Anna stood by the window of her apartment, watching the rain turn the October evening into a blurred watercolor. Thirty is an age when you no longer expect miracles, but still remember what they’re supposed to be like. She worked at a consulting firm, earned good money, rented a spacious apartment in a respectable neighborhood. Life was predictable and calm.
Her phone vibrated behind her. Mom’s number. Anna sighed, turned down the TV, and picked up.
“Anya, sweetheart,” her mother’s voice sounded anxious, “are you home?”
“I’m home, Mom. What happened?”
“Your father and I are coming over. We need to talk.”
Anna felt her stomach tighten. When her parents came “to talk,” it always meant new problems with Artyom. Her younger brother, twenty-five years old, seemed to collect trouble on purpose.
Half an hour later they were sitting at her kitchen table. Her father was silent, studying his hands; her mother was nervously twisting a purse strap.
“Do you know about Artyom?” her mother began.
“Know what exactly?” Anna knew better than to fill in the blanks for them.
“He… he got himself into a situation. Remember, we gave him the money from selling the dacha? He bought a motorcycle…”
“Mom, we’ve talked about this already. I warned you that the money should’ve stayed on a deposit, not handed to Artyom all at once.”
“Sweetheart, he promised!” Her mother’s voice took on almost childlike notes. “He was going to rent an apartment, marry Lena…”
“But instead, he started burning through money in bars, Lena left him, and he bought a motorcycle to ‘heal his broken heart,’” Anna finished. “Am I close?”
Her father finally raised his eyes.
“He drove into a car in a parking lot. An expensive car. A Porsche.”
“No insurance?”
“No,” her mother answered quietly. “You know he always thought nothing would ever happen to him.”
Anna poured herself some tea, trying not to show her irritation. Artyom always thought nothing would happen to him because their parents always bailed him out.
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand,” her mother exhaled. “The owner agreed to a payment plan, but we need to give half right away, otherwise he’ll go through the bailiffs.”
Anna nodded. It all tracked. Now the most interesting part would begin.
“Anya, sweetheart,” her mother took her hand, “we’ve decided to sell your car.”
“My car?”
“Well, technically it’s registered to your father,” her mother added hastily. “We gave it to you when we sold the dacha. But Artyom has problems now, and you can walk for a while. You’re young and healthy.”
Anna gently freed her hand.
“I don’t agree.”
“Sweetheart, we’re family,” her mother raised her voice. “Artyom is your brother! He’s suffering, he can’t sleep, he’s wasted away!”
“Mom, has he tried working? Or at least going to the employment office?”
“Anya, what job can he find in a week?” her mother looked at her in bewilderment. “He can’t earn that much right away!”
“But I can lose my car in a week?”
Her father finally spoke. His voice was quiet but firm.
“Anya, we’ve already made up our minds. Your opinion doesn’t matter right now. The car is in my name; I can sell it at any moment. I don’t want to quarrel with you, but there’s no choice.”
Anna looked at her father. This was the man who taught her to ride a bike, read her bedtime stories, and was proud of her achievements at university. Now he was calmly saying that her opinion didn’t matter.
“Dad,” she said slowly, choosing her words, “and what about next time? When Artyom gets himself into trouble again?”
“There won’t be a next time,” her mother replied quickly. “He promised he’ll stop betting on sports, he won’t—”
“Mom, he’s promised that five times already.”
“Anya, how can you!” her mother began to cry. “He’s your brother! How can you be so cruel?”
Anna stood and went to the window. The rain was getting heavier. She thought of how six months ago Artyom had asked her for money “for the bare essentials,” and she’d given him twenty thousand. Later it turned out he’d spent it on new sneakers and a restaurant night out with friends.
“You know what,” she turned back to her parents, “I have news. I transferred the car to my name a month ago.”
Silence. Her mother stopped crying; her father looked up.
“How?”
“Very simply. I had a power of attorney from Dad when I was handling the sale of the dacha. I forged a gift agreement and re-registered the car to myself. I knew sooner or later you’d try to sell it for Artyom.”
“You… you forged documents?” her father stared at her in amazement.
“I did. And you know what? I don’t regret it. Because I’m tired of saving my brother from the consequences of his actions.”
Her mother clutched at her heart.
“Anya, how can you! We’re family!”
“That’s exactly why I’m doing this,” Anna sat back down at the table. “Mom, Dad, you’re not helping Artyom. You’re turning him into an invalid. He’s twenty-five and can’t solve a single problem on his own, because he knows his parents will always find a way out.”
“But he’ll be ruined!” her mother cried. “They’ll put him in jail!”
“They won’t jail him for debts. At most they’ll restrict him from leaving the country—and he doesn’t travel anyway. But he’ll finally understand that actions have consequences.”
Her father was silent, staring at the table. Anna could see him struggling with himself.
“Anya,” he said quietly at last, “I beg you. Sell the car. We’ll buy you a new one later.”
“When later? When Artyom gets into trouble again?”
“He won’t!”
“He will, Dad. Because he doesn’t know how to live any other way. And you don’t know how to refuse him.”
“Sweetheart,” her mother took her hands, “what are you doing? He’s your brother!”
“That’s exactly why I won’t give him the money. Mom, look at him. Twenty-five, living with his parents, not working, betting his last money on sports. He’s deteriorating, and you don’t see it.”
“He just… he just hasn’t found himself yet,” her mother said helplessly.
“At twenty-five it’s time to have found yourself—or at least to start looking.”
Her parents left, having achieved nothing. Anna stayed alone, sitting in the kitchen, drinking cold tea. The phone was silent—obviously, they were driving to Artyom to break the bad news.
An hour later her brother called.
“Anya, are you out of your mind?” his voice shook with anger. “Do you understand what you’re doing?”
“I do, Tyoma. For the first time in a long time, I do.”
“They could lock me up!”
“They can’t. People aren’t jailed for debts.”
“Anya, I’m begging you!” now he was crying. “That guy is serious! It’s money! Where am I supposed to get it?”
“Where everyone gets money. At work.”
“What work? Who needs me?”
“Tyoma, you can drive. You can talk to people. You’ve got hands and a head. You’ll find a job.”
“In a week?”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll negotiate a longer payment plan with the car’s owner. Adults usually meet you halfway if they see you’re trying.”
“Anya,” his voice went quiet, “why are you so cruel? This could have happened to anyone!”
“Not to anyone, Tyoma. Only to someone irresponsible—someone who not only never learned to drive properly but couldn’t be bothered to buy insurance.”
He hung up.
The following months were hard. Her parents hardly called. When Anna visited them, there was always a heavy atmosphere in the house. Her mother sighed demonstratively; her father kept silent. They didn’t talk about Artyom, but his absence was felt in every word.
From snatches of conversation Anna gathered that her brother really was looking for work. At first he tried to find something simple: courier, driver, loader. Then he got a job at an auto shop—washing cars and handing over tools. The pay was laughable, but it was a job.
Oddly enough, the owner of the damaged Lexus turned out to be understanding. When he learned that Artyom was really working, he agreed to a payment plan. Artyom moved into an apartment shared with two other guys. His parents helped with the deposit, but refused to give him any more money—Anna had insisted firmly on that.
“Mom, if you give him money, he’ll quit his job immediately,” she said during one of her rare visits. “Let him get used to relying only on himself.”
“But he’s eating nothing but buckwheat,” her mother complained. “He’s all skinny and pale.”
“Then he’ll find a better job. Or a side job.”
And indeed, a few months later Artyom found side work. In the evenings he dismantled old cars for parts, and spent weekends helping acquaintances with small repairs. Turned out he had a knack for mechanics—his hands grew from the right place, and he had enough brains to figure new things out.
Anna learned about this in fragments, from parents who were gradually thawing. Her mother still thought she was cruel, but her father would sometimes, with cautious pride, tell her that Artyom had fixed a neighbor’s car or helped a friend with some electrical work.
About a year after that kitchen conversation, Anna’s doorbell rang. She opened it and saw Artyom. He stood there with a bouquet of flowers, lean and sun-browned.
“Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”
Anna silently stepped aside. Artyom went to the kitchen, set the flowers on the counter, and sat in the same chair where their father had sat a year before.
“Pretty flowers,” Anna said. “Chrysanthemums.”
“Thanks.” He paused, studying his hands. They were worker’s hands now—callused, scraped, with ingrained dirt under the nails. “I came to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not giving me the money.”
Anna sat down across from him.
“Well, tell me.”
“I opened my own shop. Small, in a garage, but it’s mine. I repair cars and sell parts. I’m earning okay. I paid off that guy long ago.”
“Congratulations.”
“You know,” Artyom lifted his eyes, “I hated you back then. I thought you were just greedy and mean. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t help your brother.”
“And now you understand?”
“Now I do. If you’d given me the money, I’d still be sitting at home waiting for our parents to solve my problems. But this way… this way I had to grow up.”
Anna nodded.
“Was it hard?”
“You can’t imagine how hard,” Artyom answered honestly. “For the first few months I thought every day about quitting. Working for pennies, living with strangers, scrimping on food… But then I got into it. And I realized I like working with my hands. I like fixing cars, figuring out how things work.”
“How are Mom and Dad—are they hovering?”
“Mom now tells everyone her son is an entrepreneur,” Artyom smirked. “And Dad drops by the garage sometimes and helps out. He says he’s proud of me.”
They sat in silence, looking at each other. Artyom looked older than his twenty-six years, but in a good way. There was a new steadiness in his movements, a calm in his eyes.
“Anya,” he said at last, “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I was a burden on everyone for so many years…”
“Tyoma,” Anna interrupted him, “you weren’t a burden. You were a spoiled child. That’s different.”
“Maybe. But I’m not a child anymore.”
“Not anymore.”
Artyom stood and walked to the window. The same rainy autumn—only a year later.
“You know what’s strangest?” he said without turning around. “I’ve become happier. I mean, I live better now, I have more money—yeah—and more responsibilities, but… but I’m happier. Do you understand?”
“I do. When you earn money yourself, you spend it differently. When you solve problems yourself, they don’t seem unsolvable.”
“Yeah. And also… I met a girl. Katya. She works at a bank, very serious, very grown-up. I like being with her. We’re planning to move in together.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He turned to her. “Anya, can I come by sometimes? Just to talk. I’ve missed you.”
“Of course you can.”
They hugged—tight, real, like in childhood, before there were cars, debts, and resentments.
“By the way, I have a car now too,” Artyom said, stepping back. “I bought a wrecked Toyota. Repaired it myself—now it’s like new.”
“Good for you.”
“Thank you. For not letting me stay a child forever.”
After he left, Anna sat in the kitchen for a long time, studying the chrysanthemums. They were truly beautiful—yellow, lush, with a tart autumn fragrance.
She thought about how often love for those close to us makes us hurt them. How hard it is to refuse when someone asks for help. How important it is sometimes to say “no,” so that a person can say “yes” to themselves.
It was still raining outside, but now it seemed not dreary, but cleansing—washing away old grievances, fears, childish illusions. Making room for something new, adult, real.
Anna put the flowers in a vase and turned on the kettle. Tomorrow would be a new day, and today she was simply glad she had a brother. A real, grown-up brother who now knew how to solve problems—and bring flowers.