— Why did you decide that your younger son could move into my apartment?
— Well, we’re family…
— Well then, of course he can. Rent is seventy thousand a month.
Lyudmila and Andrei had been married for almost twenty years. Their eldest son, Denis, had just graduated from high school and entered university, while their younger daughter, Milana, had only just started eighth grade. The family was close: there were hardships and misunderstandings, but they always tried to resolve everything together, without unnecessary noise or drama.
Three years ago, over dinner one evening, Andrei’s parents, Alexander Nikitich and Svetlana Yegorovna, announced that they had decided to bequeath their three-room apartment in the city center, where they were currently living, to their younger son, Nikita, after their passing.
They explained that Nikita needed the apartment more: he was a creative person with an unstable income and no family yet, while Andrei already had everything. He had moved out at twenty into a dorm room, then met Lyuda, and soon they got married.
Alexander Nikitich’s words sounded casual, without any malice, but something broke inside Andrei. It wasn’t about the square meters—they already had a place to live. Over twenty years of marriage, he and Lyudmila had built their own three-room apartment, bought with a mortgage that was now almost completely paid off.
The pain was different: it was about the parents’ unequal treatment of their sons. It was as if Andrei was being pushed aside—he was the older one, so he’d manage, he didn’t need help.
Since then, Andrei never raised the topic directly, but Lyudmila noticed how he shut down whenever family came up in conversation. He still bought gifts for his parents on holidays and visited them on weekends, but his smile during those times was strained, and his eyes distant.
Then, earlier this year, something happened that changed everything—for both Andrei and his parents.
Lyudmila’s grandmother, Yelena Arkadyevna, passed away quietly in her sleep. She was nearly ninety, and in her last years had lived peacefully, without serious illness, surrounded by care. Lyudmila and Milana looked after her almost daily: they cooked, helped with cleaning, and took her for walks. Milana even massaged her hands and read aloud from books her grandmother loved, since her eyesight no longer allowed her to read for long.
The funeral was simple, just as Yelena Arkadyevna had wanted—modest and family-oriented. The one-room apartment where the elderly woman had lived for almost forty years now passed to Lyudmila.
She and Andrei sat down at the kitchen table and discussed everything at once. They decided not to sell it—it would serve as a “reserve airfield” for the children. For now, they would rent it out and use the money for Denis’s education and savings. It made sense: time moves on, and surely their son would soon want to live on his own—and this would already be ready for him.
Everything remained calm until the day Svetlana Yegorovna learned about the inheritance. That evening, before Andrei returned from work, his mother appeared at their door. In her hands was a cake in a snow-white box; on her face, an unusually sweet smile.
“Lyudochka, dear,” she sang as she stepped inside, “how are you holding up after such a loss?”
Her tone was sympathetic, but her eyes sparkled more with curiosity than sorrow. Lyuda, having just taken off her apron, sensed at once that this was no mere courtesy call. She smiled politely and offered her mother-in-law tea. She fully understood that Svetlana Yegorovna had not come by chance and decided to play along.
A few routine phrases about health, the weather, and Milana—and Svetlana Yegorovna gently, almost casually, steered the conversation toward Yelena Arkadyevna.
“May she rest in peace… She was such a good woman. And that little apartment of hers, I remember, was quite cozy. By the way… who ended up with it?” she asked with feigned innocence, looking straight into Lyudmila’s eyes.
“Me,” Lyuda answered calmly and directly, sipping her tea.
Something flashed in Svetlana Yegorovna’s eyes, and she barely contained a smile, as if she had heard exactly what she wanted.
“Wonderful,” she said, in a tone that sounded more like she was pleased for herself than for Lyudmila. “Just perfect! You see, Nikitka… well, he’s in a bit of a difficult situation right now…”
Then came the familiar refrain Lyuda had heard before: poor Nikita was broke, out of work, having “invested all his savings into a project” that was currently yielding no income, and now, naturally, was living off his parents.
And according to Nikita, his parents’ apartment was essentially his, too, so everything was fine. In a way, that was true—Alexander Nikitich had written the will long ago.
“So I thought,” Svetlana Yegorovna said with a sly smile, “maybe you could… you know, as family, let Nikita stay in your grandmother’s apartment for a while?”
The audacity made Lyudmila choke on her cake. She pretended to clear her throat and said coldly:
“Why did you decide that your younger son could move into my apartment?”
“Well, we’re family…”
“Well then, of course he can. Rent is seventy thousand a month.”
Svetlana Yegorovna nearly choked on her tea and turned red.
“Seventy?! Who would pay that kind of money for an old one-bedroom? He’s family! I thought he could stay there for free for a couple of months until he got back on his feet.”
Lyudmila raised an eyebrow slightly:
“He can live for free with his parents. This apartment is for our children. And besides, how old is Nikita supposed to be to ‘get back on his feet’? If I recall correctly, he just turned thirty-four.”
Silence hung in the air, broken only by the sound of the front door opening. In the hallway mirror, Lyudmila saw Andrei’s reflection as he bent wearily to take off his shoes.
He walked into the kitchen, and Lyuda, without changing her tone, said:
“Andryusha, look, your mother came by… and not empty-handed—she brought cake.”
Svetlana Yegorovna instantly seized the moment, as if she had been waiting for it:
“Andryushenka, my dear son, what a wife you have…”—she paused dramatically—“she refuses to let Nikitka stay in Yelena Arkadyevna’s apartment. We’re family! How can this be?”
Andrei, without hurrying, poured himself some tea, then slowly sat down opposite his mother and looked her straight in the eye.
“Mom,” he said firmly, “I fully support my wife.”
Svetlana Yegorovna blinked, as if she hadn’t quite grasped what he meant.
“Support her?..” her voice trembled. “But he’s your brother!…”
— Yes. And Lyuda is my wife. She has every right to do what she wants with her property. Fortunately, our relatives love her. Unlike mine.
“How can you say that?” Svetlana Yegorovna exclaimed indignantly. “We’re everything to you! We’d give you the shirt off our backs, and this is what you think of us?”
“I’m not thinking—I know. And don’t play the innocent here. Stop indulging Nikita. He needs to grow up. He blows through his entire salary in the first week, then borrows and never pays back. Nikita would squander your apartment too, and you’d never find a trace of it.”
“That’s just jealousy talking,” muttered his mother.
“Jealousy?” Andrei laughed.
“Of course—Nikita has a fancy car, a good job, and his girlfriends were always more beautiful than the last.”
Lyuda lowered her eyes slightly. Andrei noticed and said:
“What good are girlfriends? After thirty, you need a woman who will follow you through fire and water. I have that—and she’s beautiful, too! And what does Nikita have? Who would vouch for him? No one? Exactly.”
“Stop it already!” Svetlana Yegorovna finally shouted.
“No, you stop,” Andrei answered loudly. “This apartment belongs to Lyuda, and she’ll decide what to do with it. Discussion over.”
Lyudmila smiled quietly at her husband, gratitude flickering in her gaze.
Breathing heavily with indignation, Svetlana Yegorovna abruptly stood up. The chair scraped lightly against the floor.
“Fine then!” she hissed, grabbing the half-eaten cake from the table. “Since your kids have an apartment now, they don’t need cake either. Let their mother buy it for them!”
Lyudmila, calm and even-toned, replied:
“You’re being petty, Svetlana Yegorovna. And you’d better not take another step toward your grandchildren.”
Her mother-in-law snorted, throwing a scornful look over her shoulder:
“As if I ever needed them…”
She slammed the door, and silence settled in the hallway. Andrei lowered his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Lyudmila knew—in that moment, a bold, final line had been drawn in her husband’s relationship with his parents.
But as it turned out, that line was only a comma.
Two days later, when Andrei came home from work, Nikita called:
“Andryukha, help me out… I’m in trouble. I need money. A lot. We might even have to sell Mom and Dad’s apartment.”
Andrei was about to ask what had happened and how to help, but Nikita, as if on purpose, blurted out the next thing:
“But to avoid that, to save the parents’ apartment, we need to sell Lyuda’s place. Come on—it’s just sitting empty anyway.”
The words hit like a cold shower. Blood began pounding in Andrei’s temples. He silently pressed “end call.”
The phone rang again. And again. Nikita called relentlessly, not giving up. But Andrei stared at the screen, unable to find a single decent word to answer such audacity. He only clenched his teeth tighter, feeling his usual family-and-work fatigue harden into pure, icy anger.
Seeing the change in her husband’s mood, Lyudmila asked what had happened.
“Nikita wants you to sell the apartment.”
“What else does he want?” Lyuda said, shocked. “I was just about to tell you I found tenants.”
“That’s all. He’s in debt…”
“Then let him sell his fancy car,” his wife suggested.
“It’s on a loan.”
“Well then… no one can help him.”
“Someone will. Mom will bail him out again,” Andrei said sadly.
“Let her. I know they’re your parents, but saving your brother isn’t your job.”
A few months later, everything fell into place.
One day Andrei learned from a mutual acquaintance that his parents had canceled their will and sold their downtown apartment. The proceeds were enough to pay off part of Nikita’s debts and buy themselves a small one-bedroom on the outskirts.
Now they lived in a cramped Khrushchev-era flat, far from their former bustle and conveniences. Nikita was still in debt, but his mother, exhausted by his endless requests and failures, finally insisted he get a real job. The creative projects were left behind—now he woke up to an alarm and went to an office, though he grumbled at first.
Meanwhile, life for Andrei and Lyudmila went on smoothly and steadily. They still lived in their own apartment, while the grandmother’s place reliably brought in rental income. No one could dictate how they used their property, and they owed nothing to anyone.
For their children, they wanted only the best—for Denis and for Milana—with no labels of “the favorite” or “the independent one.” In their family, help was given to both, not just to the one who complained the loudest.
And perhaps that was the greatest difference between their family and the one Andrei had grown up in.
