Irina grew up a quiet child. She did well in school, but her parents rarely came to meetings. Yet at her younger sister Olga’s performances, they were always in the front row, filming and applauding louder than anyone.
“Olga is our talented one,” their mother would say whenever Irina brought home another top grade. “And you’re great for managing on your own.”
Managing on her own—that became Irina’s motto. When it came time to apply to university, her parents just shrugged.
“You’re smart—you’ll figure the paperwork out yourself,” her father said without looking up from his newspaper.
A year later, they paid for Olga’s spot in a prestigious university’s tuition-based program and bought her a used foreign car.
“She has a long commute,” their mother explained when Irina asked why she had to take two buses. “And you live nearby, in the dorm.”
Irina didn’t argue. She was used to it.
When the sisters grew up, their parents decided to help with housing. Only Olga received help. They sold the dacha and bought the younger daughter a one-room apartment on the outskirts.
“Olga has kids—she needs it more,” their mother told Irina over the phone. “And you’re renting; you’re fine for now.”
Irina was twenty-eight, renting a room in a communal apartment, working as an economist at a construction company. The salary was small but steady. She was saving for a down payment on a mortgage.
“Mom, I want a place of my own too,” Irina tried to object.
“You’re strong—you’ll manage on your own. Olga can’t without us. She has two little ones, and her husband’s work is on and off.”
The conversation ended. Irina hung up and looked out the window. It was raining—gray and cheerless, like her mood.
Three years passed. Irina saved enough for the down payment, took out a mortgage, and bought a small studio in an old building. She did the renovations herself on weekends: hung wallpaper, painted the radiators, laid laminate flooring. Her parents never once offered to help. But they called to tell her how Olga and her husband Denis were setting up their place.
“Olga ordered a new kitchen! Italian!” her mother gushed. “Deniska’s earning well now, not like before.”
Irina listened and thought that her parents hadn’t even asked how her own renovations were going. As if she existed in a parallel world where everything was always fine and no help was needed.
The years flew by. Irina made the apartment cozy, found a better job, became a department head. She lived alone, without a husband or children. She dated, but nothing stuck. Her parents would hint now and then that it was time she got married, but they took no active interest in her personal life.
They talked about Olga constantly—how the grandchildren were growing, how Denis got a promotion, how the younger daughter was planning a seaside trip.
Irina rarely saw her parents. A couple of times a year she visited, brought gifts, sat in the kitchen drinking tea. The conversations were brief and formal. Her parents asked about work; Irina answered briefly. Then her mother would steer the topic back to Olga, and Irina would listen in silence.
“Olga bought a new car,” her mother said, stirring sugar into her tea. “On credit, of course, but it’s convenient with the kids.”
“Good,” Irina replied.
“And when will you buy a car?”
“I’m not planning to. The subway’s nearby.”
Her mother shook her head, as if Irina were saying something foolish.
One autumn evening, after dark had already fallen and the streetlights were on, Irina’s mother called.
“Ira, your father and I want to come over. Just for a bit,” her mother’s voice sounded tired.
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening. Is that okay?”
Irina paused for a second. Her parents had never had a habit of staying at her place. Usually they met on neutral ground, or Irina went to their home.
“Of course, come,” Irina said.
“Thank you, dear.”
Her mother hung up. Irina looked at the phone. Something was off. Her mother’s voice sounded not just tired, but somehow broken.
The next day, Irina tidied the apartment, changed the sheets on the couch where she planned to put her parents, bought groceries, and made dinner. In the evening, the doorbell rang.
Her parents stood on the threshold with two large bags. Her father looked gaunt; her mother—pale and tense.
“Come in,” Irina let them in.
Her father went into the room and sat silently on the couch. Her mother stayed in the kitchen, taking in the surroundings.
“It’s clean here,” her mother said.
“Thanks. I try.”
“It must be hard on your own?”
“I’m managing.”
Her mother nodded and sat at the table. Irina put the kettle on and took out cups. The silence stretched.
“What happened?” Irina asked.
Her mother sighed.
“We had a fight with Olga. A serious one.”
Irina sat down across from her. She waited.
“We went to visit,” her mother began. “Wanted to see the grandkids. And there…” She waved a hand. “Denis is rude, the kids are ill-mannered. Olga doesn’t listen at all. We say one thing, and she snaps back.”
“What did you argue about?”
“Everything!” Her mother raised her voice. “I told her children should study, not sit on their phones. And she said it’s none of our business how she raises them! Denis even told us not to interfere. Can you imagine?”
Irina nodded silently.
“We helped them! Bought the apartment, supported them with money! And they threw us out!” Her mother’s voice trembled.
“Threw you out?”
“Well, not literally. But Olga said we’re in the way and it’d be better if we lived separately for a while. So we came to you.”
Irina looked at her mother. There were tears in the woman’s eyes; her face was drawn. Irina felt a pang of pity.
“Fine. Stay,” Irina said.
“Thank you, dear. We won’t be long, I promise.”
Her father came into the kitchen and sank heavily onto a chair.
“Ira, really, just for a little while,” he repeated. “As soon as we sort things out with Olga, we’ll leave.”
“Stay as long as you need,” Irina replied, though a doubt had already crept in.
On the second night, Irina woke to the sound of voices in the kitchen. Her parents were sitting at the table discussing Olga. Their voices were low, but the words carried clearly.
“Ungrateful,” her father was saying. “Our whole lives for her, and she…”
“Denis spoiled her,” her mother added. “She used to be different.”
Irina lay in the dark and listened. Familiar words, familiar pain. Only they’d never talked about Olga like that before. The younger daughter had once been the ideal.
In the morning, her parents got up early. Her mother started making breakfast; her father read the news on his phone. Irina went into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Morning, dear. Sit, I made breakfast,” her mother put a plate of eggs on the table.
Irina sat down. They ate in silence. Then her mother started up again.
“Can you imagine, Olga wrote yesterday. Said we shouldn’t come over unless we apologize. Apologize for what?! We’re right!”
“Mom, maybe you really should apologize?” Irina suggested gently.
“For what?” Her mother frowned. “We didn’t say anything bad! Just the truth!”
“Sometimes the truth cuts.”
“Ira, you understand—we meant well. And she…”
Her mother launched into another litany about how Olga was raising the kids wrong, how Denis didn’t respect his elders, how everything had gone wrong.
Irina listened and felt irritation rising inside. That’s how it had always been: Olga was good, until she contradicted them. And Irina was convenient because she kept quiet and never asked for attention.
The day passed quietly. Her parents stayed home, watched TV, discussed the news. Irina came back late from work, reheated dinner, ate. Her parents started in about Olga again.
“Olga was always difficult,” her mother sighed. “Remember how she was rude to teachers in school?”
“I don’t,” Irina said honestly.
“How can you not! You were already in college then. We spent so many nerves!”
Irina kept silent. She didn’t want to remember Olga’s school years. Back then, Irina herself was at university, working evenings to pay for the dorm. Her parents were paying for Olga’s tutors, and Irina managed on her own.
On the third day, Irina realized her parents weren’t planning to leave anytime soon. The bags were unpacked, clothes hung in the wardrobe, her mother had settled into the kitchen and started cooking the way she was used to at home.
“Mom, how long are you planning to stay?” Irina asked that evening.
“I don’t know, dear. Until we make up with Olga. But she won’t meet us halfway.”
“Maybe you could call her yourselves? Offer to meet?”
“We did call! She doesn’t pick up!” Her mother threw up her hands. “That’s how ungrateful she is!”
Irina bit her lip. She didn’t want to argue.
By the end of the week it was clear: her parents had made themselves at home. Her father took over Irina’s favorite armchair, her mother filled the fridge with her own groceries. Every evening brought new complaints about Olga; every morning began with a discussion of how the younger daughter was in the wrong.
Irina felt her patience wearing thin. The apartment was small; there was no personal space. Her parents were everywhere: in the kitchen, in the room—there was always someone even in the bathroom.
One evening, when Irina came home especially tired, her mother started again about how Olga had turned out spoiled.
“Olga was always indulged,” her mother said, slicing vegetables for a salad. “We coddled her too much. We should’ve been stricter.”
Irina listened in silence, pouring herself tea.
“But you, Ira, you were always self-sufficient. You didn’t need our help.”
Irina froze, her cup hovering in midair.
“Didn’t need it?” she repeated slowly.
“Well, yes. You could handle everything yourself. And we helped Olga.”
“Mom, I couldn’t handle everything. I needed help too. You just didn’t offer.”
Her mother turned; the knife stopped in her hand.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. When I was applying, you didn’t help with a single ruble. When I was looking for an apartment, you didn’t even ask how it was going. But you bought Olga a place.”
“Ira, Olga has kids! She needed it more!”
“And I didn’t?” Irina’s voice shook. “Am I not your daughter?”
“Of course you are!” Her mother set the knife down. “You’re just strong. You always managed.”
“Because I had no choice!” Irina raised her voice. “You decided I’d manage and washed your hands of it!”
“Ira, don’t shout,” her father said, coming into the kitchen. “We always loved you both the same.”
“The same?” Irina laughed. “Dad, seriously? Olga gets everything, I get nothing. That’s the same?”
Her father faltered.
“We thought you didn’t need—”
“You didn’t think! It was just convenient to believe that!”
Her mother sobbed.
“Ira, how can you say that? We’re your parents!”
“Exactly! Parents! And where were you when I was renting a room in a roach-infested communal flat? Where were you when I did the renovations alone? Where were you when I was hurting?”
“You didn’t say you were hurting,” her mother said quietly.
“Do I have to say it? Aren’t parents supposed to see for themselves?”
Silence fell. Her mother stood with her head bowed; her father stared at the floor.
“Sorry,” her father said at last. “We didn’t think you were taking it so hard.”
“You didn’t think,” Irina repeated. “Because it was easier not to.”
Irina left the kitchen and shut herself in the bedroom. She sat on the bed and cradled her head in her hands. Tears welled up, but she held them back. She didn’t want to cry. She wanted to scream.
Through the door she could hear her parents’ muffled voices. They were probably discussing it. Irina lay down and stared at the ceiling. For so many years she’d kept quiet, endured, pretended everything was fine. And now the dam had broken.
The next morning at breakfast, her parents were silent. Her mother cooked, her father read the paper. Irina drank her coffee and kept quiet too. The atmosphere was tense, like before a storm.
“Ira,” her mother began. “We’ve been thinking… Maybe it’s time we left?”
“Where? To Olga’s?”
“No. Home. To our place.”
“Didn’t you want to make up with Olga?”
“We did. But maybe now isn’t the time.”
Irina nodded. The silence dragged on.
“Mom, why did you come to me, specifically?” Irina asked.
“Because you’re our daughter.”
“Olga is your daughter too. But you came to me.”
Her mother looked away.
“Because… well, you’ve always been… more understanding.”
“More convenient,” Irina corrected. “I was more convenient. I kept quiet, didn’t protest, accepted any decision.”
“Ira, don’t say that.”
“I have to, Mom. Because it’s true. You didn’t come because you missed me or wanted to help. You came because Olga showed you the door, and I’m the one who can’t say no.”
Her father looked up.
“Irina, we’re your parents. Is it so bad that we turned to you?”
“What’s bad is that you turned to me only when you needed something. When I needed something, you weren’t there.”
“We didn’t know,” her mother repeated.
“You didn’t want to know,” Irina countered. “There’s a big difference.”
Irina finished her coffee and stood up.
“I’m off to work. We’ll talk tonight.”
Her parents nodded silently.
All day, Irina thought about the conversation the night before. For the first time in many years, she had said out loud what had been building inside. She wasn’t scared. She mostly felt relief.
That evening, Irina came home and found her parents in the kitchen with their bags packed.
“Are you leaving?” Irina asked.
“Yes,” her father nodded. “We decided it’s time.”
“Home?”
“Mhm.”
Irina sat down at the table.
“What about Olga?”
“We’ll sort things out with her later. Maybe we really should give her some time,” her mother said.
Irina nodded.
“Ira, forgive us,” her father said unexpectedly. “We truly didn’t understand it was hard for you. We thought if you were quiet, everything was fine.”
“It wasn’t fine, Dad. But I managed.”
“We know. We’re proud of you.”
“I don’t want to be the ‘good girl’ who manages on her own. I want to be a daughter whose parents help her.”
Her mother sobbed, came over to Irina, and hugged her awkwardly, pressing her close.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. We were wrong.”
Irina didn’t answer. She just sat there and let her mother hold her. Inside, she felt empty and strangely calm. The words had been spoken, the hurts named. Whether that would make things easier—she didn’t know.
Her parents left in the evening. Irina walked them to the door, waved goodbye. She closed the door and leaned against the frame. The apartment was quiet and empty again. But now the emptiness was different. Not lonely—liberating.