Svetlana sat on the edge of the sagging sofa and flipped through old photos. The apartment smelled of medicine and old age, a scent that seemed to have been etched into the walls during her grandmother’s long years. Elizaveta Petrovna had died peacefully in her sleep, leaving behind a two-room apartment in a five-story brick building, antique furniture, and boxes of black and white photographs.
“Mom, look, who is it?” asked six-year-old Anya, holding a yellowed photo. Svetlana looked at it and smiled. A young grandmother in a white dress with a lace collar stood next to a tall man in military uniform.
“This is your great-grandmother Liza and your great-grandfather Andrei. What a beautiful couple!” she ran her finger along the edge of the photo.
It was wartime; they were married the day before he was sent to the front. “Why didn’t you take these photos with you earlier?” Anya frowned, looking at the other photos. “Well…” Svetlana hesitated. Grandma didn’t get along with Dad’s mother, so she kept everything there.
That was putting it mildly. Grandma Liza and Irina Mikhailovna, her mother-in-law, couldn’t stand each other. Two women, two personalities, too strong to yield.
Elizaveta Petrovna called Irina Mikhailovna “an upstart with ladylike manners,” and she responded with a contemptuous “redneck.” Svetlana sighed. She felt a weight on her soul and emptiness.
Grandma left, leaving her with this apartment and the freedom to decide what to do with it. “Don’t sell it right now, Svetik,” Grandma told her a month before she died. “An apartment is a footrest.
You never know when you’ll need it.” “Mom, are we going to live here?” Anya asked, tugging at her sleeve, tearing her from her memories. “Not right now, darling,” Svetlana kissed her daughter on the top of her head.
“We have our own house; you and Petya are more comfortable there.” Anya nodded and returned to the box of photos. Svetlana looked out the window.
The yard was quiet, with a playground and old poplars. The area wasn’t the most prestigious, but it was welcoming, with good infrastructure. The school and clinic were nearby, and the metro was a 15-minute walk away.
The phone rang. Her husband appeared on the screen. “Yes, Oleg,” she answered, trying to sound calm.
“Will you be home soon?” Mom had prepared dinner; everything would calm down. “Another half hour, I have to sort out a few things.” “Okay,” her husband’s voice sounded impatient.
“Don’t be late, Mom will be offended.” Svetlana rolled her eyes. Irina Mikhailovna and her always refreshing dinners.
The conversation with her husband had ruined her mood. She scanned the apartment. Worn wallpaper, creaking parquet, Soviet-era furniture.
But something was real. No one spoke in low voices, afraid of waking poor Irina Mikhailovna, whose migraine was returning. There was no need to listen to comments about how she was raising her children poorly, cooking the borscht wrong, and folding the towels incorrectly.
“Anya, get ready, we have to go,” she said, packing the photographs back into the box. On the way home, Svetlana couldn’t stop thinking about the apartment. She mentally calculated how much the renovation would cost, which furniture could be kept and which would need replacing.
Maybe she should rent the apartment out for a while? The extra income wouldn’t hurt, especially with the mortgage and the mounting costs of Petya’s illness. Petya, her youngest son, was born with problems, a heart condition that required constant monitoring and periodic treatment. Three years and two operations, and this isn’t the end.
Svetlana gripped the steering wheel tighter. Money. The eternal question that was starting to give her a headache.
Oleg earned well, but the expenses were not insignificant. The mortgage ate up almost half of their combined income, and when he added the cost of Petya’s medicine, the situation became truly difficult. He turned onto his street and saw a familiar skyscraper.
The twelfth floor, a one-bedroom apartment converted into a two-bedroom by downsizing the kitchen, was the family nest, bought with a mortgage five years earlier. And Irina Mikhailovna had been living in that nest for two years now; after selling her apartment, she decided to move in with her son and daughter-in-law for a while. Home at last! Irina Mikhailovna greeted them in the hallway, ostentatiously glancing at the clock on the wall.
“I was already thinking we’d have to throw away dinner.” “Hello, Irina Mikhailovna!” Svetlana smiled her most neutral smile. “Sorry I’m late, I had to unpack some things.”
“Grandma!” said Anya, running to hug her mother-in-law. “And we were looking at old photos. My great-grandmother looked beautiful there.”
“Yes, yes, dear,” Irina Mikhailovna absentmindedly stroked her granddaughter’s head. “Go wash your hands, dinner’s getting cold.” Oleg was already at the table; Petenka was also waiting.