Viktor carefully placed his cup on the saucer, trying not to let the porcelain clink. The sound might disturb the fragile balance that had settled over the kitchen after his mother arrived. Galina Stepanovna sat across from him, smoothing imaginary wrinkles on the tablecloth. Her gaze wandered over the walls, assessing the freshness of the wallpaper and the cost of the kitchen set. She rarely visited her older son, and every visit of hers felt like an inspection by the tax service, except instead of tax returns, she checked the level of his filial obedience.
“Artyom is completely worn out,” she began from a distance, not even touching the food. “He’s cramped in our two-room apartment, Vitya. He’s a young man. He needs space, a personal life.”
Viktor nodded, keeping a gentle expression on his face. He was used to it. Since childhood, he had been the punching bag for her ambitions and the lightning rod for her irritation.
Lawn and Garden Maintenance
“Apartments are expensive now, Mom,” he said calmly. “Does Artyom work?”
Galina Stepanovna pursed her lips as if she had swallowed a lemon peel.
“He works. He’s finding himself. They don’t appreciate him there, they pay too little here. He’s a creative nature, it’s harder for him. You’re down-to-earth, it’s easier for you. But the boy has a delicate soul. He needs a start.”
Svetlana, sitting beside her husband, only sighed briefly but said nothing. She knew that any word from her would be taken as a declaration of war. Galina Stepanovna deliberately ignored her daughter-in-law, considering her an annoying obstacle on the way to her older son’s wallet.
“And what kind of start do you have in mind?” Viktor asked carefully, already sensing where the conversation was heading. His hope that his mother had come simply to ask how he was doing melted faster than sugar in boiling water.
“A mortgage,” his mother said firmly. “We found an excellent option. A new building, a high floor, panoramic windows. I have the down payment. All that’s left is to arrange the loan.”
Viktor exhaled in relief.
“Well, if there’s a down payment, that’s wonderful. Let Artyom submit the documents. There are many programs for young people now.”
Galina Stepanovna looked at him as if he were a foolish child who had failed to learn his lesson.
“Vitya, are you not hearing me? They won’t approve Artyom. He doesn’t have a 2-NDFL income certificate, he’s still a freelancer. It needs to be taken out in your name.”
Author: Vika Trel © 4106
The kitchen suddenly felt stuffy, as if oxygen had been pumped out by a powerful machine. Viktor felt a familiar bitterness rise inside him — the taste of old grievances and disappointment. He had hoped that this stage was over. That his family had gotten used to the thought that he was a separate person, not an attachment to his brother.
“No,” he said firmly. “I won’t take out a mortgage in my name for Artyom. Sveta and I have our own plans. We want to expand too.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. The mask of a caring parent slid away, revealing the predatory face of a woman used to getting what she wanted at any cost.
“They have plans!” she snorted, turning toward Svetlana as if seeking support, only to reject it immediately. “Your mother ruined her health raising you. I didn’t sleep at night, I dropped out of university because of your illnesses. And now you have ‘plans’? Selfish. Just like your late grandmother.”
The mention of his grandmother stabbed his heart. His aunt, his mother’s sister, had let something slip on the phone a few days earlier about his grandmother’s house. The old, solid log house in the suburbs, where Viktor had spent the happiest years of his life, had been sold a month ago.
“Where did you get the money for the down payment, Mom?” Viktor asked quietly, looking straight into her eyes.
Galina Stepanovna jerked her shoulder, fixing her hair.
“What difference does it make? I saved it.”
“Aunt Nadya said you sold the house. Grandma’s house.”
His mother was not even embarrassed. On the contrary, an angry confidence appeared in her gaze.
“I sold it! And I had the right. I am the only heir. Artyom needs housing. You’ve already settled yourself, found yourself a hanger-on, you work. Isn’t that enough for you?”
Viktor gripped the edge of the table. Rage, thick and hot, began to boil in his chest. His grandmother had always said the house would go to the grandchildren equally. But the will had “accidentally” been lost, or perhaps it had never existed — there was no way to know now.
“So Grandma’s inheritance goes to Artyom. My credit history and a thirty-year debt go to me. And he will live in the apartment. Excellent scheme,” Viktor’s voice became hard.
“It’s a formality!” Galina Stepanovna raised her voice. “I’ll pay. Or Artyom will, once he gets on his feet. You just sign. Have I ever deceived you? We’re blood!”
“You deceived me my whole life when you said you loved us equally,” Viktor cut her off.
Galina Stepanovna stood up, knocking a small spoon to the floor.
“Ungrateful! Pup! I came to you with an open heart, and you’re counting pennies! I want your answer by tomorrow. Otherwise I’ll curse you, remember that. I’ll tell your father not to let you cross the threshold!”
She stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door.
Viktor sat motionless, looking at the cooling tea. His anger had been replaced by cold, calculating calm. This was the point of no return. No more concessions.
Svetlana came up to him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and began massaging his tense neck.
“She won’t leave us alone, Vitya. She’ll call your father, poison his mind, show up at your work. She’ll wear us down.”
“I know,” Viktor answered dully. “But I won’t hang a yoke around my neck for Artyom’s sake. Enough.”
“What if you agree?” his wife suggested quietly.
Viktor turned sharply, throwing off her hands.
“Are you serious? Sveta, did you hear what she was saying?”
“I heard.” Svetlana looked calm. There was no fear in her eyes, only a strange spark. “She wants to register the apartment in your name. Legally, you will be the owner. The down payment is the money from the sale of the house Grandma wanted to leave to you too.”
Viktor froze. He looked at his wife, and the meaning of her words slowly, like a heavy train, began to make its way through his mind.
“You’re suggesting…”
“I’m suggesting we restore justice.” Svetlana sat across from him. “She contributes the money. You take out the mortgage. The apartment is yours. And the keys are yours too. Artyom won’t live there. We either rent it out to cover the payments or sell it right away, pay off the debt, and the rest will be your share of Grandma’s inheritance.”
Viktor rubbed his temples. The idea seemed insane, brazen, impossible for the old him — for that quiet boy who had always given in.
“She’ll destroy me,” he whispered.
“She’s already doing that,” Sveta replied sharply. “Only now you’re doing it for free. This way, at least you’ll get compensation. You’re not stealing. You’re taking what’s yours. That very ‘down payment’ she has owed you for twenty years of humiliation.”
Viktor stood and walked to the window. Below, the city bustled; people hurried about their business, not knowing that in one apartment, the fate of a broken man was being decided. He remembered his grandmother’s hands, smelling of dried apples. He remembered how his mother had taken away money gifted to him so she could buy Artyom a new game console.
“All right,” Viktor said without turning around. His voice sounded hollow. “Call her. Tell her I agree. But only if she transfers the money to my account today. I’ll pay for everything myself.”
Cursed Paradise — Vladimir Leonidovich Shorokhov | LitRes
The deal went surprisingly smoothly. The bank, seeing Viktor’s perfect credit history and the substantial down payment, approved the application in two days. Galina Stepanovna beamed. She strutted around the developer’s office like a peacock, giving instructions to the manager as if she were buying an entire floor. Viktor remained silent, signing page after page. Each stroke of the pen cut away a piece of his old, dependent life.
Artyom did not even show up. “He’s busy, the project is burning,” his mother waved it off when Viktor asked about his brother. Of course. What project? He had slept until noon.
A month later, the building was completed. The keys lay in Viktor’s pocket, weighing down the fabric with a pleasant heaviness.
A family gathering was arranged at his parents’ place. Galina Stepanovna set the table: salads, a hot dish, even a bottle of expensive cognac. Artyom sat at the head of the table, already discussing what kind of sofa he would put in the living room. Their father chewed silently, trying not to meet Viktor’s eyes.
“Well!” his mother proclaimed solemnly, holding out her hand. “Come on, son. Time to make your brother happy.”
Viktor slowly stood up. Svetlana rose beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder with her husband. She was his shield and his sword.
“The keys, Mom?” Viktor asked again, pretending not to understand.
“Don’t drag it out! Artyom needs to move his things!” Galina Stepanovna impatiently wiggled her fingers.
“Artyom is not moving anywhere,” Viktor said clearly, each word separate. The room went silent.
“What?” Artyom stopped chewing.
“The apartment is registered in my name. The mortgage is in my name. I am the owner,” Viktor said loudly, his voice gaining strength. “I changed the locks this morning. I will either live in the apartment myself or sell it. That is my business.”
“Have you lost your mind?” his mother hissed, red patches beginning to spread across her face. “What are you saying? That’s my money! My down payment!”
“Your down payment is the money from Grandma’s house,” Viktor barked, cutting off the shriek that was beginning to rise from her. He did not step back. Instead, he took a step forward, looming over the table. “Grandma wanted everything divided equally. You deprived me of everything. Consider that money my share of the inheritance. And compensation for all the years when I was nothing to you!”
“Thief!” Galina Stepanovna shrieked, jumping up from her chair. “Give me the keys! I’ll go to the police! I’ll have you put in prison!”
“Go!” Viktor shouted back, and his cry made his mother recoil. He slammed his palm on the table, making the plates jump. “Go to the police! Show them the documents! My surname is everywhere! You transferred the money to me yourself as a ‘gift to your son’! I consulted a lawyer! You can’t prove anything!”
Artyom jumped up, clenching his fists, trying to look threatening.
“What the hell, freak? You decided to cheat me?”
Viktor turned sharply toward his brother. He was bigger, stronger, and, most importantly, angrier. He grabbed Artyom by the front of his shirt and shoved him back onto the chair with force. The chair creaked pitifully.
“Sit!” Viktor snarled. “You parasite, you haven’t lifted a finger! You want an apartment? Go earn one! Stop sucking everyone dry!”
“Father!” Galina Stepanovna screamed. “Say something to him! He’s robbing his own mother!”
Their father slowly lifted his eyes. He looked at his red-faced, raging wife, at his frightened, idle younger son, and then at Viktor, who for the first time in his life looked like a real man protecting his family.
“Vitya is right,” his father said quietly. “The house belonged to my mother. She wanted it divided. You didn’t allow that.”
“You too?! Traitor!” Galina Stepanovna choked with outrage.
To Kill a Genius — Vladimir Leonidovich Shorokhov | LitRes
Viktor and Svetlana left without saying goodbye. Curses, threats of lawsuits, and promises of heavenly punishment flew after them. But Viktor felt no fear. Only lightness.
They sold the apartment two months later. Quickly, with a small discount, just to avoid dragging things out. The mortgage was paid off early. The remaining sum — that very “grandmother’s down payment” — went toward buying a house in another region, a three-hour flight away. Closer to Svetlana’s parents, farther from the toxic past.
Galina Stepanovna tried to sue, but the lawyers only spread their hands: a voluntary transfer of funds, property registered legally. Zero chance.
Their father left the family six months later. He silently packed a suitcase and went to the village, to the ancestral home of his brother. He left all the property to his wife, just so he would no longer have to hear her screams.
But the main blow came from where no one expected it.
Artyom, deprived of his dream of a free apartment, grew bitter. He accused his mother of not having “pushed” Viktor hard enough, calling her a “hen” and a “failure.” Scandals in their apartment became daily events. Artyom demanded compensation from his mother, demanded that she sell their only home or exchange it.
One evening, Viktor’s phone rang. An unknown number.
“Hello?” Viktor stood on the veranda of his new house, looking at the sunset.
“Vitya…” His mother’s voice was broken, trembling, unfamiliar. “Vitya, he’s throwing me out. He took out a loan, collectors are calling, he’s forcing me to sign over my share… Vitya, help me. We’re family.”
Viktor looked at Svetlana, who was watering flowers in the garden. At her rounded belly. At his new, peaceful world.
“I have no family at the address you’re calling from,” he said firmly. “I only have a parasite brother and the woman who raised him. Sort it out yourselves.”
He pressed “end call” and blocked the number. The sun was setting, flooding the horizon with gold. The shadows disappeared. Only light remained.