The spoonful of soup froze halfway to Pavel Yegorovich’s mouth. Lidiya Semyonovna slowly set the bread box down on the table, and a crust of dark rye slipped from her fingers. Artyom felt the blood drain from his face.
“You’ve got a pretty good place,” Marfa repeated, taking in the cramped dining area of the prefab three-bedroom. “I think Artyom and I could live here for a while to start. You’ll have it emptied by the end of the month, yes?”
A silence fell so deep that the ticking of the old wall clock became loud—the silver-anniversary gift from the workers’ collective at the factory where Pavel Yegorovich had put in thirty years. Marfa calmly spread butter on a slice of white bread, as if she’d just asked someone to pass the salt rather than suggested two older people pack up and leave their own home.
Artyom had met Marfa half a year earlier at a company party at the advertising agency where he worked as a designer. She’d appeared in the office as the new client manager—confident, impeccably dressed in a suit that fit like it was tailored on her body, with a flawless manicure and ambition visible in every movement.
“You the new hire?” he’d asked back then, stopping beside her at the coffee machine.
“And you must be Artyom—the one everyone praises for his layouts,” she fired back, giving him an assessing glance. “Marfa. I’ll be the one selling your masterpieces to clients now.”
What caught him was that fierce focus of hers—the very quality he often felt he was missing.
He’d been putting off introducing her to his parents on purpose. Pavel Yegorovich and Lidiya Semyonovna were from another generation, another world. His father had spent his whole life as an engineer at the plant; his mother had taught little kids in a neighborhood primary school. Their three-room apartment in a panel building on the edge of the city had once belonged to Artyom’s grandmother, who’d received it back in 1982. Every corner carried a memory, and the kitchen table seemed to remember every family holiday from the last forty years.
For the past two months Marfa had been insisting on a meeting.
“Artyom, how long are you going to keep this up?” she’d say, sitting with him in a café after work. “We’ve been together six months, and I still haven’t even seen your parents.”
“Marf… they’re simple people, you know…”
“What, and I’m made out of some different dough?” she’d snap, offended. “If you’re serious about me, why are you hiding me from them? Or are you embarrassed by me?”
And Artyom never found a convincing answer. In the end he gave in, hoping the warmth of home would soften that first encounter.
“Mom, my girlfriend’s coming over on Sunday,” he told her on the phone.
“Oh, Artyomushka! Finally!” Lidiya Semyonovna cried happily. “Pasha, Pasha! Artyom’s bringing a girl to meet us!”
Lidiya Semyonovna prepared for the visit for three days.
“Lida, why are you running around like your hair’s on fire?” Pavel Yegorovich grumbled, watching her wash an already spotless set of dishes for the third time.
“Pasha, you don’t get it! She might be our future daughter-in-law. Everything has to be perfect!”
She brought out the formal china—her own mother’s wedding gift—baked her signature apple pie from her great-grandmother’s recipe, made borscht, and fried cutlets with mashed potatoes.
“So the girl can see that Artyomushka gets fed properly in this family,” she kept saying as she rolled out dough.
“Don’t overdo it,” her husband warned. “She’ll think we’re trying to fatten her up.”
“Oh, Pasha, go put on your nice sweater. The one I gave you for Christmas.”
Pavel Yegorovich sighed, but obediently went to change. He even got his hair cut at a barbershop instead of at home like he usually did.
“Three hundred rubles for a haircut!” he complained when he got back. “Highway robbery!”
“And you look like a young man!” his wife smiled. “Just like thirty years ago.”
The doorbell rang at exactly six. Lidiya Semyonovna adjusted her apron; Pavel Yegorovich rose from the table.
“Mom, I’ll open,” Artyom said, heading to the hallway, his palms turning damp.
Marfa stood at the door in an elegant dress, holding a bouquet of white roses.
“Hello!” she said, handing the flowers to Lidiya Semyonovna. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”
“Oh, thank you, dear! They’re beautiful! Come in, come in!” Lidiya Semyonovna fussed. “Pasha, meet her—this is Marfa, Artyom’s girlfriend.”
“Pavel Yegorovich,” his father said, offering his hand. “Welcome.”
“Very nice to meet you,” Marfa replied, shaking firmly. “Artyom’s told me a lot about you.”
At the table the first minutes were the usual bustle—passing bowls, ladling borscht, offering bread.
“This borscht is wonderful,” Marfa praised. “With sour cream—exactly how I like it.”
“Eat up, eat up, dear,” Lidiya Semyonovna smiled. “Nothing fancy—just home cooking.”
“Marfa, where do you work?” Pavel Yegorovich asked.
“At the same agency as Artyom. I’m a client manager—project promotion, negotiations, all that.”
“Oh, so you’re a career girl,” his father nodded approvingly.
“I try,” Marfa smiled, glancing around the room. “It’s cozy here. And the apartment’s spacious.”
“Yes, we got it from my mother,” Lidiya Semyonovna explained. “We’ve lived here almost forty years.”
And then—once everyone had relaxed and started on the second course—Marfa said the words about moving them out.
After Marfa’s remark, Lidiya Semyonovna was the first to collect herself. She dabbed her lips with a napkin and said quietly:
“Dear girl, you must have phrased that wrong. This is our home. We live here.”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” Marfa said, biting into her bread. “But Artyom is your only son, right? So sooner or later this apartment will go to him. Why drag it out? You could rent something smaller—a one-bedroom. Or move out to the outskirts. It’s cheaper there.”
Pavel Yegorovich slowly put down his spoon. The muscles in his jaw tightened—his sure sign he was holding himself back. Artyom had known that sign since he was a child.
“Marfa…” Artyom began, but his voice came out weak and uncertain.
“What ‘Marfa’?” She turned to him. “I’m thinking practically. Once we’re married, we need somewhere to live. Your salary won’t cover rent, and neither will mine. But here—this is a ready-made solution.”
Artyom felt his cheeks burn. Shame washed over him like heat. He looked at his parents—the fine lines around his mother’s eyes, his father’s work-worn hands—and for the first time he saw them as defenseless. And for the first time he truly saw Marfa. What had looked like confidence now looked like sheer boldness. The practicality he’d admired had turned into cold calculation.
“We’ve lived in this apartment for thirty-eight years,” Lidiya Semyonovna said slowly. “Our son grew up here. My mother died here—may she rest in peace. Everything in this place is our life.”
“And?” Marfa asked, genuinely puzzled. “They’re just walls. You can live anywhere as long as it’s comfortable.”
Dinner ended in heavy silence. Artyom walked Marfa to the bus stop. The autumn wind tugged at her perfectly styled hair, and she kept smoothing the strands back with irritation.
“Why did you say that?” Artyom asked when they stopped beneath a streetlamp. “About them moving out?”
“What’s the big deal?” Marfa pulled out a compact mirror and checked her makeup. “I thought it was logical. One day you’ll have this apartment anyway. Why wait until… well, you know. We can do it in a civilized way.”
“A ‘civilized’ way to kick my parents out of their home?”
“Not kick them out—offer a sensible option. They’re over sixty. Why do they need three rooms? We’ll need space for kids. And honestly, your neighborhood isn’t great, but it’ll do for now. Later we’ll sell it and buy something closer to the center.”
Artyom stared at her, realizing he was looking at a stranger. How had he missed that chill in her eyes? Why had he mistaken shrewdness for intelligence and hardness for strength?
“Marfa… I need time to think,” he managed.
“Think about what?” she shrugged. “Fine. My bus is here. See you tomorrow.”
She kissed his cheek and hopped onto the arriving bus. Artyom stayed under the streetlamp, feeling the cold wind slip beneath his jacket.
When he got home, his parents were sitting at the kitchen table. The kettle hissed softly on the stove, but neither of them moved to turn it off.
“Did you walk her?” his mother asked without looking up.
“Yes.”
“Sit down, son,” Pavel Yegorovich said, pulling out a chair. “We need to talk.”
Artyom sat, knowing there was no escaping it.
“Artyomushka,” Lidiya Semyonovna began, “we don’t want to interfere, but… you and Marfa have different values. To her, this apartment is square meters. To us, it’s a home. Do you understand the difference?”
“Mom, she just…”
“Artyom,” his father cut in, “your mother and I have been together forty years because we’re looking in the same direction. And your Marfa is talking about children who don’t even exist yet while she’s ready to throw parents out onto the street.”
“She’s not mean—she’s practical,” Artyom tried to defend her, but the words sounded hollow.
“Practicality without a heart is just calculation, son,” his mother sighed. “Think about it: do your values match? Do you want the same life?”
Artyom stayed silent, staring into his cup. Marfa’s words spun in his head: “the neighborhood isn’t great,” “later we’ll sell it…”
“All right,” Pavel Yegorovich said, standing. “It’s your choice. Just remember—home isn’t walls. Home is the people who love you.”
His parents went to bed. Artyom remained alone in the kitchen, seeing his relationship without rose-colored glasses for the first time in six months. He realized he’d fallen for an image, not the real person.
The next day after work, Artyom went to Marfa’s place. He hadn’t slept all night, replaying the conversation with his parents. He needed to put everything plainly.
Marfa opened the door in a house robe—clearly she hadn’t expected him.
“Artyom? Why didn’t you call?” She fixed her hair. “Come in.”
Her rented studio in a new high-rise had always seemed stylish to him—minimalist, black and white, no clutter. Now that emptiness felt harsh.
“Tea?” she asked, but he shook his head.
“We need to talk.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Marfa rolled her eyes. “Did your parents brainwash you?”
“Marfa. Just listen.”
She dropped onto the couch demonstratively and picked up her phone.
“I’m listening.”
Artyom stood in the middle of the room, forcing himself to breathe. Marfa sat on the couch, staring at her screen, pretending she was busy. The tension between them was sharp enough to cut.
“Marfa,” he said again—this time his voice steadier than usual. “What you said to my parents… it was cruel.”
She lifted her eyes, ready to argue.
“I was just stating my opinion…”
“No,” Artyom said, shaking his head. “You insulted them. You talked about the apartment like it’s an object you can take and divide. But it isn’t just walls, Marfa. My father got this place back when he was still working at the plant. They did the first renovation when I was a newborn. My grandmother died there. We celebrated my first A, my first…”
His voice faltered. Marfa was quiet—really listening now for the first time.
“That place is our whole life,” he finished. “And you spoke about it like it’s something on a shelf.”
Marfa set her phone aside. Something painful flashed across her face.
“Artyom, I…” She stopped, searching for words. “Do you know how many times we moved when I was a kid? Twelve. Twelve times, Artyom. My mom was a nurse. My dad was gone. We never had money. We lived on someone’s kitchen floor, then rented a room in a communal flat, then squeezed into a roach-infested one-bedroom on the outskirts.”
She got up and walked to the window.
“And you know what the worst part was? We were always told to leave. ‘Sorry, but we need the room ourselves now.’ ‘We’ve decided to sell the apartment.’ ‘You’re nice people, but the neighbors complain about the child.’ Every night I fell asleep thinking: what if tomorrow we’re thrown out again?”
Artyom said nothing, trying to take it in.
“When I saw your apartment,” Marfa went on, “big, bright, with high ceilings… I thought: this is it. A chance. Finally we could live without being afraid someone will kick us out. Finally it would be… ours.”
She turned back to him, and Artyom saw tears in her eyes.
“I didn’t want to hurt your parents. I swear. It was just… the fear talking. The fear of being without a roof over my head. And I said too much. I’m sorry.”
The next day they sat at Artyom’s parents’ kitchen table. Tea cooled in their cups. No one touched the pie Lidiya Semyonovna had baked.
“Aunt Lida, Uncle Pasha,” Marfa spoke quietly but clearly, “I want to apologize. For those words, for my tone, for everything. I understand how it sounded, and I’m ashamed.”
Pavel Yegorovich frowned but stayed silent. Lidiya Semyonovna slowly stirred her tea with a spoon.
“I’m not greedy,” Marfa continued. “Just… very scared. I’ve been afraid of instability my whole life, and when I saw a chance to hold onto something reliable, I lost my head. But that doesn’t excuse it. I had no right to speak that way.”
“My girl,” Lidiya Semyonovna asked suddenly, “what about your mother?”
“She died three years ago. Cancer.”
The kitchen went quiet.
“So you’re an orphan, then,” Pavel Yegorovich muttered, clearing his throat. “All right. What can you do. We all say the wrong thing sometimes.”
Artyom took Marfa’s hand.
“Mom, Dad—we decided not to rush. We’ll live separately for now, renting. We’ll see how it goes.”
“That’s right,” Lidiya Semyonovna nodded. “No need to hurry. Life is long.”
Two years later. Sunday lunch at the Kuznetsovs’. Laughter around the table, glasses clinking with homemade apple juice.
“Do you remember how you fought over the apartment back then?” Lidiya Semyonovna says, serving salad.
“Mom!” Artyom protests.
“Oh, come on,” Marfa waves a hand. “Now it’s funny. I said something so stupid!”
Marfa and Artyom live in a rented two-bedroom not far from the metro. Marfa has been promoted at the agency; Artyom has started a small web studio. On the table lie the keys to their place—still rented, but already lived-in, warm, and theirs in every way that matters.
“You know,” Pavel Yegorovich says suddenly, “your mother and I have been thinking… maybe you two should live with us for a while? Why waste money on rent—better to save for your own.”
Marfa smiles.
“Thank you, Pavel Yegorovich. But we know now—we need our own space. Even if it’s rented, even if it’s small, it’s where we’re the ones in charge. And we’ll come to you as guests—like today.”
Artyom wraps an arm around her shoulders. Spring sunshine pours through the window, and the old Kuznetsov apartment no longer feels like a battleground. It’s simply a home where family gathers—now larger, closer, and wiser, having learned to understand and forgive.