— Have you lost it, Ilya? — his mother’s voice cut through the air like a knife. — You know perfectly well the apartment isn’t going to you alone!
— Mom, — Ilya leaned on the kitchen doorframe with his arms crossed, — here you go again. No theatrics, okay? Just give me the documents.
— What documents? — she didn’t even turn around. She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta, breathing fast as if she’d been running. — You must be confused: this isn’t your office where you get to bark orders. This is my house.
— And the apartment on Prudnaya? Whose is that?
— Your grandma’s. God rest her soul.
— No, Mom, — he said calmly. — Mine. Now it’s mine.
She spun around sharply. Her face was angry, but her eyes were tired and red, like she hadn’t slept all night.
— My God, do you even hear yourself? We haven’t properly buried your mother, and you’re already dividing up papers.
— Paperwork is your thing, — Ilya nodded toward the table where receipts, bills, and certificates were scattered. — I just want to take what’s already mine.
— It’s not only yours! — she shouted. — You have a sister.
— I do, — he nodded. — A sister with three kids, an eternally whining husband, and a habit of living off other people.
— Don’t you dare talk about Anya like that! — she slammed the spoon against the rim of the pot, splattering sauce across the stovetop. — She’s a mother! It’s harder for her!
— Mom, and is it easier for me? I’ve been working myself to death for three years without a day off just to crawl out of debt. Nobody helped. And nobody was going to.
She exhaled, sat down at the table, and let the spoon slip from her fingers.
— You know Grandma wanted you to split everything equally.
— Don’t tell me fairy tales. She left a will. And if it’s hard for you to live with that, that’s your problem.
— A will, — she mimicked. — You must’ve filled her head with stories that I never visited her.
— Did you visit?
— I have a job! I can’t sit at home like you, poking at a laptop on my knees!
— Yeah—yet you can judge.
He went to the window. October in Moscow meant a gray sky, puddles shining, and most of the leaves already gone. Somewhere in the distance trams clanged; the air smelled of wet asphalt and something sour from the neighboring stairwell.
His mother was silent. Only the old wall clock with its Soviet face kept ticking.
— Mom, he finally said without turning around, — I just want to live in peace. In that apartment. Alone. Without you, without Anya, without shouting and accusations.
— Anya and the kids are all crammed into one room! she sprang up. — Do you even understand how hard it is for them?
— I don’t care, Mom! — he snapped. — I’m sick of being the one who’s always to blame! My whole life I’ve been the one who “understands.” When Anya needs something—I understand. When you want me to help—I understand. When your Vasya gets drunk—I understand that too. But when I just need a little peace—nobody understands!
Her fingers clenched around the edge of the table.
— Vasya, for the record, is like a father to you.
— Vasya is like a TV: loud, and you can’t turn him off.
— Don’t you dare!
— Or what? You’ll stop talking to me again? Fine by me.
Silence hung in the room. Outside, someone slammed a door; somewhere upstairs a child started crying. The apartment smelled of sauce boiling over—and anger.
— Ilya, his mother suddenly said calmly, almost quietly. — I don’t want to fight with you. I’m just asking… be a human being. Give your sister a chance.
— She needs a chance? Great. Let her work. Let her deal with her husband. Why am I supposed to be the bank for all your “chances”?
— Because you’re the son.
— And she isn’t?
She pressed her lips together.
— You’ve always been cold. Grandma spoiled you with her “Ilyusha, good boy.” That’s why you grew up selfish.
He nodded with a smirk.
— So I’m selfish. Perfect. Then this selfish man will take his things and go.
He pulled a folder from his backpack.
— Copies of the will are in here. The original is with the notary. Everything’s legal.
— You… — she trailed off, as if she couldn’t find the final blow. — Do you even understand that we’re strangers now?
— I do, he answered shortly. — And you know— for the first time in years, that makes me feel calm.
He walked into the hallway, pulled on his jacket, shoved his hands into his pockets. Behind him his mother was saying something, but he wasn’t listening anymore. His head buzzed— a mix of exhaustion and a strange, dense silence.
Outside it was damp. The air smelled of autumn and something metallic, as if the city was rusting along with the people. Ilya walked to the bus stop, sat down on the bus, and stared out the window.
His phone buzzed.
Pasha: “Bro, if you need it—my couch is at your disposal. The spring sticks out, but hey, it’s free.”
Ilya smirked.
“Works for me. As long as it comes without family councils.”
By evening he was already sitting in Pasha’s kitchen— a tiny one-bedroom in a panel building near the MCD line. Outside, trains droned; inside, it smelled like coffee and fried dumplings. On the wall: little “Pyatyorochka” fridge magnets. On the table: a laptop, mugs, and a pack of cheap cigarettes.
— Well, you’re something else, Pasha said, lighting up. — Your mom’s in shock, your sister’s screaming, and you’re… doing your usual thing.
— To hell with both of them. I’m tired of being the backup plan.
— Wait—was Anya really going to move in there?
— Yeah. With the kids, with her husband, and her “we have no other choice.”
— And you told them…?
— That they don’t have a choice anyway.
Pasha laughed.
— Brutal.
— Honest.
He poured himself tea and blew on the mug.
— You know, I’m not even being stubborn just because of the apartment. It’s just… if I keep staying quiet, they’ll erase me. Like I never existed.
— You’re such a dramatist. But I get it. My cousins haven’t spoken for two years over a garage.
— So I won’t either. Let them think I’m dead. It’s easier for them that way.
He sat there staring out the window. A commuter train rolled past, lights flashing in the glass.
From below rose the smell of wet asphalt and other people’s food. Pasha was talking about work—about some idiot boss and an advance payment that wouldn’t come—but Ilya barely listened.
He’d already decided.
A week later, he got the notification: the property registration was complete. Official.
He showed Pasha his phone.
— Congrats, Pasha smirked. — You’re the king of your thirty-five-square-meter empire now.
— With no subjects, Ilya added.
— And no mother.
— Even better.
That same evening, Anya called. Her voice was tired, but icy.
— Ilya, have you completely lost your mind? Why did you register everything without us?
— And did you ask me when you decided to move in there?
— We have children!
— And I have nerves. And they’re not made of iron.
— Mom’s crying, she said. — Do you even realize what you’ve done to her?
— Yes. I did exactly what she’d been pushing me toward my whole childhood. I became independent.
— You’re not a human being, Ilya.
— Maybe not. But now I have an apartment.
He hung up and sat on the couch, staring at his phone.
On the screen his face reflected back—tired, angry, and, for the first time, somehow sure of itself.
“Strangers,” he thought. “Every last one of them.”
Two weeks later a letter arrived.
An ordinary white envelope, neat handwriting on it: “From O.V.”
Inside was a court notice.
His mother had filed a lawsuit to have the will declared invalid.
Pasha read it and whistled.
— Well, damn… She really went to court?
— Yeah. Ilya smirked, but there was no joy in it. — Guess she decided: if not by persuasion, then through the courts.
— And what are you going to do?
— What else. I’ll defend myself.
— Alone?
— Who’s with me? Grandma? She said everything she needed to while she was alive.
He lifted his head. The kitchen was quiet. Only the old refrigerator hummed like a diesel engine.
Outside, rain fell, tapping the windowsill steadily—almost soothing.
The hearing was set for mid-November.
The sky those days hung low and gray, like the city had been covered with a wet rag. On buses: the smell of damp jackets and irritation. People coughing, snapping, rushing. Ilya among them. He was heading to court, but inside there was no fear, no nerves—only a dull, scorched calm, the kind you get when everything’s already been decided.
At the entrance, his mother stood waiting. In the coat he remembered from last autumn, and a scarf—the one with daisies. Beside her, Anya, wearing her usual expression of tired superiority. They didn’t speak; they just watched him approach.
An awkward silence stretched for ten seconds. Then his mother exhaled:
— So what, we’re going to war to the end?
— What can I do, Mom? You chose this yourself.
— I chose justice.
— Justice? Ilya smirked. — In your version, justice is me handing them the apartment and going to hell, right?
— Don’t be rude. Her voice was cold, like a stranger’s. — We could’ve settled everything like human beings.
— You call this “like human beings”? Filing a lawsuit against your own son?
— If a son behaves like a stranger, you have to.
He wanted to answer, but Anya cut in:
— Enough. We’re not putting on a circus here. Let the court decide.
— Let it, Ilya said, and walked past them.
The courtroom smelled of paper, dust, and old radiators. The judge was a woman in her mid-forties, with a tired face—the look of someone who’d seen too many families like this.
“Routine case,” she probably thought. “Another drama over thirty-five square meters.”
Ilya’s lawyer was a friend of Pasha’s acquaintance. Not expensive, but confident. He laid out the documents and whispered:
— Everything’s clean on paper. They’ll try to press on emotions. Hold steady.
The judge looked at them one by one.
— Plaintiff, state your claim.
His mother stood up. Her voice trembled, but she held herself together:
— I ask the court to declare the will invalid because my son… took advantage of an elderly woman’s trust. He… pressured her. Persuaded her. She already didn’t fully understand what she was signing.
Ilya stared at a fixed point. Not at his mother, not at his sister—just past them. He’d heard these lines before. He knew they’d come.
— Defendant, what do you say?
He rose. His voice was calm, without performative anger.
— It was voluntary. I didn’t force her. I was with my grandmother for the last two years. I helped her, took her to the clinic, bought groceries. We have messages and receipts. She herself asked to leave the apartment to me.
The judge nodded.
— Evidence will be entered into the record.
His mother sat without looking up. Anya whispered something in her ear; she nodded.
Half an hour later the session ended.
The decision: in Ilya’s favor.
The will remained valid.
No triumphant feelings. Just emptiness.
At the exit, his mother stood by the door as if waiting for him to stop.
— I hoped you’d understand, she said softly. — But apparently you have a heart of stone.
— And you have nerves of steel. Suing your son—that’s a talent.
She sighed and turned to Anya.
— Let’s go. There’s nothing to talk about.
Ilya stepped outside. The air was cold and sharp, like it was made to keep you from relaxing.
Snow already hung in the air, though it wasn’t falling yet. But it smelled like winter.
He walked down the street without really seeing where he was going.
Past a café where people sat with mulled wine, talking, laughing.
Past shop windows with Christmas lights already up, even though there was still a week until December.
And inside—silence. The kind that comes after a door slams.
Back at Pasha’s place, Pasha greeted him with one word:
— Well?
— That’s it. I won.
— Oh, congratulations, Pasha said, pulling out two mugs and putting the kettle on. — But you don’t look like a winner.
— I didn’t win, Ilya snorted. — I just ended up with nothing but an apartment.
— What more do you need?
— For it to mean something, maybe.
Pasha sat down and stared at him.
— Look, you and I live in different worlds. Yours is family, scandals, wills. Mine is—at worst—a neighbor banging the radiator if I play music.
But here’s what I’ve learned: if you chose to be alone, then be alone. And don’t complain.
— I’m not complaining, Ilya said. — I just… didn’t think loneliness could be this loud.
They drank tea in silence. Outside, the first snow fell. The city hid under a white blanket, as if trying to start over.
A month passed.
The apartment on Prudnaya stood empty.
He went there rarely—doing repairs little by little: leveled the floor, changed the outlets, repainted the walls. He did it all himself. No help, no advice.
At first the walls felt hollow, like they belonged to someone else. Then he got used to it.
One evening, coming home from work, he opened the door—and heard the doorbell.
His mother stood on the threshold. No coat, an old sweater, a plastic bag in her hand.
— I’m not here to beg, she said right away. — I just wanted… to talk.
He stepped aside.
— Come in.
She walked into the kitchen and set the bag down. Inside were bread, apples, a jar of coffee.
— I didn’t know what to buy you. Just… something.
— Mom, he said softly, — don’t.
— It’s not a gift I brought. She sat down at the table, folding her hands. — I think I came to say that… I was wrong.
He sat across from her.
— Seriously?
— I don’t know how to say it properly, she sighed. — I thought I was doing what was best. And it turned out—like always.
— Mom, he looked at her, — we’re just too different. You live the way you can. I live the way I know how. But please—don’t touch this apartment again. It’s the only thing I have.
She nodded.
— I promise.
A pause. Long, strange.
Then she suddenly said:
— Anya’s still angry. Says you abandoned us.
— I didn’t abandon anyone. I just stopped being convenient.
She gave a tired little smirk, but there was warmth in it.
— You get that from your father. He always did everything his own way too.
— I know, Ilya said. — Only he’s been gone a long time.
— But you’re here.
They sat in silence. The kettle boiled; she poured herself a cup.
— You know, I’ve been thinking, she said, — maybe not everything is lost yet.
— Maybe.
She stood up, got dressed. At the door she turned back.
— Ilya… thank you for letting me in.
— Thanks for coming without yelling.
She nodded and left.
Then came a long, cold winter.
Work, the commute, occasional calls from Pasha. Sometimes messages from Anya, but nothing meaningful: “Mom’s sick,” “The kids are growing.” He replied politely, but dryly.
In spring he tore out the old bathroom tile and renovated. Summer came in silence—no visits, no showdowns.
And only by autumn did he realize he no longer felt resentful.
As if everything had burned out.
One day in the supermarket he saw his mother. She stood by the pasta shelf, turning a package in her hands.
He recognized her at once. His heart twitched—not with anger, but with a soft, steady sadness.
He walked up.
— Hi.
She looked up.
— Oh… hi. She smiled awkwardly. — Long time no see.
— Yeah. How are you?
— Fine. Working a bit. Anya asked me to move in with her, but I refused.
— Why?
— Because I’m tired of being stuck between you.
He nodded.
— That’s the right call.
Silence. Then she said quietly:
— I’m glad you didn’t give in back then. Grandma would probably be proud.
He smirked.
— Doubt it. She’d say, “Stop sulking and go eat.”
His mother laughed—for the first time in years. A real, short, living laugh.
— Maybe you’re right.
— Here, he held out his basket, — there’s decent coffee in there. Not your instant stuff.
— Thank you.
They walked to the checkout together.
Not peace. Not reconciliation. Just two parallel lives that had finally stopped colliding head-on.
At the exit he said:
— Come by sometime. No demands—just tea.
— We’ll see, she answered, but her voice was gentle.
Ilya stepped outside. A cold wind teased the leaves; the city hummed.
He walked home—to the place where it was finally quiet.
Where nobody asked, demanded, or explained how to live properly.
Just home.
Without other people’s voices. Without loud “you have to.”
He opened the door and turned on the light.
It smelled of fresh coffee and paint.
Silence—steady, his.
He sat by the window, looked out at the street, and said softly to himself:
— Well. I lived to see it.
And for the first time in a long while, it didn’t sound bitter—almost like a smile