Lukerya. His mother-in-law. A woman who has never worked a day on a construction site in her life, who believes that culture is having an expensive handbag, and intelligence is the ability to laugh loudly at stupid jokes.
She calls my conversations about art and history lectures. She says I make the guests tense. Of course. Because against my background, her emptiness becomes all too obvious. And Trofim… My boy, whom I tried so hard to shield from difficulties, grew up to be a man who chooses the path of least resistance.
It’s easier for him to offend his mother, who will forgive everything, than to argue with a woman who will throw a tantrum. A coldness spread through my chest. It wasn’t that burning sense of hurt that makes you cry into your pillow. No. It was the cold of steel. The cold you feel when you realize a building’s supporting structure has rotted and can no longer be saved. Repairs are impossible.
Demolition is necessary. I looked at the screen. “Don’t be offended.” I wasn’t offended. I drew conclusions. My fingers touched the screen, typing a reply. I didn’t need many words. Architecture does not tolerate unnecessary details. “Okay.”
I hit “Send.” The screen went dark. The room was quiet again, but this silence had changed. It was no longer cozy. It was the calm before a storm. I stood up from the table. My movements were precise, devoid of fuss.
I went to the old safe that stood in the corner behind a cabinet, hidden from prying eyes. I knew the lock’s code by heart, just as I know the proportions of the golden ratio. Click, click, click. The heavy door gave way. Inside, among folders with documents and old family photos, lay a thick, gray leather folder.
I took it out and placed it on the table, right on top of the library blueprint. I opened the folder. Inside was the original deed of gift for the house. The very same 12-million house where my son, my grandson, and the woman who decided to erase me from my family’s life were now sleeping.
I didn’t just give them a house. I am an architect, but I am a lawyer’s daughter. I know that a foundation must be protected from groundwater, and generosity from ingratitude. My gaze slid over the lines of the contract. This was not a standard purchase agreement. It was a conditional deed of gift with the right of use.
I turned the page and found clause 14. The clause about goodwill and the preservation of family ties. Trofim, signing the documents five years ago, hadn’t even bothered to read it. He was so happy, so blinded by the gleam of the panoramic windows and the “Smart Home” system, that he simply signed where I pointed with a pencil. He trusted me.
And I trusted my intuition. This clause stated that the donor, meaning me, Pelageya Karpovna, has the right to unilaterally annul the gift and revoke the right of ownership in the event of a loss of moral connection or a clear display of disrespect from the recipient or members of his family residing on the property. But this clause had a limitation. A statute of limitations.
I took my red drafting pencil from the table. The same one I usually use to mark critical errors in projects. I circled the date the agreement was signed. It was exactly four years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days ago. The clause was valid for five years.
I looked at the wall clock. The hands showed it was just past three in the morning. I had exactly twenty-four hours left. Twenty-four hours until this right disappeared forever and the house finally passed into their undivided ownership.
Twenty-four hours to turn this document from a simple piece of paper into a weapon. They thought I would just swallow it. That I would stay at home, look out the window, and feel sorry for myself. They didn’t understand one thing: I don’t build castles in the air. I build fortresses.
And every fortress has a secret passage that only the architect knows about. I closed the folder. Tomorrow would be a long day. In the morning, I didn’t even look in the mirror…
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