— Oh, that one? Well, it was a guest room, it was empty anyway. And now it’s a nursery. It’s better this way, right?
Larisa Semyonovna nodded with the air of someone who had finally received deserved recognition for her wisdom:
— I told you Polinka would understand. She’s a smart girl.
Polina stood in the middle of the corridor, looking at the trio. At her husband with his stupid bags, at her mother-in-law in a borrowed apron, at her sister-in-law with her belly on display. And she felt something strange rising inside her. Not anger, not resentment, not pain, but laughter. At first, it was quiet, almost soundless — just a shudder of her shoulders. Then louder. And then she burst out laughing, throwing her head back, so hard that tears came to her eyes.
— Polinka? — Viktor backed away. — What’s wrong with you?
She didn’t answer, continuing to laugh. And there was something in this laughter that made Larisa Semyonovna turn pale, and Ulyana instinctively placed both hands on her belly.
— Stop it! – the mother-in-law snapped. — Why are you cackling like a madwoman?
— Hysterics! – whispered Ulyana. — Mom, she’s hysterical! Maybe we should call an ambulance?
Polina stopped laughing as suddenly as she had started, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and looked at all three of them. Calmly, almost with a smile.
— I’m perfectly fine! – she said. — More than fine!
And she took out her phone.
— Who are you calling? – Viktor tensed up. — Your mother to complain?
— I’m calling the people who have more right to this apartment than you do!
Her fingers confidently found the right contact, and she put the call on speakerphone, placing the phone on the chest of drawers. The ringing echoed through the corridor, and everyone fell silent, staring at the screen.
— Hello! — The voice on the phone was low, business-like. — Ignat Romanovich?
— Polina Timurovna, good evening! — The voice warmed up. — Yes, everything’s on. Yegor and I have left, the boxes are in the car. Sinitsyn will be there too, as we agreed. We’ll be there in 10 minutes.
The painters in the guest room stopped working, and out of the corner of her eye, Polina saw Lyokha taking off his gloves.
— Excellent! I’m waiting! — She ended the call and put her phone away.
The silence became so thick you could almost touch it. Larisa Semyonovna opened and closed her mouth, unable to utter a word. Ulyana clung to the doorframe.
— Polina! — Viktor swallowed hard. — What does this mean? What boxes?
— It means, Vitya, that in 10 minutes, the new owner of this apartment will be here. With his things. And with a friend from the police, just in case.
— What owner? — Polina spoke slowly and clearly, like a teacher explaining the multiplication table to a slow student. — This apartment is my personal property. My father bought it in 2008, during the construction phase, and gave it to me when I graduated from university. Four years before I met you. Your consent for the sale was never required.
He turned pale.
— Yes, Vitya, I sold this apartment. Ignat Romanovich Shcherbakov is the new owner. The deal was registered this morning. The extract from the State Register of Property Rights is in my bag if you want to see it.
— You’re lying, — shrieked Larisa Semyonovna, finally finding her voice. — It’s joint property! You’re married! I know the law!
Polina turned to her with polite sympathy.
— Property received as a gift before marriage is not considered joint property. That’s Article 57 of the Family Code of Ukraine. You can check.
— I feel sick, – moaned Ulyana, clutching her stomach. – I feel very sick.
Polina didn’t even glance in her direction.
— While you, Vitya, were moving your mom’s things and discussing which room to give to whom, I was signing the purchase and sale agreement. Seven million eight hundred thousand hryvnias. A good price for a three-room apartment in the center, near the embankment.
Larisa Semyonovna slowly slid down the wall to the floor, her legs unable to support her. She sat on the parquet floor that Polina had replaced two years ago, staring blankly ahead.
The painter Lyokha came out of the guest room, no longer in his overalls, with a bag of tools in his hand.
— Seryoga, pack it up. We’re leaving.
— What about the walls? — came a voice from inside. — We haven’t finished, we weren’t paid in full for this. We signed up to paint, not to star in a TV show.
— Hold on, let me finish watching, — Seryoga peeked out of the room with a roller in his hand. — You don’t see this stuff on TV.
Lyokha grunted as he passed Viktor:
— Vityok, when you called us, you said it was a side job for your sister. But I see this is a whole different movie.
— Lyokha, we took an advance, — Seryoga reluctantly put down the roller.
— An advance for the work. Family dramas have a separate price list, and I don’t have one.
— Where are you going? — Larisa Semyonovna tried to get up from the floor. — I paid you.
Lyokha shrugged without slowing down:
— You paid for painting a room in this apartment. And this apartment, as I understand it, is no longer yours. It means we were working on someone else’s property without the owner’s permission. That’s a question for the lawyers, not for me…
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