“Mom, we’ve been thinking,” my son Oleg began cautiously the moment he stepped over the threshold. His wife Anya, standing behind him, nodded energetically, performing universal agreement.
She brought into the hallway the scent of expensive perfume—and a cloying kind of anxiety.
“This always ends badly,” I said as I closed the door behind them. “When you two start thinking.”
Oleg pretended not to hear. He walked into the room and looked around as if pricing every object. Anya immediately began straightening a sofa cushion she herself had pushed aside. Fidgeting.
“We’re thinking about you,” she chimed in emphatically. “You’re alone. At your age… anything can happen.”
I sat down in my favorite armchair and felt the worn fabric creak under my fingers. I knew this chair better than I knew my own children.
“Such as?” I asked. “My blood pressure going up from all your ‘care’?”
“Mom, come on,” Oleg frowned. “It’s a great idea. We sell your apartment and our one-bedroom, take out a small mortgage, and buy a big house outside the city!
With a garden! You’ll be with the grandkids in the fresh air.”
He said it as if handing me a ticket to paradise. Anya looked at me with moist, pleading eyes. A good actress.
I studied their faces, their rehearsed smiles and gestures. I saw in their eyes the gleam of realtors closing the deal of their lives. Not a drop of warmth. Not a gram of sincerity.
That was the moment I finally understood everything. The scariest lie is when children say “we love you,” and in reality they love your pension and your apartment.
The thought didn’t sadden me, no. It simply put everything in its proper place.
“A house, then,” I drawled. “And whose name will it be in?”
“Why, ours, of course,” Anya blurted out, and immediately bit her tongue, realizing she’d said too much. Oleg shot her a furious glance.
“So you won’t have to mess with the paperwork, Mom,” he corrected himself quickly. “We’ll handle everything. All the hassle.”
I nodded slowly. I stood and walked to the window, looking at the people hurrying along the street. Each busy with their own life, their own problems. And I alone stood before a choice—surrender or start a war.
“You know what, kids,” I said without turning around. “The idea really is interesting. I need to think it over.”
A sigh of relief sounded behind my back. They decided the victory was already in the bag.
“Of course, Mommy, think it over,” Anya sang.
“Only I’ll be thinking here,” I turned to them. “In my own apartment. And you two should go. You probably have a lot to do. Calculate the mortgage. The square footage.”
I looked them straight in the eyes, and the smiles slowly slid from their faces. They realized this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.
They didn’t keep me waiting. The “treatment” began the very next day. Phone calls turned into a daily ritual.
In the morning Oleg called—cheerful, businesslike—telling me about some gorgeous plot he’d found.
“Mom, there are pines! A river nearby! Can you imagine how great it’ll be for the grandkids? You want them breathing fresh air, not this city dust, don’t you?”
By midday Anya joined in. Her voice dripped with honey. She chirped about how cozy a room they would set up for me. With a window to the garden. With a private bathroom.
“We’ll move your armchair for you, Ma’am! And the ficus! Everything just the way you like it! You only have to say yes!”
They pressed on all the sore spots: the grandkids, loneliness, my health. Every conversation was a little play in which I was assigned the role of a feeble old woman in urgent need of rescue.
I listened, nodded, said I was still thinking. And all the while I acted. My old friend Lyuda had once worked at a notary’s office.
One phone call—and there I was in her kitchen while she laid out every possible scenario.
“Nina, don’t you dare sign a deed of gift. Ever. They’ll throw you out on the street without a second thought,” she said flatly. “A life annuity contract with lifelong support—maybe. But they won’t go for that. They want everything, and right away.”
Her words only strengthened my resolve. I wasn’t a victim. I was a veteran of life, and I had no intention of giving up ground.
The climax came on Saturday. The doorbell rang. Oleg and Anya were on the doorstep, and behind them loomed an unfamiliar man in a business suit holding a folder.
“Mom, meet Igor. A realtor,” Oleg said casually as he walked into the apartment. “He’ll just take a look, assess, so to speak, our asset.”
The man followed, his sharp gaze scanning my apartment. He looked at the walls, the ceiling, the old but sturdy parquet.
He didn’t see my home—he saw square meters. Liquid commodity.
Something clicked inside me. The calm I had been carefully storing evaporated.
“Assess what?” I asked, and my voice came out unexpectedly firm.
“The apartment, Mom. So we know what amount to count on,” Oleg was already opening the door to my bedroom. “Igor, go ahead, don’t be shy.”
The realtor took a step, but I blocked his way.
“Out,” I said. Quietly—but in a way that froze all three of them.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Oleg faltered.
“I said out. Both of you,” I shifted my gaze from the realtor to my son. “And you,” I looked at Anya, who had flattened herself against the wall in fright, “tell your husband that if he brings strangers into my home again without my permission, I will call the police.
And I’ll file a report. For attempted fraud.”
Scenting trouble, the realtor was the first to retreat.
“I… I should go. Call me when… you’ve come to an agreement,” he muttered and slipped out the door.
Oleg stared at me with undisguised malice. The mask of the caring son had fallen off.
“Are you crazy? You old—” he hissed.
“Not yet,” I cut him off. “But you’re working hard at it. Now leave. I need to rest. From your ‘love.’”
After that came a lull. A week with no calls, no visits. I knew it wasn’t over. It was a change of tactics. They were lying low, like predators before the decisive pounce. I was preparing too.
The next Friday Anya called. Her voice—pure repentance.
“Nina Petrovna, forgive us, fools. We went too far. Oleg is very upset. Let’s meet at a café and sit like we used to? No talk about apartments. Just family.”
I knew it was a trap. But I agreed.
They were waiting at a table in the corner. A dessert sat on the table. Oleg looked dejected. Anya held his hand.
“Mom, forgive me,” he began without raising his eyes. “I was wrong. Let’s just forget it.”
I looked at him and saw not remorse, but poorly concealed impatience.
“I’ve done a lot of thinking too,” I began calmly, taking a folded sheet of paper from my bag. “And I’ve made a decision.”
I unfolded the sheet. It wasn’t a will. It was a letter.
“I want to read it to you,” I said, and my voice didn’t waver. “‘I, being of sound mind and firm memory, declare that my children, Oleg and his Anna, by their actions and persuasions tried to force me to sell my only residence. In connection with the loss of trust and fears for my future, I have decided…’”
I paused. Oleg looked up at me. There was no sadness in his eyes now, only a cold interest.
“‘…decided to sell the apartment.’”
Anya gasped. Oleg leaned forward.
“What?” he breathed.
“Yes,” I nodded. “I’m selling it. I’ve already found a buyer. A sweet young family. They’re willing to wait while I find myself a little cottage in a village. Small, cozy. Just for me.”
A whole range of emotions flitted across their faces: shock, disbelief, anger.
“And the money?” Anya blurted out. “Where will the money go?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I smiled. “I’ll put part of it in the bank at a good interest rate. And with the rest, as you advised, I’ll enjoy life. Travel. Maybe take a cruise.”
You wanted me to be happy, didn’t you?
Oleg was silent. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his cheeks jumped. His whole act, all his plans were collapsing before his eyes. He’d lost.
“You… you couldn’t have,” he rasped.
“Why not?” I stood, leaving the letter on the table. “It’s my apartment. And my life. And to you, children, I wish good luck. A mortgage is a serious matter. I hope it all works out. Without me.”
I turned and walked toward the exit without looking back. I didn’t feel triumph. I felt emptiness.
Where love for my son had once been, there was now only scorched earth. I had defended my right to live, but the price was high. Sometimes, to save yourself, you have to amputate what once felt like part of you. Even if it’s your own children.
I really did sell the apartment. My bluff at the café turned out to be the best decision of my life.
The deal went quickly, and as I’d promised, I bought myself a small but very bright studio in a quiet, green neighborhood—ground floor with a shared garden. I could hardly believe such luck; now I’d tend the flowers.
I moved my armchair, my ficus, and the books dearest to my heart.
At first, the emptiness left by the break with my son felt almost physical. I didn’t go on any cruise. Instead, I did what I’d long dreamed of—I signed up for watercolor classes.
Three times a week I went to the local community center and learned to mix paints. My first works were awful, but the process itself—brushstrokes across damp paper, color coming to life—filled me with a quiet joy.
I put the money from the sale in the bank. It didn’t burn a hole in my soul; it became the solid foundation of my new, peaceful life. I was no longer afraid of the future.
About six months passed. One evening, while I was watering the flowers in my tiny front garden, I saw a familiar figure.
Oleg stood at the entrance. Alone. Without Anya. He looked tired and older.
He didn’t dare come in; he just stood there and looked at me. I felt neither anger nor joy. Only a slight prick of something long forgotten.
“Hello, Mom,” he said.
“Hello,” I replied, setting the watering can aside. “So you found me after all.”
“Lyuda gave me the address,” he smiled guiltily. “May I?”
I nodded. We sat on the little bench by the door. He was silent for a long time, studying his hands.
“Anya and I split up,” he finally forced out. “After that whole mess… everything went downhill. She said I was weak. That I couldn’t push you hard enough.”
He said it without complaint, just stating a fact.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And it was true.
“Don’t be,” he lifted his eyes to mine. There was no greed in them anymore, only endless fatigue.
“That day… at the café… when you were leaving, I understood everything. I realized I hadn’t lost the apartment—I’d lost you. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. Silly, huh?”
“Life is complicated, Oleg.”
We sat a little longer in silence. It wasn’t oppressive. It was the silence of two very distant people who had once shared something important.
“Are you doing well?” he asked.
“Yes,” I nodded toward my windows, where another watercolor was drying on the sill. “I’m doing well.”
He stood up.
“Well… I’ll go. Forgive me. If you can.”
“I don’t hold a grudge, Oleg. It’s just… different now. Stop by for tea next time.”
He nodded, turned, and walked away slowly. I watched him until he disappeared around the corner.
I didn’t cry. I closed the gate, went back into my small, cozy fortress, brewed myself herbal tea, and sat in my favorite armchair.
The emptiness was gone. In its place was calm. I hadn’t just defended an apartment. I had defended myself. And the victory was quiet, without fanfare or fireworks. But no less important for that.