“Lenochka, sign it!” — My husband wanted to stick me with a loan, but I ruined his whole plan…
“Len, I’ve been thinking. We need to sell your aunt’s apartment.”
Lena froze with the plate in her hand. Wet buckwheat spilled onto the old linoleum.
“Sell it? Timur, are you out of your mind?” She wearily set the plate on the table, feeling her legs throb after a 24-hour shift in surgery. “We agreed… It’s for the future.”
Timur snorted. He stood leaning against the doorframe, polished, smelling of expensive perfume that didn’t match at all with the lingering scents of boiled cabbage and heart medicine soaked into this kitchen.
“What ‘future,’ Len? The future is now! I need a normal car, not that bucket of bolts rusting under the window. I’m a sales manager — I have to look the part! And we’ll invest the rest. Buy a garage, put it into business. Money should work, not lie around dead weight in some ‘granny-style’ renovation.”
He said it easily, confidently, as if he were managing someone else’s property — which he was. Lena had inherited the apartment a year ago from her cousin. A small, run-down two-room flat in a residential district, but it was hers. Her own.
“Timur, this is my apartment,” Lena tried to keep her voice calm, though her fingers curled into fists on their own. “My inheritance. And I don’t want to sell it. Our car runs just fine. And as for ‘investing’… You already once ‘invested’ my maternity payments into some pyramid scheme.”
His face instantly hardened. The smugness fell off him like cheap gold plating.
“You’re still throwing that in my face? Back then, I was doing it for the family too! And what kind of talk is this? ‘Mine,’ ‘yours’… Are we a family or not? I’ve given you my best years, and you’re counting pennies on me?”
“I’m not counting—” she began, but he cut her off.
“What do you even understand about money, nurse? Your salary is laughable. I’m the one supporting the whole family — and my mother too!”
“Don’t you dare talk like that, Timur!” Lena flared up. “I spend days and nights in the hospital—”
“Exactly! Days and nights!” He took a step toward her. “And what about me? I’m supposed to sit at home alone? Waiting while you carry bedpans for strangers? I’m a man — I need attention!”
The door creaked in the hallway. Into the kitchen walked Lyubov Borisovna, leaning heavily on her cane. Tall, thin, wearing an old but neat housecoat. Her face, usually pale and drawn from illness, was now unreadable.
Timur switched tactics instantly. A sugary smile stretched across his lips.
“Hi, Mom! We’re just… discussing household matters. I’m offering Lena a great deal, and she’s being stubborn.”
He walked up, kissed his mother’s dry cheek, adjusted her collar. Lena watched this scene with quiet despair. Their whole life together he had deceived them both: her — with fake tenderness, and his mother — with exaggerated filial devotion.
Lyubov Borisovna slowly made her way to her stool by the window. Sat. She stayed silent for a long, painfully long time, staring into the darkness outside where a thin October drizzle began. The kitchen grew so quiet they could hear water dripping from the old faucet. Timur grew nervous.
“Mom, tell her! The apartment is just sitting there empty, and we need money. The car—”
“The car,” his mother repeated — not asking, stating. She didn’t turn her head. Her quiet voice now rang with steel. “You need a new car. But Lena doesn’t, I suppose.”
Timur blinked, thrown off balance. Clearly, he had expected another reaction.
“Why… why not? It’ll be ours! We’re a family!”
“Family,” she echoed again. “Family means bringing things into the home, Timur. Not taking them out.”
“What are you even saying, Mom?!” he exploded. “What do you mean, ‘out of the home’? I’m doing this for us! I want us to live properly! So you can go to the dacha in comfort, not in that wreck!”
“I can get to the dacha by bus,” she finally turned her head. Her faded eyes looked straight at him, without a hint of compassion. “I didn’t raise you so you could rob your wife. Lena has every right to that apartment. Her aunt left it to her. Not to you.”
Lena gasped. She had always known her mother-in-law valued her — sometimes more than her own son, it seemed. Lyubov Borisovna, domineering and often unbearable in her nitpicking, had accepted gentle, trusting Lena immediately. Lena took care of her after her heart attacks, gave her injections, cooked diet porridge… and the older woman responded with stern, unshakable loyalty. But Lena had not expected such open defense.
Timur flushed deep red.
“Oh, so now it’s ‘Lenochka’? I’m not even your son anymore? Everything for her?!”
“Stop yelling,” his mother’s voice did not tremble. “My blood pressure will spike again, and Lena will have to deal with me. You’re only good at slamming doors.”
“Oh yeah?! Well then I’ll slam one!” he screamed. “Live here alone then, if you’re so smart! If I’m so terrible!”
He grabbed his expensive leather jacket from the chair. At that moment, his phone chimed in his pocket. He snatched it out quickly. Lena managed to glimpse part of the glowing message: “Kitten, so what’s happening? Is he…”.
Lena’s heart skipped a beat and plunged into a cold, sticky void. “Kitten.” Not “Oleg-auto-parts.” Not “Semyon-tire-shop.” “Kitten.”
“Who… who is that, Timur?” she asked in a whisper that frightened even herself.
“None of your business!” he barked, hiding the phone.
“Oh, not my business…” Lena slowly stood up. The exhaustion vanished instantly. In its place came a ringing, icy fury. “So who’s messaging you is not my business. But my apartment — that’s your business?! Not enough money for your ‘Kitten,’ huh?! Need a car for your ‘Kitten’?!”
She didn’t even recognize her own voice. Timur recoiled. He wasn’t used to seeing her like this. He was used to the trusting, quiet Lena who forgave him everything — the drunken escapades, the “lost” paychecks, the blatant lies.
“What… what do you think you’re doing, you little gray mouse?!” he hissed, instantly losing all his fake respectability. “Who else would even want you besides me? Look at yourself! That faded robe, your hands reeking of lotion!”
“Her hands smell like work,” Lyubov Borisovna cut him off from her seat. “And yours smell like someone else’s perfume.”
It was a punch to the gut. Timur choked on his outrage.
“Mom! You too?! You’re all ganging up on me?!”
“Get out,” his mother said quietly. “Go. Air out your head. And think. If you still have the ability.”
Timur looked at his mother, then at his wife, and realized that today he had lost the battle. Cursing disgustingly, he yanked the door open and stormed out into the stairwell. The entrance door slammed so hard that the dishes in the cabinet rattled.
Silence hung in the kitchen. Only the rain drummed against the windowsill.
Lena stood frozen. She wasn’t crying. The tears seemed to have solidified inside her, turning into a heavy block of ice.
Groaning, Lyubov Borisovna stood up. She went to the cupboard and took out a jar of dried herbs.
“This, Lenochka, is for your nerves. St. John’s wort and mint. I picked them myself at the dacha this summer, right on St. Peter’s Day,” she poured the herbs into a teapot. “That’s when they have the strongest power. Drink it… And forget about selling the apartment. He doesn’t get to decide.”
She set the teapot on the table. Lena looked at her wrinkled, stern face and suddenly realized that in this house, she had a true ally.
“Lyubov Borisovna… he… he won’t come back, will he?”
Her mother-in-law smirked, but without joy.
“He will, Lenochka. Where else would he go? Men like him always come back. They need somewhere to live. Something to eat. He’ll crawl back, don’t worry.”
And he did come back. The next morning. Quiet, rumpled, with a cheap bouquet of asters in his hand. The asters, already touched by the first frost, looked as pathetic as he did.
He dropped to his knees in front of Lena right in the hallway, burying his face in her apron.
“Forgive me, Lenusya, forgive this fool! The devil got into me!” he mumbled, kissing her tired hands that smelled of hospital antiseptic. “I lost my temper! I don’t need that apartment, I don’t need anything! Only you! Please don’t leave me, Len…”
Lena stood looking at the dark back of his head. Her trusting heart trembled out of habit, ready to forgive, to believe, to accept. He looked up at her — his eyes blue like a child’s, and just as deceitful.
“Never again… you hear me, Lena? Never again!”
She nodded slowly, although inside everything screamed: “A lie!” But she wanted so badly to be wrong.
From her room, through a cracked door, Lyubov Borisovna watched the scene silently. She saw Lena take the asters, saw her help her husband to his feet. The older woman simply shook her head and quietly closed the door. She knew her son. This wasn’t remorse. This was a change of tactics…
“Oxanochka, you have to understand, kitty! I couldn’t take her head-on! She latched onto that apartment like… like a nurse to sterility! And Mother only added fuel to the fire!…”
Timur whispered into the phone, standing out on the balcony and shivering as he pulled his jacket tighter. In the kitchen, Lena was clattering pots — cooking him dinner after his “hard day.”
“I don’t care why it didn’t work!” rang a spoiled, girlish voice from the phone. “You promised me Turkey in October! Five stars! I already told all my girlfriends! Lera’s husband bought her a fur coat, and you can’t even scrape together money for a trip?”
“I will, kitty, I will! I’ve got it all figured out!” Timur babbled. “I’ll approach it differently this time. With affection. She’s so trusting — she’ll melt. I just need her to sign one little paper… A tiny authorization form. Supposedly to apply for a utilities subsidy for Mom. And with that authorization I’ll…”
“Make sure you do it, Timur!” the girl’s voice snapped sharply. “If there’s no money in a week, Lera’s husband, by the way, invited me to dinner. Unlike some people, he doesn’t make empty promises.”
Timur swallowed.
“It’ll all be fine, kitty. All fine!”
He returned to the kitchen transformed.
“Lenochka, sweetheart! You must be exhausted!” He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Lena flinched in surprise, then softened. Oh, how she wanted to believe. “Let me do it. You go rest. Lie down.”
For the next few days, Lena lived as though in a fog. Timur was behaving better than he ever had — even in the first year of their marriage. He brought her coffee in bed, went to the pharmacy himself for his mother’s medicine, stayed home in the evenings, read the newspaper aloud to Lyubov Borisovna, making a show of ignoring his smartphone.
“Look at that, Lenochka,” she kept marveling to herself, “maybe your shouting really got through to him? The man is correcting himself.”
Lyubov Borisovna only snorted in response and asked Lena to take her blood pressure.
“One-forty over ninety. Again,” Lena sighed, setting the cuff aside. “You need a pill.”
“I don’t want your chemicals,” the older woman grumbled. “Better bring me the viburnum we mashed last year. That’s real medicine. You know when you’re supposed to pick it, Lenochka? Not just in autumn — but after the first frost hits. That’s when it loses its bitterness and all its strength goes inside. Nothing better for blood pressure. And for the heart too. Mash it with sugar, one to one, keep it in the fridge. A spoon in the morning, a spoon in the evening.”
Lena listened and nodded. She liked her mother-in-law’s homely wisdom. There was something real, rooted in it — unlike Timur’s deceitful shine.
Meanwhile, Timur wasn’t wasting time.
“Mom,” he sat beside her one evening while Lena was at work, “here’s the thing. I found out — you’re entitled to a housing subsidy as a labor veteran. And we’ve racked up a small utility debt while I was… well… not earning very well. So, to restructure the debt and apply for the subsidy, there’s a lot of running around involved. You can’t do it yourself. And Lena’s always at work. Let me handle it?”
Lyubov Borisovna narrowed her eyes.
“You? Running around government offices? Never known you to do such things, son.”
“But I’m doing it for you, Mom!” he placed a theatrical hand on her shoulder. “Only thing is — we need a power of attorney. From Lena. The apartment is in her name. So she has to authorize me to collect the documents. I asked a friend, he prepared the form. She’ll sign — and that’s it. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Well, do it then,” the older woman shrugged indifferently. “If you’ve decided to be useful.”
That evening, Timur staged a full performance for Lena.
“Lenochka, sweetheart, I decided to help Mom. Get her the subsidy. But what a hassle! And you know how I worry about you — I don’t want you running around offices after your shifts. I’ll do it myself. Just sign here,” he held out a neatly folded sheet, “it’s just a simple authorization to collect documents. A formality.”
Lena picked up the pen. Her trusting heart was ready to sign anything, just so the fragile peace wouldn’t crumble again. But something stopped her. Maybe Timur’s eyes were shining too brightly. Or maybe he turned to face the window a bit too casually.
“Timur… what is this… ‘general power of attorney’?” she unfolded the sheet. “With the right to sell, gift, and receive funds?”
Timur froze.
“Huh? That’s… that’s just the standard version, Len! Lawyers always write it like that — just in case! So they don’t have to redo it ten times. You trust me, don’t you?”
“I trusted you,” Lena said quietly. She looked at the lines of text, and the veil began to fall from her eyes. “With the right to sell.” “With the right to gift.” “Kitty.” “Turkey.” Everything formed one hideous picture.
“What, so you’re—” he flushed crimson, realizing the deception had failed, “you don’t trust me?! I’m doing everything for the family, and you—”
“Leave, Timur,” Lena placed the paper on the table. Her voice was even and lifeless.
“What?!” he screeched. “You’re kicking me out?! Out of my house?!”
“This isn’t your house. This is your mother’s apartment. And mine — the one you were so eager to sell. Leave.”
“Where am I supposed to go?! Mom!” he screamed, running into his mother’s room. “Mom, she’s throwing me out!”
Lyubov Borisovna was sitting in her armchair, completely calm. On the table beside her was a telephone — not a mobile, but an old rotary one.
“Timur,” she began unusually loudly and clearly, “earlier today I called Raisa Petrovna. Remember her? From the third entrance? We worked together at Tekstiltorg.”
Timur blinked in confusion.
“What Raisa? What does Raisa have to do with anything?!”
“Well, son, her daughter is Oksana. Does nails. Raisa bragged that her daughter is flying to Turkey. With a gentleman. A very generous, very smitten gentleman… Paid for everything. Only there’s been a small issue with the money. Oksanochka’s waiting. Afraid the trip might fall through.”
Timur turned so pale he looked like a corpse. He stared at his mother, unable to utter a single word. He had completely forgotten that “Oksana-the-Nail-Tech” was the daughter of his mother’s old coworker. The world he had so carefully constructed was collapsing.
“You… Mom… what are you…”
“I may be old and sick, son,” Lyubov Borisovna said, slowly pulling herself up with the help of her cane, “but I’m not deaf. And I’m not blind. And unlike you, I have real friends. Many of them. I told Raisa everything. About Lenochka’s apartment, and about your ‘power of attorney.’”
She paused, letting the words sink in.
“Oh, and how Raisa yelled,” she continued. “Says she’s going to whip her Oksanochka tomorrow, even though the girl is thirty. And that she doesn’t want to see you anywhere near her. So…”
His mother stepped up to her stunned son.
“Go, Timur.”
“Where?!” His voice held no anger now — only animal fear.
“Oh, go… to Oksana. With your things. See if she’ll take you in. Without money.”
He lunged toward Lena.
“Lenusya! It’s her! She set me up! I—”
Lena silently opened the front door for him.
He looked at her calm, distant face, then at the stern, unyielding face of his mother. And he understood. It was over. The end. There was nothing left for him here. He grabbed his jacket — the one that smelled of someone else’s perfume — and bolted out the door.
…A week passed. The apartment became quiet. Unusually quiet. Lyubov Borisovna felt better — her blood pressure hardly spiked anymore. Lena no longer rushed home after work to make dinner on time. She began stopping by the store, buying herself not marked-down ground meat but a good piece of cheese or a jar of olives.
In the evenings, they sat together in the kitchen. Lyubov Borisovna taught Lena how to pickle cucumbers so they’d stay crunchy, and Lena shared stories from the hospital.
“First frosts are coming soon,” the older woman said one day, looking out the window at the yellowing birch trees. “Time to go pick viburnum, Lenochka.”
“It is time, Lyubov Borisovna,” Lena smiled. “Get well. We’ll go to the dacha. We’ll pick it. We’ll pick everything, and everything will be all right.”
She knew it would be. Ahead lay a lot of work, many worries, but for the first time in years, she felt not fear — but hope. Hope that from now on, everything would finally be right.
