— Mom, what’s this?
The deed of gift trembles in my hands. Mom freezes at the stove but doesn’t turn around.
— What—what?
— The apartment is registered to Olya?
Fifteen years ago I moved back in with my parents for a month—to help with Dad after his stroke. Olya had just left for Germany to start a new life. A month turned into years.
— Well, yes. It’s better that way for taxes. And besides, if something happens to us…
— When was it done?
— What difference does it make! — Mom whips around. — Are you really upset over a piece of paper?
A piece of paper. For fifteen years I thought I was living in my parents’ home.
— Lenochka, where are Dad’s drops?
An ordinary morning. I set the laptop aside—I’ve worked from home for ten years, and talk to the office over video. There’s no other way—Dad needs injections every four hours.
— In the medicine cabinet, Mom.
— Is lunch ready?
— I’m cooking.
Dad sits in his armchair, complaining about the weather. After the stroke he’s like a child—forgetful, moody. Mom bustles around him, but the main burden is on me.
In the evening Olya calls. In the photo on the phone she’s tanned, with a dazzling white smile.
— How are you? How’s Daddy?
— Same as always.
— Our project is wrapping up here, they promised a bonus. By the way, I’ll come visit you soon!
Olya sends three thousand euros every two months for medications. She considers her duty done.
For half a year I pretend I don’t know about the deed. But every one of Mom’s requests now sounds like the mistress ordering the help.
In February Olya calls, agitated:
— Listen, I’m having problems at work. Can I come for a month with my family? To rest, think what to do.
Mom snatches the phone:
— Of course, sunshine! We’ll arrange everything!
After the call she turns to me:
— Lenochka, it won’t be hard for you to live elsewhere for a month, will it? The grandkids will take your room, and you… well, you’ll manage somehow.
I slowly set my cup in the sink.
— So I’m supposed to move out?
— Not move out, just make room. The children need a proper bedroom, and you don’t mind—you work remotely anyway.
— And where am I going to live?
— Rent something. Or stay over with friends.
Friends. For fifteen years I hadn’t spent a single night away from this house.
— Mom, but that’s my room…
— Lenochka, don’t be selfish! Olya comes so rarely, and the grandkids are coming for the first time. You understand.
I understand. All too well.
— I understand. I’ll move out tomorrow.
— That’s my smart girl! I knew you’d understand.
I found a studio in a day. Small, but mine. For the first time in fifteen years I wake up to silence.
Mom calls on the second day already:
— Where are Dad’s drops?
— In the medicine cabinet, top shelf.
— And when does the masseur come?
— Tuesday and Friday at ten.
— And if he doesn’t show up?
— You’ll call him. His number’s in the address book.
— But you always…
— Not always anymore.
A week later Mom calls in tears:
— It’s such a mess here! Olya works on Skype from morning till night, the kids turn everything upside down, and Dieter demands special food! I can’t cope!
— Ask Olya for help.
— She’s busy, she has important negotiations!
— I have a job too, Mom.
Three days later an enraged Olya calls:
— What are you doing? Mom is worn out!
— And what are you doing? Living in your apartment and not helping?
— What does the apartment have to do with it? We’re talking about our parents!
— Exactly. Your parents in your apartment.
— Are you seriously offended over some paper?
— I’m not offended. I’m drawing conclusions.
The month ended, but I didn’t come back. Mom calls every day:
— Olechka left, you can come home!
— I’m already home, Mom.
— What are you saying? Your home is here!
— My home is where I’m not evicted for guests.
A week ago I stopped picking up. Forty-three messages on the voicemail.
Yesterday I ran into Mom at the store. She looked older, drained.
— Lenochka! — she burst into tears. — How can you be like this? We’re family!
— Family is when everyone takes care of each other. Not when one person slaves away and the rest take advantage.
— But we loved you!
— You loved using me. That’s not the same thing.
— Lenochka, your father’s unwell! He needs care!
— Hire a caregiver. Or let the apartment’s owner come back from Germany.
Mom sniffled and walked away. I stood there watching her go. Do I feel sorry? Yes. But pity and a willingness to sacrifice yourself are different things.
At home I sit with a ginger cat on my lap. I picked him up the first day after I moved out—we couldn’t have pets at home, “Dad’s allergic.” Now Ginger purrs so loudly the neighbors bang on the wall.
The phone lies beside me. Forty-seven missed calls in a week. Even Olya called yesterday—for the first time in three months.
I pick up on the thirtieth ring:
— Hello.
— Lena! Finally! — Olya’s voice is angry and tired. — What are you doing? Our parents hired a caregiver for thirty thousand! I can’t transfer that much every month!
— And I couldn’t have a personal life for fifteen years. But I somehow managed.
— That’s different!
— Yes, different. It was harder for me.
— Lena, be a human being! Come back at least half-time!
— Olya, be a human being. Sell the apartment you got for free and pay for our parents.
Silence. Then the line goes dead.
At work my colleagues hardly recognize me. I go to the office, pitch projects, stay for the parties. My boss is surprised:
— Lena, you’ve become a different person! You used to always rush home.
— I used to be expected at home. Now I’m the one who expects to be home.
I joined a gym and an English course. I set up an account on a dating site—men write, invite me out. It’s strange to be free at forty-five.
The day before yesterday Mom called again. This time I picked up:
— Lenochka, how much longer can this go on! Dad’s really unwell, and a caregiver is a stranger!
— Mom, I became a stranger too the day you evicted me from my own room.
— But we didn’t think…
— Exactly. You didn’t think. For fifteen years you didn’t think.
No one called today. The quiet is unusual, but good.
I sit in the kitchen, drink coffee and stroke the cat. It’s spring outside, the sun shines right onto my table. The phone has been silent for three days now.
I think: do I feel sorry for them? Of course I do. But pity and destroying yourself out of pity are different things.
Yesterday Olya texted: “We called an ambulance for Dad. Think about what you’re doing.”
I thought. And didn’t reply.
You know what’s the strangest thing? I have the courage not to reply. For the first time in forty-five years I have the courage to say “no” to those who are used to hearing only “yes.”