— Your wife hasn’t sent me money for the loan again! — his mother shouted into the phone. His answer made her take action.
— Your wife hasn’t sent me money for the loan again! — The smartphone speaker crackled from the shouting, making Dmitry wince. — Today is the twentieth! The bank will charge late fees! You’re driving me into a debt trap!
Dmitry gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the skin on his palms began to ache from the pressure. It was Friday evening, and the navigation app showed traffic at nine out of ten. His head was pounding as though a jackhammer were working inside it. This conversation had been repeating itself on schedule for the third month in a row.
— Mom, enough, — he said, trying to keep his voice steady. — Nobody is driving you anywhere. We settled this a week ago. Sveta is not going to pay your loan. And neither am I. We have a mortgage and our own bills.
For a second, the breathing on the other end of the line stopped.
— What do you mean, she’s not going to? — Tamara Igorevna’s voice suddenly dropped, becoming soft and insinuating. — You promised to help. Who did I renovate the place for? Myself? I did it for you! So that you ungrateful people would have a decent country house! And now what? Your mother is supposed to become a beggar?
— Mom, let’s not make a scene. We haven’t been to that country house in three years. Did we ask you not to build a new bathhouse? We did. You said, “I can handle it myself.” So handle it yourself. Sorry, I need to change lanes.
Dmitry ended the call and threw the phone onto the passenger seat. His heart was pounding heavily, each beat throbbing in his throat. He felt ashamed of how harsh he had been, but the fear of living like this for the rest of his life was stronger than the shame.
Tamara Igorevna stared at the darkened screen with disgust, as though she were holding a dirty rag.
A malfunction in the system.
Her obedient Dima had suddenly started talking back.
And the reason was obvious — his wife.
That gray little mouse who had sunk her claws into her boy.
“She won’t pay… Fine. Then I’ll get it another way,” Tamara Igorevna decided.
She walked over to the cabinet and took the spare key to her son’s apartment from a small crystal bowl.
In her mind, this was not a crime.
It was forced compensation.
Since they were one family, their property was shared. And if the children were greedy, the elders had a duty to distribute the resources fairly.
An hour later, she was already making herself at home in her son’s apartment.
The smell of vanilla irritated her. Tamara Igorevna walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Red fish. Expensive cheeses. A jar of caviar.
— Living in luxury, — she breathed. — Their mother counts every kopek while they buy delicacies.
She took several bags out of her handbag.
The food went into them first.
“It’ll spoil anyway, and I can sell it cheaply to the neighbor. At least I’ll cover part of the interest.”
Then she surveyed the two-room apartment with the eye of an appraiser.
The blender on the kitchen counter — almost new.
The tablet on the cabinet in the living room.
A jewelry box containing silver in the bedroom.
The items disappeared into checkered bags quickly and efficiently.
“This is compensation for emotional distress. This goes toward the principal.”
The click of the lock in the hallway did not make her flinch.
She was convinced she was within her rights.
Sveta entered, exhausted, holding a bag of kefir in one hand and her keys in the other.
When she saw the mess and her mother-in-law packing the toaster into a bag, she froze.
The bag slipped from her fingers and hit the floor. A white puddle slowly spread toward Tamara Igorevna’s boots.
— What are you doing? — Sveta asked almost in a whisper. — Are you… are you robbing us?
— Watch your language, young lady! — her mother-in-law snapped, zipping up the duffel bag. — I’m restoring justice! Since you refuse to repay the loan that was taken out for your own comfort, I’m collecting the debt in property.
— Put the things back, — Sveta said.
She did not move from where she stood. Her face had turned completely white, like chalk.
— Leave. Right now.
— I won’t even consider it! I’m taking this now, and tomorrow I’ll come back for more! I’ll even show up at your workplace! I’ll tell everyone how you mistreat a pensioner! They’ll fire you in disgrace!
The door behind Sveta opened wider, and Dmitry stepped inside.
He crossed the threshold and stopped.
The scene looked surreal: kefir spreading across the floor, his wife pressed against the doorframe, and his mother standing beside bags with electrical cords from his appliances sticking out of them.
— Mom? — was all he managed to say.
Tamara Igorevna instantly replaced her aggression with a pitiful expression.
— Dima! Sweetheart! Look, she’s throwing me out! I came here for help. We have nothing to eat, and she…
Dmitry slowly walked into the room, stepping over the puddle.
He looked at the bags.
Then at his mother.
And suddenly he saw her very clearly.
Not as a tired woman who needed care, but as a stranger who had come to take what she believed belonged to her.
He did not raise his voice.
He spoke so calmly that Sveta felt frightened.
— Put the bags down.
— Dima, you don’t understand, the debt collectors…
— I said put them down.
Tamara Igorevna hesitated, then lowered the duffel bag to the floor.
— What are you going to do, throw your own mother out onto the street?
Dmitry took out his smartphone.
— I’m not throwing you out. I’m giving you a choice. Option one: you put the keys on the shoe cabinet and leave. Forever. Option two: I dial 112.
— You wouldn’t dare, — she laughed nervously. — Call the police on your own mother?
— I would. Article 158 of the Russian Criminal Code. Burglary and theft. But do you know what’s worse than the police? I’ll call Aunt Nadya. And your neighbor, that same Valya you love showing off to. And I won’t tell them about what a terrible son I am. I’ll tell them how you were led out of your children’s apartment in handcuffs after stealing their toaster and canned food. Can you imagine how everyone in the building would look at you after that?
The blow landed directly on her weakest point.
Losing money was frightening.
But becoming a laughingstock in front of her neighbors and her sister was worse than death.
— You… — she hissed, choking with rage. — You are no longer my son.
— The keys, — Dmitry repeated coldly, holding out his hand.
She threw the keyring onto the floor with all her strength, grabbed her handbag, and stormed out of the apartment.
The front door slammed so hard that the dishes in the cabinet rattled.
Only the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of cars outside remained in the apartment.
Sveta stepped around the puddle of kefir and sank heavily onto the small bench in the hallway.
— She really won’t come back, will she? — she asked, staring into space.
— She won’t, — Dmitry said.
He picked up the keys and, without looking, threw them into the trash can.
— She’s more afraid of gossip than she is of us. Tomorrow I’ll call a locksmith and have the lock cylinder replaced. And I’ll file a report with the local police officer as a precaution.
He sat down on the floor, leaned his back against the wall, and stretched out his legs.
Exhaustion washed over him so heavily that even moving his arm felt difficult.
— You know, — he said quietly, staring at the empty blender box, — when I opened the door, for one second I actually thought maybe she had just come over to talk. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m thirty years old, and I still believe in miracles.
Sveta leaned down and took his hand.
Her palm was warm.
— It’s not stupid, Dim. It just hurts.
— Yeah, — he nodded. — It hurts. But at least the air is clean now.
They sat together in the dimly lit hallway.
Ahead of them was an evening of cleaning and a difficult conversation about the future, but for the first time in a long while, Dmitry felt that the evening belonged only to the two of them.
