I didn’t cry. It wasn’t that. It was more like a high-pitched ringing had lodged itself in my ears, constant and sharp. My phone glowed on the table. My son’s message. My Vitalik’s.
«Mom, sorry. Don’t come today. Veronika’s nervous, she wants the evening to be perfect for her partners, and you… well, you’d feel awkward. You’re not invited; my wife insists. We’ll come later with cake and treats.»
I stared at my reflection. Galina Petrovna. Sixty-eight years old. Certified economist, once chief accountant for a construction company. Hair meticulously combed, nails unpolished but cared for, a thick, soft jersey dress that hid the traces of time on my body.
“Awkward…” I whispered to myself.
They thought I would feel awkward in a house built on the sale of my summer cottage, a house filled with their comforts paid for by my hand. The Italian sofa I’d picked with my bonus, the table where they put products on my card…
I crouched and adjusted my earring, pushed it back into place.
In the kitchen, the tablet lay next to my «black notebook,» as I called it, where I kept every record. It’s a habit of accountants—everything must leave a trace.
I opened the banking app.
The «Automatic Payments and Transfers» list stretched long, like a supermarket receipt before New Year’s. I began scrolling, tracing eight years of expenses.
Mortgage for the house (in my name, at a favorable rate, which they live in).
Car loan for Veronika’s «Audi» (her so-called “image tool”).
Private school for my grandson Denis (“average schools don’t have the right environment”).
Cleaning services (Veronika doesn’t do mops).
Spa memberships (stress relief).
Delivered meals (no time to cook).
Subscriptions for movies, music, cloud storage, boiler maintenance, security…
One hundred seventy-four items. One hundred seventy-four drains through which they didn’t just take my money—they drained my self-respect. “You’re not invited,” I said to the screen. “Fine.”
I clicked on the first item. “Mortgage payment.” “Cancel recurring payment.” The system asked, *“Are you sure?”* “Yes, completely sure,” I said aloud. Then it went faster. Cancel, delete, withdraw.
My fingers moved across the screen coldly, calculatingly, like a surgeon amputating a gangrenous limb. Casco insurance? Canceled. Denis’s tuition for next semester? Canceled. Beauty salon? Blacklisted.
When I reached my grandson’s card, tied to my account, my hand froze for a moment. Sixteen years old. He could do nothing about his parents… or could he?
I remembered he’d visited a week ago. He didn’t greet me, just mumbled, “Ba, throw me a five, we’re going to hookah with the guys.”* And when I asked him to take out the trash: *“Ba, what’s wrong with you, I’m in designer shoes.”
I clicked: “Block card.” Reason: “Loss of trust.” The bank had no such option, so I chose “Change account data.”
Twenty minutes later, it was done. A significant sum remained in the account, money that would have flowed into others’ pockets. Now it stayed here.
I closed the tablet, brewed strong bergamot tea, and sat by the window. The waiting didn’t last long.
The first call came an hour later. Veronika. I didn’t answer. Then Vitalik—five times in a row. Messages flooded in:
«Zinaida Petrovna, the delivery payment isn’t going through, check the card!»
«Mom, are you asleep? Call now, the bank shows an error!»
«Grandma! Rejected at checkout! What’s wrong with you?!»
I drank my tea, washed the cup, dried it carefully. Everything had to be in order. The next morning, at nine, they came. I knew they would. No choice—today was mortgage day.
I opened the door. Vitalik stood there, flustered, tie crooked, Veronika panting beside him, clutching a bag worth three of my pensions.
“Mom!” Vitalik barged in without wiping his feet. “Why didn’t you answer the phone? We almost went crazy!”
“Welcome, my son. Welcome, Veronika. Take off your shoes.”
“What? Take off our shoes?!” my daughter-in-law shrieked. “Zinaida Petrovna, are you serious? This morning the CASCO is invalid, the payment didn’t go through! Vitalik’s mortgage is empty! The bank already called, there will be late fees!”
I walked calmly into the living room and sank into my favorite armchair. “I know,” I said. “I deleted everything myself.”
Silence. The ticking of the clock, Veronika’s heavy breathing. “What do you mean… you deleted it?” Vitalik slumped onto the couch. “Mom, is this a joke? We have financial plans…”
“What did you expect?” I interrupted. “That I would support you forever?” “We’re family!” Veronika shouted. “Helping your children is your duty!”
“A parent’s duty is to teach children how to eat, to use a fork, and… excuse me, to teach them to wipe themselves,” I said, looking at Veronika. She recoiled. “To support grown adults in their forties who think mom is ‘out of format’ at their table—that’s a distortion.”
Vitalik flushed.
“Mom, about yesterday… sorry… I was just thoughtless. Veronika was worried…”
“She wasn’t worried, Vitalik. She was ashamed. Ashamed of my clothes, my words, my aging. You’re happy to take my money, but you only want to see me in pictures.”
I rose from the chair and went to the cabinet, pulling out a folder with documents.
“Here,” I placed it on the table. “The gift deed for the apartment I intended for Denis when he came of age. This morning I withdrew it at the notary.”
Veronika’s eyes widened. She stared greedily at the folder, like a starving cat at cream.
“And this,” I placed the second sheet, “the bank notice. I withdrew my consent to be co-owner and guarantor. Now the loan is entirely your problem. The car loan too.”
“You can’t,” Vitalik whispered. “Mom, this is huge sums. We won’t manage… Denis’s private school…”
“Then lower the standard. Denis goes to public school. Not bad— I studied there myself. Money for the Audi? Spend it on something simpler, or take the subway. You won’t feel nauseous anyway.”
“You… you’re taking revenge!” Veronika hissed. “Old, selfish…” “Veronika!” Vitalik suddenly interrupted. I smiled. Coldly. Only with my lips.
“No, dear. Revenge is when you secretly do harm. I am only returning responsibility for your life. You are adults, successful. ‘Formatters.’ Live like that. Close the door on your way out.”
They didn’t leave immediately. Veronika cried, threatened I wouldn’t see the children. Vitalik held his head, trying to draw out pity: “Mom, my heart…” I offered a sedative and Corvalol. He refused.
When they closed the door, I felt not emptiness, but an incredible lightness. Like taking off a shoe I’d worn tightly for ten years.
That evening Denis arrived. My grandson. He didn’t ring—he pounded with his fist.
“Ba! Open up!”
I opened. He stormed in, furious, tousled.
“What did you do? Dad’s yelling, mom’s crying. My card’s blocked, my subscriptions deleted! Are you even sane? Put it back the way it was!”
I looked at him, and I didn’t see my beloved grandson—I saw a small consumer I had raised.
“I’m not putting it back, Denis.”
“You… do you understand what I’ll tell the guys? Grandma’s gone crazy!”
“Say the grandma closed the charity fund. Do you have money?”
“Of course!”
“Here,” I handed him a business card from a friend who owns a car wash chain. “They need admins, car washers. Flexible hours, school-friendly. Call them, tell them.”
Denis’ eyes went wide. He crumpled the card and dropped it on the floor.
“Wash the car yourself! Now sit alone if you’re so smart!”
I picked up the card, smoothed it, placed it on the dresser. Useful. Life is the best teacher, explains clearly, but charges dearly.
Three months passed.
I sat in a compartment on the Moscow–Vladivostok train. Outside the window, birches, then endless taiga rushed past. Tea in a glass on the table, beside me a book I had postponed for five years.
I had always wanted to see Baikal. Not in a photo, but alive. To feel its power. Yet life always intervened: Vitalik changes cars, Veronika buys fur coats, apartment renovations…
The money that once supported my son’s family for a month was now enough for a first-class luxury journey.
My phone buzzed. A message.
I opened it. Photo. Car wash. Denis, soaked, muddy boots, in his hand a five-thousand ruble note. Tired, but satisfied.
Signed: *“Ba, first shift. Brutal, but I wasted the card, had to earn again. Dad didn’t give money. So… thanks. And sorry for before.”*
I smiled and typed my reply:
“Good job. This is your first truly honest money. I’m proud of you.”
My son didn’t write back. I knew they’d sold the house, moved to a “trendy little apartment” in the suburbs, according to friends. Veronika went to work—at the salon she once frequented. Pride faded fast. Vitalik works, paying off debts.
It’s hard for them. I know. But for the first time in years, they live their own life, not mine.
The train rattled steadily. Outside the window, Baikal waited. Before me, life. And most importantly—for dinner, I had finally invited the most important guest: myself.
