The waiter brought out the cake, and Sonya was the first to reach her finger towards the creamy number six.
“Sonya, hands,” Kirill said, without lifting his eyes from his phone.
The ‘6’ and ‘5’ candles burned steadily. Lyova was recording, and Eva, Veronika’s daughter, clapped so enthusiastically that people at the next table turned to look.
I started laughing and, out of habit, covered my mouth with my hand: three years now, I’ve been missing two teeth on the right side, and I just can’t bring myself to smile fully anymore.
“Grandma, make a wish!” Eva shouted.
I made a wish and blew out the candles. Six of us sat by the window, and no one was arguing. That’s something to be grateful for.
Veronika waited until the waiter had removed the candles, then placed an envelope in front of me. Thick, cream-colored, with an embossed sprig in the corner.
“Mom, this is from Kira and me. Open it.”
The envelope was light. I pulled out a sheet with a golden border and began to read aloud, since my glasses were still in my bag and the letters were blurry:
“Certificate. On behalf of Rimma Andreevna Lapteva, 10 trees have been planted.” What is this?
“That’s a forest, Mom!” Veronika beamed. “A real one, in the Tver region. We thought things are so last century. Materialism. The planet is struggling as it is, and you already have everything.”
“It was Alla who found the foundation,” Kirill said, finally putting his phone aside. “It’s a shame she couldn’t come herself. She’s our eco-expert. There are even coordinates; you can see them on the map.”
“Grandma, can we visit there?” Lyova asked.
“Lyov, that’s not how it works,” Veronika replied.
I folded the sheet in half. Then again.
“I asked you,” I said. “Back in July. No gifts—help me with my teeth instead.”
Kirill sighed like I’d just asked him for a kidney.
“Mom, you know what this year’s been like for me. Car loan, mortgage, Sonya’s starting school next year—uniforms, backpack, all that costs money. And besides… fifty-five thousand for one tooth? You’re being scammed. Alla got hers done for thirty in Kazan.”
“Alla had one done. I need three.”
“All the more reason! Find a decent clinic.”
Veronika gently placed her hand over mine. Her nails were long, milky-colored with thin gold stripes.
“Mom, I’m really not in a good place right now,” she said softly, like people do when they’re speaking to the unwell. “You know I’m working through childhood traumas. Including, sorry, the ones related to you. My therapist says I can’t take on other people’s expectations. And in October I have a retreat in Karelia—breathwork, I’ve already paid.”
“And your pottery,” Kirill snorted.
“Pottery is therapy too, Kira,” Veronika said, not turning her head.
“Mom, you’re a grandma,” Kirill said, spreading his hands over his plate. “You have to understand where the money’s needed more right now.”
I didn’t know what to say. Lyova glanced at me over his phone, and I covered my mouth again.
“By the way, Mom,” Veronika was already scrolling through something on her phone. “I’m going to use the dacha until the end of October, okay? I have a project there I’ll show you later. I’ll keep the key for now.”
“Nik, don’t touch my tires out there,” Kirill added. “I’ll pick them up before the freeze.”
The waiter returned with a leather folder.
“One bill or split the check?”
Kirill and Veronika looked at me. At the same time, just like they did as kids at the register when we had to decide about ice cream.
I opened my bag, pulled out my card, and tapped it on the terminal without checking the amount. Then I unfolded the certificate and smoothed it out on the tablecloth. I placed a 500 bill in the folder for a tip and laid the golden frame on top, then closed it.
The waiter peered inside, looking puzzled.
“Mom!” Veronika blushed. “That’s supposed to be a gift!”
“Well, I’m giving it away,” I said. “You all keep saying things are outdated anyway.”
“Mom, are you serious?” Kirill asked, a little uncertain now. “Are you upset or something? About your teeth?”
I put on my coat and kissed Sonya on her cheeks, sticky from cream, then Eva and Lyova.
“Thank you all for coming,” I said to everyone at once.
When I got home, I sat in the hallway for a long time without taking off my shoes, staring at my phone. I opened the bank section I only checked once a year: “Auto-payments.” I didn’t touch anything. Not until morning.
***
On Sunday I woke up at seven, as if for work, put the kettle on, and then opened the app.
I made the list myself, line by line, three years in a row, and gave each item a name so I wouldn’t get confused. Almost all my pension went toward it, along with what I earned from bookkeeping for two small companies—I still do their books from home. “Nika’s therapy” – 24,000 ₽, on the fifth. “Kirill, mortgage” – 20,000 ₽, on the tenth. “Nika, ceramics studio” – 7,000 ₽, on the twentieth.
The children’s expenses landed all together on the fifteenth: “Lyova, soccer” – 6,500 ₽. “Sonya, English” – 8,800 ₽. “Eva, swimming” – 4,200 ₽.
Then there was a separate card. The second card to my account, the one I gave Kirill two years ago, saying: “For the grandkids. So you don’t have to ask every time.” I opened the transactions for September. “Detsky Mir” – 3,450. “Pyaterochka” – 2,180. “Gas station” – 3,200. “Car wash” – 900. “Gas station” – 3,000. “Burger King” – 1,140.
I scrolled further down. The gas station appeared every four days, as regular as pills on a schedule. My tea had gone cold. I started adding things up in my head but quit halfway through; it was obvious anyway.
I could have done it quietly. Paused everything for three months, paid the clinic, and restarted in time for New Year. No one would notice, and if they did, I’d just say the bank was glitching. I even found the “Pause” button. My finger hovered there, then went lower, to “Delete.”
Not out of principle. I just wanted them to experience something not going through for once.
“Delete auto-payment ‘Nika’s therapy’?” Delete. “Kirill, mortgage.” Delete. Soccer, English, swimming, ceramics. Every time, the app asked if I was sure, and every time, I was sure.
Dealing with the card was even easier. The bank offered two options: temporarily or forever. I chose the latter. The screen flashed red: “Card blocked.”
Then I called the clinic. The receptionist booked me for the twenty-fifth, for my first implant. I already had enough: I’d been saving on a deposit for a new fridge. The fridge could wait.
Kirill called at twenty to twelve.
“Mom, there’s something wrong with your card. I’m at the gas station and it’s not working—they’ve already put the nozzle in.”
“I closed the card.”
“What do you mean, closed it?” There was honking in the background. “That was for the grandkids!”
“Kirill, darling, nobody’s buying gas for the grandkids.”
He fell silent. I could hear him moving away from the speaker and slamming the door.
“Mom, is this really about yesterday?” he asked, his voice lower but angrier. “Is it because of the teeth? Seriously? You’re a grandmother! Sonya has English tomorrow. Lyova has…”
“I’ve cut off the English lessons too. And football. And your loan payment.”
“My loan?!”
“Your payment is due on the 10th. Just like everyone else.”
“I’ll come by tonight,” Kirill said. “We’ll talk like normal people. Without all this.”
He hung up first. I finished my cold tea, pulled a toolbox from the closet, and picked out the thickest Phillips screwdriver.
Let him come by. I won’t be home.
***
At the hardware store on the edge of town, the salesman turned my old key over in his fingers.
“You want a cylinder like this? We’ve got them. Are you changing it yourself? There’s just one screw on the end of the door. Just insert the old key, turn it slightly—it’ll come right out.”
“I’ll do it myself,” I said.
“Respect,” he replied, ringing up the receipt.
It was a forty-minute drive to the dacha with no traffic. As I drove, I tried to think of what I’d tell Veronika when she found out. I couldn’t come up with anything good.
There was a strange car at the gate. White, with plates from another region, and a child’s car seat in the back. Smoke floated over the property—someone was grilling meat on my barbecue.
The gate was open. On the porch, sitting in my rocking chair under my grandmother’s patchwork quilt, was a woman I didn’t know, reading a book. A boy of about five was kicking a ball along the path between my dahlias.
A man in an apron came out from behind the house. My apron, with sunflowers on it.
“Hello,” he greeted me cheerfully. “Who are you here for? We’ve rented the place till tomorrow.”
“Rented,” I repeated.
“That’s right.” He wiped his hands on the sunflowers. “We got it through Avito. I’ll show you.”
He pulled out his phone and showed me the screen. There was my porch. My apple trees, photographed from below against the sun so they looked taller than they really are. My bathhouse with a birch whisk hanging on the door.
“Eco-house by the pond. Peace and quiet, apple orchard, wood-fired sauna. 4,500 ₽ per night. Hostess – Veronika.”
Below were reviews. The first was from August 9, three days after I took my grandchildren to the city. “Hostess Veronika is so welcoming, left us herbal tea.” The second, third. The sixth review was from just the other day.
“We transferred money to Veronika for two nights,” the man said, less friendly now. “Everything’s honest. We even have a booking for October, with friends. And you are, sorry?”
“I’m the hostess’s mother,” I said. “And the real hostess.”
I even laughed and automatically covered my mouth – it really was funny. My daughter had been renting out my dacha by the day. Ever since I took the grandkids away – all of August and half of September, while I was sending her money for her therapist and she was telling me she was feeling burned out.
The man introduced himself as Damir and called his wife over. She took the quilt off her lap and folded it carefully, like she’d mended it herself.
“Do we need to leave?” she asked. “We have a child.”
I looked at the little boy with the ball. It wasn’t his fault. And these two weren’t to blame either.
“Stay the night,” I said. “You’ve paid—spend the night. But I’m changing the lock right now.”
I stepped onto the porch, opened the toolbox right on the step, and spotted a screw at the end of the door. It was stuck tight and covered in paint. Damir silently brought over his own ratcheting screwdriver from the car.
“Let me handle it.”
“I’ll do it myself,” I replied.
The screw finally budged on the third try. The old lock cylinder popped out with a light click, just like the seller promised. The new one slid in smoothly and turned easily. I pulled three new keys out of the bag and handed one to Damir.
“I’ll be here tomorrow at noon. You’ll hand it over to me, in person. And don’t come in October. There’s no booking.”
“What about the prepayment?” his wife asked. “We already sent it to Veronika for October.”
“Talk to Veronika about that,” I said. “And make sure you leave her a review. An honest one.”
That night, I stayed in the city and switched my phone off. On Monday, exactly at noon, the white car pulled away. Damir gave me the key, just like we agreed, and for some reason, he apologized.
I walked around the house. In the shed, next to Kirill’s tires in black bags, there were three boxes labeled in Veronika’s neat, round handwriting: “Guest linens,” “Towels,” “Candles/aroma.” The bedding was new, still in its packaging. The padlock, just like all these years, hung from the latch, open. I snapped it shut and put the only key in my pocket.
Then I sat down on the porch step and laid the three identical keys in my palm. They smelled of machine oil. No one else will enter this house without my say-so anymore. I sat there until I got cold, and for the first time in years, I wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere.
When I turned my phone back on, it jerked to life in my hand like it was alive. Fourteen missed calls from Nika. And a message: “Mom, what did you do?!!”
***
Veronika got through on her fifteenth try, just as I was pulling onto the highway. I pulled over to the shoulder and put her on speaker.
“Mom, what did you do?! Damir texted me that you changed the lock! That you almost kicked them out with their kid!”
“I didn’t kick them out. They stayed overnight.”
“I have four bookings in October! People have paid deposits! Do you realize you’re ruining my project?”
“Project,” I echoed. “Eco-home by the pond.”
She hesitated, but only for a second.
“Yes, a project! I’ve invested in it, for your information. Bought linens, hired a photographer, promoted the ad. It’s mine, understand? This is the first time in my life I’ve created something just for me, and you—”
“With the money I sent you for your therapist?”
“You have no right to touch my money!” Veronika shouted. “That’s my boundary!”
“And this is mine,” I said. “The dacha is my boundary, Nika. You sent me that article last winter yourself. ‘Toxic relatives: how to stop being a resource.’ I read it. Twice.”
She sobbed—just loud enough for me to hear.
“You diminish me. This is abuse, Mom. Real abuse. I’ll discuss it with my therapist.”
“Please do,” I replied. “But now you can pay for it yourself. I’m working through my own issues, too. All your adult life I was an ATM on legs, it’s not good for me. My therapist told me that, too…” I paused. “Except I don’t have a therapist, Nika. Figured that out yourself, didn’t you?”
“You’re mocking me,” she said, and hung up.
Kirill called that evening, just as I was heating up dinner.
“Mom, I stopped by to see you yesterday. Stood by your door for an hour.”
“I was at the dacha.”
“There you go!” he exclaimed, almost as if he’d caught me lying. “About the dacha. Nika says you changed the locks. I’ve booked a tire service for Saturday—otherwise there’s a month-long wait. The tires are at your place.”
“Tires, Kiryusha, are just things,” I replied. “And things are outdated. You and Nika already made your Saturday plans. You can ride the bus for now. It’s eco-friendly. Alla would approve.”
“Mom, do you hear yourself?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “You sound like a teenager. So Nika rented out the dacha—so what? The house was empty anyway. Are you really that upset about it?”
I turned off the stove.
“You knew?”
“Yeah, I knew,” Kirill said after a pause. “She wasn’t renting out something that wasn’t ours. I mean… it’s family property. What’s the big deal, Mom.”
“Did your tires get in the way of the guests?”
“What do tires have to do with this?” He finally snapped. “Nika’s in tears, we got a call from Sonyka’s English class because the payment wasn’t made, and Leva’s coach messaged us that his fee hasn’t come through. He made the starting lineup for the first time all year, and now if we don’t pay by the end of the week, he’s benched. You’re his grandma!”
I stayed silent. That’s exactly what he was waiting for.
“Anyway,” Kirill said calmly, all business now, “Leva’s not coming to see you on Sunday. He doesn’t need to watch his grandma lose her mind.”
Ever since Leva was seven, he came to visit me every Sunday. We baked pancakes, fixed his bike, and when he outgrew it, we worked on mine together.
“You can pick up your tires on Saturday,” I said. “Ten in the morning. I’ll unlock the shed. Just the tires.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Kirill said. “What a royal gift.”
That night, after I got into bed, Leva sent me a message:
‘ba dad said we’re not coming sun. I’ll pay for soccer myself, I have birthday money left. when are your teeth getting done’
I typed: “On the twenty-fifth, Levushka.” Then deleted it. I typed: “I’ll pay for soccer myself.” Deleted that too. I only sent a heart.
***
On the twenty-fifth, I got my first implant. For now, I have to chew on my left side. The second and third implants will come in November, once I’ve saved up.
Kirill picked up the tires on Saturday. He came alone, tossed them into the trunk, didn’t come into the house, and barely looked at me. He muttered a “thanks” in the direction of the gate.
Veronika deleted her ad. But she posted a long message in her Stories on a beige background about parents who confuse love with control and punish their adult children with money. It got forty hearts. One of them, I think, was from Alla.
Leva didn’t visit that Sunday. Or the next. He turns fourteen on November second, and Kirill hasn’t said if I’m invited yet.
On Saturday at the market, I bought a sapling—a two-year-old Antonovka with a clump of earth wrapped in burlap. The saleswoman asked if it was a gift. I said it was for myself.
I dug a hole by the fence, where Veronika’s guests used to park. I watered it with my old watering can, tamped down the earth around it. When I stood up, I laughed at nothing in particular—and this time, didn’t cover my mouth.
Just one tree. But it was planted by me, and for me.