“When will you be gone?” whispered my daughter-in-law.
Her breath was warm and smelled of cheap coffee. She thought I was unconscious, just a body stuffed with medicines.
But I was not asleep. I lay under a thin, hospital-issue blanket, and every nerve in my body had turned into a taut string.
Under my palm, hidden from prying eyes, lay a small cold rectangular voice recorder. The record button had been pressed an hour ago, when she entered the room with my son.
“Igor, she’s like a vegetable anyway,” Svetlana’s voice grew louder; she had obviously moved toward the window. “The doctor said there’s no brain activity. What are we waiting for?”
I heard my son sigh heavily. My only son.
“Svetlana, this is somehow… wrong. She is my mother.”
“And I am your wife!” she snapped sharply. “And I want to live in a decent apartment, not this dump. Your mother has lived her life. Seventy whole years. Enough.”
I didn’t move. I even tried to breathe evenly, pretending to be in a deep sleep. There were no tears; inside, everything had been burned to gray ashes.
There was only an icy, crystal-clear clarity.
“The realtor says prices are good right now,” Svetlana continued relentlessly, switching to a business tone. “A two-room in the center, with her repairs…”
We can get a great price for it. We’ll buy ourselves a country house, like we dreamed. A new car. Igor, wake up! This is our chance!
He was silent. His silence was scarier than her words. It was consent. Betrayal wrapped in weakness.
“And her things…” Sveta went on. “Throw away half. Nobody needs that junk. Those stupid china sets, books… We’ll keep only antiques, if there are any. I’ll call an appraiser.”
I smiled inwardly. An appraiser. She had no idea what I had managed to do a week before falling ill.
All the most valuable things, every single one, had long been out of the apartment. They were in a safe place. Along with the documents.
“All right,” Igor finally squeezed out. “Do as you see fit. It’s hard for me to talk about this.”
“Then don’t talk, dear,” she purred. “I’ll do everything myself. You won’t have to get your hands dirty.”
She approached the bed.
I felt her gaze, studying, assessing. As if she was looking not at a living person, but at an annoying obstacle that was about to disappear.
I clenched the smooth body of the voice recorder with my fingers. This was only the beginning. They both still didn’t realize what awaited them.
They had written me off. In vain. The old guard doesn’t give up. It launches a final offensive.
A week passed. A week of IV drips, tasteless purees, and my silent theater. Svetlana and Igor came every day.
My son would sit on a chair by the door and stare at his phone, as if shutting out what was happening. He couldn’t bear to see my immobility. Or his own betrayal.
Svetlana, on the contrary, got comfortable. She behaved in the room like the mistress. Loudly talking on the phone with her friends, discussing the future house.
“Yes, three bedrooms. Huge living room. And a yard, can you imagine? I’ll do the landscaping there. No, mother-in-law? Oh, she’s in the hospital, it’s bad. She won’t pull through.”
Every word of hers was recorded. My collection was growing.
Today she crossed a new line. She dragged a laptop and, sitting by my bed, began showing Igor photos of cottages.
“Look at this one! And this? A real fireplace! Igor, are you even listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” he answered dully, not lifting his gaze from the floor. “It’s just all strange. Right here…”
“Where else?” Sveta snorted. “There’s no time to wait. We have to act. I already called our realtor; she’s bringing the first buyers tomorrow. The apartment needs to be shown in the best light.”
She turned to me. Her look was cold, businesslike.
“By the way, about the things. I stopped by yesterday, started sorting through the closets. So much junk, awful. Your old-fashioned dresses… I put everything in bags, I’ll give it to charity.”
My dresses. The one I wore defending my dissertation. The one Igor’s father proposed to me in.
Each item was a shard of memory. She wasn’t just throwing away fabric; she was trying to erase my life.
Igor flinched.
“Why did you touch them? Maybe she would have wanted…”
“What ‘wanted’?” Sveta interrupted. “She wants nothing anymore. Igor, stop being a child. We’re building our future.”
She stood, went to my bedside table, and rudely opened the drawer. Her fingers rummaged inside, knocking against moist wipes and a pack of pills.
“She doesn’t keep documents here? Passport or something? For the deal.”
There it was. Psychological pressure turned into direct action. She was no longer just discussing; she had begun to act. To rob me while I still breathed.
At that moment, the nurse peeked into the room.
“Anna Pavlovna, it’s time for your injections.”
Svetlana’s face changed instantly. A mournful, caring expression appeared.
“Oh, of course, of course. Igor, let’s go, we won’t disturb the procedures. Mommy, we’ll come tomorrow,” she cooed, stroking my hand.
Her touch was disgusting. Like a caterpillar crawling on the skin.
When they left, I didn’t open my eyes until the nurse’s footsteps faded down the corridor. Then, slowly, with great effort, I turned my head. My muscles ached, but I managed.
I took out the recorder, pressed “stop,” saving the file as number “seven.” Then I felt under the pillow for my second, button phone, secretly brought to me by an old friend and lawyer.
I dialed the number I knew by heart.
“I’m listening,” came a calm, businesslike voice on the other end.
“Semyon Borisovich, it’s me,” my own voice sounded hoarse, unfamiliar. “Launch the plan. The time has come.”
The next day, exactly at three o’clock, the doorbell rang in my apartment. Svetlana threw it open with her most charming smile.
A respectable couple stood on the doorstep with a realtor.
“Please, come in!” she chirped. “Excuse the small creative mess here. You understand, preparing to move.”
She led them down the hall to the living room, talking about the “wonderful views from the window” and “great neighbors.” Igor pressed himself to the wall, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. His face was gray.
“The apartment belongs to my mother-in-law,” Svetlana explained with a slight sadness in her voice. “Unfortunately, she is very ill; doctors give no hope.
My husband and I decided she’d be better off in a specialized nursing home, under supervision. And these walls… they hold too many memories for her.”
She made a dramatic pause, allowing the buyers to feel the moment.
At that exact second, the front door opened again. This time without ringing.
A wheelchair slowly and silently rolled in. I was sitting in it.
Not in hospital pajamas, but in a strict dark blue robe of thick silk. Hair neatly done, traces of lipstick on my lips.
My gaze was perfectly calm.
Behind me stood Semyon Borisovich, my lawyer. Tall, gray-haired, in a perfectly tailored suit. He quietly closed the door behind us.
Svetlana froze mid-sentence. The smile slid off her face like a cheap mask.
Igor hunched his shoulders, his eyes darting around the room looking for an exit that wasn’t there. The realtor and buyers awkwardly shifted their gaze between me and Svetlana.
“Good afternoon,” my voice, though quiet, sounded clear and weighty in the ensuing silence. “I believe you have come to the wrong address. This apartment is not for sale.”
I turned to the stunned couple of buyers.
“I apologize for this misunderstanding. My daughter-in-law, apparently, was too upset about my health and got a little carried away.”
Svetlana came to her senses.
“Mom? What… how are you here? You shouldn’t…”
“I can do whatever I deem necessary, dear,” I shifted my cold gaze onto her. “Especially when strangers are running the house without asking.”
I took my phone from the robe pocket and pressed play. From the speaker came the painfully familiar, hissing whisper:
“When will you be gone?”
Svetlana’s face went white as a hospital sheet. She opened and closed her mouth but could not utter a sound. Igor slid down the wall and covered his face with his hands.
“I have a large collection of recordings, Sveta,” I continued evenly. “About your dream house, the thrown-out things, the appraiser. I think some authorities will find this very interesting.
For example, under the article on fraud.”
Semyon Borisovich stepped forward, holding a folder with documents.
“Anna Pavlovna signed a general power of attorney in my name this morning,” he announced dryly. “And a police report as well. Additionally, I have prepared a notice of your eviction.”
On grounds of… moral damage and threat to life. You have twenty-four hours to collect your personal belongings and leave this apartment.
He placed the papers on the coffee table. They fell with a quiet, final rustle.
This was the end. The limit. The point of no return. At that moment, for the first time in many weeks, I felt not pain or resentment.
But strength. Icy, calm, indestructible strength of a person who has nothing left to lose and who has come to claim what is theirs.
The realtor and buyers vanished instantly, mumbling apologies. Only the four of us remained in the living room. The silence was thick, heavy, filled with unspoken words.
Svetlana was the first to come to her senses. Her shock turned into rage.
“You have no right!” she shrieked, pointing at me. “This apartment belongs to Igor too! He’s registered here! He’s the heir!”
“Former heir,” Semyon Borisovich corrected calmly, checking the paper.
“According to the new will, drafted and notarized yesterday, all of Anna Pavlovna’s property goes to the charitable foundation supporting young scientists. Your husband, unfortunately, is not among them.”
That was my final shot. I saw the last spark of hope die in Svetlana’s eyes. She looked at Igor with such hatred as if he was to blame for everything.
Igor, my son, finally tore himself away from the wall. He took a step toward me. His face was wet with tears, pitiful.
“Mom… forgive me. I didn’t want to. She… she made me.”
I looked at him. At this forty-year-old man hiding behind a woman’s skirt from responsibility.
The love for him, that all-consuming, motherly love, died in the hospital room under his wife’s whisper. Now I felt only bitter disappointment.
“No one forced you to keep silent, Igor,” I replied. I didn’t shout. My voice was even, almost indifferent. “You made your choice. Now live with it.”
“But where will we go?” Svetlana interjected, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “Onto the street?”
“You had a rented apartment before you decided mine would be free soon,” I reminded them. “You can go back there. Or anywhere. Your problems no longer concern me.”
Svetlana hurriedly started gathering her things, throwing them into a bag, muttering curses. Igor just stood in the middle of the room, lost.
He looked at me again.
“Mom, please. I understand now. I’ll change.”
“It’s never too late to change,” I agreed. “But not here. And not with me. The door to my apartment is closed to you. Forever.”
He lowered his head. He understood it was the end. Not a performance, not a punishment attempt. It was a final verdict.
An hour later, they left. I heard the front door slam. Semyon Borisovich came over to me.
“Anna Pavlovna, are you sure about the foundation? We can get everything back.”
I shook my head.
“No. Let it be. I want my life, whatever is left of it, to be of use. Not to become an apple of discord.”
He nodded and, saying goodbye, left. I remained alone in my apartment. I slowly ran my hand over the armrest of the chair, over the spines of the books on the shelf. Nothing here had changed.
I had changed. I was no longer just a mother ready to forgive everything. I became a person who draws the boundaries of their universe themselves.
And in this new universe, there was no place for those who once whispered: “When will you be gone?”