— “The apartment goes to Vadim, and we’re buying a car for Sveta,” my mother’s voice—Galina Petrovna’s—poured through the room like warm oil, coating everything and lulling vigilance to sleep.
She paused, looking over the three of us. Vadim immediately buried his face in his phone, and Sveta gave the slightest smile when she caught my eye.
There was the triumph of a victor in that smile.
— “And you, Kira, we’re entrusting with the most precious thing of all. Taking care of your sick grandmother and paying all the bills in full. Congratulations.”
The air turned thick and viscous. My mother’s words didn’t just sound out—they hung there like a sentence: final and not subject to appeal.
I slowly raised my eyes to her. She was looking at me with that signature encouraging smile she saved for the most unpleasant moments.
A smile that said: “Objections will not be accepted, dear; everything’s already been decided for you.”
— “The apartment… Grandma’s,” I forced out, feeling my tongue go numb.
Sveta snorted.
— “So what? Grandma doesn’t need it anymore, and Vadik has to start a family. He and Yulia can’t live on the street.”
— “And the car?” My voice sounded foreign, as if coming up from the bottom of a deep well.
— “Money from the dacha,” my sister tossed off, inspecting her manicure with theatrical interest. “It’s our parents’. They decided to sell it. You never liked that place anyway. You were always trying to run away from there.”
She was right. I hated that dacha—the endless garden beds, that forced summer duty.
But I remembered every summer I’d spent there with Grandma. I remembered us picking berries while she told me stories from her youth. And those memories were all I had left of that place. Now they’d been monetized too.
— “But… we always considered it shared,” I whispered, fully aware how pitiful I sounded.
— “Exactly!” my mother picked up, her voice growing even warmer, almost honeyed. “And so we divided it.
To each according to abilities and needs. Vadim gets a roof over his head. Sveta gets mobility—she’s always on the go. And you… you’ve always been our most responsible one.”
She said it as if pinning a medal on me. A medal cast from lead that instantly dragged me to the bottom. My whole life it had been my brand: Responsible Kira—so Kira will do it, finish it, sit with someone, help out.
I looked at my brother. Vadim still hadn’t lifted his head, scrolling frantically through something on his phone. He always hid when it came time to decide or tell the truth.
— “We decided this is fair,” Mother finished firmly, putting a period on the farce.
Fair. They stripped my life of every material support, heaped the whole weight of responsibility on me, and called it fairness.
I stood up. My legs felt like cotton.
— “I need to go to Grandma. Her procedures are soon.”
No one tried to stop me. I walked down the hallway and could feel their eyes on my back. Relieved. Satisfied. They’d pulled it off—quickly and almost painlessly. For themselves.
In the entryway I came upon Grandma’s photograph in an old frame. She smiled at me from it—young and full of strength.
They called it trust. I called it a life sentence.
The first call came two days later. “Svetochka” flashed on the screen.
— “Hey, Kir! Listen, here’s the thing…” she began without preamble, cheerful and pushy. “I need to run to the shop to pick out paint for the car. Can you lend me a couple thousand? All my money went into the paperwork.”
I was silent, my forehead pressed to the cold windowpane. She was asking me for money for paint for the car they’d bought by selling a piece of my past.
— “Sveta, every penny I have is accounted for right now. Grandma’s medicines are very expensive.”
My sister went quiet for a moment.
— “Oh, come on, don’t start. I’m not asking forever, I’ll pay you back. We’re family—we should help each other.”
There wasn’t a shred of embarrassment in her voice. Only irritation that I hadn’t instantly fallen in line.
— “I can’t, Sveta.”
— “I see,” she snapped coldly and hung up.
An hour later my mother called. She didn’t beat around the bush.
— “Kira, why are you refusing your sister? She’s going through a tough time right now. A new car, so many things to handle.”
— “Mom, I’m going through a tough time too. I have a sick person on my hands and bills that need paying.”
— “Don’t exaggerate. Your father and I are helping as much as we can. And anyway, I thought you’d be happy for your sister. You’re acting selfish.”
She spoke to me like I was a fussy child refusing to share a toy.
The real blow came on Saturday. I came to Grandma’s apartment to cook a few days’ worth of meals for her and found Vadim there with Yulia. They were walking through the rooms with a tape measure, excitedly discussing something.
— “Oh, hi, Kira,” my brother didn’t even flinch. “We’re figuring out where to knock down a partition. This is Yulia, by the way.”
Yulia gave me an appraising look and a sugary smile.
— “It’s so… vintage here. But no worries, we’ll redo everything in Scandinavian style.”
They were discussing a future renovation in the apartment where their grandmother still lived. In the apartment I was paying for.
— “What are you doing here?” My voice cracked.
— “Mom said it was fine,” Vadim shrugged. “Said you didn’t care. You don’t live here anyway.”
I looked at him—at his calm, well-fed face. He saw nothing wrong in what he was doing. For him, this was normal.
— “Get out. Now.”
— “All right, all right, no need to get all worked up,” he waved lazily. “We’re moving in soon anyway.”
When the door closed behind them, I sank onto a chair. They weren’t just taking the apartment. They were erasing Grandma from her own home while she was still alive.
That evening I sat over the bills. The caregiver, medicines, utilities for two apartments—mine and Grandma’s. The total was monstrous. I opened my banking app and looked at my balance. I barely had enough to last to my next paycheck.
I tried talking to my father. He was the only one who might understand.
— “Dad, this isn’t fair. I can’t handle this alone.”
He sighed heavily, not looking up from his newspaper.
— “Honey, try to understand your mother. She wants what’s best for everyone. Vadim is the heir; he needs a nest. Sveta’s a girl; she needs support. And you’re strong—you’ll manage.”
He said it with pride. And that pride insulted me more than my mother’s selfishness. They simply appointed me strong and called it a day—wrote me off while hanging an unbearable weight around my neck.
I realized talking was useless. They had built a reality where everything was logical and right. In that reality, I’d been assigned the role of the sacrificial workhorse.
The breaking point came on Wednesday. I’d been living in a personal hell for a week. The bank kept calling about an overdue credit card payment. The caregiver texted that the expensive medicine was running out.
The wiring in my own apartment burned out and I sat in the dark because I didn’t have money for an electrician. I hustled however I could, picked up night shifts, slept four hours.
My mother called in the afternoon, her voice brisk and businesslike.
— “Kirochka, I have wonderful news! We’ve solved your money problem.”
I froze, not believing my ears. Could it be?
— “We found a wonderful care home for Grandma. State-run. Very decent—I checked. And the best thing—it’s almost free!”
I was silent. Each word fell into me like a stone into a well.
— “Imagine the savings!” she chirped. “You won’t need to pay a caregiver anymore, or for her apartment… We’ve already arranged it; we’ll move her on Saturday. You only need to pack her things. The essentials.”
She spoke as if she were proposing to send Grandma to a health resort.
— “You… you decided for me?” I rasped.
— “Well of course! We can see how hard it is for you. We decided to help, to take the load off. You complained to your father yourself. So we found a solution.”
It wasn’t a solution. It was exile. They were getting rid of the last “problem”—Grandma herself—so Vadim could start the renovation in peace.
— “I don’t agree.”
— “Don’t be silly, Kira,” steel crept into my mother’s voice. “The matter is settled. Your father’s already given preliminary consent as the next of kin.”
And then something happened. It was as if a tightly stretched string snapped—the one that had kept me within the bounds of the “good, responsible daughter.”
— “No,” I said. My voice was even, almost lifeless. “You won’t do anything.”
— “And why is that?” my mother asked, genuinely surprised.
— “Because you have no right.”
I hung up.
My hands acted on their own. I went to Grandma’s old dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer that always stuck. Under a stack of yellowed tablecloths lay a thick envelope.
I remembered the day a year ago. Grandma had called me over; her hands were already shaking badly. “Kirochka, take this.
It’s just in case. Your mother is a good woman, but she sees assets, not people. When the time comes, you’ll have to protect not the property, but me. You’re smart—you’ll figure it out.”
I had never opened it. I was afraid.
Inside was a sheet of paper folded in quarters. A general power of attorney. In my name.
It gave me full, absolute authority to manage all property and accounts and, most importantly, to make any medical decisions on Grandma’s behalf. The document was notarized.
They thought all the cards were in their hands. Father—the “next of kin.” Mother—the “organizer.” And I—the mere executor.
But I had a trump card.
I picked up the phone. My fingers no longer trembled. I found a number I’d saved just in case—a family law attorney someone had once recommended.
— “Hello, my name is Kira Voronova. I urgently need a consultation. I have a power of attorney in hand, and I want to prohibit third parties from approaching my ward and her property. Yes, the third parties are my immediate relatives.”
On Saturday they arrived as if for a celebration. Mother, father, and Vadim. Confident in themselves and their righteousness. I was waiting. The door to Grandma’s apartment stood open.
— “Well, good, I see you’ve come to your senses,” my mother declared from the threshold, glancing around the hallway. “Where are the things? We ordered a car.”
— “There will be no car,” I stepped toward them. I was completely calm. For the first time in many weeks.
— “What does that mean?” she frowned.
Silently, I handed her a copy of the power of attorney. Mother scanned the lines, and her face began to change. Certainty gave way to confusion, then to anger.
— “What is this nonsense?”
— “It’s an official document, Galina Petrovna,” a calm male voice sounded behind me.
My attorney, Igor Sergeyevich, stepped out of the room. “According to it, the sole legal representative of Zinaida Arkadyevna is my client, Kira Andreyevna.
Any actions you take regarding her or her property without Kira Andreyevna’s consent will be regarded as vigilantism.”
Vadim snatched the paper from Mother.
— “But… the apartment? I was…”
— “The apartment belongs to your grandmother,” I cut him off. “And I, as her proxy, consider the current living arrangements unsuitable for her.”
My father looked at me in horror.
— “Honey, what are you doing? We’re family…”
— “Family?” I looked him straight in the eye. “Family is when people care for each other. Not when you dump the weakest into a poorhouse so you can carve up their property.”
Mother flushed dark red.
— “How dare you! I gave you life!”
— “And I’m grateful for that. But it doesn’t give you the right to ruin mine. You made your choice. Vadim gets an apartment. Sveta gets a car. And I get responsibility. I accept it—fully.”
I paused, letting my words sink in.
— “From now on you have nothing to do with Grandma or her finances. This apartment will be sold. With the proceeds I’ll secure the best private care home for Grandma and hire a 24/7 caregiver.”
— “You can’t!” Vadim squealed.
— “I can. And I will. And I advise you to leave these premises. Otherwise, we’ll have to call the police.”
They looked at me as if I were a stranger. Perhaps at that moment I did become a stranger to them. The “strong girl” they could load everything onto was gone.
They left, slamming the door. Father glanced back one last time. There was something like remorse in his eyes. But it was too late.
Epilogue
Two years passed. I sat in my small but own studio with a big window overlooking a quiet courtyard. The process took longer and was harder than I’d imagined.
It took almost a year to sell the apartment, find a suitable care home, and settle all the legal formalities. But I managed. The smell of fresh paint still hadn’t fully faded after the recent renovation I did myself.
Every item here had been chosen and bought by me. This was my space. My fortress.
Grandma passed away six months ago. She went quietly, in her sleep, in her room at the care home.
She spent her last year and a half in comfort and care. Sometimes, in lucid moments, she recognized me, smiled, and squeezed my hand tight. That was enough.
After I changed my phone number, my former family disappeared from the radar for a while. But the world is small. Through mutual acquaintances, scraps of their new reality drifted to me.
Sveta’s shiny car didn’t last her long. Without the means to make the payments and maintain an expensive vehicle, she sold it for next to nothing. Now she took the metro to work, forever complaining about crowds and the unfairness of life.
Vadim never married his Yulia. When it became clear there wouldn’t be a free apartment—only a mortgage and domestic problems—the romance quickly evaporated.
He moved back in with our parents, into his old room. His dream of a “family nest” crashed against financial reality.
My parents had it the hardest. The plan to “make the children happy” failed, and now they had two grown, dissatisfied layabouts on their hands.
Mother, I was told, had aged badly and grown irritable. Her certainty in her own rightness had evaporated, leaving only bitterness behind.
The phone call caught me sorting through old photographs. An unfamiliar number. I stared at the screen for a long time, but something made me answer.
— “Kira?” My father’s voice sounded dull and unsure.
I said nothing.
— “Honey, I… I know I have no right to call. But your mother’s birthday is soon. Maybe you could come? She… she’d be glad.”
The condescending pride was gone from his voice. Only fatigue and a kind of desperate hope. He was trying to glue back together what they themselves had smashed to pieces.
I pictured that birthday. A dreary table, forced smiles. Sveta boring into me with an envious stare. Vadim with his face in his plate. And Mother, trying to play the role of gracious hostess and head of a happy family.
They hadn’t changed. They just wanted everything back the way it was. They wanted their convenient, strong girl who solved all the problems.
— “No, Dad,” I answered evenly, without anger. “I won’t come.”
He fell silent, apparently searching for words.
— “We miss you. We’re still family…”
— “The family you’re talking about made its choice two years ago. I respect it. And now I have my own life. I’d like you to respect that.”
I didn’t wait for a reply and calmly ended the call. I blocked the number. There was no pain and no regret.
Only a final, crystal-clear understanding: my world no longer revolved around their wants and needs.
I went back to the photos. In one of them, my young grandmother held a little me in her arms.
I smiled. I’d preserved what truly mattered. Memory. And myself.