“This is my apartment, and I’m not going to share it with your parents,” Ekaterina said firmly.
“You’re just selfish, Katya,” Tatyana Petrovna said sternly, carefully adjusting the collar of her blouse as though she were preparing not for an ordinary conversation in the kitchen, but for a reception at the presidential administration. “Mom is alone, old, bedridden. And you work from home. Who else is supposed to help her if not you?”
Katya sat across from her over a cup of coffee that had already gone cold, feeling something increasingly unpleasant beginning to boil inside her. The last time she had seen her mother-in-law in a good mood had been sometime around March of the previous year—and even then, probably only because she had received a tax deduction for her apartment.
“Working from home doesn’t mean I’m doing nothing,” Katya replied with restraint. “I work. I have clients. Deadlines. Projects.”
“Exactly—‘projects,’” Tatyana Petrovna sneered, pouring so much sugar into her tea that it looked as though she intended to drink syrup. “Everyone has projects nowadays. But Mom has high blood pressure. Her legs barely work. She’s over ninety, by the way.”
Artyom, Ekaterina’s husband, shuffled into the kitchen wearing the same gray T-shirt he had slept in and, apparently, already eaten breakfast in. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and his expression was as blank as a poorly designed advertisement banner.
“What are you two doing again?” he muttered, scratching his stomach. “It’s morning. The day has barely started.”
“Of course it has, son,” Tatyana Petrovna immediately became animated. “And for some people, it may begin in a nursing home if we don’t pull ourselves together.”
Katya slowly raised her eyes.
“Do you seriously think you can simply dump all of this on me? What am I, some kind of automatic elderly-care machine?”
“Oh, stop it. She isn’t a stranger. She’s our mother. Well, mine, technically. But you’re part of the family now.”
The words “part of the family” sounded like a sentence.
Apparently, this family had an unwritten rule: whoever had the quietest job automatically became the caregiver. Katya, however, was the only one who had never sworn an oath to servitude.
She fell silent because she knew that if she continued, she would say something she might later have to apologize for.
Or maybe she wouldn’t.
It was like an overheated iron—you tolerate it, then you burn yourself, and after that you simply stop caring whether the whole thing catches fire.
They went to visit Grandma on Sunday.
Not because Katya wanted to, but because it was “necessary.”
Artyom, as usual, had a “headache,” a “bad back,” and “work” that suspiciously coincided with watching every football match on television.
So Katya went alone.
Evdokia Stepanovna greeted her at the door, leaning on a cane and wearing an expression of mild contempt.
“Oh, look who finally came. The daughter-in-law. Did your mother-in-law send you out for forced labor?”
“Good afternoon, Grandma,” Katya exhaled as she took off her sneakers, wishing she could remove her exhaustion just as easily. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a schoolgirl before an exam. My blood pressure jumps, my legs don’t listen, and the television lies. But I’m still walking. Until they put me in a box, anyway.”
Katya couldn’t help smiling.
At least she could joke with Grandma.
Her humor had a little poison in it, but it was honest. Compared with Tatyana Petrovna’s sour benevolence, it almost felt like a vacation.
“I brought groceries. I refilled your medications. I’ll wash the floors now, and then I’ll heat up lunch…”
“Wait a minute. Why are you alone? Where’s my grandson? Or does he only show up for weddings?”
Katya hesitated.
Grandma narrowed her eyes at her as though she could see through walls—not the walls of the apartment, but the walls that grew between people.
“He’s… busy. Working.”
“And you?”
“I’m working too.”
“But you’re here, and he isn’t.”
Katya said nothing.
What could she possibly say?
That her husband’s back mysteriously began hurting every time he had to go somewhere that wasn’t for beer but to visit his grandmother?
That he was afraid of his mother the same way he had apparently been afraid of the vacuum cleaner as a child?
“Tell me honestly, Katya. Do you even want this?” Evdokia Stepanovna suddenly asked. “Don’t pretend you’re here because you love taking care of old women.”
“I don’t know,” Katya admitted honestly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just the convenient one. The one everyone can dump things on. It isn’t impossible for me… well, not always. But surely someone else could do something too?”
“It’s because you don’t scream. You don’t slam doors. That’s why everyone rides on your back. You’re a good woman, Katya. And good people are usually the ones nobody bothers asking.”
Grandma rose with a groan, leaning heavily on her cane.
“Come on. I’ll show you what’s happening with my balcony. The damn thing has started sinking. If I fall through it, they’ll blame you because you’ll be the last person who saw me alive.”
On the bus ride home, Katya stared through the window.
Her head was buzzing—not because of the road, but because of her thoughts.
She thought about how easily people replaced care with control.
How the word “duty” became an excuse for manipulation.
And how one person could gradually turn into a nurse, cleaner, caregiver, and servant simply because it was “convenient.”
When she got home, Artyom was already lying on the sofa.
Another football match was playing on the screen.
“So how’s Grandma?” he asked without looking away. “Still alive?”
Katya froze in the doorway.
“Yes. Thank God. And by the way, she’s the only person in your family who actually says what she thinks to someone’s face.”
Artyom shrugged.
“Oh, come on, Katya. Mom’s just worried. She has us, Grandma, and the apartment hanging around her neck. You understand?”
“Yes,” Katya said. “I understand perfectly.”
But privately she thought something entirely different.
Looks like I’m hanging around her neck too. But not for much longer.
“Come on, tell me—is it really that much to ask?” Tatyana Petrovna’s voice was sweet, almost like the host of a radio show called Women’s Club. “Just move in with Grandma for a couple of months. You can live together. She has everything there—a bathtub, gas, even an old sofa. She’ll feel safer. And so will we.”
Katya held a forkful of cold buckwheat and felt as though she might stab the fork into her own palm instead of the cutlet.
Not out of anger.
Just to wake herself up.
Because otherwise the whole conversation seemed too absurd to be real.
“You want me to leave my work, leave my apartment, and move into someone else’s home with a person I’ve known for only six months—and only through you?”
“Who said forever?” Tatyana Petrovna shrugged without even blinking. “Grandma is ninety-two, Katya. At this point, it’s one thing or the other.”
“Are you actually serious?”
“Completely. It’s difficult for Artyom and me. We have a mortgage. And you don’t even own an apartment yourself, by the way. Grandma’s place is worth a fortune. Three rooms, city center. You could live there yourself afterward. You’re not stupid, Katya.”
Katya put down her fork.
That was enough.
“Wait. Are you saying that if I take care of her, then maybe I’ll get her apartment afterward?”
“Of course,” Tatyana Petrovna replied, genuinely surprised by the question. “What did you think? That we change her diapers for the love of art?”
Artyom came out of the bedroom in socks, holding his phone.
He had the expression of a man who had accidentally wandered into a family drama when all he wanted was something to eat.
“What, again?” he grumbled. “Mom, what are you doing?”
“I’m not doing anything! I’m explaining it to her! But apparently she’s too proud. She has to work! Her work is just some websites! That isn’t work, it’s a hobby! Grandma, meanwhile, has an actual life—and it’s ending!”
“The important thing is not to make such a drama out of it,” Artyom said without much conviction. “You’ll live there for a while. What’s the big deal?”
“Then you live there!” Katya exploded. “Why does it have to be me? There are three of you in this family, and the only person who actually visits Grandma is me!”
Tatyana Petrovna closed her eyes and clasped her hands together.
“Because you’re the daughter-in-law. Which means you’re a woman. And women have always been the support of this family.”
Katya stood up slowly.
No sudden movements.
Only her eyes flashed.
“Support, you say? Maybe you should be her support, then. And I can go back to being what I used to be—a person with a life. My own life.”
“You don’t understand anything!” her mother-in-law’s voice rose like a kettle boiling on the stove. “Grandma has taken a liking to you. She listens to you. When you’re around, everything goes smoothly. When you’re not, she gets high blood pressure, ambulances come, she throws fits. You’re practically like a granddaughter to her. She almost loves you. She wants you nearby.”
Katya stopped.
That was when something finally clicked.
“What do you mean, ‘taken a liking to me’?”
“Well…” Tatyana Petrovna hesitated. “She hinted that if someone actually took care of her… sincerely, properly, without complaining… she might rewrite her will. So we thought… you already take care of her. Why shouldn’t it be you?”
Katya said nothing.
Now everything made sense.
It wasn’t about care.
It wasn’t about duty.
It wasn’t about compassion.
It was about the apartment.
A three-room apartment in the city center.
Old, yes, but with a balcony.
Fully owned, without a mortgage.
A rarity.
That evening Katya sat in the kitchen for a long time, staring out the window and scratching the cat behind the ear.
The cat purred—the first creature that day to respond to her like a human being.
“So, Murka,” Katya said quietly. “Looks like I’m an investment to them.”
She remembered Grandma—frail, but sharp.
A woman who didn’t complain but joked.
Who didn’t pressure people but asked questions.
And most importantly, who didn’t lie.
Katya felt ashamed.
And furious at the same time.
Because her husband’s entire family had been using her.
Tatyana Petrovna manipulated her.
Artyom stayed silent.
And Katya had simply been conveniently available.
The next day Katya went to Grandma’s apartment without warning.
She carried groceries, medicine, and something else—something important.
“Oh, you again?” Evdokia Stepanovna called from the kitchen. “Don’t you get tired?”
“Do you?” Katya smiled.
They sat at the table.
Katya poured Grandma some tea and took out gingerbread cookies.
“Tell me honestly. Are they pressuring you too? Something like, ‘Leave the apartment to whoever visits you most often’?”
Grandma was silent for a long time.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s dirty. Low. Disgusting. But apparently they’re serious.”
“And you?”
Katya nodded slowly but firmly.
“I don’t want to be the person waiting for you to… die. I can help you. But not because of the apartment. Because you’re a human being. And because you’re one of the few people in this family who actually sees and understands what’s going on.”
Evdokia Stepanovna raised her eyebrows.
Then she nodded.
“Well. I suppose you’re the only honest person in this whole circus of ours.”
She got up and went into the bedroom.
When she returned, she was carrying a folder.
“These are documents. The will, copies, various papers. I’ve wanted to change a few things for a long time. But now I’ve decided. If we’re going to be honest, then let’s be honest all the way.”
Katya opened her mouth.
“No. I didn’t come here for that…”
“I know. That’s exactly why I decided. Because you didn’t come for that.”
Grandma sat down again and poured herself more tea.
“Now, sweetheart, let’s talk about the bathroom renovation. There’s a leaking pipe. And the smell is like a student dormitory. I may be an old woman, but I still like things clean.”
Katya smiled for the first time in several days.
“All right, Evdokia Stepanovna. We’ll do things properly. Like human beings. Not the usual way in this family.”
“Katya, have you completely lost your mind?!” Artyom stormed into the room, slamming the door so hard that the glass in the cabinet rattled. “Mom is crying! What the hell are you doing?!”
“What are you doing, Artyom?” Katya replied calmly without looking away from her laptop. “Or, as usual, you have no idea what’s happening but automatically take your mother’s side?”
“Mom told me you turned Grandma against us! You got her to rewrite the will in your name! What are you, some kind of con artist?!”
“Seriously?” Katya slowly closed her laptop. “Didn’t you think about why Grandma called the notary herself? Or do you actually believe I slipped documents under her medication?”
Artyom froze.
Apparently, he hadn’t thought about that.
“Katya, well… This is too much. It’s an apartment. That’s our inheritance.”
“‘Our’ inheritance?” Katya smirked. “Artyom, the last time you went there was three months ago. Your mother only came when she needed Grandma to sign some paper because somebody wanted to borrow money. I took care of her. Every day. Without weekends. Without complaints. Simply because there was a human being who needed someone nearby.”
“So you did all this because of the apartment?!”
“Are you deaf or just stupid?” Katya raised her voice for the first time. “How can I explain this so you understand? I did it because she’s a person. Because being around her was easier than being around all of you. And because she’s the only person in this ridiculous family who actually has a heart.”
He sat down on a chair, looking like a wilted flower.
Miserable.
Offended.
“But that isn’t fair…”
“You know what isn’t fair?” Katya leaned toward him. “What isn’t fair is carrying someone else’s old age on your shoulders every day while your mother goes shopping at the mall and sends you photos from the country house. What isn’t fair is being the only person who takes Grandma to doctors and then still cooks, washes clothes, and cleans—all because you’re ‘the daughter-in-law, so you have to.’”
He said nothing.
She saw his chin trembling.
But she didn’t feel sorry for him.
Not even a little.
She only wondered how she had tolerated it for so long.
Two days later Tatyana Petrovna appeared herself.
Without warning.
As always.
“Where is she?!” she shrieked from the doorway. “Where’s that snake?! I practically dragged you to the registry office myself, Ekaterina! And this is how you repay me?! You throw me out?! I’ll—”
“Enough theater,” Evdokia Stepanovna said, emerging from the bedroom.
She wore a robe and leaned on her cane, but her eyes were steel.
“Mom!” Tatyana Petrovna gasped. “You don’t understand anything! You’re old!”
“Really?” Grandma smiled. “And you’re young and stupid. I changed the will. Katya will live here. You can leave.”
“How could you? I’m your daughter!”
“Exactly. My daughter. And daughters are supposed to take care of their mothers instead of pretending to be princesses. You never even washed my floor. You dumped everything on Katya.”
“She… she bewitched you!”
“Yes, of course. Probably with chamomile tea.”
Tatyana Petrovna squealed and ran out, slamming the door so hard that some plaster fell from the wall.
Later that evening Katya washed the dishes while humming quietly.
Something delicious simmered on the stove.
The cat sat in the hallway, offended because nobody had allowed her onto the windowsill.
Grandma sat at the table watching Katya with narrowed eyes.
“You did well, Katya. You stood your ground. I kept thinking I’d die and they’d practically take me apart for spare parts. But now maybe I’ll actually get to live. Like a human being. With another human being.”
Katya dried her hands on a towel and walked over to her.
“Don’t worry, Evdokia Stepanovna. It’s the two of us now. And when there are two of you, things aren’t so frightening.”
They looked at each other—two women from different generations.
Different lives.
But now part of the same family.
And suddenly everything felt lighter than it had in a very long time.
A month later, Katya officially divorced Artyom.
He tried to delay things, tried to persuade her, sent tearful text messages, but eventually gave up.
He moved in with his mother.
Katya stayed with Grandma.
They renovated the bathroom.
Together they bought wallpaper and chose a new faucet.
They argued over the color of the linoleum and made peace over homemade pies—which Grandma baked herself, not Katya. Principles were principles.
Katya returned to work with renewed energy and genuine enjoyment.
In the evenings she and Evdokia Stepanovna watched movies.
Not old movies, but new ones—and Grandma complained that modern actors all looked as though they were made of silicone.
One day Katya said:
“You know, Grandma, I feel calmer with you than I ever did with Artyom.”
“That’s because he was like kefir—bland and quick to spoil.”
“And you’re like a good homemade liqueur—strong and honest.”
They laughed.
Without pain.
Without fear.
Like family.
