Lera adjusted a strand of her hair for what must have been the fifth time already. She was holding a bottle of semi-sweet wine they’d purposely picked up at “Aromatny Mir” for 900 rubles, not at “Pyaterochka.” Beside her, Alexei balanced a “Praga” cake in his hands, nervously shifting from foot to foot like a schoolboy waiting to be called to the board.
“Why are you just standing there,” Lera hissed. “Ring the bell.”
“Mom already opened the door, what’s the point?”
Sure enough, the door was ajar. The smell of fried chicken—and something sweet and feminine, maybe perfume or cream—floated out from the apartment. That meant Aunt Galya was here too. Alexei grimaced; he’d been hoping to talk to his mother alone. Or at least just with his father around—dad usually kept quiet.
“Alyosha, is that you?” his mother called from the kitchen. “Come in, take your shoes off, I’ll be right there.”
Lera handed him the bottle and started scrutinizing herself in the mirror. She touched up her lipstick, smoothed down her beige, figure-hugging dress—bought just the other day on sale at “Gloria Jeans.” Not too flashy, but definitely enough that her future mother-in-law could tell her friends: Alyosha’s fiancée looks like a real picture.
“Are you nervous?” she whispered.
“Nope.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, maybe a little nervy. When Mom’s in a good mood, she could still change her mind.”
“Alyosha, you’ve been promised those keys for three years. There’s no ‘changing her mind’ at this point.”
He nodded, but without much confidence.
At the table, Aunt Galya was already seated—Valentina Sergeyevna’s older sister. She was skinny, sharp-eyed, and wore a fuchsia sweater that seemed to glow even with the lights off. She definitely smelled of cream—”Black Pearl,” Lera recognized immediately. Her grandma in the village had the exact same jar on her dresser.
“Oh, the young people!” Aunt Galya exclaimed, clapping her hands. “The groom and his bride! Lerachka, you’re such a beauty. Sit, sit down, both of you.”
Valentina Sergeyevna brought out a bowl of Olivier salad and a platter of chicken. Alexei’s father, Nikolai Petrovich, was already sitting at the head of the table, silently staring at the tablecloth. He was always like that—seemed far away, but heard every word.
“Well, my dears,” his mother began, sitting down. “Tell me, how’s all the planning going?”
“All on track,” Alexei smiled. “Restaurant’s booked—remember ‘Marseille’ on Leninskaya? We’ve got a host lined up, and a photographer, too.”
“Did it cost a lot?”
“About two hundred-fifty.”
Valentina Sergeyevna nodded silently. Aunt Galya let out a whistle:
“Wow, two hundred and fifty! Back in the day, you could buy a car with that kind of money.”
“Aunt Galya, these days you couldn’t even get a decent Lada for that much,” Lera snorted.
Everyone burst out laughing. The atmosphere was warming up. Lera caught Alexei’s eye and winked at him, signaling it was time. He cleared his throat.
“Mom. Dad. The reason we really came here—it’s about the apartment.”
Valentina Sergeyevna slowly put down her fork. Nikolai Petrovich looked up. Aunt Galya suddenly became very interested in her pickle.
“What apartment, son?”
“What do you mean, which one? Grandma’s. You said when we get married, you’d give us the keys.”
“I never said that.”
Lera felt something quietly snap inside her.
“Valentina Sergeyevna, you said so yourself at New Year’s in front of everyone. I remember. Alexei and I even told Oleg about it—we have witnesses.”
“I said, ‘we’ll see.’ That’s not the same as ‘we’ll give it to you.’”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Alexey was taken aback. “We were counting on that. We didn’t take a car loan on purpose so we could save up for renovations.”
“Lyosha,” Valentina Sergeevna sighed. “We’re giving the apartment to Natasha.”
Everything went quiet at the table. So quiet that Lera could hear the kitchen faucet dripping.
“What Natasha?” Alexey breathed out.
“Your sister, of course. Who else?”
“Mom… are you serious right now?”
“Couldn’t be more serious.”
Natasha was six years older than Alexey. She lived in Serpukhov with her husband Ruslan and their two kids. In three years of knowing her, Lera had only seen Natasha three times—she would come over with homemade jam, always withdrawn, quiet, and perpetually tired. In her mind, Lera called her ‘the weary one.’ But never out loud, of course.
“What happened?” Lera asked, her voice half a pitch higher than usual.
“Ruslan left. A week ago.”
“What do you mean, he left?”
“Literally. He found himself a younger woman at work, packed a bag, and left. Natasha’s got two kids left with her, little Romka who’s five and Sonya who’s three. The apartment in Serpukhov is rented, and Ruslan immediately stopped giving her money. Natasha works as a cashier at ‘Magnit,’ makes thirty-two thousand. Do you understand what that means?”
“But mom…”
“But what? She has nowhere to live, Lyosha. Nowhere at all. She’ll come here with the kids if we don’t give her the apartment. And we only have a two-bedroom. Where am I going to fit all of them?”
Alexey stayed silent. Lera could feel the heat rising under her dress—from her neck downward to her stomach.
“Valentina Sergeevna,” she carefully spoke up, “I get it, it’s tough for Natasha. Really. But our wedding is next month. We planned everything.”
“Lera, what can I do? She’s my daughter. She’s alone with two kids. Should I kick her out into the street?”
“No one’s saying she should be on the street. But there are other options. Go to court for alimony. Or social services.”
“Social services give her pennies. That’s not a home.”
“So we’re supposed to rent a place then?”
“You’re both adults, healthy, and don’t have kids. You’ll find a place to rent.”
Lera let out a breath. Aunt Galya silently chewed on a pickle, looking between everyone like she was watching a tennis match.
“Dad,” Alexey turned to his father, “why aren’t you saying anything?”
Nikolai Petrovich leaned back in his chair. He was wearing the same sweater Lera remembered from last winter—gray, with two stripes on the collar.
“What’s there to say, son? Your mother’s right.”
“Dad, but we…”
“You’re a grown man, Lyosha. You’re thirty-one years old. You’ve got a job, and your salary isn’t small. Lera works too. You’re living in a rented two-bed, paying twenty-five thousand, so just rent a new place when your lease ends. No one died.”
“It’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“You’ve been promising me that apartment since I was fourteen. ‘When you get married, Lyosha, when you start a family, it’ll be yours.’ I’ve counted on that my whole life.”
“And Natasha was counting on having a husband. But look at what happened. Life, son, is unpredictable—it changes your plans.”
Aunt Galya couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
“Lyosh, try to understand. Natasha… she’s a mother of two. We ought to be grateful she put up with Ruslan for as long as she did. You know how bad he was the last two years—drinking constantly.”
“I know,” Alexey grumbled. “But what does that have to do with the apartment?”
“It matters because she’s got nowhere else to go, that’s what.”
Lera lifted her glass to her lips. She didn’t really feel like drinking, but she needed something to do with her hands.
“Can I clarify something?” she asked. “The apartment on Shabolovka, right? The one-bedroom, thirty-four square meters?”
“Yes, that’s right,” her mother-in-law nodded. “Baba Nyura’s place.”
“How much do you think it’s worth now?”
“Lera, what’s going on?”
“I’m just curious. Fifteen million?”
“About that. Why?”
“Because it’s going to be tight for Natasha’s two kids living in thirty-four square meters. In five years, Roma will need his own room. And a two-bedroom apartment in Moscow starts at twenty million. Have you thought about where she’s going to get the extra money?”
Valentina Sergeevna looked at Lera, her gaze sharper now.
“That’s not your concern, Lerочка.”
“How is it not? I’m becoming your daughter-in-law in a month.”
“Exactly, in a month. But Natasha has been my daughter for thirty-seven years.”
Alexey tried to smooth things over.
“Mom, Lera, let’s not argue. Mom, just listen. What if you help Natasha with rent, she rents a place in Serpukhov, files for child support, and manages for a year or two? And we move into grandma’s place. That way it’s fair for everyone.”
“Lesha,” his mother sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Rent in Serpukhov is twenty thousand a month. Multiply that by twenty-four months, that’s nearly half a million. We don’t have that kind of money to just give away. And Natasha certainly doesn’t.”
“And you think Lera and I do?”
“You shouldn’t have to. You need to build your own life.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do! Starting with this apartment.”
“Build it while you’re renting. Like everyone else.”
Lera finally put down her glass. Her hand was steady. So was her voice.
“Valentina Sergeevna, am I understanding right? The apartment you promised us for three years is now going to Natalia. Because her husband left.”
“That’s right.”
“And as for our wedding in a month—we’re just supposed to figure it out ourselves?”
“Lera, what does the wedding have to do with this?”
“Because we planned to live in grandma’s apartment. That was the deal. Alyosha, tell her.”
Alexey was silent.
“Alyosh, say something.”
“Ler…”
“What do you mean, ‘Ler’? What did you tell me in February? That as soon as we got married, we’d move into the apartment and give up this rental. You said that, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I said it.”
“And now what?”
Alexey looked away.
“Well, let’s get a mortgage then.”
“What mortgage, Alyosh?!” Lera didn’t even notice she’d raised her voice. “Are you serious right now? You earn one hundred twenty, I earn ninety. A mortgage at twenty percent interest. That’s a payment of over a hundred thousand a month with a three million down payment. Where do we have three million?”
“We saved that much for the wedding…”
“For the wedding we have two hundred fifty. And almost all of that is already gone. And our wedding is in a month, Alexey. In. A. Month.”
Aunt Galya made a strange noise—like a mix between a scoff and a cough.
“Lerochka, looks like you’ve done all the math.”
“What, you think I’m an idiot, Aunt Galya? I’ve been working as an accountant at ‘Piknik’ for eight years. I know how to count.”
“Alright,” Valentina Sergeevna slapped her palm on the table. “Let’s stop the hysteria. Lera, calm down. Lesha, you too. We’re not strangers here. We’re family.”
“Family,” Alexey said quietly. “Mom, I understand Natasha. Honestly. But please, try to understand me, too. We really planned everything around that apartment. Lera was already picking out the wallpaper.”
“Well, you’ll have to change your plans.”
“How can we back out now, Mom? We’ve already paid half for the wedding. The venue required a 130,000 down payment. It’s non-refundable. If we cancel, that’s 130,000 gone for nothing.”
“Don’t cancel.”
“But where are we supposed to live?!”
“Where you’ve been living—keep staying in the rental.”
“Paying 25,000 a month? For the rest of our lives?”
“Until you can save up yourselves.”
Aleksey stared down at his plate. He hadn’t touched his Olivier salad.
Lera pushed back her chair and stood up.
“Aleksey. Let’s go.”
“Wait.”
“Wait for what? You heard everything. Let’s go.”
“Lera, sit down. Let’s talk calmly.”
“I am completely calm. Let’s go home and discuss there.”
“We are home. We’ll discuss right here. Sit down.”
She sat down, slowly. She did not look at her mother-in-law.
“Okay. Let’s be calm. Aleksey, I have just one question. Are you backing out of what you promised me? From everything you said this past year?”
“Lera, it’s not about backing out. Mom just explained the situation.”
“I’m asking you—are you backing out of your promises?”
“I’m not backing out. I just… I’m lost right now.”
“I see.”
She stood up again. Took her bag from the back of her chair—it was black, from Zara, bought back when Zara still operated in Russia. Lera treasured it.
“Aleksey. I’ll say this clearly, in front of your parents and Aunt Galya: Without an apartment, you’re nobody to me, Alyosha. I haven’t spent three years with you just to patch the wallpaper in a rental one-bedroom at thirty-two.”
The table fell into silence.
Nikolai Petrovich raised his head. Valentina Sergeyevna slowly put down her wine glass. Aunt Galya’s mouth opened in surprise.
“Repeat that,” said her mother-in-law.
“Repeat what?”
“What you just said.”
“I said exactly what I think. And all of you pretended this was about love. This was never about love, Valentina Sergeyevna. It was a contract. An apartment was part of the contract. You took that out of the contract—the contract is off.”
“Lera,” Aleksey stood up. “What are you saying?”
“What I should’ve said yesterday. The wedding is canceled.”
“Lera!”
“Alyosha, I’m heading home now, packing my things, and moving in with Marina. We’ll split the venue deposit. I’ve already bought my dress—I’m keeping it. Return the rings to the jeweler, they accept returns within fourteen days, I checked.”
“Wait… are you actually serious right now?”
“Never been more serious.”
She turned and walked toward the door.
“Lera, wait!” Aleksey rushed after her. “What are you doing? The wedding’s almost here! The guests have been invited!”
“You can call the guests yourself.”
“Lera!”
She was already in the hallway, sitting on the bench as she slipped on her sandals. Her hands moved quickly and precisely, as if she’d done this a thousand times. The clasp fastened on the first try.
“Alyosha. Let me explain this plainly. I’m not dumping you. I just don’t want to start my life over at thirty-two, from scratch. My friends all have their own apartments by now. Katya and her husband got a three-room place on Alekseevskaya. Irka’s in a new build in Nekrasovka. Marina is building a house in the Moscow suburbs. So what, I just wait in line for your inheritance, which is going to your sister anyway? No, thank you.”
“Lera, we could get a mortgage.”
“You’re thirty-one. That means you’ll be paying it off until you’re sixty-two. Don’t you care about your health? Or mine?”
“So that’s it, then?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
She opened the door and turned back.
“Yes, Alyosha. Take the cake. I don’t like Prague cake.”
And she left.
Alexey came back to the kitchen. He sat down. He looked at his mother. His mother looked right back at him.
“Well,” said Valentina Sergeyevna, “that’s it.”
“Mom, what do you mean ‘that’s it’?”
“That’s it, son. You just lost the apartment. And your fiancée. All in one evening.”
“Mom, this is you! This is your fault!”
“It’s my fault, is it?”
“Who else’s? If you had kept quiet about Natasha, I would have brought her over, we could’ve lived together, and then sorted things out with Natasha later…”
“Do you hear yourself right now, Lyosha?”
“What?”
“You just said — ‘sorted things out later.’ So Natasha with two kids could live wherever, while you and Lera get the grandmother’s apartment — under those photo wallpapers.”
“Mom, that’s not what I meant.”
Nikolai Petrovich poured himself some vodka. Slowly. He drank it down without any chaser.
“Lyosha,” he said. “Just now, when Lera was asking if you take back what you said, you looked at your chair. Do you know why you looked at your chair?”
“Why?”
“Because Lera for you was like that apartment. Comfortable, beautiful, warm. You counted on her. And now that the comfort is gone, you immediately dislike her.”
“Dad, that’s not true.”
“It’s true, son. And the worst part — for her, you were an apartment, too. Just a walking one.”
“Dad!”
“What, ‘dad’? All your life it’s been ‘dad.’ Look, at thirty-one you still come to your mother: ‘mom, give me.’ Did you ever ask — mom, how’s your blood pressure? Dad, how’s your back? No. Just ‘give me.'”
“Kolya, enough,” Valentina Sergeyevna said quietly.
“No, not enough. He needs to hear this. Natasha calls us once a week. Romka yells at grandma on the phone. Sonya recites poems. And Lyoshka — when was the last time you called us just to talk? Well, Lyosha?”
Alexey stayed silent.
“See, you don’t even remember.”
Aunt Galya, who had been silent all this time, suddenly spoke up:
“Valya, may I say something?”
“Go ahead, Galya.”
“Lyoshka, don’t be angry at Lera. Sure, she’s a real firecracker and her temper — wow. But she actually did you a big favor tonight.”
“What favor?”
“She showed you who you almost married. If it hadn’t been for grandma’s apartment, you two would have split up in two years anyway — only with a kid and a mortgage by then.”
“Aunt Galya…”
“And let me tell you one more thing. Don’t take it the wrong way. You’re not perfect either. Your mother and father have been helping you out your whole life. A fridge here, a washing machine there, helped you buy a car. And you always just ask for more. Thirty-one years old, Lyosha. At our age, people had their second child by thirty-one.”
Alexey stared at the bowl of Olivier salad.
Aunt Galya said even softer:
“It’s Natasha who’s having the hardest time right now. Just imagine. Romka is little, asking ‘where’s dad?’ Sonya cries at night. And it’s your mom and dad who are giving her shelter. And you, all grown up, are sulking because your toy got taken away.”
“It’s not a toy.”
“It’s an apartment, Lyosha. It’s lifeless. Natasha’s alive.”
Alexey left around eleven. Took a taxi — didn’t start his car, he just couldn’t. The rented two-room apartment felt empty. Lera hadn’t taken everything, but the important things were gone — her makeup bag, hairdryer, laptop, chargers. On the nightstand was her ring with a little stone, the one he gave her for Valentine’s Day. Next to it was a note:
“Alyosh, don’t call me for a week. Then we can talk about the restaurant and the rings. Don’t make a scene. Lera.”
He sat down on the bed and just stayed there for a long time. In his pocket, he had the keys: one for his rental, one for his parents’ place, and one old key from his grandmother’s apartment on Shabolovka—a key Valentina Sergeyevna gave him ages ago, back when his grandmother was still alive, just in case he needed to water the plants. He never gave that key back. It stayed on his keychain.
Aleksei took the key off the ring, held it in his palm for a moment, then placed it on the nightstand next to Lera’s ring.
At two in the morning, he called Natasha.
“Lyosh?” his sister answered immediately, as if she hadn’t been asleep. “What’s wrong?”
“Hi, Natasha.”
“What’s up with your voice?”
“Everything’s fine. I… I just wanted to call you. How are you? How are the kids?”
There was silence on the other end.
“Romka isn’t sleeping well. Sonya’s fine, she’s still little, doesn’t really understand yet.”
“And you?”
“Me…” Natasha let out a quiet laugh. “Lyosh, I get thirty-two thousand. I’m hanging in there.”
“Natasha. I’ll send you some money. Tomorrow. Thirty thousand.”
“Lyosh, you don’t have to.”
“I do. You’re my sister. That’s it, I’m going to send it.”
“Lyosh, what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to call.”
He hung up. Then he looked at the ring and the key lying side by side on the nightstand. He picked up the key and held it again. Then he got up, walked to the kitchen, took out a gray envelope from the drawer—one from Russian Post, where he kept his documents. He put the key inside the envelope and wrote on it: “Mom, please give this to Natasha.”
He sealed it.
Then he took out the leftover Prague cake from the fridge, the one his mother insisted he take with him. He cut himself a slice, sat at the table, ate it, stood up, washed the plate and fork, and set them out to dry.
He turned off the light and lay down to sleep in his clothes.