— According to the law, Jelena Sergeyevna, you practically robbed us. In ninety-two, when the privatization was taking place, Olya was still a minor, and you did not include her in the ownership share.
This, let me tell you, is a violation of the law. And in such cases, if one knows what one is doing, there is no statute of limitations.
Vadim spoke firmly while slicing my famous, fragrant mushroom pie, with movements as if he were already carving up my apartment in his imagination.
The knife rang against the porcelain plate, the sound sharply cutting through the air. He even dripped tea onto the tablecloth without noticing.
I looked at my son-in-law and was not thinking about laws, but about the fact that the festive damask tablecloth would need to be soaked.
He is thirty-five and imagines himself all-knowing: from cryptocurrencies to housing law he understands everything — at least according to himself.
— Vadik, why do you have to put it so harshly? — Olya spoke softly.
My daughter stirred the tea leaves in her cup as if searching for answers about the future in the bottom of it.
— Mom didn’t do it out of malice. Those were different times, no one understood anything.
— Didn’t understand? — Vadim laughed mockingly and stuffed a large piece of pie into his mouth.
— Of course they understood. They simply wanted to be sole owners.
And now we move from rental to rental, giving half our salary to a stranger, while your mother lives in a three-room apartment in the quiet city center. Alone. Do you think that’s fair?
In the kitchen, suddenly only the deep, monotonous hum of the refrigerator could be heard — the old one we bought with my husband from his first serious bonus. Back then we felt we had arrived.
I set down my fork so it wouldn’t clatter against the plate. Heat spread inside me, as if my chest had become too tight.
— Mom, don’t stay silent — Olya lifted her eyes to me.
In that look was the expression I had feared for the past six months: a strange mixture of sympathy and calculation.
— We don’t want to throw you out. It’s just… it’s really cramped for us. If we exchanged the apartment, we could get a two-room place in the new residential complex, and you would have a nice renovated one-room. There would even be money left for repairs.
— And what if I don’t want to move into a one-room apartment? — I asked calmly.
My voice remained steady. Thirty years of archival work had taught a person the discipline of silence. There, patience is a survival tool.
— You see! — Vadim pointed at me triumphantly. — Pure selfishness. I told you, Olya, it won’t work nicely. We need to go to a lawyer. We’ll restore your ownership rights. They’ll award one third, and then whether she wants it or not, the place will have to be sold.
I stood up and silently began clearing the table.
I washed the dishes for a long time. Slowly, in circular motions, I scrubbed the plates with the sponge, as if I were trying to wash away memories along with the grease stains. And meanwhile I slipped back in time.
Eighty-nine.
Olya was still running under the table, and Vadim perhaps had not even been born yet. Now they think they know what it was like then. On the internet they read that apartments were handed out like candy — you just had to stand in line.
I remember something else.
I remember the Housing Construction Cooperative. It was called “Meteor” — how proudly it sounded! But in reality it meant fifteen years of commitment.
The first payment was three thousand rubles. At the time, that was the price of a car. My husband’s salary was one hundred twenty rubles a month. And yet we took it on. Every month we paid fifty. We dreamed of meat on holidays. I altered my coat three times.
My husband took night shifts, falling into bed with a gray face, sleeping barely three hours.
We did not wait for the factory’s mercy. We did not wait ten years in line. We bought it. Meter by meter.
— Jelena Sergeyevna! — he shouted from the hallway. — Think about it until Tuesday. After that I’m going to a specialist.
The door slammed. I remained alone in my three-room apartment.
Tuesday came faster than I expected. Vadim was not alone.
The doorbell rang long and impatiently. I opened it.
Behind Vadim stood a thin, nervous young man in a too-tight suit, a folder under his arm.
— Good evening — Vadim stepped inside without permission. — This is Artur, a real estate specialist. We’ll just look at the layout. So we know the market value.
— I did not give permission — I stood in the doorway.
— Your permission isn’t required for us to look around — the young man smiled. — Olga Igorevna, as a registered resident here, provided a key.
Something froze inside me.
As they walked through the apartment, they discussed my walls, my curtains, my view, as if it were some foreign object.
— The kitchen is small, seven square meters… if we knock this wall down… — We’ll knock it down, of course — Vadim nodded. — Everything needs replacing. This… grandmotherly smell.
— Stop.
I did not shout. Yet they stopped.
I went into the bedroom, to the old wardrobe. On the top shelf lay the cardboard folder, labeled in ink: “DOCUMENTS 1980–1995.”
I took it down. Blew the dust off.
— Vadim. Come here. Let’s learn how to read.
I placed the yellowed paper on the kitchen table. In the upper right corner was a faded purple stamp.
— Read.
Artur’s eyebrows rose.
— This is a Housing Construction Cooperative. — And? — asked Vadim. — It means the apartment has been private property since 1989. The share has been fully paid. There was no privatization. Your daughter is only registered here. She has no ownership rights.
Silence fell.
— How could you have bought it? In the Soviet Union they didn’t sell apartments! — Is that what you read on the internet? — I ran my hand over the paper. — We paid for it. For years.
I looked at Olya.
— Do you remember why you didn’t have a branded school bag in first grade? Why you saw the sea for the first time only at twelve?
She remembered. I saw it in her eyes.
Artur was already buttoning his jacket.
— A lawsuit would be pointless.
He left.
Vadim’s face turned red.
— Legally maybe you’re right… but humanly? We are family!
— Vadik, enough — Olya said quietly.
— When we joined, we were afraid of being thrown out of the queue. We weren’t planning a future against you. We just wanted to live.
I held the folder close.
— Go.
Vadim stormed out. Olya stopped at the threshold.
— Mom… I really didn’t know about the share. I thought you were given it.
— Ignorance does not absolve conscience, Olya.
She left.
I sat down at the table beside the old cardboard folder. My life was inside it. Receipts, certificates, stamps.
These walls were not gifts. They cost years. Sleepless nights. Missed summers.
I will leave the apartment to Olya. One day. When I am no longer here.
But not now. And certainly not to Vadim.
