The November wind tore through the streets the same way Véra’s voice tore through their small kitchen.
“Are you sending her money again? Seriously, Andrey?”
He didn’t even look up from his phone.
“She asked. She needs it.”
“She always needs something,” Véra said, her voice low and tired. “And what about us?”
“That’s my sister,” he snapped. “Why can’t you understand that for once?”
And just like every time before, Véra felt the same cold truth:
in this conversation, she was the extra one.
Andrey made a single sharp swipe on his phone.
“There. Sent. Can we stop the drama now?”
“You can talk to her like a human,” Véra whispered. “You never talk to me that way anymore.”
He said nothing.
On the bus to work, two women discussed debts and utilities next to her. Usually, Véra ignored such chatter, but today every word jabbed her.
“We barely make it through the month… And he keeps sending…”
On the fogged window, someone had written stupid and drawn a crooked crown.
She wiped it off with her palm.
That evening, Aline arrived without warning. As always.
She walked through their tiny apartment like she owned it, clicking her heels on the old linoleum.
“Andryusha, you wouldn’t believe how Mom’s torturing me! I can’t live like this!”
Her voice was soft, pleading — the voice Andrey never used on Véra anymore.
“And I need money for medicine. Two thousand. You’ll help, right? You always help.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll send it tomorrow.”
Inside Véra, something cracked quietly — like old wallpaper peeling off an even older wall.
Weeks dragged on. Work, buses, cheap dinners, silence.
The constant sense that someone was slowly draining her life — and calling it family duty.
One evening, she finally spoke.
“Andrey… we need to talk. About your sister. And the money.”
He stiffened instantly.
“I’m not abandoning her.”
“I’m not asking that. I’m saying we can’t survive like this.”
“Family helps each other,” he said firmly.
“And who are we to you? Are we family?”
He put his cup down too hard.
“Stop making everything dramatic.”
And that was the end of the conversation — like always.
Then came the phone call.
“Congratulations, Véra Mikhailovna. You are the heir.”
She nearly dropped the phone.
A real apartment. In the center. Hers.
When she told Andrey, he spun her around the room like a boy.
“We’ll live like people now!”
For the first time in a long time, he looked at her with warmth.
But somewhere deep inside, a small cold thought flickered:
What about Aline?
Véra threw herself into the renovation — scraping old wallpaper, painting walls, sketching layouts at night. The apartment slowly came alive, and so did she.
Until Aline showed up.
She walked through the rooms silently, eyes darting with a calculating gleam.
“Lucky you,” she muttered. “Some people get everything handed to them.”
Then, casually:
“And this room? Who’s it for?”
“For a child,” Véra answered. “Someday.”
Aline said nothing. But her silence was sharp.
Later that evening, in their cramped old kitchen, Aline finally said it:
“I have a proposal… about the apartment.”
She looked only at Andrey.
“The apartment is the solution. For all of us. I can’t live with Mom anymore. I could move in there.”
Véra stared at her.
“You mean — move into my apartment?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. You don’t live there yet. You two manage fine here. And I need a place.”
Andrey nodded, as if this had been inevitable.
“Aline is in a difficult situation,” he said quietly. “We should help.”
“And us?” Véra whispered. “Are we in a good situation?”
Aline shrugged.
“Come on, Véra. I’ll stay there a few years. Until I get on my feet.”
“A few years?” Véra’s voice trembled. “And with what money would we live while you take everything?”
Andrey slammed his hand on the table.
“That’s enough! She’s family!”
Véra stared at him.
“And I’m who?”
He couldn’t answer.
That night, the fight shook the walls.
Aline stormed out.
Andrey slammed doors, threw accusations, paced the kitchen like a stranger.
“You’re selfish!” he shouted. “You care only about yourself!”
“Do I?” Véra said quietly. “When did you last care about me?”
He had no answer.
Over the next week, they barely spoke. Brief, cold phrases.
He stared at his phone too long.
He hid messages the moment she entered the room.
Finally, one morning over breakfast, he said:
“Maybe… maybe Aline could pay us rent for the apartment. So it’s fair.”
“You want to give her my apartment,” she said calmly.
He flinched.
“We’re just considering options—”
“Enough, Andrey.”
She looked him straight in the eyes.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
Packing took three days.
Quiet. Efficient. Final.
Andrey stood in the doorway, pale.
“Véra… think about it. Don’t destroy what we built.”
She zipped her suitcase.
“We didn’t build it, Andrey. I did.”
And she walked out.
November air hit her face like cold water — but it felt alive.
Her new apartment smelled of paint and plans. The parquet creaked, the curtains hung crookedly, but every inch was hers.
For the first time in years, she breathed freely.
A week later, she adopted a ridiculous orange cat with huge ears.
She named him Grant
— after the grant she gave herself:
permission to start over.
Andrey called.
She didn’t answer.
Aline wrote: “Stop acting like a child. Put things back the way they were.”
She didn’t reply.
Neighbors brought jars of jam, old tools, unnecessary advice.
For the first time, Véra didn’t feel alone.
One evening she sat in the armchair by the window, Grant curled on her lap.
The city glowed outside.
Quiet. Warm.
Hers.
She left — and finally became herself.
