“Listen to me carefully, you little brat, you live in my apartment.”
“Do you really think your rights to this apartment are greater than mine just because you changed the wallpaper in the hallway?” Lyudmila Andreyevna held the phone receiver with two fingers, as if she were disgusted to press the plastic to her ear.
“Mom, don’t start. It’s just a formality. We’ve been living there for five years already,” Natasha’s voice on the phone had that careless laziness that always drove her mother out of balance. “The concierge has the keys, if anything, a spare set. And what does the apartment have to do with this anyway? I’m talking about the May holidays.”
“And I’m talking about conscience, Natasha. And about the fact that the walls where you and Sergei are playing family belong to me by documents and by the memory of your father.”
“Oh, enough. Don’t try to guilt-trip me. Listen to the schedule instead. We need to leave, and that’s not up for discussion. Seryozha is tired, I’m exhausted. Will you pick up Sonya tomorrow morning?”
Lyudmila Andreyevna sat down on the edge of the old sofa. She felt something hard and cold, like a piece of unpolished ice, beginning to form inside the soft, familiar cocoon of maternal love. She wanted to believe that her daughter simply didn’t understand what she was doing, that it was just a temporary eclipse of selfishness. She tried to soften her tone, to find that little path toward understanding that she had walked for the past thirty years.
“Natashenka, listen to me. I have plans for this weekend. I’m not just sitting at home waiting for orders. I arranged everything with Svetlana Yuryevna. We’re going to the country house.”
“What country house?” her daughter’s outrage was sincere, as if her mother could not possibly have a life outside their needs. “There are only garden beds there and boredom.”
“There is a sauna there, Natasha. Vitaly has lit the fireplace. There is fresh air and quiet, something I miss so much in the city. I just want to sit by the fire, eat okroshka, and not think about whether I cooked porridge or ironed a uniform.”
“Mom, you’re selfish,” her daughter snapped. “You have a granddaughter growing up. She needs attention. And you’re talking about okroshka. Seryozha, by the way, is going bowling with his friends tonight to strengthen business connections. That’s important for the family.”
“Bowling?” Lyudmila Andreyevna narrowed her eyes. “Is that the same place where last time he spent half his salary ‘for the family’ and came back at dawn?”
“Don’t start. That’s his way of relaxing. Anyway, Mom, I can’t cancel the trip. The girls and I have already paid for everything. Sonya will be ready by ten.”
“Natasha, I said no. Sergei is her father. Let him take care of his daughter if you’re busy. Or take her with you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” shrill notes rang in her daughter’s voice. “You love Sonya! How can you do this?”
Lyudmila Andreyevna hung up before giving herself a chance to justify anything. Her hand trembled slightly. She had worked as a glassblower for almost forty years; her hands were used to the weight of the pipe and the heat of the furnace. They were as firm as stone, but now her fingers trembled treacherously. She hoped her daughter would hear her. Simply hear the word “no” and accept it as a fact, not as a challenge.
Lyudmila Andreyevna’s softness had always been mistaken for weakness by those around her. She knew how to endure. She endured when her husband left, abandoning her with tiny Natasha in a dormitory. She endured when she had to work double shifts, blowing Christmas ornaments while her lungs burned like fire. She bought that apartment with sweat and blood, creating a start for her daughter that she herself had never had. And now, looking at the packed bag for her trip to her friend’s house, she felt a strange mixture of guilt and hope. Hope that respect could still be restored.
Svetlana Yuryevna’s house welcomed her with the smell of spring earth and smoke. Vitaly, her friend’s husband, a tall gray-haired man with hands like oak roots, was working by the grill. In narrow circles, he was a well-known taxidermist. He made stuffed birds with such precision that it seemed they might take flight at any moment. It was a strange profession, but it had taught him patience and silent contemplation.
“Lyudochka, finally!” Svetlana, a small, nimble woman, ran out to meet her, wiping her hands on her apron. “We’ve been waiting for you. Vitalik has heated the sauna and soaked the birch switches.”
Lyudmila Andreyevna smiled as she got out of the car. For the first time in a long while, her shoulders relaxed. She breathed in the air saturated with the scent of pine needles and prepared to forget her daughter’s phone call.
“Where’s Natasha?” Svetlana suddenly asked, peering behind her friend’s back. “She was just here.”
Lyudmila Andreyevna’s heart skipped. The cold that had begun to melt returned, gripping her chest.
“What do you mean, she was here?”
“Well, her car was standing by the gate about fifteen minutes ago. I thought you had come together and that she had just driven off to repark.”
At that moment, around the corner of the house, on the green lawn, a bright pink blur flashed by. A little girl with two ponytails was chasing a ball, squealing cheerfully.
“Grandma!” Sonya shouted and rushed toward her.
Lyudmila Andreyevna automatically lifted her granddaughter into her arms, pressing the warm little body against herself. Something inside her collapsed. The disappointment was bitter as wormwood. Natasha had not merely disobeyed. She had deceived her. She had brought the child, dumped her at the gate like a package, and run away, knowing her mother would never leave her granddaughter on the street. It was not simple disobedience. It was a sophisticated, cynical betrayal.
“Mom said you really wanted to see me,” Sonya babbled, hugging her grandmother around the neck. “And that Daddy is busy with important things, and Mommy went away to get treatment.”
“Treatment?” Vitaly asked as he came closer, wiping his hands with a rag.
“She went to rest,” Lyudmila Andreyevna said through clenched teeth. Her voice became low, vibrating. “With her girlfriends.”
She took out her phone. Five missed calls from her daughter. And one message: “Mom, sorry, it just happened this way. Seryozha had an emergency, and my tickets are non-refundable. Sonya won’t be any trouble, she’s a good girl. Kisses.”
Lyudmila Andreyevna dialed her daughter’s number. The beeps went on, but no one answered. Her daughter rejected the call. Then she called her son-in-law, Sergei.
“The subscriber’s device is switched off or out of network coverage,” a mechanical voice announced.
Lyudmila Andreyevna stood in the middle of the yard, holding her five-year-old granddaughter in her arms, and felt anger rising from her stomach to her throat in a hot wave. It was not the kind of domestic irritation when one grumbles about unwashed dishes. It was the rage of a person driven into a corner because everyone thought she was a toothless herbivore.
“Where is Daddy now, Sonechka?” she asked gently, stroking the girl’s head.
“Daddy went with Uncle Artur to roll balls,” the girl reported happily. “To that big place with lots of lights. He said Aunt Alyona would be there. She’s nice, she gives me candy.”
“Aunt Alyona?” Svetlana Yuryevna repeated, exchanging a glance with her husband.
“Yes. She’s always with Daddy when Mommy isn’t there,” the granddaughter answered innocently.
The picture formed instantly. Her daughter was off having fun, her son-in-law was having fun with his mistress, and she, an elderly woman, was being used as a convenient storage service for their shared child.
She remembered herself thirty years earlier. The cold dormitory, the drafts, the constant feeling of hunger because everything best went to Natasha. She had never allowed herself to abandon her daughter for entertainment. She had survived. And these two, living in her apartment, driving cars bought with her help, dared to wipe their feet on her.
“Vitaly,” Lyudmila Andreyevna said calmly. “I need to leave.”
“Lyuda, where are you going? What about the okroshka…” Svetlana said, confused.
“Okroshka can wait. I have unfinished business. Sonya, sweetheart, get in the car. We’re going to Daddy.”
“Hooray! To Daddy!” the girl rejoiced.
“Lyudmila, don’t do anything foolish,” Vitaly said quietly, looking into her eyes. He had seen that look before — in a she-wolf protecting her den.
“I’m not doing anything foolish. I’m going to take my life back.”
The Strike bowling club buzzed like a hive. The crash of balls knocking down pins mixed with loud music and drunken laughter. It was a fashionable place, where people who considered themselves masters of life gathered — middle managers imagining themselves business sharks.
Sergei felt magnificent. He had just scored a strike and now, theatrically setting one foot aside in his special shoes, accepted congratulations. Alyona hovered nearby — a tall, heavily made-up girl with legs that seemed to go on forever. She laughed at every one of his jokes, even the flattest ones.
“Seryoga, you’re a beast!” Artur shouted, slapping his friend on the shoulder. Artur was the kind of person who always laughed louder than everyone else and was the first to order drinks when someone else was paying.
“Oh, come on, you can’t drink away skill,” Sergei smirked smugly, wrapping his arm around Alyona’s waist. His hand slid lower in a possessive way.
He was certain that Natasha was already somewhere at a spa hotel and that his mother-in-law was safely locked away at the country house with the child. The scheme was perfect. He was a free man in his prime, taking a break from family life.
Lyudmila Andreyevna entered the hall holding Sonya by the hand. In the brightly lit room, she seemed like a foreign element in her simple but elegant pantsuit. She did not look around. She knew exactly where to go. Sonya immediately spotted her father.
“Daddy!” the child’s ringing cry cut through the music.
Sergei flinched. The glass of beer in his hand jerked, spilling foam onto his trousers. He turned around and froze. By lane number five, right in front of him, stood his mother-in-law. And beside her — his daughter.
When Alyona saw the child, she instinctively recoiled from Sergei as if he had become contagious. Her hand, which had just been resting on his shoulder, hung in the air.
“Grandma, is that Aunt Alyona?” Sonya asked loudly, pointing at the mistress. “Will she give me candy?”
Silence did not fall over the lanes — no, the music kept playing — but a vacuum of attention formed around their group. Sergei’s friends, Artur and a couple of other guys, stopped chewing pizza. They looked from Sergei to Lyudmila Andreyevna and back again.
Sergei felt blood rush to his face. Shame burned his cheeks, but it was immediately replaced by anger. How dared she? Drag the child here? Into his refuge? Humiliate him in front of the guys? In front of Alyona?
“Lyudmila Andreyevna?” he hissed, taking a step forward. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought your granddaughter to you, Seryozha,” his mother-in-law’s voice was calm, but a storm threat hid in that calm. “You’re resting, aren’t you? So rest with your daughter.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Sergei looked back at his friends. Artur was choking back a laugh. Alyona was already edging sideways toward the exit, trying to blend into the decor. “I have a meeting here. Take Sonya and leave. That’s not what we agreed on.”
“Agreed?” Lyudmila Andreyevna smirked. “And who did you agree with? My daughter, who dumped the child and drove off? Or your conscience, which allows you to paw strange girls while your family thinks you’re working?”
“That’s none of your business!” Sergei roared. He could feel his authority collapsing. The guys were looking at him like a henpecked husband being put in his place by an old granny. “I said take the child and get out! I’m the father. I will decide when I see my daughter! Now is not the time!”
He tried to grab Lyudmila Andreyevna by the shoulder to turn her toward the exit. That was a mistake. A fatal mistake.
Many years of working with glass had taught Lyudmila Andreyevna one thing: if the material is overheated, it flows; if cooled too sharply, it cracks. But there is a moment when the master must apply force to give it shape.
The second her son-in-law’s hand touched her shoulder, Lyudmila Andreyevna acted on reflex. She was not a professional athlete, but that very maternal rage boiled up inside her, multiplied by years of hard physical labor.
She intercepted Sergei’s hand, twisted it sharply, and, stepping forward, grabbed him by the front of his fashionable shirt with her other hand. The jerk was so powerful that Sergei’s head snapped, and his teeth clicked together. He bit his tongue hard. His mouth instantly filled with the salty taste of blood.
“You…” he tried to say something, but only a gurgle escaped his mouth.
Lyudmila Andreyevna did not stop. She saw fear in his eyes replacing arrogance, and that gave her even more strength. She released his shirt and, with lightning speed, grabbed him by the nose. Firmly. The way one grips the neck of a hot vase with tongs. Sergei’s nose was large and fleshy; there was plenty to hold on to.
She squeezed her fingers. Sergei howled, tears spurting from his eyes. He tried to jerk away, but the pain was so sharp that he froze, bound by terror.
“Listen to me carefully, you little brat,” she said quietly, looking straight into his widened pupils. Her face was very close to his, and he could see every wrinkle, every spark of fury in her eyes. “You live in my apartment. You sleep in the bed I bought. You drive a car whose loan Natasha paid with my money. You are nobody here. You are a freeloader.”
Sergei wheezed, trying to pry her fingers apart, but the glassblower’s grip was iron.
“Hey, lady, take it easy!” Artur, having come to his senses, decided to stand up for his friend. He jumped in from the side, apparently intending to pull the crazy old woman away.
Without letting go of her son-in-law’s nose, Lyudmila Andreyevna sharply turned her body and shoved Artur in the chest with her free hand. The push was short but surprisingly powerful. She put into it all her contempt for those “masters of life.” Artur, losing his balance on the slippery floor, waved his arms and flew backward. He crashed straight onto the bowling lane. The momentum was such that he slid about five meters on his back across the oil.
The crash of Artur’s fall silenced even the music inside Sergei’s head.
“Anyone else?” Lyudmila Andreyevna asked without raising her voice, but loudly enough for everyone around to hear.
Sergei’s friends sat pressed into the sofas. No one moved. Alyona had vanished without a trace.
Lyudmila Andreyevna turned back to her son-in-law. She squeezed his nose even harder, forcing him to rise onto his toes.
“So here’s how it’s going to be, family man,” she said, hammering out every word. “Right now, you take Sonya. You go with her to the children’s café upstairs. Then you go home, to my apartment. And for the entire holiday, until Natasha comes back, you will take care of the child. Every hour, you will send me a photo report in messenger. Breakfast, walk, reading books, sleep. If you miss even one report, or if I find out you dumped her on someone again, I will change the locks. And your things will fly off the balcony. Got it?”
She loosened her grip slightly, giving him the chance to answer.
“G-got it,” Sergei lisped. His tongue was swelling, his nose burned like fire, and his pride was smeared across the floor together with the oil on which Artur was lying.
“I don’t hear respect in your voice,” she noted coldly.
“I understand, Lyudmila Andreyevna!” he almost shouted, spitting blood onto the floor.
“That’s a good boy.”
She released him abruptly. Sergei staggered, clutching his face. His nose had already begun turning a deep blue. He looked pathetic.
Sonya, who had been watching everything with interest the whole time while eating pizza offered by one of the frightened guys, walked up to her father.
“Daddy, your nose looks like a clown’s!” she said cheerfully. “And Aunt Alyona ran away. She’s bad; she didn’t even say bye. Shall we go play?”
Sergei looked at his daughter. Then at his friends, who were averting their eyes. Then at his mother-in-law, who stood like an unshakable rock.
“Let’s go, Sonya,” he said dully. “Let’s go play.”
The May holidays passed for Sergei in a hell tailored personally for him. His nose hurt unbearably, turning every shade of purple and green. He could not show himself in public looking like that, could not go to work, could not meet his friends. He stayed at home with Sonya.
Every hour, he picked up his phone with trembling hands and took photographs: here was Sonya eating porridge, here they were building a castle out of blocks, here they were reading a fairy tale. In response, Lyudmila Andreyevna sent only short emojis: an eye or a clock. This silent observation drove him mad. He felt her presence in every room, around every corner. The fear of losing the comfortable apartment and his familiar way of life proved stronger than his pride.
Natasha returned a week later, tanned, rested, and full of impressions. She burst into the apartment, expecting the usual mess or scandals, but was met by perfect silence. Sonya was asleep in her little bed. Sergei was ironing laundry in the kitchen.
When Natasha saw her husband, she gasped.
“My God, Seryozha! What happened to your face? Did you get into a fight? Were you robbed?”
Sergei looked up at her. There was none of his usual arrogance in his eyes, no desire to lie. Instead, some new, deep melancholy and resignation swam in them.
“I fell,” he muttered. “Went bowling badly.”
“And where is Mom? Didn’t she help you? Why were you sitting at home the whole holiday? I called you, and you didn’t answer!”
“Mom…” Sergei swallowed, remembering the iron grip on his nose. “Mom helped. She explained everything very well.”
Natasha did not understand anything. She walked around the apartment, seeing perfect order, washed dishes, and a happy child who, in the morning, excitedly told her how Daddy had played “doctor” with her and treated his nose.
She decided to call her mother, but her hand froze with the phone in it. Fear stirred inside her. She remembered that last conversation, when she had simply hung up. Something had changed. The air in the family had become different. Denser.
Two days later, Natasha finally gathered her courage.
“Mom, hi,” she began cautiously. “We’re back. Can Sonya and I come visit you this weekend?”
Lyudmila Andreyevna, who at that moment was in her workshop putting the final touches on a glass vase, smiled.
“Come, of course,” her voice was calm, even, without a single note of reproach. “Only, Natasha, no staying overnight. I have theater in the evening. And bring food with you; I haven’t cooked.”
Natasha froze. Before, her mother would have started fussing, baking pies, preparing soup, a main course, and compote. But now it was “bring food” and “no staying overnight.”
“All right, Mom,” Natasha said quietly. “I’ll order sushi.”
When she hung up and suggested to her husband that they go to her mother’s, Sergei laughed hysterically. The laugh sounded like the cawing of a crow.
“No,” he said, clutching the iron like a life preserver. “I’d rather stay home. Not all the laundry has been ironed yet. And the floors need washing. You go, Natasha. Give your mother-in-law… my regards.”
Natasha looked at her husband and understood that she had missed something very important. Something frightening and, at the same time, right. Her husband, who had never lifted a finger, was now washing floors out of fear of her mother. And the mistress, whose existence Natasha had suspected but had been afraid to admit, had disappeared from the horizon because Sergei had changed his phone number.
Lyudmila Andreyevna had won. Not by shouting, not by tears, but by simply showing who truly held the frame of this family together. And that frame was made of tempered glass — transparent, but hard as diamond.
