“What?” I froze in place, not immediately realizing that these words were directed at me.
“I found you a room in a communal apartment,” he continued in a flat tone, as if discussing bus schedules. “Lisa and I need a place for the baby. It’ll be cramped in the two-room apartment with you when there are three of us.”
His words pierced my chest like a blade. My own son, for whom I lived in poverty, was now throwing me out of his nest. He didn’t even bother to soften the blow — the phrase “you’re not that young” sounded like a reminder of my impending end.
“Sergey… are you in your right mind?” I whispered, feeling a shiver rise from my knees to my throat.
“Stop the hysteria,” he stared out the window, avoiding my gaze. “Lisa’s on the brink of a breakdown. You complain about your back and pressure. We’re young — we need our own life, not to share two rooms with you.”
In the doorway, Lisa appeared — my daughter-in-law with neatly styled hair. Her eyes flickered to my hands, as if expecting me to grab a knife. But I only dug my nails into the armrest of the chair.
“Anna Pavlovna…” her voice trembled, as if she were apologizing for a broken vase, “We don’t want to fight. It’s just… we have dreams. You understand…”
“What is there to decide?” Sergey swiped the air with his palm, throwing out a phrase that haunted me in nightmares: “Move out. It’s the best option.”
Everything inside me snapped. I grabbed the back of the sofa, and a hoarse sound escaped my throat, like the howl of a cornered animal.
A year ago, these walls breathed warmth. Sergey had brought Lisa here for the first time — rosy-cheeked, shy. I laid the table with pies and pancakes, beaming with happiness. My son looked at me with tenderness:
“Mom, this is Lisa… my girlfriend.”
“Future daughter-in-law, I hope?” I winked, and they both laughed.
“Nice to meet you,” Lisa blushed, handing over a box of chocolates. “Sergey talks so much about you.”
They had a modest wedding in our two-room apartment with worn-out wallpaper. Lisa studied every corner: the kitchen with the Soviet-style furniture, the living room with the sofa-bed, and my tiny bedroom with family photos behind the glass of old frames.
“We’ll live here until we save for a mortgage,” my son explained after the celebration.
“Of course, dear!” I nodded, already picturing grandchildren. “It’s easier to face troubles together.”
But soon everything changed. I tried to be invisible: cooking separately, going for long walks. However, the fragments of their conversations spoke louder than words:
“The air here is heavier than in the dorm,” Lisa sighed.
“Son,” I suggested one day, catching him in the kitchen, “Maybe I can help with the down payment? I don’t have much saved, but…”
“Mortgage?!” he waved his hand. “Lisa is terrified of loans. Her parents are in debt.”
The silence between us thickened. Lisa stopped sharing her plans, and Sergey replied in monosyllables. One night, sneaking to the bathroom, I overheard their quarrel:
“I feel like a tenant in your childhood!” Lisa hissed. “Having a baby here? Next to your mom, who’s obsessed with cleanliness?”
“We’ll figure something out…” Sergey mumbled.
I vowed not to intervene. But three months later, they “figured it out” — throwing me out.
“Mom, what’s unclear?” Sergey kept pressing, not noticing how my hands were trembling. “I thought you were a progressive person. We need the whole apartment. We won’t even be able to raise a child if you stay. I’m not doing this out of malice…”
“Out of malice, son, out of malice,” my voice broke, tears welling up in my eyes, but I clenched my lips. “Did you even think about where I’m supposed to go? To that ‘communal apartment for pennies’? Have you even seen how people live there?”
“I’ve seen, Mom, it’s a decent room,” he said carelessly, as if praising a hotel room. “And as for you… well,” he faltered, “why do you need luxury?”
I couldn’t believe my own son would throw this in my face: “Why do you need comfort if you’re on the brink of old age?” My eyes burned, and I swallowed a tear. Lisa silently twisted her ring on her finger, as if rehearsing her response.
“Lisa,” I asked quietly, “Is this your idea? Or did you decide together?”
“Anna Pavlovna, I… I just dream of my own nest. Don’t be mad, but we need our own space.”
“Then build it, what’s stopping you?” My voice cracked into a shout. “But you want to take mine! Sergey, this is my apartment! I’ve been here for thirty years, and you’re twenty-five — you don’t even know how I survived when your father left.”
“What’s past is past. Stop whining!” He slammed his fist on the table, making Lisa flinch. “We’re building the future!”
My chest boiled. It was time to lay it all out.
“Listen, son,” I exhaled, holding back the tremors, “The apartment is in my name. If you want freedom — rent it, take out a loan, but you’re not kicking me out.”
“Mom, we’ve taken care of you!” He spoke faster. “The neighbor’s renting a room for dirt cheap. It’s the perfect option…”
“So I can disappear?” I took a step toward him. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”
Lisa gently interjected:
“You understand, mother-in-law, the children need to separate from their parents…”
“Then separate!” I spun toward her sharply. “But not at my expense. Your son already said, ‘You’re close to the end.’ And what are you hiding behind?”
Sergey blushed:
“Maybe I expressed myself sharply, but the point stands.”
My heart ached. I remembered the night shifts, his childhood bronchitis, the worn-out shoes instead of new ones — all for him. And now: “A small room will be enough for you.”
“Enough,” I whispered. “Sergey, enough. The conversation is over.”
“Then when will you free the apartment?” He kept pressing.
“Never!” I shouted. “My home. And if you’re so determined — move out.”
“You… you’re throwing us out?” He froze.
“Did you expect submission?” I bitterly smiled. “Yes. Come back when you apologize. But now — go.”
Lisa gasped:
“We’re family!”
“Family doesn’t throw old people out,” I slammed the wardrobe door. “Pack your things.”
In the hallway, I opened the front door, pressing my palm to my chest. Sergey threw me a look full of resentment. Lisa lowered her eyes, went to grab the suitcase.
“You’ll regret this, Mom,” he threw over his shoulder.
I turned away in silence. The flickering light on the stairs matched the frantic rhythm of my pulse — it was about to explode.
Half an hour later, they left. Lisa mumbled, “Sorry…” but I slammed the door.
Leaning against the wall, the sobs broke through. “Not for long anyway” — the echo wandered through the rooms.
After a while, I brewed some tea. The emptiness of the apartment rang with silence. On the refrigerator, a baby smiled with a kitten — the one who would one day become a stranger.
“Let it be,” I spoke to the photo. “Better loneliness than betrayal.”
My heart was breaking, but in my head, it rang clear: children have the right to leave. But not the right to bury me alive.
“Come back when you understand, son,” I whispered into the emptiness. “But with an honest ‘I’m sorry.’”