“Mom, we have been discussing something,” began my son Oleg hesitantly as he stepped cautiously inside. His wife Anya followed closely, nodding eagerly, her gestures amplifying the seriousness behind his words.
The faint scent of costly perfume accompanied her—a mixture both elegant and tinged with uneasy sweetness.
“That usually doesn’t end well,” I mumbled, shutting the door firmly behind them. “Whenever you two start ‘thinking,’ trouble follows.”
Oleg ignored my remark and proceeded into the living area, surveying each item of furniture as if appraising its true worth. Meanwhile, Anya busied herself by disarranging a sofa cushion, only to meticulously straighten it moments later.
“We’re genuinely concerned about you,” she declared dramatically. “You’re living alone, and at your age… so many things can happen.”
I settled into my well-worn armchair, its aged fabric creaking familiarly beneath my touch—more intimate to me than any relationship with my own children.
“Like what?” I asked with dry irony. “High blood pressure brought on by your ‘kindness’?”
“Oh, Mom, don’t start,” Oleg frowned. “It’s a promising plan. We sell your apartment and our one-bedroom flat, take a small mortgage, and purchase a spacious house outside the city. There will be a garden! You can live near the grandchildren and breathe clean air.”
His voice suggested he was offering a ticket to paradise. Anya’s eyes shimmered with artificial warmth; she played her part flawlessly.
Observing their rehearsed expressions and practiced gestures, I detected the unmistakable glint of real estate agents sealing a lucrative transaction. Genuine affection was absent, replaced by cold calculation.
In that instant, the truth became clear: the cruelest betrayal occurs when one’s children profess love, while truly coveting only a pension and property.
This realization did not bring sorrow but instead settled everything into its rightful perspective.
“A house, you say?” I drawled. “And under whose name would it be registered?”
“Well, of course, under ours,” Anya blurted out prematurely before biting back her words. Oleg’s sharp glance halted her.
“That way, Mom, you won’t have to worry about any paperwork,” he quickly added. “We’ll handle all of it—every tedious detail.”
I rose slowly and moved toward the window. Outside, passersby hurried on, lost within their own struggles. Here I stood—on the brink of surrender or resistance.
“You know, kids,” I said without facing them, “it’s an interesting proposition. I will consider it.”
A relieved sigh filled the room as they assumed victory.
“Of course, Mommy, take all the time you need,” Anya responded sweetly.
“I’ll do my thinking right here—in my own apartment,” I replied, turning sharply. “You should leave now. Surely you have mortgages to calculate and house plans to study.”
Meeting their eyes, I noticed their smiles fading. They understood this was just the opening move.
From that point forward, a relentless campaign commenced. Phone calls arrived daily, each meticulously crafted.
Oleg took mornings—concise and businesslike:
- “Mom, I found an incredible plot surrounded by pines and a nearby river! Imagine how wonderful it will be for the children to breathe fresh air instead of city pollution.”
By afternoon, Anya’s syrupy voice followed:
- “We will prepare a cozy room for you, Mommy! With a garden-facing window, your own bathroom, and even your favorite armchair and ficus. Everything just as you like it!”
They exploited every vulnerable point: grandchildren, loneliness, health. Each call was a staged performance, casting me as a fragile elder needing rescue.
I listened, acknowledged, and promised to think about it—all while quietly preparing myself.
A close friend, Lyuda, who once worked as a notary assistant, offered her expertise. With a brief phone call, I found myself in her kitchen discussing all possible scenarios.
“Nina, don’t you dare sign a gift deed,” she warned firmly. “They will evict you without hesitation. A lifelong maintenance agreement might be acceptable, but typically they want everything immediately.”
Her words fortified my resolve. I was no victim, but a seasoned survivor unwilling to surrender.
The confrontation peaked on a Saturday afternoon when the doorbell rang. Oleg and Anya appeared, accompanied by a suited stranger carrying a folder.
“Mom, this is Igor, the realtor,” Oleg explained nonchalantly as he stepped in. “He just wants to evaluate our… asset.”
The man swept his gaze over the apartment with predatory detachment, scrutinizing walls, ceilings, and floors. To him it was not a home, but mere square footage—a commodity to be sold.
Something inside me snapped.
“Evaluate what?” I demanded sharply.
“The apartment, Mom. We need a valuation to move forward.” Oleg was already opening the door to my bedroom. “Igor, please come in.”
The realtor stepped forward, but I blocked the way.
“Out,” I said quietly yet firmly. The silence that followed froze them in place.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Oleg stammered.
“I said out. Both of you.” My gaze shifted to Anya, who had recoiled against the wall. “And tell your husband he will never bring strangers into my home without permission again, or I will involve the police and file a fraud complaint.”
Feeling threatened, the realtor was the first to withdraw.
“I’ll, uh… wait for your call,” he muttered, slipping away.
Oleg’s expression hardened, and the facade of the loving son vanished.
“You’ve lost your mind, you old—” he hissed.
“Not yet,” I interrupted sharply. “But you’re working on it. Now leave. I need rest—from your ‘love.’”
The following week was devoid of contact—no visits or calls. I knew it was merely a brief pause to regroup.
The subsequent Friday, Anya called, her tone laden with regret.
“Nina Petrovna, forgive us. We were foolish. Let’s meet for coffee—just family, no apartment discussions.”
Suspecting a trap, I nonetheless agreed.
They awaited me at a corner table, a piece of cake left untouched between them. Oleg’s expression was downcast; Anya grasped his hand tightly.
“Mom, forgive me,” he murmured. “I was wrong. Let’s move on.”
Yet behind his bowed head, impatience gleamed.
“I’ve done some thinking, too,” I said calmly, unfolding a sheet of paper from my bag. “And I’ve made a decision.”
This was no will—it was a letter.
“Allow me to read it aloud,” I began. “I, being of sound mind and memory, declare that my children, Oleg and Anna, through their actions and persuasion tried to force me into selling my sole home. Because of lost trust and concerns for my wellbeing, I have decided…”
I paused. Oleg’s eyes snapped upward, icy and alert.
“…to sell the apartment.”
Anya gasped; Oleg lunged forward.
“What?”
“Yes,” I nodded steadily. “Buyers have already been found—a delightful young couple willing to wait until I move into a small countryside house just for me.”
Shock, disbelief, fury—these emotions flickered across their faces.
“And the money?” Anya blurted.
“No worries,” I smiled. “Some will be saved at a favorable interest rate. The rest? I will enjoy—perhaps travel or cruise. After all, you only want me happy, don’t you?”
Oleg’s jaw tightened as his entire plan unraveled.
“You… you wouldn’t.”
“Why not?” I stood and left the letter on the table. “It’s my apartment. My life. Good luck with your mortgage, children. Without me.”
I walked away without glancing back.
Triumph did not fill me. Instead, emptiness prevailed. What once was love had turned into burned ground.
Yet I did sell it. My bluff evolved into the wisest choice I ever made.
Purchasing a bright studio in a peaceful, green district, on the ground floor with a shared garden, I brought along my armchair, ficus, and beloved books.
Initially, the silence after breaking ties with Oleg felt like a wound. There were no cruises. Instead, I fulfilled a long-cherished wish: enrolling in watercolor classes.
Painting three times a week, my early strokes were clumsy, but the gentle colors on paper brought me a subtle delight.
The funds rested securely in the bank—a solid foundation rather than a burden. For the first time in years, I faced the future without fear.
Months later, while tending flowers in my garden, I spotted a familiar figure at the gate.
Oleg. Alone. Without Anya. He appeared worn and older.
“Hello, Mom,” he greeted.
“Hello,” I answered, setting down the watering can.
We sat on the small bench near the entrance. Silently, he stared at his hands before speaking.
“Anya and I… we separated. After everything, things fell apart. She said I was weak. That I couldn’t pressure you.”
He shared this plainly, without self-pity.
“I’m sorry,” I replied sincerely.
“Don’t be,” he looked up. The greed was gone, replaced by weariness. “That day in the café, when you left… I realized I didn’t lose the apartment—I lost you. It took months to admit it. Stupid, right?”
“Life is complicated, Oleg.”
We shared a quiet moment—not heavy, but distant—like two strangers who once knew love.
“Are you doing well?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” I nodded toward a watercolor drying on my windowsill. “I’m doing well.”
He stood. “I will go now. Forgive me, if you can.”
“I hold no grudges, Oleg. Things are simply different now. Drop by for tea sometime.”
He nodded and disappeared around the corner.
I did not shed a tear. Closing the gate, I brewed herbal tea and sank into my favorite chair.
The void had vanished, replaced by tranquility.
I had not merely defended my apartment—I had defended my very self.
Key Insight: This quiet victory, unaccompanied by fanfare, was no less significant.
Ultimately, this journey taught me the value of boundaries, self-respect, and the true meaning of love when faced with greed disguised as concern.