“Since the apartment is registered in your brother’s name, then get your residence permit through him. I’m not letting you in,” Masha declared to her parents.
“Have you lost your mind, Katya?” her mother’s voice on the phone rang like a taut string. “Are we strangers to you now?”
Katya pulled the phone slightly away from her ear for a second, as if checking whether she had heard correctly. Outside, an unpleasant autumn rain was falling, the wind chasing wet leaves around the yard, and the apartment smelled of morning coffee and dampness from the open window.
“Mom, I just said I can’t take you in right now. We’re doing renovations, things are everywhere. And… honestly, I don’t understand why you decided to move at all.”
“Oh, you think it’s fun for us to run around rental places?” her mother cut in. “Your father and I are always living out of suitcases. They promised the building would be completed by summer, and now they say — next year. So if you have even a drop of conscience, dear daughter, you’ll give us shelter. For a couple of months.”
Katya stayed silent. A tight feeling clenched in her chest. “A couple of months,” translated from her mother’s language, meant “until you kick us out.” She knew that from experience.
“Mom, I already explained that we don’t have space. Dima and I barely fit here as it is.”
“Oh, of course, little Dima!” her mother’s voice rang with sarcasm. “There’s space for him, but not for your own mother? Have you forgotten who raised you?”
“She raised me — yes, but at what cost,” Katya thought, but out loud she remained calm:
“Mom, don’t start. Let’s not yell.”
“I’m not yelling! I’m just amazed at how life has ruined you. You used to be so kind, and now… a stone.”
Katya closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The conversation followed a familiar trajectory, as if she and her mother had rehearsed it for years. She even knew what would come next.
“Mom, where are you living now?”
“In this shack on Sokoliny Gory. A ten-meter room, a shared kitchen. Can you imagine? Shared! With some Tajiks and students. Your father has been arguing with the neighbors over a pot for two days. It’s impossible! We’re older people — we have blood pressure, bad backs — we need peace!”
“And what, do you think it’s easy for me?” Katya wanted to say, but held back…
“Mom, why did you even sell the apartment? You renovated it just two years ago.”
There was a pause. Then her mother sighed heavily:
“It was your brother who asked.”
Katya’s cheek twitched. As always.
“Artyom?” she clarified. “And what, he ‘invested in a business’ again?”
“Well…” her mother drew out her words, “he’s young, ambitious. He needed startup capital. We thought we’d help. We were planning to move to the dacha anyway. And we finished the renovation along the way, bought him a share in a company.”
“And?”
“And nothing. His partner turned out to be a fraud. Everything collapsed. And then Artyom and Tanya started having problems. She got tired of ‘carrying everything on her own,’ supposedly. And now they and the kids moved into a rental. And we…” her mother’s voice faltered, “we were left with nothing.”
Katya listened, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. The story was so predictable it felt like a rerun of an old film. She even remembered how three years ago she had warned them: “Mom, don’t do it! Artyom needs to learn to take responsibility for his own decisions.” To which her mother replied: “He’s a man, it’s harder for him. You just don’t understand.”
Now “the man” had left his parents without a roof over their heads.
Katya stood up and walked to the window. The rain had grown stronger, drops drumming on the sill. Dima was typing something in the next room — working from home, finishing a project by the end of the week. Katya didn’t want him to hear this conversation.
“Mom, what does Dad say?”
“Dad… is silent, as always,” her mother’s voice carried tired resentment. “I tell him: call your daughter, she’ll help at least. And he keeps mumbling that ‘Katya is busy.’ Of course she’s busy. She has her own life. We’re no longer needed.”
“Mom, stop manipulating me. You’re adults. You made your choice. And now…”
“A choice?!” her mother interrupted. “We helped our son! Our own son! Is that a crime? Wouldn’t you help if you could?”
Katya let out a short, humorless laugh.
“I would think first, Mom. Because before helping, you should be sure the person is ready to do something themselves. But Artyom has spent his whole life only taking.”
Silence hung on the line. Then her mother said coldly:
“I see. You’ve decided to abandon us. Well then. I understand everything.”
And she hung up.
Katya put the phone on the table and ran her hand down her face. Inside, it felt heavy — like after a long illness.
A few minutes later, Dima looked into the room.
“What happened? Your mom again?”
“Uh-huh. They want to stay with us.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said ‘no’.”
Dima silently came closer and embraced her.
“Good. Otherwise they’ll never leave.”
Katya said nothing. Deep inside, she felt ashamed. They were her parents, after all. But memories quickly chilled that pity.
There was a time she dreamed her mother would be proud of her. In school, she tried to be the best, got into university on her own — without connections, without money. Worked from freshman year to avoid dependence. But at home, all attention always went to her brother.
If Katya brought home a top grade — her mother said, “Well, you’re smart, we expected nothing less.”
If Artyom brought home a mediocre mark — “He’s a boy, so what, he’ll improve.”
When Katya bought her first car, her mother said, “You could’ve given it to Artyom. He needs it more — he’s supporting a family.”
When Katya got married, her mother toasted at the wedding:
“We wish our daughter to be as lucky as her brother!”
Even then she didn’t cry. Something inside simply went hollow.
Three days later, her mother called again.
“Katya, hi. Your father and I have thought everything over. We’ll come to you tonight. Just don’t argue, okay? We have no choice.”
“Mom, wait. I already told you—”
“That’s enough. We’re your parents. We’re not going to sleep in that dump. You have the key in your bag, let us in.”
Katya felt something boiling inside.
“Mom, no. Don’t come. I can’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘you can’t’? What are you, a monster?! You have two rooms — and what, we’re animals? Your father and I are old already!”
“Mom,” she cut her off. “You sold your apartment. Voluntarily. For Artyom. For the one who now won’t even take you in. Why should I clean up the consequences of your decisions?”
“Because you’re the daughter!”
“And what is he? Not a son?”
No answer. Just short breathing into the receiver, then a click — and the dial tone.
That evening, Dima returned late. Katya sat silently on the couch with a cup of cold tea.
“They called again?”
She nodded.
“They’ll come without permission,” Dima said. “I know them from your stories.”
“You think they’d dare?”
“I do. You know your mom.”
He was right.
The next day, when Katya came home from work, two suitcases stood by the entrance. Nearby — her mother, coat buttoned up to the neck, and her father, hunched over with a weary face.
“We’re here,” her mother announced. “We have nowhere else to go.”
Katya stood still, feeling blood pulse in her temples. She wasn’t even surprised.
“Mom, I warned you…”
“No more talking,” her mother brushed past her into the entrance. “Open the door — we’ll sort it out later.”
Her father followed, not raising his eyes.
Katya opened the door. Not because she gave in, but because she didn’t want to create a scene in front of the neighbors.
The apartment instantly felt cramped. Her mother immediately started giving orders:
“Everything here is so… bare. Where are the clean towels? You need to tidy the kitchen — the pots are all in the wrong place.”
Katya clenched her teeth.
“Mom, you’re a guest. Don’t boss us around.”
“I’m not a guest. I’m your mother!” she retorted defiantly. “If it weren’t for me, you’d have nothing!”
“I would have nothing if I had listened to you,” Katya muttered quietly and walked into the bedroom.
For three days the apartment was turned upside down. Her mother argued with Dima about the dishes, complained about the noise from the TV, grumbled that “the food is tasteless, everything has no salt.”
Her father sat on the balcony with a cigarette, silent. Sometimes he tried to smooth things over, but he gave up quickly.
On the fourth day, Dima snapped:
“Katya, it’s either them or me. I’m not made of steel.”
Katya knew he was right.
That evening she gathered her courage and sat across from her mother at the kitchen table.
“Mom, you and Dad have to leave.”
“What?!” her mother shot up from her chair. “You’re throwing us out?”
“I’m asking. I have work, Dima has a deadline. We can’t live like this.”
“And where do you suppose we go, genius? Onto the street?”
“To Artyom’s. He’s the one responsible for you now.”
“He has kids, he’s already struggling.”
“And I’m not?”
Her mother leaned back, arms crossed.
“You’re ungrateful. It’s all because of that husband of yours. He’s turned you against us.”
“No, Mom. You turned me against you when you gave everything to my brother — even the chance at fairness.”
Her father lifted his eyes from his cup.
“Katya, don’t get worked up… Your mother just—”
“Dad,” she cut in. “Aren’t you ashamed? You could have chosen differently.”
“We thought it would be better.”
“For whom? For Artyom? Did you think about me even once?”
He said nothing. Only sighed.
Katya stood up.
“Tomorrow I’ll pay for a hotel for you for one week. After that, you figure it out yourselves. I can’t do anything more.”
“You’re abandoning us!” her mother screamed. “After everything we’ve done for you!”
Katya looked at her.
“Yes, Mom. After everything you’ve done for me.”
They left in the morning. Without a word. Only the door slammed.
The apartment filled with silence again. Katya stood by the window as rain drummed against the glass. She felt not relief, but emptiness. As if a piece of life had been cut out. But she knew—there was no other way.
A week later, her father called.
“Katya… We’re at the hotel. Your mother keeps crying. I told her we’re the ones at fault. But maybe… can you at least stop by? Talk to her?”
“Dad, I can’t.”
“We’re already old…”
“Old age is not an excuse,” she said. “You just never wanted to see what was happening. It was always easier to stay silent.”
He was silent for a long time, then quietly said:
“You’re probably right.”
“It’s too late to understand that now, Dad.”
Two more weeks passed. Katya had almost gotten used to the quiet. Autumn had fully settled in: dark, cold mornings, the building entrance smelling of wet leaves.
One evening she went out to take out the trash and saw her father by the entrance. He stood there in a dark jacket, holding a bag in his hands.
“Dad?”
He turned.
“Hi, sweetheart. I… won’t come in. I just wanted to see you.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“At a friend’s. I left. I’m tired. She’s always arguing, blaming everyone. Igor and Tanya don’t pick up the phone. I thought… maybe at least you won’t turn away.”
Katya was silent for a long time.
“Dad, you chose to be silent when you could have changed everything.”
“I know. I was a fool.”
“And now what?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to say: you’re amazing. You’re the only real one among us.”
He smiled — tired and kind.
“Live your life, Katya. Don’t repeat our mistakes.”
She nodded. She didn’t cry. Didn’t invite him inside. Only said:
“Take care of yourself, Dad.”
He walked away through the courtyard, hunched, into the darkness.
Katya returned home. Dima met her in the hallway.
“Who was it?”
“My father. He came to say goodbye.”
She sat on the couch, wrapped herself in a blanket. Inside, everything was calm. No anger, no pity. Just steady peace.
Outside — the same rain, drops tapping at the glass, rare headlights gliding by.
Katya thought that maybe this is what freedom looks like — when you no longer need to prove to those who never wanted to see your worth that you deserve love.
In this home no one raises their voice. No one devalues, no one demands.
Only silence, the smell of coffee, and Dima’s voice from the kitchen:
“Katya, should I reheat the soup or do it myself?”
“Do it yourself,” she said, and for the first time in a long while, she smiled.
She was thirty-five, and her whole life was ahead of her. A real one. Her own. Without constantly paying for other people’s mistakes.
And no more fear — neither of the past nor of herself.
