Our housewarming felt less like a celebration and more like a coronation ceremony—except instead of a throne there was a newly assembled two-room apartment, and instead of royal regalia, the full emotional arsenal of the extended family.
My mother-in-law, Svetlana Petrovna, walked in as if she weren’t a guest but a state inspector coming to audit our eligibility for happiness. Behind her was my husband, Ilya, wearing that typical “happy spaniel” expression he only puts on when he doesn’t yet realize trouble is coming. The procession was closed by Julija, his sister, and her husband, Vitya, who carried a box with the reverence of someone holding the key to a nuclear power plant.
— Here you go — Svetlana Petrovna declared, pointing at the table. — This is for you. So you can preserve family moments. All of them.
Inside the box was a camera. Not just any toy. A professional DSLR whose price raised almost moral questions. I and Ilya exchanged looks: is this serious? In our family, “gifts” were usually faded kitchen towels or salad bowls that guests apologized for using.
— Thank you, mom! — Ilya said emotionally.
— Use it properly — Vitya added importantly. — This is Japanese technology. Not a toy. Don’t press random buttons.
For the first few weeks, it really was idyllic. I learned the settings, photographed the cat, who in every picture looked like she was preparing for a gallery opening. Ilya was proud, and the camera finally served its purpose.
Then the phone rang.
Julija called. Her voice was so sweet it practically stuck to the air.
— Olchik, dear… I need a small favor. Misutka has a kindergarten performance, he’s dressed as a mushroom! Such an important memory! Could you lend us the camera for a day? Vitya will take the photos and then we’ll bring it back.
Something inside me immediately resisted. An old, experienced inner voice that always speaks too late, but is never wrong. But Ilya was already enthusiastic:
— Of course, take it! We’re family!
The camera left. And it didn’t come back.
At first it was just a one-day delay. Then a week. Then excuses: “RAW files,” “slow camera,” “color correction,” “complex processing.” Vitya’s voice gradually turned into a mix of an offended artist and an IT guru.
— This isn’t just a photo, Olya! It’s art!
— It’s a kindergarten mushroom, Vitya.
— You don’t understand because you’re in the humanities.
A month passed. My patience evaporated like soup in a pot.
Then one day I saw an ad.
“Professional camera for sale. Excellent condition. Urgent.”
In the photo was OUR camera. With the cat-paw keychain on the strap. In the background, that unmistakable deer-patterned rug you never forget.
My stomach turned to stone.
— Ilya — I said quietly. — Come here.
The moment he saw it, he went pale.
— This… this is ours.
— Not “like ours.” It is ours.
We made a plan. Fake profile. Meeting. Shopping mall.
Ilya was nervous.
— Shouldn’t we call the police?
— Yes. But first let’s see how creative your family got.
Vitya arrived at the meeting with the “buyer.” He looked around cautiously, as if he were in a secret operation.
When he saw us, he didn’t understand at first.
Then I took off my sunglasses.
— Hi, Vitya — I said calmly. — Show me the goods.
His face collapsed.
— I… I just… wanted to improve it!
— For 50,000?
The police arrived faster than the explanations.
At the station, everyone showed up. Svetlana Petrovna too, like a natural disaster you can’t stop.
— Release my son! This is a family matter!
— Madam, this is theft — the officer said tiredly.
Silence fell.
For the first time, Ilya looked at her not as a child, but as an adult.
— Mom… enough.
The official ending was simple: Vitya was fined, my mother-in-law was penalized, there was a lot of resentment and even more drama.
But in reality, something else ended there too: that strange family logic that the word “relative” gives you permission to do anything.
We eventually sold the camera.
With the money, we went far away.
To a place where no one asks to borrow anything.
And where rugs don’t stare back with deer.
