Emma Nikolaevna had been bustling around the kitchen since early morning. Cutlets sizzled in the pan, and the oven breathed out the smell of apple pie. Olga followed her husband into the apartment, immediately caught the familiar aromas, and sighed.
“Vit, something’s definitely up. Emma only bakes pie for special occasions.”
“Oh, come on, Mom,” Viktor shrugged off his jacket and kissed his mother on the cheek. “How are you? Blood pressure behaving?”
“Everything’s fine,” Emma Nikolaevna waved it off. “Is Nastya not with you?”
“She got held up at work,” Olga pulled a box of chocolates from a bag. “She said she’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Good. Then we’ll wait for everyone.”
“What do you mean, everyone?” Viktor froze with a slipper in his hand. “Who else is coming?”
“Pasha and Lena with the kids. I invited them.”
Olga raised her eyebrows. Her husband’s younger brother and his family didn’t come to his mother’s very often—the last time they’d seen each other was New Year’s, and even then just briefly.
“Mom, did something happen?” Viktor frowned.
“We need to talk. All together,” Emma Nikolaevna turned back to the stove. “The cutlets will get cold and I’ll have to reheat them.”
“I’ll set the table for now,” Olga offered, taking the festive tablecloth from the cupboard.
“God, don’t tell me she’s sick?” a sharp pang went through her chest. Her mother-in-law was already seventy-nine, a serious age. Maybe they’d given her some diagnosis? The thought made her mouth go dry.
The doorbell rang—Nastya, their daughter-in-law, their son’s wife, arrived; he was away on a business trip. Almost immediately after, Pavel came with his wife and their two teenage children.
“Wow, the whole gang!” Pasha exclaimed in surprise, hugging his mother. “So what’s the occasion?”
“Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Viktor exchanged a look with Olga. In thirty years of marriage, they’d learned to understand each other without words. “Something serious,” his gaze said.
They sat crowded, shoulder to shoulder. At the head of the table, Emma Nikolaevna looked unusually solemn.
“Well, Mom, spill it already,” Viktor couldn’t hold back. “What happened?”
“I’ve made a decision,” Emma Nikolaevna squared her shoulders. “I’m transferring our apartment and the dacha to Pasha.”
Silence fell over the table. Olga felt her fingers go numb.
“In what sense?” Viktor set down his fork.
“In the direct sense. Pasha helps more, he comes with the grandkids. And you, Vitya, live your own life.”
“Mom, we…”
“I’ve decided,” Emma cut him off. “I already called the notary; we’ll sign everything next week.”
Olga sat without moving. One stupid thought kept circling in her head: “What about the repairs we did at the dacha? We replaced the roof two years ago…”
“You agree, don’t you?” Emma swept her gaze around the table, but she was mostly looking at Viktor.
“Well, if that’s what you’ve decided…” he mumbled.
Pavel cleared his throat.
“Mom, maybe there’s no need to rush?”
“Why drag it out? I’m into my eighties,” she waved a hand. “That’s that. Decided.”
Nastya shifted awkwardly in her chair.
“Emma Nikolaevna, maybe…”
“That’s enough,” the mother-in-law slapped her palm on the table. “I said so. Now eat your cutlets before they get cold.”
Three minutes. It took just three minutes to cross out thirty years. Olga chewed her cutlet mechanically; it tasted like nothing. Beside her, Viktor chatted with his brother about a football match as if nothing had happened. How could he? Did he really not care?
“Olga, why aren’t you eating?” her mother-in-law nudged a salad bowl toward her. “I pickled the cucumbers myself, the way you like.”
“Thank you, Emma Nikolaevna,” Olga forced a smile. “I just don’t have much appetite.”
“As if nothing happened,” the thought pounded in her temples. “Thirty years in this family, and it turns out I’m a stranger.”
“Olga, are you okay?” Viktor touched her elbow as they were walking home.
“Perfectly,” she pulled her arm away. “And you—how are you? Feeling just fine?”
“What’s the big deal?” he shrugged. “It’s my mother’s property—her right.”
“Seriously?” Olga stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “We’ve been together thirty years, and you…”
“And I what? Was I supposed to make a scene?”
“You could have said a word!” She clenched her fists. “Anything at all!”
“Olga, why are you getting worked up? It’s just a house. We don’t even live there.”
“It’s not about the house!” Her voice betrayed her with a tremor. “It’s about how it was done. Decided among themselves, and we were just… furniture at the table.”
Viktor rolled his eyes.
“Oh God, what a drama. Let’s go home—it’s getting cold.”
At home, Olga changed in silence and went to the kitchen. Her hands trembled as she brewed tea.
“Thirty years wiped clean like a cow’s tongue,” she thought bitterly. “What am I to everyone? An attachment to Viktor?”
Her phone pinged with a message from Nastya: “How are you? I’m in shock about today.”
“I’m fine,” Olga answered curtly.
“Mom, why the long face?” their daughter, home for the weekend from the dorms, peeked into the kitchen.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Olga waved a hand. “Grandma decided to sign the apartment and the dacha over to Uncle Pasha.”
“So what?” the daughter shrugged exactly like her father.
“Nothing,” Olga pressed her lips together. “It’s just unpleasant when you don’t count as anything.”
“Oh, come on,” her daughter opened the fridge. “It’s Grandma’s place—why stress?”
“And she too,” Olga took a sip of tea.
A week later, Emma Nikolaevna called with “good news”—the papers were done. Viktor only nodded and said, “Okay, Mom.” Olga quietly stepped out of the room.
A month passed. Olga barely spoke to her mother-in-law, answering in monosyllables. Things were tense with Viktor too—he didn’t understand why she was hurt.
“Are you sick?” he asked one morning when she turned down a family dinner for the third time that week.
“No.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“Do you really not understand?” Olga looked at him wearily. “They threw me out of the family with one decision, and you didn’t even notice.”
“What nonsense!” he flung up his hands. “What do you have to do with it?”
“Everything!” she raised her voice. “For thirty years I cooked borscht for your mother, helped with the vegetable patch, hauled jars for winter. And in the end what am I? Nobody!”
“You’re dramatizing.”
Viktor’s phone rang. It was Pavel.
“Yeah, Pash. What?” His face suddenly changed. “Sell it? But that’s… Yeah, I get it.”
He lowered the phone slowly.
“What is it?” Olga asked.
“Pavel’s going to sell the house. Says it’s inconvenient for them to go out there.”
“And?”
“What do you mean, ‘and’?” Viktor looked at her in bewilderment. “That’s our house! I mean… it was.”
“Ah, so now you get it,” Olga gave a bitter smile. “Now that it’s hit you.”
“But I thought…”
“Exactly,” she sighed. “You thought it would all somehow work itself out. That it was just a formality.”
Viktor sank onto a chair. For the first time in a long while, Olga saw confusion in his eyes.
“So what now?” he rubbed his temples.
“Now?” she shrugged. “Now we’ve learned who we are to your family. Strangers.”
Two months went by. Olga stood at the window watching the rain drum on the glass. Her phone vibrated in her pocket—Nastya was calling.
“Hi. How are you?”
“Fine,” Olga wiped the fogged window without thinking. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing… I heard Pavel’s already found a buyer for the house.”
Olga pressed her lips together.
“And? That’s no longer our business.”
“I don’t think Emma Nikolaevna knows. Yesterday she was talking about planting cucumbers at the dacha in summer.”
“Nastya, I don’t want to get into this,” Olga rubbed her temple. “My head’s been hurting constantly as it is.”
“Your blood pressure?” worry crept into the daughter-in-law’s voice.
“Yeah, it’s been spiking lately. The doctor says it’s nerves.”
After the call, Olga lay down. She couldn’t sleep. Fragments of thoughts kept spinning. “Thirty years down the drain… Retirement around the corner, and housing… Emma didn’t even apologize…”
The front door banged—Viktor was back. Lately he’d grown quiet and often stayed late at work.
“Hey,” he looked into the bedroom. “Lying down again?”
“My head hurts.”
“Maybe we should see a doctor?”
“I already did,” she turned toward the wall.
Viktor stood in the doorway for a moment, then quietly closed the door. A minute later, the dishes clattered in the kitchen.
Olga closed her eyes. When had everything gone wrong? They used to discuss everything, decide together. Now he was there, she was here. Like roommates.
The door creaked again.
“Olga, we need to talk,” Viktor sat on the edge of the bed.
“About what?” she didn’t even turn.
“I’ve been thinking about… this situation. We’ve been together thirty years, after all.”
“And?”
“Pasha’s selling the house. He’s going to split the money.”
She shot upright.
“What?”
“He called. Said he’d give us a share.”
“A handout, is it,” Olga let out a bitter laugh. “No, thank you.”
“Olga, don’t be foolish. We need to put money away for old age.”
“Where were you when the decision was being made?” She clenched the blanket. “Why were you silent then?”
“I didn’t think it would turn out this way,” he lowered his head. “Mom always said the house was for all the children.”
“And how did it turn out? They just crossed us out!”
“Olga…”
“No, Vitia. This isn’t about money. It’s about respect. About the fact that they don’t consider us people. Especially me.”
“What do you have to do with it?”
“Everything!” she raised her voice. “I’ve been in your family thirty years, and no one cares what I think!”
Viktor was silent, staring at the floor.
“Do you know my blood pressure goes up to 160?” Olga asked quietly. “That I’m gulping down pills by the handful?”
“I didn’t know,” he looked up at her. “You didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t ask.”
The kettle whistled in the kitchen. Viktor stood.
“Want some tea?”
“I do,” Olga answered, surprising herself.
They sat over tea in silence. Then Viktor said,
“I don’t know what comes next.”
“Me neither,” she wrapped her hands around the cup. “But it can’t go on like this.”
“Maybe we should see a therapist?”
“You think it’ll help?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “But it definitely won’t hurt.”
Olga suddenly felt her eyes sting.
“Vitia, I just want to be heard. You understand?”
“I do,” he carefully covered her hand with his. “It’s just… I’m so used to you always being there. I thought it would always be that way.”
“So did I,” she smiled sadly. “Then I realized nothing is guaranteed.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know. But let’s at least talk to each other. For real.”
They talked late into the night. For the first time in many months.
The next morning Viktor woke up earlier than usual.
“Where are you going?” Olga asked sleepily.
“To Mom’s,” he buttoned his shirt. “I need to talk to her.”
“Good luck,” she turned onto her other side.
He came back in the evening, scowling.
“Well?” Olga asked.
“Nothing,” he sank into a chair, exhausted. “She thinks she did everything right.”
“And now what?” Olga set a plate of dinner in front of her husband.
“Pasha sold the house,” Viktor rubbed the bridge of his nose. “They closed the deal yesterday.”
“And Emma Nikolaevna?”
“They told her they were going to do renovations. She’s staying with them for now.”
Olga shook her head.
“And how long will that last?”
“I don’t know,” he sighed. “Pasha says he’ll buy her a small apartment closer to them afterward.”
“Hard to believe.”
“Me too,” Viktor pushed the plate away. “Olga, I was thinking… maybe we should change something too?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I talked to the guys at work. Igor—you remember him? He bought a house in the suburbs. Small, but his. Says the mortgage rates are decent.”
“Vitia, we’re pushing sixty—what mortgage?”
“That’s the point!” he brightened. “Retirement is coming, and we don’t have a place of our own. The apartment is rented, the dacha was… shared. And now we have nothing at all.”
Olga stirred her tea, thinking.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Let’s go look. It’s not far—half an hour by commuter train.”
A week later they stood in front of a small wooden house. A tiny plot, apple trees, a porch with peeling paint.
“Well?” Viktor looked at her hopefully.
“It’s old,” Olga walked across the creaky floorboards. “It needs renovation.”
“But it’ll be ours. Completely. No one can take it away.”
That argument silenced her.
“You know,” she said as she stepped onto the porch, “I’ve spent my whole life afraid of hurting someone. Your mother, you, the kids. I was always thinking about others.”
“And what’s so bad about that?”
“That I forgot about myself,” she smiled for the first time in a long while. “Let’s buy it. Make it ours.”
A month later they signed the papers. The house needed repairs, money was tight, but Olga felt a strange relief.
“Now it’s only ours,” Viktor said as they moved their first things.
That evening Nastya called:
“How are you two? Settling in?”
“Slowly,” Olga sat on the porch with a mug of tea. “We’re going to redo the roof.”
“Grandma asked about you.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That you bought a house. She was surprised.”
Olga smirked.
“I can imagine.”
“Olga,” Nastya’s voice grew serious, “she’s getting old. She gets confused sometimes. Maybe you could make peace?”
“It’s not about a quarrel, Nastya. It’s just… time has put everything in its place.”
A week later there was another call—this time from Pavel.
“Hi, how are things?” his voice sounded strained.
“Fine,” Olga answered coolly.
“Listen, Mom wants to see you. Can I bring her over?”
Olga was silent for a moment, then sighed.
“Bring her.”
Emma Nikolaevna looked gaunt. She silently walked into the house, looked around.
“It’s nice here,” she said at last. “Cozy.”
“Thank you,” Olga put the kettle on.
“I wanted to say…” Emma hesitated. “Pasha sold the house.”
“We know.”
“And he didn’t even ask me,” the old woman’s voice trembled with tears. “Now I live in a one-room place in the city. I’ve had a garden all my life…”
Olga silently poured the tea.
“Forgive me, Olga,” the mother-in-law said suddenly. “I’m old and foolish. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“Emma Nikolaevna,” Olga looked her in the eyes, “I don’t hold a grudge. Life just goes on.”
After his mother left, Viktor hugged his wife.
“You were great.”
“You know,” she leaned against his shoulder, “I realized one thing. You have to say what you feel. Right away. Not bottle it up for years.”
“That’s for sure,” he kissed the top of her head. “And also—to rely on yourself.”
“And on the ones who are truly there for you,” she added.
In the evening they sat on the porch of their house. Small, in need of repairs, but theirs. Ahead was a new chapter of their life. Without resentments or unspoken things. Without the fear of saying what you think.
“You know, Vitia,” Olga watched the sunset, “I don’t think I’ve checked my blood pressure in a week.”
“That’s a good sign,” he smiled, squeezing her hand. “A very good sign.