“I won’t give it back! It’s mine!” the niece screamed, hiding the phone behind her back. Her husband let out a heavy sigh.
The Little Empress and Her Entourage
Galina stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the ten-year-old girl who, triumphant, pressed a smartphone to her chest. The screen was still lit, showing an open chat thread.
“Milana, please give the phone back,” Galina tried to keep her voice calm, even though a dull, heavy irritation was already stirring inside her.
“I won’t give it back! It’s mine!” her niece hid the phone behind her back and stuck out her tongue. “The game is awesome, and I’m not done yet!”
“This isn’t a toy, and I didn’t give you permission to take it,” Galina said, taking a step forward.
On the sofa, her sister Larisa merely waved her off lazily, flipping through a magazine. She looked like she was at a resort—not visiting her younger sister’s home, where she’d already spent three weekends in a row.
“Oh, Gal, why are you picking on a child?” Larisa drawled with a yawn. “She’ll play for five minutes and give it back. What, are you that stingy? You’ve got phones coming out your ears… And Milanotchka is stressed—she got a bad grade at school for no reason. She needs to relax.”
“Stressed,” Galina thought, looking at the rosy-cheeked, well-fed girl staring back at her with the defiance of a small animal that knows it won’t be bitten. Larisa’s story had always been the family’s main drama: a failed marriage, years of treatment, then a sudden pregnancy—no one knew by whom—and the result was Milana. “A gift from God,” as their mother, Tamara Pavlovna, called her. That “gift” had grown up absolutely certain the world revolved around her wishes.
Galina sharply reached out and yanked the gadget from her niece’s sticky fingers. Milana immediately sucked in a lungful of air and let out an ultrasonic shriek.
“Mooom! She’s huuurting meee!”
Larisa jumped up on the sofa; the magazine flew to the floor.
“What are you doing? Why are you twisting a child’s arms?” her sister screeched, rushing to her daughter. “Milanotchka, sweetheart, show me your hand! Does it hurt?”
Galina watched the performance with disgust. She worked as a lead architect at a firm, managed complex projects—but around her own relatives, she turned into household staff. Oleg, her husband, tolerated this traveling circus only for her sake. He was gentle and cultured, designed landscape parks, and hated conflict.
“I didn’t touch her hands,” Galina said coldly, wiping the screen with a wet wipe. “I just took back my own property. Larisa, have a conscience. You came on Friday. It’s Sunday evening. Oleg has to get up early tomorrow—he needs sleep. Maybe it’s time you left?”
“You’re kicking us out?” Larisa pressed a hand to her chest theatrically. “We came to our own sister, we’re sitting quietly, bothering no one. And you… Of course, you married a rich guy—now you don’t want to know your family! You’ve gotten too high and mighty!”
“Larisa, stop. Oleg isn’t ‘a rich guy.’ He works hard. And so do I.”
“Mom, I’m thirsty! I want juice! The one from the pretty carton!” Milana whined, instantly forgetting her “hurt” hand.
“Right away, baby, right away—Auntie Galya will pour some,” Larisa said, looking at her sister expectantly.
“Auntie Galya won’t pour anything,” the homeowner snapped. “The juice is gone. You drank three liters in two days.”
“Greedy!” Milana spat, glaring at Galina with her small angry eyes. “You’re so greedy! Grandma says you’re a nasty old hag—and she’s right!”
Galina froze.
“What did you just say?”
“What you heard!” the girl snapped back and kicked the leg of an armchair.
Larisa hurried to gather their things, realizing her daughter had gone too far.
“Come on, Milana. We’re not wanted here. See? Auntie Galya is tired of us. It’s fine—Grandma baked us some pies. We’ll go to her.”
They left behind unwashed dishes, sticky stains on the table, and the stubborn smell of Larisa’s cheap perfume, which wouldn’t fade for hours. Galina sank into a chair. In the apartment’s silence, the clock ticked. Oleg would be home soon.
She loved her husband. And he loved her. But that “holy trinity”—mother, sister, and niece—was like rust, slowly eating away at their marriage. Galina hoped that with time things would settle, that Milana would grow up and wise up, and Larisa would find a man or a job. But time passed, and her relatives’ appetites only grew.
The Ceramic Idol
Two weeks went by. Oleg flew north on a business trip to supervise the planting of rare conifers for a new city park. Galina enjoyed the quiet—until Saturday morning, when the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood Larisa with Milana. Uninvited.
“We were in the neighborhood, decided to pop in!” Larisa shoved her way into the hallway, pushing her daughter in front of her. “Oh, it’s so nice at your place—cool. Outside it’s scorching.”
Galina didn’t have time to say a word before the guests were already in the kitchen. Milana immediately began inspecting the refrigerator, and Larisa flopped into a chair, demanding coffee.
“Gal, listen, I’m a bit short on money until my benefit comes in,” Larisa began, not even bothering to pretend politeness. “Can you transfer about five thousand to my card? Milanka’s sneakers tore.”
“I gave you money last week,” Galina reminded her, putting the kettle on.
“That was for groceries! This is shoes. The child has nothing to walk in! You don’t want your niece walking around barefoot, do you? You and Oleg have money coming out of your ears, but you’re stingy with your own blood.”
Galina said nothing. Arguing was pointless. She knew it was easier to give than to listen to a lecture about heartlessness. But at that moment, a clatter came from the living room—not glass breaking, but something heavy hitting the parquet floor.
Galina rushed in.
Milana stood by the fireplace, holding that very figurine in her hands. It wasn’t just a trinket. It was a strange, slightly angular figure of a dancing crane, carved from dark wood and covered in intricate lacquerwork. It had been a gift to Oleg from his first love—a girl who had died tragically many years ago. Galina knew the story. She wasn’t jealous of the past. On the contrary, she respected her husband’s memory. That crane was, for Oleg, a symbol of youth, purity, and the fact that life goes on. He even dusted it himself.
“Milana, put it back. Right now,” Galina’s voice turned hard.
“It’s cool!” Milana twisted the crane, tugging at its thin wing. “I want it. I don’t have one like this.”
“That belongs to Uncle Oleg. It’s very dear to him. Put it down,” Galina said, holding out her hand.
“NO!” Milana shouted. “I want it! Mom, look what a bird! Let Galka give it to me!”
Larisa walked in chewing a cookie.
“Oh, what a little knickknack. Just give it to the kid—what’s the big deal? Some piece of wood. Buy yourself a new one; there are tons of those in underpasses.”
“You can’t buy this in an underpass. It’s a memory,” Galina stepped toward the girl. “Milana, give it back.”
“I won’t! It’s mine! I found it!” the girl hid the figurine behind her back and backed away. “Mom said I could!”
“I didn’t say that! Larisa, tell your daughter!”
Larisa only shrugged, brushing crumbs onto the carpet.
“Gal, don’t be such a bore. She likes it. Let her play with it for a couple of days, then we’ll bring it back. Or she’ll throw it out when she gets bored. Honestly—making a problem out of nothing.”
That was it. Galina’s patience snapped.
“Get out,” she said quietly.
“What?” Larisa stopped chewing.
“I said: GET OUT. BOTH OF YOU!” Galina roared so loudly Milana flinched—but she didn’t let go of the figurine.
“Are you crazy?” Larisa twisted a finger at her temple. “You’re throwing your own sister out over a piece of wood? Come on, Milana. Auntie Galya isn’t herself today. Must be some kind of… hysteria. Probably because you don’t have kids of your own.”
That phrase hit harder than a slap. Galina choked on outrage. Taking advantage of her sister’s moment of shock, Larisa pushed her daughter toward the door, and Milana—clutching the crane in her fist—darted out into the hallway.
“Bring the figurine back!” Galina shouted, rushing after them, but the heavy front door had already slammed shut.
The lock clicked. They were gone. With Oleg’s keepsake.
A Lynch Court in Their Mother’s Apartment
Galina paced the apartment, called Larisa—no answer. Called her mother—busy. Oleg was due back in a day. How was she supposed to look him in the eyes? He had never blamed her for anything, but that crane… it was personal. It was a betrayal of his trust.
Unable to take it anymore, Galina grabbed her car keys and drove to her mother’s place. Tamara Pavlovna lived in an old Stalin-era building, filled with carpets, crystal, and the smell of medicine…
The door wasn’t locked. Galina burst into the apartment and saw an idyllic scene: Larisa was stretched out on the sofa watching a TV series, Tamara Pavlovna was peeling potatoes, and Milana was on the floor “driving” the crane across the carpet like a toy car, pressing down hard on its fragile wings.
“Milana—give it back!” Galina lunged toward her niece.
The girl shrieked and clutched the figurine to her stomach.
“GRANDMA! She’s doing it again!”
Tamara Pavlovna rose heavily from her chair, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face wore an expression of universal sorrow and displeasure.
“Galya, you barged in like a bandit. What happened? Why are you scaring the child?”
“Mom, that figurine belongs to Oleg. It’s precious to him—a keepsake. Milana stole it. She needs to give it back right now!”
“She didn’t steal it—she borrowed it to play!” Larisa cut in from the sofa. “It’s your own fault. You wouldn’t gift it, so the child got upset.”
“Galya,” her mother’s voice turned preachy, “you’re a grown woman. And you’re behaving like an egoist. Your Oleg will survive. What, is he too stingy to spare something for an orphan? Milanotchka has no father—she needs joys in life. And you two are spoiled, rolling in luxury. Buy your husband a new toy.”
“Mom, you don’t understand. It isn’t a toy. It’s…” Galina tried to explain, but she felt like she was banging her head against a padded wall.
She bent down and tried to pry Milana’s fingers open. The girl screamed as if she were being cut and sank her teeth into Galina’s hand.
“Ow! For God’s sake—!” Galina blurted out.
“Don’t you dare swear in my house!” Tamara Pavlovna roared. She sprang toward them with an agility that didn’t match her age or build. “Leave the child alone!”
Her mother shoved Galina roughly aside and ripped the figurine from her granddaughter’s hands.
“If you can’t share this filth, then no one gets it!” Tamara Pavlovna snarled—and with that, she swung the wooden crane and smashed it against the cast-iron leg of the table.
A dry crack sounded. The bird’s thin neck snapped off; a wing burst into splinters. Tamara Pavlovna hurled the broken pieces onto the floor.
“That’s it. Conflict resolved. Milana, don’t cry—Grandma will give you some chocolate. And you, Galya, get out of here. And don’t set foot in this place until you apologize to your sister and your niece for your greed.”
Galina stared at the fragments. Something inside her went empty and cold. She felt neither the pain in her bitten hand nor the sting of humiliation—only an icy clarity: this was the end.
Without a word, she turned and walked out.
Part 4. Mutiny on the Ship
Oleg came back late the next evening—tired, but pleased. He brought with him the scent of the taiga and pine nuts. Galina met him in the hallway. She didn’t drag it out. She led him to the kitchen, poured tea, and set a handkerchief on the table with the crane’s broken pieces wrapped inside—she’d gone back to her mother’s place when they went out for a walk and retrieved what was left.
She told him everything. Without embellishment. Without trying to excuse her family.
Oleg was silent. He unfolded the cloth and stared for a long time at the broken wood. His face didn’t change; not a muscle twitched, but Galina saw his eyes darken. He carefully wrapped the splinters back up.
“Thank you for telling the truth,” he said quietly. “Go to bed, Galyochka.”
“Oleg, I…” she began.
“It’s all right. I understand.”
Saturday morning began with the doorbell. Galina flinched, spilling her coffee. She knew who it was. Every Saturday Larisa dropped Milana off “for the weekend” so she could tend to her love life—or just sleep.
Oleg stood up from the table.
“Stay here.”
He went to open the door. Galina, unable to sit still, tiptoed into the hallway.
Oleg opened it but didn’t step aside, blocking the entrance with his broad body. On the doorstep stood a blooming Larisa with a bag of things—and Milana.
“Oh, hi there, daddy!” Larisa tried to push past him. “Take your boarder. I’m till Sunday evening—got a date!”
“No,” Oleg said calmly.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Larisa froze.
“The house is closed. To both of you. Forever.”
“What, you’re offended over that little piece of wood?” Larisa curled her lips into a smirk. “Oh, come on, Oleg. It was old. We did you a favor—threw out the junk.”
“Get out,” Oleg said, still quietly.
“Are you out of your mind?” Larisa planted her hands on her hips. “This is my sister’s apartment too! Galya! Galya, come out here! Your husband is kicking us out!”
Galina stepped out from behind Oleg. Something trembled inside her—the same spring that had been compressed for years was ready to snap open.
“Galya, tell him!” Larisa demanded. “We need to leave Milana here!”
“Get. Out.” Galina said, looking her sister straight in the eyes.
“What—did you two plan this?!” Larisa shrieked. “You ungrateful scum! We came with our hearts open and you—over garbage… May you choke on your money! Miserly pigs!”
And that was when Galina exploded.
It wasn’t just anger. It was a volcano.
“GET OUT!!!” Galina screamed so hard her voice tore. “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! I HATE YOU! I CAN’T STAND THE SIGHT OF YOU! PARASITES!”
She wasn’t crying. She was laughing—a horrible, barking laugh—her face twisted with rage. She grabbed a cane umbrella and raised it.
Larisa went pale. She was used to seeing her sister obedient, soft, “convenient.” This fury—warped with hatred, ready to strike—was someone she didn’t recognize.
“Mommy!” Milana squeaked, hiding behind her mother.
“GET OUT!” Oleg shouted now too, stepping forward.
Larisa grabbed her daughter by the hand and, stumbling, ran down the stairs—forgetting there was an elevator.
Oleg slammed the door shut. Galina stood in the middle of the hallway, breathing hard, her chest heaving.
“How are you?” Oleg asked, coming closer.
“I…” Galina looked at her shaking hands. “I want to eat. And throw out all their photos.”
Part 5. Spiders in a Jar
An hour later Tamara Pavlovna came storming in. She pounded on the door with her fists, demanding they “look conscience in the eyes.” Oleg opened the door without taking off the chain.
“Oleg! How dare you! You scared the child! Larisa is hysterical! Open up at once—we need to talk about your behavior!”
“Mother-in-law,” Oleg’s voice sounded like hammer blows on a coffin lid. “From today on, you do not exist to us. There will be no more money. No more help. You will not see my grandchildren when they appear. Live however you want.”
“How can you—You must! I’m the mother! I’ll take you to court for child support!”
“Go ahead. But we’re out of envelopes. Goodbye.”
He closed the door in her face and turned the lock twice.
Six months passed.
Tamara Pavlovna’s apartment was dim, thick with the smell of valerian.
“You’re stuffing your face again!” Tamara Pavlovna glared at Milana with hatred as the girl wolfed down a bun. “Bread costs money!”
“Leave me alone, old bat!” the granddaughter snapped. “When Mom comes, I’ll tell her you’re starving me!”
“Your mother’s a broke loser,” the grandmother hissed. “Can’t find a decent job. Sitting on my neck like a leech.”
At that moment Larisa walked into the apartment. She looked older and unkempt. Her roots had grown out; her manicure was long gone.
“Mom, is there anything to eat?” she asked, kicking off her worn-out shoes.
“Did you buy any?” Tamara Pavlovna shot back. “My pension isn’t made of rubber! Your sister, that snake in the grass, at least helped—but you only take!”
“Don’t start about Galka!” Larisa threw her bag onto the floor. “This is your fault! You broke her figurine! If it weren’t for you, we’d be living like kings right now! Stupid old idiot!”
“I’m an idiot? I took care of you! I protected my granddaughter!” Tamara Pavlovna clutched at her heart. “Get out! Live wherever you want!”
“This is my share of the apartment!” Larisa marched into the kitchen, clanging pots. “Milana—go do your homework!”
“I won’t! You promised me a tablet and you didn’t buy it! You liar!” Milana kicked over a stack of newspapers.
“You little nasty brat!” Larisa swung a dish towel at her daughter.
Another scandal began—shouting, cursing, mutual damnations. They hated each other. With their external enemy gone—and, most importantly, their external source of resources in the form of Oleg and Galina—they began to devour one another.
Larisa couldn’t find a job that matched her expectations. Tamara Pavlovna begrudged every kopek and blamed her daughter for everything. And the “beloved granddaughter” Milana, deprived of gifts and entertainment, turned into a vicious little household tyrant who terrorized them both, demanding the “beautiful life” they had trained her to expect.
It was their private hell—a closed circle with no way out.
And in Oleg and Galina’s home, it was quiet. In place of the shattered crane stood a new figurine—a funny, chubby ceramic cat they had bought together at a crafts fair. It was ridiculous, but whole.
Just like their life now.
