Viktor was setting the table when he heard the doorbell. Sunday lunch with his son had become a warm tradition over the past few months, and the father always tried to make something tasty. Today he’d roasted chicken with potatoes and chopped a fresh salad.
“Hi, Dad!” Maksim burst into the apartment with such a wide smile that his eyes seemed to sparkle. He looked unusually pleased with himself—almost glowing with a private sense of triumph.
“Hello, son. Come in, sit down. Everything’s ready,” Viktor gestured toward the table and reached for the pitcher of fruit compote.
But Maksim didn’t hurry to sit. He paced around the kitchen, clearly struggling to keep in some news, and finally blurted it out:
“Dad, can you believe it? I bought a car! A brand-new crossover—black metallic, top trim, fully loaded. It’s an absolute beauty!”
Viktor froze with a plate in his hands and stared at his son in surprise.
“A car? That’s wonderful—congratulations! You’ve wanted one for a long time?”
“Two years, at least,” Maksim said, dropping into a chair and pulling out his phone. He started scrolling through photos. “Look—there it is. One hundred eighty horsepower, leather interior, dual-zone climate control. I picked it up from the dealership yesterday—it still smells new.”
Viktor took the phone and studied the pictures. The car really did look impressive—clearly not cheap. He knew the market well; he’d worked in an auto shop once. A crossover like that would cost at least 2.5 million rubles, maybe more.
“Beautiful—no question,” he said, handing the phone back and sitting across from him. “But how did you… I mean, how did you manage to save for it?”
Maksim grimaced, as if the question irritated him.
“Dad, you know I work. I earn decent money. You just don’t know every detail of my life.”
“I’m not saying you don’t,” Viktor replied gently. “It’s just a big amount. I’m worried you didn’t get yourself into debt…”
“What debt?” Maksim waved it off раздражённо. “You don’t understand finances. I’ve got everything under control. I know how to handle money. Don’t worry about me.”
Viktor wanted to keep asking, but he noticed the shift in his son’s face. Maksim clearly didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and Viktor decided not to ruin the mood. Maybe the kid really had saved up, or picked up side work. Viktor poured compote into their glasses and changed the subject.
The next three months passed quietly. Viktor worked at a factory as a section foreman, coming home tired but satisfied. Retirement was still far away, but he’d started thinking about what he’d do once he finally had time. Maybe finish the little country house, or take fishing seriously.
From time to time, Maksim sent photos of his crossover—outside a shopping center, by a lake outside the city. He was clearly enjoying the purchase, and Viktor was happy for him. Questions about where the money came from still lingered, but his son looked genuinely happy, and that seemed like what mattered.
Wednesday morning began like any other. Viktor was getting ready for work, finishing his coffee in the kitchen, when his phone rang. The number was unfamiliar—a city line.
“Hello, speaking,” he answered, lifting the phone to his ear while buttoning his jacket.
“Viktor Semyonovich? Good afternoon. This is Trust Bank. My name is Svetlana Igorevna. Do you have a moment to talk?”
Viktor frowned. He hadn’t taken out any loans or opened any accounts at that bank. His first thought was telemarketers trying to sell something.
“Yes, I’m listening. What is this about?”
“Well, Viktor Semyonovich,” the woman said, “you are listed as a guarantor on an auto loan issued by our bank. Unfortunately, the loan has become delinquent. The borrower has not made payments for three months, and the overdue amount is 187,000 rubles. Under the guarantor agreement, we are obligated to contact you and demand payment of the arrears.”
Viktor went still. The blood drained from his face, and for a few seconds he couldn’t force out a word. Guarantor? Auto loan? What was she even talking about?
“I’m sorry, but there must be a mistake,” he finally managed. “I have never signed any guarantor documents. I don’t know anything about any loan.”
“Viktor Semyonovich, we have all the documents with your signature. The guarantor agreement was executed three months ago when the loan was issued. Are you sure you don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember because I didn’t sign anything!” Viktor felt his hands begin to shake. “At least tell me the borrower’s name.”
“One moment… The borrower is Maksimov Maksim Viktorovich. Is that your relative?”
Viktor sank into a chair.
His son.
His own son. The new crossover, the pride, the confidence that everything was “under control”… So that was how the car had appeared. Maksim had taken out a loan and somehow made his father the guarantor—without Viktor even knowing.
“I… I need to figure this out,” Viktor muttered. “I’ll call you back.”
He ended the call and immediately dialed Maksim. The rings stretched on painfully long, but finally his son picked up.
“Yes, Dad? What happened?”
“What happened?!” Viktor couldn’t hold back the shout. “The bank just called me! You told me you bought that car yourself! Why is the bank calling me?!”
Silence. Viktor could hear his son breathing heavily into the phone, clearly trying to decide how to answer.
“Listen, Dad… yeah, I took out a loan. You wouldn’t have helped me if I asked, so I handled it myself…”
“What right did you have to make me a guarantor without my consent?!” Viktor’s voice trembled with rage and hurt. “I never signed anything!”
“And you should pay that loan!” Maksim suddenly snapped. “What are you, my father or what? You never gave me anything my whole life! No apartment, no car—nothing! Other parents help their kids—what did you ever do?”
Viktor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His son wasn’t even trying to justify himself—he was demanding Viktor pay instead.
“Maksim, do you hear yourself? You tricked me into being a guarantor!”
“What trick?” Maksim scoffed. “You’re my father—your job is to help me! What is it now, two hundred thousand? Big deal. You’ll pay it off in six months and forget about it.”
“I don’t have that kind of money! I work, and I barely have enough for living expenses and utilities!”
“That’s your problem,” Maksim said coldly. “You should’ve earned more. Now you’ll pay. There’s a contract, there’s a signature, and the bank will squeeze you by the throat. So either pay, or deal with the bailiffs yourself.”
“Are you serious?” Viktor didn’t recognize his own son in that cynical voice. “You want me to pay for you?”
“I don’t want it—I demand it. You owe me. You’ve owed me my whole life. And if you don’t want problems, you’d better start paying right now.”
“Maksim…”
“That’s it, I don’t have time. Conversation’s over,” his son said—and hung up.
Viktor sat in the kitchen staring at nothing. The phone slipped from his hand and hit the table. His ears rang and his thoughts tangled. How was this even possible? How could his own child—the boy he’d raised, fed, cared for—do this? Fake a signature, make him a guarantor, and then demand he pay?
The following days Viktor moved through a fog. At work his colleagues noticed he’d become distracted and absent-minded. He mixed up orders, forgot meetings, and couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. At night he barely slept, tossing in bed, replaying the call with Maksim over and over.
He tried to understand where he’d gone wrong as a father. Maybe he’d been too soft. Or maybe too strict. When Maksim was eight, his mother left the family, leaving the two of them alone. Viktor raised his son by himself, worked two jobs, did everything he could to provide what was necessary. Maksim wasn’t a top student, but he’d seemed like a decent kid. After school he went to a technical college, then got a job as a manager at some company. Viktor didn’t pry into his life—he trusted him.
And this was the result: betrayal, cynicism, and a complete lack of conscience. Maksim hadn’t just deceived his father—he had planned it, coldly set him up for a huge debt, and felt no remorse at all.
Viktor understood he couldn’t pay this loan. His salary was 45,000 rubles. After utilities, food, and other expenses, maybe 15,000 remained—at best. He had almost no savings; he’d recently renovated the bathroom and spent everything he’d put aside. If the bank forced him to pay, it would ruin him.
For a week Viktor wrestled with doubt, then made a decision. He couldn’t let his son use him without consequence. It hurt, it was terrifying—but it was necessary. Viktor went to the bank, obtained a copy of the guarantor agreement, and booked a consultation with a lawyer.
The lawyer was a man in his fifties with sharp, observant eyes. He examined the documents carefully, held the contract up to the light more than once, and studied the signature through a magnifying glass.
“Viktor Semyonovich,” he asked at last, “are you absolutely sure you didn’t sign this?”
“I’m certain,” Viktor said, clenching his fists. “I’m seeing it for the first time. My son did it without my knowledge.”
“I understand. Then we’ll need a handwriting examination,” the lawyer said. “In my experience, this signature looks suspicious. See here—the pressure is uneven, the lines tremble. When a signature is forged, that’s often what happens: someone slowly draws it, trying to copy another person’s hand.”
“So what do I do?”
“You file a lawsuit to have the guarantor agreement declared invalid. If the examination confirms forgery, the bank won’t be able to demand anything from you. The debt will remain solely with the borrower—your son.” The lawyer leaned back. “But you realize this will destroy your relationship.”
Viktor nodded.
“It’s already destroyed. After what he did—and the way he spoke to me—I have to protect myself.”
They filed the claim. The court proceedings dragged on for two months. Maksim didn’t even show up to the first hearing—he sent his attorney. The attorney tried to argue that Viktor simply forgot signing the documents, but the judge ordered a forensic examination.
As the case unfolded, new details emerged. It turned out that an employee at the bank branch where the loan was issued—an Oleg Krasnov—was an old acquaintance of Maksim’s from school. He was the one who helped make the whole scheme work. Oleg falsified paperwork, entered a forged signature into the bank’s system, and retroactively registered the guarantor agreement.
Once this came to light, the bank launched an internal investigation. Krasnov was fired immediately, and the materials were handed over to law enforcement. He was facing criminal charges for official forgery and fraud.
Maksim finally appeared at the second hearing. Viktor saw him in the courthouse corridor and tried to approach, but Maksim turned away and stared pointedly at his phone. In the courtroom he sat with a dark expression, refusing to look at his father.
The expert witness delivered a detailed report. She brought enlarged images of signatures, pressure graphs, handwriting analysis. The conclusion was unequivocal: the signature on the guarantor agreement was not made by Viktor Semyonovich, but by another person attempting to imitate his handwriting. The match rate was only 38 percent—clear evidence of forgery.
Maksim’s lawyer tried to poke holes, asked tricky questions, but the expert held firm. The evidence was unshakable.
“Does this mean my client intentionally forged his father’s signature?” the attorney asked.
“I cannot state who forged the signature,” the expert replied. “That is for the investigation to determine. I only confirm the fact: the signature is forged.”
The judge heard both sides and withdrew to deliberate. Viktor sat with his heart pounding. He glanced at Maksim—his son was staring at the wall, jaw clenched, muscles jumping in his cheek.
Twenty minutes later the judge returned and read the decision: the guarantor agreement was invalid. All claims against Viktor Semyonovich were dismissed. The entire debt remained with Maksimov Maksim Viktorovich as the sole borrower. The bank was ordered to remove Viktor from all documents and cease any collection actions against him.
Maksim shot to his feet.
“This is unfair! He’s my father—he has to help me!”
“Order in the court,” the judge said sharply. “The decision has been made and is final. The hearing is adjourned.”
Viktor walked out of the courthouse with a heavy feeling. He had won and protected himself, but there was no joy in it—only emptiness and bitterness.
That same evening Maksim called. Viktor stared at the name on the screen for a long time before finally pressing the green button.
“Happy now?” his son’s voice dripped with venom. “You ruined my life. Now I’ll have to pay that loan myself, and I won’t be able to. The bank will take the car, sue me—everything is because of you!”
“Maksim, you chose this path yourself,” Viktor said, exhausted. “You forged my signature, you deceived me…”
“And you betrayed me!” Maksim shouted. “A father took his own son to court! You only thought about yourself—your pathetic money! I mean nothing to you!”
“You mean a lot to me, but I can’t let you use me—”
“Shut up!” Maksim barked. “I never want to see or hear you again! You’re dead to me! I don’t have a father anymore! That’s it—forget you ever had a son!”
The line went dead.
Viktor set the phone on the table and covered his face with his hands. He wanted to cry, scream, pound the wall—but he just sat in the silence of his apartment, feeling hollow inside.
A month passed. Viktor tried to call Maksim several times, but his son never answered. He was blocked on every social network. Viktor even tried writing to his work email, but his messages went unanswered.
He understood he had lost his son—maybe forever. The thought was unbearable. Yet deep down Viktor also knew he’d done the right thing. Maksim had deliberately, coldly set him up—he was willing to destroy his father’s life for his own benefit. He felt no remorse, never asked forgiveness—he only demanded, accused, manipulated.
If Viktor had given in and started paying, it wouldn’t have solved anything. Maksim would have felt untouchable, and next time he would do something worse. People like that don’t stop when they’re allowed to step on others.
Viktor sat in the kitchen, sipping tea and looking out the window. On the shelf stood a photo: Viktor and little Maksim on a fishing trip. A boy of about six, eyes shining with excitement, holding a small crucian carp in his hands. Viktor had been so happy then, so proud.
Where did that boy go? When did he become a cynical manipulator, ready to betray the one person who loved him unconditionally? Viktor didn’t know. Maybe mistakes in upbringing, maybe bad influence, maybe simply his nature.
He didn’t blame himself anymore. He’d done what he could, the best he knew how. After that, the choice belonged to Maksim—and Maksim had chosen betrayal. Viktor protected himself, and that was right.
Even if the price was losing his only child.
The phone lay silent on the table.
Maksim never called again.