The family dinner at the parents’ house was unfolding the way it always did—loud, crowded, and chaotic. Both sides of the family had gathered under one roof: the older son, Alexey, with his wife Vera; the younger daughter, Ksenia, with her husband Dmitry and their three-month-old baby girl, Masha. Nina Pavlovna was pouring borscht into bowls. Little Masha was asleep in her grandparents’ bedroom. Sergey Ivanovich was digging through the buffet cabinet, hunting for napkins.
Dmitry sat at the head of the table—the seat he’d somehow claimed naturally after the wedding. Leaning back, he lazily stirred his soup and, all of a sudden, spoke with the kind of confidence people use when stating an undeniable truth:
“Well, it’s obvious: you don’t need a three-bedroom. You don’t have children, and we already have Masha—and we’ll be having more. So that apartment should be ours.”
Alexey looked at his brother-in-law in disbelief. Vera froze with her fork in midair. Ksenia scooted closer to her husband.
Nina Pavlovna lowered the ladle back into the pot. She could feel it—this was the moment when something would start that couldn’t be stopped.
Nina Pavlovna and Sergey Ivanovich were the sort of people often called the “working intelligentsia.” She taught primary school; he was an engineer at a factory. They spent their whole lives saving—setting aside money from every paycheck, skipping vacations, refusing themselves new clothes and little luxuries. They had one dream: to make sure their children would have homes.
Three years earlier, that dream came true. After selling their small summer cottage and an old two-room apartment that had been passed down from Sergey Ivanovich’s grandmother, they managed to buy two apartments. Alexey, the eldest, received a three-room place in a new building—spacious, with two bathrooms and a big kitchen. Ksenia, the youngest, got a cozy two-room apartment in a quiet residential district, with a solid developer renovation.
The logic was straightforward. Alexey had already been married to Vera for five years, and they were planning children—maybe even two. Ksenia had just graduated from university, lived alone, and wasn’t even thinking about marriage. She herself said two rooms were more than enough.
They celebrated the housewarmings with genuine joy. At Ksenia’s, her friends gathered and set the table right on the floor—there was still no furniture. They drank champagne from plastic cups, laughed, and talked about the future. At Alexey’s, the celebration was more family-style: he and his father assembled wardrobes, while Vera and Nina Pavlovna hung curtains and argued over where the sofa should go.
“Thank you,” Alexey told his parents then, hugging them at the threshold of his new home. “We know what this cost you.”
“Our duty as parents is done,” Sergey Ivanovich said with a smile, though his eyes were wet.
A year later, Ksenia met Dmitry. He worked as a financial analyst at a big company, drove a brand-new Mazda, and knew how to charm a woman. At family dinners he talked about profitable investments, cryptocurrency, and “the right way to distribute assets.” Ksenia looked at him with starry eyes. They married six months later—small, but elegant.
After the wedding, Dmitry began acting like he belonged in the parents’ home. He and Ksenia visited every weekend, brought expensive wine, asked about the older couple’s health. And he asked questions—casual, almost innocent, slipped into conversation.
“So how many square meters is that three-bedroom?” he once asked Alexey while pouring tea.
“Seventy-eight.”
“Oh, that’s nice! Utilities must be brutal.”
“Not too bad,” Alexey replied curtly.
Ksenia changed, too. She started sighing that their two-bedroom felt cramped—especially with Dima working from home. She compared layouts and counted square meters.
“Lyoha has such big rooms, besides the living room,” she told her mother. “Fifteen and eighteen meters! And our second room is only eleven.”
“Well, you don’t need a nursery yet,” Nina Pavlovna said gently.
“For now,” Dmitry chimed in. “But you have to plan ahead. We’re aiming for at least two—better three.”
When their daughter was born, Alexey and Vera came to the maternity hospital with gifts: a beautiful discharge bundle and a set of first outfits. Dmitry accepted everything with a smile, then immediately added:
“Thanks, of course. But in our two-bedroom there’s not even space for a changing table. Not like you—an entire room is sitting empty, just waiting to be a nursery.”
Alexey felt irritation flare inside him, but he swallowed it. He didn’t want to spoil his sister’s happiness.
Sunday lunch at the parents’ house began as always: Nina Pavlovna set the table, Sergey Ivanovich chatted about the neighbors. Ksenia helped with salad while little Masha slept in the grandparents’ bedroom. Alexey’s wife carried plates. Dmitry sat in an armchair, scrolling through his phone.
At the table they talked about the weather, work, vacation plans. Then the topic shifted to repairs in Ksenia and Dmitry’s apartment—new windows, updated plumbing.
“Yes, something is always breaking in these buildings,” Nina Pavlovna sighed.
“That’s exactly why I wanted to bring this up,” Dmitry said, putting down his fork and scanning the room. “Ksyusha and I are planning a second child. Honestly, we want three. I work from home a lot. And a two-bedroom with a kid—it’s just not realistic.”
A heavy pause settled. Sergey Ivanovich cleared his throat.
“Well, you could look at something bigger. There are lots of options these days…”
“Why look?” Dmitry turned to Alexey. “There’s already a three-bedroom in the family. Let’s just swap apartments. Fair is fair. You don’t have kids—you can live in a two-bedroom.”
The silence became deafening. Nina Pavlovna froze with the teapot in her hands. Sergey Ivanovich slowly lowered his spoon. Ksenia stared at her plate, poking at the potatoes. She didn’t back him up—but she didn’t object either.
“Dima, that’s…” Nina Pavlovna started.
“What?” Dmitry spread his hands. “I’m offering a reasonable solution. We need space for children. For them, this apartment is too much for just two people.”
Alexey couldn’t believe what he was hearing—“too much.” Their three-bedroom was nothing extravagant: a bedroom, a living room, and a small room intended for a future child. No palace. Just normal life.
Sergey Ivanovich frowned.
“Dima, that’s not serious. We bought those apartments based on needs. Alexey was already married—he needed the bigger one.”
“And now we need it,” Dmitry refused to budge. “Isn’t it fair that the family with more children gets more space?”
Vera cut in:
“Fair is when people handle their own housing. Not when they claim someone else’s.”
Dmitry lifted his eyebrows as if she’d wronged him.
“Someone else’s? Come on—it’s family. Back then it was one situation, now it’s another. You adjust to circumstances.”
Nina Pavlovna added, already shaking with nerves:
“If you’re going to have more children, then figure out how to expand—on your own dime.”
Dmitry fell silent, but Alexey could see it: this wasn’t finished. It was only the beginning.
On Wednesday, Dmitry showed up at Alexey’s office without warning. The receptionist nervously announced a visitor only after Dmitry was already walking into the room.
“We need to talk,” Dmitry said, dropping into the chair across from Alexey without waiting to be invited. His manner always irritated Alexey—far too much swagger for someone who’d married into the family only three years earlier.
“About what? We covered everything on Sunday.”
“No, we didn’t. Your parents just didn’t have the guts to say what they really think in front of everyone. But you and I both know I’m right.”
Alexey leaned back, studying him carefully.
“Right about what, exactly?”
“That you’re selfish. You’ve got a three-bedroom and you don’t even plan on having kids. Ksyusha and I have just a two-bedroom. We already have Masha, and we’ll have two more. That’s not fair.”
“My parents gave Vera and me that apartment as a gift. They bought Ksenia her two-bedroom when she finished university. Everyone got their own.”
“So what?” Dmitry leaned forward, fingers locked together. “You’re the older brother. You’re supposed to think about your little sister. About your nieces and nephews. Or do you not care about Ksyusha at all?”
“The apartment is mine. There will be no swap.”
Dmitry’s face twisted. He sprang to his feet, slamming his palms on the desk.
“You know what? You’ve always been Mommy’s favorite. The firstborn, the golden boy. You got the best of everything. And now you’re being greedy when your sister actually needs help.”
“This isn’t greed,” Alexey said evenly. “It’s boundaries.”
“Boundaries?” Dmitry snorted. “With your own family? Ksyusha’s right—you’re just…” He didn’t finish, waving his hand like it wasn’t worth saying. “Enjoy your three-bedroom. No kids. No family.”
When the door slammed, Alexey understood: that hadn’t been a family conversation. It had been a pressure tactic—using Ksenia like a weapon. Dmitry believed fatherhood gave him a claim to that apartment, and he had no intention of letting it go.
In the weeks that followed, Dmitry started bringing the topic up methodically, like he was rehearsing his arguments. At every gathering—at the parents’ house, at family tea, even in a casual chat about the weather—he would find a moment.
“Alexey, just think rationally. Why do you need three rooms?”
“Because it’s our home,” Alexey would answer.
“But we’ll have two—maybe three!”
“Then buy something bigger.”
“Why waste money when we can just swap? We’re family!”
He said the word “family” like a lever: pull it, and everyone was supposed to give in.
The worst part was that Ksenia slowly began speaking in the same phrases. Before, she would’ve snapped, “Dmitry, stop.” Now she repeated his lines almost word for word.
“Lesh… honestly… it wouldn’t be hard for you.”
And one day Ksenia called her brother with actual accusations. Her voice trembled, as if she’d already prepared herself to cry.
“Lesh?” she sniffled. “Lesh, why are you like this?”
He turned off the tap and leaned against the counter.
“Ksyusha, what happened?”
“What happened?” Her voice cracked into a shout. “What happened is I know my child won’t have anywhere to sleep! We’re crammed into a two-bedroom, and you…” She stopped; he could hear her wiping her nose. “It’s not fair, Lesh. We’re family.”
“Ksenia, listen—”
“No, you listen!” she cut him off. “Dima’s right—you always got the best. The best grades, the best university, the best apartment. And what are we—second class?”
The line went dead with short beeps.
Two weeks later the parents invited everyone again, hoping they could “talk it out peacefully.” But Dmitry arrived as if he were walking into a formal hearing.
“We need to solve this as a family,” he declared. “Let’s discuss it and make a fair decision. We have a child. We want a big family. And Alexey doesn’t have kids at all. That isn’t fair.”
Sergey Ivanovich slammed his fist on the table.
“Enough. We made our decision four years ago. No one is swapping anything.”
Dmitry immediately pressed harder.
“So you’re refusing to help your daughter? You gave your son more and your daughter less!”
Nina Pavlovna went pale with hurt.
“We helped both of them. We don’t owe anyone a redo.”
“But it’s not equal!” Dmitry nearly shouted. “A three-bedroom costs more than a two-bedroom. That means Alexey got more!”
Alexey stood up.
“Dima, you have no right to decide who my parents gave what to. Those were gifts to their children.”
Ksenia burst into tears.
“We really need it… why don’t you understand…”
“Then solve it,” Alexey repeated. “But not at the expense of my family.”
Ksenia and Dmitry left, slamming the door behind them. After that, his sister stopped texting. Their parents grew gloomy; their father simmered with anger, and their mother worried constantly, repeating, “He’s the one who’s gotten into her head.”
A year passed.
Alexey was painting the walls in the small room a soft green—the shade Vera had chosen. His wife’s belly was huge now; she was due any day—maybe a week, maybe two.
The nursery was coming together: a crib by the window, a changing dresser, a rocking chair for late-night feedings. Cloud and balloon stickers decorated the wall.
“Do you think we’ll finish in time?” Vera asked, sitting on a chair in the doorway. “I look at that crib and think—what if it happens today?”
“We’ll make it,” Alexey said, setting down the roller. “We only need to hang the bumpers.”
His phone buzzed—one message from Ksenia:
“Lesh, we’re coming to Mom and Dad’s tomorrow. Dima doesn’t know I’m writing. Maybe we could meet? Neutral territory. Masha misses her uncle.”
Alexey showed the message to his wife.
“Reply,” Vera said. “Family is also knowing how to forgive. Your parents will be happy if you make peace. Our baby is coming soon. Things will get better—you’ll see. Kids bring people together.”
Snow was falling outside the window. The nursery smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. Maybe the birth of their child really would change something. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Still—trying was worth it.