Olga Sergeyevna carefully straightened the tablecloth and surveyed the arranged table. It was a significant occasion—her fifty-fifth birthday. A vase filled with carnations sat alongside a warm salad, herring under fur coat, and her signature eggplant rolls. Meanwhile, a pot of borscht simmered on the stove—a dish Timur grimaced at, insisting that without meat it wasn’t truly food, even though meat was present.
Like a schoolgirl awaiting a special call, she anxiously anticipated the promised “miracle” he had hinted at for two weeks: “There will be a gift you’ll remember forever.” She hoped it would be a ring; that would mean finally no longer being considered just a “live-in partner.” What she craved was neither a card nor mere romance. After a loud divorce a decade earlier, she understood painfully well that a “common-law wife” meant nothing in any document. She wouldn’t be allowed into an operation, she’d be last in the inheritance line, and her word carried no weight. At 55, she longed not for fairy tales, but for peace, legality, and a rightful place beside a man who would call her his wife—not “Olga Sergeyevna, the woman I live with.”
Family Arrival and Subtle Tensions
The doorbell rang, and there stood Artyom and Nika holding boxes and flowers.
“Mom, happy birthday,” said Artyom, hugging her quickly but firmly. The tall man, 32 years old, worked as an engineer adjusting medical equipment at a factory. He had spent seven years there without complaints, much like his father once did. “Nika said no celebration is complete without tartlets.”
“No celebration without tartlets,” Nika echoed, smiling as she slipped off her shoes. A well-put-together woman aged 26, she worked as a primary school teacher and had been married for two years. She moved on high heels as deftly as children did during recess. “Olga Sergeyevna, where are the bowls? I’ll set everything quickly and boil the kettle, okay?”
“Thanks, they’re on the right shelf,” Olga replied.
Nika promptly tied on an apron, chopped herbs skillfully, warmed the chicken, delivered bread, and checked the candles. It was clear she did so not just for appearances but out of genuine desire to lighten her mother-in-law’s workload.
“Artyom,” Olga asked, “how’s work? Aren’t you overworked?”
“Our country is all about saving resources,” he said dismissively. “We practically sleep at the machines. Don’t worry.” Then he noticed Timur. “Oh, Timur, hi,” he greeted.
Timur emerged from the room where he had been on his phone. Forty, lean, with a trendy haircut, an earring, and new sneakers. He always kept himself apart, embodying the idea that a man was the “head of the household” and had no place in the kitchen, leaving the hostess role in the living room. In practice, though, he scrolled on his phone and commented on others’ movements.
“As usual, you’re all about your school-style food,” he nodded towards the salads. “Olga, don’t rush. We’ll serve the food and then you can tidy up. I’m starving.”
“Timur, at least help clear the plates,” Nika softly requested.
“Work division here,” he smirked, feigning amusement. “I’m the one greeting guests.”
Olga wanted to smile but her gaze caught the entrance—there stood Diana Abramovna in the doorway, still wearing her coat and shoes. Dressed in a checkered coat and flashy lipstick, clutching her trademark grocery bag like badges, she was a former hairdresser now retired, proud of always staying active. She had come to her son’s live-in partner’s birthday like it was an inspection. “The deal of the century” could not happen without her presence.
“Here I am,” she announced, surveying everyone and eyeing the carnations with disapproval. “Happy birthday, Olechka. I couldn’t skip this—you must support my boy on such a day.”
“Thank you, please come in.”
Gathered Around the Table
The atmosphere turned lively as Artyom joked, teasing his wife just enough to make her smile without causing offense.
“Nika, don’t overdo it,” he nodded towards the tartlets. “You’ll be working off those extra calories at the school assembly in July.”
“What assembly?” Diana queried, confused.
“The school one. Too many calories means more squats,” he replied with a wink. Nika snorted.
“Then stop feeding me that ‘mayonnaise city’,” she shot back.
“You two are a perfect pair,” Olga remarked warmly, watching them.
Timur lingered on the sidelines like a director about to announce a climax, tapping his fork against his glass.
“So,” he stood, putting on a serious act, “it’s time for the gift.”
Olga didn’t blink. In her mind played a short movie: him pulling out a velvet box, playfully removing a modest ring from a bunch of keys, dropping to one knee… She barely heard Artyom whisper to Nika, “Hold mom tight, just in case.” He doubted Timur but hoped for a miracle for his mother. After all, grown men rarely believe in miracles.
Timur drew out the pause before unveiling a shapeless parcel from a bag—a dress. It had a grey-olive hue and dense breathable knit, cowl neck, dropped shoulders, calf-length, designed to conceal. A large sticker on the label proudly stated “70% discount.”
“We spent a long time choosing,” Diana Abramovna nodded. “Look at this color: practical. A stain won’t show. The fabric is viscose, not some cheap synthetic.” She shamelessly ran her palm over the material, then peeked at the price tag. “The best part—worth it. Only two thousand nine hundred ninety on the ‘gold card’. I bargained for it. Lady-Comfort shop. Perfect for your age.”
Nika froze. Artyom covered his face for a second with his glass. Olga paled. Her imagined ring vanished like a mirage. In front of her were limp fabric, a truncated waistline, and the word “age.” It felt like a stranger’s hand pushed her to respond:
“Thank you. Very… useful.”
“You could have sounded happier,” Diana immediately retorted. “Men don’t often give such gifts nowadays. Timur, back me up.”
“Olga, don’t spoil the mood,” Timur smiled crookedly. “I tried.”
Artyom lifted his eyes to his mother.
“Mom, let’s have dessert,” he said quickly, as if cutting the scene short.
After the Guests Left
Once the guests dispersed, Olga methodically hung the dress in the closet—reflecting her unfamiliar habit of orderliness. Timur could not contain himself.
“You’re ungrateful. At least try it on. Normal women love those gifts.”
“I was hoping for a proposal,” she answered calmly. “You yourself said: ‘You’ll remember it forever.’”
“Who cares about the paperwork?” he declared. “We live our way. That should satisfy you. The stamp is just a queue at the registry office and shared property in a divorce. Do you want to divide up plates later? I don’t. Besides, my ex still bothers me. I won’t get involved in other people’s courts.”
“Convenient,” Olga said. “All for your benefit.”
“Don’t start,” he warned.
She did not start; she merely took note.
Changes at Work and Financial Strains
***
A month later, optimizations began at Artyom’s factory. His department was halved, and he was switched to half-time hours. Salary delays followed, bonuses were cut, and side jobs weren’t allowed anymore. Their rented two-room apartment felt cramped not only physically but financially.
“Mom, we’ll manage,” he said, but his eyes betrayed the arithmetic they faced. “Nika is great; she earns extra from her classes, but it’s just a drop in the bucket.”
Olga opened her app, transferring a significant sum to him. She did so by topping up the card with cash late at night and asked her son not to tell Timur. Timur controlled her expense reports under the guise of “budget planning together,” and every transfer to Artyom was met with lectures.
Timur caught on somehow.
“I said, grown men don’t need help,” he declared one morning. “Let him hustle. Are we sponsors? We have our own goals. I want to buy a car soon, remember? For ‘mom,’ it should be comfortable for her trips. Money is a communal pot. Don’t settle it out unevenly.”
“That’s my money, Timur,” Olga said stubbornly. “And that’s my son. I’ll handle it.”
“You live with me—so we decide together,” he said, lips tight.
Olga nodded and withdrew cash again that evening. The transfers continued through a “secret path.”
New Life and Boundaries
When Artyom announced, “Nika’s pregnant,” Olga sat down and closed her eyes briefly. Words were unnecessary—she felt simple happiness.
“Lord,” she whispered, “thank you. I’ll help as much as I can.”
“Congrats,” Timur said coldly. “But let’s get this clear right away: other families are not our burden. I won’t invest in their strollers and diapers. We need to think about ourselves. I don’t want noise in the house.”
“It’s my grandchild,” Olga replied. “And this is my home.”
“The home is still the apartment I live in,” he pressed. “Don’t forget.”
***
A few days later, Timur returned triumphant, like after a successful fishing trip.
“News! Mom sold her apartment. Just in time. The cash is ready. We need to get a car. I’ve had my eyes on a crossover—a tall one. Perfect for trips to the country house and hospital.”
“She sold an apartment?” Olga tensed. “Why?”
“For investments that don’t involve us. A car with wheels is a thing of value. By the way, where are the keys to your grandmother’s dacha? I couldn’t find them in the dresser. My mom and I thought she could move there—fresh air, garden. And we’ll visit often—it’s logical.”
A dry mouth hit Olga for a moment. Her grandmother’s house, reachable by a forty-minute electric train ride, with apple trees, linden, and the porch where she had spent teenage afternoons reading. The house her grandmother had left to her, not Timur. The house she mentally had already granted to Artyom: spacious, airy, where the child’s mother could better endure pregnancy.
“Artyom has the keys,” she said evenly. “The house is meant for them. They need more space soon. Grandma and I discussed it while she was alive.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?” Timur protested. “Am I just furniture here? We decide everything together. Do you even remember who’s the man in that house? My mom and I have been planning.”
“Timur, you’re not my husband,” she replied. “Please plan your own purchases. My home is my decision. And yes, since your family insisted on selling the apartment, you decide where to live now. But the grandmother’s house is off-limits. That’s final.”
The voice of Zhanna, a friend, surfaced in her memory. She had said back in the first year when Timur moved in with four bags and two boxes:
“Look, Olya, he’s convenient. But convenient doesn’t mean reliable. He’ll adapt to you only until he realizes he can live off you. Don’t sign anything over to him. He’s an opportunist.”
Olga had joked then. She feared loneliness again, and Timur seemed like the cure for the emptiness. That cure turned out to be a cheap substitute.
“Then mom will stay with us,” Timur snapped. “There’s a room. She has nowhere else. We’re not animals.”
“No,” Olga said firmly. “Not in my apartment.”
“Are you a monster?” he shouted. “You want to kick out an old woman? You disgrace me. The neighbors will gossip.”
She turned and retreated to the bedroom silently. Without arguments. She pulled out Timur’s suitcase from under the bed—the very one he had moved in with slowly three years ago. She packed his shirts, sneakers, chargers, baseball caps, cheap perfumes, old receipts. She didn’t even bother moving the box with dumbbells—he could take that himself.
The supermarket cat on the bag stared back. Timur called his mother in the kitchen, rattled his phone’s flashlight, and tried to pressure her:
“You’re not listening! Use your head. Mom caught a cold. She needs care. Wait a bit. We’ll figure something out.”
He hoped she would soften—she always had before.
Hours passed. Finally, in the hallway lay two bags, a suitcase, and four packages. Diana Artyomovna stepped in and looked with surprise at the belongings, then hauled her own suitcase inside.
Olga called Artyom and put him on speaker so both could hear.
“Son, listen. The house is yours now. Take it and settle in. I’ll help wherever I can,” she said.
“Mom,” Artyom’s voice brightened, though normally controlled. “Thank you. You can’t imagine how much this saves us.”
“I can,” she replied.
“Olga Sergeyevna,” Nika interrupted, unable to hold back tears. “I’m crying from happiness. Thank you. We’ll care for everything carefully… We’ve started cleaning the kitchen. I’ll wipe the windows; Artyom will fix shelves and tighten the dripping faucet. We won’t disappoint you.”
“Live well,” Olga said. “It’s grandma’s house. It’s for you.”
Diana stood at the door gripping three bags, waiting for the fourth to be taken out.
“What kind of circus is this?” she demanded. “I sold the apartment, and now you’re kicking me out? I loved you like a daughter… And you…”
“Diana Abramovna,” Olga said quietly, opening the door, “you confuse our relationship with a consumer basket.”
Timur lunged for the suitcase:
“Where are we supposed to go?”
He realized it was no play when Olga dragged the last bag to the landing and placed his sneakers beside it.
“You insisted on selling the apartment. You’re an adult man. You take responsibility. Where you live now is your problem, not mine,” she said firmly. “You’re not my husband.”
At that moment, Zina—the neighbor from the fifth floor—appeared. Dressed in a colorful robe with a disapproving squint, she was the watchdog of the staircase, having overheard events over ten years.
“I’m sitting here,” she announced as she settled on a stool she mysteriously produced. “Eyes wide open, just in case the TV decides to walk off.”
Diana clutched her chest.
“Oh, I feel bad. That’s it, blood pressure. Heart’s stabbing. I’m fainting.”
“Wait,” Olga took out smelling salts from the first aid kit in the hallway, moistened cotton, and held it to Diana’s nose. She flinched, breathed out, and opened her eyes brighter.
“Alive, I see,” said Olga. “No need for an ambulance. No severe symptoms.”
“Witch,” Diana hissed. “May you…”
“Stop,” cut in Zina. “Don’t spit on others’ doormats. There are your bags.”
Timur tried a few more times to convince Olga—first with promises, then reproaches:
“I’ll give it all back, you hear? I’ll buy a ring if you want. Just don’t shame me. Let’s think it through. I have only one mom. You’re cruel. Who’ll give you a glass of water in old age?”
“Ask those who sell elders’ apartments for crossovers,” she replied calmly. Her tone lacked emotion but was clear.
The door shut. The clatter of suitcase wheels resounded down the corridor. Diana muttered about “ungrateful people,” and Timur whispered, “You’ll regret it,” before falling silent. Olga shivered; her hands trembled, but she did not reach for valerian. Zina brought water.
“Good for you,” the neighbor said. “About time. I was watching your ‘boy.’ Loves only shiny things that rustle.”
“Thank you, Zina.”
“Don’t thank me—thank yourself. You stood your ground.”
New Beginnings Amidst Quiet
***
When the apartment emptied, Olga sat on a chair. She didn’t fear silence—she feared the emptiness where words were replaced by petty savings on others’ napkins and layouts for her own property. A thought struck her: “There won’t be any more men.” Not because no one “needs” her, but because she no longer had to prove her worth as a wife. She was tired of playing at failed families. She protected her peace.
The phone rang—it was Artyom.
“Mom, I’m here. We’ve cleaned almost everything. Nika found mugs with yellow daisies—she says they’ll be our ‘special occasion’ ones. I reinforced the shelf in the kitchen, tightened the dripping faucet. It’s so nice here. The air is easy to breathe. Thank you.”
His words carried more than gratitude—there was certainty.
“Live well, son,” Olga said. “Let the grandchild grow up in that house. I’ll come tomorrow with curtains and bedding. I’ll tidy up what’s needed.”
The phone was handed to Nika:
“Olga Sergeyevna, you saved our lives. It feels like a weight lifted… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be dramatic. I’m just happy. We saw apple trees here. I’ll learn to bake your jam pie. We’ll invite you for tea. Thank you.”
“Nika,” Olga replied, “I won’t teach you baking, but how to make time for rest. Everything else will follow.”
She hung up and glanced at the dress still in the closet. Let it stay—a reminder. Ahead were new cradles, tiny bodysuits, apple blossoms. Enough reason to believe not in others’ “miracles,” but in her own happiness.