned the apartment. Took my best tablecloth out of the sideboard. Put a vase on the table, but didn’t buy any flowers.
In the evening, when the doorbell rang, I was ready. I opened the door and they came in, looking around.
The cleanliness and my composed look unsettled them. They had expected tears, hysteria, reproaches.
“Come in, sit down,” I said, pointing to the chairs at the table.
They exchanged glances.
“Mom, what’s going on?” Dmitry asked.
I sat down opposite them. I looked first at my son, then at my daughter. In their eyes was impatient expectation. They were waiting for my capitulation.
“I’ve called you to tell you about my decision,” I began. “You care so much about my comfort and my future. You wish me a long life. I’ve decided to follow your advice.”
Relief flashed across their faces. Olga even smiled slightly, anticipating victory. Dmitry leaned back in his chair like the man of the house.
“That’s right, Mom. We’d never steer you wrong.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “You talked about the liquidity of the apartment, about how the dacha is a burden. You’re right. So I’m selling both the apartment and the dacha.”
Olga gasped. Dmitry leaned forward, his eyes lighting up with greedy fire.
“You’re selling? Seriously? Mom, that’s the right decision! We’ll help, we’ll find the best realtors! The money will need to be invested properly…”
“Don’t worry, Dima. I’ve already decided everything,” I gently interrupted him. “I’m going to sign a lifetime annuity contract.”
They froze.
“A… what kind of annuity?” Olga managed to squeeze out.
“Lifetime. With full support. I’m moving to a good care home outside the city. Fresh air, care, treatments.
A swimming pool. Everything you need for a long and comfortable life, just like you wanted. And the money from the sale of the property will go to pay for this home for many years to come.”
Dmitry looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. The mask of the caring son slipped, revealing a predatory grin.
“You… what are you thinking? To give everything to strangers? What about us? What about your grandson?”
“And what about you?” For the first time in many years I allowed myself to look down on them. “Olya, you wanted money for the school?
Earn it. Dima, you wanted a ‘lounge area’? Make one in your mortgaged apartment. You’re healthy adults. You’ll manage.”
“How can you!” Olga shrieked, jumping to her feet. “We’re your children! This apartment was supposed to go to us!”
“It was supposed to go to whoever cares about me. Who brings me a glass of water not in anticipation of an inheritance, but because I’m thirsty.
Who silently washes the dishes because I’m tired. You wished me to live a hundred years. Well, I intend to do just that. But by my own rules.”
I took a folder with documents out of the desk drawer and placed a copy of the will on top.
“This is so you have no illusions about the future. Everything that remains after the care home is paid for, I’ve left to Ekaterina. My neighbor. She, unlike you, has never asked me for anything.”
Dmitry’s face turned crimson. He snatched the document from the table, skimmed it and hurled it back down.
“You’ve gone crazy! We’ll challenge this in court! You’re incompetent!”
“Go ahead and try,” my voice was calm. “I have a full medical certificate confirming I’m of sound mind.”
“I got it before I went to the notary. And your behavior — clearing my balcony without asking, psychological pressure — the court will be happy to take that into account as well.”
They looked at me with hatred.
A pure, undiluted hatred, the kind you feel toward someone who has ruined your plans and shown you your true, ugly face.
“Out,” I said quietly, but in a way that made them both flinch. “Get out of my home.”
They left, slamming the door so hard the glass in the sideboard rattled.
I was alone. But for the first time in many years, I didn’t feel lonely. I walked over to the empty balcony.
Soon Katya would bring new pots, and we would plant petunias again. I drew in the fresh evening air.
Live to be a hundred? Why not. It feels like life is only just beginning.