“Katya, I’m at our parents’ apartment. The key doesn’t fit. Something wrong with the lock?”
“Of course it doesn’t fit. I changed the locks. Yesterday,” she replied calmly, as if a phone call from her brother after seven years of silence was nothing unusual.
Katya had long been married to Andrey. Their family life was simple and modest, but filled with warmth and sincerity. Together they raised their son Kirill and their younger daughter Anzhelika. Ordinary joys, ordinary worries. Everything would have been fine if not for the pain that had been gripping her heart for months.
Katya’s parents, Pavel Petrovich and Valentina Vasilievna, had always been her rock. They helped however they could—bringing produce from their dacha, babysitting the kids, even giving her a little money. They especially supported her when Katya stayed home with the children while Andrey was away on business trips.
When Valentina Vasilievna fell ill, everything collapsed. The diagnosis was terrifying—cancer. Katya went back and forth to hospitals, bought medicine, took her mother to treatments, held endless conversations with doctors. Pavel Petrovich, despite his age, cared for his wife until the very end, even selling his beloved dacha to pay for treatment.
And Vyacheslav… The older brother who had left seven years ago to “do business” didn’t even come to the funeral. He called once a year, promised to send money, but the money never arrived. Pavel Petrovich only waved it off:
“He’s busy. He’s a man, after all. Earning money.”
After Valentina Vasilievna’s death, her father declined rapidly. Every week Katya cooked for him, washed his clothes, cleaned, and helped however she could. She constantly reminded her kids to call their grandfather. But despite his loneliness, he held on—perhaps out of pride, perhaps not wanting to burden his daughter.
A little over a year later, Pavel Petrovich passed away too. Quietly, in his sleep.
The funeral, paperwork, notary—everything fell on Katya’s shoulders, which were already weighed down. Vyacheslav, upon learning of their father’s death, sent a short message:
“I can’t come. May he rest in peace.”
And a couple of days later—another one:
“When are we dividing the inheritance? There’s the apartment, garage, and car, right?”
Katya sat in the kitchen, rereading the message several times. Divide? Divide what? Their parents’ tiny two-room Khrushchyovka apartment, where she had scrubbed the floors before the funeral? The garage all the way across town? The car their father had to start on the second try?
Katya saw no point in discussing it with someone who had long become a stranger. Vyacheslav had vanished from their lives of his own free will, refusing any contact with relatives. He hadn’t answered calls, pleas for help, or news of their mother’s illness. It was as if he had erased his family from his life. And now—here he was, the “rightful heir.”
Katya deleted the message, put the phone aside, and went to wake up Anzhelika. Life went on, and she wasn’t going to waste time on a brother who remembered their parents only after their deaths.
But the next evening the phone rang.
“Katya, it’s me,” said a voice on the line. Unfamiliar, yet still disturbingly recognizable. “I’m at our parents’ apartment. The key doesn’t fit. Something wrong with the lock?”
Katya pressed the phone to her ear but didn’t answer right away.
“Doesn’t fit? Of course not. I changed the locks. Yesterday,” she said calmly, as if a call from her brother after seven years of silence was nothing unusual.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s my apartment now. Why shouldn’t I change the locks?”
“What do you mean, your apartment?”
“Exactly that. Dad signed everything over to me. He hadn’t seen you for seven years.”
“That’s not fair!” Vyacheslav barked.
“Oh really? And was it fair for you to leave and never show up? You didn’t even call Mom when she was sick. Were you the one running between hospitals? Were you the one searching for medicine? Did you watch her pain and tears? No? Then why are you here? For a shabby two-room Khrushchyovka flat? You’re a joke! Where’s all your big money?”
“I’ve got money, but a little extra never hurts.”
“Don’t make me laugh. How much could you even get for this apartment?”
“As much as I need,” Vyacheslav snapped and hung up.
That evening he was standing outside Katya’s apartment. By then the whole family was home, and Katya was just telling her husband about the morning call from her brother. She was so worked up that the children ran off to their room to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
Then came a knock at the door. Andrey asked “Who is it?” but there was only silence. He looked through the peephole and couldn’t believe his eyes—Vyacheslav was standing outside.
“Open up!” his voice demanded.
Andrey went back to the kitchen and quietly asked his wife:
“Your brother’s here. Should I let him in?”
Katya sighed heavily and got up:
“Watch the kids so they don’t come out. I’ll deal with him myself.”
She opened the front door and stepped outside, not letting her brother in.
“Oh, really? Not even going to offer me tea?” Vyacheslav sneered.
He looked sharp: an overcoat, black trousers, and a dress shirt.
“Why did you come? I think we already sorted everything out.”
“Look, I get that you’re mad, but I’m in a tough spot. I need money.”
“And we didn’t? When Mom was sick—we didn’t need money? When Dad sold his dacha, his pride and joy, to pay for her treatment—he didn’t need money?”
“Enough with the theatrics,” Vyacheslav said irritably. “Legally, we’re equal heirs. That’s not up for debate. And the dacha—yeah, too bad… You could have sold that too.”
“Legally—sure. Morally—no. You’ll get nothing. I’ve already taken possession of the inheritance.”
“You think I’m going to give up? Don’t count on it. See you in court.”
“Fine. Whatever you want.”
She went back inside and walked over to the dresser where a framed photo of her parents stood. Her father had his arm around her mother, both smiling.
Katya sighed.
“I’m sorry I can’t forgive him…”
A week later Vyacheslav did try to contest the will, claiming his rights to their parents’ inheritance. But everything had been prepared properly and fairly.
Katya thought that would be the end of it. But the story took an even stranger turn.
A couple of months later one of their mutual acquaintances happened to run into Slava and later told Katya about it.
“You won’t believe it… He hasn’t achieved anything at all. He was all dressed up, in a nice shirt. Then he started whining that he was left homeless.”
“What do you mean?” Katya was surprised.
“Just like that. Remember how he bragged about his business? There never was any business. He was living off some girl. Young, pretty, and more importantly—her daddy had money. She supported him. Bought him a car, rented him an apartment, dressed him, fed him…”
Katya listened silently, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Her father’s face appeared in her mind: tired, yet kind. He had defended his son until the end, insisting:
“A man works, he’ll make it. Just be patient. He’ll have everything.”
“He did have everything—just at someone else’s expense,” Katya said bitterly. “A kept man…”
“And now the girl’s married. Her father insisted, of course. Found her a ‘promising’ husband, not a freeloader. And your brother got kicked out—with no money, no belongings, not even a toothbrush,” the acquaintance exclaimed. “Can you believe it? Like something out of a storybook, isn’t it?”
Katya exhaled heavily. She felt a strange, painful ache in her chest. Not for her brother—for her parents. Especially her father. He had truly believed in his son, hoped he’d come to his senses and bring honor to the family.
“Now he’s back in town. Rented some shabby room on the outskirts. They say he can’t even get a job. He was used to living large, and now he can’t even cook himself soup.”
“He’s already asked me for money twice,” Katya said quietly. “And the amounts… as if we make money by the bagful here. I refused, of course.”
“And you did the right thing! You have kids, a family. You owe him nothing. He dug his own hole.”
Katya nodded silently. Yes, she understood that perfectly. Especially now. All the talk about fairness, inheritance, the law—it all vanished like smoke. Only the bitter truth remained.
Pavel Petrovich, it turned out, had realized it long before he let on. Katya remembered how a few months before his death he suddenly said to her in the kitchen:
“You know, daughter, not every child can be trusted with your old age. Or your property, for that matter. Good thing we have you.”
She hadn’t paid much attention at the time. But now—every word echoed in her heart.
Six months passed. Vyacheslav never called again. Sometimes Katya heard he’d been seen at the market—working as a porter. They said he’d lost his passport, lived with random acquaintances, drank.
Katya felt no anger. No pity. She simply kept living. She took care of her children, worked, cared for herself and her husband. And every evening, passing by the dresser, she always paused at her parents’ photo.
“Thank you for everything,” she whispered. “For teaching me to tell real from fake. And for leaving me not just square meters, but the most important thing—love and conscience.”
She had nothing left to divide. Because she had already received—and kept—everything that truly mattered.