At my wedding, my distant aunt Lyusya was trying to quietly sweep sliced sturgeon and nearly two kilos of candy off the table into her bottomless handbag. My brand-new husband, Gleb, did not make a scene. He simply walked up to her, gallantly held out a plastic grocery bag from Pyaterochka, and said loud enough for the whole hall to hear, “Lyudmila Ivanovna, are you planning to pour the wine into your pockets too, or should I bring you a jar?”
The room went silent. My aunt turned red like an overripe tomato ready to burst from self-importance, and in that moment I realized that behind this man’s back I could hide not only my fears, but my entire shameless extended family.
Before I met Gleb, I was the classic over-accommodating nice girl with straight-A-student syndrome. My “no” sounded so faint that people heard it as “maybe,” and “maybe” somehow became “of course, take everything, I don’t mind.” My relatives took full advantage of that. My cousin lived in my tiny one-room apartment for half a year because she was “going through a creative crisis,” and Uncle Valera regularly borrowed “just until payday” sums large enough to buy a used airplane, then naturally forgot to repay them.
To them, I was like free Wi-Fi without a password: anyone could connect and drain the resources until the signal died.
Gleb was different. He was like a concrete breakwater that waves crash against without the slightest chance of getting through. He set boundaries fast, like border posts strung with barbed wire.
My relatives went quiet. Like a pack of rats catching the scent of a cat, they disappeared underground and waited for the right moment.
And a year later, that moment came.
We bought a new apartment, finished the renovation, and Gleb got promoted. My relatives sprang into action immediately. First came the phone calls asking how we were doing. Then came the little favors. Then the storm hit.
My nephew Pashka appeared on our doorstep. He was Aunt Lyusya’s son. Twenty-two years old, with ambitions on the scale of Elon Musk’s empire and brains on the scale of a wobbly stool.
“Lenchik, hi!” Pashka barged into the entryway without taking off his shoes. “Listen, this is a million-dollar opportunity. Literally.”
Gleb came out of his office. His face wore the polite interest of a bank employee listening to someone say, “That debt is just a system error. I’m an honest man.”
“Go on,” my husband said shortly.
Pashka hesitated, but nerve is often called a second happiness, and in his case it was both the first and the only one.
“So here’s the deal. I’m starting a business. Reselling high-end sneakers from China. The profit margins are insane. But I need startup money. Banks won’t lend to me because, well… my credit history is a little dented. Lena, could you take out a loan in your name? Just a million. I’ll make the payments, I swear.”
I sighed. It was as predictable as rain in November.
“Pash,” I began gently, “what kind of business plan do you have? Have you studied the market? Logistics? Customs?”
Pashka snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Oh, Lena, you’re being exhausting again. What plan? Everything’s already lined up. You just have to jump into the flow. What, you don’t trust your own blood?”
“Blood is a liquid that carries oxygen, Pasha,” I said calmly, “not a guarantee of financial responsibility. And the ‘tooth’ you’re offering as collateral wouldn’t be accepted at a pawn shop.”
Pashka puffed up.
“What, you think you’re some big shot now? Got arrogant? Rich people, damn. Is it really so hard for you? I’ll pay it back!”
“The same way you paid back those thirty thousand you borrowed for a laptop repair and then drank away?” Gleb asked. His voice was even, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees.
Pashka flushed dark red.
“That was ages ago and it’s not even true! Anyway, Lena, my mother said you’d help. We’re expecting you at family dinner tomorrow, and we’ll discuss everything there. Refusal is not an option.”
He slammed the door and left.
“Well,” Gleb said with a smirk, wrapping an arm around me, “shall we go into the dragon’s lair? Or rather, the meerkat burrow?”
“We have to,” I sighed. “Otherwise they’ll drive us insane with calls.”
Aunt Lyusya’s apartment greeted us with the smell of fried smelt and mothballs. In the cramped kitchen sat the “inner circle”: Aunt Lyusya herself, her husband Uncle Vitya, a permanently chewing silent creature, and Pashka, positively glowing.
But that was not what caught my attention.
In the corner, on a filthy blanket, lay a cat. Old orange Persik, whom I remembered as a lively kitten. Now he looked awful. His fur was matted into clumps, his ribs stuck out like a washboard, and his eyes were streaming.
“Shoo, you parasite!” Aunt Lyusya kicked the cat with her slipper when he tried to approach the water bowl. “All he does is beg for food and make a mess. He should just die already. Nothing but expense.”
Something inside me clenched.
“Aunt Lyusya, he’s sick,” I said quietly. “He needs a vet.”
“Oh sure, right now,” she snorted, heaping salad onto her plate. “As if I have nothing better to do than spend money on that flea-ridden beast. Pashka needs money for his business, and you’re talking about a cat. Sit down. We need to talk.”
Gleb silently pulled out a chair for me, seated me, and sat beside me. He did not touch the food. He only crossed his arms over his chest.
“So, Lenochka,” Aunt Lyusya began in a syrupy tone that made my teeth ache, “we talked it over. Pashenka needs help. He’s a smart boy, promising. You’ll take out the loan. We’ve calculated everything. The payment is tiny, peanuts for people like you.”
“Lyudmila Ivanovna,” Gleb interrupted politely but firmly, “why can’t Pasha earn the money himself? He has arms, he has legs. His head is questionable, yes, but for unloading railcars that’s not critical.”
Pashka jumped to his feet.
“Who are you calling stupid? I’m an entrepreneur! I’ve got the instinct for it!”
“You’ve only got one instinct, Pasha,” I shot back, feeling my anger rise like a wave. “The instinct for sitting on your parents’ necks. You’ve never held a job for more than a month.”
“How dare you talk to him like that?” Aunt Lyusya shrieked. “We’re family! We’re supposed to help each other! And you, ungrateful thing, are hiding behind your husband and yapping!”
“I’m not yapping, Aunt Lyusya,” I said with a smile that came out predatory. “I’m stating facts. Helping is when someone cannot afford bread because they’re sick. Financing the whims of an oversized freeloader isn’t help. It’s being an accomplice to stupidity.”
Aunt Lyusya drew in a breath, ready to explode into curses, but Gleb raised his hand.
“All right,” he said. “We agree.”
I stared at him in surprise. Pashka broke into a grin like a crack spreading through asphalt.
“My man!” he barked. “I knew we’d work it out!”
“But there are conditions,” Gleb continued, pulling a notebook from his pocket. “Lena will take out the loan. But business is risky, so we need guarantees. We will sign a notarized loan agreement between Lena and Pavel. And as collateral, you, Lyudmila Ivanovna, will transfer your dacha into Lena’s name. As soon as Pasha pays off the bank loan in full, the property goes back to you.”
The smile slid off Pashka’s face like cheap paint in the rain. Aunt Lyusya froze with her fork halfway to her mouth.
“What do you mean… the dacha?” she croaked. “That’s the family nest!”
“But surely you believe in your son’s success?” Gleb said, putting on a look of sincere surprise. “You said yourself everything was set, that you’d stake your tooth on it. Or do you suddenly not trust your own blood? It’s only a formality. If Pasha makes the payments, the dacha stays yours. And if he doesn’t… well, sorry, but we’d need to cover the losses.”
“You… you’ve lost your minds!” Aunt Lyusya shrieked. “You want to throw me out into the street? Swindlers! Misers!”
“So risking Lena’s money is acceptable, but risking your vegetable patch and zucchini is too much?” I asked. “That’s very interesting arithmetic, Aunt Lyusya. Completely one-sided. Like a game with only one goalpost.”
“Go to hell!” Pashka threw his napkin onto the table. “Choke on your money! I’ll borrow from my friends!”
“The ones you’ve owed money for a game console for three years?” Gleb asked coolly. “Or the ones looking for you in the neighborhood because of the wrecked Lada? I checked, Pasha. Banks aren’t refusing you because of a damaged history. It’s because you already have three microloans hanging over you and two enforcement cases.”
Pashka went pale. Aunt Lyusya grabbed at her chest.
“Out!” she hissed. “Get out of here! I don’t want to see your feet in this house again! I’ll curse you!”
We stood up. Gleb calmly adjusted his jacket. I looked at Persik. The cat lay there with his eyes closed, breathing heavily.
“We’re leaving,” I said firmly. “But we’re taking the cat.”
“The what?” my aunt blinked. “That dying wreck? Take him! Throw him in the trash for all I care. Less stink for me.”
I walked over to the corner, took off my expensive scarf, and carefully wrapped the filthy, misfortune-scented cat in it. He gave a weak meow and pressed his nearly weightless little body against me.
“Look at that,” my aunt threw after us maliciously. “You’ll ruin your scarf. Rich and stupid.”
“Better to stain a scarf than a soul,” I answered, looking straight into her eyes. “A soul, Aunt Lyusya, cannot be sent to the dry cleaner.”
We stepped out of the building. Fresh air hit my face, washing away the smell of staleness and greed. Gleb opened the car door and helped me in with my precious bundle.
“How are you?” he asked as he pulled out of the courtyard.
I looked at my husband, then at the cat, now quiet in my lap, feeling warmth at last, and I smiled.
A month passed.
Pashka’s “business” never got off the ground. Debt collectors caught up with him, and now he works as a warehouse loader to pay back what he owes. Aunt Lyusya called a few times, trying to play on pity, but her number is on the blacklist now. I hear she tells all the neighbors that we robbed her, but the neighbors know her better than she realizes.
And Persik… Persik turned out not to be Persik at all. The vet said he was actually a purebred Singapura cat, just starved almost to death. We renamed him Count. Now he weighs three kilos, his coat shines like silk, and his gaze has become calm, regal, and assured.
Count adores Gleb. When my husband works at the computer, the cat lies beside him on the desk like a fluffy paperweight.
Last night I watched the two of them and thought how strange and wonderful life can be: sometimes it sends us trials in the form of relatives, and only against the backdrop of their pettiness do we truly learn to value the people beside us.
Remember this, girls: kindness without teeth is not a virtue. It is food for predators. Learn to say “no” loudly and clearly. And when people start calling you cruel, selfish, or heartless the moment you stop letting them wipe their feet on you, that usually means you are finally doing something right.
And yes, it is far better to feed one cat than an entire litter of shameless relatives. At least the cat will purr his thanks. The others will only ask for seconds.
