— Open up! We know you’re home!
Marina froze in the narrow hallway of her one-room apartment, clutching her phone to her chest. Her father’s voice sounded hoarse and demanding from behind the door — the same way he used to shout at her in childhood when she broke a cup or brought home a ‘B’ instead of an ‘A’.
Bang! Bang! His fist hammered on the iron door, making the key holder hanging on a nail shake. The neighbors were surely already pressed to their peepholes.
On the phone screen, a message from her mother glowed: “You destroyed the family. We never expected this from you.”
— Marina! — now her mother was crying out. — What are you doing? Have you completely lost your mind?
Marina ran her trembling fingers over the screen, rereading the message. A lump formed in her throat. Her gaze was firm, but her lips betrayed her by trembling.
— But now I know what to expect from you, — she whispered into the emptiness of the apartment.
The pounding grew louder. The door trembled. And Marina stood there thinking about how much everything had changed in just two weeks.
Two weeks ago, Marina still believed family was forever.
She stood in the hallway of her parents’ three-room apartment, pulling off boots soaked from the slush. The wallpaper was the same as fifteen years ago, faded with roses. Bills for utilities piled on the table, which she planned to pay tomorrow through the bank app.
— Marin, could you tidy up the living room? — her mother peeked out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. — My back’s acting up. — Of course, Mom. Seven years in a row — always the same. She comes on weekends, brings groceries, blood pressure medicine for Dad, solves household problems. Artyom shows up occasionally — to eat Mom’s cutlets and borrow money until payday, which, as usual, never comes.
Marina habitually turned on the vacuum cleaner, then started dusting the shelves. The same books, old frames, postcards from the last century. She moved quickly, almost mechanically — knowing where everything was, what not to touch. But when she reached for a stack of magazines on the shelf between photo albums and useless documents, a thin folder slipped out.
Clear plastic, grayish edge. Marina was about to put it back when a single sheet fell to the floor. Neatly folded, printed. She picked it up—and read.
A will.
At first, her eyes caught her brother’s name. Everything to Artyom.
“All real estate, including the apartment at the address… the summer house… the car… I bequeath to my son Artyom Gennadyevich.” Marina reread the line three times. Then once more.
About her — only at the very end: “With love to both children.”
— What… what is this? — she whispered.
She sat down on her father’s chair, clutching the document. The apartment where she grew up. The dacha where she spent vacations. Everything — to Artyom. The one who only thinks of their parents when he’s in trouble.
— Marin, the kettle’s boiling! — her mother called from the kitchen.
— Coming, — she answered.
But she didn’t go.
She sat, staring at the wall where her certificate for the literature olympiad still hung — next to Artyom’s childhood drawing. In this apartment, they were always close. But now — not as equals.
Marina went to the kitchen, holding the will in her hands. Her mother poured boiling water into cups with golden rims. The very ones “for guests.” Her father, as usual, sat by the window, wearing glasses, holding a fresh newspaper and muttering something about sugar prices.
— Dad, — her voice was quieter than she expected. — What is this?
Her father set the newspaper aside and glanced at the paper. Her mother turned, putting the kettle on the stand.
— So you found it, — her father nodded. — I thought I hid it well. — And that’s it? — Marina placed the will on the oilcloth next to the sugar bowl. — Just “found it”?
Her mother came closer and sat next to her, as if wanting to soften the mood with kindness in her voice:
— Marin, you understand. You have everything: an apartment, a stable job, a salary. And Artyom… where is he supposed to go?
— Where? To work! — Marina exclaimed. — He’s thirty. He’s not disabled!
— Marish, don’t start, — her father intervened without looking up. — You’re strong. You’re smart. We always knew that. And he… he’s not like you.
— Have you ever asked how I feel? — Marina’s voice broke. — Who pays your bills? Who deals with the pharmacy, the doctors? Who comes when there’s a fever, blood pressure, or when “the internet is down”?
— Don’t raise your voice, — her mother said sharply. — We raised you, fed you…
— And him too! But for him, it “never worked out.” Five jobs in seven years — that’s not searching, that’s running away. And you’ve been taking care of him all this time. And for me — “you’ll manage.”
Marina stood up, knocking over the chair:
— But why should I support you, and he gets the inheritance?
Silence thickened for a moment.
— You know, I thought family doesn’t keep score. That help is out of love, not because someone is “different.” But I guess I was wrong. Her mother turned away as if to say something but changed her mind. — That’s enough, — Marina said. — Figure it out yourselves.
Leaving the apartment, she felt a strange relief. As if something had let go.
For two weeks, Marina lived in unusual silence. No calls asking to stop by the pharmacy or transfer money. She bought coffee beans — the kind she used to pass by, sighing, “not now.” But now — now was the time.
On Saturday morning, like clockwork, a message came from her father:
“Utility bills due by the 15th. Will you pay?”
Marina sat at the table with a cup of coffee and browned toast. She read the message. Set the phone aside, spread butter on the toast, finished her coffee.
Then typed: “Ask Artyom. It’s his apartment now.”
Five minutes later, the phone vibrated. First, her mother:
— What are you thinking, Marish? — her voice trembled, shifting from a request to a reproach. — That’s your father! Are you out of your mind?
Marina replied shortly: “Figure it out yourselves.” And hung up.
Then Artyom called.
— Marin, come on, — he muttered. — Mom and Dad didn’t mean to hurt you… Call ended.
The third call — her father:
— Are you serious? Leaving the family over nonsense?
Marina silenced the phone and shoved it into the desk drawer.
On Sunday, they all came together. Marina looked through the peephole at familiar faces — her mother with tear-red eyes, her father with a stone expression, Artyom shifting from foot to foot, staring at the floor.
— Open up! — her father knocked. — We need to talk!
She opened the door on the chain.
— Speak from here.
— What’s wrong… — her mother tried to peek through the crack. — You’ve always been… good. Understanding.
— We’re family… — Artyom tried to intervene. — You can’t just because of some paper…
— Because of some paper? — Marina felt herself boiling inside. — It’s a will, Artyom. A document that clearly says who is important to our parents and who isn’t.
— You have everything! — her father raised his voice. — Apartment, job! And we wanted to help Artyom!
— Then help him. Without me, — she nodded and closed the door.
The post appeared Monday morning. Marina saw it opening social media with her morning coffee.
“I didn’t raise a daughter to meet old age alone. But apparently, I was wrong about the person. When parents need help, true children don’t turn away. And selfish ones show their true face.”
Under the post — dozens of sympathetic comments from her mother’s friends. “How awful,” “Young people have no heart,” “Stay strong, Nadusha.”
Marina put the cup on the windowsill. An hour later, a post appeared from Artyom — about family values and a sister who “forgot where she came from.” Her father limited himself to a repost with a comment: “That’s how you find out who people are in hard times.”
Her phone buzzed nonstop. Aunt Lena: “Marin, what’s going on?” A coworker: “Are you okay?” A neighbor on the landing greeted ambiguously in the hallway.
By evening Marina sat in the empty apartment staring at the laptop screen. The cursor blinked in the blank window of a new post. She wanted to stay silent, wait it out. But inside, everything burned.
She began to type:
“For seven years, I paid the parents’ bills. For seven years, I bought groceries, medicines, solved household problems. And I found out about the will by accident — all the property goes to my brother. When I asked ‘why?’ I heard: ‘You have everything; he can’t manage.’ Now I’m the selfish one because I’m tired of being convenient. Don’t judge until you’ve been in my shoes.”
Marina reread the text three times. Not a word of lies. Not a single insult. Just the truth.
She clicked “Publish.”
Within a minute, the first supportive comments appeared. People shared similar stories. It turned out there were many “convenient” children like her.
For the first time in a month, Marina felt she was not alone.
The phone didn’t stop ringing. Notifications poured in one after another — comments, private messages, reposts. Marina sat on the couch scrolling through the endless stream of responses.
“Girl, you’re amazing! I did the same with my lazy husband,” wrote a stranger with a cat avatar. “Parents are to blame themselves. They shouldn’t have shown such preferences so openly,” commented a middle-aged man. But there were others too: “How can you abandon your elders? Heartless.” Marina put the phone aside and made tea. The phone vibrated. A message from Aunt Lena, her mother’s sister: “Mashenka, you finally stood up for yourself. About time.”
Then — from a former classmate: “Saw your post. Hang in there, you’re doing the right thing.”
And then — from her father: “You’re a traitor. After everything we did for you.”
From her brother: “You’re just jealous. Always jealous that they love me more.”
Marina stared at these lines for a long time. Then methodically blocked them both. She had already blocked her mother’s number yesterday.
— Enough, — she said to the empty apartment.
She took a cake from the fridge — the kind she only bought on holidays. Today was a holiday. The start of a new life.
A month passed unnoticed. Marina sat on the balcony. An open book lay on the table — for the first time in a long while, she wanted to read.
The apartment was bathed in evening shadows. The fridge hummed quietly in the kitchen, a ficus — a recent purchase — stood on the windowsill. In the neighboring apartment, soft melodic music played. Somewhere below a dog barked, the entrance door slammed. The usual sounds of an ordinary evening.
The phone had been silent for a week. No calls with requests, no borrowing money, no health complaints.
—I’ve learned to say “no,” — Marina said aloud, surprised by the sound of her own voice. And that felt good.