That evening, I stayed in the kitchen longer than usual. Sergey was already asleep, but I couldn’t tear myself away from the phone—I was scrolling through the statement of our joint card. Something was wrong here.
“Seventy thousand… Another fifty… And here,” I muttered to myself, taking a sip of cold tea. “What does this mean?”
I grabbed the calculator and added it up—almost half a million in three months. My mouth went dry. No, I always knew Sergey and I had different attitudes toward money, but this…
I was about to go to bed but couldn’t stand it. I went into 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 began cautiously. “Can you explain where our money is going? Such big sums?”
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… Dimka’s situation is complicated now. He’s starting a business, and I’m helping a bit.”
“A bit?” I handed him the phone. “Look for yourself. Do you think this is ‘a bit’?”
“Look,” he tried to hug me around the shoulders, but I pulled away. “It’s temporary. He’ll get on his feet and pay it back. You know my brother…”
Exactly, I do know him. I’ve known him for fifteen years. His endless schemes and promises to pay back everything. One time he gets into cryptocurrency, another time some network marketing company… Then we clean up the debts and pretend nothing happened.
“Alright,” I stood up. “Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Anut,” his voice had pleading tones. “He’s my brother. I can’t abandon him.”
I left the bedroom, closing the door behind me. In the kitchen, I turned off the kettle, which apparently had been boiling the whole time. A stupid thought kept running through my head: “So I’m just allowed?”
The phone in my hand quietly vibrated—a 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, close by.
The next morning, I purposely woke up early. I made Sergey coffee the way he likes it. Prepared breakfast for work. He wandered around the apartment looking somewhat dazed, trying to meet my eyes. And I stayed silent. I knew this was just the beginning. Either we’d deal with it all, 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 trembled—it had a bank logo on the folded sheet.
I slowly sat on the edge of the bed. A loan agreement. For one million two hundred thousand. Signed a month ago.
My ears were ringing. I remember sitting there, crumpling that paper, trying to take a deep breath. In my head was: “It can’t be… He couldn’t… Without me…”
Sergey came home from work as usual—at seven. I heard him take off his shoes in the hallway, jingle his keys. His footsteps down the corridor, so familiar…
“Oh, you’re home already?” He peeked into the bedroom. “I thought…”
And stopped. I was still sitting on the edge of the bed. The ill-fated agreement lay next to me.
“What’s this?” His voice was strange, dry. “Explain this to me.”
Sergey leaned against the doorframe. Silent. Only his jaw moved.
“I’m asking—what is this loan?” I stood up. “Why am I finding out about this… like this?”
“Anut…”
“Don’t call me that!” I didn’t expect to yell. “A million! You took a million and didn’t tell me! This is our family, our shared money! How could you?”
“What else could I do?” He suddenly raised his voice too. “You wouldn’t understand! Dimka urgently needed money, the situation is…”
“What situation?” I crumpled the agreement. “His ‘brilliant’ business again? Or sports betting? Or another financial pyramid scheme?”
Sergey was silent. I saw his jaw muscles twitch and his fingers tremble.
“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” I stepped closer. “We were saving for renovations. For a vacation. Mashka is going to university next year! And you…”
“I planned everything!” He almost shouted. “Dimka 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 kopeck?”
Silence filled the room. I could hear water dripping from the kitchen faucet. Tick-tick-tick. Like a clock counting down our family life.
“Do 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 eye and lied.”
Sergey flinched as if hit:
“I didn’t lie! I just… didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, really?” I raised the agreement. “And this? ‘Didn’t say’? You deliberately 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 could you say? The truth is like that—uncomfortable, prickly. You can’t cover it up with pretty words.
“And how many more?” I looked him in the eyes. “How many more ‘don’ts’ do you have for me? Maybe there are more loans? Debts? Tell me now that you’ve started.”
Sergey sank into a chair, holding his head in his hands:
“Sorry… I just wanted to help. He’s my brother…”
“And what about me?” My voice cracked. “Who am I to you, Sergey?”
At that moment, his phone rang. “Dimon” appeared on the screen. Sergey twitched to answer, but I was quicker:
“Hello, Dima? Hello, dear relative. How’s business? Thriving? When are you going to pay back your debts?”
Silence on the line. Then hurried beeps.
“That’s the whole conversation,” I threw the phone on the bed. “That’s all your brotherly love.”
I left the room. Slammed the front door. Threw on a jacket right over my home T-shirt and went outside. I needed to clear my head. I needed to decide how to live from now on.
And in my head kept spinning: “I just wanted to help… He’s my brother…” And me? Our family? Are we strangers?
I lived at my mom’s for three days. The phone was blowing up with calls—Sergey, mother-in-law, even Dimka showed up. I didn’t answer. I wanted silence, wanted to understand what to do next.
“Daughter,” 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, everything still hurt too much, was too raw.
Then my mother-in-law called. I answered automatically, not looking at the screen.
“So what have you done?” Her voice dripped with venom. “Such a scandal over some money! Your husband is helping his own brother, and you…”
“Some money?” I clenched the phone until my knuckles went white. “Lyudmila Petrovna, do you even know how much your youngest has taken from us? Two and a half million! With loans included! That’s ‘some money’?”
“What did you expect?” She snorted. “Family should help each other! Back in our day…”
“No,” I cut her off. “Not anymore. Enough. Tell Dima to return the money. All of it. Down to the last kopeck.”
“How dare you!” She shouted. “We pulled you out of your village, and you…”
I hung up. My hands shook. My temples throbbed.
That evening Sergey came over. Thinner, haggard. He stood in the hallway, crumpling a bag in his hands.
“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.
We sat in the kitchen. Between us, cooling cups of tea. For fifteen years at this table, we’d eaten breakfast and dinner, made plans…
“I understand now,” he looked into his cup. “You’re right. We have to stop all this…”
“Really?” I smiled bitterly. “Does your mother know about your decision?”
“What does mom have to do with it?” He grimaced. “I decide myself.”
“Oh? Then who called me yesterday? Who said I’m ungrateful? That I have to understand that family is sacred?”
He was silent. And suddenly I realized—this is it. The time for the last conversation. The time for 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 not joking.”
“You… what?” He paled. “Anya, have you lost your mind? Over money…”
“Not over money!” I slammed my palm on the table. “Over lies! Over the fact that you let them pull you around! Over the fact that some fantasies of your brother are more important than our future!”
The phone on the table came to life. “Dimon.” Again.
“Well?” I nodded at the screen. “Go ahead, answer. Tell him your sister is angry and forbids you to help your brother. Tell him that I…”
“No,” he took the phone and pressed “decline.” “No more.”
I stopped mid-sentence. He repeated softly:
“No more, Anya. I really understand now. Dima… he’ll never change. And I could lose you. And I don’t want that.”
At that moment, the phone exploded with message notifications. One after another, from his whole family. I saw the lines run: “How can you!”, “Brother is in trouble!”, “You’re a traitor!”…
Sergey paled even more. But decisively turned off the phone.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I really believed I was helping him. That soon, just a little more, and he’d succeed… But it was only me succeeding. A hole in my pocket, right?”
I silently nodded. A lump stuck in my throat.
“Forgive me,” he reached across the table and gently touched my fingers. “I’ll fix everything. Honestly.”
I looked at his hand. Familiar, beloved fingers down to the last detail. Fifteen years… Can I forgive? Can I forget?
“We’ll see,” I said quietly. “We’ll see.”
I watched Sergey those days. He grew thin, 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 especially long, hunched, staring into the darkness. I came out and threw a blanket over his shoulders:
“You’ll catch a cold.”
“Dima called today,” he said without turning. “Asked for a loan. Said it’s urgent, he’s in trouble.”
I froze. My heart skipped a beat.
“And what did you do?”
“I said no,” he stubbed out the cigarette. “For the first time in my life, I said no to my brother.”
I was silent. I knew he needed to vent.
“Do you know what he said? ‘Okay, 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 cautiously hugged him by the shoulders:
“Sergey…”
“Twenty years,” he seemed not to hear me. “Twenty years I was an ATM for him. 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, mumbling. Then he returned with a worn box:
“Look.”
In the box were papers. IOUs, loan agreements, some letters… Twenty years of helping “brother.”
“I kept it all,” Sergey shuffled the sheets with trembling fingers. “I thought—he’ll pay back, I’ll get my money… 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, squeezing them in his hands:
“Family… And when I was in the hospital three years ago? Who came? No one! Only you were there. And when I got a promotion? Who was happy? Only you…”
I took the papers from him and smoothed them out:
“Shh… calm down.”
“Mom called,” he smiled crookedly. “Do you know what she said? ‘Dima was always weak; you’re the oldest, you have to help.’ And the fact that our daughter is going to university—that’s not important. That you work two jobs to pay off the loan—that’s not important either…”
He sank onto the couch, holding his head in his hands:
“How stupid I was, Anya… How stupid…”
At that moment the phone rang. A message from Dima: “Bro, what’s wrong? Offended? Let’s meet, talk. There’s a topic—we can make a million in a month!”
Sergey looked at the screen, then at me:
“You know what’s the worst? I would have believed it 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 buzzed at night. Somewhere far off a car honked. And we just sat holding hands and silent.
I felt the tension slowly leave his shoulders, his breathing even out. Like the burden he’d been carrying all these years finally fell from his back.
“You know,” he suddenly said, “I really thought this was how it should be. That I’m obligated… But now I realize—I owe nothing to anyone. Except us. Except our family.”
I silently nodded. What can you say? Sometimes the most important lessons come through pain. Through disappointment. Through loss.
The phone didn’t ring anymore. Neither that night nor the next day. Dima found a new “ATM.” And we… we began to live again. Without guilt. Without endless debts. Without the sticky fear of tomorrow.
Three months passed. Sergey and I sat in the kitchen, sorting receipts and planning the budget—our new family Sunday tradition.
“So, we made an early payment on the loan,” I checked off in my notebook. “Looks like we’ll pay it off in a year…”
“Remember how I freaked out when you suggested writing everything down?” Sergey smiled, pouring me tea. “It seemed like a fuss, no need to keep such tight 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 we look for our own place? Mashka will finish school next year, move to a dorm… And we could slowly save for a down payment…”
I froze with the pen in my hand. Before, every conversation about saving ended with: “Brother needs it more.” But now…
“You think we can manage?”
“I already calculated,” he took out his phone and opened the calculator. “Look: if we give up the gym membership, switch to a cheaper phone plan…”
At that moment, his phone chimed. A message from Mom: “Son, Dima’s in real trouble. Maybe meet and talk?”
Sergey silently showed me the screen. Then just as silently deleted the message.
“Do you know what’s the most surprising?” He said, returning to his calculations. “I don’t feel guilty anymore. At all. Like… like I’m healed.”
I looked at his calm face, his confident movements, and thought—this is real happiness. Not in big money, not in expensive things. But in this—in shared plans, common goals, the ability to hear each other.
“Listen,” he suddenly brightened, “how about we go to the sea for May holidays? Not as usual—to your mom’s village… But really to the sea! I calculated—if…”
And he got back to his calculations, and I watched him and smiled. Before me sat a different man. Not the overwhelmed 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 sources of money, mom was sending accusatory messages, and we… we were learning to live anew. Making plans. Dreaming.
“Anya,” Sergey suddenly looked 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—the very smile I fell in love with twenty years ago:
“The beginning… Exactly. The rightest word.”
Outside, the spring sun was shining. On the windowsill bloomed a flower I bought a week ago—the first time in a long while I spent money just for the soul. In the next room, Mashka was preparing for exams, sometimes humming softly 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.
