Svetlana, my husband Andrey’s own sister, has always been a mystery to me. Not literally — I knew her face well, her voice, even the way she laughed. But understanding what was going on in her head? I never managed that in all these years. It all started with small things that seemed almost unnoticeable — little requests, innocent as a child’s gaze. “Lend me five hundred until payday,” “Can you loan me a thousand? I’ll pay back later.” Andrey, a true believer in family ties, never refused. He believed in blood relations, in the sanctity of family values. And me? I kept silent. Because I loved him, because I wanted to be a good wife, because I didn’t want to cause conflict at home.
But over time those “five hundred” turned into “five thousand,” and the “until payday” stretched into months. Sometimes she lost her job — so she’d ask again for rent money. Sometimes it was an “urgent repair” — another call, more tears, another request. Andrey, like a statue, repeated the same thing: “She’s my sister!” And I gritted my teeth and nodded. Because I loved him. And because I hoped. Although, to be honest, that hope had long since turned into stubbornness.
Then one day she came with a new “appeal.” Not just a request — it was a real cry for rescue. Sveta, with a trembling voice, told us about a “unique opportunity,” a “once-in-a-lifetime chance,” a “business idea that would change everything.” The sum was staggering — one hundred thousand rubles. Urgently. Without delay. She swore she would return every penny within a month, at most two. Andrey, hypnotized, nodded, promised, convinced. And he convinced me. “She’s sworn it!” he repeated like a mantra. And I, foolishly, believed. I opened our savings account — the very one we planned to use for a summer vacation. Took the money out. Gave it to her. Andrey hugged me, thanked me, assured me everything would be fine.
Summer came. And went. No money. No news. No thanks. Andrey called her more and more often; his voice became increasingly anxious, and her excuses more transparent. The contractor didn’t pay, the documents weren’t processed, she was “just about to arrive.” And then — silence. Deafening, impenetrable silence. She stopped answering calls. No reply to my messages. One day I received an angry message from her through Andrey: “Your wife is driving me crazy! I told you — the money will come!” As if I was the one asking her. As if I was the one borrowing.
And this morning, as usual, I opened the banking app to pay the utility bills. And froze. On the main account, where Andrey’s salary had arrived only yesterday, there were only three hundred rubles left. Three hundred rubles. Instead of nearly forty thousand as expected. At first, I thought I was going blind. But the screen did not lie. Two transfers — one for rent, the second — judging by the amount and store name — for a brand-new, top-of-the-line smartphone. And all this — at night. Without my knowledge. Without my consent. Without any conscience.
I was sitting at the kitchen table when Andrey came home from work. He entered, threw down his keys tiredly as usual, and immediately sensed the tension in the air. Like a thunderstorm overhead.
“What happened?” he asked without looking me in the eyes.
I handed him the phone. The screen glowed like a lantern in the dark.
“Someone withdrew almost your entire salary from our account last night.”
He grabbed the phone, stared at the numbers, then looked at me — eyes wide, breath uneven.
“It’s Sveta… Yesterday I logged into my office account from her phone, mine was glitching… Probably didn’t log out…” he stammered, realizing the scale of the disaster.
“You gave her access to our account?” I stood up, looking down at him. “She stole from us, Andrey! Stole! Like a thief in the night! We don’t even have money for food until the next paycheck! And she doesn’t even mention those hundred thousand anymore?”
“Wait, don’t shout!” — he reached for me, but I pulled away. “I’ll talk to her. Seriously talk. She will return it. I promise.”
“You promise?” I laughed, bitter and harsh. “You’ve promised a hundred times! And where is the money? Where? She laughs at your promises, at your talks. She considers us her personal bank that tolerates theft and stays silent.”
“She’s my sister!” he shouted in despair. “I just can’t…”
“I can!” I interrupted. “Listen carefully, Andrey. She has exactly twenty-four hours. Until tomorrow evening. ALL the money must be returned to our account. Her ‘loans’ from yesterday, and that hundred thousand. Every penny.”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’!” My voice thundered. “If by tomorrow evening the money isn’t returned… I will report your sister to the police for theft. I will provide statements, correspondence, everything. They will easily determine which phone made the transfers.”
He looked at me like I was a stranger. His face went gray as if the blood had drained.
“You won’t dare… She’s family…”
“Family?” I took the phone and opened contacts. “Family doesn’t do this. Family doesn’t rob their own. Family doesn’t lie. Thieves are dealt with by the law. Tell her — twenty-four hours.”
I raised the phone, deliberately found the police number. My finger hovered over the screen. I looked at my husband. He stood like a statue, with silent horror and incomprehension in his eyes. The call wasn’t made yet. But the countdown had begun.
My heart pounded so loudly it seemed it would burst from my chest. Andrey stood there, paralyzed, looking at me as if he didn’t recognize me. His face was gray, his eyes empty as if the light was wiped out from them. I waited. The seconds dragged like an eternity. In my head, I kept thinking: “This is not the end. This is only the beginning.”
“You can’t do this,” he finally managed to say, his voice quiet and hoarse. “You don’t understand… She’s my sister! She just… just got into a difficult situation!”
“Situation?” I almost laughed, but instead, a heavy, icy sigh escaped. “Andrey, she’s not in a situation. She’s in the system. This isn’t the first time. Not the second. It’s a pattern. She uses you. Uses us. And you keep giving her the keys to our home, to our budget, to our lives. And now — to our money.”
He clenched his fists, then unclenched. His gaze flickered to the window, as if searching for an answer outside that would free him from this pain.
“I’ll talk to her. Right now.” He grabbed his jacket, heading to the door.
“Don’t waste your time,” I said coldly. “She won’t listen. She uses you as a key to our wallet. She knows you’ll always give. And not just give — justify, justify, again and again.”
He stopped. His shoulders sagged. But he didn’t turn back.
“I can’t just abandon her. She’s my family.”
“And what about me?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Who am I, Andrey? Your wife, or just the background on which your eternal attempt to save your sister, who doesn’t want to be saved, unfolds?”
He slowly turned around. Something new flashed in his eyes. Not confidence. Not stubbornness. Something like fear. Real fear.
“I love you,” he said, and it sounded like a plea.
“And I love you — more than life,” I replied. “That’s exactly why I won’t let her destroy us. Because if I stay silent today, tomorrow she’ll come back. And take again. And you’ll give again. And then, in a couple of years, we’ll be standing by an empty trough, without savings, without rest, without certainty for tomorrow. And I’ll ask you: ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’ And you’ll answer: ‘Because she’s my sister.’”
He was silent. For a long time. Then collapsed into a chair as if suddenly he had no air to breathe.
“What do you want me to do?” he whispered.
“Tell her my message. Exact. No softening. She has twenty-four hours to return ALL the money. Or I’m going to the police. And it doesn’t matter that she’s your sister. A thief is a thief, even if they live under the same roof with their parents. Or in the next house.”
The night passed in silence. We didn’t talk. Andrey went to the living room; I stayed in the bedroom. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, counting my heartbeat. Each beat was a countdown. Each beat a step toward tomorrow.
In the morning he left early. Didn’t say goodbye. Only a note on the table: “I will do everything. I promise.”
I didn’t answer. Just crumpled the note and threw it in the trash.
In the evening he returned. His face was stone-like. In his hands — a bag of groceries. He put it on the table. Placed an envelope. Silently.
“Did she return the money?” I asked.
“Almost all,” he said, not looking me in the eyes. “A little less than she asked for. But most of it is here.”
I opened the envelope. Inside were transfer receipts and a crumpled note: “Sorry. Won’t happen again. Won’t ask anymore.”
I looked at Andrey. He sat there like a beaten dog.
“She won’t stop,” I said. “This isn’t the end. It’s just a pause. Until next time.”
“I talked to her,” he quietly said. “She promised…”
“Promises again,” I interrupted. “Andrey, she won’t change. As long as you keep forgiving her, she’ll keep taking. It’s like a drug. You’re her source. And as long as you’re near, she’ll keep reaching for you.”
He was silent.
The next day I opened the app. There was money in the account. Almost all. But not completely. Almost ten thousand was missing.
I called the police.
“Hello, I want to file a report about embezzlement from a family account. The suspect is my husband’s own sister.”
Andrey heard. Ran into the room. Went pale. Tried to grab the phone. I pushed his hand away.
“This is not revenge,” I said, looking him in the eyes. “This is protection. Protection for us. Protection for what’s left of our family. I don’t want to be a wife who’s afraid to check the account every day. I don’t want you to lose respect for yourself. And for her.”
He was silent. And for the first time — didn’t argue.
A week later an officer came. Took statements. Left. Sveta didn’t deny it. She said she “didn’t think it would turn out this way.” She was offered to voluntarily return the rest. Or the case would proceed.
She returned it.
Every penny.
Andrey and I didn’t talk for a long time. Not because we were angry. Just because we both understood — something had broken. And something was born anew. He became different. More attentive. More cautious. More himself.
Sveta never called again. Not once.
And one day I received a message from her:
“Sorry. I didn’t know you loved each other so much. That you’re a real family. I was jealous. I wanted to be part of it. But I chose the dirtiest path. Sorry.”
I didn’t answer. Just deleted the message.
A month later we went on vacation. The very one we had been saving for. Sea. Sun. Silence. Andrey held my hand. And for the first time in a long time — didn’t look back.
Because what led us forward wasn’t family ties.
But love. True love. The kind that protects. The kind that doesn’t forgive — but teaches. The kind that makes you stronger.
And I knew: no one else — not even a sister — could ever destroy what we had built.