“…How thoughtful of you,” Lydia continued, forcing each word through clenched teeth. “Sending your hunting dog ahead instead of calling me yourself. That’s remarkably considerate.”
“You were always aware that the apartment isn’t legally yours,” Ryan replied, brushing aside the sarcasm as if he hadn’t heard it. “My mother gave it to me before we got married. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”
“Oh, I remember perfectly,” Lydia shot back. “Your mother presented it to us as a wedding gift. To both of us. And then you ran off, leaving me here with our daughter. And unless my memory fails me, you swore you wouldn’t touch this place until Ellie finished school. Or do your promises come with expiration dates?”
“Let’s not drag up old vows,” Ryan muttered, irritation slipping into his voice. “Circumstances change.”
“Don’t dodge the question. You promised,” she insisted.
“Yes, I did. But I need the apartment now.” His tone was flat, stripped of any emotion.
“You… spineless coward,” Lydia burst out before catching herself. “It’s disgusting.”
“Are we going to argue, or can we be practical?” he asked calmly.
“Tell Sophie she can forget about—” Lydia began, but he cut her off.
“No,” Ryan said sharply. “This isn’t about her. I’m the one who needs the place. It’s unfortunate she spoke to you first.”
“So you were afraid to face me yourself and sent your chambermaid instead?” Lydia retorted.
“That’s enough,” he said coldly. “I expect you to move out within two weeks.”
“Two weeks? And where exactly am I supposed to go?” she demanded. “You know I don’t have another place.”
“Rent something. I’ll continue sending child support—it’s not a small amount. It’ll cover it.”
“That’s not how decent people behave, Ryan. You gave me your word.” She heard the pleading note in her own voice and instantly despised it.
“Stop dramatizing. I don’t have another property—at least not one like this. Fourteen days is more than enough to find something suitable. Understood?”
“No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand. Your daughter lives here. Your daughter. The child you rarely visit, the one whose birthday you forgot. Do you even remember how old she is now?”
Silence pressed against her ear, heavy and uncomfortable. After several seconds, he exhaled.
“Two weeks,” Ryan repeated, and ended the call.
Lydia lowered the phone slowly and sank into a chair. Outside, dusk thickened, and a similar darkness seemed to gather inside her chest.
The night that followed was restless. Sleep hovered somewhere beyond reach. Her thoughts circled endlessly. The apartment truly belonged to Ryan on paper; legally, he had the right to reclaim it. He did pay child support, but nearly all of it would vanish into rent. She calculated and recalculated in her mind—utilities, groceries, school supplies. The numbers refused to cooperate. Every path seemed to lead to a wall.
By dawn, a pale gray light seeped through the half-drawn curtains, casting muted shadows across the room. Lydia moved mechanically, preparing breakfast for Ellie. Her reflection in the kitchen window startled her—ashen skin, dark hollows under her eyes betraying the sleepless hours.
She fed her daughter, helped her dress, and was gathering their things for a walk when the doorbell rang.
Margaret stood on the threshold.
Although her son was divorced, Margaret visited almost daily. She adored spending time with her granddaughter—taking her to the park, supervising bath time when Ellie was smaller, teaching her first steps, and now guiding her through drawing and simple reading.
Margaret’s sharp gaze swept over Lydia’s face.
“What’s happened to you?” she asked, studying the shadows beneath Lydia’s eyes.
Lydia inhaled deeply, steadying herself.
“Ryan wants us out,” she said quietly.
“I see,” Margaret replied without visible surprise. She lifted Ellie into her arms, kissed her cheek, and carried her into the living room before settling comfortably into an armchair. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”
Lydia recounted Sophie’s unexpected visit, her confident declaration about the apartment, the phone call that followed, and Ryan’s cold confirmation. When she finished, her composure crumbled.
“Two weeks. Just fourteen days. Where am I supposed to go?” She gestured helplessly at the furniture. “And what do I do with all of this? Leave it on the sidewalk?”
Margaret lowered her head in thought. After a long silence, she rose and walked to the window. Children were playing in the park across the street, their laughter drifting faintly through the glass. She watched them for a moment before turning back.
“Legally, he has the right,” she said quietly. “The apartment is his.”
“And Ellie?” Lydia asked.
Margaret shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” she admitted at last. She crossed the room and gently stroked her granddaughter’s hair. “I truly don’t.”
“He promised,” Lydia insisted, clinging to the memory of that assurance.
“My dear,” Margaret said with a faint, weary smile, “promises can be as fictional as tax declarations.” She sat beside Ellie, examined the child’s drawing, picked up a pencil, and carefully corrected a line. “Here’s what we’ll do. Don’t exhaust yourself with panic. If Ryan has made up his mind, I may not be able to sway him easily. He hasn’t confided in me about his ‘brilliant’ financial strategies or personal entanglements for quite some time. But…” She brushed Ellie’s hair again. “I will speak to him.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said, cautious hope flickering in her voice.
“I will,” Margaret repeated firmly as she rose and headed toward the door.
“You’re leaving already?” Lydia asked, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Yes. I need to prepare before confronting our financial genius,” Margaret replied, slipping on her shoes. “Without proper arguments, you can’t win against him.”
She stepped into the hallway, and the heavy door closed with a dull thud. Lydia remained standing in the quiet apartment—an apartment that might soon no longer be hers.
Outside, an autumn wind immediately tangled Margaret’s hair and made her shiver. She paused on the sidewalk, watching fallen leaves swirl in restless spirals. The sight carried her back years—to the day her husband, Andrew, had died.
Those memories were blurred around the edges. Ryan had been barely two years old. She remembered the suffocating confusion, the helplessness that had consumed her then—the same despair she now saw in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. Slowly, she approached her car and slid behind the wheel. The interior smelled faintly of lavender, her favorite perfume.
For a moment she stared at the nearly empty street. In her own darkest hours, her mother had turned away. The only person who had offered help was Helen, her late husband’s mother. Helen had opened the doors of her spacious home to the young widow and her toddler son. After the older woman passed away, the property had eventually come to Margaret.
Margaret fastened her seatbelt, inserted the key, and started the engine.
“This isn’t right, my boy,” she murmured into the silence, her voice edged with icy reproach. “Hiding behind a woman like Sophie instead of facing the situation yourself. That’s cowardice, Ryan. Plain cowardice.”
She pulled away from the curb, driving slowly through the quiet streets, rehearsing arguments in her mind, anticipating his counterpoints.
Several days passed. Margaret decided it was time to visit her granddaughter, Ellie, once again.