And then it happened, what Kira had been waiting for. What the entire logic of this terrible evening had been leading to. Larisa Andreevna stood up sharply from the sofa, with a quickness unexpected for her age and build. Her knitted slippers shuffled across the laminate. She didn’t look for the remote. Like a tank, she moved directly towards the television. Reaching out, she forcefully pressed the power button directly on the panel. The screen with the serene valley went black with a soft click. The music stopped.
Silence fell again. But this time it wasn’t ringing; it was dead, muffled. Larisa Andreevna spun around and stood before a stunned but inwardly prepared Kira. Her face was just inches away. Kira could smell the sour scent of dinner.
— Go to your room! — she declared loudly, on the verge of shouting, enunciating every word. — Now this living room is mine!
The silence after these words became absolute. The air froze, thickened, as if you could touch it. Roman ducked his head into his shoulders so far that his chin almost touched his chest. He was frozen like a pillar of salt, his finger paused over the screen of his long-darkened phone. He had stopped even pretending he wasn’t there. He was there, he heard everything, he was a witness to this humiliation, this brazen, shameless seizure. And he remained silent. His silence was louder than any of Larisa Andreevna’s shouts. It was a verdict. On him. On their relationship. On everything.
In this dead, deafening silence, where only the heavy, ragged breathing of the enraged woman could be heard, Kira did what she had rehearsed in the kitchen. She smiled. It was a strange, eerie smile. The corners of her lips crept upwards, but her eyes remained cold, perfectly calm. It was the smile of someone who knows the outcome of the game ten moves ahead. The mask of politeness, taken to an absurd extreme.
— Of course, Larisa Andreevna, — she said in a quiet, almost gentle, melodic voice, making the contrast with the situation even more monstrous. She paused briefly, letting her words sink into the air. — Since the living room is yours, the expenses for it are now entirely on you.
Larisa Andreevna blinked in confusion. She didn’t understand. She had expected tears, shouting, a reciprocal argument, but instead she heard this… this calm, business-like tone. Kira continued, looking directly into her bewildered, colorless eyes, with the same deceptively sweet smile:
— This is eighteen square meters. Starting tomorrow, I will begin charging you rent—twenty-five thousand hryvnias a month, at the market rate for our district. Plus, of course, your share of the utility payments.
Kira spoke as if she were discussing the weather or a pie recipe.
— You studied my bill so carefully, so you understand what I’m talking about. It will be about two and a half thousand. So, a total of twenty-seven thousand five hundred. I’ll ask for payment by the fifth of each month, in cash or by card, whichever is more convenient for you.
She paused again. Larisa Andreevna’s face began to slowly change. First, it registered complete incomprehension, then the suspicion that she was being mocked.
— What… what are you talking about? Are you out of your mind? — she croaked.
— Perfectly sane, — Kira nodded, her smile widening. — I am very serious. You don’t want to live in my living room for free, do you? That would be unfair. You’re all for fairness, aren’t you, Larisa Andreevna? We’ll make it official. We’ll have a lease agreement drawn up by a notary, so everything is legal. We can make an appointment tomorrow.
And then it all came crashing down. The arrogance, the audacity, the self-righteousness—all of it peeled off Larisa Andreevna like a husk. Her weapons—rudeness, psychological pressure, guilt-tripping—proved utterly powerless against the cold, soulless language of numbers. Against her own logic, taken to its absurd conclusion. Before her was not a crying girl, but an accountant who had issued an invoice. And this invoice was unaffordable, unthinkable for her—27,500. That number, spoken in a calm voice, hit her harder than any slap.
She froze, her mouth agape, but no words came out. Righteous anger was replaced by panicked terror. She looked at her son, seeking support, but Roman sat with his head down, not moving. He would not save her.
— I… I was joking, — she finally stammered. Her voice was weak, trembling. It was a pathetic retreat. — What’s wrong, girl, can’t you take a joke? The evening… I’m tired…
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