– Vanya, hurry! My heart… She… she shoved me straight into the corner!
At that exact second, the key turned in the lock.
Until then, the apartment had been wrapped in perfect, almost ringing silence. No one had touched anyone. No one had fallen. Nothing had happened.
We were simply in different rooms: I was checking the utility bills at the table, and Anna Petrovna, my mother-in-law, was watching TV in the living room.
But the moment she heard her son’s footsteps in the stairwell, the performance began.
I stepped into the hallway and stopped.
The scene deserved a national theater award. Anna Petrovna was half-lying on the floor, pressing a wet kitchen towel to her cheek.
Beside her lay a small chair, overturned — the same chair that usually stood by the shoe cabinet. Her hair was disheveled, her breathing uneven, and in her eyes was reflected the sorrow of the entire world.
Vanya dropped the grocery bags right onto the dirty doormat.
– Mom? What happened?
He went pale. A fifty-four-year-old man, a shop supervisor, tough and commanding — yet at the sight of his mother’s tears, he instantly turned into a frightened schoolboy.
– She… – my mother-in-law pointed at me with a trembling finger.
– I only asked for some water… and she pushed me. She said, “Go live in your own place, you’re not young anymore.” Vanyechka, it hurts so much…
My husband slowly raised his eyes to me. There was no question in them. Only fear, and anger beginning to surface.
– Ira? Have you completely lost your mind?
I stayed silent. Inside, everything froze. No resentment. No urge to defend myself. Just cold calm. I looked at the man I had lived with for twenty-seven years and thought: is this really it?
Was two weeks of his mother’s presence enough to erase almost three decades of our life together?
Yet just two weeks earlier, everything had seemed perfectly acceptable.
Anna Petrovna had moved in with us “to recover.” Eye surgery, age — nothing unusual. The doctors prescribed rest, eye drops every hour, no exertion.
– Irina dear, I’ll be quieter than water itself, – she promised as she moved into the guest room with two enormous suitcases. – It’s just my eyesight… it’s not what it used to be. You’ll help me, won’t you?
I did help. I steamed her food because her “stomach had suddenly become sensitive,” washed clothes, administered the endless eye drops. Vanya was torn between work and pharmacies. In the evenings he was grateful, patting my shoulder.
– You’re gold, Ira. I know my mother is difficult.
“Difficult” was putting it mildly.
On the third day, it turned out I brewed tea incorrectly. Too strong — “are you trying to raise my blood pressure?” Too weak — “I can drink tap water at home.”
On the fifth day, my favorite earrings disappeared. They later turned up in the trash, wrapped in a candy wrapper.
– Oh, I thought it was some cheap junk, – she spread her hands. – It was just lying on the table.
Vanya only sighed. – Ira, she doesn’t see well. Let’s not start this.
I didn’t start anything. I just watched.
I watched the “nearly blind” Anna Petrovna effortlessly thread a needle when she thought no one was looking. I watched her stagger with a cane when the door opened, yet walk lightly into the kitchen for candy when she was alone.
But telling all this to my husband would have been pointless. He saw what he wanted to see: a poor mother in need of care. And I was slowly turning into the cruel, impatient wife.
Last night I overheard her talking on the phone with a friend. Her door was slightly open.
– Oh, Liusya, I’ll endure it. I just need to prepare Vanya. Their apartment is big, three rooms.
Why do two people need so much space? Mine can be rented out, the money can go to the grandchildren… or simpler still: push this Irina aside a bit. She’s become nervous anyway. Sooner or later, she’ll leave on her own.
That was when I understood: this wasn’t a tantrum. It was an operation.
So I prepared.
This morning, one of our daughters-in-law was supposed to come with the grandchild, but the child had a fever and the visit was canceled. I, however, didn’t remove the baby monitor from the shelf — the small white camera they had brought last time and forgotten.
It was tucked among the books, on the crime novel shelf. With her “poor eyesight,” Anna Petrovna wouldn’t notice it. And the little red light had been covered with black tape a week ago.
I turned it on in the morning. I felt something would happen today.
And now I was standing in the hallway, facing this cheap drama.
Vanya was already helping his mother up.
– Easy, Mom. We’ll call a doctor. Where does it hurt?
– I’m dizzy… – she groaned, leaning her full weight on her son. – And my hip… She did it on purpose! I spoke to her, and she shoved me!
Vanya looked at me. His face was gray, unfamiliar.
– Why are you silent? – his voice was hoarse. – Do you realize what you’ve done? This is a crime, Ira! You hit an elderly person! My mother!
– I didn’t touch her, – I said quietly.
– Don’t lie! – his mother screamed, then immediately started moaning again. – Water… my heart…
– I’m not lying. I haven’t been near her for two hours.
– Then where did the bruise come from? The towel? Did she hit herself?
The air tightened. Anna Petrovna lay motionless beside her son, waiting. She was waiting for shouting, hysteria, the chaos in which she always won.
I slowly took my phone out of my pocket.
– Vanya, before you call anyone, – I said, looking him straight in the eyes, – watch a short video.
– What video? – he snapped.
– Not a game. A camera. On the shelf. 6:42 p.m. Three minutes before you arrived.
His mother fell silent. She glanced sideways at me — there was no pain in her eyes now, only anger and clear calculation.
– Watch, – I said and pressed play.
Everything was visible on the screen. Sharp, unforgiving. Not a wrinkle, not a movement was hidden.
Anna Petrovna stepped into the frame with firm strides. She fixed her hair in the mirror, glanced at the clock. She nudged the chair — it crashed loudly to the floor. She grimaced, then splashed water onto her face, her blouse, her hair.
At the end, she turned toward the camera and, smiling — coldly, predatorily — said:
– Vanyechka will be here any minute, and you’ll fly out of here. This apartment is for us.
The screen went dark.
Vanya slowly stepped back. He let go of his mother.
– Can you walk? – he asked quietly.
– This is fake! – she shrieked. – These days you can fake anything!
– You’re wearing the blouse I bought you yesterday. And the clock matches, – he replied tiredly.
– You drove me to this! – his mother switched tactics and suddenly sprang up with surprising agility. – I just wanted you to see how bad it is for me here!
– Enough, – Vanya raised his hand. – Ira, call a taxi.
– A doctor? – his mother hissed.
– A taxi. To the station.
When the door finally closed behind her, the apartment grew quiet again.
Vanya sat down across from me. He looked old.
– I’m sorry, – he said.
– You’re not stupid. You were just too good a son.
– And now?
– Now you’re finally my husband.
The water boiled. We drank tea in silence.
And for the first time in two weeks, it wasn’t too strong, too weak, or too hot for anyone.
It was just normal.
Like our life, which we managed to protect with a small black lens.
