Marina opened the door and froze for a second. On the threshold stood her father and mother—older, drawn, wearing some nondescript jackets she had last seen on them three years ago. Her father was more hunched than she remembered, and her mother nervously fidgeted with the handles of a worn bag.
“Hi,” Marina said dryly, not moving.
“Marinochka, sweetheart,” her mother began, and in her voice were tears that hadn’t come yet but were already ready to spill. “Can we come in? We need to talk.”
Marina slowly stepped aside, letting them into the entryway of her tiny one-room apartment. The place was small but bright and cozy.
Her parents went into the room and awkwardly sat on the edge of the sofa. Marina remained standing, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. She didn’t offer tea. Didn’t ask how they were. She just waited in silence.
“Marina,” her father cleared his throat, “we came… well… to ask you.”
“For help,” she finished for him. “I figured. They’re taking the apartment after all?”
Her mother sniffled and pulled a handkerchief from her bag. Her father clenched his fists on his knees.
“Eviction is next week,” he said dully. “Andrey tried everything, ran around, looked for options… But the loan can’t be repaid. The interest piled up so much that…”
“That now even if you sell the apartment, it won’t cover the debt,” Marina continued. “I told you so. I told you three years ago.”
“Sweetheart, don’t—don’t do this now,” her mother looked up at her with reddened eyes. “We understand we were wrong. We didn’t think it would turn out like this…”
Marina walked to the window and turned away from her parents. Outside, the October wind roared, tearing the last leaves from the trees. Three years ago it had been autumn too. The same gray, anxious season. They had been sitting in the kitchen of that apartment—an apartment that no longer existed, that now belonged to the bank. Marina had tried to convince them, brought up numbers and calculations, showed bankruptcy statistics. And Andrey had sat there with burning eyes, talking about his auto repair shop, loyal customers, a gold mine.
“I suggested you transfer the apartment into my name back then,” Marina said quietly without turning around. “Do you remember? I said it would be safer. That I’d keep it for you. That I wouldn’t let Andrey drag you into this gamble.”
“We remember,” her father’s voice held a note of resentment. “But he’s our son. Your brother. We couldn’t say no to him.”
“But you could say no to me.” Marina turned, and something hard flared in her eyes that made her mother drop her gaze. “You told me, ‘You’ll manage, you’re capable, but Andrey needs help.’ Remember those words? I remember them perfectly.”
Silence fell. Somewhere behind the wall a baby started crying, and the sound felt cruelly out of place in the heavy, stale air.
“We came to ask you for help,” her father spoke again, and now there was an almost demanding edge to his tone. “You have money. We know you’re saving for your own place. You earn good money…”
“Oh, so when you need help, it’s ‘sweetheart,’ but when you signed the apartment over to my brother, it was ‘you’ll manage, you’re capable’?” Marina’s voice rang like a taut string. “Selective memory. Interesting.”
“Marina!” her mother sprang up from the sofa. “How can you talk like that? We’re your parents! We raised you, educated you!”
“You raised me,” Marina nodded. “That’s true. And I’m grateful. But I put myself through school, Mom. On a state-funded spot, working evenings at a café. You gave all your money to Andrey—his courses, his car, his endless projects. I didn’t expect help from you. I really did manage on my own.”
“So what now?” her father stood too, his face flushing. “You’re going to throw it in our faces? Take revenge? We’re your parents! You have the means to help us!”
“I have the means to help myself,” Marina said calmly, firmly. “I have savings for a down payment on an apartment. My apartment. The one where I’ll finally live instead of squeezing into rented corners. I’m twenty-nine, Dad. I’ve been working for ten years. I have the right to my own life.”
“And you don’t care if your parents end up on the street?” hysteria crept into her mother’s voice. “We have nowhere to go!”
“You have the dacha,” Marina said.
Her parents exchanged a look.
“The dacha?” her father repeated. “What are you talking about? There’s barely any heating there. You can only live there in summer.”
“That’s why I’m willing to give you money for renovations,” Marina went to the table and took an envelope that lay there. She had prepared it in advance—back when Andrey finally worked up the courage to call her a week ago and warn her about their visit. “There’s three hundred thousand in here. That’s enough for insulation, a stove, basic repairs. The dacha is big—people can live there.”
Her father took the envelope without looking at it. Her mother stared at Marina as if she were seeing her for the first time.
“Are you serious?” her father said slowly. “You want to send us to live at the dacha? In the village?”
“I want to keep my life,” Marina answered. “And I’m offering you a way out. Not the best one, I know. But it’s what I can give.”
“And Andrey?” her mother asked quietly. “Will he live there too? With us?”
Marina shrugged.
“That’s up to you. You’re the parents. You love helping him so much.”
“You hate him,” her mother whispered. “You hate your own brother.”
“I don’t hate Andrey,” Marina rubbed her face tiredly. “I just refuse to pay for his mistakes. For your mistakes. Three years ago you made your choice. You chose him. That was your right. Now I’m making my choice. That’s my right.”
Her father shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket. The motion was sharp, almost angry.
“So that’s how it is,” he said, taking her mother by the arm. “Come on, Lena. There’s nothing for us here.”
“Dad…”
“Don’t,” he raised a hand, cutting her off. “You’ve said everything. We understood.”
They headed for the door. Marina stood in the middle of the room, watching them leave. At the threshold her mother turned around.
“You know, Marina,” her voice carried deep, long-stored hurt, “I thought you were different. I thought you were kind. But you… you’re hard. Like stone.”
“Maybe,” Marina replied softly. “But that hardness helped me survive. It helped me not drown along with you.”
Her mother wanted to say something, but her father tugged her with him. The door closed. Marina heard them going down the stairs—slowly, heavily, stopping at every landing.
She went to the window and saw them come out of the building. Her father was still holding her mother by the arm. They stood for a moment by the road, talked about something, and Marina saw her father pull the envelope from his pocket and look at it. Then he shoved it back. They walked toward the bus stop.
Marina sank onto the sofa where her mother had been sitting a moment earlier. The spot was still warm. She covered her face with her hands.
Three years earlier, when they refused her and signed the deed of gift over to Andrey, Marina cried all night. She felt betrayed, rejected, unloved. She had always been the “good” daughter—studied well, didn’t cause trouble, became independent early. And Andrey was forever tangled up in problems, dropped out of college, changed jobs, borrowed money. And still they loved him more.
“You’ll manage, you’re capable”—that phrase had hurt her then. Because behind it was another meaning: “We don’t need you. You’ll be fine anyway. But he needs help.”
After that evening Marina made a decision. She stopped expecting anything from her parents. Stopped hoping they would see her, appreciate her effort, thank her. She just worked. Saved money. Built her life—the life no one could take away from her.
When Andrey called a week ago, his voice trembled. “Marin, it’s bad. The bank’s taking the apartment. Mom and Dad are in shock. I don’t know what to do. Please help.” She listened to his rambling and felt a strange calm. She had known this would happen. She had warned them. And they hadn’t listened.
“I’ll think about it,” she’d said and hung up.
She really did think. For a whole week. Counted her money, weighed options. She had enough in her account for a down payment on a one-room apartment in a decent area. Not downtown, of course, but a new building with a good layout. She had already chosen the unit, spoken with the developer, prepared documents.
If she gave that money to her parents… it wouldn’t save the apartment. She could buy it out with a mortgage, then spend years paying for what was essentially someone else’s place. Back to renting, with no chance to buy her own for a long time.
That’s when she thought of the dacha. An old house fifty kilometers from the city, six hundred square meters of land. Her parents went there in summer, grew tomatoes and cucumbers. The house was sturdy—thick logs, solid foundation. But the windows were ancient, the roof needed repairs, and there was no heating. Perfect for summer. Impossible for winter.
But if she invested three hundred thousand… she could install a good potbelly stove, insulate the walls and floors, replace the windows with plastic ones. Run minimal water from the well. It wouldn’t be luxurious, but it would be livable. Many people lived like that—especially retirees.
Marina knew her parents wouldn’t like the idea. They were city people, used to conveniences. Her mother always complained about the outhouse, her father grumbled about no internet. But there was no alternative.
Or rather, there was an alternative. And Marina had made it. She chose herself.
Now, sitting in the emptied room, she thought: Am I a bad daughter? The question spun in her head, clinging to her thoughts, giving her no peace. A bad daughter refuses to help her parents. A bad daughter puts her own interests above their needs.
But a good daughter spent ten years living in her brother’s shadow, enduring being loved less, swallowing hurt in silence. A good daughter warned them and heard in reply: “You’ll manage.” Should a good daughter now sacrifice her future for their mistakes?
No.
Marina lifted her head and looked out the window. Her parents had already disappeared from view. Maybe they went to Andrey—to scold him, pity him, search for a way out together. Or maybe they went home—to the apartment where they had one week left.
In a week they would pack their things. Load them into a truck (Marina was even willing to pay movers—she had slipped a note with that offer into the envelope). They would go to the dacha. Maybe Andrey would go with them, or maybe he’d find a corner at a friend’s place or with yet another girlfriend. Those were their problems.
And next week Marina would go to the bank. Sign the contract. Make the down payment. In six months, when the building was finished, she would move into her apartment. Hers. One no one could throw her out of.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Andrey: “Were they at your place? What did you say?”
Marina typed back: “I gave them money for repairs at the dacha. I can’t help with anything else.”
A minute later a reply came: “Are you serious? Marin, are you messing with us? The dacha? Do you even understand what you’ve done?”
“I do. I saved my life,” Marina wrote, and blocked her phone.
Dusk thickened outside. Soon she’d need to cook dinner, but she had no appetite. Marina stood up, went to the fridge on autopilot, opened it, stared at the shelves of food, and closed it again.
She remembered that evening three years ago—how she came home after the talk with her parents and sobbed into her pillow. How in the morning, swollen from tears, she went to work and drifted through the day like in a fog. How a coworker asked if everything was okay and Marina lied, saying she’d just slept badly.
Back then it seemed nothing could hurt more.
But now it hurt more. Because then the pain was from resentment, from the sense of injustice. Now the pain was from the choice she’d made. From understanding that the choice was right—but not noble. Not pretty. Not the kind of choice a “good daughter” makes in movies or books.
In movies the good daughter would give her last money. She’d abandon her plans. Save the family. And in the end everyone would hug, recognize her sacrifice, and it would all end well.
But life isn’t a movie.
In real life, if Marina gave up her savings, she would simply lose them. Her parents’ apartment would be taken anyway—the debt was too big. She’d end up renting again, saving for years again. And her parents wouldn’t appreciate the sacrifice, because the apartment would still be gone. And Andrey would find another scheme, fall into debt again, and come begging again.
And no one would think about her. About her life. About her right to happiness.
“You’ll manage, you’re capable.”
The phrase sounded in her head again, and Marina gave a bitter smile through rising tears. Yes. She would manage. Just as she always had.
Only now she would be managing for herself. Not for them.
Marina wiped her eyes and straightened her shoulders. She went to her laptop, opened the folder with documents for the apartment, and looked again at the layout, the view photos, the building entrance plan. Her apartment. Fourth floor, south-facing windows, enclosed balcony. Forty-two square meters of her own space.
In six months she would move in. Arrange furniture the way she wanted. Hang paintings she liked—not the ones her parents would approve of. Invite guests when she felt like it. Live the way she decided.
And maybe someday her parents would understand. They would understand she had the right to choose herself, that her life mattered too, that being capable didn’t mean an endless obligation to sacrifice herself.
Or maybe they wouldn’t. And then she’d have to live with the weight of it—their hurt, their disappointment, their cold, rare holiday calls.
But it would be her choice. Her life. Her apartment.
Marina closed the laptop and went to the window. Streetlights flickered on below; the city was sinking into evening. Somewhere out there in that huge city, her parents were riding the bus, gripping the envelope of money that felt like mockery to them.
“I’m sorry,” Marina said to them silently. But she didn’t say it out loud.
She didn’t ask for forgiveness. Because she hadn’t done anything wrong.
She had simply done what they once told her to do.
Managed on her own.
Three weeks passed. Marina signed the contract at the bank, made the down payment, and received the paperwork. Now all that remained was to wait for the building to be finished. The developer promised April, and Marina was already mentally planning renovations, choosing wallpaper, looking at furniture options.
Andrey called a few times, but she didn’t pick up. Then he sent a long voice message accusing her of coldness, selfishness, and betraying the family. Marina listened to it to the end, sighed, and deleted it.
There was nothing from her parents.
Marina didn’t know whether they had already moved to the dacha, started renovations, how they were settling in. She could have called, asked. But she didn’t. Part of her was afraid to hear that same resentment in their voices that would poison her calm. Another part stubbornly repeated: They chose. Let them manage.
Workdays went on as usual—projects, meetings, reports. Coworkers asked why she seemed more pensive, but Marina joked it off. No one needed to know about her family drama. It was her burden, and she would carry it alone.
At the end of November, when the first snow fell, Marina received a message from a distant aunt—her father’s sister, with whom they barely kept in touch.
“Marina, I heard what happened in your family. I want to say I don’t judge you. Your parents always spoiled Andrey. You did well not letting them pull you in. Take care of yourself.”
Marina reread the message several times. So her parents had told relatives. So in the family’s eyes she was now the cold daughter who refused to help her parents. Had they told the whole story? About refusing her three years ago? About “you’ll manage”?
Probably not.
Marina typed back: “Thank you, Aunt Lena. It means a lot to hear that.”
December arrived with cold winds and pre-holiday bustle. The office was decorated with garlands; coworkers discussed the corporate party and gifts. Marina bought herself a small Christmas tree, set it in the corner of the room, decorated it. In the evenings she looked at it and thought that next year the tree would stand in her own apartment.
Right before New Year’s—on December thirty-first—her mother called.
Marina stared at the name glowing on the screen for a long time. Then she answered.
“Hello.”
“Marina,” her mother’s voice sounded tired, but without the old resentment. “Happy almost New Year’s.”
“And happy almost New Year’s to you too, Mom.”
A pause.
“We’re at the dacha,” her mother said. “The renovations are almost finished. The stove is good, it’s warm. We replaced the windows. We’re living.”
“That’s good,” Marina didn’t know what else to say.
“Andrey left. He found work in Moscow, with an acquaintance. He says he’ll pay off what’s left of the debt.”
“I see.”
Another pause—long and awkward.
“Marina, I…” her mother faltered. “I’m not calling to ask for forgiveness. I don’t know whether you were right or not. But I want to say… we’ll survive. And you… you live too. As you see fit.”
It wasn’t reconciliation. But it was an acknowledgment of Marina’s right to choose.
“Thank you, Mom,” Marina said softly.
“Alright. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year.”
The line went dead.
Marina lowered her phone and looked out the window as snow fell. Something inside her tightened and, at the same time, loosened. Not forgiveness, not acceptance—just a truce, at least.
And that, perhaps, was enough.
To keep living.
On her own
