Mikhail Petrovich stood in the doorway, clutching the frame, his head pounding. Vika sat at the table, picking at yogurt, staring at him like he was invisible.
“You ate our cottage cheese again,” she accused.
“I didn’t… I haven’t eaten today,” he whispered.
Vika laughed, dismissive. Her son, Maxim, joined the argument, yelling at Mikhail. The old man endured their insults for twelve long years, pretending to be weak, quietly supporting the family, while they never respected him.
That night, Mikhail retrieved an old phone and called his old friend, Oleg. Within an hour, papers were signed: the apartment and workshops were legally his.
When Vika and Maxim returned, expecting to dominate the home, they froze. Mikhail Petrovich calmly announced they had twenty-four hours to leave. For the first time, he was free, respected, and in control. The son who once struck him now understood: he was not the master—the old man was.
Mikhail Petrovich opened the window, inhaling fresh air. The apartment was finally his, and he owed nothing to anyone.
