“Listen, how much longer are you going to pretend you don’t understand? We need to sell this apartment. Why are you clinging to it like it’s the last thing you have in the world?”
Tamara Nikolaevna was standing in the middle of the living room—big and loud, arms crossed over her chest—and stared at Nadya as if she were an annoying obstacle. Not a person. An obstacle.
Nadya didn’t answer right away. She slowly turned away from the window—outside, the branches of the poplar were swaying, the leaves already yellowing at the edges, and the September sky was low and cloudy gray—and she just looked at her mother-in-law. Calmly. Almost with curiosity.
“I hear you, Tamara Nikolaevna.”
“Well?” Tamara snapped, shaking her head irritably. “Gena, will you finally say something to her?”
Gennadiy was sitting in the armchair by the TV. The TV was off, but he kept staring into its dark screen, as if there was some invisible show going on. Upon hearing his name, he jumped, blinked, and turned toward his wife.
“Nadya, Mom is right. The apartment is small, it’s cramped for Mom and me…”
“For you,” Nadya said evenly.
“What?”
“It’s cramped for you and your mom. For you two.”
He fell silent again. That was his signature move—going quiet whenever the conversation got beyond simple, clear, and comfortable. Tamara Nikolaevna, on the other hand, never stopped talking.
“Don’t nitpick!” she said, moving to the couch, sinking down heavily, and adjusting her colorful jumper. “The point is, if you sell that apartment of yours, we could buy a decent place. For the whole family. A three-bedroom in a good neighborhood. Gena would finally be comfortable, and I’d get to live like a normal person, too.”
Nadya stayed silent.
The apartment was hers—she inherited it from her grandmother three years ago, before she got married. It was small, a two-bedroom on the fourth floor of an old building with high ceilings and squeaky parquet floors, which Nadya loved. She had renovated it herself—not expensive, but neat. She painted the walls, changed the plumbing, put in new windows. This was her apartment. Her work, her money, her memories of her grandmother.
“So it’s a dump, then,” she finally said.
“Well, not a dump, of course,” Tamara Nikolaevna made a grand gesture with her hand. “But you know what I mean. If we sold the place and added our savings…”
“What savings?” Nadya, it seemed, smiled for the first time during the entire conversation. Barely noticeably. “Tamara Nikolaevna, just last month you were asking Gena for fifteen thousand for a new fridge.”
The room grew quiet.
Her mother-in-law pressed her lips together. Her face took on the look it always did whenever someone said out loud the things she liked to sidestep. She was good at steering conversations so that awkward topics never came up. That was her skill—deflecting, distracting, going on the offensive so the other person would forget how it all started in the first place.
That never worked on Nadya. If we’re being honest, it never really worked at all.
“We’re talking about something else,” Tamara Nikolaevna said, with dignity.
“Alright. Let’s talk about something else,” Nadya said as she picked up her phone from the table and checked the time. “A three-room apartment in a decent neighborhood costs at least eight million. My apartment is worth three and a half, four at most. That leaves us with a difference of over four million. Where exactly do you plan to get that kind of money?”
Gennady perked up again:
“Well, Nadya, we could take out a mortgage…”
“Under whose name?”
“For both of us, since we’re husband and wife…”
“No, it would be on you,” she corrected. “We sell my apartment, the mortgage is taken out in my name. Is that the plan you’re suggesting?”
Gennady lowered his eyes. Tamara Nikolaevna opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. After a moment, she opened it once more:
“Don’t simplify things like that. We’re talking about family here. About the future. Don’t you care about your family at all?”
Nadya looked at her intently.
“I do care,” she replied. “That’s exactly why my answer is no.”
She didn’t raise her voice. In fact, she almost never did, and that, it seemed, irritated Tamara Nikolaevna more than anything else. It was much easier to deal with someone who loses their temper, starts shouting, or says too much. That kind of person is easy to corner, easy to push to react emotionally, to make them defend themselves.
Nadya didn’t feel the need to defend herself.
She slipped her phone into her jeans pocket and said:
“I need to run an errand. I’ll be back by evening.”
“Where are you going?” Gennady even stood up a bit.
“Just have some things to take care of.”
And with that, she left.
Outside, it was chilly—truly autumn, with damp air and the scent of fallen leaves. As Nadya walked toward her car, she could feel something inside her settle down somewhat. That always happened when she left that apartment—or rather, escaped the atmosphere Tamara Nikolaevna could somehow create in just twenty minutes. The heaviness, that stifling feeling, like someone had replaced part of the air with something else.
She was headed to see Svetlana—a friend who worked as a notary. Not for advice. For something specific.
Because, strangely enough, today’s conversation hadn’t been a surprise to her.
She had been expecting it for a long time. And she had already managed to take care of a few things in advance.
Svetlana met her at the door of her office—a small workspace on the second floor of an apartment building, up a narrow staircase with wooden railings. They had known each other since university, almost twenty years, and Svetlana could always tell just by Nadya’s expression how serious things truly were.
“So, how did it go?” Svetlana asked as she closed the door behind her.
“They finally brought it up. Exactly what I was waiting for.”
Svetlana nodded, pulled a folder out of her desk drawer, and placed it in front of Nadya.
“Everything’s ready. Have a look if you want to go over it again.”
Nadya opened the folder. Inside was the deed of gift—it had been prepared a month ago, signed and certified. The apartment had already been transferred to her mother’s name. Legally, it was no longer Nadya’s property. Technically, she didn’t even have anything left to sell.
She closed the folder and smirked.
“You know, Svet, I’m not even gloating. It’s just… a feeling of relief.”
“That’s perfectly normal,” Svetlana said, pouring tea from a thermos. “You did everything right, and you did it in time. Any longer, and they might have started to put on some real pressure.”
Nadya took the mug, glanced out the window. Raindrops were crawling down the glass—fine, nearly invisible, the kind of rain only autumn brings.
— They were already pressuring me. Just quietly, subtly. Month after month—little hints, talks about ‘family,’ about our ‘future together.’ Every time, Gena pretended it was all his mom’s idea, but he…
She stopped mid-sentence. Not because she didn’t know what to say—sometimes you just get tired of saying certain things out loud.
She got home around six. Tamara Nikolaevna hadn’t gone anywhere—she was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, looking like someone who had no plans of leaving soon. Gennady was hovering nearby—opening and closing the fridge, moving things around on the windowsill. He always did that when he was nervous. Keeping his hands busy with pointless tasks.
— So you’re here, her mother-in-law said without any greeting. — We’ve been thinking. It’s time to sit down and have a proper talk. Family-style.
— Let’s do it, Nadya said, taking off her jacket and hanging it up. — I’m ready.
Tamara Nikolaevna exchanged a look with her son. Nadya knew that look very well—a quick, conspiratorial glance, like two teammates before a crucial move. It used to bother her. Now—it didn’t.
— Here’s the deal, her mother-in-law began, setting her cup down on the table with unexpected firmness. — Gena and I did the math. You’re selling your apartment. The money goes to buy a new place. We’ll put it in Gena’s name—he’s the head of the family, it’s safer that way. And I’ll move in with you, I have enough for my share…
— Tamara Nikolaevna, Nadya interrupted gently.
— Don’t interrupt, I’m not finished yet…
— I can’t sell the apartment.
A pause.
— What do you mean, you can’t?
— I mean exactly that. It doesn’t belong to me.
Her mother-in-law looked at her as if she’d just spoken in a foreign language.
— What do you mean, it doesn’t belong to you? Are you making this up?
— A month ago I transferred the apartment to my mom. As a gift deed. It’s all legal, notarized. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t sell it—it’s not mine anymore.
Gennady slowly sat down in a chair. Tamara Nikolaevna didn’t move—just her face started changing color, blotches spreading up from her neck.
— You… You did this on purpose?
— I took care of my own property, Nadya said calmly. — Like any reasonable person would.
— You… Her mother-in-law stood up so fast the chair creaked. — Do you know what this is called? This is called going against your family! Against your husband!
— Actually, I’m going against a scheme where my apartment is sold, the money goes toward a place in my husband’s name, and you move in with us. That’s not a family, Tamara Nikolaevna. That’s something else entirely.
Gennady stayed silent. He stared at the table—the same way he’d stared at the dark TV screen that morning. Nadya suddenly realized: he knew. Of course he did. This whole scheme was their joint idea, and ‘mom’s initiative’ was just a convenient cover. Mom pressures, son throws up his hands—’What can I do? You know how she is.’ But the result is always the same.
— Gena, she said. — Do you have anything to add?
He looked up. There was something pitiful in his eyes—not anger, not regret, but pure self-pity. Over the plan failing yet again.
— Nadya, you could have just talked to us first…
“I’ve been waiting for this conversation for three months,” she said quietly. “You spoke in hints. With roundabout words. ‘Family,’ ‘future,’ ‘it’s getting cramped.’ I heard everything. And I did what I had to do.”
Tamara Nikolaevna was still standing in the middle of the kitchen. Big, confused—in a way Nadya had never seen her before—truly lost. She was used to getting a reaction from people. Arguments, justifications, giving in, or people snapping. But now—she faced a wall. Calm, steady, unbreakable.
“You’ll regret this,” she finally said.
“Maybe,” Nadya agreed. “But not today.”
Nadya left the kitchen, walked into the room and closed the door behind her. She didn’t slam it—just closed it. Behind the wall, voices could still be heard—Tamara Nikolaevna’s grumbling, offended tone, and Gennady’s quiet, guilty replies. The son. The favorite. Forty years old, yet still desperate for his mother’s approval, as if it were the only warmth he knew.
Nadya sat on the edge of the bed and stared at one spot for a long time.
This wasn’t the end. She knew it clearly. Tamara Nikolaevna wasn’t someone who gave up after the first defeat. She would regroup, come up with a new plan, try from another angle. And Gennady would be there—silent, convenient, distant.
The issue wasn’t about the apartment.
The real question was what would happen next.
The next few days passed in a strange way—quiet and tense at the same time, like before a thunderstorm, when the air is already charged but the sky is still holding back.
Tamara Nikolaevna didn’t show up. Gennady wandered around the apartment looking like someone who’d been deeply wronged—not talking, sighing, purposefully ignoring Nadya at breakfast. She made no effort to talk to him. She set the table, cleared the dishes, did her own things. Inside, she felt calm—so calm it was almost unpleasant, like being in a room that’s just been stripped of all unnecessary furniture.
On the fourth day, Gennady was the first to break.
“Nadya, we can’t go on like this.”
She looked up from her laptop.
“Like what?”
“Not talking. Pretending everything’s fine.”
“What’s not fine?”—she genuinely didn’t understand what he wanted. A fight? Tears? For her to apologize for not giving up the apartment?
“Mom’s really upset.”
Nadya closed her laptop. Slowly. Carefully.
“Gena. Your mother came into my house and demanded that I sell it. Give you the money. And let her move in with us. Do you realize that?”
“She didn’t demand it, she suggested…”
“Gennady.”
He fell silent. Something in her voice—not its volume or sharpness, but a kind of absolute exhaustion—stopped him better than any yell could.
“I’m not looking for a fight,” she said. “But I need you to answer one question honestly. Did you know about this plan ahead of time?”
Pause.
A long one.
“Mom said… it would be reasonable…”
“You knew,” Nadya said simply.
He dropped his eyes again. And that was enough—no need for a fight or a dramatic confrontation, just a final moment of clarity that Nadya, honestly, had carried within her for a long time. She just hadn’t let it turn into words until now.
She stood up and grabbed her jacket.
“I’m going to my mom’s. I’ll stay there a few days.”
“Nadya…”
“It’s okay, Gena. I just need some time to think.”
Mom lived just a half-hour drive away — in an old neighborhood with spacious courtyards and linden trees lining the sidewalks, their golden leaves drifting down. Nadya parked by the entrance and sat for a moment in the car, gazing at the familiar third-floor windows. Warm, soft light shone behind them.
Her mom opened the door before Nadya could ring the bell — she must have heard her footsteps on the stairs.
“I knew you’d come today.”
“You sensed it?”
“No, you just called this morning, and your voice sounded so…” Her mom waved her hand vaguely. “Come inside, I made soup.”
They sat in the kitchen for a long time — first over food, then just with tea, then the tea grew cold and no one got up to reheat it. Nadya talked — not all at once, but in pieces, just as everything really happened. Her mom listened, hardly interrupting. Only once did she ask:
“How are you holding up?”
“Strange,” Nadya admitted. “It’s not painful. More like… empty. Like I’d been waiting for something for a long time, and now it’s finally happened, and I don’t know what to do with it.”
“That’s normal,” her mom said. “It means you made up your mind a while ago. You just hadn’t said it out loud.”
Nadya didn’t answer. Maybe that was true.
The next day, Tamara Nikolaevna called.
Nadya saw her name on the screen and just stared at it for a few seconds. Then she picked up.
“Hello.”
“We need to talk,” her mother-in-law’s voice sounded different. Not gentle — she was never gentle — but careful, like someone stepping on ice, checking each step.
“About what?”
“Come over. I’m at Gena’s.”
Nadya paused.
“Okay. In an hour.”
Mom saw her to the door and didn’t say anything — just squeezed her hand for a moment. That was enough.
Tamara Nikolaevna sat in the living room — upright, hands on her knees, no coffee, none of her usual dramatic flair. Gennady sat to the side, by the window, looking away. Nadya took a seat across from them.
“I want to say,” her mother-in-law began, and it was clear from the way each word came with effort that this wasn’t improvised. She’d prepared for this. “Maybe I was too harsh last time. About the apartment.”
“Maybe,” Nadya agreed.
“But you have to understand. I worry about my son. I want him to have what he needs.”
“Tamara Nikolaevna. He has a job, a salary, and a wife who spent three years putting everything she earned into this home. That’s more than enough for a normal life.”
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips but stayed silent. Apparently, she decided this wasn’t the day for arguments.
“I just want you to understand one thing,” Nadya continued. “The apartment is in my mother’s name. That won’t change. No conversations or hurt feelings will change that. This is my decision, and it’s final.”
“You don’t trust us,” Gennady said quietly. Not accusing — almost with surprise, as if he was only just realizing it.
“I used to trust you,” Nadya replied. “For a long time. Until I started hearing things like, ‘Let’s put it in your name, it’ll be safer this way.’ After that, trust works differently.”
He nodded. Slowly, as if agreeing with something he’d long suspected but hadn’t wanted to admit.
Tamara Nikolaevna stood up and straightened her cardigan.
“Alright. I hear you.”
This wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a peace offering. It was just an admission that the game had been played — and won — by someone else. For Tamara Nikolaevna, this was probably as hard as admitting defeat, and that was always the hardest thing for her to do.
Nadya watched her go — her broad back, her stubbornly squared shoulders — and thought: that’s it. There was no dramatic victory, no tears, no hugs, nothing you see in the movies. Just a woman in a colorful sweater walking to the door, and for the first time in a very long while, she had nothing left to say.
Gennady stayed by the window. Outside, the rain was pouring — real autumn rain, steady and endless. The leaves on the asphalt were dark and stuck to the ground.
“Nadya,” he said, not turning around. “Do you think… we could do things differently?”
She was silent for a long time.
“I don’t know, Gena. It’s not just up to me.”
She picked up her bag and left. The staircase was cool and smelled damp. Nadya walked down, pushed open the heavy door and stepped out into the rain.
She took out her umbrella. Opened it. Made her way to the car.
Somewhere out there, behind those wet rooftops, September was ending.
Three months later
Nadya sat in a small café near her work — by the window, with a cup of coffee and her phone, which had just lit up with a message from her mom. It was short, as always:
“Everything’s good. The neighbor brought apples, I’m making jam. Call me tonight.”
She smiled and put her phone away.
Outside, it was December. The first snow lay in a thin layer on the windowsills and overhangs of shops, making the city look a little softer, a little quieter than usual. People walked along the sidewalk with their collars turned up, and no one seemed in much of a hurry.
She and Gennady split up in November. No screaming, no long arguments — just one ordinary evening, they sat down and talked. Really talked, maybe for the first time in ages. He said he didn’t know how to do it any other way. She said she did. They filed the papers quietly, without a lot of words.
Tamara Nikolaevna, rumor had it, took the news surprisingly calmly. Maybe she decided it was for the best — her son would belong to her again. Nadya wasn’t surprised.
The apartment with high ceilings and creaky parquet was still in her mother’s name. They talked about renting it out — her mom didn’t want to burden Nadya, and Nadya didn’t want to even hear about it. For now, they left it as it was. Sometimes Nadya would come there just because — open the window, look at the poplar tree in the yard, drink tea in the quiet.
It felt good there. Peaceful.
She finished her coffee, gathered her things, and stood up. There was a workday ahead, then a call to her mom, then something else, and then something after that. Just ordinary, quiet life.
As she left the café, she bumped into a stranger — the woman was in a hurry, apologized quickly, and gave a smile. Nadya smiled back.
She stepped outside. The snow was falling softly, almost soundless.
She lifted her face to the sky for just a moment — for no special reason.
And then she moved on.