That same night, I took Grandfather to my home. The city sparkled with lights, the high-rises in the center shone like stars, but in my world, there was little light. We stopped at an old five-story building on the outskirts, in a neighborhood where the streetlights worked intermittently, and the asphalt was littered with cracks. I led him down the concrete steps to the semi-basement door. The bulb above the entrance flickered, casting shadows on the peeling paint, and the steps were slippery with dampness.
— Welcome to my palace, — I said, opening the door.
The smell of dampness and tobacco hit my nose, as always, but today it seemed even more suffocating. I stepped inside, letting Grandfather pass. Ivan Petrovich entered, his steps echoing in the cramped space. He looked around: a tattered sofa bought on “OLX” for three thousand, a crooked shelving unit assembled from boards, a ceiling with mold spots, a bed pressed against the humming boiler. His gaze lingered on the crate I used as a table and on the stack of plates on the floor, next to which lay a tattered book—the only one I allowed myself to buy. Narrow slits under the ceiling, which I called windows, let in the dim light of a street lamp, but it only emphasized the squalor of the room.
He was silent for a few seconds, then sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked under his weight. His sigh was so heavy it seemed he exhaled his entire life.
— This is where you live, — he said, not asking, but stating. His voice trembled, but there was no weakness in it, only pain.
— Since I finished the institute, — I replied, crossing my arms to hide how my fingers were trembling. — Four years. I worked as a waitress, then in a call center, sometimes cleaned apartments. Anything to pay for this place.
His eyes glistened, but he didn’t let the tears fall. He ran a hand through his beard, his fingers freezing, clutching the fabric of his coat.
— Your father said he saved the rest of the money for your wedding. I thought it was reasonable. That you live in a good place, and he’s just taking care of the future.
— There is no rest, — my voice was flat, almost lifeless.
Ivan Petrovich looked at the floor, then at me again. His gaze was full of determination.
— Enough, — he said, standing up. His voice was hard as granite. — Tomorrow we are going to the bank. And to a lawyer. And then your father will answer for everything.
I nodded, but something wavered inside me. Not fear, not hope, but something in between—a feeling that I was no longer alone.
The next morning I woke up to the smell of burnt coffee and Ivan Petrovich’s voice talking on the phone. He stood in the hallway of my semi-basement, his figure seeming too large for this cramped space. His voice was cold as ice, and I had never heard him speak like that.
— I don’t care that it’s Sunday, Igor. Find all the documents. I want to know where every penny went. And prepare a letter stating that Sergey no longer has the right to act on my behalf in financial matters. Yes, right now.
I stood barefoot on the cold concrete floor, listening. My T-shirt, in which I slept, was old, with a faded print, but I didn’t feel vulnerable. For the first time in years, I felt that someone saw me—not the Inna who was considered lazy or weak, but the real one, the one who fought even when no one noticed.
By noon we were at the bank, in the city center. The office was sterilely clean, with wooden panels and the smell of expensive coffee. The banker, a woman of about fifty in a strict suit, clicked on the keyboard; her lips were pursed as if she already knew the news would be bad.
— Here, — she said, finally adjusting her glasses. — Transfer from your account, Ivan Petrovich, to Sergey Ivanovich’s account. Marked as a gift for Inna for an apartment. Seven million. Date—four years ago.
She turned the monitor toward us. Date, amount—everything matched. And then she clicked again, and my heart sank.
— Five days later, Dad transferred the entire amount to another account, under his own name. Without a note, without my name, without anything.
The money wasn’t spent, but it didn’t reach me either. It just lay there, on his account, like a trophy. Ivan Petrovich looked at the screen, his face was stony, but I saw his hands trembling.
— Print this, — he said quietly, but his voice was such that the woman nodded immediately. — Everything. Every line.
When she left, he turned to me:
— He stole from you. Didn’t spend it, but hid it. And lied to me. This isn’t just a family quarrel, Inna. This is a crime.
I nodded, but something was boiling inside me. I remembered how Dad looked at me when I asked for help. How he said I needed to toughen up, that I was too weak for adult life. While he held my money, my chances, my life in his account.
— Don’t worry, — Ivan Petrovich added, putting his hand on my shoulder. — I’ll sort it out.
— No, — I said quietly but firmly. — We will sort it out…
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