When will you be gone? the daughterinlaw murmured at my hospital bedside, not realizing that I could hear every word and that the hidden recorder was catching it all.
Her breath was warm, scented with cheap coffee, and she assumed I was merely a drugladen body, unconscious. In fact, I lay beneath a thin hospital blanket, every nerve in me taut like a stretched string.
Tucked under my palm, out of anyones sight, a small cold rectangle the recorder waited. I had pressed the record button an hour earlier, when she entered the room with my son.
Igor, shes practically a vegetable, Svetlanas voice rose, clearly moving toward the window. The doctor says theres no hope. What are we waiting for?
I heard my only son exhale heavily.
Svetlana, thats wrong. Shes my mother, I whispered.
Im your wife! she snapped back. And I want to live in a proper flat, not this cramped cupboard. Your mothers lived her whole seventy years. Enough.
I stayed motionless, breathing evenly as if in a deep sleep. No tears fell; inside me everything had turned to gray ash.
Only a cold, crystalclear clarity remained.
The realtor says prices are good now, Svetlana continued, shifting to a business tone. A tworoom in the centre, freshly renovated We could pull a tidy sum, buy a house outside the city like we always dreamed, get a new car. Igor, wake up! This is our chance!
He stayed silent. His silence was louder than her words an acquiescence wrapped in betrayal and feebleness.
Portable childrens microscope with Macro IPS screen she listed, then added, And her stuff well throw half of it away. Its junk nobody needs the dishes, those silly books Well keep only antiques, if any, and Ill call an appraiser.
A mental smile flickered. The appraiser didnt know I had already moved everything of value out of the apartment a week before I fell ill. All the precious items, all the documents, were safe elsewhere.
Alright, Igor finally rasped. Do what you think is right. Its hard for me to talk about this.
Dont speak, dear, she hissed. Ill handle everything. You wont have to dirty your hands.
She approached the bed, her gaze assessing, cold, as if I were an obstacle soon to disappear. I barely squeezed the smooth recorder casing it was only the beginning. They didnt yet know what awaited them.
They tried to erase me from their lives. In vain. The old guard doesnt give up; it fights its last offensive.
A week passed a week of drips, bland puree, and my silent theater. Svetlana and Igor visited daily. My son would sit by the door, staring at his phone as if it could shield him from reality. He couldnt bear the sight of my motionless body, nor his own betrayal.
Svetlana, on the other hand, felt at home in the ward, chatting loudly with friends on the phone about the future house: Three bedrooms, a big living room, a plot Ill do the landscaping. What? Motherinlaw? Shes in the hospital, her condition is dire. She wont survive.
Every word she uttered was recorded, swelling my collection.
Today she crossed the line. She brought a laptop, settled beside my bed, and began showing Igor photos of cottages. Look at this one! And this a real fireplace! Igor, are you even listening?
Im listening, he replied flatly, eyes glued to the floor. It just feels strange here, next to her
Where else? Svetlana snapped. We have no time to waste. Ive already called our realtor; shell bring the first buyers tomorrow. We need to stage the flat perfectly.
She turned to me, her eyes devoid of humanity, only cold calculation.
About the belongings I was in yesterday, started emptying the closets. So much junk, its disgusting. Your dresses are outdated Ive packed everything into bags for charity.
My dresses the one I wore while defending my dissertation, the one in which Igors father proposed to me. Each piece was a fragment of memory. She wasnt just discarding fabric; she was erasing my life.
Igor flinched. Why are you touching them? Maybe shed like?
What like? Svetlana cut in. She wants nothing. Igor, stop being a child. Were building our future.
She rose, walked to my nightstand, and unceremoniously opened a drawer, digging through wet napkins and pill packets. She doesnt keep the documents here? Passport, anything? We need them for the deal.
The psychological pressure turned into direct action. She was no longer merely talking; she was stealing while I was still alive.
At that moment a nurse peeked in. Anna Pavlovna, time for your injection.
Svetlanas face instantly softened into a feigned, caring expression. Of course, of course. Igor, lets go, we wont disturb the procedure. Mother, well come back tomorrow, she cooed, stroking my hand.
Her touch was repulsive, like a worm crawling across skin.
When they left, I kept my eyes shut until the nurses footsteps faded down the corridor. Then, with great effort, I lifted my head. Muscles ached, but I managed.
I stopped the recorder, saved the file as seven, and felt under the pillow my second, buttoncell phone that an old friend and lawyer had quietly given me.
I dialed the number I knew by heart.
Hello, answered a calm, businesslike voice.
This is Semen Borisovich, its me, my hoarse voice went. Activate the plan. The time has come.
The next day, precisely at three oclock, a knock sounded at my door. Svetlana opened it with her most charming smile.
A respectable couple with a realtor stood on the threshold. Please, come in! the woman chirped. Sorry, were a bit chaotic here were preparing to move.
She led the guests to the living room, bragging about wonderful views from the windows and friendly neighbors. Igor pressed himself against the wall, trying to be as invisible as possible, his face ashen like ash.
The flat belongs to my motherinlaw, Svetlana said, a hint of sorrow in her tone. Unfortunately, her condition is serious; the doctors give no hope.
We decided a specialized facility would be better for her under supervision. These walls hold too many memories for her.
She paused dramatically, as if to make the buyers feel the depth of the situation.
At that moment the door opened again, silently, without a ring. An electric wheelchair rolled in; I was seated inside not in a hospital gown, but in a darkblue, tightlywoven silk robe, hair neatly tied, lips barely tinted. My gaze was calm and cold.
Behind me stood Semen Borisovich, my attorney, tall, silverhaired, in an elegant suit. He quietly closed the door behind him.
Svetlana froze; her smile vanished as if erased.
Igors eyes darted around, searching for an exit. The buyers and the realtor exchanged bewildered looks between me and Svetlana.
Good afternoon, my voice, though soft, cut through the silence with precision. It seems you have the wrong address. This apartment is not for sale.
I turned to the confused couple. Im sorry for this unpleasant situation. My daughterinlaw must have overreacted because of my condition.
Svetlana seemed to awaken. Mother? How are you here? You shouldnt
I can do whatever I deem necessary, dear, I replied, my stare chilling the air. Especially when strangers run my house without permission.
I pulled the phone from my pocket and pressed play. The speaker crackled, and the familiar hiss of my recorded voice filled the room:
When will you be gone?
Svetlanas face turned as pale as a bedsheet. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. Igor lowered his head, covering his face with his hands.
I have a large collection of recordings, Svetlana, I said evenly. Your dreams, the sold items, the appraiser. Some authorities will be interested particularly for fraud.
Semen Borisovich stepped forward, a dossier in hand. Anna Pavlovna signed a general power of attorney in my name this morning, he announced dryly. She also filed a police report. Ive prepared an eviction notice on grounds of moral damage and threat to life. You have 24 hours to collect your belongings and leave.
He placed the papers on the table; they fell with a quiet, inevitable rustle.
That was the end. A line, a point beyond which nothing could be undone. Yet for the first time in weeks I felt no pain, no resentment.
I felt a cold, unbreakable strength the power of someone who has nothing left to lose and is finally reclaiming what is hers.
The realtor and the buyers vanished, muttering apologies. Only the four of us remained in the living room, a dense silence hanging like dust in an old room.
Svetlana was the first to recover. Shock turned to fury. You have no right! she shrieked, poking me with a finger. This is Igors flat! Hes registered here! Hes the heir!
The former heir, Semen corrected, scanning the documents. According to the new will, notarized yesterday, all of Anna Pavlovnas property is bequeathed to a charitable fund for young scientists. Your husband, unfortunately, is not included.
That was my final shot. I watched the last spark of hope die in her eyes. She glared at Igor with such hatred, as if he were wholly to blame.
Igor, my son, finally stepped away from the wall. He moved toward me, his face wet with tears, a pitiful expression. Mother Im sorry. I didnt want this. She she forced me.
I looked at him the fortyyearold man who had hidden behind his wifes shadow by his own choice.
Love, the boundless motherly love, had died in that hospital room under the whisper of his wife. All that remained was bitter disappointment.
No one forced you to stay silent, Igor, I replied, my voice even, almost indifferent. You made your choice. Live with it.
But where will we go? Svetlana interjected, her voice trembling with fear and anger. Outside?
You had a rented flat before you decided my departure was imminent, I reminded her. You can go back there, or anywhere else. Its no longer my concern.
Svetlana rushed to the pile of belongings, shoving them into a bag, muttering curses. Igor stood in the middle of the room, lost.
He looked at me once more. Mother, please. I understand now. Ill change.
Its never too late to change, I agreed. Just not here, and not with me. My door is closed to you forever.
He lowered his head, realizing this was the end not a performance, not a punishment, but a final decision.
An hour later they left. I heard the door close behind them. Semen approached.
Anna Pavlovna, are you sure about the fund? We could revert everything, he asked.
I shook my head. No. Let it be so. I want whatever remains of my life to be useful, not a source of conflict.
He nodded and departed. I was alone in my apartment, slowly running my hand over the armrest of the chair, across the spines of books. Nothing had changed here.
I had changed. I was no longer just a mother who forgave everything. I had become the one who set the boundaries of her own universe.
And in that new universe there was no place for the voice that once whispered, When will you be gone?
