The key turned too easily. A new key. Shiny.
Galina Sergeyevna smiled thinly. The old lock hadn’t survived her absence. Neither, it seemed, had her place in this home.
The smell hit first. Not hers. No dried herbs, no books, no vanilla.
Chemical air freshener. Cheap tobacco. чужое — someone else’s life.
In the hallway, her restored Viennese coat rack was gone. In its place stood a cheap particleboard monstrosity. On the floor—foreign shoes. Men’s, size forty-three. Women’s, pink, ridiculous.
From the kitchen came laughter.
Her kitchen.
Two young strangers sat there, eating fried potatoes straight from the pan, drinking from her cups—the ones her late husband had given her.
“Who are you here for?” the girl asked.
“I live here,” Galina said quietly.
Confusion. Then panic.
“The realtor said the owner was away. Long-term. At least six months,” the man said.
“Oleg and Sveta rented it to us,” the girl added. “They said you asked for it.”
Her son. Her daughter-in-law.
The “gift.” A spa trip for her seventieth birthday.
Not a gift. An exile.
That evening, at her sister’s place, the truth settled cold and clear:
They hadn’t borrowed her apartment. They’d erased her.
The lawyer confirmed it the next day. The apartment was hers alone. The lease illegal.
“But,” the lawyer said carefully, “the fraud was committed by your son. Are you prepared to take him to court?”
That was the trap.
They knew she wouldn’t. A mother doesn’t destroy her own child.
They expected her to give up quietly. To move in with them. To shrink.
So she didn’t act like a mother.
She acted like an owner.
Instead of court, she chose taxes.
Cash rent. No receipts. A signed contract. Witnesses.
Perfect.
She didn’t file it.
She showed it to him.
“You have forty-eight hours,” she said calmly.
“Empty my apartment. Return the money. Or this goes to the tax office.”
He stared at her like a stranger.
He complied.
The tenants left. She paid them back herself.
Her apartment came home.
The family turned on her.
Cruel. Heartless. Insane.
Her son sent one message: I hate you.
She deleted it.
Winter passed. Quiet. Clean. Locked with new locks.
Then her daughter-in-law called. Tired. Broken.
“The kids miss you.”
“You can bring them,” Galina said. “Saturday. Noon. I’ll make soup.”
“And Oleg?”
“Oleg hasn’t earned my soup yet.”
On Saturday, the door opened.
The apartment smelled of herbs and vanilla again.
The youngest grandson stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her neck.
Galina closed her eyes.
She had not lost her family.
She had only reclaimed her life.
