Marina was standing by the window when the phone rang. Her mother’s number.
“Marin, about your father’s anniversary. You remember, right?”
Her voice was tense.
“The twenty-fifth. I remember.”
“There will be important people there. Partners, investors. You know what I mean?”
Marina stayed silent.
“Don’t come. Why make things awkward? You’re always buried in your own stuff—you’ll be bored anyway. Alice has put so much into this; we don’t want to ruin her celebration. You’re smart, you understand.”
A pause.
“Got it?”
“Got it.”
Marina hung up. Stared at the screen.
Her business center brought in more money than her father’s entire family business. But to them she was still “poor little Marina the failure.”
The phone came alive again. Forty minutes had passed.
“Marin! Oh God, where are you?!”
Her mother’s voice was ragged, hysterical. Shouting in the background.
“What happened?”
“It all collapsed! The event agency went bankrupt, the venue burned down, the money’s gone! The anniversary is in three days! The guests confirmed, your father is furious, Alice is crying!”
Marina listened in silence.
“You have a place, don’t you? Big, beautiful? Marin, forgive me—I didn’t mean what I said! I just panicked. We’re family. You won’t abandon your dad at a moment like this, will you?”
Something cold and sharp inside her clicked neatly into place.
“Come tomorrow at ten.”
Her mother sniffled with grateful relief. Marina ended the call. Opened her contacts: catering, decorators, equipment. Worked until three in the morning.
The family arrived the next day—three of them. Her father: tall, gray-haired, in an expensive coat. A stone face. Her mother scurried behind him. Alice wore sunglasses.
Marina showed them the hall on the second floor: high ceilings, panoramic windows, parquet floors.
“How many people?”
“Fifty-two,” her mother answered. “Marin, you saved us. Right, Yura?”
Her father nodded without looking at Marina. He studied the walls, checked the outlets.
“It’ll do. Alice, the photo zone goes here.”
“If you need contractors, I can give you contacts,” Marina said.
“No,” Alice cut in. “I’ll handle it.”
For two days Marina organized someone else’s celebration. Menu, sound, lighting, tables. Alice showed up rarely—tossed out instructions and disappeared. Her mother called every two hours: “Will there be flowers? The cake?”
Marina worked without a word.
The evening before, her father came into the hall. He walked along the tables.
“Not bad. Honestly, I didn’t expect you were capable of anything decent.”
Marina turned.
“This is my job.”
“Job,” he scoffed. “Your whole life is work. And what’s the result? Alice actually gives people joy—creates holidays. And you? You rent boxes to offices.”
Marina pressed her lips together.
“Alright, don’t sulk. I’m telling the truth. But you bailed us out, that’s true. Family, after all.”
He left. Marina stayed alone among the set tables. She took out her phone, opened the calculator, and started adding it up: rent, staff, catering, décor, equipment.
The anniversary started at six. Guests arrived one after another: suits, dresses, loud voices. Marina stood by the entrance. People walked past her without greeting.
Her father beamed. Hugged friends, laughed, slapped backs. Her mother fluttered between tables. Alice accepted compliments by the photo zone.
“Alice, it’s incredible! You’re a magician!”
“Thank you—I tried so hard for Dad.”
Marina heard every word. Waiters carried dishes, musicians played. Everything ran flawlessly. She had built it from start to finish. But to the room, she didn’t exist.
At eight, her father took the microphone.
“Friends! Thank you for coming! Thanks to my wife for her patience.”
Laughter, applause.
“And special thanks to my daughter Alice! She created this evening—thought through every detail. Alice, come up!”
Alice stepped forward. Her father hugged her and turned her to the crowd.
“That’s my smart girl! Look at this celebration!”
The guests applauded. Marina stood by the wall. There was no pain inside—only cold clarity.
She waited until her father finished his speech. Then she approached the stage, picked up the spare microphone, and turned it on.
“Dad, congratulations.”
The room turned. Her father frowned.
“I’ll send the invoice tomorrow. Venue rental, service staff, décor, equipment. Payment due by the end of the week.”
Silence. Someone choked. A woman at the nearest table stared wide-eyed.
“Marina!” her mother sprang up. “What are you doing?!”
“I’m issuing an invoice for services.”
“We’re family! How dare you?!”
Marina looked at her mother. Then at her father, who had gone pale. Then at Alice, still holding her microphone.
“Family are the people you invite to the celebration. Here, I’m a contractor.”
She switched off the mic, set it on the table, turned, and walked toward the exit. Her heels clicked on the parquet. The guests were silent.
“Who even was that?” someone whispered.
Marina left. Went down the stairs. Got into her car. She looked up at the glowing windows—music still played inside.
She started the engine and drove away.
The week passed quietly. Work, meetings, contracts. Her phone stayed silent.
On Friday, a message came from her mother: “You killed your father. He can’t show his face after the shame you caused. I hope you can sleep peacefully.”
Marina read it and blocked the number.
Saturday evening, an unknown number called.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
Alice. Her voice was dry.
“I’m listening.”
“Dad isn’t going to pay. He says you asked for it yourself.”
Marina didn’t answer.
“Mom is telling everyone what you’re like. Dad lost a contract—partners refused to work with him. They said they don’t want business with a man who can’t come to an agreement with his own daughter.”
A pause.
“Did you do it on purpose?”
“No. I just stopped working for free.”
Silence in the receiver.
“You know… I envied you. Always. You could leave. You were strong. And I stayed convenient.”
Beep. Alice hung up.
Marina set the phone down. Looked out the window—it was raining.
Two weeks later, a transfer hit her account. The full amount. No words, no apology.
Marina opened the statement. Closed it. Nothing inside her stirred. Just—justice.
That evening she sat in her office. On the desk lay an unsigned lease contract. Marina took out a lighter and set the edge on fire. The paper blackened and crumbled into ash in the trash bin.
Then she opened her phone contacts and found the folder “Family”: Mother, Father, Alice. The cursor hovered over the delete button.
Marina stared at the screen. She closed it. Didn’t delete. Just closed it.
She stood up, turned off the lights, and left.
Her phone buzzed by the car. A message from an unknown number:
“Good evening. Do you rent spaces for events? We’d like to discuss a wedding. Friends recommended you—they said you’re impeccable.”
Marina stopped. Read it again. Typed: “Yes. Call during business hours.”
Sent. Put the phone away.
She got behind the wheel and started the engine. The radio played something light. She didn’t listen—she just drove.
At a traffic light she glanced in the mirror. Her face looked tired, without makeup. Not a winner’s face—just a woman who had closed a door.
Green light. She drove on.
At home she slipped off her shoes, poured water, went to the window. The city shimmered with lights. Somewhere out there was her family: a father with a ruined reputation, a mother full of resentment, Alice with a decision.
Marina didn’t feel triumph. There was no thought of “I got revenge.” There was quiet—steady, like after a fever breaks.
She drank the water and went to sleep.
Morning: alarm, shower, road. Life continued—meetings, calls, contracts. The calendar no longer had entries about family.
It had others: “Architect—third floor,” “New tenant,” “Approve estimate.”
Marina worked. Built her own.
That evening she saw an email from an unfamiliar address. Subject: “Thank you.”
She opened it. Short: “For the inspiration. I finally decided too. —Alice.”
Marina read it. Closed it. Didn’t reply.
She shut down the computer and left the office.
Outside, the air smelled fresh. The sky was clear, the stars sharp. Marina lifted her head, stood there a moment, then lowered her gaze.
She walked to her car—without thoughts about what was right, without waiting for forgiveness.
She just walked.
And that was enough
