Julia was slicing cucumbers for the salad when her mother-in-law entered the kitchen and stopped by the refrigerator, arms crossed over her chest. Mikhail was pouring compote, and the twins were arguing over a computer game.
— We need to talk about the apartment in Shushary.
She raised her head and met Daria Vasilevna’s gaze.
— You need to give the keys to Anna. She’s having trouble with the creditors, has nowhere to live, and you would have rented the apartment to strangers anyway.
Mikhail put the jug on the table. Pavlik and Kostya fell silent—the nine-year-old boys had already learned to recognize when the adults were ready to argue.
— Daria Vasilevna, the apartment was left to me by grandpa. I want to rent it out and save the money for my sons’ education.
In a few years, they’ll need to apply to schools; private tutors are expensive, and our savings are practically nothing.
— Education doesn’t disappear anywhere. Anna is your husband’s blood relative.
Blood. Do you understand the difference?
— Pavlik and Kostya inherited Mikhail’s blood too. I manage the inheritance for my children’s sake, as I see fit.
The mother-in-law stepped closer, and Julia smelled her perfume—sweet, heavy, excessive for a family lunch in the kitchen.
— I didn’t ask for this. I’m just saying what will happen.
— No.
Daria Vasilevna smiled, and Julia wondered how she had never noticed how sharp the line of her lips could be.
— Think it over again. Think carefully before you answer.
— I already answered.
— Then listen, in front of the children—so they know what kind of mother they have. If you show greed, your sons’ feet will never be in my house again.
I will do everything to make Mikhail file for divorce and take the boys to court. I have connections in the guardianship office, people who owe me.
You know me—I don’t throw words to the wind.
Pavlik watched his grandmother with his mouth open. Kostya clutched the edge of the tablecloth.
Julia looked at her husband. Mikhail stood at the table, holding the jug with both hands, silent.
He did not protest against his mother, did not speak to her, did not step between them—he just silently looked toward the window.
And Julia realized she would remember this moment for the rest of her life.
Four months earlier, in November, Grandpa Vasily had died in his sleep. Julia learned in the morning when the director of the Gatchina nursing home called and said his heart had stopped during the night.
She had visited him every two weeks for six years—taking the bus, then the train, then another bus, to reach the state facility on the edge of town where grandpa spent his final days.
She brought him apples, read the newspaper aloud because his eyes over eighty could no longer handle it, and listened to his stories about working at the Kirov factory, where he had spent forty years as a milling machine operator.
The other relatives rarely appeared—on birthdays in April, and for New Year, just to be polite. But two years before his death, grandpa made a will, naming Julia as the sole heir.
— Rent out the apartment—he said during one of his last visits when October rain fell outside the window. — Save for the boys. Education is expensive these days, you’re smart, you’ll handle it well.
The apartment was on Pushkinskaya Street in Shushary—one room, thirty-one square meters, overlooking the parking lot and playground.
Julia took care of the paperwork in January, found a real estate agency in February, and discussed the rental terms.
By March, when the snow had turned slushy on the sidewalks and the approaching spring could be felt in the air, she was ready to sign the contract with the first tenants.
Then the mother-in-law found out about the inheritance.
Who told her—Mikhail at lunch when they visited his parents last weekend, or some distant relative who liked to gossip on the phone—Julia never found out.
But that Sunday, Daria Vasilevna appeared unannounced, with a “Prague” cake in a branded box, fully confident that she had the right to control someone else’s property.
After the mother-in-law left, Julia silently gathered the dishes from the table. The boys went to their room and turned up the TV louder than usual.
Mikhail stayed in the kitchen.
— She overreacted. My mother sometimes says too much, you know. Later she calms down and forgets.
— She promised she would take my children, Mikhail. Did you see their faces?
— I’ll talk to her. I’ll explain that this can’t be done.
— You just stood there and stayed silent. She threatened, and you just looked out the window with the compost jug in your hand.
Mikhail rubbed the bridge of his nose—a habitual gesture he made when he didn’t know what to say.
— I didn’t understand what was happening. Everything happened too fast.
— Fast? She spoke for maybe a minute or two.
You couldn’t comprehend it in two minutes?
— Julia, I don’t want to fight. My mother is wrong, I admit that.
But Anna is really in a difficult situation—the collectors call every day, threaten to go to her workplace, write to the neighbors. She hasn’t slept in three weeks.
— And for that, I should hand over the apartment inherited from grandpa for our sons’ education?
— Maybe at least for six months? While Anna tries to sort out her debts?
Julia looked at her husband as she rarely did—directly, without the usual softness in her eyes.
— Your mother said she would take my children. She said she would use her connections in the guardianship office to force you into a divorce. And you suggest I take Anna’s place?
He was silent. He averted his gaze, and Julia saw the muscle in his face twitch.
— I don’t know what to say.
— That’s exactly what I noticed.
Mikhail went to the balcony to smoke, even though he had quit three years ago. Julia washed the dishes, wiped the table, checked the homework with the boys, and went to bed, lying on her side.
For the first time in eleven years of marriage, she wasn’t sure she knew the man sleeping next to her.
