One week before the apartment sale, my father-in-law told me: «While your husband is away, take a hammer and smash the tile behind the toilet in the bathroom!»…

The lock clicked. Michael opened the door. He was in an old, washed-out robe, worn slippers on his feet.

He looked at her, and there was no surprise in his gaze. Only heavy, grim understanding. «Come in,» he said, stepping aside.

She entered the small, modest hallway. The apartment smelled of medicine and old books. Everything was extremely simple, even poor, but very clean.

From the wall, a young, smiling woman looked at her from a black-and-white photo—Michael’s late wife, David’s mother. He led her to the kitchen. A small kitchen with faded oilcloth on the table, an old Saratoga refrigerator humming like a tractor.

He silently put the kettle on the stove, got two cups. Emily sat on a stool. She didn’t know where to start.

She simply took the bank statement from her purse and placed it on the table. He took everything, she said. Her voice broke.

And then it burst out of her. Words poured in a continuous stream, jumbling, interrupting each other. She told everything.

About dinner at her mother’s, about the medallion, about Sophia’s sobbing. About how David entered and called her paranoid. About his cold calm at home, about the suitcase.

About his mocking laugh when she threatened him with the bank. Michael listened silently. He sat opposite, clasping his large, working hands on the table.

His face was like a mask carved from stone. Not a muscle twitched. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask questions, didn’t gasp or sigh.

He just listened. And in his silence was more sympathy than in a hundred comforting words. He wasn’t surprised.

That was the scariest and most important part. It was as if he knew it would be like this. When she finished, exhausted, silence hung in the kitchen, broken only by the whistle of the boiling kettle.

Michael stood, turned off the gas. Poured boiling water into the cups. Placed one before Emily.

«The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,» he said finally, staring at the wall. His voice was hoarse. «I’ve been waiting for the rot to show.

And here it is.» He sat back. I’ve been watching him for a long time, Emily.

Since Anna passed. He was changing. Becoming harder, greedier.

His eyes became different. Empty. I saw how he looked at you.

Not like a wife. Like a… resource. Like a stepping stone.

But I didn’t think he’d go this far. That he’d involve your sister? He fell silent, ran a hand over his face. Then his gaze stopped on Anna’s photo on the wall.

He looked at it long, painfully. «You think why I helped you? Why I came with that hammer?» He asked, not looking at her. «You think out of kindness? Or because you’re like a daughter to me? That’s all true.

But there’s another reason. The main one.» He looked at his wife’s photo again.

«30 years ago, Emily, I was just like him,» he said quietly, each word coming with visible effort. «Just as much of a scumbag. I worked at the factory.

Thought they didn’t appreciate me. That life was passing me by. That I deserved more?» He paused, gathering his thoughts.

«I had another woman. At the factory too. I thought it was real love.

And Anna, she became habit. Routine.

And I decided to change everything. Decided to run away. Start a new life.»

Emily listened, holding her breath. She saw before her not a stern old man, but another person, young, full of the same ambitions that had ruined her own life. «I secretly saved money,» Michael continued.

«Opened a savings account under another name. Then, then I decided to sell the cottage. Our cottage, which Anna and I built with our own hands.

Her parents helped with the land. It was her place of strength. I placed an ad in the newspaper.

Found a buyer. Already agreed on everything. Planned to take the money and leave.

Without telling her anything.» He smiled bitterly. But she found out.

Don’t know how. Maybe saw the savings book I hid poorly. Maybe overheard a phone conversation.

She didn’t make a scene. Didn’t scream. She just sat opposite me in the evening, like I’m sitting now, and placed that same savings book on the table.

And looked at me. I’ll never forget that look, Emily. Never.

There was no hatred in it. Only disappointment. So deep that I wanted to fall through the earth.

He fell silent. The silence in the kitchen pressed. She stopped me.

The sale fell through. That woman disappeared from my life. We, we stayed together.

For David’s sake. We lived another 20-plus years. But it wasn’t life anymore.

We became strangers living in one apartment. The marriage died that evening. And I lived the rest of my life with that shame.

It never went away. It’s still here. He pounded his fist on his chest.

My son is my punishment. He saw our coldness. He grew up in a home without love, only habit and silent reproach.

I didn’t teach him to be a man. To be human. And he became my exact copy.

Only worse. He went further. He doesn’t just want to run away.

He wants to destroy you, trample you, to feel like a winner. He finally looked her straight in the eyes. In his gaze was an abyss of pain and guilt.

I’m helping you, Emily, not just out of sympathy. I’m trying to atone for what I did 30 years ago. I’m trying to stop him.

Stop myself in him. I couldn’t save my marriage. But maybe I can save you from the consequences of my sin.

Michael’s confession stunned Emily. She sat on the old kitchen stool and looked at this broken, aged man, and for the first time saw in him not just her husband’s father, but a person with his own tragedy. His story, terrible and ugly, paradoxically gave her strength.

She wasn’t alone. He, her only ally, understood the nature of this evil firsthand. He had once been that evil.

The silence in the kitchen became different. Not oppressive, but shared between two. Cups with cooled tea stood on the table like mute witnesses to their night conversation.

But what now? Emily’s voice was quiet, almost inaudible. I have less than two days left. He has the power of attorney.

I have nothing. Only this paper with zero. She nodded at the bank statement.

Michael was silent for a long time, staring at the faded oilcloth on the table. He seemed to be straining to remember something. His brows furrowed.

Deep wrinkles deepened. «Wait,» he said suddenly. «Wait, the apartment.

How did you register it?» Emily didn’t understand the question. «The usual way. Purchase agreement.

In both our names, equal shares. No, not that. Who was the first owner? You didn’t buy it from scratch.

It was a wedding gift from my parents. They bought it for me, before I met David. Then, when we married, we re-registered it in both names.

Mom insisted then. Said a family should share everything equally. Michael suddenly jerked his head up.

In his faded eyes, a spark gleamed. «A gift. Exactly.

I remember. We were at the notary’s then, all together. Your parents, you and David, me and Anna.

And your parents’ lawyer, that gray-haired guy in glasses.» He said something about special conditions. That since the apartment was originally a gift to you, the contract needed a special clause.

Something about sale requiring personal consent of both owners. Precisely personal. Emily tried to recall.

Fifteen years ago. Wedding, fuss, euphoria. She vaguely remembered that lawyer, her father’s friend.

He really explained something at length, they signed a bunch of papers. She hadn’t delved in then. She trusted her parents, trusted David.

«You think the power of attorney might not work?» What did he emphasize? He told your father it would be safer. So no one could decide for the other. Where are the original apartment documents? At home.

In my personal safe. David doesn’t know the code. Hope.

A thin, timid ray of hope pierced the gloom of despair. This was something. A chance.

Ghostly, but a chance. Let’s go, said Michael, decisively standing. Can’t lose a minute.

They raced through the night city again, but now it wasn’t aimless desperation, but a drive with a specific goal. Emily drove. Gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Michael sat beside, silent and focused. They entered her apartment, which now seemed hostile territory. Emily quickly went to the study, which served as her workspace.

The small safe built into the wall was hidden behind a painting. She quickly entered the combination, her grandmother’s birthday. The door opened.

Inside was a folder with documents. Marriage certificate, her diploma, and most importantly, the thick, bound purchase agreement for the apartment.

She pulled it out. Her hands trembled a bit. Where do we go with this? She asked.

Notaries don’t work at night. I have someone, said Michael. Not exactly a notary.

A private lawyer. Old, smart guy. Lives alone, works from home.

Sometimes helps my pensioner friends with papers. He knows the laws better than many firms. If there’s something in this contract, he’ll find it.

Twenty minutes later, they stood at the door of an ordinary apartment building. A short, plump man about 60 opened it, in thick-lensed glasses and a stretched sweater. His name was Anthony Simmons.

He clearly wasn’t expecting guests at this hour, but seeing Michael, he silently let them in to the apartment crammed with bookshelves. Emily, nervous, handed him the contract. Anthony Simmons, please look.

Very urgent. Life and death matter. The lawyer put on his glasses, sat under a dim floor lamp, and began reading.

He read slowly, carefully, running his finger along the lines. Emily and Michael stood over him, afraid to breathe. Ten minutes passed, seeming like eternity.

Finally, Anthony Simmons raised his head. «Yes, Michael, your memory didn’t fail you,» he said, removing his glasses. Clause 7.3…