Anna stood by her window, watching the autumn rain blur the city skyline. At 30, she had built a stable life — a job in consulting, her own apartment, and a modest car that gave her independence. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was hers.
Her phone buzzed. It was her mom.
“Anya, sweetheart, are you home?”
“Yes, what’s wrong?”
“Your father and I are coming over. We need to talk.”
Whenever her parents said that, it usually meant one thing: her younger brother, Artyom.
Thirty minutes later, her parents sat quietly in her kitchen. Her mother’s hands twisted her purse strap nervously. Her father stared at the table.
“Artyom’s in trouble,” her mom began. “Remember the money from the dacha sale? He bought a motorcycle…”
Anna closed her eyes briefly. “You gave him that money to start a new life, not buy a toy.”
“He said it would help him cope. Lena left him. He was hurting,” her mom explained.
“He crashed into a Porsche,” her father added. “No insurance.”
“How much damage?” Anna asked, trying to stay calm.
“Three hundred thousand,” her mom replied. “The owner agreed to installments, but half is due immediately. We need your help.”
Anna nodded slowly, bracing herself.
“We thought… we decided to sell your car,” her mom said gently. “You’re young, you can manage. It’s still in your father’s name.”
Anna was quiet. Then she answered, “I don’t agree.”
“Anya, it’s your brother. He’s struggling, losing weight—”
“Has he looked for a job?”
“Not yet. It’s been a hard week—”
“But it’s okay to take my car in a week?”
Her father finally spoke. “We’ve already decided. I can sell it anytime. It’s not up for discussion.”
Anna’s eyes didn’t leave him. “What happens next time? When he’s in trouble again?”
“There won’t be a next time,” her mom said.
“He’s said that before,” Anna replied.
“Anya, how can you be so harsh?”
Anna walked to the window. The rain outside was steady now.
“You know,” she turned slowly, “I actually registered the car under my name last month.”
“What?” her father asked, surprised.
“I had power of attorney from when we sold the dacha. I finalized the paperwork. Because I knew, eventually, we’d get here.”
Her mom gasped. “You did that behind our backs?”
“I did it to protect what little boundaries I’ve managed to build,” Anna said calmly. “He’s never learned consequences because we keep shielding him.”
“But what if things get worse?” her mom pleaded. “He needs help.”
“They won’t take him anywhere for a debt. He’ll have to face it — maybe for the first time.”
Her father looked torn. “Anya, I’m asking. Help him just this once. We’ll get you another car.”
“When? After the next mistake?”
Her mother reached for her hand again. “He’s your brother.”
“I know. And I love him. That’s why I’m saying no.”
Her parents left without another word. Anna sat with her tea, cold now. The silence felt sharp but necessary.
Later that night, her phone rang. It was Artyom.
“Anya, are you serious? What are you doing?”
“I’m finally doing what should’ve been done long ago.”
“I need help! That guy wants his money!”
“Then talk to him. Negotiate. Or find a job.”
“Who would hire me?”
“You can drive. You can lift things. You’ll figure it out.”
“You’re being heartless.”
“No. I’m being hopeful — that you can learn to take care of yourself.”
He hung up.
The weeks that followed were heavy. Her parents barely spoke to her. Artyom didn’t call. But eventually, bits of news trickled in. He was working — first as a courier, then in a car service. He moved into a shared apartment. He was doing the hard work — quietly, imperfectly, but honestly.
Months passed. Anna’s parents softened. Her father mentioned, almost shyly, that Artyom had started fixing cars on the side. Her mother worried aloud about his diet but admitted he seemed more focused.
Then, one rainy evening almost a year later, someone knocked.
It was Artyom.
Tanned, leaner, holding a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums.
“Hi,” he said.
Anna let him in. They sat at the same kitchen table.
“I came to thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For not helping me.”
He told her about his garage. About paying off the debt. About finding a rhythm, a purpose. About a girl he’d met — Katya, who worked at a bank. “She’s serious and kind,” he added. “We’re planning to move in together.”
“Congratulations,” Anna said.
They sat quietly.
“You know,” he said, “I thought you were being cruel. But you were the only one being honest with me.”
“You grew up.”
“I had to.”
“You’re better for it.”
“Can I visit you sometimes? Just to talk?”
“Of course.”
As he left, Anna looked at the flowers. Bright, golden, strong.
Outside, the rain kept falling — not bitter, not sad. Just clean.
