Grandmother died in the cold November when Alla turned thirty-three. She had been sick for a long time — lung cancer, stage four.
The doctors warned immediately — it was incurable, they could only provide painkillers. Alla sat by her bedside every evening after work, holding her dry, warm hand, listening to her soft voice.
— I’m leaving you the apartment — said her grandmother a week before she died. — The papers are in the bottom of the dresser, in the lower drawer. There’s the will. Everything is yours.
— Granny, don’t talk like that — Alla wiped away her tears.
— Why shouldn’t I — her grandmother smiled weakly. — Facts are facts. I’ll be gone soon. And you will remain here. A roof over your head. Don’t lose it, my dear.
A week later, her grandmother died quietly in her sleep. She didn’t suffer. Alla found her in the morning, when she went out to buy groceries. Her grandmother lay on her back, her face calm. As if she were sleeping.
The funeral, the papers, the notary. Everything was a blurred haze.
Alla went through the motions mechanically, not thinking. Only a month later, when she received the certificate confirming her inheritance, did she realize — the apartment was now hers.
A two-room “stalinka” in an old building, in the city center, high ceilings, parquet floors. Her grandmother had lived here her whole life. Alla had grown up among these walls — her parents worked late, and the girl was left with her grandmother.
Every evening, every weekend. The apartment became a second home. Now it was the first and only one.
Alla met Timofeival two years after her grandmother’s death. A colleague in the logistics department. Tall, slim, soft-spoken, with a considerate gaze.
They met in front of the office building — Alla had just gone out for some air, tired of the office atmosphere. Timofeival was sitting on a bench, looking at the street.
— Tired? — he asked, noticing Alla.
— No. Just stuffy inside.
— I see — Timofeival nodded. — Same here. The air conditioning is broken.
They started talking. Later, they met in the cafeteria. Then Timofeival accompanied Alla to the subway. A month later, they officially started dating.
Timofeival seemed perfect. Calm, thoughtful, not ambitious, not loud.
After her previous noisy relationship — like a breath of fresh air. He didn’t demand constant attention, didn’t get jealous, didn’t create scenes. He just existed. Quiet, tactful, reliable.
A year later, Timofeival proposed. Not on one knee, not with a ring hidden in a champagne glass. Simply, in the kitchen one evening:
— Alla, let’s get married.
— Okay — Alla agreed without hesitation.
They married on an ordinary day. Witnesses from work.
There was no wedding, just a small lunch for four at a café. Timofeival moved into his wife’s apartment — he had previously rented a room in the suburbs, which would have been uncomfortable. Alla agreed but immediately clarified:
— The apartment is mine. According to grandmother’s will. You live here, but the ownership is not shared.
— I understand — Timofeival nodded. — I don’t claim anything.
— And until I allow it, you won’t register here — Alla added. — This is my territory.
— Okay — her husband agreed easily. — The important thing is that we’re together.
The first years passed peacefully. Timofeival worked, came home, watched TV. He didn’t demand rearrangements, didn’t give advice about decorating the apartment.
The apartment remained as it had been in grandmother’s time — old furniture, faded wallpaper, worn parquet. Alla didn’t want to change anything. Every object held a memory.
Timofeival’s mother, Elvira Pavlovna, lived in a small town three hours from the capital. The town was small, work was scarce, salaries were meager.
The woman worked as a librarian for pennies, in a one-room apartment. She visited her son every two months, staying a week.
Alla vaguely remembered the first visit. Elvira Pavlovna arrived with a huge bag full of preserves and pickles. She looked around the apartment, pursed her lips.
— Everything is old. It should be renovated.
— I like it this way — Alla replied politely.
— Living in an old style when you’re young is inappropriate — her sister-in-law shook her head. — It should be modern.
Alla remained silent. She wouldn’t explain to a stranger about her grandmother, the memories, that all the wear was valuable.
Elvira Pavlovna stayed overnight. Alla made the bed in the living room. The sister-in-law went to bed late, woke early. In the morning, she set the table and cooked porridge.
— Don’t you feed your husband? — she asked when Alla came into the kitchen.
— I do — Alla frowned. — Tim likes scrambled eggs, not porridge.
— Porridge is healthier — Elvira Pavlovna served it to her son. — You must eat properly.
Timofeival quietly ate the porridge, not objecting. Alla looked at her husband, expecting him to say something — used to scrambled eggs, thank you, Mom. But Timofeival stayed silent, staring at his plate.
For a week, the sister-in-law lived in the apartment as if she were the hostess. She cooked, cleaned, gave advice. Alla endured, counting the days until she left. When Elvira Pavlovna finally departed, she breathed a sigh of relief.
— Your mother stays long — she remarked to her husband that evening.
— She’s bored at home — Timofeival shrugged. — She lives alone.
— I understand, but a week — that’s a lot.
— Alla, she’s my mother — Timofeival frowned. — She rarely comes.
— Every two months — Alla corrected him. — That’s not rare.
— And so what? — Timofeival didn’t understand the problem. — Does it bother you?
— It doesn’t — Alla backed down. — I’m just used to silence.
— Then endure it — her husband returned to the TV.
Alla remained quiet. She didn’t want to argue.
Elvira Pavlovna visited regularly. Each time with bags, preserves, advice. She talked about neighbors, work, how hard life was in the provinces.
— The pension is tiny, the salary ridiculous — complained her sister-in-law over tea. — Prices are like in Moscow, but there’s no money.
— It must be difficult — Alla politely agreed.
— Very — Elvira Pavlovna sighed. — The neighbor’s daughter moved to Moscow. Took her mother in. They live together. She watches the kids, helps around the house.
— Good for her — Alla nodded shortly.
— The other neighbor registered her mother in Moscow — continued the sister-in-law. — Now she lives there. Gets a higher pension, various benefits.
— I see — Alla poured herself some tea.
— I’m thinking about it too — Elvira Pavlovna looked attentively at her daughter-in-law. — It’s good if children take care of their parents.
Alla remained silent. She understood the hint, but pretended not to.
Timofeival increasingly talked about his mother. He didn’t complain openly, but mentioned problems.
— My mother went to the hospital. She queued at five.
— Why? — asked Alla while preparing dinner.
— She needs to see a specialist. Few slots. Whoever comes first gets it.
— Brutal — Alla shook her head.
— That’s what I say — Timofeival sighed. — In Moscow, there’s no such problem. Registered online, she got in.
— With a Moscow residence — Alla clarified.
— Yes — her husband nodded. — Locally it’s harder, but possible.
Alla chopped vegetables, listening. She understood where he was heading. But she didn’t say anything.
A month later, Timofeival brought up the topic again:
— My mother got her pension. Ten thousand. A month.
— Too little — Alla agreed.
— Very little — her husband nodded. — Moscow pension is twice that.
— But a Moscow pension requires a Moscow registration — Alla put down the knife and looked at her husband. — Which your mother doesn’t have.
— That’s the problem — Timofeival averted his gaze.
— And what do you suggest? — Alla asked openly.
— Nothing for now — her husband shrugged. — Just saying.
But the “just talking” continued. Every week, a new story about Elvira Pavlovna’s difficulties. Expensive medicine, rising utilities, late salaries. Alla listened, nodded, but suggested nothing. She waited for her husband to speak clearly.
Six months passed. Timofeival grew increasingly irritable. He grumbled over trifles, slammed doors, walked off, didn’t say where. Alla felt the tension but remained silent. She didn’t want to initiate the conversation.
Elvira Pavlovna visited again. This time she stayed for two weeks. Alla tried to hint to her husband that it was too much, but Timofeival didn’t respond.
— Your mother is resting — he said. — Let her be here.
— Two weeks is not rest, it’s moving in — Alla defended.
— Don’t exaggerate — her husband waved.
Elvira Pavlovna sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, talking about acquaintances.
— Remember Lidia Petrova? Works at the library. Her daughter moved to St. Petersburg, registered her mother there. Now she goes there monthly, gets a higher pension.
— Good for her — Alla replied shortly.
— Very good — the sister-in-law nodded. — Her daughter is smart. Takes care of her mother.
Alla stood up and left the kitchen. She didn’t want to continue the conversation.
That evening, Timofeival entered the bedroom. Alla was reading in bed.
— Alla, we need to talk.
— About what? — the wife didn’t look up from her book.
— About my mother.
— What about my mother? — Alla closed the book and looked at her husband.
— Life is hard for her in the provinces — Timofeival sat on the edge of the bed. — Low money, bad healthcare, no prospects.
— And what do you suggest? — Alla already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it.
— Register her here — her husband said quickly. — In your apartment. Formally. She can live here, but won’t come often. And she will get a higher pension.
— No — Alla replied immediately.
— Why? — her husband frowned.
— Because this is my apartment. I won’t register anyone here.
— Alla, she’s my mother — Timofeival raised his voice. — She needs help!
— Then help her with money — Alla suggested. — Send it every month. Or bring her here if you want.
— Live here? — Timofeival didn’t understand. — But there’s not enough space.
— If you register her, there will be no more space — Alla said logically.
— But the address is just formal — her husband hesitated. — She won’t abuse it.
— How do you know? — Alla crossed her arms. — People change. Situations change.
— My mother isn’t like that — Timofeival was offended.
— I don’t know your mother — Alla answered honestly. — I hardly know her. I see her every two months.
— But you don’t trust me? — asked Timofeival.
— There is no trust in this matter — Alla replied firmly.
Her husband fell silent. Then suddenly, he turned and went into the room. Alla heard closet doors slam, bags rustle. She went to the hallway. Timofeival stood with a bag, packing.
— What are you doing?
— Leaving — her husband didn’t look up.
— Where?
— To my mother. To the provinces.
— Permanently? — Alla asked calmly.
— I don’t know — Timofeival shrugged. — I’ll think about it there.
— Okay — Alla nodded. — Think.
Her husband finished packing, closed the bag. Put on his coat, grabbed the keys.
— So you’re not changing your mind? — he asked at the door.
— No — Alla replied.
— Even if I leave?
— Even then — the wife confirmed.
Timofeival looked at Alla for a long time. Opened his mouth, closed it. Tried to say something, but no words came out. Finally, he sighed and went to the door.
— Then I’ll leave now — he said softly, but firmly.
Alla didn’t move. She just stood in the living room, looking at the darkening room, where every piece of furniture held her grandmother’s memory. Her husband left, and the door closed quietly behind him.
The first night without him felt long. Alla sat on the couch, staring at the city through the dark window. Neither TV nor book could distract her.
Every corner of the apartment felt his absence, yet she felt relieved: here, she was the master, here, her decision was final.
Days passed. Timofeival didn’t call, didn’t message. Alla paid the bills, cooked, tidied, and tried to return to her usual routine.
Everything was in its place, as her grandmother had left it. The apartment was quiet, and now it didn’t oppress her, it comforted her.
Two weeks later, her husband returned. He said nothing, just put the key in the apartment and entered quietly. Alla was sitting in the living room, book in hand. She looked up and met his gaze.
— I’ve changed my mind — said Timofeival at last. — Life in the provinces isn’t for me.
— I see — Alla nodded calmly. — And?
— I’m staying here. — The man slowly sat on the couch. — On conditions.
— Which ones? — Alla asked.
— My mother doesn’t live here, and won’t be registered — Timofeival was straightforward.
— Okay — Alla raised her hand as if sealing the decision. — Then we can start again.
Her husband flashed a quiet smile. No loud celebration, no champagne, just quiet relief. Alla felt that the apartment, her grandmother’s legacy, and her firm decision now protected her future.
And the apartment became again what it always was: home.
