“You’re married, Valya. What do you need an apartment for?”
My mother’s thin lips were pressed tightly together outside the notary’s office. We were dividing two family properties—Grandma’s one-bedroom apartment on Lenin Street and my parents’ two-bedroom place on Mira Street. Both were going to my twenty-four-year-old brother, Kirill, who did not even have a job. At thirty-three, I worked as an ambulance paramedic, was married to Leonid, a factory mechanic earning twelve thousand rubles a month, and we lived in his cramped thirty-one-square-meter apartment, barely able to fit a crib for a planned child.
“Kirill is a man,” my mother argued, adjusting her headscarf. “Your husband will provide for you. A son is your support in old age.”
I remembered those words for twenty-two years. Kirill lounged in his chair, scrolling through his phone without even reading what he signed, before happily calling friends to announce he owned both apartments. On the bus ride home, my mother only fretted about missing her connection.
Refusing to surrender to despair, Leonid and I took out a fifteen-year mortgage for a small two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts. We saved every ruble, surviving without vacations or new clothes, with nearly half our combined twenty-six-thousand-ruble income going toward the monthly payment. Meanwhile, Kirill moved into Grandma’s apartment and eventually began renting it out, pocketing twenty-five thousand rubles a month.
Eight years later, when my father fell ill and was hospitalized, my mother came to me for money. Every month, I gave her between five and eight thousand rubles for medicine and doctors, keeping it a secret from Kirill. I visited weekly with heavy grocery bags, only to be criticized by her for buying sugar cubes instead of granulated sugar, while Kirill brought a single expensive cake and was praised as a hero. When I finally pointed out that Kirill earned twenty-five thousand monthly from rent and should help, my mother accused me of “counting everything” and gave me the silent treatment for thirty-one days.
Years passed, the mortgage was finally paid off in August 2021 after one hundred and eighty agonizing payments, and Nastya grew into a schoolgirl. Yet the inequality persisted. At a family gathering for my mother’s seventy-second birthday, she proudly boasted to our relatives about Kirill’s wonderful support, while dismissing me as a chronic complainer.
Unable to stay silent any longer, I laid out the truth in front of everyone: for twelve years, I had given my mother nearly a million rubles from my paramedic salary, bought groceries, cleaned her home, and cared for her, whereas Kirill hadn’t lifted a finger while pocketing rental income. My mother turned pale, slammed the kitchen door, and declared, “You are no daughter of mine after this.” Shortly after, I discovered she was even sending a quarter of her modest pension to Kirill via bank transfers.
When our mother grew seriously ill three years later and required full-time care after leaving the hospital, Kirill flatly refused to take her in because his new wife, Lena, wouldn’t allow it and he was busy renovating. With nowhere else to go, my mother demanded to move into my apartment.
For three exhausting weeks, she occupied Nastya’s room, disrupting our lives with constant complaints while continuing to favor her absent son. Finally, during a visit from our extended family, I calmly drew the line. I exposed how she had enabled Kirill while draining me, and stated clearly that her chosen “support in old age” needed to step up.
My mother retreated into icy silence, repeating that she had no daughter. But this time, I didn’t fold. Kirill was forced to take our mother into his apartment on Mira Street, though he bitterly complained about losing his rental income and dealing with his mother’s demands.
My mother hasn’t called me since. But for the first time in decades, our home is quiet. Nastya has her room back, Leonid no longer stands tensely on the balcony, and I finally sleep through the night.