I had just taken a jar of mayonnaise out of the refrigerator to dress the Olivier salad when Andrey, without waiting for everyone to sit down, announced that Mom had decided the apartment would go to him.
“Inna and I have talked it over,” he said, standing in the kitchen doorway with a plate of tangerines. “Mom promised the apartment would be mine. I’m the oldest, and I have nowhere to live. You and Oleg have your own two-bedroom apartment, while Inna and I keep moving from one rental to another.”
I stood there holding the jar and staring at him. It was already getting dark outside. Firecrackers were going off in the courtyard, their pops muffled by the double windows. Mom sat at the table in silence, her hands folded in her lap. She was wearing the sweater I had given her for her last birthday. She stared down at her plate.
“Wait,” I said, setting the mayonnaise on the table. “Are you serious right now? In front of everyone?”
“Why put it off?” Andrey shrugged and set the tangerines beside the salad bowl. “We’re all here anyway. Mom, tell her.”
Mom looked up. I expected her to say something like, “Andrey, not now.” Or, “What are you talking about?” Something that would put an end to this absurdity. Instead, she said:
“I’ve made my decision, Masha. The apartment goes to Andrey.”
My husband, Oleg, was sitting beside me with a fork in his hand. He didn’t like getting involved in my family’s affairs, but this time he put the fork down.
“Nadezhda Ilyinichna,” he said slowly, “does it matter at all that Masha has spent five years paying for these renovations? The pipes, the windows, those stretch ceilings you wanted. She’s helped with your shopping and brought you groceries every week. And Andrey showed up… when? New Year’s and your birthday?”
“Oleg,” I said quietly, but he kept going.
“No, I understand that I’m only your son-in-law,” he continued, looking at Mom. “But you’ve said yourself that Masha is your right hand. So now all that help gets a thank-you, and Andrey gets the apartment?”
Andrey sat down across from us and picked up a tangerine. He peeled it slowly, carefully piling the skin along the edge of his plate.
“Oleg,” he said calmly, “don’t get worked up. I’m not saying Masha hasn’t done anything. She has. But renovating an apartment isn’t the same as owning it. It’s Mom’s apartment. She has the right to decide.”
“I’m not disputing that,” Oleg said. “I just want to know whether Masha knew. Or did you decide to tell her five minutes before New Year’s?”
Mom said nothing. In the past, at moments like this, she would say, “Oh, Mashenka, come on.” Now she was silent, as though everything had already been settled and she was tired of explaining.
“I wanted to tell you sooner,” she said. “I kept trying to work out the best way. Andrey and Inna really don’t have anywhere to live. They keep drifting from one rented apartment to another. You and Oleg have a place, your children are doing well, and you both have jobs. I can see that.”
“So I have a place, do I?” My voice came out louder than I intended. “Mom, that apartment didn’t fall out of the sky. Oleg and I have been paying the mortgage for ten years. We’ve got another ten to go. Do you think it’s easy for me? I work at the library for next to nothing, and Oleg drives a bus from morning until night. And what about your renovations? Didn’t those cost money? Do you think I got those pipes and ceilings for free?”
“No one’s saying you did,” Andrey cut in. “But you weren’t doing it for me. You were doing it for Mom. Or are you saying you expected an apartment in return?”
I looked at him. He sat there so calmly with his tangerine, apparently unable to understand why I was making a scene. He was the oldest. He was a man. He had nowhere to live.
“I wanted Mom to be comfortable,” I said. “I wanted her windows to stop letting in drafts and water to flow from the faucet instead of dripping. I wanted her not to have to bend over when she washed the floors or struggle with that old bathtub. Did you know I washed her floors every week? Do you know how many times I came over because she called and said she needed help? And did you know she never once told me the apartment would be yours?”
“I didn’t realize I needed to ask permission,” Mom said. Now she was looking straight at me. “Masha, I’m grateful to you. I see everything you do. But the apartment is mine, and I decide who gets it. Andrey has nowhere to live. He has a family. You’ll manage.”
“I’ll manage?” I hadn’t expected those words to come out the way they did. “Mom, this is the second year I haven’t been able to buy myself a decent pair of boots because we were paying for your renovations. Last year, I bought Alisa a secondhand winter coat because we didn’t have the money. And now you’re sitting there telling me I’ll manage?”
“Well, I didn’t know things were so…” Mom stopped herself.
“So what?” I waited. “That we were struggling so much? You hardly ever come to see us. You don’t know how we live.”
The table fell silent. The children, Alisa and Kirill, were sitting nearby. Alisa couldn’t take her eyes off me. She was fifteen; she understood everything. Kirill was tracing something on the tablecloth with his finger, trying not to look at anyone.
I wondered what they were feeling. They could hear all of it. They were watching their mother justify herself to her own mother.
Andrey finished peeling his tangerine and put a segment in his mouth.
“Mash, that’s enough,” he said. “This is getting ugly. We’re family. Let’s not fight.”
“Ugly?” I turned to him. “Andrey, you announced this in front of everyone, in front of the children, just before we were about to eat. You knew I hadn’t been told. You knew it would come as a shock. And now you’re saying I’m the one behaving badly?”
“I didn’t think you’d react like this,” he said. “Honestly. I thought you’d understand.”
“What was I supposed to understand? That you need it more? That I spent five years pouring money into someone else’s apartment, and now I can just get lost?”
“Why would you say that?” Mom asked. “Nobody’s throwing you out. You can always come over. I’m not saying we’re going to stop seeing each other.”
I looked at them both, my mother and my brother, and realized they truly saw nothing wrong with what was happening. To them, it all made perfect sense: the mother had decided, the son had agreed, and the daughter was supposed to understand.
The five years I had spent carrying those renovations, the weekly visits, the groceries, the housework—all of that was simply taken for granted. It didn’t count. It was just what Masha did because she was a good daughter.
The apartment was different. The apartment was serious.
I stood up.
“All right,” I said. “Oleg, get the children ready. We’re going home.”
“Masha,” Mom said. “Are you serious? It’s New Year’s Eve. The midnight chimes are about to start.”
“Then celebrate with Andrey,” I said. “He’s the future owner now. Let him have the place of honor.”
“Masha, don’t talk like that,” Andrey said. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”
“We already have,” I said. “You’ve said everything you wanted to say. So has Mom. I heard you. Happy New Year to you both.”
I walked into the hallway. Oleg followed. Alisa stood up without a word and went to get her coat. Kirill looked at me, then at his grandmother, then back at me, and got up too. His cheeks were red, and he sniffled.
“Kiryusha,” Mom said, “where are you going? Stay. We’ll turn on the television and watch the New Year’s show.”
Kirill said nothing. He looked at me, and I nodded, letting him know it was all right to go. He went.
While we put on our coats, Mom stood in the kitchen doorway watching us. Andrey stayed at the table. I saw him pick up another tangerine and start peeling it as though nothing unusual had happened. As though he hadn’t just ruined the evening.
“Masha,” Mom said as I was putting on my coat. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t think you’d be so upset.”
I zipped up my coat without answering. There was so much I wanted to say. That she could have talked to me first. That she could have asked how I felt about it. That she could at least have warned me.
But I knew it was pointless. She had already made her decision. She hadn’t made it today. She had made it a long time ago and simply hadn’t told me.
“Mom,” I said, “my feelings aren’t just hurt. I’ve realized I’m nobody in this apartment of yours. I paid for the renovations—good for me. But the apartment goes to your son. You should have said that from the beginning. Maybe then I wouldn’t have taken on the renovations.”
“Masha, how can you say that?” Mom threw up her hands. “You’re my daughter.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Your daughter. And Andrey is your son. Apparently, that gives him different rights.”
I left the apartment first. Oleg followed, then the children. The landing smelled of pine. The neighbors must have just brought in a Christmas tree; a few needles were stuck to the doormat. For some reason, that smell stayed with me.
We drove in silence. Oleg was at the wheel, and I stared out the window. The city looked festive, with strings of lights glowing in the windows and holiday decorations lit up in some of the courtyards. Kirill sniffled in the back seat. Alisa sat with her forehead pressed against the glass.
“Mom,” Alisa said quietly, “does this mean we won’t see Grandma anymore?”
“We will,” I said. “Just not today.”
“Why did Uncle Andrey say that?” Kirill asked. “Is he really taking the apartment?”
“He isn’t taking it,” Oleg said. “It still belongs to Grandma. He just said Grandma wants him to have it.”
“But why him and not you?” Kirill looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You’re nicer. You always help her.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t explain to a ten-year-old something I didn’t understand myself.
Why a mother might feel closer to the child who came for the holidays than to the one who washed her floors. Why the man in this family always mattered more, even when he did nothing. Why my five years of help counted for nothing beside an apartment he hadn’t put a single ruble into.
“It happens,” I said. “Things aren’t always fair.”
At home, we sat down to eat. Oleg heated up dinner, Alisa set the table, and Kirill turned on the television. The midnight chimes hadn’t started yet, but the holiday concerts were already on. I sat there looking at my husband and children. Here, no one was measuring what I had contributed.
My phone vibrated. Mom. I declined the call. A minute later, a message arrived:
*Masha, please forgive me. Come back. Andrey has left. We can celebrate New Year’s together.*
I looked at the screen and put the phone facedown.
Then Andrey called. I didn’t answer. He sent a message:
*Come on, Mash. Don’t take it like this. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let’s talk tomorrow.*
I didn’t reply.
Oleg sat down beside me.
“How are you?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Awful. Hurt. And the worst part is that I know neither of them thinks they did anything wrong. To them, this is normal. Mom thinks she’s divided things fairly. Andrey thinks he’s entitled to it. And I can’t even say they’re bad people. They just… think that way.”
“And what do you think?” Oleg asked.
“I think I’m done washing her floors,” I said. “And replacing her pipes. And buying her groceries. Let Andrey do the shopping. He’s the future owner now.”
Oleg was quiet for a moment.
“That’s your decision,” he said. “I’m not judging you. But are you sure you can just stop?”
I wasn’t sure. I knew that a week or two would pass, and Mom would call and say she was struggling on her own, and I would go.
Because I couldn’t do otherwise. Because she was my mother. Because I had grown up believing that a daughter was supposed to help. No matter how angry I was, I would still go.
But something had changed that evening. I could no longer pretend everything was the same.
I didn’t go on January first. Or on the second. Mom called, and I kept my answers brief. Andrey sent one more message, then stopped.
On January fifth, Mom called and said the kitchen faucet was leaking.
“Call a plumber,” I said. “Or ask Andrey. He’s the future owner now.”
“Masha, come on. Don’t be like that,” Mom said. “What does Andrey have to do with it? He’s not a plumber.”
“And I am?” I asked. “I’m a librarian, Mom. I lend out books. The person you’re giving the apartment to should be the one getting your faucet fixed.”
Mom fell silent.
“Are you serious?” she asked. “Are you going to stop speaking to me altogether because of the apartment?”
“No,” I said. “I won’t stop speaking to you. But I’m not doing your housework anymore. I’m not your maid. I’m your daughter. And you treated me as though I were nobody.”
“But I explained it to you.” Mom started crying. “Andrey has nowhere to live. He has Inna. They can’t rent forever. And you have a place.”
“Mom,” I said, “I have a mortgage. I’ll be paying it for another ten years. I don’t just ‘have a place.’ I live in an apartment Oleg and I bought with our own money. You’re giving yours to Andrey, who hasn’t put a single ruble into it. And you think that’s fair. Well, from my point of view, it isn’t. And I have the right to think that.”
“What do you expect me to do now?” Mom asked. “Change my decision?”
“I’m not asking you to change it,” I said. “I’m asking you to admit you treated me badly. That you didn’t warn me. That you didn’t ask how I felt about it. That you simply presented it as a done deal. That’s all.”
Mom said nothing.
“Mom, I’m not fighting for the apartment,” I said. “I want you to recognize that those five years I spent by your side meant something. I wasn’t doing it to get the apartment. I was worried about you. And you went behind my back and decided everything. That’s what hurts. Not the apartment. The fact that you didn’t even think I was worth asking.”
Mom sniffled.
“I didn’t think you’d be so hurt,” she said. “I thought you’d understand.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I said. “You thought I would understand. You never thought it might hurt me.”
I hung up. Oleg was sitting on the sofa, watching me.
“Well?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “She still doesn’t understand. She thinks it’s about the apartment. It isn’t.”
“Then what is it about?”
“The fact that this family has never treated me as a person in my own right,” I said. “I’ve always been the one they turn to: Masha, help. Masha, bring this. Masha, do that. But Andrey—he’s the son. He doesn’t have to help. He can just turn up for the holidays and be loved. I’ve always been the one who helps. Needed, but never the one who matters most.”
Oleg came over and hugged me.
“You’re more than what you do for people,” he said. “You’re my wife. The mother of my children. And you’re a person in your own right. They just… don’t see it. Maybe they don’t want to. Maybe they can’t.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s the hardest part.”
On January twelfth, Mom called again. Her voice sounded different—uncertain rather than demanding.
“Masha,” she said, “I’ve been thinking… Maybe you could come over? We could just sit together. Without Andrey. Without all of this.”
I went over and took off my shoes in the hallway. The apartment was untidy. Mom had never been particularly neat, but now it was clear she hadn’t cleaned for several days. Dirty dishes stood on the table. The tree in the corner was shedding needles, and only half the ornaments had been taken down.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” Mom said when we sat down in the kitchen. “I can’t go back on my word. Andrey has already taken my spare keys. He says he and Inna are going to move in with me and start renovating the rooms one by one in the spring.”
“I’m not asking you to change who gets it,” I said. “I’ve already told you. I just want you to understand that you hurt me. Not by giving him the apartment, but by how you did it. And because even now, you think I should just swallow it.”
“I don’t think that,” Mom said. “I just… I don’t know what to do. Andrey says you’re blowing everything out of proportion. That you’re just jealous.”
“And what do you think?” I asked. “Am I jealous?”
Mom looked at me.
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t think so.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “I’m not jealous. I’m just tired of being the one who carries everything and gets the least in return. And do you know what hurts most? I’ll still help. Because I can’t do otherwise. But I won’t do it silently anymore. If I help, I want it to be appreciated. And if it isn’t appreciated, I won’t help. That’s all.”
Mom was silent for a long time. Then she said:
“I do appreciate you, Masha. I really do.”
“Then tell Andrey,” I said. “Tell him he’ll be living in this apartment not because he’s such a wonderful person, but because I spent five years paying for renovations and helping you. And if he ever hurts you or refuses to help, I’ll come over and tell him exactly what I think.”
Mom smiled for the first time in those two weeks.
“You’re so stubborn,” she said.
“I take after you,” I said.
We sat together in the kitchen. I washed the dishes—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. Mom sat beside me. Outside, snow was falling, covering the courtyard in an even white layer.
As I was leaving, Mom said:
“Masha, could I come and stay with you for the weekend? Overnight? It’s been so long since I visited.”
“Come,” I said. “Just let me know beforehand. So I know you’re coming, instead of getting a surprise.”
Mom nodded.
I went outside and walked toward the car. The snow crunched beneath my feet. I thought about how things would never be the way they used to be. Maybe that was for the best.
Andrey called a month later. He said he and Inna were starting the renovations and wanted my advice on which pipes to replace.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I had them replaced five years ago. I’ve forgotten.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Mash, are you still angry?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not angry. I’m just not going along with this arrangement anymore.”
“What arrangement?”
“The one where I’m good when I help and bad when I ask for something in return.”
Andrey didn’t answer immediately.
“You know, I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “I really thought you’d understand.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s the point. You thought I would understand. You never thought it might hurt me. That’s all.”
“So what am I supposed to do now?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just remember that this apartment isn’t coming to you out of nowhere. My hard work is part of it. And if you ever forget that, I’ll remind you.”
He paused.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll remember.”
I don’t know whether he did. But I made a decision for myself: I’ll help, but I won’t stay silent when I’m treated as though I don’t matter. If it took ruining one New Year’s celebration to get there, so be it.
Would you have left that night if you were in my place—or stayed at the table to avoid spoiling the holiday for people who had already decided everything for you?