Part 1. Other People’s Plans Built on Someone Else’s Foundation
Olga stood in the middle of an empty room, breathing in the smell of fresh plaster and cheap—but spotless—linoleum. The studio was small, only twenty-eight square meters, but bright and, most importantly, hers. It was the result of years of saving, bonuses, and unexpected help from the one person she least expected it from: Galina Petrovna, her ex-husband’s mother.
After the divorce from her first husband—who had wrecked her nerves with endless lawsuits, trying to win back every last square meter of their “three-room”—Olga had made herself one unbreakable rule: property must be untouchable. Five years earlier, it had been Galina Petrovna who sided with her daughter-in-law rather than her own womanizing son, telling the court that her parents had given money for the apartment specifically for the grandchildren. Olga won. Since then, the two women had kept a warm bond that felt almost like real family.
“Well?” Olga turned to Timur. “Do you like it?”
Her live-in partner stood by the window, lazily scraping at the sill with a fingernail. Timur was a big, imposing man, but with age a certain softness had appeared in him—less physical, more in the spirit. They’d lived together for three years. There was no head-spinning passion between them, but Olga had convinced herself that was a good thing. What she wanted was calm: someone to watch the evening news with, and, frankly, a man’s strength to move a heavy wardrobe or meet her at the airport.
“It’s fine,” Timur grunted without turning around. “The neighborhood’s kind of crappy. You’ll be walking to the metro forever.”
“But it’s a new building, and there’s a park nearby. For a student, you couldn’t ask for better. Kostya will be thrilled,” Olga said, smiling as she pictured her son’s face.
Kostya was finishing his third year at university. He’d grown into a serious young man, worked part-time, still lived with her—but he was already embarrassed to bring his girlfriend, Anya, to his mother’s home where, in the evenings, Timur—basically a stranger to him—stretched out on the couch. Olga wanted to give her son a real start. The place was meant as a birthday surprise, a month away.
“Isn’t that a little too generous?” Timur asked suddenly, finally turning to her. A creaky edge of irritation slipped into his voice. “When we were his age, we lived in dorms and fed bedbugs. Builds character.”
“Times have changed, Timur. Galina Petrovna gave her savings, and I added mine. It’s a gift from his grandmother and his mother.”
Timur gave a short snort, shoved his hands into his pockets, and paced the room as if measuring it in footsteps.
“So there’s extra money now… And I’m thinking, Olya, we’ve been setting priorities wrong.”
Olga frowned. She knew that tone. That was how Timur started when he wanted a new toy for his car—or when his ex-wife demanded more money on top of child support, which he already paid whenever it suited him.
“These aren’t our joint funds, Timur. They’re earmarked. Conversation over.”
They left the building. A May wind tugged at Olga’s coat. She felt satisfied with what she’d accomplished, yet the heavy look Timur shot at the new building’s windows left a sour knot just under her ribs.
That evening at dinner, Timur was unusually quiet. He poked at his cutlet with a fork, glancing at Olga again and again.
“My mother called,” he said at last.
“And how is Zinaida Ivanovna?” Olga asked politely, though she felt little warmth for her potential mother-in-law. The woman was loud, demanding, and carried herself like the world owed her everything.
“Bad. Blood pressure. And the neighbors upstairs flooded her again. There’s mold all over the corners in her old Khrushchyovka—she can’t breathe. The doctor said the conditions in that apartment are killing her.”
Olga nodded with routine sympathy and reached for the kettle.
“Olya,” Timur set his fork down. “I’ve been thinking about it, on the drive.”
“Thinking about what?”
“Why does your son need an apartment? My mother should live there instead,” Timur said, staring straight at her with a childish, disarming kind of nerve.
Olga froze. The kettle tilted in her hand and nearly spilled boiling water onto the tablecloth. Slowly, she set it back down.
“What did you just say?”
“Well, what’s the problem? It’s logical,” Timur brightened, taking her silence as an invitation to argue. “Kostya’s young. His whole life’s ahead of him. He can live with us—your three-room place has tons of space. Or let him rent and learn independence. But my mom needs peace, fresh air, and an elevator so she’s not wrecking her legs on stairs. Your studio’s on the second floor—perfect. We move Zinaida Ivanovna in, and we rent out her apartment. Money goes into our household budget.”
Olga stared at him, trying to decide if he was joking. He wasn’t. His face was serious. A calculator shone behind his eyes.
“Timur, do you hear yourself?” Olga’s voice turned to ice. “I bought that apartment for my son. With his grandmother’s money. What does your mother have to do with any of this?”
“But we’re family!” he shouted, slapping the table. “We’ve lived together for three years. Your problems are my problems. My mom is basically your mom too. Don’t be selfish.”
“No.”
The word landed between them like a stone. Olga stood up and left the kitchen, feeling anger start to boil. She still didn’t know it was only the beginning of the siege.
Part 2. An Offensive on All Fronts
A week passed in constant tension. Timur seemed to have forgotten the conversation, but it was a false calm—he was simply switching tactics. Now every night Olga had to listen to reports about Zinaida Ivanovna’s “terrible condition.” One day she’d had an asthma flare from the damp, the next she’d nearly fallen on stairs without a ramp.
“She needs care, Olya. Or at least normal human conditions,” Timur droned from the couch in front of the TV. “You’re a kind woman, I know you are. Don’t you feel sorry for an old person?”
Olga tried to ignore it and focused on work. She ran a logistics department; she was used to crisis management. But pressure at home drained her more than any yearly report ever could.
On Saturday, without warning, the doorbell rang. Zinaida Ivanovna stood in the doorway. She carried a bulky bag of jars, and her face wore a smile that promised trouble.
“Olenka! Hello! I brought you some goodies—Timurka complains you’ve been working yourself to the bone,” she announced, pushing into the hall like she owned the place, nearly knocking Olga aside with her heavy body.
Dinner turned into a performance. Zinaida Ivanovna praised Olga’s food while criticizing how clean the windows were, and then, as if by accident, steered straight to the real topic.
“Timur told me you bought a little place. Smart girl. Concrete is the most reliable investment. But tell me, woman to woman—why does a boy need his own palace? To bring girls over? To run a den?”
Olga squeezed her fork until her knuckles went pale.
“Zinaida Ivanovna, Kostya is a serious young man. And that apartment is his.”
“Oh, stop it,” Timur’s mother waved a hand. “They’re all ‘serious’ until parents aren’t watching. Listen to me—I know life. An apartment should work for the family. Timur showed me the layout photos. It’s perfect for a retiree! Big bathroom, no thresholds. I’d make it so cozy…”
“Mom, I told you—Olya understands. She just needs time to get used to the idea,” Timur chimed in, helping himself to seconds.
The air in the kitchen turned thick and sticky. They spoke about her property as if the decision had already been made and her presence was merely procedural.
“I’m not getting used to anything,” Olga snapped. “The apartment is for my son. Period.”
Zinaida Ivanovna pressed her lips together; her small eyes narrowed.
“You’re hard as nails, Olya. Ungrateful. Timur treats your children like his own, and you can’t spare a concrete box for his mother? I might not have many years left!”
“Is this blackmail?” Olga asked bluntly.
“It’s an appeal to your conscience!” the woman declared theatrically. “Timur, look at her. I told you she only thinks about herself. Your daughter and grandson are squeezed in with your son-in-law, and here she is living like a baroness!”
Olga stood up from the table. She wanted to throw them out immediately, but years of habit—keep your face—and fear of the neighbors hearing a scandal held her back.
“I have to work,” she said flatly. “Finish your tea, and please don’t bring this up again.”
As she walked to the bedroom, she heard whispering in the kitchen. Timur and his mother were building a new plan.
Part 3. The Trap Snaps Shut
Toward the end of the month, the pressure became unbearable. Timur moved from pleading to demanding. He grew irritable, picked at trivial things, insisted Olga didn’t respect him or value his opinion.
“You don’t even see me as a man!” he screamed one evening when Olga refused to discuss moving his mother for the third time that day. “I’m nobody here! A freeloader! If you loved me, you’d think about my mother’s comfort!”
Olga was exhausted. A major project was burning at work, her son was taking exams and already tense, and at home she faced this endless, sticky terror. And at some point—just to shut down his stream of pressure—she made a mistake.
“Enough!” she snapped, throwing a folder of documents onto the couch. “I’ll think about it! I’ll think, do you hear me?! Just shut up for once!”
Timur’s face instantly smoothed out. He smiled in victory, stepped closer, and tried to put an arm around her shoulders.
“Finally. That’s more like it. I knew you were reasonable. Mom will be so happy.”
Olga shrugged him off.
“I said I’d think. That doesn’t mean yes.”
“Of course, of course,” he nodded, but she read it in his eyes: She caved.
After that, an eerie quiet settled in. Timur became perfect—took out the trash, fixed faucets, even cooked dinner a couple of times. He stopped mentioning the move, and Olga decided he’d either accepted it or was waiting. She relaxed. She thought the storm had passed.
The month flew by. The studio renovation was finished, the furniture delivered. Olga chose curtains herself, bought dishes, and pictured the moment she’d hand her son the keys. She wanted it to be beautiful—done properly, surrounded by family.
A week before Kostya’s birthday, Timur suddenly asked:
“So when’s the housewarming? Mom wants to know when she should pack her things.”
Busy with a work report, Olga waved him off.
“Timur, I told you I’ll decide. Don’t rush me.”
He gave a strange little smirk and walked out. Olga didn’t think much of it. She should have.
Part 4. The Stolen Celebration
They decided to celebrate Kostya’s birthday at Olga’s apartment. Anya came—quiet, wide-eyed. Olga’s daughter arrived with her husband. The table overflowed with food. Timur sat at the head of the table, acting like the host, pouring wine and making toasts.
Olga waited for dessert. When the cake came out, she stood, asked for silence, and pulled a small ribboned box from her pocket.
“My son,” her voice trembled slightly with excitement, “you’re fully grown now. You’re my support, my надежда—my strength. Grandma Galya and I talked, and we decided to give you a gift that will help you step into the future with confidence.”
Kostya took the box, surprised. Opened it. Inside, on a velvet cushion, lay a set of keys with a little house-shaped keychain.
“Mom… what is this?” he asked, confused.
“It’s your apartment, Kostya. The studio on Lesnaya Street. Renovated and furnished. Live there, study, build your life.”
A beat of silence—then her daughter and Anya burst into happy cries. Kostya jumped up, hugged his mother, mumbling “no way” and “thank you,” still shocked.
And then Timur’s voice cut through—calm, almost lazy:
“Hold on, Kostyan. Don’t get excited yet.”
Everyone went still and turned toward him. Timur lounged back in his chair, swirling a glass of fruit drink.
“What do you mean?” Olga didn’t understand.
“I mean exactly what I said,” Timur smirked, looking at her with open defiance. “The apartment’s occupied. My mother lives there.”
Sound in the room turned muffled, as if packed in cotton.
“What are you talking about?” Olga whispered.
“I’m talking about reality,” Timur stood, squaring his shoulders. “You said you’d think about it a month ago. I took that as agreement. Why drag it out? My mom sold her dump a week ago, gave me the money to hold, and moved into the studio. She likes it there. So, Kostya—sorry. You’ll have to wait. We honor the elderly in this country.”
“You… sold your mother’s apartment?” Olga stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “And moved her into my apartment? Without telling me?”
“So what?” Timur shrugged, though tension crept into his posture. He clearly hadn’t expected Olga to confront him in front of guests. “We basically agreed. And the money from Mom’s apartment stays in the family—we’ll upgrade the car, buy you a fur coat. Calm down, Olya. It’s done.”
Kostya slowly set the keys down on the table. His face darkened.
“Mom… is this true?”
Olga looked from her son to Timur. Something deep inside her—where she’d been holding back for years—burst. It wasn’t irritation. It wasn’t hurt. It was white-hot rage. In one instant she saw everything: his petty greed, his betrayal, the total disrespect for her, her children, her work. He’d managed her life like it belonged to him.
“The keys,” Olga said quietly, holding her hand out to Timur.
“What keys?” he frowned.
“The studio keys. You had a duplicate when we were checking the renovation. Give them to me.”
“Olya, don’t start a show in front of the kids. Mom’s already unpacked, hung curtains—”
“THE KEYS!” Olga shouted so sharply Timur flinched.
He had never seen her like this. He was used to calm, reasonable Olga who smoothed corners. He hadn’t expected a storm.
Part 5. A Stranger Among His Own
“You’re going to throw a tantrum here?” Timur hissed, glancing at the stunned guests. “Have some shame!”
“Shame?” Olga grabbed the heavy fruit vase from the table. Her hands didn’t shake; they filled with strength. “Shame is being a kept man and a thief. Shame is lying to my face. Shame is taking my son’s home for your own wants!”
She hurled the vase onto the floor. The crash of shattered glass and apples rolling across the tiles was the signal.
“Out!” Olga roared, pointing to the door.
“Are you out of your mind?” Timur backed away, eyes darting. “Where am I supposed to go at this hour?”
“I don’t care! To your mother, under a bridge, to hell—get out!”
Kostya and Olga’s son-in-law stepped forward, shielding the women. Timur sized up the situation.
“Fine, fine, you psycho,” he raised his hands. “I’ll go. But you’ll regret it. I’m not kicking my mother out—she has no registration, she’s an old woman! Try touching her!”
He grabbed his jacket and bolted, slamming the door behind him.
“Mom,” Kostya said hoarsely, “let’s go there. Now.”
They went as a group—Olga, Kostya, and her son-in-law Sergey. Olga’s daughter stayed behind to clean up the shards.
When they opened the studio door with their set of keys (Timur still hadn’t handed over his duplicate, but it didn’t matter), a wave of Valocordin and fried fish hit them. In the middle of the room—cluttered with boxes and old furniture that clashed violently with the fresh renovation—Zinaida Ivanovna sat watching a series on a tablet.
Seeing them, she threw up her hands.
“Oh! You’re here! Where’s Timurka? I told him to buy bread.”
“Zinaida Ivanovna,” Olga said dryly, each word dropping like a brick. “You have one hour to pack your things and leave this apartment.”
“What?” the old woman clutched her chest theatrically. “Are you insane? This is my home! My son said he arranged it! I sold my apartment! I have nowhere to go!”
“That is your problem—and your son’s,” Olga answered. “You are in someone else’s property illegally. The ownership documents are in my name. There is no lease agreement.”
Zinaida Ivanovna flushed red. Instantly forgetting her “bad heart,” she jumped up and began screaming, hurling insults at Olga—calling her a con artist, a predator.
“I’ll call the police!” she shrieked.
“Do it,” Olga nodded. “Sergey, call the local officer. Tell him strangers are in the apartment and refuse to leave.”
Forty minutes later, the studio was loud with voices. A patrol arrived along with a tired district officer. Timur never showed—apparently hiding in a car or a bar, knowing he’d lost.
The officer checked Olga’s documents. Then he looked at Zinaida Ivanovna, who tried to play for pity, talking about the apartment she’d sold.
“Ma’am,” the policeman said wearily, “the owner demands you vacate the premises. You have no legal basis to be here. The sale of your property has nothing to do with this apartment. That’s a civil matter between you and your son—take it up with him: where the money went and why he misled you. For now—leave, or we’ll have to use force.”
Packing was long and humiliating. Zinaida Ivanovna cursed everyone to the seventh generation and threw her things into bags. The furniture had to stay—there was no one to carry it, and nowhere to take it.
“Where am I supposed to go?!” she wailed outside the building with her bags.
“Call Timur,” Olga cut in. “He has money from your apartment, doesn’t he? Let him rent you a suite. Or buy you a palace.”
Right there by the entrance, Olga blocked Timur’s number.
Later she learned the truth: Timur had indeed taken his mother’s sale money. Part of it he’d already “invested” in some shady scheme run by a buddy, hoping to flip it fast, and part he’d used to pay off old debts Olga hadn’t even known existed. Now he was left with his mother, no home, no money, and no Olga. Living with his mother became hell: Zinaida Ivanovna nagged him around the clock for making her homeless. They rented a miserable room, and every day began with a fight.
Olga changed the locks the very next day. The studio was scrubbed clean of fried fish and Valocordin. A week later, Kostya moved in with Anya—into his real new home.
Olga sat in her kitchen, drank tea, and enjoyed the quiet. The anger was gone. In its place was a startling lightness, as if a massive sack of garbage had finally slid off her shoulders—one she’d been dragging for three years for no reason. She knew she’d been harsh, but she’d been right. The fury she finally allowed herself to release saved her family from parasites.
And it was the best decision she’d ever made.