04/27/2025
You must serve my father! This is an order, and it is not up for discussion, understood?
I was standing by the stove, stirring the tomato sauce, when Dmitry burst into the kitchen. His loud footsteps echoed across the old wooden floorboards of our rented one-bedroom apartment. In his hands was a worn backpack, which he immediately threw onto a chair. The smell of gasoline and to***co smoke followed him—clearly, he had just come from the auto shop.
— Lena, sit down, we need to talk, — his voice was deep, with a gravelly edge, like someone used to having people obey him at the first word.
I turned off the burner, wiped my hands on my apron, and turned around. Dmitry was staring at me, hands on his hips. His brown eyes gleamed—whether from exhaustion or something else, I couldn’t tell. I could sense that he was determined.
— What happened? — I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. A sense of unease had already begun to settle in. Conversations with Dmitry like this rarely ended peacefully, with a cup of tea.
He exhaled, as if gathering courage, and blurted out:
— Dad is moving in with us. Tomorrow. And you will take care of him. Cooking, washing, giving him his meds—everything, like it’s supposed to be. This is an order, Lena, and it’s not up for discussion.
I froze. The sauce in the pot slowly cooled, and in my head, I kept thinking: “Is this serious?” Dmitry’s father, Viktor Ivanovich, was a complicated man, to put it mildly. Sixty-five years old, a former military man, with a character like a rusty saw—cutting everything around him without warning. The last time we saw each other was at his birthday two months ago. He had pointed a finger at me across the table and loudly declared: “Modern youth is lazy, all they do is sit on gadgets!” I had stayed silent then, even though I was boiling inside. And now this.
— You’re joking, right? — I muttered, hoping this was some stupid prank.
— What jokes? — Dmitry frowned. — His legs aren’t working, his blood pressure is fluctuating. He won’t manage on his own. And I’m at work from morning to night. So you’re the only hope. Period.
— So, I’m supposed to manage? — my voice wavered, but I tried to stay composed. — I have a job too, Dima. And why didn’t you even ask what I think?
He waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing off an annoying fly.
— What job do you have? You just sit in your office, shuffling papers. But here’s a parent, Lena! Family! Are you a wife or what?
I clenched my fists. “Shuffling papers” — that’s what he thought of my job in accounting, which I had worked five years to get, starting as a courier. But for Dmitry, apparently, it was nothing. But his auto repair shop, where he fixes other people’s cars for pennies — that was, of course, a matter of universal importance.
— So, I’m supposed to drop everything and become a caretaker for your father? — I clarified, feeling my anger boil inside.
— Not a caretaker, a daughter! — he barked. — He gave me life, you understand? And now he’s family to you too. So yes, you’ll take care of him. And don’t argue.
“Take care of him.” The word hit like a slap in the face. I looked at Dmitry — his unkempt stubble, his worn jacket, that look on his face, full of confidence that I would nod and rush to prepare a place for Viktor Ivanovich. And then, I snapped.
— No, Dmitry, — I said quietly but firmly. — I won’t.
He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.
— What do you mean, “I won’t”? — he asked, stepping closer.
— Exactly what it means, — I straightened up, looking him straight in the eye. — I’m not your servant. And neither am I your father’s. If you want him to live with us, fine. But I’m not agreeing to take care of him.
Dmitry opened his mouth, then closed it, and finally blurted out:
— Do you even realize what you’re saying? This is my parent! If I say so, you have to obey!
— And if I say “no”? — I countered. — What’s next? Divorce? Will you kick me out the door?
Continued in the comments
