— “Are you sure she’ll sign?” The man’s voice was low and heavy, like the hum of an electrical transformer. “That woman would rather choke than give up even a single square centimeter of her precious ‘empire.’”
— “She has no choice. Fear is a far more effective motivator than conscience or love. Besides, she thinks we’re idiots, Igor. She still believes we’re the same naïve kids she can scold for putting a cup in the wrong spot,” the woman replied, her tone cold as glass.
— “That’s cruel, Tanya.”
— “Cruel was throwing me out into the freezing night when I was eight months pregnant over a jar of caviar. What we’re doing now is sanitizing the area—clearing deadwood so the forest can breathe.”
Part 1. The Symphony of the Circular Saw
The mill reeked of warmed resin, machine oil, and sweat. Igor loved it. It was honest. In here, among massive cedar and larch trunks, life was simple: either you ran the sawmill—or the log crushed you.
He adjusted his protective goggles and pressed the button. A giant blade screamed as it tore into the wood, sending up a geyser of golden dust.
Igor was a master sawyer. He didn’t just cut logs—he split premium trunks into wide slabs for high-end designer tables. His hands, broad and calloused, understood timber better than some people understood the ones they lived with.
Through the machine’s howl, he didn’t notice the figure at the hangar entrance right away. A woman in a mink coat that had seen better years stood there, lips curled in disgust as she stared at sawdust blanketing the concrete floor.
Galina Petrovna. His mother-in-law.
Igor shut the machine down. Silence dropped onto the workshop instantly—dense, ringing.
— “Hello, Igor,” she said. Her voice was still trying to sound commanding, like an empress in exile, but a tremble leaked through it. “It’s… dirty in here.”
— “It’s work. People make things here—they don’t flap their tongues,” he replied, not moving an inch toward her. He stayed behind the control console like it was a fortress wall. “Why are you here? You seemed to forget this address three years ago.”
She moved closer, careful not to step into the shavings with her glossy boots. Her face looked drawn; shadows sat under her eyes that even a thick layer of makeup couldn’t hide.
— “I need help,” she said as if she were granting him an honor. “I’m sick. Seriously. I need medication, rehabilitation… and there’s also some debt on the apartment. Those utility people have gone feral—they’re threatening court.”
She paused, expecting the old reaction: concern, fussing, an offer of money.
— “I figured you could… You and Tanya could pay the bills. The apartment will end up being yours someday, after all.”
Igor slowly pulled off his gloves. His face hardened into stone. He remembered selling his dorm room—the only thing he owned—to pay for the “European-style renovation” in her three-bedroom. He remembered laying tiles in the bathroom while she hovered over him, criticizing the color of the grout.
— “You came to me for help? To me—the man you threw out into the street with a pregnant wife?” Igor was practically shouting now. His voice, trained to overpower roaring machines, lashed at her like a whip. “Do you even hear how that sounds?”
— “Don’t you dare raise your voice at me!” she shrieked, clutching her chest. “I’m your wife’s mother! I’m a grandmother!”
— “Grandmother?” he snapped. “You’ve never once seen your granddaughter. You didn’t even send a card. And now you show up because you’re cornered? There’s no money, Galina Petrovna. It all went to family. To my family. The one you tried to destroy.”
— “You’re obligated to help me! My blood pressure is sky-high! If I die, it’ll be on your conscience!”
— “Conscience is an expensive luxury,” Igor said, putting his goggles back on. “Get out. This is a hazardous area. A splinter might hit you.”
He hit the start switch.
The saw’s roar swallowed her shouting. He watched her mouth move, watched her face twist with fury, but he heard nothing—only the clean, powerful sound of work.
Part 2. The Geometry of the City
Tatyana walked down the path of a rebuilt park, her heels clicking on fresh paving stones like a metronome. She worked as a municipal inspector for urban landscaping. Contractors feared her, foremen hated her, and management respected her.
She didn’t see the city as pretty facades. She saw it as a scheme—utilities, responsibility zones, cadastral lines.
— “The slope here doesn’t meet the standard,” she said without looking at the man in a hard hat trotting beside her. “Water will pool. Redo it, or there will be no acceptance report.”
— “Tatyana Sergeyevna, but… our deadline is burning!” the contractor whined.
— “Deadlines burn for people who don’t know how to plan. Redo it.”
She pulled out her phone: five missed calls from her mother, and one message from Igor:
“She came to me. I threw her out.”
Tatyana stopped beside a young linden tree protected by a metal grate. The anger inside her wasn’t hot like fire—it was cold and heavy.
Three years of silence. Three years of clawing for a place in the sun. A rented one-room apartment with a newborn in her arms, sleepless nights, skipping meals just to buy their daughter a winter snowsuit.
Back then her mother had said, “Let them struggle. They’ll come crawling back. Igor hasn’t got a penny, and Tanya without me is nothing.”
She was wrong. Tatyana wasn’t nothing. She was her father’s daughter—the man she barely remembered, but whom people said had a spine of steel.
The phone rang again. Her mother.
Tatyana answered.
— “What do you want?” she asked, skipping any greeting.
— “Your husband—ha, ‘husband’!” her mother’s voice broke into a shrill scream. “That uncouth brute threw me out! Me—a sick woman! Tanya, I need money. Urgently. I have a two-hundred-thousand debt on the apartment, penalties, medication…”
— “So you want us to pay your debts?”
— “I want you to behave like human beings! You have obligations! I raised you! That apartment is your inheritance!”
— “An inheritance you threw me out of?”
— “Don’t start! You’re the one at fault—you chose that pauper over your own mother. Here’s how it’s going to be: tomorrow you come over, you bring the money. And buy groceries too—I’ll send the list. The fridge is bare.”
Tatyana stared at the perfectly straight line of curb disappearing into the distance. Something clicked in her head—like a switch flipping. Emotions powered down. Inspector mode turned on: assess the site, identify the defects, take measures.
— “Fine,” she said in an icy tone. “We’ll come. But the conversation will go differently.”
Part 3. The Delicacy List
The memory hit her out of nowhere as she drove home. It was so vivid her eyes almost ached.
Three years earlier, her mother’s apartment had felt like paradise—spacious, bright, high ceilings. She and Igor poured everything into it: the money from selling his dorm room, wedding gifts, their salaries. New wallpaper, parquet floors, rewired electrics. Her mother smiled and called Igor “sonny” as long as the money flowed.
And then the flow dried up.
Tatyana remembered that evening. She sat at the kitchen table, stroking her rounded belly, when her mother slapped a sheet of paper onto the table.
— “My anniversary is in a week. Lidiya Pavlovna and the Vorontsovs are coming. We need a proper spread. Here’s the list.”
Igor picked up the paper and scanned it.
— “Red caviar, smoked sturgeon, French cognac, three kinds of blue cheese…” he read. “Galina Petrovna, we don’t have money for this right now. We need to save for a stroller. Tanya needs vitamins.”
— “What do you mean you don’t have money?” her face flushed with blotchy red patches. “You work! Find it! Borrow it!”
— “I’m not borrowing money for a drinking party,” Igor said, firm. “We can buy a chicken and make salads. But I can’t feed your friends delicacies. My money ran out back when I was renovating your dacha.”
— “Oh, so now you’re counting my money?” she screamed. “You live in my house! Use my toilet! Breathe my air!”
— “Mom, calm down,” Tatyana tried to step in. “Igor’s right—we need to be careful before the baby comes.”
Her mother went quiet, eyes narrowing. In that moment she looked like a snake right before it strikes.
— “Careful?” she repeated softly. “With me? Out.”
— “W-what?” Tatyana blinked.
— “Out! Both of you! Get out of here! I don’t want to see your faces! Parasites!”
They packed while she screamed. She hurled books and clothes after them. Igor was terrifyingly calm—he simply dressed his crying wife, buckled her boots because her belly wouldn’t let her bend.
— “We’ll be fine, Tanyusha,” he whispered. “We’ll manage. And she’ll be left alone with her wallpaper.”
And now she truly was alone. And the wallpaper, apparently, didn’t protect her from loneliness—or debt.
Part 4. A Trap Made of Politeness
Their own kitchen—small, mortgaged, but cozy—felt like a different universe. Igor sat at the table, gripping a mug of tea. Tatyana paced from corner to corner.
— “She called again,” Tatyana said. “Threatened to sell the apartment to shady ‘black’ realtors just so we don’t get anything. She’s bluffing, of course. She’s too cowardly for that.”
— “What does she really want?” Igor asked.
— “The same thing she’s always wanted: full support and full submission. She wants us to pay off her debts, fill her refrigerator, and disappear—only returning to bring the next tribute.”
Tatyana stopped at the window. Her face reflected in the dark glass.
— “We’re not giving her cash, Igor. Not a single ruble in hand.”
— “Then she could actually lose the place. They’re brutal about nonpayment now. And you’re registered there. That could hit us too.”
— “I know. That’s why I have a plan.” She turned to him, her eyes lit with cold calculation. “She bragged about her dacha, remember? The one you fixed up. Winterized house, fireplace, nature… She always said she wanted fresh air, like an aristocrat.”
— “Yeah. The house is decent. Warm.”
— “We’ll offer her a deal. We pay off every ruble of her debt. We cover treatment. But we don’t have spare money to keep a three-bedroom downtown apartment running while she refuses to pay for it.”
— “And?”
— “We suggest she sells the apartment. Part of the money goes to debts and treatment. With what’s left, we buy… nothing. We tell her she’s moving to the dacha. Fully supported by us. We’ll bring food once a week.”
— “She won’t agree. She needs her downtown ‘luxury.’”
— “She will,” Tatyana smirked. “Because the alternative is court, bailiffs, and forced relocation to a room in a barracks. I’ll paint the future so vividly the dacha will look like a palace. We’ll say the apartment needs to be transferred to me as a gift deed so the bailiffs can’t seize it. And then we’ll sell it, close her debts, and use the remaining money to expand our own place. The dacha stays hers—on paper.”
— “Tanya… that’s harsh. Kicking your mother out of the city—”
— “Igor, you don’t know the most important part.” Tatyana walked to the table and unfolded a city map she’d brought from work. “Look. This is next year’s urban development plan.”
Igor bent over it. His eyebrows rose. His mouth stretched into a dark, satisfied grin.
— “You’re serious?”
— “Completely. I approved it this morning.”
Part 5. Queen of the Dump
The apartment looked neglected. The expensive furniture wore a film of dust; cobwebs clung to the corners. Galina Petrovna sat in an armchair, lips pressed tight, reading the documents with care.
— “So you’re paying off the full two hundred thousand? And covering the clinic course?” she asked.
— “Yes, Mom. And we’ll pay the electricity at the dacha too. You always said you wanted to live in nature—in peace, away from the city,” Tatyana’s voice was honey laced with poison.
Galina Petrovna weighed her options. She couldn’t afford to maintain the apartment. Selling it herself terrified her—she was sure she’d be cheated. And here was her daughter. She could manipulate her daughter. The dacha was good—Igor had built everything solid. She’d live like a landowner, and those two would bring food.
— “Fine,” she nodded regally. “I’ll sign the gift deed. But on one condition: only top-quality groceries. And Igor must come clear the snow.”
— “I’ll talk to him. I’m sure he won’t mind,” Tatyana said without blinking.
The deal went quickly. Confident in her own cleverness, Galina Petrovna moved to the dacha. The apartment was listed and put up for sale immediately.
A week passed.
Igor and Tatyana drove out one last time—to bring the rest of her mother’s things. Galina Petrovna met them on the porch, wrapped in a shawl. Pine forest surrounded the house; the silence rang in the air.
— “Well then,” she said with a sneer. “Think you won? Threw your mother out of her own home? Honestly, I like it better here. The air is medicinal. Quiet. No neighbors. I’ll live here a long time—just to spite you.”
Igor silently carried boxes from the car. Tatyana stepped closer to her mother.
— “I’m glad you like the air, Mom. Breathe deep. While you can.”
— “What are you talking about?”
— “See those stakes with red ribbons beyond the fence?” Tatyana pointed toward the trees.
— “I see them. Someone must be building. Decent neighbors at last.”
— “Not exactly. You remember I’m a municipal inspector. That forest has been reclassified as industrial land. Ten meters from your fence, starting next Monday, construction begins on Phase Two of the city’s waste-processing landfill. And a little to the right there’ll be a new bypass road for trucks.”
Galina Petrovna’s eyes went wide.
— “What?.. You’re lying!”
— “I never lie about work matters,” Tatyana said calmly. “It’s an approved master plan. It’ll be noisy. And the smell… let’s just say it’ll be ‘special.’ Around the clock.”
— “Take me back! Buy me an apartment!”
— “The apartment is sold,” Igor said evenly, snapping the trunk shut. “The money covered your debts—and the down payment on our new mortgage. A bigger place. For us and our daughter.”
— “And me?!” her mother shrieked, gripping the railing so she wouldn’t fall. “Where am I supposed to go?”
— “You have the dacha,” Tatyana cut in. “A warm house. You chose it yourself. And you always said you love watching life. So watch it—watch the life of the city dump.”
— “You monster,” Galina Petrovna rasped, staring at her daughter in horror. “I’m your mother!”
— “You stopped being a mother the day you threw me into the street,” Tatyana said, her voice flat. “We’ll bring groceries once a month. Grains and canned food. Don’t expect delicacies. Goodbye, Galina Petrovna.”
They got into the car. Igor started the engine. In the rearview mirror they watched the figure on the porch shrink—arms flailing, mouth open in a silent scream.
A hundred meters down the road, Igor glanced at his wife.
— “Any regrets?”
Tatyana looked at the map on her tablet, where the dacha settlement area was already shaded gray as an industrial zone.
— “No,” she said. “I just restored order in territory that was assigned to me.”
