— Didn’t understand?! — Misha’s voice cut through the silence of the stairwell, echoing off the concrete walls. — What is going on here?!
The key wouldn’t turn. The lock… the lock was different. Completely different. Misha crouched down, staring at the metal lock plate as if it could explain what had happened to his apartment during these three weeks of his business trip.
— Misha! — came the familiar voice of the neighbor. Aunt Lilya, in a faded robe and with curlers in her hair, peeked out from her door. — You’re back… Oh, my dear, what’s going on…
— Aunt Lilya, what the hell is this? Why was the lock changed? Where is Olya?
The woman hesitated, fidgeting with the belt of her robe. Her face took on the expression of someone who knows the truth but is afraid to say it.
— Your mother came… — she began cautiously. — Lidia Petrovna. She made such a scandal… The whole management heard it.
Misha’s heart dropped somewhere into his stomach. He knew that tone. He knew he was about to hear something terrible.
— She kicked Olenka out, — Aunt Lilya said almost in a whisper, looking around nervously. — She yelled at her that she was… well, you know, a girl of loose morals. The poor girl cried, packed her things… And then…
— And then what?! — Misha clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles cracked.
— Zakhar came. Your brother. With a bag, with drunk friends. Said he’d be living here now. The lock was changed the next day.
The world around Misha swayed. He leaned against the wall, trying to process what he’d heard. Zakhar… His younger brother, a thirty-year-old loser who couldn’t keep a job for longer than a month. Zakhar, who drank everything that burned and believed the world owed him.
— Where… where is Olya? — Misha asked hoarsely.
— I don’t know, dear. She left somewhere. She was very upset…
Misha took out his phone. Olya hadn’t answered for a week. He thought she was just upset by his long absence. But it turned out…
The sound of a turning lock made him lift his head. The door to his apartment slowly opened, and Zakhar appeared in the doorway. Disheveled, in a dirty tank top, with a swollen face and red eyes.
— Oh, little brother’s back, — he drawled, staggering on the threshold. — Welcome to your own home.
The smell from the apartment hit Misha’s nose. Sour beer, tobacco, something rotten… Was this his apartment? The very one where he had left Olya three weeks ago?
— Zakhar, — Misha’s voice was threateningly quiet. — What. Are. You. Doing. Here?
— Living, — the brother shrugged. — Mom allowed it. Said it was time to wean you off that… what’s her name… that fool of yours.
— Fool?! — Misha stepped forward, and Zakhar instinctively backed away. — Fool, you say?!
— Yeah, — Zakhar tried to smile, but it was a crooked grin. — Mom did the right thing. Why do you need some girl? You’ve got a family, a brother…
Misha pushed past him into the apartment and froze. What he saw didn’t fit in his head. His brand-new parquet was stained with some kind of spots. The walls, which he had painted himself last autumn, were scribbled with some kind of scrawl. Bottles, cigarette butts, and some rags were scattered on the floor.
— What have you done? — he whispered, walking into the living room.
The sofa, on which he loved to hug Olya in the evenings, was torn. Foam chunks stuck out of it. The TV worked, but the screen was cracked. Dirty plates with dried food remnants sat on the coffee table.
— Nothing special, — Zakhar plopped down on the couch, raising a cloud of dust. — The guys came by, celebrated my move-in. Don’t be stingy, little brother.
— Don’t be stingy?! — Misha turned to him, and Zakhar saw something in his eyes that made him shrink. — Don’t be stingy?! This is my apartment! I’m paying a mortgage on it! I lived here with the person I love!
— You love, — Zakhar snorted. — Mom says that your Olya just latched onto your money. She works somewhere in a beauty salon, cuts ladies’ hair… What kind of wife is she? You need to find a normal girl from a decent family…
— Zakhar, — Misha’s voice became dangerously calm. — Where are my things? Where are Olya’s things?
— What things? — the brother shrugged. — Mom said to pack everything in bags and throw it out. Why keep old junk?
— Throw it out? — Misha felt something turn inside him. — Throw out my things? Olya’s things?
— Don’t get worked up, — Zakhar reached for a beer bottle on the floor. — Buy new ones. You’ve got money, you work well…
Misha slowly approached the window. Below, near the trash bins, he saw familiar items. Olya’s dresses, his books, photographs… Their shared photos lay in the dirt.
— Mom, — he whispered, pulling out his phone. — Mom, come here immediately. We need to talk.
— Why bother her? — Zakhar finished his beer and burped. — She did the right thing. You should thank her…
— Thank her? — Misha turned to him. — Thank her for what? For destroying my life? For kicking out the person I love? For turning my home into a brothel?
— What love? — Zakhar waved his hand. — You’ll get over it. Are you a man or what? There are many women, but only one brother…
— Brother, — Misha said the word as if it burned his tongue. — A brother who can’t go two days without drinking. A brother who lives off our mother. A brother who…
The phone ringing interrupted him. Lidia Petrovna, as if sensing her son had arrived.
— Hello, Mom, — Zakhar grabbed the receiver before Misha. — Yeah, he’s here. Yelling, complaining… Yeah, I told him you did the right thing…
Misha snatched the phone from his brother’s hand.
— Mom, — his voice was so cold that Zakhar shuddered. — Come. Right now. We need to talk.
— Son, — Lidia Petrovna’s voice sounded surprisingly cheerful. — Just don’t argue. I did it all for your own good. I kicked out your girl and gave Zakhar a roof over his head. He’s your brother, family…
— Mom, — Misha closed his eyes, trying to hold back. — Come now.
— Why get so worked up? — irritation crept into his mother’s voice. — I wanted the best for you. That Olya of yours…
— Her name is Olya, — he interrupted. — And she’s not “my girl.” She’s the woman I love. The woman I was going to… — he stopped himself. — Never mind. Come.
He hung up and looked at Zakhar, who sat on the couch with a stupid smile.
— Little brother, — Zakhar said. — Don’t be mad. Let’s have a drink and talk man to man…
— Man to man? — Misha slowly approached him. — Do you know what “man to man” means? It means taking responsibility for your actions. It means not hiding behind your mother’s skirt at thirty. It means respecting other people’s lives and feelings.
— Come on, — Zakhar tried to get up but staggered. — So what if it’s some girl? There are millions of them. And I’m… well, you know, your brother. Same blood…
— Blood? — Misha looked at him with disgust. — You want to talk about blood? About family? Where was that family when I worked two jobs to buy this apartment? Where was that family when I did the repairs here with my own hands? Where was that family when I…
He stopped himself. It wasn’t worth telling Zakhar how he dreamed of proposing to Olya. How he chose the ring. How he planned their future together.
— Where is Olya? — he asked quietly. — Where is she now?
— How should I know? — Zakhar shrugged. — Mom talked to her. I was at the store then…
— What did she say to her? — Misha stepped closer. — What exactly did our mother say to my girlfriend?
— Well… — Zakhar hesitated. — The usual. That she’s not right for you. That she’s… you know… from a simple family. That you need a wife with education, with status…
— With status, — Misha repeated. — And what about Olya? Doesn’t she have education? She graduated from the pedagogical institute. She works, by the way, not just in a beauty salon, but as an administrator. She earns her own money. Doesn’t ask anyone…
— What difference does it make! — Zakhar waved his hand. — Mom knows better what you need. She’s lived life, has experience…
— Experience? — Misha laughed, but it was a harsh laugh. — Experience raising two sons? One workaholic who at thirty is afraid to tell mom he wants to marry. And the other… — he looked at Zakhar. — The other an alcoholic who can’t take care of himself.
— Hey, — Zakhar tried to protest. — I’m not an alcoholic. I’m just… going through a tough time…
— Ten years of tough times, — Misha cut him off. — Ten years of tough times. And all at mom’s expense. And now at mine.
The clank of the door lock interrupted their conversation. Lidia Petrovna always carried keys to both sons’ apartments. “In case of fire,” she used to say. Now Misha understood what exactly she meant.
— Misha! — a plump woman of about sixty appeared in the doorway, wearing a strict dark coat. — My son, you finally came!
Lidia Petrovna was one of those women who could look solemn even in the worst situations. Her gray hair was neatly styled, her lips were made up, and she held her purse like a shield.
— Mom, — Misha didn’t move from his spot. — Sit down. Let’s talk.
— What’s there to talk about? — she walked into the living room, glanced at the mess, and grimaced. — Zakhar, you should clean up a bit. This is not a barn…
— Mom, I’ll clean tomorrow, — Zakhar mumbled, avoiding Misha’s gaze.
— Mom, — Misha’s voice was dangerously calm. — Explain to me by what right you’re managing my apartment?
— By what right? — Lidia Petrovna straightened. — By maternal right! I’m your mother, not some stranger aunt!
— Maternal right doesn’t give you the right to kick out the person I love from my home.
— You love, — she snorted. — At your age, you should understand the difference between love and infatuation. That Olya of yours…
— Olya, — corrected Misha. — Her name is Olya.
— I don’t care what her name is, — Lidia Petrovna waved her hand. — She’s not right for you. I realized that as soon as I saw her for the first time. Cunning, calculating. I can smell those from a mile away.
— You don’t even know her, — Misha felt rage boiling inside. — You haven’t really talked to her even once!
— And I don’t need to talk, — the mother sat on the couch next to Zakhar. — I can see everything in her eyes. She’s not in love with you but interested. Apartment, salary, status… That’s what she’s after.
— Mom, — Misha stepped closer. — Olya works. She never asked me for money. She even always tried to pay half for groceries…
— Yeah, — Lidia Petrovna smirked. — Putting on a show. Pretending she’s independent. But actually she’s latched onto your apartment and lives here like a parasite.
— She lived here because I asked her to! — Misha’s voice broke. — Because I feel good with her! Because I don’t want to spend evenings alone!
— What’s wrong with being alone? — Mom shrugged. — You work, earn money, build a career. Why do you need some girl hanging around underfoot?
— Some girl, — Misha repeated. — Mom, did you know that Olya cooked dinner for me every evening? That she ironed my shirts? That she…
— Exactly! — Lidia Petrovna raised a finger. — Exactly! She makes herself indispensable! Classic female trick. First, all sorts of services, showy care, and then she’ll demand a stamp in the passport. And then she’ll want your inheritance.
— Inheritance? — Misha was shocked. — What inheritance? Mom, I still have five years left on the mortgage! What inheritance?
— And this apartment? — she gestured around the living room. — And your job? You’re an engineer, good salary…
— Mom, — Misha sat down in a chair opposite the couch. — I’m thirty-five years old. I want a family. I want children. I want to wake up next to the person I love and fall asleep next to her. That’s normal!
— Normal, — agreed Lidia Petrovna. — But not with her. Find yourself a girl from a good family. A teacher, for example. Or a doctor. Someone educated, well-bred…
— Olya is educated! — Misha jumped up. — She’s a teacher! Smarter than many of your “good girls”!
— Then why does she work in a beauty salon and not at school? — the mother asked sarcastically.
— Because the salary at school is pennies! Because she wants to earn a decent living! What’s wrong with that?
— That’s what I’m saying, — Lidia Petrovna nodded triumphantly. — Money is the most important thing for her. And love… love is when a woman is ready to live in a dugout with a man, as long as they’re together.
— Mom, — Misha looked at her with despair. — We live in the twenty-first century. Women have the right to want a normal life. The right to work where they want. The right…
— They have, they have, — his mother interrupted. — But not at the expense of my sons. You already have one concern — work and career. And here comes this… this clingy woman.
— Clingy? — Misha’s voice grew quiet. — Mom, do you even realize what you’re saying? You’re insulting the woman I love.
— Love, love, — Lidia Petrovna waved her hand. — How many times have I heard that! I remember in college you “loved” some girl too. What was her name… Svetka or something. You were dying without her. And where is she now? Probably forgotten.
— That was twenty years ago, — Misha rubbed his temples. — Mom, I was a student. It’s completely different.
— Nothing different, — she shook her head. — Men always think that every new passion is love for life. But then it turns out it’s just hormones.
— What did you do with her things? — Misha suddenly asked. — Where are Olya’s dresses? Her books? Her…
— Threw them out, — the mother answered shortly. — Why keep junk?
— Threw them out, — Misha repeated. — Mom, there were her documents. Her photographs. Her…
— I gave the documents to her, — Lidia Petrovna adjusted her purse on her lap. — I’m not some beast. And the rest… what rest? Rags. She’ll buy new ones.
— Rags, — Misha closed his eyes. — Mom, there was a dress she wore on our first date. Her favorite book she read to the kids in the kindergarten. Photos of her late grandmother…
— So what? — Lidia Petrovna shrugged. — You can’t bring back the dead. And the dress… so what. A woman should renew herself, not wear the same thing for years.
Misha opened his eyes and looked at his mother. Looked at her like never before. As if seeing her for the first time.
— Mom, — he said slowly. — Do you remember how Dad gave you flowers? How he kept your letters in an old box? How he…
— That was a different time, — Lidia Petrovna interrupted. — People were different then. More serious. More responsible.
— Different? — Misha stood up. — Mom, did you know that Olya called you every day in the hospital when you were sick with pneumonia? That she bought medicine that wasn’t available in the pharmacy near the hospital?
— Bought it, — Mom nodded. — Of course. She bought it with your money.
— With her own, — Misha said quietly. — With her own money. I found out by accident. She never told me.
— Didn’t tell you, — Lidia Petrovna smirked. — Of course not. So you’d think she’s kind. Classic female move.
— Mom, — Misha went to the window. — Tell me honestly. No matter what Olya did or how she behaved, you would still be against her. Right?
— Why? — Lidia Petrovna was surprised. — If she was suitable…
— Suitable for who? — Misha turned to her. — Describe the ideal woman for your son.
— Well… — Mom thought. — From a good family. Educated. Works in a decent place. Not made up like a clown. Modest. Knows her place…
— Knows her place, — Misha repeated. — And what place is that?
— Home, family, children, — Lidia Petrovna said firmly. — The husband earns money at work, the wife runs the home. Order in everything.
— Mom, — Misha sat on the windowsill. — What if this ideal woman wants to work? If she has her own interests? Her own friends?
— Why? — Mom was sincerely surprised. — If the husband is good and the family is strong, why else?
— Because she’s a living person, — Misha said. — Not an appendage to a man.
— See, — Lidia Petrovna nodded. — That’s where you got these ideas from. That’s Olya filling your head with feminism.
— Mom, — Misha felt exhaustion coming over him. — Olya never talked to me about feminism. She just… she just was herself. Worked because she liked working. Met friends because she liked talking with them. Read books because she liked reading. Is that a crime?
— A crime is when a woman forgets her purpose, — Lidia Petrovna said lecturingly. — When she thinks only of herself.
— Of herself? — Misha laughed. — Mom, she cooked breakfast for me every morning. She met me after work. She sat with me when I was sick. She…
— She was playing a role, — his mother interrupted. — Pretending to be a good wife. And as soon as she got the stamp in the passport, she’d show her true nature.
— What true nature? — Misha stood and approached his mother. — Mom, do you even know what she’s like? Do you know she read to kids in kindergarten? That she helps homeless cats? That she…
— I know, I know, — Lidia Petrovna waved her hand. — A saint, basically. All like that at the beginning of relationships. Then they show their true character.
— Or maybe it’s not about character? — Misha’s voice grew softer. — Maybe it’s that you just don’t want me to have a family?
— What nonsense! — Mom was outraged. — Of course I do! I only dream of grandchildren!
