My heart clenched—painfully, sharply. He was not to blame for any of this. But I knew: if I gave in now, I wouldn’t be saving him. I would only be prolonging the agony and allowing him to grow up in this lie, absorbing Lukerya’s poison and Trofim’s weakness. Surgery can be bloody, but it saves lives.
I slowly unbuttoned the top button of my coat and took another document from an inside pocket. A thin white folder. “Stop the hysterics, Anfisa,” I said quietly, but in a way that silenced her. “I’m not throwing my grandson out on the street. I’m throwing out parasites. And I have taken care of my grandson.”
I passed the folder through the bars of the gate. Anfisa, still clutching the child with one arm, snatched it with the other. “What is this?” “It’s a trust agreement,” I explained, looking her straight in the eye. “An educational and housing fund in the name of Ivan Trofimovich.”
Trofim raised his head. A glimmer of hope appeared in his dull gaze. “Everything is paid for,” I continued, articulating each word. “A private school for Vanya for the next ten years. Medical insurance. And the rent for a three-room apartment in a residential neighborhood.”
“Not a palace, not a smart home on a cliff, but a warm, clean, renovated apartment. It’s furnished. You can move in tonight if you want. The keys are with the notary; he’s waiting for your call.” Anfisa frantically flipped through the pages. Her expression changed. She saw the numbers. She saw salvation.
She saw that I hadn’t left them to die by the roadside. “But there is one condition,” I added, raising my voice so that the one still on her knees in the middle of the yard could hear. “Clause 7. I call it the ‘parasite clause’.” Anfisa froze, staring at the text.
“What’s the condition?” Trofim asked hoarsely. “The funding will be terminated immediately and irrevocably,” I stated clearly, “if citizen Voronova, Lukerya Stepanovna, spends even one night in that apartment. Or if she resides with you under the same roof at any other address paid for by the fund.”
A silence fell. More terrifying than the screaming before. It was a choice. A cruel, pragmatic choice. A roof over their heads, an education for their son, and a quiet life—or loyalty to a completely broke mother who had lied to them for six months and brought them to the brink of ruin.
Lukerya slowly rose from her knees. Her cherry-colored dress was hopelessly ruined by the mud. She looked at her daughter. There was confidence in her gaze. She had raised Anfisa in her own image and likeness. They were a team.
“Anfisa…” Lukerya wheezed, holding out her hand. “Sweetheart… Don’t listen to her. We’ll figure something out. We’re family. Let’s get out of here. Spit in her face.” Anfisa looked up from the document. She looked at her mother—dirty, pathetic, ruined. Then she looked at the glass cube, now being filled by stern men carrying out her belongings. Then at a crying Vanya.
And finally, at me. In her eyes, I could see a calculator at work. Anfisa loved comfort. Anfisa loved stability. And Lukerya had just confessed that she had nothing but debts. Anfisa slowly closed the folder and clutched it to her chest like a precious treasure.
“Anfisa?” Lukerya’s voice trembled. “You lied to us, Mom,” Anfisa said. Her voice was icy. “You said you had money. You said you sold the apartment to buy a house in Spain. And you… you gambled it all away.”
“I wanted what was best! I wanted to win it back for you!” Lukerya wailed. “You almost cost Vanechka everything.” Anfisa took a step back, away from her mother. She turned to Trofim. “Trofim, call the notary. Let’s get the keys…”
