— Inna, sunshine, how is life in that apartment I gave you?
Ivan Petrovich, sitting at a table in a restaurant in the city center, raised his glass and smiled so warmly, as if it were an ordinary family lunch full of memories and laughter. His eyes, framed by wrinkles, sparkled with pride, and his gray beard twitched slightly as he took a sip. I hadn’t seen Grandfather for ten years; he lived abroad, and now he had finally returned and knocked me off balance with his question.
I froze. The fork with a piece of meat froze in the air, never reaching my mouth. The water in my glass trembled, reflecting the light of the chandelier. The air in the hall seemed to thicken, becoming heavy like before a storm. Mom, sitting opposite, slowly lowered her spoon, her neatly painted lips parted in surprise. Dad, seated next to her, dropped his utensil onto the plate, and the ringing sound cut through the silence like a knife.
My younger sister, Katya, tore herself away from her phone; her fingers froze over the screen, and her gaze, usually indifferent, was now riveted on me. Even the waiter passing by with a tray slowed his pace, as if sensing the tension.
— Apartment? — I asked again, my voice trembling despite all efforts to appear calm.
I put the cutlery on the table, wiped my sweaty palms on the napkin on my lap, and looked at Grandfather.
— Ivan Petrovich, I live in a rented semi-basement.
Grandfather’s smile slowly faded like a candle blown out by a gust of wind. His eyes, usually so lively, narrowed, and his brows furrowed, forming a deep crease on his forehead. He set the glass on the table, and the glass clinked quietly against the wooden surface.
— What do you mean, semi-basement? — he asked. His voice was quiet, but there was a steeliness in it that made me straighten up.
Ivan Petrovich was always kind, but I knew: when he speaks in such a tone, the jokes are over. I swallowed, feeling the gazes of the whole family stuck to me as if I were an exhibit in a museum. Mom looked at Dad, her fingers nervously gripping the edge of the tablecloth. Dad stared at his plate as if instructions on how to get out of this situation were written there. Katya seemed to forget about her social media stories for the first time all morning and was now looking at me with her mouth open.
— I never received any apartment, — I said louder, trying to keep my voice steady, though everything was boiling inside. — For four years now, I’ve been renting a semi-basement from a woman who smokes so much the walls have turned yellow. The boiler hums right next to the bed, and there are almost no windows—just narrow slits under the ceiling through which light barely breaks through.
The silence became unbearable. I felt the blood pounding in my temples, my heart beating somewhere in my throat, drowning out all sounds. Ivan Petrovich looked at me, then slowly shifted his gaze to Dad. His fingers gripping the edge of the tablecloth turned white, and his knuckles stood out like those of a man ready for a fight…
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