She spoke in a flat, monotonous voice, not addressing anyone in particular, as if reading a meeting protocol aloud. Roman listened with his head bowed respectfully, occasionally interjecting:
— Yes, Mom had it tough… Times were different then, not like now… I remember you told me about that workshop manager who tried to push his nephew ahead in the housing queue.
— Of course! — Larisa Andreevna perked up, catching the thread. — He came to me, put a bottle of Armenian cognac on the table. And I told him: ‘Put away your bribe, Citizen Sidorov. I have people who have been living in communal apartments for 15 years, sharing a kitchen with tuberculosis patients, and your nephew just graduated from university yesterday, he hasn’t seen any real hardship yet.’ So he left with nothing. Offended, of course. Tried to make my life miserable after that. But I’m tough as nails, you can’t break me with your bare hands.
She paused to sip her tea, which she had already poured for herself. Kira looked at her and saw not just an elderly woman, but a system. An unyielding, self-righteous Soviet system embodied in one person.
— And I didn’t just receive my apartment, I suffered for it, — she continued, setting her cup down. — Ten years on the waiting list, ten years going to trade union committees, local committees, collecting every single paper, every certificate. My husband, Roman’s father, God rest his soul, had already given up hope. He’d say, ‘Larisa, forget it, they won’t give us anything.’ But I told him, ‘No, they will. We’re entitled to it.’ And I got it. When I received the order, I went into our room in the communal apartment, sat on the floor, and cried. For the first time in many years. Because it was a victory, you understand, girl?
For the first time all evening, she looked directly at Kira, and her colorless eyes bored into her like drills.
— A victory. And what do you have now?
Kira flinched in surprise.
— Us? — she asked.
— Yes, you, the young people. You go to a bank, sign a piece of paper—and there’s your apartment. No struggle, no suffering. Easy money. And what comes easy isn’t valued. It’s not really yours, to be honest. It’s the bank’s. Today you’re paying, and tomorrow—bam! You’re laid off, and that’s it, out on the street. With a single suitcase. But my apartment is mine. Real. Every little crack in it, every nail—it’s all dear to me. I won’t give it up to anyone.
Her words, like small pebbles, hit where it hurt most. Kira felt everything inside her tighten with cold, helpless rage. Easy money? She mentally ran through the last seven years of her life. Working nights as a student, transcribing audio recordings for journalists until her fingers ached. Two years without a vacation, taking on the work of sick colleagues to get a bonus. Saving on everything: food, clothes, transport. She remembered standing in a store in front of a pair of beautiful winter boots and not buying them because 4,000 was almost 10% of the amount she was short for the down payment. She remembered the humiliating conversations with bank managers, collecting endless certificates, the fear of not being approved.
And now this woman, who had come into her home, her hard-won fortress, was telling her that all of this was frivolous and easy.
— Yes, Mom, you’re right, — Roman chimed in again, finishing his piece of chicken. — Everything is different now, simpler somehow. Soulless.
Kira put down her fork. Her appetite was completely gone. She looked at Roman, at his well-fed, complacent face, and for the first time in their relationship, she felt not just resentment, but something akin to contempt. He was sitting here, in her apartment, eating her food, and betraying her. Calmly, methodically, with every nod, with every “yes, Mom, you’re right.” He wasn’t just avoiding conflict. He was on the other side. Not on her side.
Dinner ended in oppressive silence. Larisa Andreevna had apparently said everything she wanted to say and was now silently drinking her third cup of tea. Roman was fiddling with his phone, looking for funny pictures and occasionally chuckling to himself. It was almost ten in the evening. Kira stood up and began clearing the plates from the table. It was a universally accepted signal, a polite hint that the evening was drawing to a close.
— Rom, it’s getting late, — she said as gently as possible, passing him with a stack of dishes. — It’ll probably be difficult for your mom to get home. The last bus to her place leaves at ten-thirty, I think.
Roman looked up at her, and something like panic flickered in his eyes.
— Oh, right… Mom, maybe we should call a taxi? — he suggested uncertainly.
Larisa Andreevna looked at him as if he had suggested she immediately walk to the North Pole.
— What taxi? Where am I going to go at this time of night? — she said with cold surprise. — I’m tired. My blood pressure might spike from your roads.
And then something happened that Kira could never have expected. Larisa Andreevna, without another word, bent down, unzipped her enormous bag, and pulled out a pair of old, worn-out knitted slippers. They were made of some coarse gray wool, with pom-poms that had probably once been white but were now yellowed from time and washing. With a quiet sigh of relief, she took off her street shoes, placed them neatly by the leg of the sofa, and blissfully slipped her feet into those homey, personal, brought-from-home slippers.
It was a gesture of final and irrevocable occupation. A person who brings their own slippers does not intend to leave. They intend to stay. Then she stood up, walked to the sofa, authoritatively pushed her bag aside, and settled down on it comfortably, like she owned the place, stretching out her tired legs. She leaned back and closed her eyes, demonstrating an extreme degree of fatigue.
Kira stood in the middle of the room, watching this scene, unable to utter a word. The absurdity of the situation was so great it felt like a dream. Here it was, her new living room, her new sofa for which she hadn’t even paid off the loan, and on it, in her home, a strange woman was lounging in her own slippers, her entire demeanor indicating she was here for the long haul.
Kira shifted her gaze to Roman. He was already buried in his phone again. The bluish light from the screen illuminated his face, making it look alien and detached. He was hunched in his armchair, knees drawn up, seemingly trying with all his might to shrink, to become invisible, to dissolve into this cozy armchair that he and Kira had chosen together. He saw. He saw and understood everything perfectly. He had heard about the bus. He saw the slippers. He saw his mother making herself at home on the sofa like the rightful owner. And he chose to hide. To hide behind a small glowing rectangle that created the illusion that he wasn’t there, that all this was happening without his involvement. The betrayal was no longer just a suspicion. It had become a fact, as tangible as this sofa, as these ugly gray slippers.
— I’ll… wash the dishes, — Kira said hoarsely, just to say something, to break the deafening silence in which only the wall clock ticked loudly.
She went to the kitchen, almost fled. It was the only territory that was still hers for now. She turned on the tap. Hot water hit the metal bottom of the sink with a roar. Kira put her hands under the stream, almost scalding them. She wanted to wash away this sticky, humiliating feeling. She took a sponge, squeezed a drop of dish soap onto it, and began to scrub the plates furiously. The squeak of the sponge on ceramic, the clatter of dishes, the sound of water—all of it helped to drown out her thoughts.
But the thoughts were persistent. They crawled into her head like cockroaches from cracks. The pillow. “A bit dry.” “Easy money.” “Not yours, it’s the bank’s.” The slippers. And finally, Roman’s back, hunched over his phone. Each image was like a slap in the face.
As she washed the dishes, she felt something changing inside her. The initial confusion and resentment were replaced by something else—cold, hard, and heavy. It was anger. Not the hot, hysterical anger that makes you scream and break things. But a different kind, calm and calculating. She realized she wasn’t dealing with an “old-school person.” She was dealing with an invader, an experienced, seasoned strategist who was conquering living space step by step, inch by inch, testing the boundaries of what was permissible. And her fiancé, her man, her support—was merely an accomplice to the occupier, a collaborator.
Muffled sounds came from the living room. It seemed Larisa Andreevna had turned on the television. Kira heard the familiar intonations of a political talk show..
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