Anna stood by the window of her apartment, watching as the rain turned the October evening into a blurred watercolor. Thirty years old — an age when you no longer expect miracles, but still remember what they should be like. She worked at a consulting company, earned a decent salary, and rented a spacious apartment in a respectable neighborhood. Life was predictable and calm.
Her phone vibrated behind her. It was her mother’s number. Anna sighed, lowered the TV volume, and picked up the receiver.
“Anya, darling,” her mother’s voice sounded anxious, “are you home?”
“Yes, Mom. What’s 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 deliberately collect troubles.
Half an hour later, they were sitting at her kitchen table. Her father was silent, looking at his hands; her mother nervously fiddled with the strap of her purse.
“Do you know about Artyom?” her mother began.
“About what exactly?” Anna knew better than to guess.
“He… he got himself into trouble. Remember the money we gave him from selling the dacha? He bought a motorcycle…”
“Mom, we’ve already talked about this. I warned you the money should have been kept in a deposit, not handed straight to Artyom.”
“Sweetheart, he promised!” Her mother’s voice took on almost childlike tones. “He was going to rent an apartment, marry Lena…”
“But instead, he started burning through the money at bars, Lena left him, and he bought a motorcycle to ‘heal his broken heart,’” Anna continued. “Did I guess right?”
Her father finally looked up.
“He crashed into a car in a parking lot. An expensive car. A Porsche.”
“No insurance?”
“No,” her mother answered quietly. “You know him — he always thought nothing bad could happen to him.”
Anna poured herself some tea, trying not to show irritation. Artyom always thought nothing bad could happen because his parents always bailed him out.
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand,” her mother exhaled. “The car owner agreed to installments, but we urgently need to pay half, otherwise he’ll collect through bailiffs.”
Anna nodded. It made sense. Now the real fun would begin.
“Anya, darling,” her mother took her hand, “we decided to sell your car.”
“My car?”
“Well, technically it’s registered in your father’s name,” her mother quickly added. “We gave it to you when we sold the dacha. But now Artyom has problems, and you can walk. You’re still young, healthy.”
Anna gently pulled her hand away.
“I don’t agree.”
“Honey, it’s family,” her mother raised her voice. “Artyom is your brother! He’s suffering, not sleeping, he’s lost weight!”
“Mom, has he tried working? Or at least registering with employment services?”
“Anya, what job could he find in a week?” her mother looked at her with disbelief. “He can’t make that much right away!”
“But I could lose the car in a week?”
Her father finally spoke. His voice was quiet but firm.
“Anya, we’ve already decided. Your opinion doesn’t matter now. The car is in my name; I can sell it anytime. I don’t want to argue, but there’s no choice.”
Anna looked at her father. This man taught her to ride a bike, read her bedtime stories, was proud of her college achievements. Now he calmly said her opinion didn’t matter.
“Dad,” she spoke slowly, choosing her words, “what happens next time? When Artyom gets into trouble again?”
“There won’t be a next time,” her mother answered quickly. “He promised he wouldn’t gamble anymore, he wouldn’t…”
“Mom, he’s promised that five times already.”
“Anya, how can you say that!” her mother started crying. “He’s your brother! How can you be so cruel?”
Anna stood and went to the window. The rain intensified. She thought about how six months ago Artyom asked her for money “for essentials,” and she gave him twenty thousand. Later she found out he spent it on new sneakers and going to a restaurant with friends.
“You know what,” she turned 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 is that?”
“Very simply. I had a power of attorney from Dad when I was handling the dacha sale. I forged the gift agreement and re-registered the car in my name. I knew sooner or later it would have to be sold for Artyom’s sake.”
“You… you forged documents?” her father looked at her in disbelief.
“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 her heart.
“Anya, how can you! We’re family!”
“That’s exactly why I’m doing it,” Anna sat back down at the table. “Mom, Dad, you’re not helping Artyom. You’re making him disabled. At twenty-five, he can’t solve a single problem on his own because he knows you’ll always find a way out.”
“But he’ll be lost!” her mother cried. “They’ll put him in jail!”
“They won’t jail him for debts. At most, they’ll ban him from traveling abroad, and he doesn’t go anywhere anyway. But he’ll finally understand that actions have consequences.”
Her father was silent, staring at the table. Anna saw him struggling with himself.
“Anya,” he finally said quietly, “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 differently. And you don’t know how to say no to him.”
“Darling,” her mother took her hands, “what are you doing? He’s your brother!”
“That’s why I won’t give him money. Mom, look at him. Twenty-five, living with parents, unemployed, betting his last money on sports. He’s degrading, and you don’t see it.”
“He’s just… he just hasn’t found himself yet,” her mother said confused.
“At twenty-five, it’s time to find himself. Or at least start looking.”
Her parents left without achieving anything. Anna stayed alone, sitting in the kitchen drinking cold tea. The phone was silent — obviously, they went to Artyom to deliver the bad news.
An hour later, her brother called.
“Anya, are you crazy?” His voice trembled with anger. “Do you understand what you’re doing?”
“I understand, Tyoma. For the first time in a long time, I understand.”
“They can put me in jail!”
“They can’t. They don’t jail for debts.”
“Anya, I’m begging you!” Now he was crying. “That guy is serious! That’s money! Where will I get it?”
“Where everyone gets money. At work.”
“What work? Who needs me?”
“Tyoma, you can drive a car. You can talk to people. You have hands and a head. You’ll find a job.”
“In a week?”
“Maybe. Or maybe you can negotiate a longer installment plan with the car owner. Adults usually cooperate when they see someone trying.”
“Anya,” his voice softened, “why are you so cruel? This could happen to anyone!”
“Not anyone, Tyoma. Only an irresponsible person who not only hasn’t learned to drive properly but didn’t even bother to buy insurance!”
He hung up.
The next months were hard. Her parents barely called. When Anna visited, the atmosphere in the house was always heavy. Her mother sighed loudly, her father was silent. They didn’t talk about Artyom, but his absence was felt in every word.
From fragments of conversations, Anna understood her brother was really looking for work. At first, he tried simple jobs: courier, driver, loader. Then he got a job at a car service — washing cars and handing tools. The pay was small, but it was work.
Surprisingly, the owner of the wrecked Lexus turned out to be understanding. Learning Artyom really worked, he agreed to the installment plan. Artyom moved into an apartment he rented with two other guys. Parents helped with the deposit but refused to give more money — Anna insisted firmly.
“Mom, if you give him money, he’ll quit immediately,” she said during one rare visit. “Let him learn to rely on himself.”
“But he eats only buckwheat,” her mother complained. “So thin and pale.”
“Then he’ll find a better job or a side gig.”
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. It turned out he had a knack for mechanics — his hands were skilled, and he was smart enough to understand new things.
Anna learned this in bits and pieces from her parents, who gradually thawed. Her mother still thought she was cruel, but her father sometimes told with cautious pride how Artyom fixed a neighbor’s car or helped a friend with wiring.
About a year after that kitchen conversation, someone rang Anna’s doorbell. She opened it and saw Artyom. He stood there holding a bouquet of flowers, tanned and fit.
“Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”
Anna silently stepped aside. Artyom entered the kitchen, placed the flowers on the counter, and sat on the same chair where her father sat a year ago.
“Beautiful flowers,” Anna said. “Chrysanthemums.”
“Thanks.” He paused, looking at his hands. Now they were worker’s hands — calloused, scratched, with ingrained dirt under the nails. “I came to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not giving me money.”
Anna sat across from him.
“Well, tell me.”
“I opened my own garage. Small, in a garage, but my own. I repair cars, sell parts. I earn decently. I even paid off the debt to that man long ago.”
“Congratulations.”
“You know,” Artyom looked up, “I hated you back then. Thought you were just greedy and cruel. Didn’t understand why you couldn’t help your brother.”
“And now you understand?”
“Now I do. If you’d given me money, I’d still be sitting at home waiting for my parents to solve my problems. But this way… I had to grow up.”
Anna nodded.
“Was it hard?”
“You have no idea how hard,” Artyom answered honestly. “The first months, I thought every day about quitting. Working for pennies, living with strangers, saving on food… But then I got used to it. And I realized I like working with my hands. I like fixing cars, figuring out how everything works.”
“Don’t your parents spoil you now?”
“Mom tells everyone she has an entrepreneur son,” Artyom smiled. “Dad sometimes stops by the garage to help. 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. He moved confidently, and his eyes were calm.
“Anya,” he finally said, “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I was a burden to everyone for so many years…”
“Tyoma,” Anna interrupted, “you weren’t a burden. You were a spoiled child. That’s different.”
“Maybe. But now I’m not a child.”
“Now you’re not a child.”
Artyom stood and went to the window. The same rainy autumn, just one year later.
“You know what’s the strangest thing?” he said without turning. “I’m happier. I mean, I live better, have more money, sure, and more worries, 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 impossible.”
“Yes. And one more thing… I met a girl. Katya. She works at a bank, serious and grown-up. I enjoy being with her. We plan to live together.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He turned to her. “Anya, can I come visit you sometimes? Just to talk. I miss you.”
“Of course.”
They hugged — tightly, truly, like when they were kids, before there were cars, debts, and grudges.
“By the way, I have a car now,” Artyom said, stepping back. “I bought a beaten-up Toyota. Fixed it myself, now it’s like new.”
“Good for you.”
“Thanks to you. For not letting me stay a child forever.”
After he left, Anna sat for a long time in the kitchen, looking at the chrysanthemums. They were really beautiful — yellow, lush, with a sharp autumn scent.
She thought about how love for close ones often makes you hurt them. How hard it is to say no when asked for help. How important it is sometimes to say “no” so a person can say “yes” to themselves.
Outside the window, the rain was still falling, but now it seemed not gloomy, but cleansing. Washing away old grudges, fears, childhood illusions. Preparing the way for something new, adult, real.
Anna put the flowers in a vase and turned on the kettle. Tomorrow would be a new day, but today she was simply glad she had a brother. A real, grown-up brother who now knew how to solve problems and give flowers.