When your own blood turns to poison and family ties become a choking noose, the only salvation is escape. But what do you do when the past catches up with you even in your new life, knocks at the door of your happiness, and demands its share? My story is about how I learned to say “no” to those who thought they owned me just because we were bound by blood—and about the price I had to pay for the right to be myself.
The doorbell rang like a gunshot in the silence of our cozy home. I opened it and saw a tall, gaunt figure in dark sunglasses and a headscarf. But even that ridiculous disguise couldn’t hide the person I would have recognized among a thousand.
“Hello, Ksenia,” she said, taking off her glasses. “Didn’t expect to see your dear little sister?”
Alla. My younger sister, whom I hadn’t seen for five years. The very one I once ran from to save my life and my sanity.
“No,” I answered honestly. “I didn’t expect it at all.”
“But nobody plans surprises, so I decided to amaze you… Where’s your kitchen? I’m dying of hunger.”
Without any invitation she walked into the house, greeted my husband Andrey, and settled on the couch like she owned the place.
“Make me some tea. With cookies. Oatmeal ones are best—you remember how I adore them.”
“Should I bring out a Napoleon cake too?” I snapped.
“Cake? Do you have one?”
I gave her a reproachful look, and, taking the hint, Alla got to the point:
“Fine, I won’t drag it out. I see you’ve done well for yourselves here. What an apartment! And your husband isn’t bad either…”
“Thank you,” Andrey muttered.
Alla gave him an appraising once-over and, without the slightest embarrassment, nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Then she continued:
“So. You know how hard things are for me right now. Let me remind you I’m your own sister—if that still means anything. Even if there was bad blood between us before, so what? Let’s forget the past and start with a clean slate. We’ve both grown up, changed; things can be different now.”
Andrey and I exchanged glances and waited her out.
“You’ve bought yourself a great apartment, which means you can provide housing for me too,” my sister declared.
“I see. The same old tune. We’ve heard it plenty from the relatives.”
“Well, now you’ll hear it from me in person. It’s a great tune, by the way. Is it my fault I can’t earn money myself? I try as hard as I can… And I’ve barely got enough for oatmeal cookies… and I love them so much, you know that.”
“Enough with the lamenting. It’s getting old. If that’s the only reason you came, you can leave. I don’t have extra money, and I have no intention of spending it on you.”
“But—”
“Out of my house.”
“All right, all right,” she grumbled, heading for the door, tossing one more meaningful look at Andrey.
But to understand that scene, we need to go back to the beginning—to the little town where we grew up together: Mom, Dad, me, and Alla. It might sound ideal, but there was no harmony in our family.
For some reason, our parents idolized my younger sister. To them she was perfection, the embodiment of everything good in the world. Maybe I’m just jealous, but I never thought there was anything special about Alla. Quite the opposite.
If either of us misbehaved or made a mess, it was her—while I was doing my homework. When something broke, she immediately blamed me, and our parents believed her without question. To them she was an unquestionable authority.
Alla could say anything she wanted about me, and she did so regularly. She took pleasure in my being scolded for things I had never done. I watched her walk around the room with a vase in her hands, shooting me spiteful looks.
She demanded that I do her school assignments for her, since unlike her I always studied well. When I refused to obey, she’d smash dishes, wreak havoc in the house, and tell our parents I was keeping her from studying. No one believed my explanations.
I was forbidden to go outside, locked in at home. They wouldn’t let me go anywhere, and my friends weren’t allowed to visit me either. Meanwhile, Alla’s crowd came over constantly and behaved exactly like she did.
My sister could at least have appreciated me a little. After all, I watched her when she was little. My parents used me as free childcare. It seemed they didn’t need me for anything else.
Becoming a servant in your own home is a dubious pleasure. Naturally, I dreamed of getting rid of that nightmare as soon as possible. All those years under my parents’ roof, nothing changed: they were satisfied with the arrangement—and Alla, even more so.
What’s more, in our small town everyone more or less knew what things were like in our family, and many looked at me as a servant. No one was going to help me. I had to solve everything on my own.
And I did. It’s a good thing that today anyone can reach their goals if they try hard enough. A couple of centuries ago I would have had to spend my whole life in my hometown—born there, doomed to stay there. Now, by getting into a university, you can become free.
I left for the big city. Secretly, without telling my parents. I’d heard their conversations about my future. They expected me to enroll in the local institute so everything would stay the same. If they’d known my plans, they wouldn’t have let me go, so I had to act decisively—and I did.
The big city changed everything, and I began to see myself differently. My family had drummed into me that I was only fit for menial work. Little by little, I began to accept that idea. A little more, and I would have believed that nonsense. But the metropolis breathed new strength into me. Here anyone can become whoever they want.
I hadn’t come to have fun—I came to study. That was what mattered most to me, because education is what sets us free.
I was given a place in the dorm, which I’d really been counting on. I had no idea how much that housing would change my life. There I found true friends, and everything was as it should be: songs with a guitar, sleepless nights over textbooks… For the first time I felt that I mattered to someone, that someone cared about me. There I felt part of a common life—fully part of it.
And most important—at the dorm I met my future husband. In the mornings I’d go to the kitchen to make coffee. That’s where we met. He sat on a chair in the corner, studying physics while simultaneously frying pancakes. But each time he got so absorbed in science that the pancakes turned into black discs. He was probably searching for the formula for ideal pancakes: how to flip them, how to toss them… That’s exactly what I teased him about, and that’s how our friendship began—soon turning into something more.
All through university I never once visited my parents’ house, even though they invited me and said they weren’t angry and had forgiven my escape. But I didn’t trust them. I knew too well what their promises were worth. I’d fallen for that bait too many times. If I had gone, who knows whether they would have let me come back.
Alla didn’t even try to get in touch with me. She, it seems, hadn’t changed at all. To this day she’s probably still smiling that same malicious smile and smashing dishes in front of someone else. Now that I’m far away, she’s lost interest: before, at least, she could torment me; now what? Boring. Out of sight, out of mind.
After graduating, Andrey and I quickly found good jobs. At first we rented an apartment, then moved into a place of our own—my husband’s parents helped a great deal. I don’t know what we would have done without them. Thanks to them, I finally became convinced that love and care exist not only in fairy tales. I used to think all families were like mine. But here everything was completely different.
My in-laws loved me; they called me their daughter. That meant the world to me. When they asked about my relatives, I mumbled something vague, and soon they seemed to understand and stopped asking.
Our new apartment was the start of our new life. Even we ourselves seemed slightly transformed as we crossed the threshold. Here, everything would be nothing like it was back home. I promised myself that from the very start. The windows in both rooms were huge, and the sun came through them like a big golden cat. Everything looked so joyful, so welcoming, that you couldn’t help believing: we would make it.
In those first days my husband and I literally danced through the empty rooms. We turned on music and danced, trying not to bump into the boxes. I jumped for joy. I didn’t need a trampoline—another moment and I’d have burst through the ceiling.
Everything came true, everything happened just as I wanted. I’ve always believed the main thing is to do the right things. I’ve always followed my heart, which gets along quite well with my mind. At first it wasn’t easy. I had to work a lot and come home late, but freedom was worth it. Not for a moment did I forget the swamp I’d climbed out of.
Naturally, my relatives reminded me of themselves from time to time. They were very envious of me, though they never said so outright. Oh no, they wove elaborate intrigues—but I turned out to be too much for them, and their schemes collapsed with a single flap of my wings.
They all tried to talk me into coming back. According to them, my husband was just a con man (though they didn’t know him at all). My kin urged me to come to my senses as soon as possible and return to my native parts. And what are those parts to me? A place where I was bossed around, where I was humiliated—that’s what. Naturally, I had no intention of going back—I hadn’t fought for my happiness just to let it slip from my hands.
And how many songs of praise did I hear about Alla? My parents made such sugary speeches in her defense that I was amazed—where had they learned to talk so prettily? They urged me to forget old grievances. Maybe my sister hurt me in childhood, but that’s the past. We should extend our hands to each other, smile, embrace…
She has it very hard right now. Not everyone can, like me, get into a university. And finding a good job is practically impossible. If I succeeded, it wasn’t because I’m special, just because I was lucky. Lucky, that’s all. Once they even mentioned some Granny Matryona who could “take away someone’s luck.” If I wouldn’t help my sister, they’d go to that very granny.
I was, of course, terrified. After all, what could be more dreadful than Granny Matryona’s magic.
Things with my husband kept going well. I wasn’t going to look back at the past. I wanted to move forward. My parents and sister had tormented me long enough—you can’t stay angry at them forever; you have to let the past go, only then can something work out.
Only my parents and sister had no intention of letting me go. Oh no, they wanted to grab on tight so I’d never break free. But they picked the wrong target. I slipped past their traps easily. And still, they decided to try again.
Naturally, after Alla’s visit, all the relatives called me at once. My phone practically burst from calls and angry messages. Everyone considered it their duty to take my sister’s side and explain what a selfish monster I was. They declared a boycott. Their feet would no longer cross my threshold, and they wouldn’t invite me to theirs either.
And did I ask to be invited? It’s even better this way. Now no one will bother my husband and me. Now I’ve really broken free of them. The apple rolled far from the tree. Well, that happens too.