The “Who are ‘we’?” question came from Polina as she kept her hand on the garment bag that held the wedding dress,
as though the texture of the fabric could provide some kind of support in a situation that had suddenly become uncertain and difficult to understand.
Nelli Arkadyevna smiled as if the question were nothing more than a charming moment of girlish confusion, rather than the beginning of a realization that someone had already started making decisions about Polina’s home without her knowledge.
“We, meaning Hermann and I,” she answered with effortless casualness. “And, of course, Diana as well. She needs to know where she will be bringing her things.”
Beyond the windows of the old Kazan apartment building, the end of August stretched across the city beneath that peculiar transitional light in which summer has not entirely surrendered, yet no longer promises to stay, offering only a delayed farewell.
The first yellow leaves had begun appearing on the trees in the park, while children rode scooters along the pathways, and someone outside the entrance was vigorously shaking out a rug, as if trying to sweep away the final traces of summer along with the dust.
Inside the apartment, the scent of new fabric mixed with the steam rising from freshly brewed tea and the smell of cardboard boxes filled with wedding invitations that had been carefully arranged on the table.
Guest lists, restaurant receipts, napkin samples, and a small box containing the wedding rings lay on the dresser, which Hermann had specifically asked her to put somewhere safe so they would not get lost amid the chaos of preparation.
That very morning, Polina had believed that what she was feeling was merely pleasant exhaustion, the natural fatigue that comes before a wedding, when happiness and stress blend together in strange and unpredictable ways.
Now, however, she felt as though something else was hiding behind that pleasant chaos, a slowly developing system in which her own decisions mattered less and less.
Hermann stood beside the window with his tall, calm posture and light-colored shirt, wearing the carefully neutral expression that Polina had once mistaken for thoughtfulness but now saw as avoidance.
He did not interrupt, explain, or defend anything, but simply looked toward the park as though it were easier to face the trees than the weight of the conversation unfolding around him.
“Hermann?” Polina said, and for the first time genuine uncertainty appeared in her voice.
The man slowly turned around, as though calculating how much truth he should reveal.
“Mom just thought everything through in advance,” he finally said.
“Thought through what?”
Nelli Arkadyevna gently stirred her tea, although the sugar had dissolved long ago, and the motion seemed less like necessity than a nervous habit.
“Polinochka, don’t stress yourself so much,” she said in a soft voice. “After the wedding, Diana and Matvei will stay with you temporarily.”
“The room with the window will be perfect for the boy. There’s plenty of light, the park is nearby, and the air is fresh. You and Hermann will stay in the bedroom. You’re young, you don’t need much space.”
The word “temporarily” landed on the table as though it were no longer a suggestion but an established fact being announced to someone whose opinion was no longer required.
Polina slowly looked toward the second room, the one she had never considered a spare bedroom but had always called her workspace.
Her desk stood there, surrounded by drawings, material samples, calculations, client lists, and every small detail that made up her professional world.
To her, that room was not simply another part of the apartment but a source of control, rhythm, and security, a space arranged entirely according to her own rules.
“Diana is going to live in my office?” she asked quietly, almost unable to believe what she was hearing.
“Well, not in the hallway,” Nelli Arkadyevna replied naturally, as if the answer were obvious.
Hermann cleared his throat and looked away slightly.
“Polina, it’s only temporary. Just until Diana gets her life back together after the divorce.”
“Did she ask for this?”
“We talked about it,” his mother answered.
“Not with me.”
“We didn’t want to burden you. You already have a wedding, preparations, work, and the workshop. I can see how tired you are.”
Polina sat down, not because she was overwhelmed, but because the room around her suddenly felt less stable than it had moments before.
This apartment had belonged to her grandmother, with its old walls, high ceilings, and slightly creaking floors that reminded everyone of the past with every step.
Her grandmother had lived there for forty years, and Polina still remembered the smell of medicine on the pillows, the ticking clock on the wall, and the jars of homemade jam lined up in the kitchen.
Once, her grandmother had spoken to her very seriously, almost in a whisper.
“A woman should have her own key. Not someone else’s. Not a man’s. Not her mother’s. Her own.”
At the time, Polina had nodded without fully understanding what those words truly meant.
She understood later, while renovating the apartment piece by piece and rebuilding every room according to her own needs.
New pipes, new windows, a kitchen designed for herself, proper lighting, a custom workspace, and every small detail that signaled that this place belonged to her.
Hermann entered her life a year later, quietly and patiently, never forcing his way into her world, as though he wanted first to understand the space he was entering.
He helped carry materials, accompanied her while she selected tiles, and listened as she explained the differences between veneer and laminate.
On their third date, he had told her something she remembered clearly.
“I like that everything in your life is carefully thought out.”
At the time, Polina smiled because she took it as a compliment.
She liked that her organization did not seem to bother him.
At first, Nelli Arkadyevna also appeared kind, elegant, and considerate, always well-groomed, softly perfumed, and impeccably polite.
She often said she never wanted to interfere and would only help if she noticed an opportunity to improve something.
Yet those helpful suggestions slowly transformed into direction, and direction slowly became control.
Napkins, guests, mirrors, relatives, colors, seating arrangements, and countless tiny details gradually accumulated until they no longer felt insignificant.
For a long time, Polina gave in because none of those individual decisions seemed important enough to challenge.
Hermann would always smile and say:
“Mom enjoys being involved.”
One day, Vasilysa, Polina’s assistant at the workshop, quietly remarked:
“She isn’t helping. She’s looking for a place.”
“What does that mean?” Polina had asked.
“It means she’s arranging your life according to her own design.”
Polina had laughed then because the statement sounded exaggerated.
Now she no longer felt like laughing.
“Where is Diana?” she asked again.
“At the doctor’s office,” Nelli Arkadyevna replied. “She’ll come this evening to look at the room. She needs space for the crib.”
“The crib?”
“The child is still little.”
Polina slowly turned toward Hermann.
“Did you know about this?”
“Don’t focus on details,” he replied. “He’s only three years old.”
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
Hermann sighed as though the conversation itself had become exhausting.
“I wanted us to have a peaceful wedding and discuss everything afterward.”
The words began gathering weight in the room.
“Temporary,” “we discussed it,” and “later” all pointed toward the same future, a future in which Polina was no longer part of the decision-making process.
In that moment she no longer merely heard what they were saying.
She could see it.
She could see her life being rearranged in front of her eyes.
This was not a request.
It was an arrangement.
It was not a proposal.
It was a revised reality.
And for the first time, she understood that what was being prepared was not simply a wedding but a transfer of ownership over her space, her routines, and her sense of control.
The silence became heavier than any spoken word, and something inside Polina shifted permanently.
The keys, the plans, the rooms, and every conversation that had seemed harmless before suddenly carried an entirely different meaning.
And that was the moment when the word “we” finally began separating into two distinct groups:
“them” and “me.”
