Ira noticed that Andrei’s phone had flashed for the third time in the last half hour. He didn’t even glance at the screen, mechanically chewing his mashed potatoes. She knew who was calling. Knew it with the same certainty you predict rain from the heavy clouds outside the window.
“It’s Lyudmila,” she said, not asking.
Andrei looked up, and something like guilt flickered in his eyes, mixed with irritation.
“How do you know?”
“Because she always calls right before she’s about to ask for something. And because you’re afraid to pick up.”
He set down his fork and finally looked at the screen. Fourth call. He sighed as if he were being asked to do the impossible and answered.
“Lyuda, hi… What happened?”
Ira didn’t pretend not to hear. Lyudmila’s voice was so loud that her words burst through the speaker—hysterical and demanding. She was crying. Again. Ira had long lost count of those tears. Lyudmila cried when she wasn’t given a loan. She cried when she wasn’t invited on vacation. She cried when Andrei couldn’t pick her up from the other end of the city at two in the morning. Tears were her universal weapon, and she wielded it masterfully.
“Lyuda, calm down… Yes, I get it… Of course, come over…”
Ira felt something go cold inside. “Come over.” That word meant chaos would once again burst into their lives in the form of her husband’s sister.
Andrei hung up and was silent for a while, staring at his plate.
“Igor left her,” he finally said. “She’s hysterical. She said she can’t be alone.”
“And?”
“I told her she could stay with us for a couple of days. She really has nowhere to go.”
Ira set her plate aside. Her appetite vanished instantly, as if it had never existed.
“A couple of days,” she repeated quietly.
“Well, yes. Until she calms down and figures out what to do next.”
“Andrei, we both know it won’t be just a couple of days.”
He looked at her reproachfully, and in that look Ira read everything: you’re heartless, you don’t understand, she’s my sister, how can I refuse her in a hard moment. All those unspoken accusations hung in the air between them, thick and sticky like cobwebs.
“She’s going through a divorce,” he said at last, and his voice held that familiar defensive tone Ira heard whenever the subject was Lyudmila. “She needs support.”
Ira wanted to argue. She wanted to remind him about the last time when Lyudmila moved in “for a couple of days” after a fight with her previous boyfriend and stayed three weeks. She wanted to say that his sister had long since learned to live at others’ expense, shifting her problems onto her brother’s shoulders. She wanted to cry that they had their own life, their own plans, their own space. But she kept quiet. Because she knew that in the clash between wife and sister, Andrei would always choose his sister. Not because he loved her more. But because the sister bore the stamp of obligation, guilt, some strange responsibility rooted in their childhood—somewhere Ira had no access.
Lyudmila showed up an hour later with two huge bags and eyes puffy from crying. She burst into the apartment like a hurricane, flung herself onto her brother’s neck, and sobbed so loudly the neighbors surely heard everything.
“He left! Just packed his things and left! Said I smothered him with my love! Can you imagine?”
Andrei stroked her back, murmuring something soothing. Ira stood aside, watching the scene with a strange sense of detachment. Lyudmila was only a year older than she was, but carried herself like sixteen. Infantile, forever needing support, unable to cope with life on her own. And Andrei was always there, ready to lend a shoulder, give money, solve the problem.
“Irishka, put the kettle on, please,” Andrei asked without even looking at her.
Ira obediently went to the kitchen. She set the kettle, took out cups, and a dull irritation swelled inside. Why should she wait on a woman who believed the whole world owed her help? But she kept quiet. She always kept quiet.
Over tea, Lyudmila recounted the details of the breakup. Igor turned out to be “selfish,” “hard-hearted,” “incapable of real feelings.” Ira listened and thought that two years ago, when Lyudmila had just met Igor, he’d been a “prince on a white horse,” “the perfect man,” “destiny.” Now he was a villain. Like all the previous ones. The pattern was polished: fall in love, idealize, demand more and more attention and care, push the man to a breaking point, get a refusal, declare him a monster. Then rush to her brother for comfort.
“Lyuda, have you eaten anything today?” Andrei was all concern.
“I can’t eat. There’s a lump in my throat.”
“You need at least something. Ira, could you make some sandwiches?”
And there it was again, “Ira, make.” Not “let me do it,” not “I’ll go myself.” But “Ira, make.” Because that’s what a wife exists for, right? To serve her husband’s family, solve their problems, sacrifice herself on the altar of kinship ties.
She made the sandwiches. Brought them in. Lyudmila ate three, washing them down with tea and sugar, and asked for seconds. The lump in her throat had apparently dissolved.
Days turned into weeks. Lyudmila settled into their living room, turning it into her bedroom. Ira got up at six to make it to work and tried to move quietly so as not to wake her sister-in-law. But Lyudmila woke up on her own around eleven, and that’s when her day began. She would come out in a robe, scowling, and the first thing she’d declare was that there was “nothing normal” in the house.
“Andryush, do you only have this cottage cheese? I don’t eat this kind; I’m allergic.”
“You’ve never been allergic to cottage cheese,” Andrei ventured cautiously.
“Well, now I am! With this divorce my health is falling apart altogether!”
And Andrei went to the store for different cottage cheese. Then for different yogurt. Then for special bread. Then for vitamins that Lyudmila had seen in an advertisement. The list of demands grew, and Andrei dutifully fulfilled all his sister’s whims.
Ira came home from work exhausted, longing for silence and peace, and would freeze on the threshold. Loud music blared in the apartment, Lyudmila chatted on the phone, laughing as if there had been no divorce at all. The kitchen was piled with dirty dishes because “Lyuda didn’t have the strength,” and Andrei was “late at work.” Which meant she would have to wash them.
“Irishka,” Lyudmila would appear in the kitchen doorway, “can I invite my girlfriends over tonight? We need to discuss something important.”
Can you say “no” in your own apartment? Turns out you can’t. Because it would sound “heartless.” Because “Lyuda needs the support of friends.” Because “it won’t be for long.”
The girlfriends arrived at nine in the evening and sat until one in the morning, loudly discussing jerk men and drinking wine that Ira had bought with her own money. Ira lay in the bedroom, her face buried in the pillow, thinking how absurd it all was. She had become a prisoner in her own home.
When she tried to bring it up with Andrei, he looked at her as if she were proposing to throw his sister out on the street in the dead of winter.
“She’s having a really hard time right now,” he repeated his mantra. “Let’s just be patient a little longer.”
“Andrei, it’s already been three weeks.”
“So what? She’s my sister. I can’t abandon her at a time like this.”
“And what am I? Part of the décor?”
“Don’t start. You see the state she’s in.”
What state? The state where she demands special foods, throws parties, spends an hour in the bathroom using up all the hot water, and dictates which movies to watch in the evenings? That state?
But Ira kept quiet again. Because she was tired of fights. Because she understood it was no use trying to get through to him.
And then the notary called.
Aunt Vera had died a month earlier, and Ira was only now learning that she’d left her an inheritance. An apartment in a good neighborhood and a decent amount of savings. Aunt Vera had no children, lived alone, and Ira was the only relative who visited, helped, cared. Now that care had turned into an unexpected gift.
Ira sat in the notary’s office holding the documents, unable to believe it. An apartment. Money. Freedom. A chance to start life over, if needed.
She came home in an uplifted mood. For the first time in weeks she felt like smiling. The hallway smelled of pies, and for a second she was surprised—had Lyudmila cooked? Unbelievable.
But it was Andrei in the kitchen, taking a baking sheet out of the oven. Lyudmila sat at the table flipping through a magazine.
“You’re back!” Andrei looked unusually animated. “How did it go?”
“Good,” Ira answered cautiously. “I was at the notary’s.”
“And?”
“Everything’s done. The apartment and the money are mine now.”
She expected her husband to be happy for her, to hug her, to say something warm. But his reaction was different.
His face lit up; he even clapped his hands.
“What perfect timing for you to get an inheritance!” he exclaimed. “My sister could really use an apartment right now!”
Ira froze. His words hung in the air, and for several seconds she couldn’t grasp their meaning. Then it hit her.
“What did you say?”
“Well, think about it,” Andrei was so carried away with his idea he didn’t notice her expression change. “Lyuda has nowhere to go. Igor kicked her out of the apartment. And here’s such a stroke of luck! You get an apartment, and Lyuda can move in there. It’s the perfect solution!”
“The perfect solution,” Ira repeated, and her voice sounded strange. “To give your sister my inheritance.”
“Not give—let her live there. Temporarily. Until she gets back on her feet.”
Lyudmila lifted her head from the magazine, and in her eyes Ira saw such triumph, such certainty in her rightness, that she felt sick.
“Andryusha is right,” the sister-in-law chimed in. “It really is perfect timing. I certainly wouldn’t want to impose, but since it turned out this way… My God, I’ve dreamed so much about having a place of my own! Can I pick the wallpaper for the bedroom myself? And we need to update the furniture—this old lady surely lived in some Soviet décor.”
Ira looked at the two of them—her husband, beaming at his own brilliance, and his sister already furnishing someone else’s apartment in her mind—and something inside her snapped. The thin thread of patience she had stretched all these years finally broke.
“No,” she said quietly.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” Andrei didn’t understand.
“No. I won’t give the apartment to Lyudmila. It’s my inheritance. Mine.”
Silence fell. Andrei stared at her as if she had just slapped him.
“Ira, are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“But… but she’s my sister! She has nowhere to go!”
“She is thirty-four, Andrei. Thirty-four. She is an adult who can earn her own living, rent a place, solve her problems. I am not obliged to support her.”
“Support?” Lyudmila sprang to her feet, her face contorting. “You think I’m using you?”
“Yes,” Ira replied calmly. “That’s exactly what I think. You’re using your brother. You live at his expense, you make demands, you fuss, you set your own rules in someone else’s apartment. And now you’re laying claim to my inheritance. No. Enough.”
“Andryusha!” Lyudmila sobbed, tears gushing on cue. “Do you hear what she’s saying? She’s throwing me out!”
Andrei’s gaze darted between his sister and his wife, and Ira saw him make a choice. She watched his face harden, his lips press into a thin line.
“How can you be so selfish?” he breathed. “My sister is in trouble, and you’re thinking only of yourself!”
“I’m thinking of myself?” Ira laughed, and the laugh was bitter. “Me, who put up with your sister in my home for three weeks? Who washed her dishes, made her breakfasts, cleaned up, kept silent when I wanted to scream? I’m the selfish one?”
“You’ve always been cold,” Lyudmila threw in, dabbing at her tears. “I told Andryusha you’re not a suitable wife. A real woman should be warm, caring, family-oriented. And you… you only think about money.”
“Money?” Ira felt anger boiling up inside. “What money? The money I earned honestly? The inheritance from the aunt I loved and cared for? And what have you earned, Lyuda? What can you be proud of besides your ability to manipulate your brother?”
“She’s going through a divorce!” Andrei raised his voice. “She’s depressed! She needs help!”
“She’s not depressed,” Ira cut him off. “She leads a parasitic lifestyle. She’s used to you solving all her problems. And you let her. You’re ready to sacrifice our marriage so your sister can live at someone else’s expense.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m tired. Tired of being last. Tired of the fact that in our family your sister is the main one, not me. Tired of this exploitation.”
“Exploitation?” Lyudmila squealed. “How dare you! I’m not asking for anything for myself! I just need support!”
“You demand everything for yourself,” Ira said wearily. “Special cottage cheese, special bread, hot water, silence when you need to sleep, and fun when you need entertainment. You live here like a queen, and Andrei and I are your servants. And now you want a whole apartment. Just like that. Because it ‘wouldn’t hurt.’”
“I’m your sister!” Lyudmila shouted, turning to Andrei. “How can you let her talk to me like that?”
Andrei looked at Ira; his eyes were full of incomprehension mixed with anger.
“Ira, if you don’t give Lyuda the apartment, I… I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
Those words sounded like a sentence. Ira looked at her husband and saw a stranger. Had she really spent years with someone ready to issue an ultimatum over his sister’s whims?
“Here’s how it is,” she said slowly. “You’re choosing your sister.”
“I’m not choosing! I just want you to be more humane!”
“More humane?” Ira laughed. “You know, Andrei, I also wanted you to be more humane. To notice my needs. To protect me, not your sister. To see me not as service staff but as your wife. But apparently that’s too much to ask.”
She turned and went to the bedroom. She took a bag from the closet and began to pack. Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to move slowly, methodically. Jeans, T-shirts, documents, a makeup bag.
Andrei burst into the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“You can’t leave!”
“I can. And I am. I will no longer live in this circus.”
“Ira, wait… Let’s talk calmly.”
“About what, Andrei? About how I should hand over my inheritance to your sister? About how I should keep putting up with her whims? About how, in your value system, I’m in last place?”
“That’s not true! I love you!”
“You love the idea of me,” Ira corrected him. “You love the convenient wife who doesn’t cause problems, cooks, cleans, keeps quiet, and fulfills your family’s wishes. But the real me, with my feelings, needs, and right to my own life—you don’t see. And probably never did.”
“You’re exaggerating!”
“No, Andrei. I’m finally starting to see clearly. For years I bent, adjusted, sacrificed. And what did I get in return? A husband who, the moment I inherit something, first thinks not of us, not of our future, but how his sister can make use of it.”
She zipped the bag and looked at her husband. His eyes held confusion, a kind of childish hurt. He didn’t understand. He genuinely didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.
“Where will you go?”
“A hotel. Then to Aunt Vera’s apartment. I’ll live there. Alone. I’ll finally have my own home where no one will use me.”
“So that’s it?” Andrei’s voice quavered. “You’re destroying our family over an apartment?”
“Not over an apartment,” she answered wearily. “Over the fact that in our family I don’t exist. There’s you, your sister, and a convenient empty space that’s supposed to serve you both. That’s not a family, Andrei. That’s exploitation.”
She picked up her bag and left the room. In the living room sat Lyudmila, no longer crying but sullen and spiteful.
“Leaving?” she threw out. “Good. No one’s keeping you here anyway.”
Ira stopped at the doorway and looked at her sister-in-law.
“You know, Lyuda, I wish you’d grow up someday. Learn to take responsibility for your life. Stop being a perpetual victim of circumstances. But I won’t wait for that moment. Because I’m thirty-two, and I want to live my own life, not be a piece of scenery in yours.”
“You’ll regret this!” Lyudmila shouted after her. “Andryusha won’t forgive you!”
Ira closed the door and stepped out onto the landing. The air seemed fresh, almost heady. She took a deep breath and felt a heavy weight fall from her shoulders.
Below, the evening city hummed. Cars, people, shop windows. Ordinary life that goes on regardless of anyone’s drama. Ira hailed a cab and gave the address.
In the car she took out her phone and looked at the screen. Not a single message from Andrei. Not a single call. He hadn’t tried to stop her. He hadn’t run after her, hadn’t begged her to return. Because at that very moment he was most likely comforting his sobbing sister, assuring her she wasn’t to blame, that Ira was simply “strange” and “cold.”
Strangely enough, it didn’t hurt. Inside was emptiness, but not a heavy one. On the contrary—liberating. As if she had finally shed a skin that had long since grown too tight.
In her new apartment, Ira sat on the bed and looked out the window. The city twinkled with lights. Now it was her apartment. Her home. Her life.
And Lyudmila could stay with her brother. Let her keep demanding, crying, manipulating. Only now it would no longer be Ira’s problem.
She took Aunt Vera’s photograph out of her bag. An old black-and-white print where her aunt was smiling—young, beautiful, full of life.
“Thank you,” Ira whispered. “Thank you for giving me freedom. I won’t let you down. I promise.”
And in that moment she knew: for the first time in many years, she had made the right decision. The decision to live for herself, not for someone else’s expectations. It was scary. But it was necessary.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Andrei: “Come back. Please. We’ll talk about everything.”
Ira looked at the screen and tapped “delete.” There was nothing to discuss. She had already made her choice. And that choice was herself.
