Galina Petrovna sized up her future daughter-in-law’s apartment even before the wedding. After the big day, she reminded Vera of a certain promise. Vera transferred the ownership—just not in the way her mother-in-law expected.
Galina Petrovna came to Vera’s apartment for the first time in March. She didn’t wait for an invitation—just showed up, carrying a bag of tangerines and eyes that seemed to be measuring every square meter.
Vera didn’t realize at the time that this was an inspection. She made coffee, took out cups, while her future mother-in-law wandered through the rooms, touching the windowsills in silence. The silence was thick, like winter fog.
“Nice apartment,” Galina Petrovna said, pausing by the bedroom window. “Is it a two-bedroom?”
“Yes. Forty-seven square meters.”
“Is it yours?”
“Yes, it’s mine. My grandmother left it to me.”
Galina Petrovna nodded. She adjusted a curtain no one had asked her to touch, then went back to the kitchen. She sat down, wrapped both hands around her cup, and looked at Vera like she was trying to fit her into some internal scheme.
“You’re a good match for Dima.”
Vera smiled. She was twenty-nine and had been in love with Dima for a year and a half. She’d only met his mother three times. The first two times had been short: a café, Dima’s birthday, some general small talk. But now, it was suddenly about the apartment, tangerines, and that evaluating stare.
“Thank you, Galina Petrovna.”
“Just call me Galina,” she offered.
But Vera didn’t. Something told her it was too soon.
The wedding was set for October. Dima had proposed in August at a friend’s dacha, with a ring hidden in the pocket of his shorts and bright red ears. The ring was slender, gold, with a small stone. Vera never took it off.
Wedding prep moved quickly. Dima worked as an engineer at a factory in Podolsk, made a decent living, but nothing extravagant. Vera managed accounting for a construction company. Together they were paying a mortgage on his one-bedroom in Butovo, saving up for renovations.
Dima had bought the Butovo apartment himself, before he met Vera. Thirty-one square meters, fifth floor, windows overlooking the courtyard. It always smelled damp from the basement, and pipes hummed through the night. Vera didn’t move in. They lived at her grandmother’s two-bedroom place in Sokol instead. Quiet courtyard, high ceilings, herringbone parquet flooring. Grandma Zinaida had passed away four years ago, leaving the apartment to her only granddaughter.
Galina Petrovna called every Wednesday. Always at the same time, seven in the evening, when Dima was home. She’d ask about the wedding, the dress, the restaurant. And in between, she’d drop little hints.
“You two will be living together in one apartment after the wedding, right?”
“Yes, at my place.”
“So, will you sell Dima’s place?”
“No, not yet. There’s still a mortgage on it.”
“Ah, right. Of course.”
A pause. Then:
“And your apartment, is it in your name?”
“Yes, it’s mine. My grandmother’s.”
“So after the wedding, you’ll probably change the paperwork. Make it for both of you. Or to Dima. That’s the right way to do things. You’re a family now.”
Vera stood at the stove, stirring the stew. Her spoon hit the edge of the pot with a hollow echo, as if an empty room had answered back.
“I’ll think about it,” she replied.
“Of course, think it over. I’m just telling you how things are usually done.”
Vera hung up. Dima was in the next room, watching football. He either didn’t hear or decided it wasn’t important.
September. Three weeks until the wedding. Vera was at a dress fitting with a seamstress at Taganka. The dress was simple: creamy crepe, long sleeves, buttons down the back. Rita, the seamstress, a woman in her fifties with a measuring tape draped around her neck, was taking in the bodice.
“Lost some weight,” Rita said, carefully pulling pins from her mouth.
“It’s the nerves.”
“Your mother-in-law?”
“Why do you always assume it’s my mother-in-law?”
Rita raised her eyebrows and said nothing. The pins went back between her lips.
Vera stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself. Five foot six, narrow shoulders, dark brows that almost met above her nose. Just like grandma’s. Grandma Zina used to say: those aren’t eyebrows, that’s character.
Her phone buzzed from inside her purse. Vera pulled it out. A message from Galina Petrovna: “Vera, remind me of the notary’s address that Dima recommended. I want to check something about the paperwork.”
Vera read the message. Then read it again. She put the phone away.
“Rita, do you have any water?”
“In the entryway, on the table.”
She drank half a glass without stopping. The water was warm and tasted a bit like plastic. Her hands trembled slightly, so she pressed her palms against her thighs, willing them to be still.
That evening, she asked Dima.
“Did you give your mom the notary’s number?”
“What notary?”
“She texted me and said you recommended one.”
Dima frowned. He always made that face when he didn’t understand something but didn’t want to look confused—lips tight, gaze shifted off to the side.
“I didn’t recommend anything. Maybe she mixed things up.”
“Dima.”
“What?”
“She wants me to sign over the apartment.”
Silence. Laughter drifted through the wall from the neighbors’ TV. Dima rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“She actually said that?”
“Every Wednesday. Like clockwork.”
He sat on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees. Then he looked up at Vera.
“What do you want?”
“I want to know what you think.”
“I think it’s your apartment.”
Vera sat next to him. Their shoulders touched, and she felt the warmth of his body through his T-shirt. That connection felt more important than words. But the words were too few.
“Will you tell her?”
“I will.”
He never did.
The wedding took place at the “Beryozka” restaurant on Leninsky. Forty-two guests, live music, a cake decorated with white fondant roses. Galina Petrovna sat at the head table in a dark green dress, wearing a brooch that, according to her, was once worn by her mother. The brooch was gold, shaped like a twig, with three small stones. Vera noticed those stones looked dull, as if they were too tired to shine.
Galina Petrovna’s toast was long. She spoke about family, about traditions, about how a woman should know how to build a home. “Not walls, but relationships,” she said, looking straight at Vera. The guests applauded. Vera smiled and took a sip of champagne. The bubbles tickled her palate.
After the toast, while everyone was dancing, Galina Petrovna approached her at the bar.
“Beautiful wedding.”
“Thank you.”
“Dima is happy.”
“So am I.”
Galina Petrovna took her by the elbow. Her fingers were dry and clingy.
“Vera, about the apartment. You understand, right? A family is a single unit. Everything needs to be handled properly. Dima’s a man. He needs to be the head of the house.”
“At the wedding, Galina Petrovna? You want to talk about this at the wedding?”
“When else? Afterward, things get forgotten and busy. I just want my son to live in his own home.”
“He is living in a home. Mine.”
Galina Petrovna let go of her arm. Her smile stayed in place, but her eyes changed—colder now, just like the stones in the brooch.
“Well, we’ll see.”
Vera finished her champagne. The glass clinked against the bar.
The first months after the wedding were peaceful. Dima left for work at eight, Vera at nine. In the evenings, they’d cook together or order takeout. On Saturdays, they tackled a big shopping list at Auchan. Sundays meant Dima slept in until eleven, while Vera enjoyed her coffee in the kitchen, scrolling through her phone.
Galina Petrovna called less often. About once every two weeks. But each call carried a tiny sting.
“Are you planning to renovate?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, of course. Why bother renovating someone else’s apartment?”
“It’s not someone else’s, Galina Petrovna.”
“It is for Dima. Until it’s been transferred to his name.”
Vera would hang up and head straight to the dishes. Hot water poured onto the plates, steam rising to her face, and she’d stand there for a minute, two, three, until her fingers turned red.
Dima noticed.
“Did Mom call?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Was it about the apartment again?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
But he never did. Or, if he did, he’d say something so mild that Galina Petrovna kept bringing it up.
In December, Galina Petrovna showed up for a visit. No warning. She brought a pie and a folder.
The pie was cabbage, beautifully golden and crisp. The folder was transparent, documents visible inside. Vera spotted it as she hung her mother-in-law’s jacket on the hook in the hallway. It stuck out of her bag.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll show you later. Let’s have tea first.”
They drank tea in the kitchen. Galina Petrovna praised the backsplash, ran her hand over the countertop, asked what brand the faucet was. Vera answered. The cabbage pie was delicious—eggs in the filling, thin, layered pastry.
“That’s delicious,” Vera said.
“It’s my mother’s recipe. I can teach you.”
“I’d love that.”
Galina Petrovna smiled. Then she pulled out the folder.
“Here. Everything is ready. This is a gift deed. You transfer the apartment to Dima. It’s simple, just one visit to the notary.”
Vera looked at the folder. Transparent plastic, white sheets with printed text inside. She didn’t touch it.
“Did you draft this yourself?”
“A lawyer did it. Someone I know. No charge.”
“Without telling me?”
“Vera, don’t make things complicated. It’s just a formality. You’re family. What difference does it make whose name is on it?”
“If it doesn’t matter, why change it?”
Galina Petrovna put down her fork. A piece of pie remained, untouched.
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Right for whom?”
“For the family.”
Vera stood up. She went to the sink, turned the water on, then off. She turned back around.
“Galina Petrovna, my grandmother left me this apartment. She worked at the textile factory for forty years. Forty years to trade a one-room for a two-room. I am not going to reassign it.”
“Not even to your own husband?”
“Not to anyone.”
Silence. A crow cawed outside the window. Vera heard every sound: the ticking of the wall clock, the hum of the fridge, her own breath.
Galina Petrovna took the folder and put it back in her bag.
“Does Dima know you feel this way?”
“Dima feels the same.”
“We’ll see.”
After the visit, Vera couldn’t sleep properly for two days. She’d lie down, close her eyes, and that folder would appear before her again. Transparent plastic, white sheets. Like an envelope with a sentence inside.
Dima slept next to her, on his side. For two days after the visit, Vera just couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that folder again. Transparent plastic, white sheets. Like an envelope with a sentence inside.
Dima was sleeping next to her, on his side of the bed. He always slept on his right side, with his hand tucked under the pillow. Vera lay on her back, counting the strips of light from the streetlamp on the ceiling.
On the third night, she got up, walked to the kitchen, and turned on her laptop. She opened the Rosreestr website. Then she closed it. Then she opened it again.
She wasn’t thinking about the apartment. She was thinking about Grandma Zina, who got up every morning at five thirty and crossed the whole city to work at the factory. About how her grandmother would make compote from dried fruit and leave it on the windowsill to cool. About the smell of that compote: sweet, warm, with a hint of prune. About what her grandmother once told her: “Vera, remember: Don’t give up what’s yours. Don’t take what isn’t. Then you’ll sleep peacefully.”
Vera closed the laptop and went back to bed. That night, she fell asleep quickly.
January was freezing. Minus twenty-two degrees, the pipes in the building covered in frost, the radiators barely warm. Vera walked around the apartment in woolen socks and her grandmother’s knitted dark blue sweater with stretched-out sleeves.
Galina Petrovna hadn’t called for three weeks. It was unsettling and strange, like when a tooth stops aching: it seems good, but you keep expecting something bad to happen.
The bad surprise came through Dima.
He came home from work on Friday, later than usual. Took off his boots, went into the kitchen, and sat at the table. He didn’t take off his coat. It stayed on him.
“Dima?”
“Mom came to my work today.”
“To see you? At the factory?”
“Yeah.”
He took a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket. Unfolded it. It was the same text, the same deed of gift. But now there was a handwritten note: “Dima, this is for you. Mom.”
Vera looked at the page. At Dima. Then at the page again.
“She brought this to the factory?”
“She thinks I don’t have control over you.”
The word “control” hung in the air, thick like the smell of smoke. Vera stepped back half a pace.
“And what did you say?”
“That this was between you and me.”
“And her?”
“She started crying. Right at the entrance. Even the security guard saw.”
Vera sat across from him. She took his hands. They were cold, rough from the frost, the skin cracked across the knuckles.
“Dima, I need you to answer me honestly.”
“Ask me.”
“Do you want me to transfer the apartment to you?”
He didn’t look away. Vera noticed—and remembered.
“No.”
“No, because you don’t want to fight with me, or no, because you think it’s wrong?”
“No, because it’s your apartment. Period.”
She nodded. The paper lay on the table between them. Dima crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.
February. Vera came home from work and found an envelope in her mailbox. Just a plain white one, no return address. Inside was a letter, written by hand in small, neat handwriting.
“Vera. I understand that you see the apartment as yours. But think: what if you and Dima get divorced? He’ll have nothing. His little one-bedroom is tied up in a mortgage. Your two-bedroom on Sokol, it’s not just an apartment. It’s my son’s future. I’m asking you not to think of yourself. Galina.”
Vera read the letter, standing in the stairwell. Her feet in wet boots, her scarf unravelled and dangling down to her waist. The bulb on the landing flickered at regular intervals, and with each flicker Vera’s shadow appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared.
She folded the letter back into the envelope and went upstairs to her apartment.
That evening, she didn’t tell Dima. She slipped the envelope into her desk drawer, hiding it under a pile of receipts. Later, she took it out again. Read it over. Put it back.
Something was changing. Not her decision—her decision stayed the same. But inside, somewhere deep where patience lives, she felt a shift. It was tightening up, like clay shrinking in the sun. Cracking.
In March, Vera took a day off and went to a notary. Not the one Galina Petrovna had suggested, but another one in Presnya, recommended by a colleague.
The notary, Anton Sergeevich, was a man in his mid-forties with thinning hair and glasses that left marks on his nose. He saw Vera without an appointment.
“How can I help you?”
“A will.”
“For what property?”
“An apartment. Two rooms, in Sokol.”
“Who do you want to leave it to?”
“Myself.”
He looked up.
“Pardon?”
“I want to make a will so the apartment stays mine, no matter what. And if something happens to me, it goes to a specific person. Not my husband.”
“To whom?”
“My niece. She’s twelve now. My sister Larisa’s daughter.”
Anton Sergeevich wrote it down. Then he asked:
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Does your husband know?”
“He will.”
He nodded, saying nothing more. That professional restraint—Vera was grateful for it.
They spent an hour and a half together. Vera signed the will. One copy stayed with the notary, and she took the other. She slipped the envelope into her bag next to her phone and keys.
Outside, the snow was melting. The ground was slushy, and Vera walked down Presnya, past a coffee shop, a pharmacy, and a playground with wet swings. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, like someone nearby was baking waffles.
She felt lighter. Not happy—just lighter, as if she’d taken a heavy bag off her shoulder.
She told Dima that same evening. They sat in the kitchen, eating pasta with cheese, while rain tapped loudly at the window. March rain, noisy, with gusts of wind throwing drops against the glass.
“I went to the notary today.”
He stopped chewing.
“Why?”
“I made a will for the apartment.”
“For whom?”
“For Masha. Larisa’s daughter.”
There was a pause. Dima put down his fork. Vera watched the muscles in his jaw move: clench, unclench, clench again.
“Are you doing this because of my mother?”
“I’m doing it for myself.”
“Ver.”
“Dima, listen. The apartment is mine. It was mine before you. It will stay mine as long as I’m alive. After me, it will go to the person I choose. This isn’t about you. It’s about me.”
He didn’t say a word. The rain was pounding at the window. Then he nodded.
“Alright.”
“Alright, as in you agree? Or alright, as in you’re upset?”
“Alright, I understand.”
She reached her hand across the table and laid it on top of his. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t squeeze her hand either. He just let it rest there.
Vera was the one to move her hand away first.
Galina Petrovna found out in April. Vera never learned who told her. Maybe Dima mentioned it. Maybe Larisa. Or maybe Galina Petrovna found her own way—she had her sources.
The call came on a Saturday morning. Vera was standing in the hallway mirror, tying her hair back. Her phone sat on the shelf by the door. The screen lit up: “Mother-in-law.”
“Hello.”
“Vera. You made a will.”
Not a question. A statement.
“Yes.”
“For Larisa’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“And Dima?”
“Dima is my husband. Not the heir to the apartment.”
The silence stretched on so long that Vera managed to finish her ponytail, adjust her collar, and glance at herself in the mirror. Dark brows, thin lips, calm eyes. Her grandmother’s face.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“No. I’m doing this consciously.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A big one.”
Galina Petrovna stayed quiet. Then her voice changed—lower, softer. As if she’d decided to speak from a different place.
“Vera. I’m not your enemy. I’m a mother. I just want my son to always have a roof over his head.”
“He does. He lives with me.”
“But if you leave?”
“Then he’ll go back to his apartment in Butovo. The one he bought himself. And no one is asking him to sign it over to anyone.”
A pause.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I wanted you two to be equal.”
“We are equal, Galina Petrovna. Just not in the way you want.”
Vera hung up the phone and put on her shoes. She stood by the door for a moment, her hand resting on the cold lock. The metal burned her fingers. She left.
May. Vera sat in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading a message from Larisa: “Masha is asking when Aunt Vera will visit. She drew you a cat.”
The message had a photo attached: a sheet of paper, an orange cat with crooked whiskers, and a note in green marker: “To Aunt Vera from Masha. Cat Persik.”
Vera smiled. She saved the picture and set her phone down on the table.
Dima walked out of the bathroom, freshly showered, with a towel around his shoulders.
“Who’s texting?”
“Larisa. Masha drew a cat.”
“Show me.”
He looked at the picture and gave a little chuckle.
“That’s a nice cat.”
“Really?”
“The whiskers are crooked, but you can tell he has personality.”
He sat across from her, poured himself coffee from the Turkish pot, and took a sip.
“Mom called yesterday.”
“And?”
“She said you’re a ‘complicated person.'”
“What did you say?”
“I said she’s right.”
Vera snorted. Dima looked at her over his mug, and there was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen in a long time. Not agreement, but respect. Quiet, unspoken, wordless respect.
She finished her coffee. The mug was white, with a little crack on the handle. It was her grandmother’s. Vera always washed it by hand, never put it in the dishwasher.
In June, Galina Petrovna visited again. This time, she called ahead.
“Vera, can I come on Sunday? I want to bring a pie.”
“Come on over.”
She arrived with the pie and no folder. The pie was apple and still warm. Vera placed it on the table, sliced it, and got out the plates.
The three of them sat together. Dima ate quietly and quickly. Galina Petrovna cut her piece into tiny parts, eating each one separately.
“Delicious pie,” Dima said.
“Of course. I baked it this morning.”
Vera chewed and waited. She expected a hidden jab. But none came.
Galina Petrovna finished her tea, gazed out the window, then at Vera.
“You look like your grandmother.”
Vera nearly choked.
“You knew my grandmother?”
“No. But you have her photo in the entryway.”
“Yes. Grandma Zina.”
“Serious face. And the same eyebrows.”
“The character too,” Vera said.
Galina Petrovna smiled. Not sharply, not slyly. Just smiled, the way people do when they recognize something but aren’t ready to say it out loud.
“Alright. Want more pie?”
“I do.”
Galina Petrovna gave her a second piece. The apple filling was tart, the crust crumbled on Vera’s tongue. Sparrows screamed outside, and sunlight sprawled across the table in a long yellow patch.
Nobody mentioned the apartment.
Vera was washing the dishes after her mother-in-law left. Plates, forks, cups. The hot water, the steam, and the scent of dish soap filled the air. As she scrubbed, her thoughts wandered to Grandma Zina, who had stood in this very kitchen washing these same dishes thirty years ago. Not these exact ones. But the same dishes all the same.
Dima came up behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Mom was pretty normal today.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe she’s moved on.”
“Maybe.”
She turned off the water and dried her hands with a towel before facing him.
“Dima.”
“Hm?”
“If we ever get to a point where we can’t be together, I promise I won’t fight over this apartment. And please, don’t ask me to.”
“I never asked.”
“I know. Just saying for the future.”
He nodded, kissed her on the temple, and walked into the other room.
Vera stayed where she was. Outside, it was growing darker and the courtyard began to fill with shadows. The streetlight came on, just as it always did every evening when Grandma Zina was still alive.
On the shelf by the mirror in the hallway stood a photograph: her grandmother, still young, in a headscarf, sitting up straight with those same distinct eyebrows. Vera walked past it every single day.
The apartment was silent. Warm. Familiar. Hers.
A slice of pie still sat on the kitchen table. Vera covered it with a plate and switched off the light.