For the first time in four months, on a Thursday, I didn’t go to Anna Petrovna’s after work.
Not because I was angry with her.
I simply couldn’t.
There was complete chaos in the HR department that day. We urgently had to close the attendance records and submit them to accounting by six o’clock. But the working hours of two employees simply wouldn’t add up in the system.
I sat at my desk with a calculator in my hand, recalculating sick days, vacations, and overtime. By the time I finally finished everything, it was already completely dark outside.
When I walked out through the factory gates, it was quarter to eight.
There was no way I could get to my mother-in-law’s on time.
So I got on the bus and went home.
Misha was waiting for me. He was having dinner in the kitchen, and as soon as he saw me, he said:
“Mom called. She asked why you didn’t come over.”
I dropped my bag and sat down tiredly.
“They kept me at work. We couldn’t close the attendance records.”
“She was waiting for you to change her bed sheets. She said it’s getting harder for her to bend down.”
I poured myself a cup of tea and looked at Misha.
“Misha, she has a daughter. Lyudmila can get there by car in twenty minutes. Why do I have to go there every single day after work, while she shows up once every two weeks with a few cans of food?”
Misha pushed his plate aside.
“Natasha, you know Lyudmila has a family and children. She doesn’t have time. And we live closer.”
“We don’t live close. It takes half an hour by bus from my workplace. And I get tired too.”
“Okay, don’t start again. I’ll call Mom tomorrow and tell her you had to work overtime.”
I didn’t argue anymore.
Misha got up and went into the room.
He worked at the same factory as I did, only in a different department. His shifts started at different times, sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the evening, and by the time he got home, he often didn’t even have enough energy to sit down and eat dinner properly.
I understood that he was tired too.
But that didn’t make me any less tired.
The next day, after work, I went to Anna Petrovna’s anyway.
She was already waiting for me in the hallway.
I hadn’t even had time to take off my coat when she looked at me.
“I waited for you all day yesterday. The bed still hasn’t been changed, the floor hasn’t been washed, and there’s no soup left. Do you even understand how difficult it is for me to do everything by myself?”
“Anna Petrovna, they kept me at work. I couldn’t leave.”
“Work!” she waved her hand dismissively. “Work is always more important.”
I didn’t answer.
I took off my boots, hung my coat on the rack, and went into the kitchen.
There was a pot in the sink with dried porridge stuck to the bottom. An electric kettle sat on the stove.
I filled it with water and turned it on. While it was boiling, I washed the pot, wiped the table, and gathered up the trash.
Then I took out the chicken I had brought with me and made soup.
Meanwhile, Anna Petrovna sat in the room watching television.
An hour later, I told her dinner was ready.
She sat down, tasted the soup, and frowned.
“It’s too watery. Last time it was much thicker.”
I said nothing.
I swallowed my hurt and quietly cleared the table.
Then Anna Petrovna suddenly said:
“You know I’ve made my will?”
I froze.
“No.”
“I’m leaving everything to Lyudmila. The apartment, the garage, the country house. She has a family and children. She needs it more.”
For several seconds, I simply stared at her.
“I’m not asking for anything.”
“Don’t take it personally. This is only natural. My daughter will inherit everything. You’re my daughter-in-law. You have your own life.”
I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel.
I wanted to ask:
“If I’m only your daughter-in-law, then why am I the one who has to come here every day?”
But I didn’t ask.
I simply continued working.
“Wash the floor today too,” she said. “The hallway is very dirty.”
I washed the floor.
Then I changed her bed sheets.
After that, I sat in the kitchen and drank tea. I looked at the clock.
It would take forty minutes to get home, and I would have to change buses.
Anna Petrovna came in, saw that I was still sitting there, and simply said:
“Hurry up a little. Misha might already be hungry.”
I stood up.
I went home.
On the bus, one thought kept running through my mind:
I had been doing this for four months.
Every single day after work.
Even on weekends.
I cleaned, washed clothes, cooked, shopped for groceries, changed her bed sheets, and picked up her medications.
Lyudmila showed up once every two weeks with a few cans of food and left half an hour later.
She always had a reason.
Her younger child was sick.
There was a kindergarten event.
She had to take her child to an activity.
Her husband got home late.
And somehow, I was always available.
When I told Misha about the will at home, he simply shrugged.
“So what? It’s Mom’s apartment. She has the right to decide what happens to it.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that she said it to me as if leaving everything to Lyudmila somehow made it even more natural for me to take care of her.”
Misha sighed.
“Don’t take it to heart. Mom has always been like that.”
“But I’m starting to get tired.”
He didn’t answer.
A week later, Anna Petrovna called me at work during my lunch break.
“Natasha, come earlier today. Someone from social services is coming, and I want you to be here.”
“I can’t leave early. I have appointments. People have already booked their time.”
“You need to be here at four!”
“I work until five.”
“So because of you, they’ll reject my pension recalculation?”
“What does that have to do with me? Ask them for another appointment.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds.
Then Anna Petrovna’s voice suddenly became sharp.
“All you care about is avoiding coming here!”
She hung up.
My boss, Irina Dmitrievna, had heard the entire conversation.
“Is there a problem with one of your relatives?”
I nodded.
“My mother-in-law wants me to go to her during working hours.”
Irina looked at me.
“Natasha, don’t let people take advantage of you. Once you start, you’ll spend your whole life running from one phone call to another.”
Her words stayed with me.
And yet, after work, I went to my mother-in-law’s.
The social worker had already left.
Anna Petrovna was sitting in the dark room watching television.
“Well, did you get what you wanted?” she asked instead of greeting me.
“I was working. I couldn’t leave earlier.”
“You could have found a way. Lyudmila works too, yet she calls me at least every day.”
Again I washed the dishes.
Again I cooked.
Again I ironed her clothes.
Again I cleaned everything.
And she sat in front of the television the entire time.
When I had already put on my coat, she called after me:
“You’ll come tomorrow after work, right? We need to go somewhere about the paperwork. Can you take me?”
“Not tomorrow. Misha has the day off. He can take you.”
“Misha won’t be able to figure out my documents.”
“He’s your son.”
“But he’s a man. He doesn’t understand these things.”
I stopped at the door.
“I get tired too, Anna Petrovna.”
“Lyudmila has children.”
Something inside me finally gave out.
“I have a life too,” I said quietly. “I can’t come here every day. Especially knowing that everything you own is going to Lyudmila.”
Anna Petrovna narrowed her eyes.
“So now you’re going to start counting everything?”
“I’m not counting anything.”
“Yes, you are. I knew this side of you would come out eventually.”
“I don’t want anything from you. I just don’t want to live as if I’m obligated to do everything for you, while the moment I can’t come, I’m suddenly cruel.”
Anna Petrovna turned away.
“Did I ever ask you to help me?”
That sentence hurt.
Because it was true.
Four months earlier, I had been the one who told Misha:
“Let’s go see her. It’s hard for her to be alone. I’ll help.”
I thought it would only be for a few weeks.
Then a few weeks became months.
Help became an obligation.
And the obligation became an expectation that no one had ever talked about, yet everyone treated as perfectly normal.
I walked out into the stairwell.
At home, Misha was waiting with dinner.
“Did you two have a fight?”
“I told her I can’t take her to run errands tomorrow.”
“Natasha, I really don’t know how to deal with her paperwork. I’m working until eight tomorrow night.”
“I work too.”
“Then ask for permission and leave two hours early.”
I looked at him.
“Do you really think it’s that simple?”
Misha fell silent.
“All I want,” I said, “is for me not to be the only person who solves everything all the time.”
“Lyudmila has two children.”
“And I have a husband.”
Misha said nothing.
And that evening, for the first time, I admitted to myself:
I can’t do this anymore.
The next working day, at half past five, I walked out through the factory gates.
My feet automatically started heading toward the bus stop for my mother-in-law’s house.
I stopped.
I took out my phone.
I called Misha.
“I’m not going to your mother’s today.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Natasha, but she’s waiting for you.”
“Let her wait. Or Lyudmila can go.”
I hung up.
And I went home.
For the first time in a long time, I arrived home knowing that nobody was expecting anything from me.
I made myself a cup of tea.
I sat in the kitchen.
And I simply stared at the wall.
An hour later, Misha called.
“Mom called. She says she’s hungry, the floor hasn’t been washed, and you’re being cruel.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That you had something to do.”
“Could you have gone to her?”
“I work until eight. Where would I go?”
“Exactly.”
Misha was silent for a long time.
“Natasha, I don’t know what to do with her either. She’s been like this since I was a child. First she makes me feel guilty, then I feel sorry for her. I’m used to it.”
“But I don’t want to get used to it.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“And?”
“But please, don’t leave her completely alone.”
I hung up.
Two days later, I went to Anna Petrovna’s anyway.
She opened the door.
“You came. I thought you had completely forgotten about me.”
I didn’t answer.
I went into the kitchen and washed the floor.
Anna Petrovna sat down and watched me work.
“Misha told me you were upset about the will.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Then why are you behaving like this?”
“Because I don’t understand why I have to come here every day while Lyudmila doesn’t come because she has a family.”
“Lyudmila is my daughter.”
“And what am I?”
“You’re my daughter-in-law.”
“So I’m family when you need help, but I’m not family when it comes to inheritance?”
Anna Petrovna pressed her lips together.
“It’s my decision.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“Then I’m making my own decision too.”
I put the mop in the corner.
“I will help you. But not every day. And I will not tolerate being called cruel just because I can’t come one day.”
“And what do you want?”
“I’ll come two days a week. Misha will come one day. And Lyudmila will come one day. If one of us can’t make it, we’ll discuss it.”
Anna Petrovna smiled.
“Lyudmila won’t be able to.”
“Then she can help in another way.”
I picked up my bag.
“I don’t want to leave you alone. But I also don’t want to be taken advantage of.”
My mother-in-law looked at me for a long time.
“You’ll come on Saturday?”
“Yes. I’m free on Saturday.”
“Then come.”
And I left.
On Saturday, I really did go back.
Anna Petrovna welcomed me quite differently this time.
She didn’t complain.
She didn’t ask why I was late.
We cooked together, and I cleaned the apartment.
When I was getting ready to leave, she quietly said:
“Just don’t abandon me completely.”
I turned around.
“I won’t.”
“I’ve gotten used to having you around.”
I nodded.
Misha was waiting for me at home.
“Well, how is Mom?”
“Nothing special.”
“Didn’t you argue?”
“No.”
Misha was silent for a moment.
“You know what I was thinking?”
“What?”
“Maybe we should hire someone to help her once a week. Cleaning, shopping, things like that. So it’s not all on you.”
I was surprised.
“And who will pay?”
“Lyudmila can contribute too.”
That was the first time I felt that Misha was truly standing by me.
A few days later, Lyudmila called me too.
For the first time in months, she was the one who reached out.
“Natasha, I heard you changed the schedule.”
“Yes. I can’t go every day anymore.”
“I understand. I’ll try to help too. My younger daughter is in kindergarten until six, but after that I can stop by Mom’s.”
“I work very late on Tuesdays. That would help a lot.”
Lyudmila was silent for a few seconds.
“I’m sorry, Natasha.”
“For what?”
“For leaving so much of this on you all this time. I didn’t think about how difficult it must have been.”
I smiled.
“I didn’t need an apology.”
“Then what did you need?”
“For someone to finally notice.”
Lyudmila was silent.
“I notice now,” she finally said.
Something changed after that conversation.
Not overnight.
But it changed.
On Tuesdays and Saturdays, I went to Anna Petrovna’s.
On Thursdays, Lyudmila stopped by.
And Misha visited after his evening shifts whenever he could.
At first, Anna Petrovna complained.
Then she got used to it.
One day, while we were drinking tea, she suddenly said:
“You know, Lyudmila made a really delicious soup last time.”
“Really?”
“Using your recipe.”
I smiled.
“I’m glad.”
“And Misha washed the floor.”
“And?”
Anna Petrovna smiled.
“It wasn’t as clean as when you do it.”
We both laughed.
Then Anna Petrovna took a folder out of the dresser.
“I want to show you something.”
She opened it.
“A few days ago, I went to the notary. I changed my will.”
I froze.
“Anna Petrovna, I didn’t do any of this because of…”
“I know.”
The apartment would still go to Lyudmila.
“She has two children. They need the space.”
Then she looked at me.
“But I’m leaving the country house and the garage to Misha. You can decide together what to do with them.”
I felt tears well up in my eyes.
But not because of the inheritance.
Because for the first time, I felt that Anna Petrovna no longer saw me as someone whose duty was to serve her.
She saw me as a person.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t thank me. And I didn’t change it because you did more for me.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“I know.”
She fell silent, then added quietly:
“Just come when you can. And if something is difficult for you, tell me. I’m old, Natasha, but perhaps I’m still capable of understanding.”
I nodded.
That evening, on the way home, I didn’t look at the clock for the first time.
I didn’t count how many minutes until the bus arrived.
I didn’t think about how much housework was still waiting for me at home.
I simply sat by the window and watched the city lights.
For four months, I thought that caring for someone meant putting up with everything.
Now I know that it doesn’t.
Helping someone doesn’t mean giving up ourselves in the process.
Love doesn’t come from obligation.
And when someone truly loves us, we shouldn’t have to prove day after day that we deserve our place in the family.
What would you have done in my place?
Would you continue taking care of an elderly relative if you knew that they were leaving all their property to someone else?
And how long would you tolerate being called selfish or insensitive simply because you said no once?
