“Do you seriously think that I will sell my apartment for you?” my wife asked with astonishment.

The dinner I had been preparing all evening lay untouched, instantly losing all meaning. I slowly lifted my gaze to Andrei, who was sitting across from me at the kitchen table. Our cozy kitchen, which I had lovingly arranged over the past three years, suddenly felt like a stuffy, cramped cockroach den.

“Do you seriously think that I will sell my apartment for you?” my voice faltered, as if sand had been poured down my throat, but the words came out sharp and prickly, like thorns.

Andrei rubbed his nose — a gesture that appeared during moments of intense anxiety. His broad shoulders slumped, and his gaze, usually warm and confident, now darted across the table, unable to meet mine.

“Galia, understand, I would never have asked you this if it weren’t about Vasily,” he said, looking deeply at me. “My son is in trouble. Real trouble.”

I pushed the plate aside, my fingers trembling slightly. Vasily, Andrei’s son from his first marriage. Twenty-seven years old, ambitious, sometimes reckless. We had never been close, but I had tried to maintain a good relationship — for Andrei’s sake.

“What happened?” I asked, though my inner voice already suggested that I wouldn’t like the answer.

“He took out a loan. A big one.” Andrei finally raised his eyes to mine, confusion and almost desperation evident in his gaze. “He thought he could start a business, but something went wrong. Now the collectors are threatening him… And if he doesn’t pay within a month, there’ll be a criminal case. They might put him in jail, Galia!”

A heavy silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock — old, still from my grandmother’s house, which I took after my mother passed away. I watched the clock as the second hand ticked, almost hoping that if I waited long enough, this entire conversation would turn out to be a bad dream.

“And… how much does he need?” I finally broke the silence.

Andrei named an amount that took my breath away. Such a sum could never fit into our family budget. Not in any way.

“Vasya promises to pay it all back as soon as he gets back on his feet,” Andrei hurried on. “But right now… right now, he needs help. My apartment is mortgaged, I can’t sell it quickly. But yours… it’s all yours. You can sell it, help Vasily, and then buy something smaller. Temporarily.”

The word “temporarily” hung in the air like a false note.

“But this is my apartment,” I felt a lump form in my throat. “I grew up there. Mom left it to me before she died.”

“I understand,” Andrei reached across the table and placed his hand over mine. His palm was warm, familiar, but now that touch brought no usual comfort. “But this is about Vasily’s freedom. About my son!”

He said the last phrase with emphasis, as though reminding me: “You, Galina, may have been my wife for five years, but Vasily is my blood.” And I involuntarily felt like an outsider. An intruder in this family drama.

“I need to think,” I replied, pulling my hand away.

“Of course,” Andrei nodded, but a shadow of disappointment passed over his face. As if he had expected me to agree immediately. “But… there’s little time. Very little.”

Outside, rain started to fall. The drops tapped against the eaves, creating a disturbing, irregular sound. I wrapped my arms around my shoulders, suddenly feeling cold.

For Andrei, this was a question of saving his son, of family and duty. For me — it was a question of betrayal. Betrayal of my mother’s memory, betrayal of myself. And I didn’t know what was worse — denying the man I loved help, or losing the only reliable refuge I had.

With a heavy heart, I opened the door to my apartment. The old parquet in the hallway creaked underfoot — a familiar, comforting sound. I ran my hand along the wall with the small flower-patterned wallpaper I had chosen so carefully. Every corner here held memories.

This window in the living room — I changed the frame last spring, saving money on the professionals. And this chandelier with carved shades — a find at a flea market, which I spent an entire day cleaning. The shelves with books collected piece by piece, the rocking chair passed down from my grandmother…

All my own, familiar. And now Andrei asks me to sell it for his son?

My mother’s words, said shortly before she passed, echoed in my mind with piercing clarity: “Galochka, remember: the apartment is your protection. Never throw it away. Men come and go, but the roof over your head should remain.”

At the time, I just laughed. Mom had always been a bit old-fashioned on these matters. Besides, Andrei and I had just gotten married — what doubts could there be?

The phone in my pocket vibrated. Vasily’s number. I answered after the third ring.

“Galina Sergeevna, hello,” his voice sounded unusually polite. “Dad said you… are thinking about the apartment.”

I closed my eyes. The pressure was starting.

“Yes, Vasya. I’m thinking. After all, this is a serious decision.”

“Of course,” he agreed hastily. “I just wanted to say… I will return everything. I swear to you. As soon as things get better. This is a temporary problem, but if I don’t resolve it now…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but the grim continuation hung in the air.

“I understand,” I replied, though inside, doubts were tightening around my chest.

“And also,” added Vasily after a pause, “Dad is really worried. You know how he feels about… well… family values.”

It was a low blow. “Family values” in Vasily’s mouth sounded like an accusation — if I didn’t sell the apartment, then I didn’t consider them family. It meant I didn’t love Andrei truly.

“I’ll think about it,” I repeated and hung up the call.

Sitting on the couch, I cradled my head in my hands. The wedding ring on my finger felt heavier than usual. Five years of marriage. Almost happy. And now, this test.

In the evening, I called Lena, my old friend.

“Are you out of your mind?” she exclaimed after hearing me out. “Don’t you dare sell it!…”

She paused, then continued more gently, “Listen, Galia, I know you love Andrei, but you also loved your mother. She gave you this place to keep you safe. Don’t throw it away just because Vasily made a bad choice.”

I sighed into the phone. I knew Lena had my best interests at heart, yet part of me felt guilty for even talking about Andrei’s request behind his back. But I needed perspective. After I hung up, I paced the apartment, flicking lights on and off. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I tried to close my eyes, I imagined my mother shaking her head at me with that look she used to get when she disapproved of my decisions.

Morning came with a gray sky, heavy clouds still looming. I’d barely slept. Andrei was out running errands, leaving me alone with my thoughts. After a quick shower, I pulled on a sweater and jeans and headed out to see the property agent in charge of some listings across town. I needed practical information — how quickly I could sell, at what price, and what a smaller place might cost if I chose that route. I told myself it was just to explore options, but a knot of dread settled in my stomach as soon as I walked into that office.

The agent, a brisk woman named Natalia, looked me over sympathetically. “Selling in a hurry usually means you’ll get less,” she explained. “But if you’re desperate, I can find you a buyer within two or three weeks. The question is, will you be able to handle the loss?”

On the bus ride home, her words repeated in my mind. Not just the financial loss, but the emotional one. Because losing that apartment would mean uprooting my whole sense of safety. By the time I returned to my cozy, cluttered living room, I felt exhausted. Dropping onto the couch, I stared at the rocking chair in the corner, tracing its curved edges with my eyes. It squeaked when I rocked too hard — something that always annoyed Andrei, but secretly made me smile.

Vasily called again that afternoon, but I let it go to voicemail. Andrei came home in the evening, face drawn and serious. He sat down across from me, where a half-finished cup of tea had grown cold.

“Galia,” he started, voice low, “did you talk to the real estate agent?”

I nodded reluctantly. “It doesn’t look good, Andrei. I’d lose a significant chunk of the value if I sold quickly. It doesn’t… feel right.”

He pressed his lips together, the lines on his forehead deepening. “I’m not trying to force you. But if we don’t help him, he could wind up in prison. Galia, I can’t just stand by and watch that happen. He’s my son.”

His words tore at my heart. Though I’d never had children myself, I could understand the desperate love a parent feels. But a creeping suspicion had begun to grow in me: Was Vasily telling us the whole story? Something about the loan, the collectors, and the sudden urgency didn’t sit well.

I suggested we meet Vasily for coffee the next day, and Andrei agreed. The next afternoon, the three of us gathered at a small cafe near the train station. Vasily looked tense, tapping his foot against the table leg as soon as we sat down. He was thin, with dark circles under his eyes — it was clear he hadn’t been sleeping well, either.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said quickly, glancing around as though someone might be eavesdropping. “I just want you both to know how sorry I am. I got in over my head.”

I took a breath, trying to keep my voice calm. “Vasya, I understand. But I’d like to know more about the loan. Exactly who did you borrow from?”

He hesitated. “A private lender… Let’s just say they’re not a bank. They don’t do small claims court. They handle things… differently.”

My stomach churned. “But what about your business plan? You said you wanted to open a small auto shop. Did you even get the permits, or did you just jump in?”

Vasily stared at his cup, his cheeks reddening. “I didn’t get that far,” he mumbled. “The interest was crazy, and… well, now it’s ballooned to something impossible.”

“And if you don’t pay?” Andrei prodded.

Vasily’s expression tightened. “They made it clear it wouldn’t end with just a lawsuit. They’re threatening to file a criminal complaint, but I think that’s the mildest outcome. They might do worse.”

That was the final straw. I understood now that we weren’t just dealing with a naive business mistake — we were dealing with dangerous people. But still, did saving Vasily from them have to mean giving up my place in the world?

“I need a day,” I said, pushing my chair back. My mind was racing. “Andrei, let’s talk tomorrow.”

Both father and son looked dejected but nodded. I spent the night in my apartment again, staring at the ceiling, tears slipping silently down my cheeks. Memories of my mother cooking me pancakes on Saturday mornings swam through my mind. My grandmother rocking in that chair, telling stories about the war. This wasn’t just an apartment. It was everything that had shaped me.

By morning, I had made a decision. I called a lawyer friend I knew casually through Lena. He listened thoughtfully, then suggested a possible middle ground: “Instead of selling the whole place, what if you try to borrow against it?” he asked. “A legal loan, with proper terms. You’d keep ownership. You’d have monthly payments, but it might give Vasily a chance to solve his problem without you completely giving up your property.”

I felt a spark of relief. Maybe there was an alternative after all. I called Andrei, and he came over looking exhausted and pale. When I laid out the plan, he blinked in surprise.

“Galia… I didn’t even consider that,” he confessed. “I was so focused on the fastest way to help Vasily, I never thought there could be a compromise.”

My heart softened. This was the man I loved, a man panicked for his child. I couldn’t be angry at him for that — but I also couldn’t bear the idea of losing this precious apartment. So we decided to explore the new option. We met with the lawyer, hammered out details, and set conditions to protect me in case Vasily never repaid the debt.

When we told Vasily, he looked ashamed but also relieved. He promised over and over he would work three jobs if he had to in order to pay everything back. I watched him carefully, hoping this scare would teach him a valuable lesson: that reckless ambition can ruin more than just your bank account.

Ultimately, the agreement was signed. We used the borrowed funds to pay off the threatening lenders, and they backed off. Vasily went on to enroll in a financial management course, determined never to repeat the same mistakes. Meanwhile, Andrei and I stayed together, though it took time and patience to heal our trust in one another. My apartment remained mine — a fortress of memories, an inheritance of love and security that I would never again take for granted.

Life doesn’t always give us a single clear path. Sometimes, it’s about forging a solution that respects both your obligations to the people you love and your own sense of self-worth. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to protect your home and heritage. And there’s also nothing wrong with a family coming together to solve problems creatively, without forcing ultimatums.

In the end, I learned that love and compromise can coexist when you communicate openly and hold on to what truly matters. Sometimes, the answer isn’t “yes” or “no” — it’s finding the middle ground that safeguards everyone’s well-being and preserves your sense of identity.

If this story touched you in any way, please feel free to share it with others who might be facing difficult decisions. And if you liked reading about how we found our way through this dilemma, go ahead and hit that like button. Who knows? You might just help someone find the courage to create their own happy ending, too.