“Do you have a moment?” Dmitry asked, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. A guilty glance toward the kitchen revealed the faint scent of burnt pasta.
Svetlana wearily closed her laptop, rose from the sofa, and without diverting her eyes from her husband, reached toward the stove. Despite the faint aroma of charred noodles, she managed to salvage the meal. Yet it seemed that her own life had long since scorched and stuck to the pot.
“Go ahead,” she said as she turned off the burner, the oil sizzling harshly in the pan. “Just be straightforward. Skip the ‘do you have a moment’ routine—I already sense this isn’t good news.”
“It’s about Mishka,” Dmitry swallowed as if the air itself was drier than the overcooked pasta.
“Again?”
Leaning against the refrigerator, gripping its door like a lifeline to a reality that creaked but nevertheless remained stable, Svetlana braced herself.
Mishka—Mikhail, Dmitry’s younger brother—was perpetually drowning in debt and embroiled in some unclear mess, mistakes, or misunderstandings. His aversion to responsibility and his uncanny ability to lose money even before obtaining it were well-known.
“He signed a contract to supply plumbing, but not the right batch,” Dmitry rushed through his words, fearing interruption. “Now he owes—a lot.”
“How much is ‘a lot’?”
“Five hundred.”
Svetlana blinked.
“Five hundred? Thousand?”
“Uh… yes.”
“Are you joking? He doesn’t own an apartment, nor a car, still crashes on mom’s sofa. How could he possibly plan to repay that amount?”
Dmitry’s eyes lowered. He stepped back to the windowsill and absentmindedly fiddled with a dried basil plant purchased three months earlier during her fleeting desire to ‘live like normal people.’
“He asked for our help.”
“No.”
Svetlana answered immediately, without hesitation.
“Svet, he’s my brother.”
“And I’m your wife. For now, if you’d forgotten.”
That was the moment to do something—slam a door, head to the bathroom and cry quietly like in TV dramas. But instead, she grabbed a clean pot and started filling it with water, preparing for another meal. Survival demanded it.
“Family isn’t a ledger; it’s about sacrifices and thinking beyond oneself.”
Silence didn’t last long.
“Mom called,” Dmitry added, badly timed but inevitable.
Svetlana swallowed her irritation.
“Guess whose side she’s on?”
“Svet…”
“Save it. I know. Rooting for the golden boy with loans.”
That very evening, Nina Fedorovna appeared as soon as she heard Svetlana’s refusal to support the family.
“Hello, my dear,” she greeted, striding into the hallway like she owned the place, still wearing boots muddied by spring puddles.
Svetlana clenched her teeth, too drained for polite smiles.
“Misha is our own. We won’t abandon him,” Nina declared, hanging her coat on a hook where Svetlana’s tights had been drying all morning.
“And what am I to you? Just collateral for love?”
“You’re the wife. A wife supports her husband. And a husband supports his brother. It all makes sense.”
Svetlana turned away.
“Makes sense? So you two decide together who and how much we owe? Perhaps I should just sell my kidney now and make life simpler for everyone?”
“Svetlana,” Dmitry intervened, “please don’t…”
“No, Dim. It’s necessary. I refuse to always be the scapegoat while your brother messes up, and Mom bats her lashes, saying ‘He’s trying!’”
Nina approached the kitchen table, sat down, and clasped her hands as if preparing to pass sentence.
“You know, Svetlana, I never liked you from the start. You’re too cold, calculating everything your way. Family isn’t accounting. It’s sacrifice—when you think beyond yourself.”
“Then sacrifice yourselves. I already do—every single day.”
The atmosphere grew tense, heavy with unspoken frustrations. Not the comfortable quiet of an evening with tea and shows, but one that clenched the chest.
When she packed her bag past midnight, Dmitry stood at the bedroom door.
“Where are you going?”
Svetlana was buttoning her bag straps, filled only with documents, a charger, and a modest bottle of perfume—the one she wore when gathering courage.
“To my friend Olga’s place in Solntsevo.”
“But you can’t—stay. We’ll figure this out.”
“You’ve already made your choice. You chose to be a son and a brother. I need a husband.”
He didn’t answer.
Standing on the stair landing, she heard Nina Fedorovna say:
“She’s revealed herself. I always knew she wouldn’t last.”
Svetlana smiled sadly, without malice, like reading the inevitable ending in a book.
The night was cool, streetlights reflecting off wet asphalt. Holding her umbrella as a shield against memories, Svetlana walked toward the metro. This first step was literal—away from an apartment where she was no longer present: not in photos, conversations, or decisions.
And Mishka? He was probably sipping tea in their kitchen.
From their cup.
With the caption: “The hostess can do anything!”
She smirked. Yes, she could. But she was not obliged.
Now living at Olga’s, Svetlana slept on a folding bed in a child’s room filled with plush hippos, children’s books, and a toy vacuum that mysteriously started on its own at night. Olga had a six-year-old son, Arseny, who had the personality of an Amazon parrot with the vocabulary of a taxi driver from Butyrka. Despite all discomforts, the calm here felt like a Swiss vacation after a week in her old home.
“Are you really alright?” Olga asked once, pouring coffee into a cracked mug with the phrase, “Pour and don’t ask.”
“Almost. Just tired of being blamed,” Svetlana said, holding the cup with both hands as if for warmth. “Tired of proving I’m not a viper, just a woman wanting a simple life with her husband—without ‘Mishka messed up again’ or ‘Mom didn’t like that.’”
“Did he call you?”
“He called. Five times. And his mom too—not ‘my mom,’ but ‘his mom.’ I’m now dubbed ‘ex-sister-in-law.’ Demoted like a captain fleeing a sinking ship.”
“Well, you ran away at the right time, I must say.”
Svetlana smiled—the first genuine smile in a long while.
- The first week passed.
- Then another.
- Dmitry visited; initially with flowers, then promises, then reproaches.
- He brought tiredness and fear in his eyes—but no solutions.
“Svet, you know I love you. I really do. But you can’t just walk away. Everything was fine!”
“Everything was convenient. For you. I was an ATM, a psychologist, a shield against mom—maybe all at once.”
“Mishka’s in trouble. Collectors harass him in the building. His car’s scratched. They’ve even run him over. He’s panicked.”
“And you? Are you panicking too?”
He fell silent.
Looking out the window, Svetlana saw children riding bikes in the courtyard, their laughter full of hope, as if everyone had a home where they’d be awaited and protected. Her home was empty.
“Svet, please help. Sell your apartment or put it up as collateral. We’ll repay everything humanly.”
She turned slowly.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Mishka didn’t mean for this. He just… doesn’t know any better. It’s his fate.”
Svetlana laughed, coldly.
“It seems everyone in your family has that fate. I’m the only fool burdened with responsibility and a mortgage.”
The next day, Nina Fedorovna called without greeting.
“I thought you were smarter. Do you really want your husband to live with shame? Don’t you want the family to survive? To make things easier for him?”
“Why is it always ‘him’? Why never me?”
“Because you’re a woman. A wife. You must. You left, so what? Think you’ll be happy alone, with your independence?”
“Better to be alone than stuck between you two and your debts.”
“So it seems. I thought you had a heart. But you’re just selfish. Don’t worry, we’ll manage without you. Just don’t you dare come back. Everything’s fine here without you.”
“Tell your son: I agree to a divorce.”
The line clicked dead.
Svetlana didn’t cry. No tears remained—they vanished somewhere between the wedding and Nina Fedorovna’s last visit, when she said, “I bought this dress; I decide how you look in it.”
She filed for divorce. Alone. Quietly. No scandals, no demonstrations. Just paperwork submitted and signed.
That evening, sitting chez Olga, she watched cartoons from the next room and scrolled through old photos on her phone. One showed her in white with Dmitry; another with her late parents. It was more complicated with them, but at least no one intruded on her life disguised as ‘help.’
The phone rang. Dmitry.
“What did you achieve?” His voice was sharp, shaky.
“Myself.”
He paused, then said, “Mom says you owe her for the dress.”
Svetlana smiled.
“Let her send the bill. I’ll attach her favorite saying about ‘family being sacrifice.’”
That night, she took the wedding dress still hanging in Olga’s closet and sold it to a consignment shop without regret.
“Good fabric,” the seller commented. “Looks brand new.”
“Almost never used as intended,” Svetlana replied, walking away.
Rain began to fall.
She opened her umbrella, inscribed with: “Not afraid of a single drop!”
And indeed—she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Three months later, Svetlana rented a small studio near a metro station. Its windows faced a gray garage complex and a perpetual construction site—as eternal as Russian bureaucracy. But it was quiet. No one questioned her anymore:
- “Why didn’t you call Artyom’s mom on March 8?”
- “Why didn’t you make chicken broth like Dmitry likes?”
- “Don’t you think that working at the agency is just a side gig?”
It was different now.
Nobody demanded anything.
Sometimes silence echoed—especially evenings when no one called: neither the ex-husband, nor friends exhausted by others’ divorces, nor Aunt Nina with her pointed remarks.
Svetlana learned to eat pelmeni for dinner—not out of pity for herself, but simply because it was convenient. The wedding dress sold. She spent the money on oysters, discovering their rubbery taste, but also freedom from yearning.
Then, in a clear, even sterile life, May arrived. Along with Mishka.
The call came in the evening.
Phone was silent for a long time before a message appeared:
“Sveta, hi. It’s Mishka. We urgently need to talk. Please. It’s not about money. Or at least not entirely. Can we meet?”
Svetlana exhaled.
“God, what now? A kidney? A loan for a goat? Or is he planning self-immolation at the entrance?”
They met at a corner cafe smelling of old grease and boiled carrots. Mishka had a bruised face and a fresh black eye.
“Svet… hi. You look great,” he said, shrinking into his chair.
“You don’t. What happened?”
He glanced around, whispered, “I’m being pressured—really badly. Serious people. I didn’t realize what I was getting into. Artyom said you refused to help, but I still came to you. You’re kind and fair… maybe you sold the apartment?”
“Yes. But I bought oysters. Didn’t enjoy them.”
Mishka blinked.
“I mean business. They have documents, debts, some papers. They’ll sue Artyom if this isn’t settled. Everything’s on him now. They might even drag in your mother—imagine that.”
Svetlana looked at him for a long time then pulled a cigarette, twirling it between her fingers without lighting it.
“Why do you all assume I owe something? Why am I the only one shaken down because I was the easiest target in this family?”
“Don’t you want Artyom to avoid jail…?”
She leaned closer.
“And he wanted me broken?”
Three days later, Dmitry’s voice came hoarse and strained.
“Svet, Mom’s in hospital—high blood pressure, nervous breakdown. She says you destroyed all of us. Mishka’s scared. I don’t know what to do anymore. Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Yes. I survived.”
“You won’t help? Not a penny?”
“How much does my peace cost, Dim? You know? I do now. And it’s priceless.”
“But you still love us, don’t you?”
“And when you were silent, hiding behind Mom, were you loving me? Or just waiting for me to become furniture again?”
He hung up. Svetlana didn’t cry—it had become routine.
A week later, a letter arrived from Nina Fedorovna.
“I still think you weren’t ready for family. You lacked patience. Family means sacrifice. I sacrificed my youth, health, and son. You failed. Without that dress, nothing would have worked out. Since you sold it, sell your pride too. You never wore it anyway.”
Svetlana smiled and threw the letter away—along with empty oyster boxes.
She rode the metro, listening to Italian pop through headphones. An elderly woman nodded toward her book:
“Is it good? About love?”
“About divorce,” Svetlana replied, “but with a happy ending.”
“Thank God. Everything nowadays is about suffering.”
“There’s plenty of that here. But the heroine survived.”
“That’s rare.”
Svetlana nodded and for the first time in ages wanted to buy flowers—just because.
Final Reflection: This story reveals the difficult struggle of balancing loyalty to family with personal boundaries. Svetlana’s journey illustrates how self-preservation sometimes necessitates painful choices but can lead to inner peace and renewed independence. Through sacrifice and confrontations, she learns that love and responsibility can coexist only when mutual respect is present. A nuanced tale about standing firm amid familial storms and asserting one’s right to a peaceful life.