— What? — I froze in place, not realizing at first that those words were meant for me.
— I found you a room in a shared flat, — he continued in a calm tone, as if discussing a bus schedule.
— Liza and I need space for the baby. It’ll get cramped in the two-bedroom once there are three of us.
His words pierced my chest like a blade.
My own son — for whom I had lived on the brink of starvation — was now casting me out of his nest.
He didn’t even try to soften the blow — the phrase “you don’t have that many years” sounded like a reminder of my impending death.
— Seryozha… are you in your right mind? — I whispered, feeling the tremble rise from my knees to my throat.
— Stop being hysterical, — he stared out the window, avoiding my eyes. — Liza’s on the verge of a breakdown.
You complain about your back and blood pressure. We’re young — we need our own life, not to share two rooms with you.
Liza, my daughter-in-law with perfectly styled hair, appeared in the doorway.
Her eyes darted to my hands, as if expecting me to grab a knife. But I only dug my nails into the armrest of the chair.
— Anna Pavlovna… — her voice trembled, as if she were apologizing for breaking a vase, — we don’t want to argue.
We just… we have dreams. Surely you understand…
— What’s there to decide? — Seryozha slashed the air with his hand, throwing out the phrase that would later haunt my nightmares: — Move out. It’s the best option.
Everything inside me collapsed. I grabbed the back of the couch, a hoarse sound escaping my throat — like the howl of a wounded animal.
A year ago, these walls breathed warmth. Seryozha had brought Liza over for the first time — blushing, shy.
I had laid the table with pies and pancakes, beaming with happiness. My son had looked at me with tenderness:
— Mom, this is Liza… my girlfriend.
— Future fiancée, I hope? — I winked, and both laughed.
— Very nice to meet you, — Liza blushed, handing me a box of chocolates. — Seryozha talks about you all the time.
The wedding was modest, right in our worn-out two-bedroom apartment.
Back then, my daughter-in-law inspected every corner: the Soviet-style kitchen, the living room with the sofa bed, and my tiny bedroom with old family photos behind dusty glass frames.
— We’ll stay here until we save enough for a mortgage, — my son explained after the ceremony.
— Of course, sweethearts! — I nodded, already imagining grandchildren. — Together, even hardship is easier.
But soon, everything changed. I tried to be invisible — cooking separately, going on long walks.
Still, the fragments of their conversations spoke volumes:
— Even the air here feels heavier than in a dorm, — Liza sighed.
— Son, — I once offered, catching him in the kitchen, — maybe I could help with the down payment?
I don’t have much saved, but…
— A mortgage? — he waved it off. — Liza’s terrified of loans. Her parents are drowning in debt.
The silence between us thickened. My daughter-in-law stopped sharing plans. Seryozha became monosyllabic.
One night, sneaking to the bathroom, I overheard them arguing:
— I feel like a tenant in your childhood home! — Liza hissed.
— Give birth here? Next to your mother, who’s obsessed with cleanliness?
— We’ll figure something out… — Seryozha mumbled.
I swore not to interfere. But three months later, they’d “figured it out” — by throwing me out.
— Mom, what don’t you understand? — Seryozha pressed on, not noticing how my hands trembled.
— I thought you were progressive. We need the whole apartment.
We won’t be able to raise a child if you stay. It’s not personal…
— It is personal, son, — my voice cracked, tears welled in my eyes, but I pressed my lips together.
— Have you even thought about where I’d go? That “cheap communal place”?
Have you even seen how people live there?
— I have, Mom, it’s a decent room, — he said lightly, like praising a hotel room.
— And you… well, — he hesitated, — do you really need luxury?
I couldn’t believe my own son had said: “Why do you need comfort — you’re practically at death’s door.”
My eyes stung. I swallowed back the tears. Liza silently twisted her ring, as if rehearsing a speech.
— Liza, — I asked quietly, — was this your idea? Or did you decide together?
— Anna Pavlovna, I… I just dream of our own little nest. Don’t be angry, but we need personal space.
— Then build it yourselves! Who’s stopping you? — my voice cracked into a shout.
— But you want to take mine! Seryozha, this is my apartment!
I’ve lived here thirty years, and you’re twenty-five — you don’t even know what I went through after your father left.
— That’s all in the past. Stop whining! — he slammed his fist on the table, making Liza flinch.
— We’re building the future!
Anger boiled in my chest. It was time to say everything.
— Listen, son, — I exhaled, holding back the shaking, — the apartment is legally mine.
You want freedom — rent a place, get a loan. But you’re not kicking me out.
— Mom, we’ve made arrangements for you! — he started speaking faster.
— The neighbor rents her room for pennies. It’s perfect…
— So I’ll just disappear? — I stepped toward him. — Who do you think you are to make decisions for me?
Liza gently interjected:
— You understand, mother-in-law, kids need to separate from their parents…
— Then separate! — I turned to her sharply. — But not at my expense.
Your husband just said, “You’re nearing the end anyway.” And you? What’s your excuse?
Seryozha hesitated:
— Maybe I said it harshly, but it’s true.
My heart clenched. I remembered the sleepless nights, his childhood bronchitis, the worn-out shoes I wore so he could have better ones — all for him.
And now: “You’ll be fine in a box room.”
— Enough, — I whispered. — Seryozha, enough. This conversation is over.
— Then when are you moving out? — he wouldn’t back down.
— Never! — I shouted. — This is my home. And if you’re so determined — then you move out.
— You… you’re throwing us out? — he was stunned.
— And you expected obedience? — I gave a bitter smile.
— Come back when you’re ready to apologize. But for now — get out.
Liza gasped:
— But we’re family!
— Family doesn’t throw their elders out, — I snapped the wardrobe door shut. — Pack your things.
In the hallway, I flung open the front door and clutched my chest.
Seryozha cast me a wounded look. Liza lowered her gaze and went for their suitcase.
— You’ll regret this, Mom, — he said as he left.
I turned away without a word. The flickering light in the stairwell matched the pounding of my heart — ready to explode.
Half an hour later, they were gone. Liza mumbled, “I’m sorry…” but I shut the door.
Leaning against the wall, I finally broke into sobs.
“Not long left anyway” — the echo rang through the apartment.
After a while, I made tea. The silence in the apartment rang like a bell.
On the fridge, a photo of a baby with a kitten smiled back at me — the one who would someday become a stranger.
— So be it, — I told the photo.
— Better to be alone than betrayed.
My heart ached, but my mind was clear: children have the right to leave.
But they don’t have the right to bury me alive.
— Come back when you understand, son, — I whispered into the empty air. — But only with an honest “I’m sorry.”
