The news of Grandma’s death reached me at work.
I was finishing the quarterly report when Mom called.
“Tanyusha…” Her voice shook. “Grandma Vera… she…”
She didn’t have to say the rest. I already knew.
For the past month Grandma had been fading right in front of us. The doctors warned us it was only a matter of time. Still, I wasn’t ready.
“I’m coming,” I breathed out, sweeping my things into my bag.
My boss took one look at my face and silently nodded—go.
Tatyana Sergeyevna, our accountant, crossed herself as I hurried past. “Hold on, dear girl,” she murmured.
On the marshrutka, memories hit me in a rush.
Grandma teaching me to bake pirozhki: “Knead the dough with love, Tanyusha—then it will listen to you.”
Grandma reading bedtime stories while I watched shadows crawl along the ceiling.
Grandma mending my school apron and saying, “What matters in life isn’t what you wear, but what you keep inside.”
Grandma’s apartment met me with an unfamiliar quiet.
No smell of pastries. No ticking from the old wall clock—it had stopped, as if it had lost its owner too.
Mom was in the kitchen, sorting through old photos.
“Look,” she said. “That’s you when you were tiny. And here—Grandma when she was young…”
Then came the long, heavy days.
The funeral. The memorial meal. Endless conversations with relatives—some honestly grieving, others already counting what could be inherited.
A week later, my parents asked me over for a serious talk.
“Sweetheart,” Dad began, “your mother and I have decided. Grandma’s apartment… we want it to go to you.”
I froze. “But… what about you?”
“What about us?” Mom took my hand. “We have our own place. And it’s time you had your own corner. How long can you keep drifting from one rental to another?”
“But that’s…” I stumbled, searching for words.
“It’s the right thing,” Dad said firmly. “Grandma wanted it this way. She always said, ‘Tanyusha needs her own nest.’”
The inheritance paperwork took six months.
Endless lines at the service center, certificates, stamps, a lawyer’s advice. But it was worth it—one day I finally held the ownership document in my hands.
“Well then, homeowner,” Mom smiled. “Happy housewarming.”
I decided to renovate.
Not a luxury makeover—there wasn’t money for designer fantasies. But to straighten the walls, put up fresh wallpaper, replace the plumbing… I took a bank loan. My salary could handle it.
I worked little by little—after work, on weekends. My parents helped whenever they could. My neighbor, Auntie Nyura, kept bringing pirozhki.
“Eat, dear,” she’d say. “You’ll need strength.”
Every evening, when I finished for the day, I’d sit on the windowsill and picture how warm the apartment would become.
A bookcase here. A soft couch there. And in the kitchen, Grandma’s clock—so it could tick again and make the place feel like a real home.
I met Andrey when the renovation was still in full swing.
Our office was celebrating a colleague’s birthday in a small restaurant. I sat by the window, absentmindedly stirring my salad and thinking about what color to paint the kitchen.
“What are you lost in thought about?” a voice asked over my shoulder.
I looked up. A tall guy in a blue shirt was smiling at me. “Mind if I sit?”
“Of course,” I shifted. “Are you Lyosha’s friend?”
“More like a friend of Lyosha’s friend,” he laughed. “I’m Andrey. I work in IT.”
The conversation just… happened.
We liked old movies, hiking trips, jazz. Andrey was an easy person to talk to—smart, funny, and the kind of man who actually listened.
“So what are you busy with these days?” he asked. “Besides work, I mean.”
“Renovation,” I sighed. “I inherited my grandma’s apartment and I’m trying to bring it back to life.”
“Oh, that’s interesting!” he lit up. “I know a bit about repairs. If you want help—say the word.”
I joked it off, but a week later he really showed up—old jeans, a toolbox in hand.
“Alright,” he said. “Show me what we’re dealing with.”
With him, everything felt lighter.
He did know what he was doing—gave practical advice, fixed things quickly. And he knew exactly how to make me laugh when I was tired or upset because something went wrong again.
“You know,” he said one day, watching me mix paint, “you’re incredible.”
“Why?”
“Most girls our age dream about expensive restaurants and brand-name bags. And you’re building a home with your own hands. That’s… impressive.”
I felt my cheeks burn. “I just want it to be cozy. Like it was when Grandma was here.”
He stepped closer. “It’s already cozy. Because you’re here.”
Our first kiss smelled like paint and plaster—and it was perfect.
Andrey’s mother, Nina Petrovna, lived in a large three-bedroom place downtown. When he told her he wanted to introduce his girlfriend, she turned it into a full reception.
“Come in, sweetheart, come in!” she sang as she opened the door. “Andryusha has told me so much about you!”
Her apartment was pure luxury—crystal chandeliers, antique furniture, paintings in gilded frames. I unconsciously smoothed my simple mass-market dress.
“Sit down,” Nina Petrovna pointed to the sofa. “We’ll have tea. With pastries—I ordered them from the central gourmet shop.”
She talked nonstop: about Andrey’s work (“the prospects are incredible—you have no idea!”), his childhood (“he was always a special boy”), her plans (“we’ll sell this one and buy bigger—when grandchildren arrive”).
“And what do you do, dear?” she finally asked.
“I’m an economist at a construction company…”
“Oh!” she shot Andrey a meaningful look. “An economist—that’s good. Practical.”
“And Tanya’s renovating an apartment too,” Andrey added proudly. “All by herself, can you imagine?”
“An apartment?” Nina Petrovna leaned in. “Your own?”
“It was my grandma’s. I inherited it.”
“How interesting,” she drew the words out. “What neighborhood?”
I told her the address.
“Ah, there…” she grimaced slightly. “Well, you’ll renovate it and then you can sell it. Apartments downtown are moving fast these days.”
“I’m not selling,” I said firmly. “It’s Grandma’s memory.”
“My dear,” Nina Petrovna smiled indulgently, “life changes. You have to learn how to let go of the past.”
That night, on the way home, Andrey seemed thoughtful.
“You know,” he said quietly, “Mom might be right. Your apartment isn’t in the most prestigious area…”
“So?”
“Nothing.” He hugged me. “I’m just thinking about the future. About us.”
I didn’t take it seriously then. People in love often don’t see what’s right in front of them.
His proposal was beautiful: dinner at an expensive restaurant, a violinist, a diamond ring—straight out of a movie.
“Will you marry me?” he asked, dropping to one knee.
People at nearby tables sighed happily. The violinist played something sweet.
“Yes,” I whispered, dizzy with joy.
Nina Petrovna immediately swung into action.
“The wedding must be proper! A restaurant, guests, limousines…”
“Mom,” Andrey tried to reason with her, “we want something small…”
“Small? Absolutely not! You’re my only son!”
We ended up with a compromise—something modest with close family. But she still managed to turn it into a showcase.
“Look,” my friend Lena whispered during the meal, “your future mother-in-law has already told everyone about your apartment—what neighborhood, everything.”
“Why?”
“You don’t get it?” Lena muttered. “She’s making sure everyone knows you’re ‘not coming empty-handed.’”
That uneasy feeling pricked me again. But I blamed nerves and ignored it.
After the wedding, the question was where we’d live.
I offered my place: the renovation was almost done, everything new and comfortable.
“Exactly!” Nina Petrovna suddenly agreed. “Why should the young ones rent when there’s a home?”
Andrey agreed—on one condition.
“Let’s bring some of my things. I want to feel at home too.”
So his massive computer desk appeared, along with a gaming console and a whole collection of anime figurines.
Grandma’s bookcase had to be moved to my parents’ dacha—it didn’t “fit the new interior.”
The first months of marriage passed like a dream.
We adjusted to each other, learned daily life together, made plans. Andrey could be caring: he cooked on weekends, helped clean, kept romance alive.
Nina Petrovna visited often “to check on the newlyweds.” She brought pies, asked questions, gave advice. She was especially curious about how the apartment was being “improved.”
“You should knock down this wall,” she’d say, squinting. “Make the kitchen bigger…”
“Nina Petrovna, that’s a load-bearing wall.”
“Oh, these days!” she waved it off. “Everything can be reinforced—if you have the money…”
After her visits, Andrey would grow quiet.
“You know,” he’d say, “Mom has a point. The apartment is kind of small…”
“It’s perfect for two.”
“And if we have kids?”
“Then we’ll decide.”
He’d frown but let it go. And I started noticing something else—his looks. Strange, measuring, like he was assessing me.
The shift came gradually, almost unnoticed.
First, Nina Petrovna began dropping by more often—no pies now, just folders and papers.
“Look, dear,” she’d say, spreading glossy brochures across the table, “these are the apartments downtown. A three-bedroom, a Stalin-era building, three-meter ceilings…”
“Nina Petrovna,” I’d sigh, “we’ve already discussed this. We’re good here.”
“Oh, good?” She scanned the room critically. “Tiny, cramped… and the neighborhood is so-so. My friend Galina’s son got married recently—they sold the old place immediately and took a mortgage…”
Andrey would sit silently, glued to his phone. But after his mother left, he’d become edgy.
“Maybe we should actually think about moving.”
“Why? We just finished renovating…”
“Because it’s time to move forward!” he’d snap. “We can’t live in a birdhouse forever!”
I tried to explain: it wasn’t about square meters—it was about memory, about history…
“History?” he’d scoff. “And what about our future?”
One evening I walked in on them—Andrey and Nina Petrovna—whispering over papers in the kitchen.
“Mom, she won’t agree…”
“She will,” his mother replied. “Where would she go? The key is guiding her to it the right way…”
They froze when they saw me. The papers vanished into Nina Petrovna’s bag.
“What are you talking about?” I asked directly.
“Oh, nothing,” Andrey looked away. “Work stuff.”
That same night I called Lena.
“Len… am I imagining it, or is something happening?”
“What’s going on?”
I told her about the folders, the whispers, the paperwork.
“Tanya,” Lena said tensely, “have you checked your apartment documents? Are they still there?”
“Of course. They’re in the safe…” I stopped. “Wait.”
I rushed to the safe.
Everything was there, but… something felt off. The folder wasn’t sitting the same way. The corner of the ownership certificate was slightly bent.
“Lena, I think someone has been looking through them.”
“Make copies—now. And hide the originals somewhere else.”
That night I couldn’t sleep.
I turned over and over, listening to my husband’s breathing, remembering how happy we’d been a year ago in this “small” apartment. What had changed?
In the morning Andrey placed documents in front of me.
“You need to sign.”
“What is this?”
“Just a formality. Re-registering the apartment in both spouses’ names.”
I scanned the text.
A gift deed.
Half of my apartment—to Andrey.
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” He slammed his hand on the table. “We’re married! Everything should be shared!”
“It’s my grandmother’s inheritance. It’s mine.”
“And who am I?” he shot back. “A stranger?”
“Andrey,” I tried to keep calm, “when we married, you had your own things, your own accounts. I didn’t demand you sign them over to me.”
“That’s different!” he sprang up. “I invested here too! The renovation, the furniture…”
“I paid for the renovation—with my money and a loan. And your furniture is your furniture. If you want it, take it.”
He stared at me like he was seeing me for the first time.
“So that’s what you think about family? About trust?”
“What does trust have to do with it?” My voice started shaking. “If you love me, why do you need my apartment?”
“Because I have a right!” he shouted. “I’m the man! I’m supposed to feel like the owner of the house!”
“In my house?”
He stormed out, slamming the door.
An hour later, my mother-in-law called.
“Tanechka, we need to talk.”
Nina Petrovna arrived with a cake and a tight smile. She walked into the kitchen and took out cups like she owned the place.
“Sit down, dear. Let’s talk.”
I watched her portion the cake with precise, practiced movements. I remembered Grandma cutting pie the same way—only Grandma’s hands had always been soft, warm.
“You didn’t really think this apartment was only yours, did you?” Nina Petrovna fixed me with a heavy stare. “Once you’re married, everything must be shared.”
“Nina Petrovna…”
“Listen!” She raised a hand. “I understand—memories, inheritance… but you need to understand too: Andryusha is a man. He needs to feel like the head of the home. And with your behavior…” she shook her head. “You’re humiliating him.”
“Humiliating him?” A wave of anger rose in me. “Because I don’t want to give away my apartment?”
“Not give away—share! That’s natural. When I married Andryusha’s father…”
“That was your story,” I interrupted. “This is ours.”
Her lips tightened. “Story? And have you thought about the future? About children? What will they get—one little room on the outskirts?”
“When we have children, we’ll decide then.”
“We’ll decide?” she sneered. “So you’re the only one in charge? I imagined you differently, Tatyana. I thought you were a good girl, decent…”
“And decency means handing over half my home on demand?”
“Not on demand!” Her voice rose. “My son put up with your tricks for a year! A whole year, waiting for you to understand on your own…”
“Understand what?”
“That without him you’re nobody!” She cut herself off, realizing she’d said too much.
Silence filled the kitchen.
Grandma’s clock ticked steadily on the wall—measured, even, like it was counting down the end of something.
“So that’s how it is,” I said, slowly standing. “Without your son I’m nobody? And with him I become what—another obedient daughter-in-law who gives up everything ‘for the sake of family’?”
“Don’t be rude!” Nina Petrovna stood too. “Andrey and I only want what’s best…”
“Best for who?” I asked. “For me? Or for your plan to upgrade your living situation?”
Her face flushed crimson. “How dare you—”
“I understand now, Nina Petrovna. I understood from the start, I just didn’t want to believe it. Remember? ‘Downtown apartments sell well.’ Sell mine, add money, buy a bigger one in a prestigious neighborhood…”
“And what’s wrong with that?” she snapped, regaining control. “It’s an investment in the future!”
“In your future. Not mine.”
“You’ll regret it,” she said, stuffing things into her bag. “Andrey won’t forgive you.”
“For what—being honest?”
At the door she turned back. “You know, I was truly happy when he chose you. I thought: modest, domestic, with an apartment… But you turned out to be just a greedy egoist.”
“Better an egoist than a puppet.”
She slammed the door.
I sank onto the chair, feeling a strange emptiness.
Her words kept echoing: “Without him you’re nobody.”
And suddenly I heard Grandma’s voice in my head: “Tanyusha, remember—people aren’t rich because of what they own, but because of what they can protect. And I’m not talking about things. I mean dignity.”
I grabbed my phone and dialed.
“Lena? Can I come over?”
Andrey came back late—angry and drunk.
“Well? Happy now? Mom’s in tears and I look like an idiot…”
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” He collapsed onto the couch. “About how you’re destroying the family?”
“Family?” I laughed bitterly. “Was there ever a real family, Andrey?”
“What?”
“A real one. Or was it just a plan to take the apartment?”
He jumped up. “What are you talking about?!”
“The truth. You knew from the beginning, didn’t you? About your mother’s plan, about moving downtown…”
“Idiot!” He grabbed my shoulders. “I loved you! I really loved you!”
“Me… or my apartment?”
He recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “So that’s what you think…”
“And what am I supposed to think?” My throat tightened with tears. “A year, Andrey. A whole year. And all this time you and your mother kept hinting, pushing, manipulating…”
“We wanted what was best!”
“For who?”
He went silent, staring at the floor.
“You know what’s the worst part?” I wiped my tears. “I really did love you. And I would’ve shared everything—without papers, without pressure—if I’d felt you cared about me, not the square footage.”
He sagged suddenly and sat back down.
“And you know what?” he said quietly. “You’re right. I… I knew from the start.”
That admission hurt more than all the yelling.
“Mom said back then: ‘Look at her—modest, hardworking. And she has her own apartment.’ I even got offended: ‘Mom, what does the apartment have to do with anything?’”
He gave a short, joyless smile.
“And then I saw you at that party. And I really did fall in love. Honestly, Tanya. For real.”
“But the apartment…”
“The apartment…” He rubbed his face. “It’s like water dripping on stone. Every day Mom would say: ‘You must be the owner,’ ‘A man can’t live in someone else’s home,’ ‘A husband has to…’”
I stared at his slumped shoulders. Where was the confident IT guy who taught me how to mix plaster?
“I’m leaving,” he said, getting up. “I’ll pick up my things later.”
“Wait. Do you really think I’m nobody without you?”
He paused at the door. “Did Mom say that?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “No, Tanya. You’re stronger than we thought. That’s why…” He didn’t finish. He just waved a hand and left.
The divorce was surprisingly calm.
Andrey didn’t even come to court—he sent a lawyer. The lawyer read a statement about “irreconcilable differences” and “different views of family values.”
Nina Petrovna tried to “talk sense into me”—calls, messages, even waiting near my office.
“Think again! Where will you find another husband like that?”
“Like what—someone ready to sell my memories for extra meters downtown?”
“Oh stop with the memories, memories!” she snapped. “You have to live for the future!”
“Then live for it,” I said. “Without me.”
That evening, after the divorce, I sat in the kitchen watching Grandma’s clock.
It ticked the same steady way, now counting a new life.
Mom called. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay,” I said—and surprised myself because it was true. “It feels like a weight came off my shoulders.”
“That’s right,” Mom replied softly. “Grandma would be proud of you.”
“You think?”
“I know. She always said, ‘Our Tanya has character. She won’t sell her soul for a pretty wrapper.’”
A year passed.
The apartment changed: I repainted the walls, rearranged the furniture, removed everything that reminded me of that marriage. Only the clock stayed where it always had—keeping time.
One day in the supermarket I bumped into my former mother-in-law.
She pretended not to notice me, but I heard her on the phone:
“Yes, Galochka, Andryusha got married. Such a wonderful girl from a good family. And an apartment downtown…”
I smiled. Some people never change.
And a month later Sergey came into my life—an ordinary engineer from my company.
No restaurant theatrics. No showy gestures. Just one day he said:
“You know, I have my own apartment. And I truly don’t care whether you have one or not. What matters is who you are.”
We got married this spring.
We live in my apartment—it’s simply more convenient. We rent out his place and save for a house outside the city. When I nervously mentioned changing documents, he laughed.
“Why? This is your memory, your inheritance. I love you—not your square meters.”
Grandma’s clock still ticks on the wall.
Sometimes I sit under it with tea and think: what would my life look like if I’d signed that gift deed? If I’d given in, traded memory for “prospects”?
Maybe I’d be living in a prestigious apartment downtown now.
Maybe I’d even be happy—in a way people become happy when they learn to bend to someone else’s wishes.
But every time I look at that old clock, I understand: it was never about the apartment.
It was about the choice—stay yourself or become convenient.
Protect memory or exchange it for a “better neighborhood.”
Love for real—or play at love by someone else’s rules.
People say time heals everything.
No. Time doesn’t heal—it teaches.
It teaches you to tell real from fake, love from manipulation, family from a deal.
And it teaches one simple truth:
Never give away what is precious to you just because someone thinks they’re entitled to it.
Let Nina Petrovna believe I’m selfish.
I know Grandma would be proud.
Tick-tock, tick-tock… the clock counts the minutes of a new life—
a life where I finally learned to value not neighborhoods and square meters, but sincerity and respect.
And the apartment… the apartment stayed exactly what it always was:
a warm home that keeps the memory of love.
Real love—love that doesn’t demand proof in the form of property papers.