I. Night Visitor

Lidia had just tucked Elsa in. The little girl’s breath evened, cheeks warm against the pillow, a plush bear lodged under her chin like a sentry. Quiet finally settled in the apartment—a bowl of lamplight on the rug, the hush of the park outside, the city’s distant hum like a seashell.

She was on her way to bed when the doorbell chimed: bright, cheerful, intrusive.

“Well, so much for that,” she muttered, and opened the door.

On the threshold stood a short girl in a crisp coat, hair cut into a precise, expensive bob. Big brown eyes took in Lidia’s face, then slid past her into the hallway—measuring, calculating.

“I’m listening?” Lidia asked, brows lifting.

“Oh—sorry,” the girl said, as if pulled from daydream. “My name is Snezhana.”

“Very nice,” Lidia replied, folding her arms. “Are you here about something in particular?”

“Yes, yes—my name is Snezhana,” the girl repeated, over-smiling.

“That fact has been duly noted,” Lidia said, dryness creeping in. “So—get to the point?”

“And you’re Lidia?” the girl asked.

“Correct. What did you want?”

“Oh, you see,” she said brightly, “I’m Artyom’s fiancée!”

Lidia’s eyebrows rose. My ladies’ man has a new exhibit, she thought, giving Snezhana a rapid once-over. And why should I care about his collection anymore?

“I wanted to talk to you about my husb—oh! I mean my fiancé,” Snezhana bubbled, giggling.

“I doubt my memories will be of any use; we broke up,” Lidia said, headed toward a polite dismissal.

“Yes, yes, he told me! I didn’t come to quarrel,” Snezhana protested, then added, breathlessly: “I wanted to hear from you what he’s like—my Artyom.”

“My.” The word jabbed. He used to be mine. Lidia exhaled. “All right. Come in.”

Lidia set a kettle to boil, spooned fragrant rose petals into a glass teapot, laid out two cups and a plate of cookies, and carried the tray into the living room. The visitor drifted along the walls, touching spines of books, leaning to squint at framed photographs.

“It’s so beautiful here! High ceilings. Those windows… and a park view. I’ve dreamed of a place like this,” she sighed, then pivoted toward a side door. “And what’s in there?”

“Don’t open it,” Lidia said sharply. “My daughter is sleeping.”

“Oh right, Artyom mentioned a daughter—what’s her name?”

“Elsa.”

“Right! Elsa,” she chirped, and—without asking—opened the opposite door and stepped inside.

“Hey—where do you think you’re going?” Lidia snapped, following. The girl stood in the doorway, eyes skimming the room like a surveyor’s.

“I want to inspect every room,” Snezhana tossed over her shoulder.

“Close the door and come out,” Lidia said, flat and cold.

“Why? This is my house, after all.”

Lidia blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“My house,” Snezhana repeated, with the warm firmness of someone stating the obvious. “I’m marrying Artyom, and he’s giving it to me. So—” she turned, gaze hardening—“it’s time for you to vacate the premises, sweetheart.”

The kettle in the kitchen went on boiling to a thin shriek.

“Are you in your right mind?” Lidia asked softly, syllables ground smooth by rage.

“I don’t give a damn what you think!” the girl snapped. “I came to assess my fiancé’s gift. I don’t want to end up in a dump later. This will do.”

“That’s enough. Your little circus is over—leave my home. Now.”

“Don’t you order me around,” Snezhana flared, reaching for another handle.

Lidia moved faster, yanking her by the sleeve; the girl stumbled, catching herself on the frame. Lidia shut the door with careful finality.

“Get. Out.”

“My, my. You are feisty,” Snezhana sneered. “Anyway—listen up, sweetheart: I’m giving you exactly two weeks. I move in after that. Understood?”

The girl slipped into her shoes, tugged the door open, then tossed into the stairwell, “Two weeks!” and clattered away.

The apartment swallowed the echo. Lidia shut the door, leaned against it. Her knees trembled.

What was that? Artyom wouldn’t—he promised… Or is this just another fangirl stunt?

She checked on Elsa—sleep-soft breath, tiny palm on the bear. Lidia stared at the warm child in the lamplight and felt her spine harden. No one disturbs our peace. She dialed.

Artyom answered on the fourth ring, voice flat: “What?”

“How am I supposed to take this?” Lidia hissed, keeping her voice low. “Some harpy of yours showed up and ordered me to vacate the apartment. Is this a prank or a new level of meanness?”

“Okay. I get it,” he said. “Main thing—don’t get worked up.”

Lidia went to the kitchen, shut the door. Don’t get worked up. She gripped the back of a chair.

“How considerate of you—to send your hound instead of picking up the phone. Very tactful.”

“You knew the apartment isn’t yours,” he said. “My mother gave it to me before the wedding. Remember?”

“I remember perfectly. She gave it to us for the wedding. You ran off, left me with your daughter, and promised—promised—we’d stay until Elsa finished school. Do your promises have expiration dates now?”

“Stop with the moth-eaten vows. Times change.”

“You promised.”

A pause. Then: “I need the apartment now.”

“You—unprincipled bastard,” she breathed. “Just vile.”

“So are we going to fight, or get to the point?” His voice had that smoothness she loathed.

“Tell your Snezhana not to—”

“No. I need the apartment. Too bad she invited herself first.”

“So you chickened out and sent a messenger.”

“Enough chatter. I’m asking you to move out within two weeks.”

“And go where? You know I have nowhere else.”

“Rent something. I pay alimony. It’ll cover it.”

“That’s not how this works, Artyom. You gave your—”

“Cut it out. I don’t have another apartment like this. Two weeks is enough. Understood?”

“No—you understand: your daughter lives here.” The word cracked. “Your daughter, whom you don’t visit, whom you didn’t even call on her birthday. Do you remember her at all?”

Silence. A breath. Then, cold as glass: “Two weeks.” He hung up.

The city sighed in the window; inside, darkness folded over her like a heavy cloak.

She slept badly, if at all. Dawn found her at the stove, gray light in the curtains, hands on autopilot. Elsa ate porridge with serious concentration. The doorbell rang.

Valentina Vladimirovna—Artyom’s mother—stood on the threshold, composed as ever, scarf wound neatly at the throat. She visited often, a true grandmother in the truest ways: long walks, silly songs, endless patience.

She looked at Lidia’s face—took in the shadows under her eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Artyom is evicting me,” Lidia said quietly.

“I see,” the older woman replied, voice even. “Bring me up to speed.”

They sat. Lidia recounted the night—Snezhana’s announcement, Artyom’s call: two weeks. At “Where am I supposed to go?” her voice cracked.

Valentina listened without interrupting. Then she stood and went to the window, studied the park. When she turned back, something steely had settled into place behind her calm eyes.

“It’s my son’s right,” she said after a beat. “It’s his apartment. He’s free to dispose.”

“What about Elsa?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted—and the admission cost her. “But I’ll talk to him.” She kissed her granddaughter’s hair. “I’ll talk to him properly.”

“Thank you,” Lidia whispered.

“You can’t face him without preparation,” the woman said briskly, knotting her scarf. “I’ll be in touch.”

The door shut. The apartment felt both emptier and fuller—with dread, with the faintest, cautious hope.

II. The Mother’s Reckoning

Outside, autumn wind threaded through pale leaves. As she walked to the car, Valentina remembered a different wind: the day Andrei died, her boy not yet two, grief a foreign language she had to learn in an afternoon. Her own mother had turned away; it was her mother-in-law—solid, kind Yelena Olegovna—who took her in. Live here with the child, the old woman had said, and never once made her beg. When Yelena died, the apartment passed to Valentina. That legacy had strings—a standard trick her son had later exploited.

Behind the wheel, she let her hands rest at ten and two. Not good, son. Not good. It’s not manly to hide behind Snezhana. Cowardly, Artyom. Very.

She drove slow, thinking five moves ahead.

Days passed. She visited Elsa and found the living room half-disassembled—boxes, open drawers, the sad geometry of leaving.

“Two weeks,” Lidia said dully, lifting a book and letting it fall into a box.

“Let’s tap the brakes,” Valentina said, removing the book from the box and slotting it back into its familiar place. “Push the boxes into a corner. I haven’t spoken to my son yet. He’s gone on… unpredictably long business trips.” The irony hung.

She scooped Elsa into her arms. “Come on, my little amber sun. The park is waiting.”

“Until the end of the week,” she murmured to Lidia, low and gentle. “Give me those days.”

Lidia nodded, some breath returning to her lungs.

When the meeting day came, the restaurant was all marble hush and muted clatter. Artyom—cool suit, watch flashing—sat by the window. Beside him: the girl. Of course.

Valentina took her seat, a smile like a blade.

“I was counting on a private conversation,” she said softly. “Explain the presence of this… person?”

“Mom, this is Snezhana. My fiancée,” he said, jaw set.

“How touching. My invitation was for you alone.”

“Maybe I should go?” the girl offered faintly.

“No,” Artyom said, possessive hand on her shoulder. “No secrets.”

“Then let her stay,” Valentina said. “The sooner she sees the full charm of her choice.”

The girl flinched.

Valentina adjusted her pearls; the movement belonged to a different century. When she looked back up, all softness was gone.

“The subject,” she said, “is the apartment. Your scheme to evict Lidia.”

“It’s a done deal,” Artyom said, lounging with effort. “Nothing to discuss.”

“You’re mistaken. It’s ‘done’ when I say it is. Legally, the apartment where Lidia and my granddaughter live is mine. As is the one I occupy.”

“That’s a fiction,” he shot back. “I put them in your name—”

“To dodge taxes. That is the root of your current… ambitions,” she said.

He scowled. “Stay out of my finances.”

“As founder of your two companies,” Valentina said pleasantly, “they are my finances.”

He blinked. “Founder—Mom, that’s a formality—”

“I reviewed the ledgers.” She slid a folder onto the table and rested her manicured hand on it. “The difference between declared and actual income is twentyfold. I’m less concerned with the math than with your clumsy forgeries of my signature on payment orders.”

He sucked in air. The girl paled to porcelain.

“Say ‘fiction’ once more,” she murmured, “and you’re fired. Today.”

His mouth opened—then closed.

“My proposal is simple,” Valentina continued, each word placed with surgical care. “You immediately execute a deed of gift transferring the apartment to Lidia. And starting next month, you pay alimony matching your real income—quadruple. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise what?” Artyom rasped.

“Option one: as sole founder, I remove you without severance. Loans called. Faces fall. Option two: this”—she tapped the folder—“goes to the tax authorities and the police. You have until tomorrow.”

Silence gloved the table. In the great mirror across the room, three figures sat in a still life: a woman carved from resolve, a young man shrinking inside an expensive suit, a girl shrinking inside herself.

“Artyom,” Snezhana whispered.

“Be quiet,” he snapped.

Valentina stood. “Thank you for the meeting. Good luck with the real estate.” She left without haste.

III. Papers and Proof

At Lidia’s, the emptying living room had become a topography of endings: boxes like islands, awkward stacks of clothes, a few bare shelves exposing pale rectangles where books had lived. Dusty light fell through the curtains, striping the floor.

Valentina arrived carrying a structured handbag and the calm of a general who has already won the battle.

“Little one!” Elsa’s voice rang out, and she launched herself into her grandmother’s arms.

“My darling warrior,” Valentina whispered into the child’s hair, then looked at Lidia—at the exhausted pallor, the clenched jaw.

“Well?” she asked softly. “Mood: on the rise? Or Monday survival mode?”

“Closer to the Mariana Trench,” Lidia admitted.

“Let’s fix that.” Valentina opened her bag and removed neatly folded papers. “Here. Time for your illusions to evaporate.”

She placed the packet in Lidia’s hands and went to help Elsa with her boots, humming off-key on purpose the way only grandmothers can.

Lidia scanned the pages—first without comprehension. Then the words sharpened.

Deed of gift. Alimony recalculated to match real earnings. Notarized consent. Signatures verified. A letter of corporate separation, should it be needed. A formal note from the founder to the board.

The blood drained from her face. The paper crackled in her grip. She walked to Valentina on unsteady feet, hugged her tightly, and whispered into the older woman’s shoulder, “Mom… Thank you. I—was blind.”

“‘Mom?’” Elsa peered up, wide-eyed. “Grandma is Mom?”

Lidia laughed through tears. “Grandma is a mom too. The most reliable one.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt my granddaughter,” Valentina said quietly, hand steady on Lidia’s back. “Nor her mother—especially not. These papers are just proof. Now you’re armed.”

“Thank you,” Lidia breathed. “For everything.”

Valentina clapped lightly, dispersing the thickness in the air. “All right, liberation team—park recon and tactical ice cream?”

“Hooray!” Elsa yelled, spinning in her socks.

Lidia, smiling crookedly, went to a box and took out the plush bear—worn, faithful, more constant than most men. She set him carefully on an empty shelf. A beam of sun slipped through lace and lit his stitched smile.

“You know,” she said, voice steadier, “this bear is the only ‘man’ who’s never lied to me.”

“A valuable fellow,” Valentina replied, arch eyebrow deployed. “Hold on to him. Plush fidelity beats certain people’s promises—by a mile.”

IV. Two Weeks, Reversed

The papers moved faster than rumor. By the end of the week, Lidia had a stamped deed and a schedule that paid for Elsa’s future piano lessons, swimming lessons, and a better mattress—quadruple had a way of softening time.

Artyom did not call. Snezhana did—but only once, leaving a shaky voice message: “Congratulations.” It sounded like someone choking on a too-large bite of reality.

Lidia spent an afternoon refolding clothes she’d packed in panic. She put the books back into their familiar lines; the spines made a beloved skyline. She washed the curtains, vacuumed in straight lines, returned the lamp to its exact circle of light. The apartment exhaled.

At night, when Elsa slept, Lidia stood at the window. The park trees rustled with gossip; the windows opposite lit and dimmed like courtesy nods. She pressed her palms flat to the cool glass and let out a long breath she felt she’d been holding for years.

Two weeks, he’d said.

Two weeks later, she was still here. No longer as a tolerated inhabitant of a man’s generosity—but as the mistress of her own space. The word home adjusted itself across the air like a picture hung level.

The doorbell chimed in that same bright way.

On the threshold: Valentina, with tulips like a sunrise and a paper bag of still-warm buns.

“So,” she said, eyes sweeping the room. “Our headquarters looks in order. Is our commander-in-chief accepting visitors?”

Lidia smiled, and the kind of laughter that lives deep in the body—safe, surprised, new—rose in her chest. She stepped aside.

“Come in, Mom,” she said. “We’re just getting started.”