As twilight fell over Petersburg, tension simmered in a small apartment. Alla Petrovna inspected the kitchen with her usual scrutiny. “Sveta, dear, I’ve always said—clean the stove right after cooking.”

Svetlana, weary from work, replied calmly, “I just got home, picked up Misha, made dinner—I’m finishing up now.”

But Alla wasn’t done. “In my day, we managed everything—work, home, spotless curtains.”

Svetlana swallowed her frustration. “You often mention your health when avoiding chores.”

“This is my apartment,” Alla snapped. “Where would you be without me?”

Andrey walked in. “Mom, Sveta’s exhausted—she works too.”

“I worked too!”

Finally, Svetlana broke. “I try. But nothing I do is enough. I don’t want praise, just respect.”

Later, they overheard Alla calling a realtor. She was thinking of selling. “I need peace,” she told Andrey.

Svetlana had had enough. “Misha and I are leaving for a bit. Let’s give her the quiet she wants.”

Days passed. Then the calls came—lonely, uncertain. “I didn’t mean to sell… Tell Sveta I was too harsh.”

When they returned, Alla greeted them with warmth—and even baked Svetlana’s favorite cake.

“I’ll try,” she said softly.

And somehow, quietly, a family began to heal.