That evening I stayed in the kitchen longer than usual. Sergey was already asleep, but I couldn’t tear myself away from my phone — scrolling through the statement from our joint card. Something was wrong.
“Seventy thousand… Another fifty… And here,” I muttered under my breath, taking a sip of cold tea. “What does this mean?”
I grabbed a calculator and totaled it up — almost half a million in three months. My mouth went dry. I always knew Sergey and I had different attitudes toward money, but this…
I was about to go to bed but couldn’t hold back. I went to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed:
“Sergey, are you asleep?”
“Mm?” He lifted his head from the pillow. “What’s wrong?”
“Listen, I’m looking at our card…” I started cautiously. “Can you explain where all our money is going? In such amounts?”
Sergey immediately straightened up and sat on the bed. In the dark, I could see him rubbing his face — a habit from his university days when he didn’t want to tell the truth.
“Anya, you know… Dima’s situation is tough right now. He’s starting a business, I’m helping a bit.”
“A bit?” I handed him the phone. “Look for yourself. Do you think this is ‘a bit’?”
“Listen,” he tried to put his arm around me, but I pulled away. “It’s all temporary. He’ll get back on his feet and pay it back. You know my brother…”
Exactly. I’ve known him for fifteen years. His endless schemes, promises to pay it back. One time he gets into cryptocurrency, another time he starts some MLM company… And then we clean up the debts and pretend nothing happened.
“Alright,” I got up. “Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Anya, don’t be mad,” his voice took on a pleading tone. “He’s my brother. I can’t just abandon him.”
I left the bedroom and closed the door behind me. In the kitchen, I turned off the kettle that had been boiling all this time. A silly thought kept spinning in my head: “So I’m the one who can be thrown under the bus?”
The phone in my hand quietly vibrated — another notification from the card. Another transfer. I didn’t even look; I just turned off the phone. It felt like some black cat had sneaked into the house and was lurking in the corners. You can’t see it, but you know it’s there, nearby.
In the morning, I woke up early on purpose. Made Sergey coffee the way he likes it. Packed breakfast for work. He wandered around the apartment looking dazed, trying to catch my eyes. And I stayed silent. I knew this was just the beginning. Either we sort this out, or… I didn’t want to think about the “or.”
A week later, I was gathering laundry when I felt a piece of paper in Sergey’s jacket pocket. I wanted to throw it away, but my hand hesitated — the folded sheet bore a bank logo.
I slowly sat down on the bed’s edge. A loan agreement. For one million two hundred thousand rubles. Signed a month ago.
My ears buzzed. I remember sitting there, crumpling the paper, trying to take a deep breath. Thoughts racing: “It can’t be… He couldn’t… Without me knowing…”
Sergey came home from work as usual — at seven. I heard him taking off his shoes in the hallway, jangling keys. His familiar footsteps in the corridor…
“Oh, you’re home?” He peeked into the bedroom. “I thought…”
And stopped short. I was still sitting there, on the edge of the bed. The ill-fated agreement lying beside me.
“What’s this?” His voice was strange, dry. “Explain this to me.”
Sergey leaned against the doorframe. Silent. Only his jaw muscles twitched.
“I’m asking — what’s this loan about?” I stood up. “Why am I finding out about this… like this?”
“Anya…”
“Don’t call me that!” I didn’t expect to snap, but I did. “A million! You took a million and didn’t tell me! This is our family, our shared money! How could you?”
“What was I supposed to do?” He suddenly raised his voice too. “You wouldn’t understand! Dima urgently needed money, the situation was…”
“What situation?” I crumpled the agreement. “Another one of his ‘brilliant businesses’? Or sports betting? Or another financial pyramid scheme?”
Sergey was silent. I saw his jaw muscles twitch, fingers tremble.
“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” I stepped closer. “We were saving for renovations. For a vacation. Mashka’s going to college next year! And you…”
“I thought it through!” He almost shouted. “Dima promised to pay back in three months! With interest!”
I laughed hysterically:
“Promised? Sergey, wake up! When has he ever kept his word? When has he ever paid back a single kopek?”
Silence filled the room. I could hear water dripping from the kitchen faucet. Tick-tick-tick. Like a clock counting down the time of our family life.
“You know what’s the worst?” I spoke very quietly now. “Not the loan. Not the money. But that you lied to me. Every day, every minute… Looked me in the eyes and lied.”
Sergey flinched as if hit:
“I didn’t lie! I just… didn’t tell you.”
“Really?” I held up the agreement. “And this? ‘Didn’t tell’? You waited until I went to my mom’s for three days! You deliberately arranged everything so I wouldn’t find out!”
He was silent. What can you say? The truth is harsh, prickly. You can’t cover it up with pretty words.
“And how many more?” I looked him in the eyes. “How many more loans did you ‘not tell’ me about? Maybe there are more debts? Tell me since you started.”
Sergey sank onto a chair, holding his head in his hands:
“Sorry… I just wanted to help. He’s my brother…”
“And what about me?” My voice broke. “Who am I to you, Sergey?”
At that moment his phone rang. The screen showed “Dimon.” Sergey reached for it, but I was faster:
“Hello, Dima? Hello, dear relative. How’s business? Thriving? When are you going to pay your debts?”
Silence on the line. Then hurried beeps.
“That’s the whole conversation,” I threw the phone on the bed. “That’s your brotherly love.”
I left the room, slammed the front door. Threw a jacket on over my T-shirt and went outside. I needed fresh air. I needed to decide how to live next.
And in my head spun and spun: “I just wanted to help… He’s my brother…” And me? Our family? Are we strangers now?
I stayed at my mom’s for three days. The phone exploded with calls — Sergey, mother-in-law, even Dima showed up. I didn’t pick up. I wanted silence, to understand what to do next.
“Daughter,” my mom sat beside me on the couch, “maybe you should talk to him? He’s not a boy anymore, he’ll understand…”
I shook my head. I knew — it was too soon. Inside still too much pain, too much sting.
Then the mother-in-law called. I answered automatically without looking at the screen.
“What have you done?” Her voice dripped venom. “Such a scandal over some money! Your husband is helping his own brother, and you…”
“Some money?” I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. “Lyudmila Petrovna, do you even know how much your youngest son has already taken from us? Two and a half million! Including loans! That’s ‘some money’?”
“And what did you think?” She snorted. “Family should help each other! Back in our day…”
“No,” I interrupted. “No more. Enough. Tell Dima to pay back the money. All of it. Down to the last kopek.”
“How dare you!” She yelled. “We pulled you out of your village, and you…”
I hung up. My hands shook. My temples throbbed.
That evening Sergey came over. Thinner, gaunt. Standing in the hallway, twisting some bag in his hands.
“Can we talk?” He asked quietly.
We sat in the kitchen. Between us, cooling cups of tea. Fifteen years of breakfasts and dinners at this table, making plans…
“I get it,” he looked into his cup. “You’re right. This has to stop… all of it.”
“Really?” I smiled bitterly. “Does your mother know about your decision?”
“What does mom have to do with it?” He grimaced. “I decide for myself.”
“Yeah? Then who called me yesterday? Who said I’m ungrateful? That I have to understand family is sacred?”
He was silent. Suddenly I realized — this is it. The time for the last conversation. The last chance.
“Choose, Sergey,” I looked him in the eyes. “Either your brother stops being a black hole for our money, or I file for divorce. And yes, I’m serious.”
“You… what?” He paled. “Anya, are you crazy? Because of money…”
“Not money!” I slammed my hand on the table. “Because of lies! Because you let them rope you in! Because your brother’s fantasies are more important to you than our future!”
The phone on the table lit up. “Dimon.” Again.
“Well?” I nodded at the screen. “Go ahead, answer. Tell him his sister is evil and forbids him from helping his brother. Tell him that I…”
“No,” he took the phone and pressed “hang up.” “No more.”
I stopped mid-sentence. He repeated quietly:
“No more, Anya. I really get it now. Dima… he’ll never change. But I could lose you. And I don’t want that.”
At that moment the phone exploded with message notifications. One after another, from his entire family. I saw the lines run: “How could you!”, “Brother’s in trouble!”, “You’re a traitor!”…
Sergey turned even paler. Then decisively turned off the phone.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I really thought I was helping him. That soon, just a bit more, and he’d make it… But it was only me who succeeded. There’s a hole in my pocket, right?”
I nodded silently. A lump stuck in my throat.
“Forgive me,” he reached across the table, gently touched my fingers. “I’ll fix everything. Honestly.”
I looked at his hand. Those familiar fingers, known down to the last detail. Fifteen years… Can you forgive? Can you forget?
“We’ll see,” I said quietly. “We’ll see.”
I watched Sergey those days. He looked gaunt, dark circles under his eyes. Often went out to smoke on the balcony at night — a bad habit he seemed to have quit a year ago.
That evening he stood there longer than usual, hunched over, staring into the dark. I went out and draped a blanket over his shoulders:
“You’ll catch a cold.”
“Dima called today,” he said without turning around. “Asked for a loan. Said it’s urgent.”
I froze. My heart skipped a beat.
“And what did you do?”
“I said no,” he stubbed out his cigarette. “First time in my life I said no to my brother.”
I was silent. I knew he needed to vent.
“You know what he said? ‘Alright, I’ll go to Aunt Valya, she always helps.’ Just like that. Didn’t even ask how I was. Didn’t wonder why I refused…”
His voice trembled. I gently hugged his shoulders:
“Sergey…”
“Twenty years,” he seemed not to hear me. “Twenty years I was his ATM. Not a brother — an ATM. And I kept hoping… Believing…”
He abruptly turned and went into the room. I heard him rummaging in the closet, muttering to himself. Then he came back with a worn-out box:
“Look.”
In the box were papers. IOUs, loan agreements, some letters… Twenty years of helping “brother.”
“I kept it all,” Sergey sifted through the sheets with trembling fingers. “I thought — when he pays back, I’ll get it back… But he doesn’t even remember how much he owes. I asked today — he laughed. Said, ‘Bro, what are you talking about? We’re family!’”
He suddenly crumpled the papers in his hands:
“Family… And when I was in the hospital three years ago? Who came? No one! You were the only one there. And when I got a promotion? Who was happy? Only you…”
I took the papers, smoothed them out:
“Shh… Calm down.”
“Mom called,” he gave a crooked smile. “You know what she said? ‘Dima’s always been weak; you’re the older one, you have to help.’ And that our daughter is going to college — doesn’t matter. That you work two jobs to pay off the loan — doesn’t matter…”
He sank onto the couch, holding his head:
“What a fool I was, Anya… What a fool…”
At that moment the phone chimed. A message from Dima: “Bro, what’s wrong? You mad? Let’s meet, talk. There’s a way to make a million in a month!”
Sergey looked at the screen, then at me:
“You know what’s the scariest? I would’ve believed that before. Rushed to save, to help… But now I look at this message and… feel nothing. Nothing at all.”
He slowly typed a reply: “Sorry, bro. I can’t help anymore. Never.” And hit “send.”
We sat in silence. Outside, the city hummed at night. Somewhere far off a car honked. And we just sat, holding hands, silent.
I felt the tension leaving his shoulders, his breathing even out. Like the burden he carried all those years finally dropped from his back.
“You know,” he said suddenly, “I really thought it was supposed to be this way. That I was obligated… But now I see — I owe no one anything. Except us. Except our family.”
I nodded silently. What can you say? Sometimes the most important lessons come through pain. Through disappointment. Through loss.
The phone didn’t ring anymore. Not that night, not the next day. Dima looked for a new “ATM.” And we… we began living anew. Without guilt. Without endless debts. Without sticky fear of tomorrow.
Three months passed. Sergey and I sat in the kitchen, sorting receipts and planning the budget — our new Sunday family tradition.
“So, we made an early payment on the loan,” I jotted down. “Looks like we’ll pay it off in a year…”
“Remember how I freaked when you suggested tracking everything?” Sergey smiled, pouring me tea. “Seemed like a fuss, no need for such control…”
I shook my head:
“Yeah, and now you count every penny yourself. A real accountant!”
“You know,” he put down his cup, “I was thinking… Maybe it’s time to look for our own place? Mashka finishes school next year, moves to dorm… And we could slowly save for a down payment…”
I froze with pen in hand. Before, every savings talk hit the wall of “brother needs it more.” But now…
“You think we can manage?”
“I already calculated,” he pulled out his phone and opened the calculator. “Look: if we cancel the gym membership, switch to a cheaper phone plan…”
His phone dinged. A message from Mom: “Son, Dima’s in big trouble. Maybe meet and talk?”
Sergey silently showed me the screen. Then just as silently deleted the message.
“You know what’s the most surprising?” He returned to calculations. “I don’t feel guilty anymore. At all. Like… healed.”
I looked at his calm face, confident hands, and thought — this is real happiness. Not in big money, not in expensive things. But in this — shared plans, common goals, the ability to hear each other.
“Hey,” he suddenly perked up, “how about a trip to the sea for May holidays? Not as usual — to your mom’s village… But really to the sea! I figured — if…”
And he dove back into calculations while I watched him and smiled. Before me sat a different man. Not the worn-down husband burdened by endless obligations, not the guilty “older brother,” but a confident man who finally learned to distinguish real family from manipulation.
The phone on the table was silent. Somewhere out there, in another life, his brother was looking for new money sources, his mother sending accusing messages, and we… we were learning to live differently. Making plans. Dreaming.
“Anya,” Sergey suddenly looked up at me, “thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not giving up back then. For opening my eyes. For just… being there.”
I reached across the table and squeezed his hand:
“You know, this is only the beginning. We have so much ahead!”
He smiled — that very smile I fell in love with twenty years ago:
“The beginning… Exactly. The right word.”
Outside, the spring sun was shining. On the windowsill, a flower I bought a week ago was blooming — the first time in a long time I spent money just for myself, for the soul. In the next room, Mashka was preparing for exams, occasionally humming to herself.
A simple Sunday morning. An ordinary spring day. But for us, it was more than just morning. It was a new start. A new life. And it was worth it.
