“So,” the notary—a woman in her fifties with perfectly even eyebrows (drawn on, of course)—opened a folder. “Nadezhda Pavlovna Zavyalova, your aunt, passed away on the third. The will was made in the presence of two witnesses and notarized six months ago. The heir…” She narrowed her eyes and gave a slight nod. “Is you. Completely. An apartment on Mosfilmovskaya—a three-room. A garage. A deposit account at Sberbank. Everything.”
“Alyona, you have to understand, I’m not doing this out of spite…” Larisa Petrovna’s voice flowed like thick honey—over-sweet, the kind you can’t even spread anymore, it just glues your teeth together.
Alyona stared at her in silence, lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to scream, slam the door, grab her by the shoulders and shake her until something finally clicked in that lady’s head. But she held it in. For now.
Two months. Exactly two months had passed since the day Viktor, eyes shining, announced:
“Lenchik, Mom needs to stay with us for a bit. Just temporarily. You understand… she’s got renovations.”
Alyona, like an idiot, believed him. Temporary, right? A week or two. Adults, renovations—sacred business. You can’t exactly toss her out onto the street.
Oh, how wrong she was.
In those two months her neat, cozy, millimeter-perfect life turned into a branch office of the Larisa Petrovna Lunatic Asylum.
Viktor… well, Viktor was Viktor. Soft as an IKEA pillow. He somehow managed to agree with two women at once—his mother and Alyona—and seemed to have lost track of who he was actually agreeing with.
“Lenchik, it’s hard for Mom. She’s been alone her whole life, it’s heavy for her. You understand…”
I understand. Oh, I understand. Especially after yesterday.
Yesterday Alyona discovered that her banking documents—TIN, pension insurance, the apartment contract—weren’t in the top drawer of her desk, where they’d lived for the last fifteen years. They were neatly stacked in a shoebox in the guest bedroom.
A guest bedroom that had, somehow, become… Larisa Petrovna’s bedroom.
“I put away everything that was lying around out of place,” Larisa Petrovna said, adjusting her blouse in a color best described as “crushed hope.” “A home needs a system. And here you’ve got… chaos.”
Alyona swallowed, clenched her fists so she wouldn’t slap that “system” right across its painted face, and hissed:
“Do you even realize you went through someone else’s documents?”
“I don’t,” Larisa Petrovna snorted. “How am I ‘someone else’? I’m practically your mother!”
“You’re Vitya’s mother.”
“Exactly!” Larisa Petrovna’s eyes sparkled with triumph. “Which means I’m your mother too. Not officially yet, of course, but… everything’s ahead.”
At that moment Viktor appeared in the hallway. As usual, he pretended he hadn’t heard anything, scratched the back of his head, and mumbled:
“Well, Lenchik… Mom’s right… order in the house is important.”
Alyona inhaled. Exhaled. And went to the kitchen to wash dishes—not because they were dirty, but because if she didn’t keep her hands busy, she’d definitely break something. Or someone. Over their head.
And the kitchen already reeked—of a smell so heavy Alyona’s cheekbones cramped.
“Plov,” Larisa Petrovna announced, walking in after her. “Real Uzbek plov. With lamb. Vitya loves it.”
Alyona nearly groaned. Plov. Again that damn plov. Five times in two months. With lamb, with chicken, with beef—once it was even with liver. And every time: a pot the size of a bathtub.
“Larisa Petrovna… Viktor’s been a vegetarian for the last three years,” Alyona finally snapped.
“Oh Lord, Lena, don’t talk nonsense. You put him on those trendy diets of yours. A man needs meat. Protein, you understand? Protein!”
That’s when Alyona realized her left eye was starting to twitch. You know… nervously. Cute. And, most importantly, promising. One step away from a full-blown tic.
“By the way,” Larisa Petrovna tossed in casually, chopping the carrots into cubes instead of thin sticks like you’re supposed to for real plov (Alyona, shamefully, had googled it just to have something to argue with this culinary tyrant), “I’ve been thinking. Your living room curtains are a nightmare, of course. Some old rag. I threw them out.”
“WHAT?!” Alyona’s voice jumped an octave.
“Well what?” Larisa Petrovna shrugged. “I bought proper ones at Leroy Merlin. Practical. Gray. Like concrete.”
“Like…” Alyona swallowed. “Like concrete, you say. Right. Beautiful.”
“Modern,” Larisa Petrovna nodded importantly. “Not like your… little flowers. Ugh. Like in Aunt Nyura’s village—may she rest in peace.”
And then Viktor walked in, holding a Pyaterochka grocery bag.
“Lenchik, Mom, I brought…” He took in the tense scene and hunched his shoulders. “What happened?”
Alyona slowly—very slowly—turned to him.
“Viktor,” she said in a poisonous calm, “your mother threw out my curtains.”
Viktor hesitated. Twisted the bag in his hands. Looked from his mother to Alyona.
“Well… Lenchik… maybe it’s true… new curtains wouldn’t hurt…”
“You…” Alyona actually tripped over her own words. “Are you serious? You’re seriously saying this right now?”
Viktor pulled a guilty face. His lips trembled.
“Mom just wanted… you know, what’s best…”
“Mom. Got it. Everything’s clear.”
But the real climax came that evening.
When Alyona got back from work, she found a new suitcase on the mezzanine shelves in their—well, in HER—apartment. With a neatly labeled tag: “L.P.”
In the kitchen—a grocery list written in the crisp handwriting of a former accountant:
Buckwheat — 3 kg
Sunflower oil — 2 bottles
Sugar — 5 kg
Lamb — 3 kg
Laundry detergent — big one
And a note at the bottom:
“Alyona, you need to make an appointment with a gastroenterologist. You clearly have stomach issues—judging by your refusal to eat normal food.”
Alyona stood there staring at the list, feeling an icy cocktail of rage, hurt, and absolute disbelief spread through her veins.
And right on cue, Larisa Petrovna came out of the bathroom. In a robe.
In her robe.
In Alyona’s robe.
The very one her friend had given her for her fortieth birthday—turquoise, soft, beloved.
“Oh, Lenchka,” Larisa Petrovna didn’t even look embarrassed. “I took your little robe—mine’s buried deep in the suitcase. Hope you don’t mind?”
And that’s when Alyona realized: that’s it. Enough. Her diplomacy was over. Her patience was dry.
“VIKTOR!” she barked so loud the walls trembled.
Three seconds later he appeared in the doorway—again with that rabbit expression.
“What… what happened?”
Alyona jabbed a finger toward Larisa Petrovna.
“Please explain to me what this is supposed to mean?! Did she MOVE IN with us?”
Viktor fidgeted. Tugged at the collar of his T-shirt.
“Well… Mom… Mom said until everything is settled there… well… she’s here…”
“Here?! In MY apartment?!” Alyona felt her voice climbing into ultrasound. “Viktor, are you even friends with your brain?! Do you realize this is MY apartment? MINE! Not yours! Not your mother’s! MINE!”
Larisa Petrovna snorted and rolled her eyes.
“Oh yes, yes, everything’s yours. As if family isn’t shared. Look at her, Viktor. An egoist. Mine, mine, mine…”
“EGOIST?!” Alyona nearly toppled over. “Me?! After everything you’ve pulled here?! You…”
“Alyona, don’t start,” Viktor spread his hands. “Mom’s temporary…”
“TEMPORARY?!” Alyona actually hiccupped. “Two months is temporary?! With a suitcase? With grocery lists? With curtain replacements and furniture rearranging?!”
Larisa Petrovna sighed—tiredly, like she was the victim here.
“Oh, no one’s keeping you, Lenchka. If you don’t like it—leave.”
Something clicked in Alyona’s head.
“Say that again,” she said slowly.
Larisa Petrovna crossed her arms.
“Leave, I said. The apartment’s decent, sure, but your character—horrible. Not every man can handle that.”
Alyona stood there, looking at both of them… and suddenly understood: it’s over. Right now. In this exact moment. Their story ends.
And it doesn’t even matter what happens next.
“Understood,” she said quietly. “Fine. Understood.”
“Okay. Fine,” Alyona nodded, as if to herself. “If I’m the extra one here—I’ll go. Or…” She narrowed her eyes. “You will.”
Viktor hunched his shoulders like he was expecting something to fly at him. Larisa Petrovna sighed theatrically, straightened up, and demonstratively adjusted the belt on the robe.
“Oh, here we go…” she shrugged. “As if we needed hysterics. A grown woman, and you act like a spoiled girl.”
“And you…” Alyona stepped closer and pointed at the air between them, “act like… like… like a lousy tenant without a contract!”
Viktor raised his hands.
“Lenchik, don’t… let’s do this calmly…”
“Calmly?!” Alyona snorted. “Tell your mother calmly—with my documents, with my robe, with her concrete curtains! Calmly! And you…” she stabbed a finger at him, “who are you in this apartment at all?! Because my impression is you’re… basically furniture. No voice, no function.”
Viktor opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Apparently the words were out of stock. System crash.
Alyona turned and went to the bedroom. Grabbed the suitcase.
Not hers—Larisa Petrovna’s.
Came back to the kitchen and dropped it right in the middle of the tile floor. The suitcase bounced sadly.
“Pack up.”
Larisa Petrovna blinked.
“What is this now?”
“Pack up. Both of you. One suitcase is enough. You’re cozy together—so go be cozy somewhere else. With your stuff. With your concrete curtains. With plov. With your lists.”
“Alyona…” Viktor started, but his voice was already betraying him.
“Oh Vitenka, did you get scared?” Larisa Petrovna crossed her arms. “Don’t worry. We’re family. And this…” she nodded toward Alyona, “is just a temporary misunderstanding. A convenient girlfriend.”
Alyona clenched her teeth so hard her temples throbbed.
“Say that again. Go on, Larisa Petrovna. Say it again—about the ‘misunderstanding.’”
“Gladly!” she flared up. “You think you’re the first? Vitya never stayed long with women like you. Does that surprise you? Or did you really think you were smart enough to be a proper wife?”
“Mom,” Viktor squeaked, “that’s enough…”
“SHUT UP!” Alyona shrieked, spinning on him. “SHUT UP, Vitya! You’re a masterpiece, you know that? A ‘man,’ damn it. With the letters M and A. Mom says sit—you sit. Mom says lie down—you lie down. Mom says bring it, hand it, clean it!”
Viktor flushed—for the first time in ages.
“Don’t talk like that, Lenchik…” he mumbled.
“Lenchik?!” Alyona grimaced. “Seriously? Lenchik? After all this—Lenchik?”
She yanked open the dresser drawer and took out her documents—good thing she’d moved them back after yesterday’s “cleaning.”
“So here’s how it is, gentlemen,” she said through clenched teeth. “The apartment is mine. The deed—right here. Here. I’m the only owner. You, Vitya, are nobody. Your mother—especially.”
“We… we’re family, Alyona…” he tried.
“Don’t,” she cut him off. “Family is respect. Boundaries. Support. Not when your mother rummages through my underwear and you stand there swallowing your snot. We’re not a family. Got it?”
Larisa Petrovna turned so pale even her lips went buttery.
“You’re serious,” she hissed. “You’re kicking us out?”
“Yep,” Alyona nodded. “Dead serious.”
Fifteen minutes later the suitcase was packed. Larisa Petrovna bustled, darted around, muttered under her breath. Viktor trailed after her like a tail—helping shove a robe in, pulling it out because it wouldn’t fit, trying again.
“Larisa Petrovna, you forgot your shopping list,” Alyona reminded coldly, holding the paper with two fingers.
“Keep it,” Larisa Petrovna snapped. “Maybe you’ll finally learn how to run a household properly.”
“Sure,” Alyona nodded. “I’ll try somehow. Without you.”
They gathered at the door. Viktor glanced back.
“Alyona… maybe… let’s do it normally…”
“Normally?!” Alyona pushed his hand off the doorframe. “Normally, Vitya, you should’ve spoken up the first time your mommy decided to replace my curtains. But you stayed silent. The second time too. The third time too. So now it’s normal. VERY normal.”
Larisa Petrovna lifted her chin.
“And anyway, you never suited Vitya. A woman over forty isn’t really a woman anymore, it’s… well, you know.”
Alyona laughed—loud, sharp, for the whole stairwell to hear.
“God… now you’re throwing my age in my face too? You… you…”
“Enough. Let’s go, Mom,” Viktor grabbed the suitcase. “Come on…”
“Go where?!” Larisa Petrovna suddenly snapped. “What are you doing? I thought you were staying!”
“Mom… well…” he hesitated. “Nowhere. To your place. For now.”
“To MY place?!” Larisa Petrovna’s eyes went wide. “But I have renovations!”
“Well… you said… temporary…” he muttered.
“Oh, Vitya…” she sighed. “You idiot. Such an idiot.”
Alyona couldn’t hold it in—she burst out laughing.
“Yeah. Welcome to reality, my boys.”
She slammed the door in their faces and, for good measure, turned the key. Then the second lock. Then the chain.
She stood with her back to the door for five minutes. Muffled voices came from the hallway—arguing or deciding who would sleep where. She didn’t care anymore.
You know what’s the strangest part?
There were no tears. No fear. Just silence.
Ringing, unfamiliar. Emptiness—but light.
Then she slowly walked through the apartment. Into the living room. Stopped by the window. On the curtain rod hung those miserable concrete-gray curtains.
“No,” Alyona said out loud. “This doesn’t belong here either.”
With wild, almost teenage laughter, she yanked the curtains off the rod. Down they flew—right to the floor, right where Larisa Petrovna’s suitcase had stood that morning.
“Okay,” she exhaled. “Now I need to figure out what to do with this.”
But she didn’t get the chance.
Her phone chirped with a message:
“Alyona, you did a vile thing. But it’s your own fault. Think carefully. It’s not too late.”
Viktor.
She stared at the screen, then smirked crookedly.
And then another one:
“Tomorrow I’m coming for my things. And Mom’s too. You have no right to keep them.”
“Oh wow,” Alyona drawled. “Here we go…”
And then the phone rang.
Unknown number. Moscow. Mobile.
Alyona frowned. Something inside gave a strange little jolt.
“Hello?” she said carefully.
“Alyona Nikolaevna?” A male voice—cold, businesslike. “This is the notary’s office. We urgently need to discuss an inheritance matter. Do you have time to come in?”
“Excuse me… what inheritance?” Alyona blurted.
“From your aunt… Nadezhda Pavlovna. Have you heard about her death?”
“What—” she cut off. “Aunt Nadya?! She… died?”
“Yes. Sadly, yes. The will is made out to you. Please come as soon as possible.”
Alyona sank onto the couch.
“WHAT?!” was all she managed.
The phone lay on the table like a delayed-action mine. Alyona stared at it as if it might explode any second.
Aunt Nadya… died… a will… to her.
Well, look at that. Irony, damn it. Nadezhda Pavlovna—the very one Alyona hadn’t spoken to for fifteen years, over some ridiculous fight about their grandmother’s inheritance, old family grudges, who didn’t call whom back in the nineties… and here it was. A hello from the past.
Half an hour later she was sitting in the notary’s office—typical Moscow, by the way. Linoleum with bubbles, a scuffed little sofa, the smell of cheap coffee and copy paper. And there she was—jeans with a coffee stain (she’d spilled it on herself in the rush) and the face of someone who’s about to be either blessed… or finished off.
“So,” the notary—a woman in her fifties with perfectly even eyebrows (drawn on, of course)—opened a folder. “Nadezhda Pavlovna Zavyalova, your aunt, passed away on the third. The will was made in the presence of two witnesses and notarized six months ago. The heir…” She narrowed her eyes and gave a slight nod. “Is you. Completely. An apartment on Mosfilmovskaya—a three-room. A garage. A deposit account at Sberbank. Everything.”
Alyona blinked.
“Sorry… what did you say?”
“Everything,” the notary nodded. “All of it. There are no other close heirs. Her sister—your mother—has passed away. No one else.”
“And… distant relatives?” Alyona reflexively thought of Larisa Petrovna. “You know, the ones who pop up like mushrooms after rain?”
The notary smirked.
“There are always those. But if the will is valid, it’s yours—unless, of course, someone decides to contest it.”
And Alyona understood the word “contest” sounded like a spell. Because, let’s be honest, she already had candidates.
Two of them. With suitcases ready.
That evening she came home with a stack of paperwork. And the first thing she saw was… who do you think?
Exactly. Viktor stood at her door with boxes. Behind him hovered the familiar figure in a coat and headscarf—Larisa Petrovna.
“Hi,” he forced out.
“Are you serious?” Alyona threw her hands up. “With boxes? With your mom? What were you hoping for?”
“We’re here for our things,” Larisa Petrovna cut in coldly. “Viktor has legal rights. He lived here. Lived! That means he can take what belongs to him!”
“Larisa Petrovna,” Alyona leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, “please explain to me the legal basis for the word ‘lived.’”
“The basis, the basis…” Larisa Petrovna hesitated. “Well… moral!”
“Moral…” Alyona snorted. “Great. Take your moral valuables. Just not my rug. And leave the microwave too—it’s morally mine.”
Viktor awkwardly lifted a box, but then his gaze snagged on the documents in Alyona’s hands.
“What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.
“Oh, what do you care?” Alyona demonstratively tucked the papers under her arm. “Or did you suddenly remember you have eyes and the ability to read?”
“Show me.” He stepped closer.
“Don’t come any nearer.” Alyona raised a hand. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Larisa Petrovna narrowed her eyes.
“Wait…” She jabbed a finger at the folder. “Is that from a notary’s office? Are you hiding something?”
Alyona inhaled.
“Fine,” she shrugged. “Want a surprise? Here you go. My dear Aunt Nadya—may she rest in peace—left me a three-room apartment on Mosfilmovskaya. With a garage. And a bank deposit. Completely. To me.”
Silence. Coffin silence.
Viktor blinked.
“To… you?”
“Yep. To me. Do you get it, Vitya? Now I’m richer. Twice over. So you can update your profile: ‘Looking. Preferably widow of a millionaire.’”
Larisa Petrovna slowly went pale, then red, then pale again.
“You… you… you’re greedy!” she shrieked. “Mercenary! Everything for yourself! Everything! You grabbed a man for yourself! You took the apartment! Now her aunt’s too! You… you…”
“I’m independent,” Alyona said calmly. “Self-sufficient. And most importantly—I will never let you or your son climb onto my neck again.”
Viktor threw up his hands.
“So what?! Big deal! You think you’re the only smart one? I’ve got… I’ve got…”
“You’ve got a mom,” Alyona cut in. “A suitcase. And moral valuables.”
He opened his mouth to say something… and didn’t.
And Larisa Petrovna was already hissing:
“I’ll sue you. For moral damages! For illegally evicting my son! For insults! For… for… for everything!”
“Go ahead,” Alyona smiled. “Just know that cases like ‘evicting a cohabiting partner’ aren’t won in Russia. Cohabitants aren’t owners. And legally there’s only one owner. Here.” She waved the deed. “Me.”
And that’s when Viktor finally understood.
He stepped toward her, tried to take her hand.
“Len… come on… let’s… let’s fix it. Really. You know me. You understand…”
Alyona pulled her hand away.
“Viktor,” she looked him straight in the eyes, “do you know what’s the scariest part of all this?”
“What?”
“That you’re nobody. Empty. You understand? There’s nothing to even be mad at you for—because there’s no personality there. There’s only your mom’s echo.”
He recoiled. Larisa Petrovna grabbed him by the elbow.
“Let’s go, Vitya. This place isn’t for us. We’re decent people. Unlike some.”
“Yep,” Alyona nodded. “Hint received. Goodbye.”
And she shut the door.
For four days Alyona scrubbed the apartment. Literally—with bleach, rags, and brittle laughter. Scrubbing out Larisa Petrovna’s smell, the nervousness, her old illusions, and her ex-man along with it.
On the fifth day she went to Mosfilmovskaya.
The entryway was clean. A concierge with an eighties hairstyle, sipping tea and cracking sunflower seeds.
“Who are you here for?” she asked strictly.
“For myself,” Alyona replied—and for the first time in a long while she felt how good that sounded.
She opened the door. An empty but spacious, bright apartment. A view of Moscow City. Aunt Nadya had something to be proud of.
Alyona walked into the living room and opened the windows. Fresh air rushed inside. Somewhere below, a tram rumbled.
“Well then, girl,” she said to herself. “Clean slate, huh?”
Her phone beeped.
A message:
“You’ll be alone. Always. No one needs you.”
The number was blocked, but the style was unmistakable.
Alyona slowly typed her reply:
“Thank you. That’s exactly what I’ve been dreaming of.”
And she blocked both numbers. Every number from the past.
Then she took the chain off her neck—the one Vitya had once given her.
“Trash,” she said. “Expired.”
And she walked out. Into her new life. Without concrete curtains, grocery lists, and people who confuse love with a fishing rod and a leash.
The end