“What’s happened to your face?” Ilya froze in the doorway, staring at his sister-in-law. A dark violet bruise was blooming under Dina’s left eye, and her lip was swollen.
“I fell,” she said, turning away as she smoothed her hair. “Come in. Valera’s in the kitchen.”
Ilya stepped inside. He hadn’t seen his brother in three years—and this was the reunion. His stomach clenched. He knew that kind of “I fell” far too well.
In the kitchen Valera was slicing sausage. When he saw Ilya, he broke into a wide grin.
“Ilyukha! Man, it’s been ages!”
They hugged. Valera smelled of stale booze, even though it was the middle of the day.
“A drink to celebrate?” Valera was already reaching for a bottle.
“Valera… what happened to Dina?”
His brother flicked a hand like it was nothing.
“Oh, come on—nothing. We argued last night. I got heated and clipped her once. It’s her own fault—she’s always pushing my buttons.”
“Clipped her?” Ilya sat down slowly at the table. “You hit your wife?”
“I don’t hit her,” Valera snapped. “I just… put her in her place sometimes. You know the saying—if he hits you, it means he loves you.”
Ilya did know. And that was exactly why the inside of him went cold.
“Valera, that isn’t love. That’s abuse.”
“Oh, spare me,” Valera scoffed, pouring vodka. “What, you’re a saint now? Forgot what you did to your Lena?”
Ilya hadn’t forgotten. Five years had passed, and the shame still burned. He’d gotten drunk, they’d fought over something stupid, and he hit her. Once. Lena left the next day. She was right to.
“I remember,” Ilya said. “And I know I was wrong.”
“Relax,” Valera snorted. “All men do it. Our dad beat Mom—and what? They lived.”
“And Mom beat us,” Ilya said. “Remember?”
Valera frowned.
“So what?”
“And then she kissed us,” Ilya replied. “Cried and kissed us. Said she loved us, the idiots. And we thought—that’s love. Love through pain.”
“Stop talking nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense, Valera. We were trained from childhood: love and pain go hand in hand. Mom hits you and then says she loves you. And we grew up to repeat it.”
A faint rustle sounded behind the door. Dina was standing in the hallway, listening.
“I love Dina!” Valera slammed his fist on the table. “I do everything for her!”
“You give her bruises,” Ilya shot back.
“She provokes me! She nags nonstop!”
“So what? That makes it okay to use your hands?”
“What am I supposed to do—just swallow it?”
“Talk. Walk away when you’re angry. But don’t hit.”
“Easy for you to preach!”
“Easy for me?” Ilya stood up. “I spent two years with a therapist after Lena. You know what I understood? You and I are sick, Valera. Mom wired us this way. But it’s not an excuse.”
Dina appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were red, mascara smeared.
“That’s enough,” she said. “I’m done. I won’t tolerate it anymore.”
Valera sprang up.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To my mom’s. I’ve had enough.”
“You’re not going anywhere!” He stepped toward her.
Ilya moved between them.
“Don’t touch her.”
“Move!” Valera snarled. “She’s my wife!”
“And?” Ilya didn’t budge. “That gives you the right to beat her?”
“I’ll smash you too!” Valera swung.
Ilya caught his brother’s wrist.
“Try it. I’m not Dina. I’ll hit back.”
“Traitor!”
Valera yanked free and threw a punch. It grazed Ilya’s cheek. Ilya answered—short and sharp, straight to the stomach. Valera doubled over, gasping.
“Dina,” Ilya said, steady. “Pack your things. We’re leaving.”
“Where… where are we leaving?” Dina stared at him, stunned.
“To a hotel. Then we’ll decide.”
Valera straightened, gripping the table.
“Ilya, what are you doing? This is my family!”
“You don’t hit your family, Valera,” Ilya said. “You protect them.”
Dina grabbed a bag and threw a few things inside. Valera stood in the kitchen, turning pale, then flushing red again.
“Dina! Din—don’t go! I won’t do it again!”
She didn’t answer.
At the door, Ilya turned back.
“Valera, think. Do you want to lose your wife the way I lost mine? The way Dad lost Mom?”
“Mom died!” Valera spat.
“She died from the beatings,” Ilya said quietly. “Forgot? ‘Fell down the stairs’ after Dad was ‘teaching’ her. Concussion. Coma. That was the end.”
Valera went silent. Ilya guided Dina out.
They took a room at a hotel. Dina sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself.
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” Ilya said. “I should’ve вмешался a long time ago.”
“He wasn’t like this before,” Dina whispered. “He used to be kind. Attentive. And then… it’s like someone switched him.”
“Alcohol?” Ilya asked.
“That too. But the main thing…” Her voice cracked. “I got pregnant—and I lost the baby. He blamed me. Said I did it on purpose. After that, everything changed.”
Ilya sat beside her.
“Dina, it’s not your fault. Not the miscarriage. Not his behavior. He chooses what he does—he chooses whether to hit or not.”
“Maybe I really do push him…”
“There is no excuse for violence,” Ilya said firmly. “None. Remember that.”
She started to cry. Ilya awkwardly put an arm around her shoulder, patted her once.
“Stay here a couple of days. Breathe. Calm down. Then decide what you want.”
“And if he comes?”
“He won’t. And if he does—you call the police. Or you call me.”
That night Valera called. Drunk out of his mind.
“Ilya—bring my wife back!”
“She’s not a thing you return,” Ilya said.
“I love her!”
“That’s a strange kind of love,” Ilya replied. “The kind that leaves bruises.”
“I won’t do it again! I swear!”
“Go to sleep, Valera. We’ll talk in the morning.”
But in the morning Valera didn’t call. Not at noon either. Ilya grew uneasy and went to check on him.
Valera was in the kitchen—sober, rumpled, unshaven.
“She left?” he asked hoarsely.
“She’s at a hotel for now.”
“I thought all night,” Valera said. “You’re right. We’re sick. Mom… I remember how she hit us. Then felt sorry. And I’m doing the same thing to Dina.”
“Good,” Ilya said. “At least you understand.”
“So what do I do now?”
“Therapy,” Ilya answered. “Work on yourself. And pray Dina can forgive you.”
Valera swallowed.
“And you… did Lena forgive you?”
“No,” Ilya said. “And she was right not to.”
Valera dropped his head into his hands.
“I don’t want to lose her.”
“Then change,” Ilya said. “For real. Not with promises—by actions.”
A week later Dina went back home. Valera met her with flowers—and a note from a psychologist. He’d signed up for therapy.
“Dina,” he said, “I get it if you don’t believe me. But I’m going to try. I really am.”
She nodded once.
“One chance. The last one.”
Ilya returned to his own city. Sometimes he called to check in. Valera went to therapy and stopped drinking. Dina began to thaw—carefully, gradually.
A year later his brother called, voice shaking with joy.
“Ilya—we’re having a baby!”
“Congratulations,” Ilya said. “How’s Dina?”
“Happy. Both of us. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the truth,” Valera said. “For stopping me.”
Another year passed, and Ilya came to visit. He brought his wife—someone new, not Lena—and their six-month-old son.
Dina opened the door holding a little girl. No bruises. Her eyes were bright.
“Ilya! I’m so glad you’re here!”
They hugged. Valera appeared from the room.
“Bro! And who’s this with you?”
“My wife, Marina,” Ilya said. “And my son, Artyom.”
They sat at the table. The kids babbled at each other. The adults drank tea and talked.
When Valera stepped out to smoke, Ilya asked Dina quietly:
“How are you—really?”
Dina smiled.
“Good. That problem is gone. Completely.”
“He’s in treatment?”
“Twice a week therapy,” she said. “And a group for aggressive behavior. He’s working.”
“And he hasn’t… not once?”
“Not once,” Dina answered. “He doesn’t even raise his voice. If he feels anger, he leaves the room. Comes back when he’s calm.”
“I’m happy for you,” Ilya said softly.
Marina was rocking little Artyom, listening.
“And how did you two meet?” Dina asked her.
Marina laughed.
“In a support group,” she said. “I went after my divorce, and Ilya—well, you can guess why he was there.”
“And you weren’t scared?” Dina asked. “After everything?”
“I was,” Marina admitted. “But he warned me right away. Told me everything. And I saw how hard he worked on himself. We’ve been together three years—no screaming fights, not even once.”
Valera came back in, lifted his daughter, spun her in the air. The girl squealed with laughter.
“My princess! My beauty!”
Ilya watched and thought: maybe people really can change—if they want it badly enough, if they understand what they’re about to lose.
That evening, when it was time to leave, Valera hugged his brother tight.
“Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
“Anytime,” Ilya replied. “Just—no more bruises.”
“Never,” Valera said. “Not again.”
Outside, Marina slipped her arm through Ilya’s.
“I’m glad it ended like this.”
“Me too,” Ilya said. “It could’ve gone another way.”
“Do you think he really changed?”
“I hope so,” Ilya answered. “For Dina. For their daughter.”
“And you?” Marina asked softly. “Did you change?”
Ilya stopped and looked at his wife.
“Every day,” he said. “Every day I choose whether I’m a human being or a beast. So far—I’m choosing human.”
“You are,” Marina said, and kissed him. “You really are.”
They walked through the evening city. Their son slept in the stroller. The first stars appeared overhead.
And Ilya kept thinking: maybe not everything is lost. Maybe the chain of violence can be broken—if you stop in time, if you admit the problem, if you do the work.
The most important thing is not repeating mistakes—yours or your parents’.
And most important of all: love doesn’t hit. Love protects.