Tamara Petrovna was carefully wiping an old porcelain cup — a gift from her late husband. Every movement, every swipe of the cloth was like a ritual. The house smelled of pies, and that familiar aroma seemed to confirm: everything here was hers, everything rightfully belonged to her.
Sixty-seven years of life, forty of them in this house. Was it even possible to change anything now?
Outside, the sound of a motor was heard — they had arrived. Tamara put the cup back in place and smoothed her apron. Her son Andrey and daughter-in-law Oksana came every Sunday — to help around the house, to visit. At least, that’s what they said.
“Mom, you were fussing in the garden again this morning?” Andrey, barely stepping over the threshold, began his usual interrogation. “You have high blood pressure.”
“And what else am I supposed to do, sit idle? Who else but me will look after the house?” Tamara straightened herself deliberately, showing that she was full of strength.
Her daughter-in-law silently slipped into the kitchen. Today, Oksana seemed especially tense. This woman had always remained a mystery to Tamara.
“Tea’s ready, come in. Oksana, did you take out the pies?”
“Yes, Tamara Petrovna,” a shadow of irritation flashed on the daughter-in-law’s face. How many years had passed, yet it was still “Tamara Petrovna,” as if she were a stranger.
A heavy, tense silence hung over the table like a tightly stretched string.
“I’m going to the notary tomorrow,” Tamara said as if in passing, sipping her tea. “To arrange the house documents.”
Oksana froze, cup halfway to her lips. Andrey frowned.
“What documents, Mom? We thought we’d decided that…”
“We decided nothing,” Tamara cut him off. “This is my house — I decide. You won’t be going anywhere,” she snorted and cast a brief glance at Oksana. “The documents must be in order.”
Oksana pressed her lips so tightly they turned white. How many times had this woman hinted as if doing them a favor by allowing them to hope for something? How many more years would they have to listen to these half-threats?
“Tamara Petrovna,” Oksana’s voice sounded unexpectedly calm, “Andrey and I invested almost all our savings into renovating this house. Remember the new roof three years ago? The plumbing? The facade?”
“And what, you were working for me?” Tamara smiled. “You were doing it for yourselves. Thought I didn’t notice?”
Was it even possible to explain to this stubborn woman that they truly meant well? That not everyone in this world measures their deeds by profit?
In the evening, when Andrey went out to check the car, Tamara called her longtime friend Vera.
Oksana was busy on the veranda unpacking groceries when she overheard a fragment of the conversation:
“I’ll finalize everything tomorrow. Yes, Verochka, only in my name. They don’t need to know… I’ll notify Tatyana Mikhailovna… She’s the only one who visits me without reminders…”
Oksana froze. Her hands reached instinctively for the phone in her pocket. One click — and the recorder was on. She slowly approached the half-open door.
“Of course, the lawyer said that after my husband’s death I should have immediately given a share to my son, but you know me, I do things my way… Now I’ll re-register the documents, and then I can sell half… What? No, I won’t tell them anything, they’ll find out later…”
Oksana’s heart pounded so loudly it seemed Tamara should hear it. This woman, whom she had tried to respect for twenty years, had been weaving a web of deceit all along?
When they left, Tamara stood by the gate, habitually adjusting her collar.
“Come by during the week, the windows need washing,” she said as if the conversation over tea had never happened.
Oksana looked at the small figure in the rearview mirror and understood: all these years of smiles, gifts, and “Tamara Petrovna, can I help you?” — it was all for nothing. There would always be a wall between them.
The phone in her pocket now held more than just a conversation. It held the truth.
The road home seemed endless. Oksana was silent, staring out the window, fragments of the overheard conversation spinning in her head. The phone in her pocket seemed to burn her palm.
“You’ve gotten quiet,” Andrey threw her a concerned glance. “Did Mom say something again?”
“Didn’t she?” Oksana turned to him. “Twenty years, Andrey. Twenty years we come every weekend, help, renovate, listen to her hints…”
“She’s just afraid of being alone,” he sighed. “Since Dad died, that’s all she has — the house and the thought that we’re nearby.”
Oksana smiled bitterly. Could he really be that blind? Or did he just not want to see the truth?
“Afraid of being alone?” Her voice trembled. “Do you know what she plans to do with the house?”
“What do you mean?”
Her hand reached for the phone again, but something stopped her. No, not now. He’s driving, and this news might throw him off balance.
“Nothing. We’ll talk at home.”
The apartment greeted them with coolness and silence. Oksana mechanically unpacked groceries while the same questions spun in her head. Did she have the right to interfere? Maybe it was better to stay silent? After all, this was Andrey’s mother, and this was her house…
“So what did you want to say?” Andrey appeared in the kitchen, already changed into home clothes.
“Sit down, please.”
She took out the phone and pressed play. Andrey’s face began to change.
“Turn it off,” he finally croaked. “I understand everything.”
“What will we do?” Oksana asked quietly.
“Nothing,” he stood, clenching his fists. “It’s her house. Her right.”
“Andrey!” Oksana couldn’t believe her ears. “We put so much into this house, and she wants to write it over to some relative!”
“What do you suggest?” he exploded. “Go and confront her with this recording? Blackmail our own mother?”
“I suggest talking! Honestly! Tell her we know her plans!”
But Andrey no longer listened. He left the kitchen, slamming the door, and Oksana was left alone.
The following days turned into a real hell. Andrey didn’t speak to his mother, avoided calls, and answered Oksana’s questions monosyllabically. Tamara, it seemed, suspected something was wrong — she called several times a day, inquiring about her son’s health, and invariably ended the conversation with: “I’m fine, I’m slowly arranging the documents.”
Thursday brought a shock.
A call from a mutual acquaintance, Marina: “Oksana, do you know Tamara Petrovna is selling the annex?”
The annex — the extension to the house that she and Andrey had renovated for themselves three years ago. They had invested money, effort, time…
“She’s selling it?” Oksana felt the ground vanish beneath her feet.
“To Tatyana Mikhailovna. She says she wants to settle the care debt while alive. I thought you knew…”
When Andrey returned from work, Oksana had already gathered documents — all receipts for materials, all contracts with workers, all bank statements.
“Look,” she put a stack of papers in front of him. “Here’s proof of what we’ve invested in your mother’s house.”
“So what?” he asked tiredly.
“She’s already selling the annex. Our part of the house that we completely renovated!”
Something cracked in his gaze.
“Are you sure?”
“Call Marina, ask yourself.”
That evening they seriously discussed the legal side for the first time. Oksana insisted on seeing a lawyer; Andrey resisted — how could you sue your own mother?
“But she was the first to break the agreement!” Oksana wanted to scream. “We trusted every word she said all these years, and she all the time…”
“Do you think I don’t understand?” Andrey interrupted. “But she’s my mother! How could I look her in the eyes?”
“And how will she look us in the eyes when we end up on the street? We don’t even have documents for this apartment — remember, we sold ours to invest in renovating her house?”
The conversation reached a dead end, as had dozens before. Only now their future was at stake.
On Saturday morning, there was a knock at the door. Tamara Petrovna stood there. In a festive dress, with a pie in her hands.
“Why don’t you come? I’m waiting-waiting…”
“Come in, Mom,” Andrey let her into the apartment, not meeting her eyes.
Oksana felt the ground give way beneath her. Her mother-in-law here, in their home, after all they had learned?
What next? Would they keep silent, pretending nothing happened?
Tamara Petrovna went into the kitchen, put the pie on the table, then began taking plates from the cupboard.
Tamara stopped with a teapot in her hand. Her eyes dimmed.
“What house are you talking about?” she asked with feigned surprise.
“Your house, Tamara Petrovna. The one where our savings went.”
Andrey stepped forward, but Oksana did not stop. She had been silent for too long.
“What’s with the tone?” the mother-in-law loudly put down the teapot. “My house! I do what I want!”
“Even if you promised it to us?”
“I promised nothing! You made it all up yourselves.”
Oksana boiled over. Didn’t Tamara say: “After me, it will all be yours”? Didn’t she suggest: “Build the annex for yourselves”?
“Mom,” Andrey finally spoke. “That’s what we agreed on. You yourself suggested investing in renovation instead of buying housing.”
“Not true!” Tamara threw up her hands. “God, what ingratitude! I welcomed you, and you… How dare you?”
“And how dare you discuss with Vera how you’ll re-register and sell the house?” Oksana couldn’t hold back.
Tamara turned pale. The kitchen grew quiet. Only the kettle whistled.
“You… were eavesdropping?” she squeezed out.
“No. I heard by accident. And I recorded it.”
“Recorded?!” Tamara gasped. “You spied?”
“Oksana, did you really record?” Andrey looked surprised.
The kitchen felt like a tight cage to Oksana. Three people, years of misunderstanding, now confronted face to face.
“Yes, I recorded,” she took out the phone. “You can hear how you say you’ll write the house to Tatyana and sell the annex.”
“How dare you?!” Tamara stepped toward her daughter-in-law. “Scoundrel! I always knew you awaited my downfall! And now you record me like the last…”
“Mom! Stop!” Andrey raised his voice. “We just want the truth!”
“The truth?” Tamara laughed bitterly. “The truth is I believed in my son’s love! Not in his greed!”
“What greed?” Andrey shouted. “We put all the money in! Gave up our home because you promised: live with me, the house will be yours!”
“There was no such thing! Prove it!”
Oksana played the recording. Tamara’s voice filled the kitchen:
“…the lawyer said that after my husband’s death I should give a share to my son, but I do things my way… I’ll re-register the documents, then I can sell… I won’t tell them anything…”
Tamara’s face twisted. She lunged for the phone, but Oksana pulled her hand back.
“You lie!” the mother-in-law shouted. “Editing!”
“Mom, that’s your voice,” Andrey said quietly.
“Yes? Then you listen to the truth! Yes, my house! My right! You wouldn’t manage it! Taxes! Repairs!”
“But we put so much in…”
“And who asked? I said: help with repairs. And you made a pool, a sauna! For yourselves!”
“So what now?” Andrey asked. “Will you sell the annex?”
“Already sold. Signed the papers yesterday.”
Oksana gasped. Their things were in that annex! Albums, books, her mother’s jewelry for her future granddaughter…
“How could you?” she whispered.
“Easily!” Tamara lifted her chin. “My house, my will. Take your things by Wednesday. After that, new owners move in.”
Andrey sat down as if his legs no longer held him.
“I am your son,” he said painfully. “Your only son.”
Something flickered in Tamara’s eyes. But only for a moment.
“A son must respect his mother,” she cut him off and went to the door. At the door, she turned back: “And don’t you dare show that recording! I’ll sue!”
The door slammed shut behind Tamara with a dull thud. Silence fell on the apartment, heavy and oppressive.
“What now?” Oksana sank onto the chair beside her husband.
Andrey was silent. His face was frozen in a mask of pain.
“Andrey, she sold our annex. Our things are there. Our money.”
“I know,” his voice sounded hollow. “Let’s go to the lawyer.”
On Monday they sat in a small office. The lawyer, a young woman with attentive eyes, listened to their story and looked through the documents.
“The situation is complicated,” she said finally. “But you have three trump cards: your documented investments in the renovation, witness statements about your mother’s intentions, and this audio recording.”
“The recording was made without permission,” Andrey objected. “Does it have any legal power?”
“In court, maybe not. But for negotiations — a powerful argument.”
The next day they were already in the notary’s office. Tamara looked confident. Next to her sat a plump woman about sixty — the same Tatyana Mikhailovna.
“What’s this circus for,” Tamara snorted. “My property. I just want to sell part of it.”
“Tamara Petrovna,” the notary adjusted her glasses, “your documents are not entirely in order. After your husband’s death, the house passes into joint ownership with the heirs.”
“Nonsense! My husband passed away fifteen years ago!”
“But you did not properly register the inheritance. Your son has the right to a share.”
“What share? This is my house!”
Oksana took out her phone and put it on the table.
“And we also have this,” she pressed play.
The recording filled the room. Tatyana Mikhailovna’s face elongated, Tamara turned crimson.
“I warned you!” she shouted. “This is illegal!”
“Just like selling someone else’s share,” the lawyer replied calmly. “You knew about your son’s rights but hid this from the buyer.”
Tatyana Mikhailovna stood up.
“Tamara, you didn’t tell me there were such complications…”
“What complications? They’re bluffing!”
But Tatyana was already heading for the exit.
“Call when you sort things out with your relatives.”
The next two weeks turned into a nightmare. Tamara did not answer calls. Lawyers sent her a notice of illegality of the transaction. They had to go to her house.
Tamara opened the door and silently let them in. She looked ten years older.
“Why have you come? To finish me off?” her voice trembled.
“Mom, we want to resolve everything peacefully,” Andrey sat opposite her.
“What ‘peacefully’? You dragged me through courts! You didn’t spare your own son for money!”
“Not for money,” Oksana objected. “For justice.”
“Justice?” Tamara laughed bitterly. “Where is the justice for me? I saved all my life for this house! And now I have to share?”
“You could have just told the truth,” Andrey replied quietly. “We would have understood. But you deceived us for years.”
Tamara was silent. Then suddenly asked:
“What do you want?”
“Compromise. The house stays yours for life. But we officially register the inheritance and our share. And you compensate for the renovation investments.”
“Or what?” she asked defiantly.
“Or court. With this recording and all the documents, you don’t stand much chance.”
A month later, new documents were signed. Tamara moved to her friend’s daughter’s apartment, and the house was rented to a nephew.
Oksana deleted that recording from her phone that same day.