Stepan set the last box on the table and straightened up. He had bought perfume from a French boutique, an Italian silk scarf, and a gift certificate for spa treatments at an upscale salon. He’d planned his mother’s birthday ahead of time—saved money for three months and chose each item with special care.
“Mom… did you like it?” he asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
Valentina Sergeyevna sat in an armchair, sifting through the gifts with an empty, detached gaze. Her lips were pressed into a thin line of disapproval.
“Perfume… a scarf…” she said, shoving the boxes aside with clear contempt. “Meanwhile your sister bought an APARTMENT. A three-bedroom. In a brand-new building.”
Stepan went still. His mouth instantly dried out.
“Mom, but that’s…”
“What do you mean, that’s?” Valentina Sergeyevna rose from the chair, her voice turning sharp and shrill. “Is this your way of bribing me with cheap little trinkets? Kira invested in property. And you? You’re thirty-two and still renting a tiny one-room place!”
“Mom, I told you—I’m going through a rough patch at work. They cut my salary…”
“Enough with the excuses!” she snapped, flicking her hand as if swatting his words away. “Kira is four years younger than you and she’s already secured her future. She’s brilliant, and you… you’re the embarrassment of this family!”
Stepan stood in the middle of the living room, feeling every word stab into him like needles. He remembered being a child and hearing the same comparisons—Kira studied better, behaved better, was prettier, luckier, more successful.
“I tried. I really tried to choose things you’d enjoy…”
“Tried?” Valentina Sergeyevna burst into a loud, nasty laugh. “Nobody needs your ‘trying’! Results matter—not effort! Look at you: a loser who can’t even give his own mother a respectable gift!”
Just then Kira walked into the room—tall, slender, dressed in an expensive suit. She took in the scattered presents and her brother standing there with slumped shoulders.
“Are you comparing us again, Mom?” she asked calmly, taking off her coat.
“And what’s there to compare?” Valentina Sergeyevna stepped toward her daughter and hugged her. “You’re my pride. Successful. Independent. And he…” She jerked her chin toward Stepan. “Thirty-two years old and he still can’t get his life together.”
“Mom, maybe that’s enough,” Kira said, gently pulling away. “Stepan is a good brother. He’s caring, kind…”
“Kind?” their mother scoffed. “Kindness doesn’t buy you an apartment! Caring won’t feed children! When is he finally going to have a family? Grandkids? Or will he spend his whole life scraping by on pennies?”
Stepan stayed silent. Over the years he’d learned to endure his mother’s tirades—don’t argue, don’t explain, don’t plead. It never helped.
“You know, Mom,” Kira said suddenly, “Stepan’s right.”
“Right about what?” Valentina Sergeyevna turned on her.
“That money isn’t the most important thing. He came to see you, brought gifts, probably spent half his paycheck. And you…”
“And I what?” her mother cut in, eyes narrowing. “So you’re against me too? I gave my whole life to you, and now you—”
“No one is against you, Mom,” Kira said, lifting her hands in a calming gesture. “Just stop humiliating Stepan. He’s your son.”
“Son? SON?” Valentina Sergeyevna flushed with rage. “A real son would provide for his mother in old age! A real son would accomplish something in life! And this one…” She pointed at Stepan. “…this eternal failure can only drag in pathetic little gifts!”
“Mom, stop,” Kira’s voice turned firm. “You’re crossing the line.”
“Me? I’m crossing the line?” Valentina Sergeyevna clutched her chest theatrically. “I raised you, educated you, did everything for you! And now I’m not allowed to speak the truth?”
“What truth, Mom?” Stepan finally spoke. “That I’m a failure? That I’m the family disgrace? I’ve been hearing it since I was ten.”
“And it’s right that you hear it! Maybe it’ll finally get through!” Valentina Sergeyevna stepped right up to him. “Look at your sister—that’s someone to imitate! And you? What have you achieved? Where are your successes?”
“My successes…” Stepan let out a bitter chuckle. “So all the ways I’ve helped you over the years don’t count? When your roof leaked, who fixed it? When you were sick, who drove you to the hospital? When—”
“Enough!” she cut him off. “That’s your duty as a son! You don’t get thanked for that!”
“But you thank Kira for her apartment, right?” Stepan met his mother’s eyes. “Even though she visits once a month—if that.”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare talk about your sister like that! She’s a busy woman—she has a business!”
“And I have a job,” Stepan said, spreading his hands. “A regular job. I’m not a businessman, not a director. I’m an engineer at a design bureau. And yes, my paycheck is modest. But I work honestly. I don’t cheat people. I don’t harm anyone.”
“Exactly!” Valentina Sergeyevna threw her hands up in triumph. “A regular engineer! At your age men run factories, and you’re drawing blueprints!”
“Mom, why do you have to be like this?” Kira stepped up to her brother, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Stepan’s doing great. He found work that suits him.”
“That suits him?” their mother cackled. “Kira, sweetheart, don’t defend him! He’s the reason he’s failing! No ambition, no drive! He sits in his little job and celebrates his pennies!”
“You know what, Mom,” Stepan said, straightening and shrugging Kira’s hand off. “I’m tired. Tired of justifying myself. Tired of proving things. Tired of listening to humiliation.”
“Humiliation? Humiliation?” Valentina Sergeyevna flung her hands up. “I’m telling you the truth—the bitter truth! You’re a LOSER, Stepan! Ad-mit it already!”
“All right,” Stepan nodded. “I’m a loser. I’m a disgrace. I’m an unworthy son. Everything you say is true. Happy now?”
“Don’t twist my words!” she snapped, stabbing a finger at him. “I want you to change! To get smart! To start achieving something!”
“Mom, he’s thirty-two,” Kira cut in. “He’s an adult. He decides how to live.”
“Exactly—on his own! And he better not expect help from me!” Valentina Sergeyevna turned away demonstratively. “I’ll leave all my inheritance to Kira. She deserves it!”
“Mom, don’t say that,” Kira frowned. “That’s cruel.”
“Cruel?” their mother whirled around. “Cruel is raising a son, pouring money and strength into him, and then watching him rot in poverty!”
“I’m not in poverty,” Stepan said quietly. “I have work, a roof over my head, food. I’ve never asked you for money.”
“Because you’re PROUD!” she spit back. “A proud poor man—that’s what you are! You should’ve asked, so I’d at least know you understand your position!”
“My position…” Stepan shook his head. “You know, Mom, I’m happy. Yes, I don’t have an apartment, a car, savings. But I have a job I love, good friends, interests. I’m not rich, but I’m at peace.”
“At peace?” Valentina Sergeyevna reddened. “You’re at peace while your mother is ashamed of you in front of people? While I can’t even tell my friends what my son does?”
“And what do you tell them?” Stepan asked.
“Nothing!” she snapped. “I say nothing—because there’s nothing to say! I can talk about Kira for hours: her apartment, her business, her trips abroad. But about you… about you it’s better to keep quiet!”
“Mom, enough!” Kira raised her voice.
“I’m the mother! I have the right!” Valentina Sergeyevna stamped her foot. “And why are you both attacking me? It’s MY birthday! MY celebration! And you’re ruining it!”
“Us?” Stepan gave a short, bitter laugh. “I came with gifts, I congratulated you—and in return I’m told what a worthless nobody I am.”
“If you were a NORMAL son, I’d praise you!” their mother shot back. “But there’s nothing to praise. Absolutely nothing!”
“Understood,” Stepan said, nodding once. “Then I’ll go. Since my presence upsets you so much.”
“Go!” she screamed. “Go back to your rented little shoebox! Sit there and think about your pathetic life!”
Stepan headed to the door without a word. At the threshold he turned.
“Happy birthday, Mom. I truly wish you… to receive exactly what you deserve.”
“Out!” Valentina Sergeyevna grabbed one of the gift boxes and threw it at him. “Get out! And don’t you dare show your face here again!”
Stepan left, closing the door softly behind him. Kira rushed after him, but their mother seized her by the arm.
“Stay! Don’t you dare chase after that ungrateful—”
“Mom, you threw him out yourself!”
“And I was right to!” Valentina Sergeyevna snapped. “I don’t need losers in my sight! You’re different—you’re my pride, my joy!”
Kira yanked her arm free.
“Do you realize what you just did? You pushed your son away—your own child!”
“He pushed himself away with his uselessness!” Valentina Sergeyevna dropped back into her chair. “And enough about him! Tell me about your apartment. What kind of renovation are you planning?”
“Mom, I’m not discussing that right now.”
“Why not?” her mother asked, genuinely surprised. “You wanted to show me the design project!”
“I did. But not after what you did to my brother.”
“Again with that failure!” Valentina Sergeyevna waved her hand irritably. “Forget him! He chose his fate!”
“No. You chose to humiliate him his whole life.”
“I told the TRUTH!”
“No, Mom. You told your version of truth—built only on money and status.”
“And what else should it be built on?” she snapped. “His kindness? His calm? Don’t make me laugh.”
“You know what, Mom,” Kira said, taking her bag, “I’m leaving too.”
“What? You’re abandoning me too?”
“I’m not abandoning you. I just… need time to think.”
“Think about what?” Valentina Sergeyevna jumped up. “Kira, don’t be ridiculous! Stay! We’ll celebrate my birthday together!”
“No. Not today.”
“This is because of him! Because of Stepan!” their mother clenched her fists. “He’s turning you against me!”
“He isn’t saying anything,” Kira replied. “You’re doing all of this yourself.”
Kira moved toward the door. Valentina Sergeyevna rushed after her.
“Kira! Don’t go! Please! It’s my day!”
“The day you ruined yourself,” Kira said, turning on the threshold. “Think about it. Really think.”
The door shut. Valentina Sergeyevna remained alone in her large apartment among the scattered gifts. She picked up the perfume box she’d thrown at her son. The bottle had shattered, and a syrupy, clinging scent flooded the room.
“Ungrateful!” she screamed into the emptiness. “Both of you—ungrateful!”
She paced the room, kicking the boxes.
“I raised them! I brought them up! And they… they LEFT me! On my birthday!”
Valentina Sergeyevna grabbed her phone and called Kira. Long rings—then voicemail. She called Stepan. His phone was off.
“They plotted it! On purpose! To ruin my celebration!”
The next days dragged by in expectation. Valentina Sergeyevna was sure the children would return, apologize, beg forgiveness. They always did—especially Stepan. How many times had she insulted and humiliated him, only for him to come back anyway, to help, to care?
But the days passed and her phone stayed silent. After a week she couldn’t stand it anymore and called Kira.
“Hello, sweetheart?”
“Hi.”
Kira’s voice was calm—distant.
“Kira, darling, come by. I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Well… about your apartment! You wanted to show me the design plan.”
“Mom, I’m busy.”
“Busy? But… you promised!”
“I didn’t promise anything. Listen, I have to go.”
“Wait!” Valentina Sergeyevna panicked. “And Stepan… are you talking to him?”
“Yes.”
“And… how is he?”
“Fine.”
“Tell him… tell him to call me.”
“I will.”
The line went dead. Valentina Sergeyevna stared at her phone. Kira had never spoken to her like that—so cold, so removed.
Stepan didn’t call. Not that day, not the next. Valentina Sergeyevna dialed his number again and again—his phone was on now, but he didn’t pick up.
A month passed. Loneliness and anxiety wore her down. She was used to having them close—Stepan came every week, helped around the house. Kira called and shared news.
And now—nothing.
She tried calling acquaintances, complaining about her ungrateful children, but they only sighed sympathetically and ended the call quickly. No one wanted to listen to her laments.
And then the problems started.
First the washing machine broke. Valentina Sergeyevna called a repairman—he demanded a hefty sum. Stepan used to fix everything himself, for free.
Then the kitchen faucet started leaking. Another repairman, more money.
After that, the wiring in the bedroom burned out. The electrician said the entire system needed replacing—the building was old, the wires couldn’t handle modern loads. The estimate was astronomical.
Valentina Sergeyevna sat at the kitchen table, calculating expenses. Her pension was small, and she had almost no savings—everything went toward maintaining the image of a “successful mother of successful children.” Expensive clothes, restaurants, gifts for friends…
She called Stepan again.
“Son, it’s Mom. Please call me back. I have… problems.”
He didn’t.
A week later Valentina Sergeyevna went to his place herself. She stood outside the entrance for a long time, gathering courage, then climbed to the third floor.
A stranger opened the door—a pretty young woman in simple clothes.
“Yes? Who are you looking for?”
“Stepan. I’m his mother.”
The woman lifted her eyebrows, surprised.
“Oh. So you’re her… Wait a moment.”
She disappeared into the apartment. A minute later Stepan appeared. He looked… happy. Valentina Sergeyevna hadn’t seen him like that in a long time.
“Why are you here?”
“Stepa, my son, I need help. The wiring… I have to replace it, and the repairmen want so much money…”
“Ask Kira. She has money.”
“But you always helped!”
“Key word: helped. Past tense.”
“Stepa, don’t be cruel! I’m your mother!”
“Yes. The mother who spent my entire life telling me I’m a failure and the family shame.”
“I wanted what was best! I wanted you to reach for more!”
“No. You wanted someone to brag about to your friends. And when there was nothing to brag about, you started humiliating me.”
“That’s not true!”
“It’s exactly true. And you know what? I’m grateful to you.”
“Grateful?” Valentina Sergeyevna went still.
“Yes. You opened my eyes. I realized I don’t have to endure humiliation just because you’re my mother. I have a right to respect.”
“Stepa, forgive me! I was wrong!”
“Maybe.”
“What should I do?”
“Nothing. Just… live your life. Without me.”
He closed the door. Valentina Sergeyevna stood on the landing, unable to believe what had just happened.
At home another blow was waiting: a letter from the management company—overdue utility bills. She’d forgotten to pay for several months, and the penalties had added up.
She called Kira.
“Sweetheart, help me out! I need money!”
“But Mom, you have your pension.”
“It’s not enough! There’s repairs, and utilities…”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help.”
“You can’t? You have an apartment! A business!”
“Yes. My apartment and my business. Things I earned myself.”
“Kira, I’m your mother!”
“And what? Does that give you a right to my money?”
“I raised you!”
“And I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean I have to support you for the rest of your life.”
“This is Stepan’s doing—he turned you against me!”
“No. You did it to yourself. When you humiliated him in front of me. When you compared us. When you split us into ‘successful daughter’ and ‘loser son.’”
“I spoke the truth!”
“You spoke what you wanted to see. The truth is Stepan is an incredible person—kind, caring, reliable. And he deserves respect.”
“And what about me? Don’t I deserve it?”
“Respect has to be earned, Mom. And you lost yours.”
Kira hung up.
Valentina Sergeyevna sat in the darkening room—saving electricity. The apartment that once felt cozy now pressed in on her with its emptiness.
She remembered Stepan fixing outlets, painting walls, assembling furniture. Driving her to doctors, standing in lines at clinics, buying medicine. Coming every weekend with groceries, cooking lunch.
And her? She did nothing but criticize. Compare. Humiliate.
Her phone rang. An unfamiliar number.
“Valentina Sergeyevna? This is the bank. Your credit card payment is overdue.”
The credit card. She’d taken it out long ago to buy a fur coat—she had to keep up appearances with her friends. She’d been paying only the minimum, and now she couldn’t even manage that.
“I… I’ll pay…”
“Within a week, otherwise your debt will be transferred to a collections agency.”
But she knew—there was no money. After utilities, her pension barely covered food.
Valentina Sergeyevna called a friend.
“Sveta, help me. Lend me money!”
“Valya, I’m sorry, I have my own problems.”
She called everyone she knew. Everyone refused—politely but firmly. It turned out no one wanted to lend money to a pensioner with nothing to secure it.
That night Valentina Sergeyevna couldn’t sleep. She thought. She remembered.
She remembered little Stepan bringing her drawings from kindergarten—and her pushing them aside: no time, work. She remembered him showing his school certificates and her saying, “Kira has more.” She remembered when he got into college and she said, “Engineering isn’t prestigious.”
She remembered his wedding. His bride was a simple schoolteacher, and Valentina Sergeyevna ignored her demonstratively all evening. After the wedding the couple moved to another city. Two years later they divorced. Stepan came back, but never spoke about the reasons.
And maybe the reason was her. Her constant dissatisfaction, criticism, comparisons.
She sat alone in the empty room, and tears rolled down her cheeks on their own. This was everything she had achieved in her life.