— “Well, if you’ve decided to ruin your life—then go on, Tanya, get out! Just remember: apartments are dust. Today you have them, tomorrow you don’t. But a husband and a child—that’s a cross you’ll carry for the rest of your life!” Galina Petrovna hissed, her knuckles white as she clamped onto the countertop as if she meant to rip the table right out of the kitchen linoleum.
Tatyana automatically brushed the last bits of dough off her apron, glanced at Vasya sleeping peacefully in the stroller, and—like she was drawing in air—shot back:
— “Oh, yeah? And is it okay that this ‘husband for life’ of mine lives, breathes, and listens only to you—and even, God forgive me, is afraid to boil dumplings without your royal permission?”
Galina Petrovna twisted her mouth into a disgusted smirk.
— “Don’t exaggerate. He loves you. It’s just that I, as his mother, want to help him—guide him onto the right path…”
— “Guide him? You’re not guiding him—you’re training him! To him, you’re like the remote control to some ancient TV: you press one button and he instantly folds himself into a pretzel.”
— “Oh, you’re witty, aren’t you—witty as hell. Only the brains, as usual, never showed up. Do you know how many families have turned to dust because of those damn inheritances? People go insane over free money. Especially people like you—with a cleaner’s paycheck and a queen’s ambitions.”
Like a shadow, Sasha slipped into the kitchen. Thirty-four years old, yet in his mother’s house he was still the little boy they were afraid to trust with pouring his own compote, God forbid he spill it. Without a word he pulled off his jacket, dropped into a chair, and stared at his phone as if it contained his personal “power off” button.
— “Hello, Sasha,” Tatyana drawled, deliberately sweet. “Guess who’s cooking borscht out of old grudges again.”
— “Tanya, don’t start, okay?” he mumbled without lifting his eyes from the screen.
— “Of course—don’t start. You should put on those slippers with the bears, too. Then you’d really match the image of a strong, masculine head of the family.”
Galina Petrovna poured herself tea with exaggerated noise.
— “Tatyana, you are crossing every line of decency.”
— “And how should it be done, Galina Petrovna? Bow at your feet for the fact that you and your precious son have already divided up who gets to move into which square meter of Uncle Igor’s apartment first? Or maybe I should be happy you ‘casually’ remembered I needed help with repairs—right at the exact moment four million started blinking on my account?”
— “We were just offering options! And you immediately went on the attack!”
— “Options? You’re already arranging the furniture in your head! Sasha—say at least one word!”
Sasha finally looked up:
— “Well, Tanya… we’re family. Honestly, I thought you wouldn’t grab everything for yourself. I was even counting on paying off the mortgage.”
— “You were even… what?” Tatyana let out a nervous laugh, with the broken rasp of old pain in it. “So you took out loans against money you never had, and now you’ve come for your share, yeah? Only here’s the problem: this inheritance went to ME, not to YOU.”
Sasha jumped up, went to the sink, and began scrubbing a mug with vicious intensity, as if it were an act of silent protest.
— “It’s all your friend’s poison! Your Lena! She’s a pro at breaking up families. She’s already ‘found herself’ twice in other people’s beds, then came crawling back three weeks later—with someone else. You want to repeat her pathetic path?”
— “I want to breathe fresh air, not the compost of your scandals. And I want to leave this marriage the way you leave a prison.”
Galina Petrovna nearly choked on her Lipton.
— “Are you out of your mind?! You have a child! Where do you think you’re going in the middle of the night?”
— “Somewhere that doesn’t stink of your cologne dictatorship and fear.”
— “Fine—run, run! Where are you going to go with that kind of baggage? You’ll come crawling back on your knees! Just don’t blame us—we won’t let you back in.”
— “Thank you, Galina Petrovna. You made my evening unforgettable. Sasha, you can stay with her—you’re more comfortable with her, so stay.”
With a sharp motion she tore off her apron and threw it onto the chair. She went to the stroller, gently lifted Vasya into her arms—he only snuffled sleepily in response. Holding him close, she walked past Sasha without even granting him a fleeting glance.
— “Tanya, don’t boil over!” he called after her. “It was just a conversation.”
— “Yeah, yeah. Only your ‘conversations’ are about to make me explode. That’s it, Sasha. I’m leaving.”
At the door she froze, as if she’d stumbled over an invisible barrier. Coat on. Baby in her arms. In her head—the hollow echo of the last words.
Are you really leaving right now? Just like that? With a child, at ten in the evening, into December darkness?
— “Yes. I’m leaving,” she said aloud—quietly, but firmly, as if making a vow.
The only answer was silence. No shout, not even soft footsteps. Only the monotonous ticking of the clock in the room—the very one Galina Petrovna had brought from Tula and always set fifteen minutes fast so everyone would live in constant stress.
So that’s where it got you…
She went to Lena’s. Lena flung the door open in an unfastened robe, a glass of wine in her hand. Joyful fire in her eyes.
— “Finally! I thought you’d swallow it again and stay in that swamp—where it smells like borscht but the soul rots.”
— “I left. For good.”
— “Come in, you crazy girl. Tonight we’re not drinking to love—we’re drinking to long-awaited freedom!”
Tatyana collapsed onto the beat-up couch; Vasya immediately curled up on a pillow and fell asleep at once.
— “So how did you tell them?” Lena sat down beside her, curious.
— “I didn’t. I just left. So I wouldn’t waste words anymore.”
Lena nodded, understanding.
— “Words are powerless there. You’ve got a trump card now—money. And if you back down, they’ll take everything: the money, and your self-esteem too… which, by the way, they’ve almost ground into the floor.”
— “I know. I just feel sorry for Vasya. None of this is his fault.”
— “He’ll understand. He needs a mom who doesn’t cry in the bathroom and go silent at dinner, afraid to say the wrong thing. And that’s exactly who you’ve become.”
Tatyana closed her eyes.
— “I’m scared, Lena. Scared as hell. I don’t know how I’ll pay for everything, how I’ll live. But I’m not going back there.”
Lena hugged her around the shoulders.
— “Fear isn’t a reason to return to a cage. It’s a reason to find out if you can fly. And you can, Tanya—I know it. Your wings were just collecting dust in the closet. Tomorrow we’ll take them out and spread them.”
The next day Tatyana went to the MFC. Filed her application to accept the inheritance.
A day later—she filed for divorce.
A week later—she rented a one-room apartment in the same neighborhood where they’d planned to live as a family, only without him.
Two weeks later—she saw Sasha standing under her window with a bouquet of wilted roses.
She didn’t hide behind the curtains. She simply turned to her son.
— “So, Vasily Sashovich, shall we show these would-be lovers who’s in charge now?”
He gave her a toothless smile. He was only six months old. But he already understood: the main thing was that Mom didn’t cry anymore.
If someone had told Tatyana six months earlier that she’d wake up in the ringing silence of her own apartment—where pots don’t slam and there’s no criticism about her hair or “always under-salting everything”—she would have laughed in their face. But now? Now that silence was like a saxophone solo in a night jazz club—wrapping around her, intoxicating.
Morning began with coffee. Scalding-bitter, like wormwood, without a single grain of sugar—an echo of the last months. Vasily, a tiny copy of his mother’s stubborn character, chewed on a teether with the focus of a strict tax inspector auditing a debtor’s return.
— “You and I, son—we’re two independent men and one proud woman. Only I’m the woman, and you’re still a miniature man. Child support isn’t shining for us yet, but it’s only a matter of time,” Tatyana smirked, burning her throat with the first sip.
Her phone flashed and practically exploded with light. On the screen: Sasha (ex).
She exhaled loudly.
Here we go… Like mushrooms after rain, crawling out.
— “Yeah?” she snapped.
— “Tanya… I’m downstairs. Can you come out?”
— “Are you sure this is your building?”
— “Enough, Tanya. Please. Just to talk.”
Tatyana looked at Vasya. As if answering her inner debate, he kicked the table leg with his tiny bootie.
Interpret that as an unconditional “agree.”
— “Five minutes. I’m coming with the stroller. And don’t you dare raise your voice.”
Sasha sat on the bench by the entrance, gaunt, in a wrinkled shirt that had clearly survived last night. Beside him—a standard plastic bag with the treacherous O’Key logo.
— “Flowers, is it?” Tatyana tossed out with icy sarcasm as she approached.
— “No… diapers. And juice… orange. Your favorite…”
— “My favorite right now is peace. What did you come for this time, Sasha?”
He stood up, straightened, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. That familiar look again: ‘seems like an adult, but forgot how to form coherent sentences.’
— “I thought… maybe we could… reconsider everything? Well, you understand… Vasya… We’re family… We’ve been through so much…”
— “Yes—especially your mother. She and I, it seems, physically went through my entire pregnancy. Under one roof. With the same shredded nerves. A little more and I’d have thought she was the one giving birth, not me.”
— “Well… you understand… it was hard for her. She just wanted to help.”
— “Help?! She taped my laptop shut, saying ‘motherhood is not the time for writing!’ Since then, every time I hear the word ‘Word,’ I start twitching.”
He went quiet and sank back onto the bench.
— “I couldn’t handle it. You were right. I was stuck between two fires.”
— “You weren’t between fires, Sasha. You were hiding under the couch. And you were perfectly comfortable there.”
— “I… filed a request. To live separately from my mother. I rented a room.”
— “Wonderful. Like a troubled teenager who ran away from home. Progress. Standing ovation. And why are you telling me this?”
— “Because… I want to come back. To you.”
— “You want to? I don’t.”
He lifted his head. His look turned harder—almost hostile.
— “You’ve got money now. So of course you feel like a queen.”
— “No. For the first time in a long time, I feel like a human being. And you… you remembered family only when you realized I’m not the same doll you can carry around in Mommy’s little bag.”
He sighed loudly, gearing up to roll out the heavy artillery…
— “Listen, Tanya. Yesterday Mom said if you don’t ‘share’ the apartment, she’ll sue. For marital property.”
Tatyana froze.
— “Has she lost her mind? It’s an inheritance. It can’t be divided.”
— “She found some lawyer… with, sorry, six chins and a whole folder of ‘proof’ that Uncle Igor ‘always considered you family,’ and that you and he were practically married.”
Tatyana burst out laughing. Vasya woke up and grumbled.
— “Now listen carefully, Sasha. If your mommy comes at me with a lawsuit again, I’ll pull out every voice message where she screams about what a ‘parasite and upstart’ I am. I’ve got a whole collection of her pearls on my Yandex.Disk. My lawyers will listen and get jealous.”
He stood abruptly. The bag was left standing orphaned by the bench. Sasha shrugged.
— “Well then… goodbye. For a long time. Or forever.”
— “Perfect. Just close the door behind you, please.”
That evening Tatyana opened her email. Among discount offers from Lenta and aggressive ads for a “mindfulness course,” there was a letter from the notary.
“Opening of an additional will. Due to new circumstances, we invite you to a meeting to clarify the details.”
She reread it. Then again.
— “Vasenka, I don’t want to scare you, but I have a feeling Uncle Igor has decided to toss us another ‘surprise’ from the other side. Or a little problem. Or both.”
Vasya sneezed.
— “Exactly.”
The next day she sat in the notary office across from a man about fifty, dry as an autumn leaf, with eyebrows like owl wings.
— “We found another document,” the notary said. “It was hidden in a compartment in an old writing desk that’s been collecting dust in a warehouse. It turns out there’s an additional disposition. There’s… a second apartment. In Saint Petersburg.”
Tatyana slowly sank into the chair.
— “Sorry—where?”
— “In Saint Petersburg. A two-room apartment. Historic building. The heir is you.”
She was silent. One minute. Then two. Then she slowly took out her phone, found Lena’s contact, and typed:
“Lenok, are you home? I’m coming. With wine. Very strong. And yes—I’m now twice-widowed by inheritance.”
That evening she sat on the floor in Lena’s apartment, leaning against the couch. Vasya was snuffling softly in the next room.
— “Well then, Your Majesty of Saint Petersburg?” Lena giggled.
— “Not funny. I feel like the heroine of some third-rate Brazilian soap opera. Only without cleavage—and with diapers.”
— “Listen, do you realize your ex mother-in-law is going to try to squeeze not only your life out of you, but an entire city too?”
— “She’ll choke on it. I’ll shove the key to that St. Petersburg apartment down her throat if I have to.”
They drank. Then drank some more. Then Tatyana suddenly said, dead serious:
— “I’ll never give up my freedom again. Not for an apartment, not for a plate of borscht.”
Lena nodded.
— “And what if new love shows up?”
— “Let him bring a medical certificate first: does he live with his mom? If yes—straight to the blacklist.”
They laughed until they were hoarse. Behind the wall, Vasya made sweet little snorting sounds in his sleep.
And somewhere in another house, an older woman threw a folder of documents onto the floor and hissed, boiling with rage:
— “That girl will pay for this!”
Tatyana never would have thought she’d hear her ex mother-in-law screaming into the intercom:
— “OPEN UP! I HAVE RIGHTS! I’M COMING TO MY GRANDSON!”
Seriously? This was no longer the level of annoying “calls.” This was the level of exorcism.
— “Galina Petrovna, you have the wrong address. Vasily didn’t summon you today,” Tatyana replied dryly into the intercom.
— “THAT’S MY GRANDSON, I DON’T NEED YOUR INVITATION! AND WE’LL TALK ABOUT THE APARTMENT TOO!”
She pressed “hang up.”
The grandson, meanwhile, was happily eating a banana and smearing porridge across the TV screen. Not the slightest sign of yearning for his beloved grandmother.
A minute later the phone rang. Number: lawyer.
— “Hello?”
— “Good afternoon, Tatyana Andreevna. They’re trying to file a claim against you again. Demanding that part of your real estate be recognized as marital property.”
— “What property? Are they even thinking? It’s an inheritance!”
— “Yes, but there’s a strange wording. They filed a motion to recognize your family unit as an ‘economically dependent structure.’”
— “Excuse me—what? Did they translate House of Cards using Google Translate?”
— “I’ll prepare the objection, of course. But perhaps you should speak to them personally. Directly. Without euphemisms.”
Directly. Without euphemisms. He should’ve suggested a shovel and a self-defense license while he was at it.
Two days later, at exactly 14:00, Tatyana flung open her apartment door. A shadow loomed in the hallway. The shadow wore a mink coat and lipstick the color of “rage with a cherry undertone.”
— “Thank you for letting me in. Even though you’re ungrateful.”
— “I didn’t let you in—I let in my sense of responsibility. I’m raising a son. He should know grandmothers come in all kinds. Even like you.”
— “Stop with the sarcasm, Tatyana. I have a serious talk with you.”
— “Finally. I was afraid you’d come again to discuss how much salt is in my soup.”
Galina Petrovna tossed her coat onto the ottoman and took position in the middle of the living room—like a general over a battle map.
— “You’re leaving us no choice. We’re filing a lawsuit. We demand that half of that St. Petersburg apartment be recognized as marital property. ‘We’ means me and Sasha.”
Tatyana stepped forward. Her voice was even—like a razor blade. Her gaze—like glass.
— “Are you both truly ready to spend your time and money trying to prove you have a right to an inheritance left to me by a man I stayed in contact with for the last ten years—and not you?”
— “We have the right because you built your life inside our family. Which means everything you received became common property.”
— “Really? Then return to me all my shredded nerves, the years of silence at your dinners, and the three failed attempts to get back to work. Is that ‘common’ too? Or do you, as always, divide only square meters—and not the consequences?”
Galina Petrovna went pale. But she didn’t flinch.
— “We’re not trying to scare you. We just want fairness.”
— “You don’t want fairness. You want control. Again. Only now not through Sasha—through the court.”
Sasha entered the room. Silent as a shadow. He looked at Tatyana without tearing his eyes away.
— “I’m withdrawing the lawsuit,” he said quietly.
— “WHAT?!” Galina Petrovna shrieked. “What are you saying?!”
— “Mom, enough. It’s over. I’m not taking part in this circus of absurdity anymore. I spoke with lawyers. All we’re doing is poisoning the life of the mother of my son. And I don’t want him to look at me later like a traitor.”
Tatyana turned without a word and left the room. She returned with a thick folder in her hands.
— “Here are copies of all the wills. Here are transcripts of your voice messages. Here are account statements confirming I paid the utilities for that apartment myself. If necessary, I’ll take all of this to court. And you will lose. With a bang you’ll hear for miles.”
Galina Petrovna finally snapped. She lunged at Tatyana and smacked the folder with her palm as hard as she could.
— “You’re destroying my family!”
— “No,” Tatyana answered softly. “You destroyed it yourselves. Back when you decided I was just an accessory to borscht—and that an apartment was your rightful reward for ‘putting up with me.’”
She turned to Sasha.
— “Thank you for withdrawing the claim. But between us—it’s over. I won’t forgive you. Not because I’m offended. But because you both made your choice. And I made mine.”
— “You’ve changed,” he forced out.
— “No, Sasha. I just remembered who I was before you. And you know… I really like the woman I saw in the mirror.”
Three weeks later Tatyana finished the paperwork and sold the St. Petersburg apartment. She bought a small studio in Sochi—for herself and Vasya. On the balcony—a little table. On the table—a cup of coffee. No sugar. Just like before.
Lena sent her a photo with the caption: “You’re my personal hero! From now on I’m going to pray to your taxpayer ID.”
Tatyana smiled.
Vasya laughed blissfully, splashing in a basin of warm water under the southern sun.
Below the window, construction was humming. Nearby, life was pulsing.
Above her head, the sky stretched bottomlessly wide.
And in her heart, at last, there was silence.
The very silence she chose for herself.
The End