Vera, stop already,” Igor snapped irritably, pushing away his unfinished bowl of borscht. “How long can you keep making scenes over this? Anya is our guest. She’ll be leaving soon.”
“Guest?” she snorted disdainfully. “She’s been ‘guesting’ here for three months already. She bought a three-thousand-ruble bottle of wine, slathered caviar on her sandwich, and you tell me this is normal? Payday is a week away, and she’s living it up at our expense!”
“You call this ‘living it up’?” Igor slammed his hand on the table. “Just yesterday she was telling me how hard the divorce has been on her. I’m not a monster to abandon my own sister in such a time.”
“Own sister, own sister,” Vera repeated, tasting the words. “So, I’m picking discounted apples at the market, and she’s buying expensive perfume on your card? Have you even asked her why she’s doing this?”
Anya left the room, a cup of tea with lemon in hand and a look of deep offense on her face.
“Oh, sorry to interrupt. I’ll go so you can continue your scene without me. As they say, he who rules the house commands,” she threw out, lifting her chin defiantly.
“Anya, wait!” Igor stood up abruptly, but his sister had already vanished into her room, slamming the door behind her.
“There goes your ‘guest’,” Vera remarked coldly. “Slamming doors, buying things with our money, and thinking she’s in the right.”
“Why did you attack her?” Igor walked to the window and lit a cigarette. “Isn’t there enough tension at home already?”
“Tension?” Vera smirked, clenching her fists. “You call this tension? She’s draining everything from us. Today you give her money, tomorrow she’ll ask to borrow the car. And the day after? Do you even think about how we live?”
Igor was silent, staring out the black window. Somewhere in the darkness, stray dogs called to each other.
“She’s only here temporarily,” he finally said quietly. “Just temporarily.”
“You’ve been saying ‘temporarily’ for three months, Igor. And you know what’s the funniest part? She won’t even thank you when she leaves. She’ll just go back to Voronezh and brag about how she squeezed everything she could out of ‘Moscow.'”
Igor stubbed out his cigarette and returned to the table. His face was tired, his eyes looking past Vera.
“What do you want me to do? Throw her out on the street?”
“No,” Vera got up and began clearing the table. “I want you to finally open your eyes.”
The kitchen fell silent. Only the sound of the refrigerator broke it, but even that seemed tense, strained.
“Alright, let’s go to sleep,” Igor said, wearily rubbing his temples.
“Go ahead. I still have dishes to wash,” Vera replied, not looking at her husband.
Igor left, and Vera stayed alone. She looked at the sandwich with caviar that remained on the plate. Slowly, almost mechanically, she picked it up, walked to the trash can, and threw it away.
Through the wall came a sound: the radio from Anya’s room. She was playing an old chanson. Vera involuntarily smirked: “Quite symbolic. As they say, to each their own.”
“You wouldn’t believe it, Igor, I was reading about this smart person yesterday, what’s his… that one, what was his name… Well, the one who wrote about success! Anyway, he says: ‘Life is like chess, and if you’re a pawn, don’t complain when you’re eaten.’ What do you think, true, right?” Anya sat on the couch, idly twirling a coffee cup in her hands.
Igor, sitting beside her, vaguely nodded, not taking his eyes off his phone.
“Mm-hmm. And who’s the queen in your version?” Vera walked by them into the room, adjusting her hair after a shower. Her voice carried a light sarcasm.
“Well, I’m definitely not a pawn,” Anya smirked, not hiding her dig. “You know, Vera, sometimes it’s better to keep quiet than to show that you don’t understand smart thoughts.”
“Oh, forgive me generously, I just came from the market—where all thoughts are appropriate,” Vera retorted, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
Igor sighed, surveying the apartment. It seemed smaller than usual, especially since his sister had moved in. Anya had always been loud, vibrant—since childhood. She could make their parents watch her “concerts” of songs, stories, and dances right in front of the TV. Vera called her “the self-proclaimed queen.”
After their father’s death, only their mother remained, who doted on her youngest daughter. Anya had grown used to being pampered from a young age. Her school achievements—though not outstanding—were praised as if she were solving Nobel-level problems. When Igor moved to Moscow to earn money, Anya embraced her role as “the center of the universe” even more. But time changed everything.
“Could you stop doing this?” Igor suddenly said to Anya.
“What exactly?” She raised her eyebrows, feigning ignorance.
“These… quotes. You don’t even know who wrote them.”
“Am I to blame if you don’t understand philosophy?” she challenged. “In Voronezh, they respect me for that.”
Igor fell silent. In Voronezh. Since Anya’s divorce, her frequent references to her hometown grew louder, but the bitterness behind them was clear. The divorce had been scandalous: her husband had run up debts, and Anya had struggled to cover them with her “active job searching,” which never succeeded.
“Igor, bring me another blanket,” she requested, as if to distract from the awkward pause. “It’s gotten cold.”
“Get it yourself,” he muttered.
“There you go! You could help your sister,” she turned away, offended.
Vera knew this story in all its details. Anya came to Moscow “to relax from the stresses” for a couple of weeks and stayed. At first, she still pretended to look for a job, asking Vera for advice, attending interviews. But she quickly grew tired. Now her “search for herself” more resembled staying at home: she read “motivational books,” scrolled through Instagram, and took money from her brother’s family budget for her needs.
Vera couldn’t bear it. Every time she saw how Anya freely and thoughtlessly managed their money, indignation boiled inside her.
In one conversation with a friend, she blurted out:
“You know, Katya, I understand everything, sure, own sister, need to help. But she sits at home like a lady. You should see how she eats caviar by the spoonful!”
“What does Igor say?” Katya asked.
“As usual, silent. Afraid to argue with her,” Vera replied bitterly. “I feel like a guest in my own apartment. And she’s the mistress.”
Anya loved to repeat: “Female friendship isn’t for us, Vera.” And this was the only phrase of hers that Vera could call truthful.
“Well, here’s your…,” Vera stood in the kitchen, holding a receipt. Her voice trembled with anger, but she tried to speak calmly. “Shampoo for thirteen hundred rubles? Anya, are you serious?”
Anya, dressed as if for a social gathering, emerged from the bathroom. She glanced at Vera and smirked:
“Do you have an allergy to numbers? Or are you just jealous that I take care of myself? A woman should always look decent. As they say, clothes make the man.”
“And others foot the bill, right?” Vera crumpled the receipt in her hand. “Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Me?” Anya crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry, what should I be ashamed of? Am I taking bread from your mouth? Or sending you to sleep on the floor in the hallway? And besides, if it comes to that, Igor himself said, ‘Take what you need.’ So your complaint is misplaced, Vera.”
Vera stepped closer, squinting:
“Listen, our wise one, have you ever thought that we can’t afford your ‘needs’? That I eat soup for lunch all month because our budget is bursting at the seams? Or do you not care, as long as you look ‘decent’?”
Anya snorted and lazily leaned back in her chair.
“Vera, you’re so petty. Honestly, you remind me of one of those women who see a problem everywhere. You know, as Chekhov said…”
“Anya, if you open your mouth now to quote Chekhov, I…,” Vera clenched her fists, but didn’t finish her sentence. “Just stop. You’re here as a guest. I repeat: a guest. We don’t have extra money to sponsor your experiments with cosmetics and champagne.”
“Oh, why are you shouting,” Anya waved her hand. “You have your own apartment, there’s food, a car in the courtyard. I’m even surprised you’re so worried. You know, back in Voronezh, people are much simpler about helping relatives.”
“And in Voronezh, do you also freeload off someone like this?” Vera couldn’t hold back.
Igor, just returned from work, froze at the kitchen threshold. In his hands was a bag with bread and milk. He set it down and tiredly looked at both women.
“Again?” he asked, taking off his jacket. “I just walked in, and it’s already war.”
“War because your sister,” Vera pointed at Anya, “spends our money like she won a lottery. Have you even seen this receipt? Shampoo more expensive than our monthly internet subscription!”
“Igor, don’t listen to her,” Anya stood up and flirtatiously adjusted her hair. “I just took what’s necessary. You said helping family is sacred.”
“I said, but…,” Igor hesitated, looking at Vera. “Maybe, really, don’t buy such expensive things?”
Anya threw her hands up, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.
“Igor, are you serious? You’re letting her yell at me like this? We’re family, not her. You always defended me, and now what?”
“Defended?” Vera laughed bitterly. “Who else needs defending here? She spends our money, drives your car, and you don’t even say a word. You know what, Igor? I can’t do this anymore.”
Igor removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Enough,” he raised his hand, stopping them. “I said, enough.”
Vera defiantly looked at him:
“Either she leaves, or I do.”
Anya gasped as if she’d heard a death sentence.
“Did you hear that, Igor? That’s blackmail. She’s trying to destroy our family!”
“Anya, be quiet,” Igor said quietly, looking at the floor.
Vera clenched her teeth. She knew this was the calm before the storm.
Anya sat in her room, clicking on her phone screen. She looked offended but confident—clearly thinking she’d be defended. In the next room, Vera and Igor continued their conversation.
“Do you understand that this can’t go on?” Vera looked at her husband directly, without the usual sarcasm. “She’s driving us out of our home. I’m tired. You either solve this issue, or I’m leaving. No jokes.”
Igor nervously tapped his fingers on the table. He wasn’t used to such ultimatums from Vera. Confusion flickered in his eyes, but he tried to compose himself.
“What if she gets offended?” he finally managed. “You know Anya. She’ll tell everyone that I kicked her out, that you hate her. How will I then look my mother in the eye?”
“Your mother?” Vera smirked, but without joy. “Your mother doesn’t care how we live here. She’s always only cared about her Annushka being happy. Have you ever thought about what will happen to me if this continues? Or am I not your family?”
Igor opened his mouth but found nothing to say.
“Fine, be silent. I already know everything,” Vera stood up, grabbed her coat and bag from the rack. “I’ll go to Katya’s. It might be cramped there, but no one will eat caviar at my expense.”
“Wait, Vera, where are you going?” Igor jumped up, grabbed her hand. “Why are you doing this all of a sudden?”
“Because I can’t take it anymore, Igor,” she pulled her hand away. “It’s your sister, you deal with it. But I won’t come back here while she’s still here.”
Vera left, slamming the door.
Anya appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later.
“Well, how did your family drama go?” she shook her head, smiling. “See, what did I tell you—women don’t understand each other.”
“Anya, let’s skip your ‘wise’ conclusions,” Igor said tiredly. “Do you realize that because of you she left?”
“Because of me?” Anya feigned surprise. “I wasn’t the one making ultimatums. It’s her with the ‘either me or the sister’ attitude. Well, brother, you choose.”
Igor slowly stood up and looked at her in a way he never had before.
“Anya,” he began quietly. “Tomorrow morning you’re leaving.”
Anya froze. Her face showed genuine surprise.
“What? You’re serious? I’m your sister! Blood! Kin! And this Vera of yours… She’s here today, gone tomorrow…”
“Tomorrow you’re leaving,” Igor interrupted her, his voice steady. “I can’t take this anymore. Vera is right. You’ve been thinking only of yourself all this time. I supported you when you came here. But now it’s crossed all the lines.”
“You’ll regret this,” she said, stepping back. “Socrates was right: the real enemies are those close to you.”
“Anya, enough,” Igor sat down. “Just enough.”
She stood for another minute, staring at him, then snorted, turned around, and went back to her room.
The next morning, Anya packed her things, loudly slamming the closet doors. She didn’t bother to say goodbye. Igor stood by the window, silently watching as her taxi drove away. Inside, he felt no relief—only emptiness.
Vera returned in the evening. She didn’t say a word when she saw the apartment was empty. They sat in the kitchen for a long time, avoiding looking at each other. Only later into the night did Vera quietly say:
“You made the right choice.”
Igor didn’t respond. He silently smoked, staring into the darkness outside the window.