“— What does your daughter have to do with this apartment?” Irina asked.
The pilaf was already ready when Irina heard the lock click. Anton entered the hallway, hung his raincoat on a hook, and spent a long time fussing with his shoes—a sure sign that he wanted to say something important and was carefully choosing his words.
Over six years, Irina had learned this habit of his well.
It was the second marriage for both of them, and each had an unsuccessful experience behind them. Perhaps that was why their relationship was calm—“unromantic,” as Inna, Irina’s friend, described it. Yet both of them hoped to find a safe and peaceful harbor in this marriage.
She was a nurse with a modest salary and a small two-room apartment. He was a manager at a construction company and the father of an adult daughter. Everything between them was steady. Warm. Comfortable.
“Ira,” Anton said as he walked into the kitchen. “Natasha is getting married.”
“What?” Irina put down the knife she had been using to slice bread and turned toward him. “Seriously? To that guy she’s been dating for six months?”
“Yes, to him. He’s a good guy. He works at an auto repair shop, doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke. I had dinner with them yesterday, and he called me Dad.” Anton smiled, but there was something guilty about his smile, as though he were already apologizing for what he was about to say next.
“That’s wonderful, Antosha.” Irina wiped her hands on a towel and hugged him. “Congratulations. Are you happy?”
“Of course. She’s our daughter.”
Irina said nothing to that. Natalia was not her daughter. They had met when the girl was already nineteen. Their relationship was polite and peaceful, but there was no particular warmth between them. To Natalia, Irina was simply “Dad’s wife”—polite, caring, but still an outsider.
“We should think about what to give the newlyweds,” Anton said, sitting down at the table. “They’re planning to rent an apartment. The kids barely have any money.”
“Then we’ll give them money. That’s common nowadays,” Irina replied calmly. “It’s the most practical option. They can decide for themselves what to spend it on.”
“Money is impersonal,” Anton said with a frown. “There’s no soul in it. I want to give them something serious. Something substantial. Something that will last a lifetime.”
He did not return to the subject during dinner, but Irina could sense that her husband had something in mind. She could tell by the way he rolled crumbs of bread between his fingers and remained silent longer than usual.
The next several days passed as normal. Irina worked shifts at the hospital, gave
injections, set up IV drips, and calmed anxious relatives of patients. By evening, her back ached and her legs felt heavy. At home, she cooked dinner while Anton watched the news. Everything seemed to be going on as usual.
But on Saturday morning, over coffee, Anton pushed his cup aside and said:
“I’ve figured out the wedding gift.”
“Go on, then.”
“Ira, why don’t we give them your grandfather’s apartment on Yugo-Zapadnaya? The building isn’t new, of course, but it’s sturdy. Those five-story brick buildings will stand for another hundred years.”
Irina froze with the spoon halfway to her mouth.
Her grandfather, a former military officer and a stern, hard man, had left her that apartment two years earlier. Her brother Ilya had inherited the country house, which was well maintained and had apple trees and a sauna, as well as an old but reliable Volkswagen.
While he was still alive, their grandfather had explained why he had divided his property that way.
“Irina, you can barely manage on your salary now, but on a pension, you probably won’t be able to. If you ever need money, you can rent out the apartment, and it will support you. Ilya already has a three-room apartment, and he has paid off the mortgage. Besides, his wife already takes care of the country house. She enjoys it.”
Anton knew all of this, which made his proposal especially surprising to Irina.
“What does Natasha have to do with it? What claim does she have to my apartment?”
“The point is that the newlyweds need somewhere to live,” Anton said, taking her hand. “Let’s give them the apartment. We’ll renovate it quickly, buy some furniture, and the kids will have a little nest of their own. They shouldn’t have to move from one rental to another.”
Irina pulled her hand away.
“Anton, have you lost your mind?”
“Not at all.”
“That is my apartment. It belonged to my grandfather. It is my inheritance, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I know.” His voice became soft and persuasive, like a doctor preparing a patient for an unpleasant procedure. “But look at the situation from another perspective. You rent it out, right? For thirty thousand a month. Three hundred and sixty thousand a year. That isn’t such a large amount of money. And tenants cause plenty of trouble. This way, you would be helping people who aren’t strangers to you.”
“Natalia isn’t a stranger to me?” Irina felt a dull irritation rising in her chest. “Anton, I’ve known her for six years. She’s an adult woman. She’s twenty-five. She has a mother, and she has you. We aren’t enemies, but I am not obligated to give her an apartment.”
“You could show some generosity,” Anton said quietly. “I would never forget it. Neither would she.”
“And I would never forget that I had given away my financial safety net.” Irina stood up and walked toward the window. Outside, a groundskeeper was gathering fallen leaves. “Do you understand how much I earn? Forty-eight thousand. It’s enough to live on, but I can barely save anything. I’m forty-five, Anton. My pension will be small. That apartment is my future.”
“We have our shared apartment,” Anton reminded her.
“Our shared apartment?” Irina turned around. “Anton, this apartment is mine too. The one we live in. My parents gave it to me when they moved into a private house. You moved in here six years ago. You didn’t buy it, and you didn’t renovate it. Don’t confuse things. What belongs to me does not automatically belong to us.”
“But I live here. And I’m not planning to go anywhere.”
“Yes, you live here. But the apartment belongs to me.”
Anton turned pale. He stood up, walked toward the cupboard, picked up a mug, and then put it back down.
“You’ve changed, Irina.”
“I haven’t changed. This is simply the first time you’ve asked me to give you an apartment.”
“I’m not asking for myself!” he almost shouted. “I’m asking for my daughter! Will you ever understand what Natasha means to me? I held her at the maternity hospital when she weighed three kilograms. I carried her in my arms. And you’re talking about some financial safety net. Disgusting!”
Irina remained silent. She knew this tone. His hurt would turn into anger, and his anger would eventually turn into threats. Not immediately, but it always happened. Over six years, she had learned that too.
“You’re simply selfish,” Anton said more calmly, though bitterness still filled his voice. “You don’t have children, so you don’t understand what parental responsibility means.”
“That was cruel,” Irina said quietly. “And you know it.”
“What else am I supposed to say?”
“You could remember,” Irina said, sitting down and looking directly at him, “how I took care of Natalia when she was brought to our hospital with appendicitis and developed postoperative sepsis. I took time off from my shift and stayed with her all night. Then, for almost two weeks, I washed her, helped her drink, and brought her broth. You were away on a business trip. I didn’t call you or make you panic. I handled everything myself.”
“I thanked you then,” Anton muttered.
“I also paid for her stay at a health resort after her illness, when your ex-wife—Natasha’s mother—said she had no money. I never reminded you of it. I wouldn’t be reminding you now either, but you brought this up.”
“Ira…”
“Wait.” Irina raised her hand. “When Natalia argued with her mother because of her mother’s new boyfriend and left home, she came here. She came to you. But you were away on another business trip. I let her stay here for three weeks. I cooked for her, washed her clothes, listened to her complaints, and wiped away her tears. Back then, she said to me, ‘You’re very kind, Irina Viktorovna. Dad is lucky to have you.’”
“I remember all of that,” Anton said, but his voice trembled.
“You remember it, and yet you’re still asking for the apartment.” Irina shook her head. “I have done everything I could for your daughter. But I will not give away my grandfather’s apartment. I rent it out, and that income will give me a peaceful old age. I don’t want to depend on anyone.”
Anton said nothing. Then he suddenly stood up, walked into the hallway, put on his jacket, and left, slamming the door so hard that the dishes in the cabinet rattled.
Irina remained alone.
She did not cry. She washed the dishes, changed the bed linen, turned on the television, and sat down to knit. She did not follow what was happening on the screen. Her mind was elsewhere, while her hands worked automatically, stitch after stitch. The fashionable knitted scarf she was making for her niece would soon be finished.
Anton returned late, after she had already gone to bed. He entered the room and stood by the door.
“Ira, forgive me,” he said into the darkness. “I lost my temper. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replied quietly. “But I will not give the apartment to Natasha.”
“Go to sleep,” he said.
He lay down on his side of the bed and turned toward the wall.
A month and a half before the wedding, it all started again.
Natalia herself came to see Irina. She sat in the kitchen, drank tea, and spoke in a smooth, persuasive voice, like a saleswoman in an expensive cosmetics store.
“Irina Viktorovna, you understand how much we need a place of our own. Egor and I are saving money, but with our salaries, it will take us ten years to save enough for a down payment. Dad said you have an apartment. You’re kind. You’ve always been kind to me.”
“Natasha, that apartment is my pension,” Irina explained patiently. “I cannot give it to you. I can help you financially. Fifty thousand—you can use it to pay rent or buy furniture.”
Natalia put down her cup and looked at her coldly.
“Fifty thousand? Are you joking? I’m talking about an apartment! Fifty thousand is like being spat in the face.”
“Then I’m sorry.”
“You don’t want to help me,” Natalia said, getting to her feet. “Dad said you were selfish. I didn’t believe him.”
She left without saying goodbye.
Three days later, Anton’s sister Svetlana appeared. She was a strong, loud woman of about fifty-five who was accustomed to commanding everyone in her family. She had supposedly come “just to visit,” but even though Anton was not home, she stayed for two hours. The entire time, she tried to persuade Irina to help the newlyweds.
“Irochka, please understand. The girl needs a little nest of her own. Besides, you don’t have any children. Who are you going to leave the apartment to? Your brother? He already has an apartment, a country house, and a car. Your nephews? They’ll grow up and go their separate ways. But Natasha will remember what you did for her. She’ll take care of you in your old age.”
“Sveta, I’m a nurse. I know what old age looks like, and I know what caring for an elderly person involves. Nobody takes care of anyone for nothing.”
“Anton was right. You’ve become cynical.”
“I’ve become realistic.”
Svetlana left offended, slamming the door slightly less forcefully than Anton had.
A week later, Margarita arrived—Anton’s first wife and Natalia’s mother. She was a heavyset woman with a dissatisfied expression and a sharp, calculating gaze.
Margarita refused tea and did not even take off her coat. She stood in the hallway and spoke sharply, as though reprimanding a subordinate.
“Irina, I’m here on behalf of the whole family. Anton told me everything. I understand that the apartment is yours. But think carefully. If you refuse now, you’ll burn your bridges forever. Anton will never forgive you. He told me yesterday, ‘She doesn’t want to help my child, which means she’s a stranger to me.’”
“Margarita, did you come here to threaten me?”
“I came to warn you. You’re an adult woman, but apparently you don’t understand men very well. A man who loves his daughter will never forgive a woman who refuses to help that daughter. Even if that woman is his wife.”
“Would you give away your apartment if someone asked you for it?”
Margarita was silent for three seconds.
Then she said:
“I don’t have an apartment of my own. I’ve lived in a communal apartment my entire life. That’s why I don’t want Natasha to repeat my fate.”
“Margarita, that is not my responsibility,” Irina said.
Margarita left.
Anton returned that evening. He was sober, composed, and strangely distant. Without removing his coat, he sat down in the hallway.
“You know, Ira, I’ve thought everything through. I’ve weighed it all carefully. And I’ve made a decision.”
“What decision?”
“If you refuse to help my daughter, then we have no future together. You’re selfish. I can’t live with you. Let’s get divorced.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“You’re prepared to destroy our marriage because I refused to give your daughter property that I inherited from my grandfather?”
“It isn’t property, Irina. It’s a home for my daughter. It’s her future, her happiness! You don’t understand because you don’t have children of your own.”
“Well, then I suppose it simply wasn’t meant to be,” Irina said.
Anton stood up, walked into the bedroom, packed his belongings, and left.
He did not say goodbye.
He did not look back.
Irina locked the door behind him, walked into the kitchen, and poured herself some tea. She sat down on the chair where so many people had sat during the previous month and a half—Natalia, Svetlana, and Anton, when he had told her that she had changed.
His mug was still on the table. Irina put it away in the cupboard, on the highest shelf.
She did not know what would happen next.
She was alone in a two-room apartment. Forty-five years old. A nurse. Without a husband and without children.
But she still had her grandfather’s apartment—the apartment she had refused to surrender.
The kitchen was quiet. Around the corner, the trams rang as usual, as though nothing had happened.
Irina walked to the window and opened the small vent. She breathed in the autumn air, which smelled of dampness and fading leaves.
It was cold, but fresh.
Like the beginning of a new life.
“Well then,” she said into the empty room. “Life goes on.”
