Alexei listened to the phone, not believing his ears. On the other end of the line his mother, Galina Sergeyevna, was speaking in her usual tone—dry, confident, as if it wasn’t about her son’s future but about buying potatoes at the market.
“I’ve changed my mind, Lyosha. I won’t give money for the renovations. Lena needs a car,” she said without a drop of regret in her voice.
A brief silence hung in the air. Only breathing and a barely audible crackle on the line. Alexei gripped the phone even tighter. Inside— not even anger, but that familiar, dull ache that had settled under his ribs back in childhood.
The kettle on the stove was coming to a boil. His wife Marina looked at him questioningly.
“What happened?” she asked softly, already guessing from his face.
“That’s it. Mom changed her mind,” he forced out, lowering the phone.
The kettle shrieked, filling the kitchen with a piercing whistle. In that sound seemed to live the entire pent-up scream he had never allowed himself to let out.
Marina turned off the kettle and poured boiling water into the mugs. Cheap tea bags from the corner shop slowly stained the water brown. Alexei was still sitting at the table, staring at one spot.
“She’s always done this,” he said quietly. “Always.”
Memories swam before his eyes—one after another, like an old film reel. Since childhood, Galina Sergeyevna had divided her attention between the children unevenly, as if the scales in her heart had been broken from the start. Lena—the younger one, the “star girl”—always had everything: a new phone by the start of the school year, a thirty-thousand-ruble dress for graduation, a trip to Turkey every summer. Alexei got one thing only: “You’re a boy, be patient. A man should achieve everything on his own.”
He remembered breaking his leg at fourteen during PE—landing badly after vaulting the horse. He lay in the hospital for three days, and his mother came only on the third, and then not for long.
“Work, son, you understand,” she had said, adjusting her hair in the little mirror on the wall.
But when a month later Lena caught a cold, a doctor was called to the house immediately, and Galina Sergeyevna took a day off to look after her daughter.
Over the years it became the norm, a habit, part of life. He learned not to wait, not to hope, not to ask. He got a job at a factory after technical college, married Marina—a modest primary-school teacher who loved him precisely for that quiet strength and reliability.
“Remember when your mother came to us for the first time?” Marina asked, sitting down beside him and wrapping her hands around the mug.
Alexei gave a crooked smile. How could he forget. Galina Sergeyevna walked through their rented one-bedroom on Cheryomushki like a health inspector. She opened closets, peered into the fridge, ran her finger along the windowsill looking for dust.
“Well, you can live here,” she pronounced. “But when the grandkids come, you’ll have to expand. I’ll help, of course. Lyosha is independent, but a mother is still a mother.”
Independent. That word had haunted him all his life. Lena got roller skates—Alexei was told “you’re independent, you’ll earn the money.” Lena had tutors—Alexei “you’re smart, you’ll figure it out yourself.” Lena’s driving school was paid for—Alexei saved for his license for two years.
“And remember what she said about the house?” Marina took a sip of tea. “Something like, great idea, I’ll definitely help.”
They had found that house a month ago in the old settlement of Rechnoye, not far from the river. Small but cozy—two rooms, a veranda, an overgrown apple garden. The owners were asking little—the house needed serious repairs.
“Buy it, kids,” Galina Sergeyevna blessed them over the phone. “I’ll give you the money for the renovations. Let it be your little nest.”
And they believed her.
After buying the house they immediately drew up a renovation estimate. They sat up until three in the morning, counting every ruble—roof, floors, wiring, heating. A minimum of four hundred thousand just to make the house livable.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for everything,” Galina Sergeyevna reassured them the next day. “As soon as you finish the paperwork, I’ll transfer it. Meanwhile, look at materials, find workers.”
They believed her. Marina even ordered wallpaper samples, and Alexei arranged with a crew for the end of the month.
Three weeks passed. Every Monday Alexei called his mother, and every time he heard a new excuse.
“The bank is delaying it, son. It’s a large sum, lots of checks,” she said the first week.
“They lost the documents, can you imagine? I’m redoing them,” she explained the second.
“Lyosha, be patient. Next week for sure,” she promised on the third.
Marina no longer asked about the results of the calls. She quietly set the table—buckwheat, pasta, the cheapest sausages. They saved on everything. They turned off the hot water and heated it in a pot. They walked instead of taking the bus.
On Thursday, Galina Sergeyevna called herself:
“You know, son, there were these unexpected expenses. I had to fix my teeth, it was expensive. And the fridge broke, I bought a new one. But listen—give it a week or two and I’ll definitely transfer it. Hang in there.”
“Mom, we’ve already been waiting a month. Our roof leaks, the floor is collapsing…”
“Don’t exaggerate, Alexei. Patch things up yourselves for now. You’re handy.”
That evening Marina was scrolling through her social feed. Suddenly she froze, staring at her phone.
“Lyosh… come here.”
In the photo, Lena posed next to a snow-white crossover. Leather interior, panoramic roof, alloy wheels.
“Thanks to Mom for the dream! Now I’m mobile! #newcar #bestmom #dreamscometrue”
Under the post—dozens of comments. And one from Galina Sergeyevna: “Nothing is too much for my beloved daughter! You deserve it, sunshine!”
Alexei looked at the bare concrete walls, at the bucket in the corner under the leaking roof, at his wife biting her lip to hold back tears. Something snapped inside. For good.
Marina put the empty mugs in the sink with the rest of the dishes—she had no strength to wash them. On the table lay spread-out Leroy Merlin and Petrovich catalogs, and pencil-scribbled sheets of calculations. The numbers stubbornly refused to add up— even for the cheapest renovation they were short by half.
“You know what? We’ll manage,” she said, coming back to the table. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, as if she were trying to convince not only her husband but herself.
“Of course we’ll manage,” Alexei answered automatically, but there wasn’t a drop of confidence in his voice.
Marina opened the breadbox—a half-stale, three-day-old loaf lay inside. She broke off a crust and began to chew slowly.
“Maybe we should take a loan? Or I could find some tutoring work…”
“No. We’ll think of something.”
She went to bed around midnight, and Alexei stayed in the kitchen. He took out his phone and opened the gallery. The photos flipped one after another. Last New Year’s at his mother’s—Lena in the center in a new dress, Mom next to her, hugging her. And where was he? Ah, there—at the edge, half cut off by the frame.
Lena’s birthday—an enormous cake, a pile of gifts. His birthday—a selfie with Marina at a café; Mom “forgot” to come.
Lena’s university graduation—the whole family went to a restaurant. His diploma defense at technical college—Mom sent a text: “Congratulations, son.”
For the first time he saw it so clearly, as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. It was a system. Built over years, fine-tuned. He was the backup option, the one who would always manage on his own.
Alexei closed the gallery and looked at his mother’s contact in the phone book. His finger hovered over the call button. No. Enough. No more calls, no more excuses. Let there be silence.
Alexei sat on the porch, blankly staring at his phone. Lena’s car photo still glowed on the screen. Marina came out with two mugs of lukewarm tea and sat down beside him.
“Maybe we should sell? Go back to the rental?”
“And lose the down payment? Two hundred thousand?”
The phone vibrated. Valentina Petrovna, Marina’s mother.
“Lyosha? Our girl told me about your situation. Listen, I’ve transferred you a little—one hundred and fifty thousand. That’s all I could gather. And also—there’s a good crew, my neighbor runs it. The guys are golden, won’t charge much.”
Alexei opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat.
“No need to thank me. You’re family, and family helps without conditions.”
Two days later the house was full of life. Uncle Kolya—the foreman—walked through the rooms, tapping on the walls.
“Plaster here, knock this down there. We’ll redo the floors. We’ll finish in a month.”
The smell of fresh boards and plaster filled the air. Marina carried tea to the workers and asked about materials. After work, Alexei took up a putty knife—Uncle Kolya taught him how to spackle.
“Like this, run it nice and even. Don’t press too hard.”
His hands ached, his back throbbed, but by evening an entire wall was done. With his own hands.
On weekends they worked together. Marina painted the frames, Alexei laid laminate. They quarreled over the color of the bathroom tiles and made peace over dinners of potatoes and herring.
In the evenings they sat on the new porch steps, drinking tea from a thermos. The road darkened ahead, cars drove by now and then. But now this was their home. For real.
A month later Alexei photographed the bright living room—white walls they had painted together, curtains Marina had sewn herself, an old flea-market armchair they had reupholstered.
He posted one photo online. The caption:
“When you do it yourself—you feel the home with your heart.”
Galina Sergeyevna liked it five minutes later. She didn’t call, didn’t write. Just a like.
The phone rang in the evening as they sat on the veranda watching the sunset. The name on the screen—“Mom.” Alexei looked at the vibrating phone for a long time, then finally answered.
“Well, son, I told you you’d manage!” Galina Sergeyevna’s voice was cheerful, as if nothing had happened. “I saw the photos. Good for you! Now I’ll come and see how you’ve settled in. I’ll be there this weekend.”
Alexei took a deep breath and replied calmly, without anger:
“No, Mom. Don’t come.”
There was a pause. Clearly, Galina Sergeyevna hadn’t expected that answer.
“Why?”—there was genuine bewilderment in her voice.
“Because I’m tired. Tired of proving that I’m your son too. Tired of hearing that I ‘can handle it myself’ while you help Lena without question. Tired of being the backup. Now I want to choose for myself who I keep close.”
Her voice trembled, notes of hurt creeping in:
“Ungrateful! I helped you as best I could! I raised you!”
“Yes. But not for me, Mom. For yourself. So you could tell everyone what a good mother you are. Only a mother should love her children equally.”
He hung up before she could answer.
A day later a message from Lena arrived: “Mom is unwell. Her heart. Come quickly.”
Alexei stared at the screen for a long time. He knew this move—Galina Sergeyevna often resorted to it when she wanted to regain control. Heart, blood pressure, headaches—the arsenal was rich.
He blocked his sister’s number.
That evening he stepped onto the veranda. It was starting to rain—steady, calm, autumn rain. Marina brought two mugs of hot tea and sat beside him.
“Is that it?” she asked softly.
“That’s it,” he replied. “Now it’s really over.”
He put his arm around his wife, and for the first time in many years he felt true calm. Not from beating someone or proving he was right, but from silence. From the freedom to choose his own life.
He had finally “handled it himself”—not the house renovation, but the burden he had carried all his life