Katya put the kettle on and, while it hummed, leaned her shoulder against the cool doorframe. The evening dragged lazily on: from the window came the voices of kids in the yard, someone was kicking a ball around and arguing whose turn it was to stand in goal. Mint in a mug on the windowsill filled the air with its smell, freshly washed kitchen towels were drying on the radiator, and on the table lay a notebook full of exercises — Anton had slipped out into the yard, promising to finish them before bed.
The apartment — hers, small, with a narrow hallway and a balcony that just fit a folding table and two chairs — had become a fortress over the years. The walls might be thin, but the quiet was her own, and the order — hers too.
Her phone vibrated, lighting up the twilight in the kitchen. A familiar name flashed on the screen — “Valentina Petrovna.” Katya hesitated. Ever since she and Sergey divorced, her ex-mother-in-law called rarely, but always with some errand: either “you urgently need to talk to Sergey, he won’t listen to me,” or “send Anton’s photo to the kindergarten,” even though Anton had stopped going to kindergarten many years ago. Katya sighed and slid her finger across the screen.
“Katya, hello. Lera, Sergey’s wife, is down. The doctors say she needs surgery, and fast. You understand. The amount is very big.”
“Valentina Petrovna, please, just tell me what you want from me,” she said calmly.
“Oh, how prickly you are. Fine, I’ll be brief. Katya, my son’s new wife needs an operation. Sell your apartment and send us the money, we used to be a family after all,” her mother-in-law said into the phone.
Katya instinctively turned down the kettle and gripped the phone tighter. For a second she thought she’d misheard. Then she realized: she’d heard only too well.
“Why are you silent?” her mother-in-law went on. “You have an apartment that you kept for yourself after the divorce. Sell it. Live with your mother for now. And send us the money. We’re not strangers, we used to be family. And anyway — you have a job, you’re doing fine, but Lerочка won’t be able to, she won’t be able to work for a long time after the operation. Help, Katya. It’s the noble thing to do.”
The kettle switched off on its own with a dull click. Katya sat down on a chair, holding the phone between her shoulder and cheek to free her hands. She took two cups out of the cupboard: one for herself, the other — automatically, the way she had for many years when she and Sergey drank tea in the evenings and argued about whose mugs were more comfortable. The second cup now stood there for guests, rare as rain in July.
“Valentina Petrovna,” Katya said, weighing her words, “you called me and suggested that I sell my apartment to help your son and his wife. Is that right?”
“I’m not asking for something that’s not mine!” her mother-in-law rushed to say. “Anton is our grandson, Sergey is your ex-husband, we lived together so many years. You yourself used to say blood relatives aren’t strangers. Time to prove it in practice. You’re a kind woman, we could always rely on you. And what is that apartment to you anyway? ‘Tight but cozy,’ you can live with your mother. And we need the money like we need air.”
Katya poured boiling water into her cup and dropped in a sprig of mint. She felt a familiar wave rising in her stomach — not anger, not fear, but a firm will to say “no” in a way that would be heard.
“To me, this apartment is home,” she said. “And I am not going to sell it. I’m sorry for Lera, I truly am. If I can help with advice — I will. I’ll tell you where to apply for a quota, which doctors to write to, where to get an installment plan. But with money — no. Especially not at the price of my apartment.”
“Are you made of stone?” her mother-in-law flared. “You weren’t like this before. I remember how you wore yourself out just to please everyone. And now what? Sergey was close to you. I’m his mother, I’m begging you for his sake. You’re smart, you must understand that an apartment can be earned again, but health — never.”
“An apartment can be earned,” Katya agreed, “which is why I spent many years earning it. With Anton in my arms, with your son who was ‘temporarily’ out of work back then, and then left the family altogether. I earned it month by month. And I don’t have to give it up just because ‘we used to be a family’. We used to be. Now we’re not.”
Her mother-in-law fell silent for a moment. There was a rustling in the receiver — as if she had left the room, clamped the phone with her shoulder and started opening a cupboard.
“I thought you were wiser,” she said more quietly. “My heart is not at peace. Poor Lerочка is crying, Sergey hasn’t slept in nights. We’re not begging for charity. We’re asking as family. Sell the apartment — we’ll pay you back as soon as we can. I give you my word.”
Katya let out a short laugh, because she’d heard her ex-mother-in-law’s “word” many times: when she “gave her word” not to interfere, and then showed up at their door unannounced; when she promised “not to drag her son over” and still called in the middle of the night: “Katya, come over, he’s drunk.” And when they were splitting up, her mother-in-law’s “word” sounded exactly the same — like a coin tossed around out of habit, not by obligation.
“Your word is your word,” Katya said gently. “I treat it with respect. But it doesn’t cancel out my ‘no’.”
“So you won’t even think about it?” the voice in the receiver went thin, like a string pulled tighter than it should be.
“I’ve already thought about it,” Katya replied. “And I will not sell the apartment.”
“Fine, keep it then,” her mother-in-law exhaled sharply. “Just don’t come running to me later asking for help when your precious Anton needs money for his studies! You think I’ll help him? I won’t! I have another daughter-in-law now, another family!”
“You decided that a long time ago,” Katya said evenly, “even without my answer. Take care of yourself, Valentina Petrovna. And I wish Lera good health. Goodbye.”
She hung up, keeping herself from slamming the phone onto the table. Anton walked into the kitchen, cheeks flushed from running around outside, a blade of grass stuck in his hair.
“Mom, can Timka come over for half an hour? He promised to show me a trick with a coin.”
Katya smiled and nodded toward the notebook:
“Half an hour — after you finish those five problems. And wash your hands.”
Anton sighed in annoyance but smiled back and ran to the bathroom. Katya picked up her cup of mint tea and went out to the balcony. The evening was clear, the neighbor downstairs was spreading a rug over the railing, and the yard smelled of dill and fresh cucumbers. No one knew what kind of conversation had just taken place in that small kitchen with the narrow balcony. And that was for the best.
She and Sergey had divorced two years earlier. The divorce wasn’t loud, but it was heavy — like a wardrobe you have to drag through a doorway, scraping the frame and leaving white streaks on it. First they quietly stopped having dinner together, then they stopped turning the lights off after each other, then he started coming home so late it was easier not to ask why. When he packed his things, Anton spent two days walking through the apartment slower than usual, as if wading through water: he spoke quietly, turned off the TV so as “not to disturb Dad.” And then everything seemed to even out: activity schedules, Katya’s job, “Dad’s Saturdays” marked on their calendar. For a while her former mother-in-law called often, then less. One day Katya found out from a neighbor that Sergey had gotten married. She shrugged, wished him happiness in her mind — because no actual words came — and went out to buy bread.
Katya had gotten the apartment in the divorce by mutual agreement: she paid Sergey for his half, taking out a loan and borrowing from her cousin. She saved for a year for the renovations: changed the wiring, re-papered the walls, painted the old doors. Anton would either bring her little cans of paint from the kitchen or ask if he could draw a rocket on his bedroom wall (she agreed — a small one, in the corner). Their things were here, their wobbly stool she’d been promising to fix for a month, their warm evening baths.
And now — that call. “Sell your apartment and send us the money.” Her mother-in-law’s words felt like cold water from an outdoor pump that burns not with heat, but with the shock of it. Katya knew there would be more calls — from Sergey, from Lera herself, maybe from mutual friends. Each would bring their own “why”: the quiet ones from the “sympathetic”, the loud ones from the “life teachers.” But Katya had her own “because”: because this was her home, her son’s home, their safety and peace. And yes, she felt for someone who was ill. And yes, compassion does not mean being obliged to take the roof from over your own child’s head.
Her phone beeped briefly: a message. It was from Sergey.
“Katya, you upset Mom. She’s in tears. Lera really is in the hospital. I don’t know what to do. Let’s talk calmly.”
She typed back: “We’ll talk. Tomorrow at six, at the café by the school.” Then erased “at the café”: she didn’t want hovering calls under the café windows, didn’t want her ex-mother-in-law to “happen to pass by.” She wrote instead: “In the school yard. In front of the kids — only about the kids. Money — separately.”
“Mom, I’m done,” Anton showed her the notebook. “Can Timka come?”
“You can,” Katya glanced through the lines, checked a couple of tricky ones, and kissed her son on the crown of his head. “Fifteen minutes — then home.”
He shot out the door, and she went back out on the balcony. Sergey called back.
“Hi,” he said carefully. “Mom called you… a bit harshly. Don’t listen to her. But the situation really is serious. Lera needs surgery. I’ll scrape together what I can. Could you… lend some? We’ll pay you back.”
“Sergey,” Katya answered softly, “I can’t. Not because I’m full of resentment. I can’t because I have a child to take care of. This apartment is everything we have. I’m ready to help with paperwork. I know where to look for quotas, I know people who help with the documents. I can sit with Lera at the hospital if needed. But sell the apartment — no. And lend a large sum — also no.”
“You’ve changed,” he said bitterly. “You used to do everything for the sake of the family.”
“I have a family,” Katya said. “Anton and me. And you have a family too. That’s your responsibility.”
He was silent for a moment. Somewhere in the background, an elevator door beeped.
“Okay,” he said. “I thought… Never mind. Sorry. I’ll figure it out myself.”
His “myself” sounded foreign. Katya felt a warm wave rise and fall in her chest — not pity, but a tired understanding: in this story, everyone would be taking their own steps. She put the phone on the table and got busy: brewed a second cup of tea, took out the folder with the apartment documents — the old “apartment papers” folder. She placed a clean sheet next to it and wrote: “funds, quotas, hospitals.” It wasn’t some kind of “therapy list”; it was a ladder of possible steps for those willing to use them.
The next day they met by the school. The yard was noisy, kids were riding scooters, parents were waiting on benches. Sergey came hunched, looking younger without his wife’s hand on his forehead. Katya saw two lives in him: the old one, where he brought her chebureks from the market and laughed, and the new one — with Lera, with the hospital, with someone else’s misfortune.
“I’m not here to defend my mom,” he said right away, sitting down on the edge of the bench. “She’s… her own way. I’m asking for help in any way you can give it. I’ll get the money together anyway, from friends, from loans. But maybe you know someone…”
“I do,” Katya nodded. “I’ve put together a list. But, Sergey, one thing. If you’re going to take out loans — think about how you’re going to manage them. Lera comes first right now. And right next to her is Anton. Don’t do it so that all of you end up drowning. First try for the quota. Talk to the doctor about how long you can wait. Don’t rush into bondage if there are other options.”
He nodded, and for the first time it wasn’t “for show.”
“I’ll pick up Anton on Saturday,” he added. “We’ll go out, do some stuff. Nothing’s canceled.”
“Okay,” Katya said. “Just let me know in advance what time. He has practice.”
They talked a little more — dryly, but calmly. They parted without hugs and without new promises.
A couple of days later her mother-in-law sent a long voice message: about “how people become heartless,” “about ingratitude,” “about how her son is a saint.” Katya didn’t reply. A week later came a new message from Sergey: “We got the quota. Surgery in a month. Thanks for the contacts.” Katya exhaled with relief — not because she had “helped,” but because someone else’s misfortune hadn’t pulled her life into its millstones. Anton at that moment was bringing home paper frogs from school and telling her about a new scooter trick.
Her mother-in-law kept calling. Several times Katya picked up, and each time she heard the same: “you’re made of stone,” “you left us long ago,” “I won’t forget this.” Sometimes the receiver was silent — her mother-in-law just breathed and then jabbed at the hang-up button. Then she started calling less. In their lives there remained just one line of communication about Anton: “I’ll come Wednesday,” “I’ll take him on Saturday,” “I’ll drive him to practice.” And that was the only part really worth keeping.
One evening, Katya ran into Lera in the yard. She was pale, wearing a headscarf, holding a pharmacy bag. They stopped like two strangers. Lera was the first to raise her eyes:
“Are you Katya?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” Katya answered. “How are you?”
“I’m alive,” Lera said. “Sergey told me you gave him the contacts. Thank you. I…” She hesitated, then found the words. “And also… I’m sorry about my mother-in-law. She breaks everyone, and me the hardest. I just want to live. Without other people’s money. Without other people’s orders.”
Katya nodded. There was no pretense in those words. She looked at the face of her ex-husband’s new wife — no anger, no rivalry, just another woman with her own pain, walking her own path.
“Get well,” Katya said. “And take care of yourself.”
Lera nodded and walked on, leaning on the pharmacy bag like a crutch. Katya watched her for a long time until she heard a familiar voice behind her:
“Mom, can Timka and I play until it gets dark?”
“No,” she smiled. “Until dinner — and then home. Deal.”
She went back inside, laid out the cards with the contacts — the ones Sergey had used. She thought that everything finally seemed to have fallen into place: everyone with their own life and their own responsibility. Her mother-in-law would keep remembering and reproaching, Sergey would sometimes look for an easy way out, Lera would keep fighting. And Katya — would live. Teach her son how to fold notebook corners, buy apples on sale, change lightbulbs when they burn out, and enjoy the balcony at sunset that she hadn’t gotten “because others decided it was fair,” but because she had chosen it and worked for it.
Her “no” that evening in the kitchen wasn’t made of stone. It was alive, like a tree root that keeps the slope from sliding away. Ignore it, fail to respect it — and the house will go with the landslide. Katya chose the house. And in doing so, she said everything that needed to be said.