My parents registered the large apartment under my sister’s name — and I decided not to pick up the phone, no matter how many times they called.
— Mom, what’s this?
The deed of gift trembles in my hands. Mom freezes at the stove but doesn’t turn around.
— What — what?
— The apartment is in Olya’s name?
Fifteen years ago, I moved in with my parents for a month — to help with Dad after his stroke. Olya had just left for Germany to start a new life. A month turned into years.
— Well, yes. For tax purposes it’s better this way. And besides, if something happens to us…
— When was this done?
— What difference does it make! — Mom suddenly turns sharply. — Are you really upset over a piece of paper?
A piece of paper. For fifteen years I thought I was living in my parents’ home.
— Lenochka, where are Dad’s drops?
A normal morning. I close my laptop — I’ve been working from home for ten years, connecting with the office over video calls. There’s no other way — Dad needs injections every four hours.
— In the medicine cabinet, Mom.
— And is lunch ready?
— I’m cooking.
Dad sits in his chair, complaining about the weather. After the stroke he’s like a child — forgetful, capricious. Mom fusses around him, but the main burden is on me.
In the evening Olya calls. In the photo on my phone she’s tanned, with a dazzling white smile.
— How are you? How’s Daddy?
— The same as always.
— Our project here is wrapping up, they’ve promised a bonus. By the way, I’ll be coming to visit soon!
Olya sends three thousand euros every two months for medicines. She considers her duty fulfilled.
For half a year I pretended I didn’t know about the deed. But every one of Mom’s requests now sounds like the orders of a mistress to her maid.
In February Olya calls, worried:
— Listen, I’ve got problems at work. Can I come stay with you for a month with my family? To rest, to think things over.
Mom snatches the phone:
— Of course, sunshine! We’ll arrange everything!
After the call she turns to me:
— Lenochka, it won’t be hard for you to live separately for a month, will it? The grandchildren will stay in your room, and you… well, you’ll manage somehow.
I slowly set my cup in the sink.
— So I should move out?
— Not move out, just make some room. The children need a proper bedroom, and you don’t mind — you work remotely anyway.
— And where will I live?
— You’ll rent something. Or stay over with friends.
Friends. For fifteen years I hadn’t spent a single night outside this house.
— Mom, but that’s my room…
— Lenochka, don’t be selfish! Olya visits so rarely, and the grandchildren are coming for the very first time. You understand, don’t you?
I understand. I understand all too well.
— I understand. I’ll leave tomorrow.
— That’s my good girl! I knew you’d understand.
I found a studio in one day. Small, but mine. For the first time in fifteen years I wake up in silence.
Mom calls already on the second day:
— Where are Dad’s drops?
— In the medicine cabinet, on the top shelf.
— And when does the masseur come?
— Tuesday and Friday, at ten.
— And if he doesn’t show up?
— You’ll call him. The number’s in the notebook.
— But you always used to…
— Not anymore.
A week later Mom calls in tears:
— It’s such chaos here! Olya is on Skype from morning till night, the kids are turning everything upside down, and Dieter demands special meals! I can’t cope!
— Ask Olya for help.
— She’s busy, she has important meetings!
— I have work too, Mom.
Three days later Olya calls, furious:
— What are you doing? Mom is completely worn out!
— And what are you doing? Living in your apartment and not helping?
— What does the apartment have to do with it? We’re talking about our parents!
— Exactly. About your parents in your apartment.
— Are you seriously offended over some piece of paper?
— I’m not offended. I’m drawing conclusions.
The month ended, but I didn’t come back. Mom calls every day:
— Olechka has left, you can come home now!
— I’m already home, Mom.
— What are you saying? Your home is here!
— My home is where I’m not kicked out for guests.
A week ago I stopped answering the phone. There are forty-three messages on the answering machine.
Yesterday I ran into Mom at the store. She looked older, worn down.
— Lenochka! — she burst into tears. — How can you do this? We’re family!…
— Family is when everyone takes care of each other. Not when one works like a slave, and the others just take advantage.
— But we loved you!
— You loved to use me. That’s not the same thing.
— Lenochka, your father is unwell! He needs care!
— Hire a nurse. Or let the owner of the apartment come back from Germany.
Mom sobbed and walked away. I stood there watching her go. Do I feel sorry? Yes. But pity and the willingness to sacrifice yourself — those are two different things.
At home I sit with a ginger cat on my lap. I picked him up the very first day after I moved out — I wasn’t allowed to keep pets at home, “Dad has allergies.” Now Ryzhik purrs so loudly the neighbors knock on the wall.
The phone lies next to me. Forty-seven missed calls in a week. Yesterday even Olya called — for the first time in three months.
I answer on the thirtieth ring:
— Hello.
— Lena! Finally! — Olya’s voice is angry and tired. — What are you doing? Our parents hired a nurse for thirty thousand! I can’t send that much every month!
— And I couldn’t live without a personal life for fifteen years. But somehow I managed.
— That’s different!
— Yes, different. Mine was harder.
— Lena, come on, be reasonable! Come back at least part-time!
— Olya, be reasonable. Sell the apartment you got for free and pay for the parents yourself.
Silence. Then the line went dead.
At work my colleagues don’t recognize me. I go into the office, propose projects, stay for company parties. My boss looks surprised:
— Lena, you’ve become a different person! You used to always rush home.
— Before, someone was waiting for me at home. Now I’m the one who does the waiting.
I signed up for the gym, for English courses. I made a profile on a dating site — men write, invite me out. It feels strange to be free at forty-five.
The day before yesterday Mom called again. This time I picked up:
— Lenochka, how long can you go on like this! Your father is doing really badly, and a nurse is a stranger!
— Mom, I became a stranger too the day you threw me out of my own room.
— But we didn’t mean…
— Exactly. You didn’t mean. For fifteen years, you didn’t mean.
Today no one called. The silence feels unusual, but good.
I sit in the kitchen, drink coffee, stroke the cat. Outside it’s spring, the sun shines right onto my table. The phone has been silent for three days now.
I think: do I feel sorry for them? Of course I do. But feeling sorry and destroying myself out of pity — those are two different things.
Yesterday Olya sent a text: “We had to call an ambulance for Dad. Think about what you’re doing.”
I thought about it. And didn’t reply.
Do you know what’s strangest of all? That I finally have the courage not to reply. For the first time in forty-five years, I have the courage to say no to those who were used to hearing only yes.
