**The Dream of the Thorned Rose**
*”You’ll always be poor, stuck in rented rooms,”* her mother-in-law had once sneered. Now, the woman rented a chamber in Ksenias castle.
*”Could we change the curtains?”* Alevtina Grigorievna’s voice was thick, like the velvet drapes she despised. *”This colour it presses. Makes the room feel heavy.”*
Ksenia turned slowly. She had chosen the fabric herselfdeep wine-red, lush against cream walls and an antique dresser. A small, defiant victory.
*”You dont like them?”*
*”Oh, darling, dont fuss. Beggars cant be choosers, as they say I merely share my opinion. Or has my sons house become a dictatorship?”*
Alevtina stood with arms crossed, surveying the room*her* roomthe very one Ksenia and her husband had given her in their new home. Their *castle*, as Dmitry called it, teasing her childhood dreams of turrets.
*”Of course, Alevtina Grigorievna. Youre entitled to your thoughts.”*
*”Good. Id begun to fear even breathing required permission.”*
Twenty years. Two decades, and nothing had changed. Only the scenery: first a rented flat with floral wallpaper, now a sprawling house, every brick paid for by their labour.
*”I only want a bit of comfort,”* Alevtina added, trailing a finger along the dresser. *”Dust. You ought to wipe it. But then, youre used to corners, arent you? You and Dmitry, drifting through borrowed spaces.”*
Something clenched inside Ksenia. Not painsomething familiar. A phantom limb, long amputated.
She remembered.
The day theyd moved into their first flat. Tiny, leaking taps, creaking floors. Theyd been giddy with joy. Then *she* arrived. Eyed their humble nest, pursed lips, and pronounced judgmentnot to her son, but to Ksenia alone:
*”Youre poor. Youll drag him down. Mark my wordsyoull never have anything of your own.”*
Ksenia had stayed silent. What could she say? A girl of twenty, in love, certain love conquered all.
And it had. At the cost of twenty years. Twenty years of work, sleepless nights, two engagement rings pawned, and one risky IT venture that finally paid for *everything*.
Alevtina Grigorievna, meanwhile, lost it allfirst her husband, then her flat, sunk into a scam peddled by a *”very respectable lady.”* The hunger for easy status left her with nothing.
—
*”Dmitry says you gave me the finest guest room,”* Alevtina mused by the window. *”Garden view. So I might watch you toil among roses. A reminder of your place.”*
*”Our place is here now,”* Ksenia said firmly. *”Yours included.”*
*”My place, dear, was *my* flat. This is charity. A grand gesture. So the world sees what a saint my son married.”*
Her eyes held the same venom as twenty years ago.
That night, over dinner, Alevtina circled back to the curtains, addressing only Dmitry: *”Darling, youre a man of status now. Clients will visit. Must the house feel like a tomb?”*
Ksenia set down a salad. Her hands didnt shake. Shed learned that long ago.
*”We like it dark,”* Dmitry said mildly. *”Ksenia chose it. She has taste.”*
*”Practical taste,”* Alevtina corrected, smiling indulgently. *”Durable, unfussy. Admirable in lean times. But now one might indulge in lightness. My decorator friend could advise”*
A trap. Refuse, and she was stubborn. Agree, and she admitted her taste was trash.
*”Ill consider it,”* Ksenia lied.
—
The next morning, she found her spice jarscollected worldwide, arranged just soshoved aside. In their place: Alevtinas porcelain, salvaged from her ruin.
*”I tidied,”* came the voice behind her. *”Men need order. It calms them.”*
Ksenia wordlessly returned each jar.
*”No need. Id have done it.”*
*”Oh, you always do everything. Strong women make weak men. Dmitry never had to lead.”*
The blow landed. Years of coding beside him, hunting investors, weathering failureserased. *She* had made him small.
That evening, Dmitry dismissed it: *”Shes old, Ksenia. Lost everything. Let her feel useful.”*
He didnt see the poison. Only the tragedy.
—
The breaking point came on Saturday. Returning home, Ksenia heard voices on the terrace. Alevtina, enthroned in *her* chair, gestured to the garden:
*”rip out these provincial roses. A lawn, Raissa! *Space*!”*
Ksenia stood in the ivys shadow. *Her* garden. *Her* labour. Decided without her.
Enough.
She left without a word, called an estate agent: *”A flat. Immediate. VIP terms.”*
Returning hours later, she dropped keys and a contract on the table.
*”Alevtina Grigorievna, Ive solved your discomfort. Herea lease. Your own space, your own rules. Well visit tomorrow.”*
Silence.
*”Youre throwing me out?”*
*”Gifting you freedom,”* Ksenia smiled icily. *”From my curtains, my spices, my roses.”*
Dmitry faltered: *”She didnt mean”*
*”Didnt she?”*
Alevtina paled. Refusal would betray her gamethis was never about comfort, but conquest.
—
Two months later, the castle breathed again. No more battles.
They visited Sundays. Alevtinas flat was sterile, hotel-perfect. She spoke only to Dmitry. Once, complaining of a broken tap: *”The council said *three days*! Your father wouldve fixed it in minutes.”*
Then Ksenia understood. It wasnt about herpoor or rich. It was about power. Alevtina, dethroned, clawed for control anywhere.
But Ksenia was no longer the girl from the rented room.
—
A year on, autumn gilded the garden. Dmitry joined her on the terrace, handing her tea.
*”Cold?”*
*”No. Im content.”*
He hugged her. The shadow was gone.
*”Mother called. Asked us to move a wardrobe.”*
They exchanged a glance. A new tacticsmall demands, hooks to pull them back.
*”Tell her well send movers,”* Ksenia said. *”Our treat.”*
He nodded, dialling. No arguments. Hed learned the new rules.
Later, flipping albums, Ksenia found a photo: young, beaming, in their first crumbling flat.
Alevtina had been wrong about poverty. Hers was temporarya spur to strive.
But Alevtinas poverty was the soul. The inability to rejoice in others joy, the need to belittle to feel tall.
Ksenia closed the album. The castle was no trophy, no fortress.
Just home.
Where apples from her trees scented the air.
Where she and Dmitry sat in silence, hand in hand.
Where shed found, at last, not wealthbut peace.
