“Do you want me to give you money? For things I bought with my own money? Do you understand the consequences?” Nastya asked her satisfied mother-in-law.
Nastya stood in the hallway and watched as Galina Petrovna took off her shoes, critically examining the new wallpaper. Alina, Dmitry’s sister, came in behind her, more quietly and cautiously, as though already apologizing for something that had not yet happened. Dmitry was delighted to see his mother, hugged her, and fussed around, inviting her into the living room.
“Well, show me, show me,” Galina Petrovna said as she moved down the hallway, her eyes catching on every little detail. “The cabinets, the furniture sets, the sofas. I’m curious to see what my son spent his money on.”
Nastya caught the tone in her voice. It wasn’t admiration. No. It was the voice of an inspector taking inventory before confiscating property. She exchanged a glance with Alina. Alina lowered her eyes.
They entered the living room. There was a new warm sand-colored sofa, a bookcase with glass-fronted shelves, and neatly folded throws. The apartment looked cozy and lived-in, and every single item in it had been paid for with hard work, loan interest, and sleepless nights spent calculating expenses.
“Beautiful,” her mother-in-law said, running a finger along the armrest of the sofa. “Very beautiful. Expensive, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” Nastya nodded. “We tried.”
“You tried,” Galina Petrovna repeated, and her voice changed, becoming harder and drier. “I can see how hard you tried. A bedroom set, a two-door refrigerator, this sofa, the bookcase… And you ordered the kitchen too, did you? Custom-made, not from a store?”
Dmitry confirmed it, still suspecting nothing.
“Yes, from the factory. They’ll deliver it in three weeks.”
His mother sat down on the sofa, placed her handbag on her lap, and looked at her daughter-in-law the way one looks at someone they are about to destroy.
“Nastya. Tell me something, please. Do you even understand that my son transferred money to me for five years? Every month. Thirty, forty thousand. And now—zero. Zero, Nastya. And I look at all this luxury and think: so this is where my money went.”
“Your money?” Nastya asked calmly.
“Mine!” Galina Petrovna raised her voice. “Because if it weren’t for your cabinets and sofas, Dmitry would still be helping his family. You got into his pocket and took everything that was meant for me!”
Alina touched her mother on the shoulder.
“Wait, don’t do this. We came here as guests.”
“And I am behaving like a guest,” Galina Petrovna snapped. “I just want to understand why my son has stopped being my son.”
Dmitry frowned. He stood by the wall, and his expression began to change. He had known this conversation would happen one day. He just hadn’t expected it to happen like this.
“Mom, we have a loan,” he said carefully. “We make payments every month. Right now, I simply can’t physically afford to transfer the same amount to you.”
“A loan!” Galina Petrovna snorted in displeasure. “A loan for sofas! A loan for cabinets! You took out a loan to furnish an apartment for her, while your mother is supposed to sit around without a penny?”
“Let me make sure I understand you correctly. Do you want us to return the furniture? Or do you want us to give you the money we paid for it?” Nastya took a step forward.
“I want you to give back what you took from my son!”
“Interesting way of putting it,” Nastya tilted her head slightly. “May I ask exactly how much? You must have calculated it if you came here with such a specific complaint.”
Galina Petrovna hesitated. She hadn’t expected that tone—calm, ironic, without the slightest hint of fear.
“Don’t play games,” she snapped. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
“I know perfectly well, Galina Petrovna,” Nastya said with a smile, though her eyes were not smiling. “And I’m actually glad this conversation has finally happened. Because numbers are stubborn things. They don’t get offended, they don’t shout, and you can’t shout them down. Let me tell you a story. A short one, with numbers.”
She walked over to the bookcase and took out a folder—an ordinary cardboard folder held closed with an elastic band. She opened it on the table. Inside were printed bank statements, receipts, and contracts.
“This apartment,” Nastya began, “cost four million eight hundred thousand. Dmitry contributed one million one hundred thousand. The rest was mine. My grandfather, Arkady Ilyich, sold his Ural motorcycle, a gramophone, and a copper samovar. He had kept them for forty years. Forty years, Galina Petrovna. My grandmother sold the weaving loom she had worked on all her life. Her eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but she said, ‘My granddaughter needs it more.’ My father sold his car. He simply said, ‘I’ll save up for another one later.’ Every relative on my side contributed something—some ten thousand, some a hundred thousand. Kopeck by kopeck, ruble by ruble, practically from their own veins.”
She placed her palm on the stack of papers.
“Eighty percent of the cost of this apartment came from me and my family. The furniture is on my loan. The sofa—my loan. The bookcase—my loan. The refrigerator—my loan. Do you want the receipts? Here they are. Every single line.”
The room went silent. Alina looked at Nastya with undisguised surprise. Dmitry lowered his head—not out of shame, but awkwardness. They had never brought the subject up between themselves, never counted who had contributed more. It had been their unspoken agreement.
Her mother-in-law turned pale, but she had no intention of backing down.
“Don’t wave your papers in my face!” Her voice became shrill. “My son earned that money! He worked himself to the bone while you sat around counting other people’s pennies!”
“Other people’s?” Nastya raised an eyebrow. “Galina Petrovna, I just showed you exactly whose pennies they were. Name by name. With documents. Or do you think my grandfather only pretended to sell his Ural? For fun? And my grandmother ruined her eyesight as a joke?”
“Don’t twist my words!”
“I’m not twisting anything. I’m laying it all out. Shelf by shelf. Like this bookcase, incidentally,” Nastya nodded toward it, “which was also bought with my loan.”
Dmitry walked over to his wife and stood beside her.
“That’s enough,” he said quietly but firmly. “Nastya is telling the truth. She doesn’t have a habit of making things up. And I don’t have a habit of hiding behind someone else’s back. Yes, I had some savings. Yes, Nastya and her relatives contributed the majority of the money. And I’m grateful to her for that every single day. We don’t keep score over who contributed more or less. We’re a family, not an accounting department.”
“A family?!” Galina Petrovna flared up. “Then what am I to you? A neighbor?”
“I transferred money to you,” Dmitry replied. “For five years, every month, without missing a payment. Tell me, how much of that money ever reached Alina? She’s been moving from one rented apartment to another for three years. Did you ever offer to help her even once?”
Alina flinched. She clearly hadn’t expected the conversation to turn in that direction.
“Alina is a different matter,” Galina Petrovna cut him off.
“No,” Nastya shook her head. “It’s exactly the same matter. You received thirty to forty thousand from Dmitry every month. Your daughter lives in a rented apartment. Did you never once think of redirecting even part of that money to her? Or does your logic only work in one direction—toward you?”
“You!” Galina Petrovna pointed a finger at Nastya. “Don’t you dare lecture me!”
“I’m not lecturing you. I’m asking you a question. There’s a fundamental difference.”
Dmitry stepped between his mother and his wife.
“That’s enough. I’m asking you to stop.”
“No!” Galina Petrovna was almost shouting. “No, I won’t stop! She took my son away from me! She buried him in loans! She wastes his money!”
“Galina Petrovna,” Nastya said quietly, but every word landed heavily. “Do you want me to give you money? For things I bought with my own money? Do you understand the consequences? Because if we really start counting—properly, like accountants, honestly—you’re not going to like the arithmetic. You’re really not going to like it.”
Her mother-in-law fell silent. Her breathing was heavy and uneven.
“I’ll remember this,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ll remember everything.”
“Go ahead,” Nastya nodded. “And just in case, I’ve saved all the statements. Memory can be selective. Bank records aren’t.”
Galina Petrovna grabbed her handbag, put her shoes on abruptly, and headed for the door.
“Come on, Alina!”
Alina looked at her brother, then at Nastya. There was something resembling acknowledgment in her eyes—not spoken aloud, not put into words, but clear nonetheless.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly and followed her mother out.
The door closed. Dmitry stood motionless in the middle of the hallway. Nastya leaned against the wall beside him. They were silent.
“Are you okay?” he finally asked.
“I’m fine,” Nastya replied. “I’ve been through worse. Remember when I told her about the furniture at the last dinner? You should have seen her face. Even then I thought: this is going to come back to haunt us.”
“I didn’t know she would be so…” He didn’t finish.
“You did,” Nastya corrected him gently. “You just hoped it wouldn’t happen in front of you.”
He said nothing. Because she was right.
“Dima, I don’t regret a single ruble I spent. Not one bit of interest on the loan. Not Grandpa’s motorcycle, not Grandma’s loom. But I will not allow anyone—anyone, do you hear me?—to make themselves into a victim at my expense. That isn’t cruelty. It’s hygiene.”
He nodded.
“I’ll call Alina tonight,” he said. “Maybe I can at least help her somehow. She’s been silent for three years. She’s never asked for anything.”
“Call her. She deserves it. And you know what’s strange? Alina lives in rented apartments, and somehow I’m the one to blame—for buying a bookcase.”
Dmitry gave a humorless smile.
“The logic of resentment is the most crooked logic of all.”
Two days later, Galina Petrovna called Dmitry. The conversation was short and angry. She gave him an ultimatum: either Nastya “compensated” her for the money spent on the furniture, or Galina Petrovna would cut off all contact with them.
Dmitry replied that there was nothing to compensate and no one to compensate, because the furniture had been bought with Nastya’s loan. He asked his mother to think carefully before saying things that could never be taken back.
Galina Petrovna hung up.
A week passed in icy silence. Alina called, apologized, and tried to build bridges between them. She said that her mother had taken to bed with high blood pressure, and Nastya—the very Nastya who had been accused of wastefulness—sent medicine and money for a doctor through Alina.
Silently.
Without comments.
Without conditions.
Dmitry went to see his mother twice. The first time, she refused to open the door. The second time, she let him in, but spoke only about her hurt feelings, not reconciliation. He listened without interrupting and then finally said what he should have said long ago.
“I love you. But I chose to live with Nastya. Not against you—with her. If you can’t accept that, I’m sorry. But I’m not going to apologize for having a home of my own.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t throw him out either.
A month later, Galina Petrovna called Nastya.
The conversation lasted forty seconds.
She said, “Thank you for the medicine.”
And hung up.
It wasn’t much.
But it was more than nothing.
Their relationship didn’t recover. It didn’t become what it had been before. The crack remained—thin, but deep. Nastya knew that sometimes cracks don’t heal; they simply stop growing. And if you’re lucky, eventually something living begins to grow through them.
Something thin.
Fragile.
But alive.
She wasn’t expecting a miracle.
But she didn’t close the door either.
One evening, Nastya sat on that very sand-colored sofa that had started the whole fire. Dmitry was beside her with his phone. Alina had sent him a photo of an apartment she and her husband were considering buying.
Dmitry transferred fifty thousand to his sister—part of what they had managed to save that month.
“You did the right thing,” Nastya said.
“She didn’t even ask.”
“That’s exactly why it was the right thing to do. The people who don’t ask often need help the most.”
Dmitry looked at her.
“Nastya. I’ve never told you this, but… thank you. For not staying silent that day. I couldn’t have done what you did. I would’ve hesitated, apologized, tried to please everyone, and ended up pleasing no one.”
“I know,” she shrugged. “That’s why I didn’t stay silent. Someone in this family has to know how to count. And I’m not talking about money.”
He hugged her.
The sofa creaked, just slightly, as though confirming:
Yes, I’m here too.
And I’m worth something too.
Outside the window, darkness was settling in. There were still loan payments ahead, difficult conversations, cautious phone calls, and long pauses between words.
But the apartment was theirs.
Honestly bought.
Honestly furnished.
Honestly defended.
And it had been worth every ruble spent.
Every motorcycle sold.
Every sleepless calculation.
Every word spoken at the right time.