PART ONE. A Delicate Request
Galina finished the last line on the diploma, set down her pen, and leaned back in her chair. Forty-eight award letters for the Philharmonic—each in her handwriting, each marked by her touch, her careful lines. She had been working for three days straight, because during the daytime, it was impossible to concentrate in the apartment. Zinaida Egorovna was there during the day.
Her mother-in-law—now her former mother-in-law—had moved in four years ago “just for a month, to recover.” Semyon had registered her there, saying she needed it to get medical care at the local clinic. Back then, Galina had just shrugged and signed her consent as the owner.
The apartment had come to her from her grandfather, by will. Three rooms, high ceilings, old parquet floors that she had restored herself. The marriage had ended, but Zinaida Egorovna remained.
“Zinaida Egorovna, we need to talk,” Galina said, entering the living room, where her mother-in-law was laying out fabric scraps on the table.
“Go ahead,” she replied, not looking up.
“Please, let’s use formal address. We’re not related anymore.”
“Oh, fancy! The lady of the manor, huh.”
Galina sat down across from her and folded her hands on the table. She had already decided to stay calm and courteous, not raise her voice, and offer options. She always believed that any problem could be solved through conversation.
“Did Semyon talk to you about moving?”
“He did,” Zinaida Egorovna smoothed a piece of velvet with her hand. Her fingers didn’t work well, gnarled at the joints, her right ring finger wouldn’t even straighten. “He said: Be at ease, Mom, no one’s going to move you.”
“And where was he planning to move you, exactly?”
“Nowhere. I’m registered here.”
“Zinaida Egorovna, this is my apartment. You were moved in as part of the owner’s family, but that family doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Don’t start quoting the law at me,” my mother-in-law finally looked up. “I’ve been here for four years. I scrubbed these floors myself.”
“Actually, the floors were cleaned by the housekeeper—who I paid for.”
“Then keep paying for her.”
Galina took a deep breath and counted to five. Then she pulled a printout from the drawer—listings for rooms and one-bedroom apartments in this same area, complete with prices and phone numbers.
“Here’s my proposal,” she said evenly. “I’ll pay for your first three months of rent—pick any place from these options. I’ll also cover your moving expenses and furniture. I don’t want a fight, I just want you to have your own space.”
“And what will Syoma say?”
“Semyon lives with another woman in a different apartment. Call him and see what he has to say.”
Zinaida Yegorovna took the printout between two fingers, looked at it, and pushed it away.
“I’m not going.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to,” she answered, grabbing the velvet again as if the conversation was over.
***
In the evening, Dasha dropped by—carrying a bag of apples and her trusty notebook, where she scribbled down everything: shopping lists, even other people’s grievances.
Dasha worked as an assistant to an insolvency administrator and, for the past twelve years, had been untangling other people’s debts, property ruins, and fine-sounding promises. She had a professional knack for sniffing this stuff out.
“She refused?” Dasha clarified as she settled on the windowsill.
“Refused. That’s putting it mildly.”
“Then draft a notice and get your lawsuit ready. Article thirty-one of the Housing Code, part four: a former family member doesn’t retain residence rights.”
“Dasha, she’s sixty-six.”
“So what? She’s sixty-six and you’re thirty-eight—you’ve still got your life ahead of you. She has a son, a healthy forty-one-year-old man.”
“Her son’s getting married today,” said Galina. “On Saturday. I saw the invitation in their chat.”
Dasha went silent for a moment, then pulled out her notebook and jotted something down.
“All the more reason. Let the newlyweds figure out housing for his mother. It’s a family celebration after all.”
“I want things to end on a good note.”
“You already offered three months’ rent and moving help—that’s as good as it gets. After that, it’s a matter of the law.”
Galina picked up a tangerine and rolled it around in her fingers for a long time.
“I’ll call Semyon.”
“Go ahead,” Dasha agreed. “You’ll find out who he really is now.”
PART TWO. She’s registered there, and there’s nothing you can do
Semyon picked up on the fourth ring. Music played in the background, someone was laughing, there was the clinking of glasses.
“Yeah, Galya? What do you want?”
“Your mother is living in my apartment. Take her.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“Semyon, I’m serious. I offered her three months’ rent at my expense. She refused.”
“Well, she was right to refuse,” he said, and the smile in his voice made Galina feel cold. “She’s registered there, Galya. Permanently. You can’t evict her, I’ve checked. She’s elderly, has a hand disability, a pension of eighteen thousand, and nowhere else to live. No court will throw her out on the street.”
“So you did this on purpose.”
“I call it smart,” he corrected her. “You’ve got a big apartment, you live alone. Why are you so stingy with rooms?”
“Semyon, you’re getting married on Saturday.”
“I’m getting married,” he agreed cheerfully. “Veronika, by the way, is a wedding planner—she throws such amazing ceremonies! She’s even arranging her own wedding.”
“Congrats. So, what will you do with your mother when you need her for the official address registration?”
“I won’t need her. She’s fine at your place. Listen, I’ve got people here, let’s talk later.”
“There won’t be a later. I’m filing a lawsuit.”
“Go ahead,” he said, almost kindly. “File it, Galya. I’ll be watching to see you lose.”
And he hung up the phone.
***
Galina submitted her application eleven days later. During those eleven days, a routine settled in the apartment that Dasha later called ‘domestic siege mode.’
Zinaida Egorovna stopped saying hello. She took over the kitchen from seven in the morning until noon, then again from five to nine in the evening. She would turn on the TV right when Galina sat down to work.
“Zinaida Egorovna, could you please turn it down? I’m working.”
“But I’m listening.”
“You can listen in your own room.”
“I could. But I won’t.”
Galina’s work was unique: she handwrote diplomas, certificates, addresses, and congratulatory books for large organizations—situations where a printer wouldn’t do. Her hand needed to be steady, her breathing calm. But when the TV blared from behind the wall, her pen would tremble, and the sheet would be ruined.
One day, she ruined twenty-three sheets out of forty-eight. She bought new paper with her own money, since it was her fault. It cost her forty thousand.
Then a woman called the philharmonic and said that the person handling their order was drinking, bringing strangers into the apartment, and forcing a sick, disabled mother out of her home. Their client called Galina back, apologetic and confused, and didn’t cancel the order—but the next one went to someone else.
“Was it you who called?” Galina asked in the hallway.
“Anyone could have called anyone,” Zinaida Egorovna replied.
For the first time ever, Galina spoke to her sharply:
“You’re biting the hand that feeds you. Literally.”
“My son feeds me.”
“Your son hasn’t sent you a single ruble in four years. I saw your statements—you even showed them to me when you needed help with your receipts.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Soon it will be,” Galina said, and walked away.
***
The hearing was set for the end of March. Semyon showed up looking tan, wearing a new coat and a wedding ring. He sat next to his mother, placing his hand on the back of her chair.
“It’s alright, Mom. Everything will be sorted out here,” he said loudly, making sure Galina overheard.
His representative spoke at length: about age, about her third-degree disability, about the lack of other housing, about the established usage arrangements. He requested that her right to live there be preserved for at least another three years.
Dasha, who was sitting behind Galina, passed her a note: “Let him ask. We brought what we need.”
Galina stood up.
“Your Honor, the defendant hasn’t been a member of my family since the divorce. There’s no agreement on shared use between us. She was moved in four years ago at my ex-husband’s request, temporarily, for a specific reason—to attach her to the local clinic.”
“That’s a lie,” Zinaida Egorovna called out from her seat.
“There is a registration application with my written consent in the case file,” Galina continued. “Next: the defendant has an able-bodied son who is legally obligated to support his mother. Besides, I offered to pay for three months of rent and the moving expenses. The offer was refused verbally, so I sent it again in writing, and there’s a notice in the file.”
The judge turned her gaze to Semyon.
“Are you prepared to provide your mother with housing?”
Semyon stood up and replied with great confidence:
“I have a one-room apartment, a mortgage, and a wife. There’s simply no space.”
“A one-room apartment?” the judge clarified.
“Thirty-eight square meters.”
Galina stayed silent. She already knew the apartment was forty-nine square meters, mortgage-free, and knew exactly where the money came from.
A decision was made that very day: to terminate the right of residence, to evict, to remove from the registration records, and to grant a three-month deferral of enforcement.
In the hallway, Semyon caught her by the elbow.
“Happy now? You just put an old woman out on the street.”
“She’s not an old woman—she’s your mother, and she won’t be on the street,” Galina replied, pulling her arm free. “She’ll be with her son. You said yourself you have thirty-eight meters. Your mother will fit in there.”
“Stay out of my life.”
“I’m actually stepping out of it. In three months—completely.”
PART THREE: Suitcases on the Landing
Three months went by uneventfully, just as the term required—quietly and then all at once.
On the last day, Zinaida Egorovna packed two suitcases, three bags, and a box with a sewing machine she hadn’t used in years. She carried everything out to the landing herself, item by item, taking breaks to rest between trips.
Galina stayed inside. She sat at the table, rewriting the title page she had ruined the night before. Eventually, she stood up and opened the door.
Her mother-in-law was sitting on a suitcase by the elevator. Her back was straight, her coat buttoned all the way up, a bag resting on her knees.
“Is Semyon coming to pick you up?”
“He’ll pick me up.”
“What time?”
“Soon.”
Galina closed the door. Two hours later, she came out again—Zinaida Egorovna was still sitting there, unchanged. Three hours after that—still sitting.
Near eleven at night, Galina stepped out for the fourth time.
“Is he coming?”
“He’s coming,” her mother-in-law replied, but her voice was weak now.
“Call him while I’m here.”
“I won’t.”
“Then I’ll call.”
Semyon picked up right away.
“Your mother has been sitting on the landing for eight hours.”
“So what?”
“Are you going to pick her up?”
On the other end, it was quiet. Then Semyon sighed, like someone who’d been interrupted from something important.
“Galya, I just can’t. Veronika is allergic to fur, and mom has that collar. Plus, mom won’t let us smoke. Besides, we just got married. We don’t need other people in the house.”
“She’s not ‘other people.’ She’s your mother.”
“Come on—you’re kind-hearted. Let her come back, let her stay. Court decisions are one thing, but as a human being…”
Galina slowly lowered the phone. Zinaida Egorovna looked up at her, and her face was the look of someone who in a single moment understands everything about their own life.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He said I should let you back in.”
“And him?”
“He’s not coming himself.”
Her mother-in-law lowered her head and was silent for a long time.
“I gave him my apartment,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “A two-bedroom on Rechnaya. It was my father’s. I sold it and brought him the money. He told me then, ‘Mom, I’m not a stranger to you, you’ll always have a roof over your head.’”
“When did this happen?”
“Three years and eight months ago.”
“And did he buy the apartment he lives in now with that money?”
“Yes, that’s what he used. Two million eight hundred.”
Galina crouched down, so she was at her level.
“Zinaida Egorovna. Do you have a receipt?”
“I do,” her mother-in-law replied. “I’m not stupid. I wrote it out myself, and he signed it. Igor and his friend were there. He even joked: ‘Mom, you’re like a bank.’”
***
Galina took her by taxi to the room she’d rented herself, under her own name, paid for three months ahead. One hundred twenty-six thousand – almost everything that was left after legal expenses.
When Dasha found out, she said just one word:
“Why?”
“Because she’s not my enemy anymore.”
“She made your life miserable for eight months. Called your clients.”
“She did,” Galina agreed. “But then she sat on her suitcase for eight hours.”
Dasha was silent for a moment, then opened her notebook.
“Alright. So, here’s what we do. Get the receipt in hand, the original. Next, step by step: first – a demand to return the loan, sent by registered mail with an inventory. Since there’s no set date to return the debt, the limitation period starts from the moment we make the demand, with thirty days for repayment. Second – file a claim for child support for a disabled parent, Article 87 of the Family Code. Third – additional expenses, Article 88: medicine, rent.”
“Will it work?”
“Gal, she’s got a hand disability, she can’t work as a seamstress or do any other job. Her pension is eighteen thousand. Her only son, forty-one, works as a refrigeration technician at the fish plant, official salary is one hundred and ten. Plus it’s a proven fact he got two million eight hundred from her and left her on the staircase. You know what the judge will call this?”
“What?”
“Very briefly. And very painfully for him.”
PART FOUR. The Bill Has Been Presented
Semyon got the letter on Thursday. He called forty minutes later – first his mother, but she didn’t answer. Then Galina.
“What are you doing?”
“Me? Nothing. Your mother is the one filing the claim.”
“She would never have thought of this herself!”
“Then you don’t know your mother very well.”
“You put her up to it!” His voice cracked. “Galia, do you realize what you’re doing? You’re destroying my family!”
“I’m not destroying anything for you. I just reminded an elderly woman that she has a son and a signed receipt.”
“What receipt? That wasn’t a debt! That was a mother helping! Family!”
“Then come to court and explain why, as family, you signed a document with the words ‘I promise to repay.’”
He just breathed into the phone.
“How much do you want? Name the amount, I’ll pay, just make this go away.”
“I don’t want a single ruble,” Galina said. “You’re confused. You don’t owe me the money anymore.”
***
The first court session lasted just twenty-five minutes.
Semyon brought his representative and his wife. Veronika sat in the first row, straight-backed, every hair in place, and looked at Zinaida Egorovna as if she were a poorly prepared budget.
“Your Honor, the plaintiff chose to live separately on her own accord,” the representative stated. “My client never refused to help.”
“What kind of help was provided, and how much?” the judge inquired.
“With groceries.”
“Are there any bank transfers, receipts, anything to prove it?”
“The help was in kind.”
“So there’s no proof. Zinaida Egorovna, please answer: did your son help you?”
The mother-in-law stood up. She wasn’t crying, but spoke slowly, carefully picking her words, making every word fall separately.
“Over three years he gave me eight thousand. One time, at New Year’s. I lived with his ex-wife. I ate whatever his ex-wife bought. When I was evicted by court order—and rightly so, I was staying somewhere I shouldn’t—I sat in the hallway for eight hours. He didn’t come. He said: his wife has allergies.”
“I really do have allergies,” Veronika said quietly.
“Witness, you weren’t given the floor,” the judge interrupted her.
The alimony decision came at the very first hearing: monthly payments as a fixed monetary amount with indexing, plus covering additional expenses—half the rent and medication costs.
The loan matter was postponed for a handwriting analysis. The examination confirmed: the signature was Semyon’s, written by him, with no signs of forgery. Witness Igor answered the court honestly:
“Yes, I was there. Zinaida Egorovna wrote it, Semyon signed. He even joked: ‘A mother is more reliable than a bank.’”
After the hearing, Igor stepped into the hallway and couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes.
“Why did you say all that?” Semyon hissed.
“I told the truth,” Igor replied. “I was under oath. You want me to do time for you?”
“Are you my friend or what?”
“I am your friend,” Igor said. “So I’ll tell you as a friend: you left your mother in the stairwell, Semyon. Now the entire workshop knows about it.”
***
Back home, Semyon started to feel that telltale crack, the kind you only notice from the inside at first.
“Twenty-one thousand a month,” Veronika held the court ruling in her hands. “Plus half the rent. Plus medicine. This is coming out of our budget, Semyon. Ours.”
“I had no idea she’d take me to court.”
“But you knew about the two million eight hundred, didn’t you? You told me you bought the apartment yourself. That you’d been saving for ten years.”
“I did save!”
“You borrowed money from your mother and signed a promissory note. I’ve seen it—your handwriting’s right there. And everyone in this city knows me. I officiate weddings. I’ve done three hundred. And now, every other ceremony someone’s going to say: Isn’t that the guy who left his mom in the stairwell?”
“Is your reputation more important to you?”
“Honesty matters more to me,” she said. “I asked you directly: do you have any debts, obligations, family to support? You said: no one and nothing.”
PART FIVE. The Short Leash
The loan verdict was announced in October: Semyon must pay two million eight hundred thousand in principal, plus interest from the date the demand was made.
Semyon couldn’t pay. He had no savings, no assets besides his apartment—and that apartment was his only home, so it couldn’t be seized.
But now Zinaida Egorovna spoke differently. She had completely changed—the woman who once sat on her suitcase for eight hours was gone.
She came to visit her son herself, for the first time in a year and a half, and sat down on a chair in the hallway without going any further.
“This will be short,” she said. “You can’t repay the money. So you have two options.”
“Mom…”
“Don’t interrupt. First option: you transfer half the apartment to me as payment for the debt. I sign a waiver for any further claims. I live separately, with my sister—she has a house, she’s lonely. And you keep paying alimony by court order—you have no choice there.”
“And the second option?”
“The second—I’m moving in here. I have a court order, I have the right to enforce it, and my lawyer will file for me to take up residence as collateral. I don’t know if it will work. But I’ll come, and I’ll keep coming every month. I’m not scared anymore, Syoma. There’s nothing you can threaten me with now.”
Veronika came out of the room. She paused and looked at them both.
“Sign it,” she told her husband.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m serious. Half the apartment belonging to your mother is bad. Your mother in this apartment every day—that’s the end of everything.”
They signed the settlement agreement in November. Fifty percent of the property, registration, a certificate from the registry. Zinaida Egorovna left for her sister the same day, taking two suitcases and her sewing machine.
When she was leaving, she said just one thing to her son:
“On the twenty-first of every month. Miss one payment and you’ll have bailiffs at your door. I keep records.”
***
Veronika left four months later. There was no scene—she never liked drama; she was always a person of routine and order.
“I don’t want to live in a house where half doesn’t belong to us,” she said, zipping up her bag. “And I don’t want to live with someone I’m constantly discovering new things about. One day you’ll just put my suitcase out on the landing, too.”
“I love you.”
“You love yourself, Semyon. That’s not a crime, but it isn’t good for sharing a life together.”
***
That spring, Semyon met Anton, who had recently gotten married and worked as a specialist sharpening surgical tools. He was a slow and steady kind of guy.
They sat in a café while Semyon told his story—he went on for a long time, describing everything with gestures and acting out the characters.
“You get what she did?” he said. “My ex-wife. She turned my mother against me. On purpose. Just for revenge.”
“Wait up,” Anton said. “You registered your mom at her place?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“And after the divorce, you didn’t move her out?”
“She was comfortable there!”
“And even when the court evicted her, you still left her there?”
“Veronika had allergies!”
Anton pushed his cup away.
“Look, Syoma, let me tell you. I’ve been married six months. If I left my mom sitting on the stairs, my wife would never forgive me, and she’d be right. Don’t blame your ex-wife. Don’t blame anyone at all.”
“So you’re taking her side, too?”
“I’m on my wife’s side,” Anton said calmly. “She told me: a man who can abandon his mother can abandon anyone. And you know, I don’t argue with her. She understands people better than I do.”
They never met again.
***
That same year, Galina rented a space for a workshop—two rooms with large windows and great northern light, which was the most important thing for her work.
The philharmonic order finally came back: that same client called personally, apologized for the past, and offered a year-long contract for all certificates of merit and congratulatory addresses.
Then the city archive joined in. Next came the conservatory, which needed eighty handwritten certificates for its anniversary, and no one but Galina would take on such a big job with such a tight deadline.
“Do you realize that you survived two court cases, endured eight months of siege, spent your last money on a room for a woman who plotted against you, and still didn’t go bankrupt?” Dasha asked, looking around the new workspace.
“I know.”
“Do you regret giving up the room?”
“No,” Galina said. “I didn’t pity her. I just couldn’t leave her out on the landing. Alright. Let me put it this way: I did what her son didn’t do. And now I sleep well at night.”
“And him?”
“He pays on the twenty-first of every month.”
Dasha opened her notebook, scribbled something down, then closed it and tucked it away.
“What are you always writing in there?”
“Final notes,” Dasha replied. “That’s my job—wrapping up other people’s stories. So, here’s yours: you came out of this whole apartment saga with a home, a workshop, and a clean name. And he ended up with his mother on a short leash and without either of his wives.”
***
In August, Zinaida Yegorovna sent a package. Inside was a tablecloth—crookedly embroidered, with missed stitches and uneven edges, because her hands no longer obeyed her at all.
And there was a three-line note, written in large letters:
“Galina, forgive me for the phone calls to the philharmonic. Back then, I was a fool and a mother. Now I’m just a mother. Live well, you deserve it.”
Galina spread the tablecloth in the workshop, on the big table where the finished pages dried.
And in September, a new client visited—a director of a small publishing house who needed a handwritten title page for a special edition. He watched her work for an hour and a half without asking a single silly question.
As he was leaving, he said:
“I’ll come back on Thursday. With another order. And if it’s alright—with more than just an order.”
“That’s alright,” Galina replied. “Thursday.”
And she picked up a new pen.