04/22/2026
“When the phone rang on Friday evening, I already knew who it was. I knew with that peculiar certainty you get before a tooth starts aching or a long spell of rain settles in.
‘Hello, Lena, it’s me!’ Oleg, my husband Andrei’s brother, sounded as upbeat as ever. ‘Listen, we were thinking maybe we’d come over for the weekend. You’re probably heading to the dacha, right?’
I glanced at Andrei, who was in the hallway packing a suitcase for our trip out of town. He looked up, met my eyes, and instantly understood. A shadow crossed his face—part irritation, part resignation.
‘Oleg wants to come,’ I mouthed silently.
Andrei sighed and nodded. Of course he did. Oleg was his brother, after all. The younger one. Perpetually unstable, perpetually broke, perpetually tangled in some new financial mess.
‘Yes, we’re going,’ I said into the phone, keeping my voice neutral. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow morning.’
‘Perfect! We’ll come too. We should get there around two. Tanya’s been missing your Masha, keeps asking when we’ll see you. And Dima is thrilled—the dacha is his favorite place!’
Dima was their seven-year-old son, a little whirlwind with a sweet tooth. Masha was our ten-year-old daughter who, for some reason, always discovered broken toys and torn books after her cousin left.
‘All right, we’ll be waiting,’ I said, and hung up.
‘Again?’ Andrei asked, though he already knew the answer.
‘Again.’
We sat in silence. Outside, the April dusk was thickening. Somewhere below, the front door of the building slammed, and a woman walked by with a dog. It should have been one of those ordinary, peaceful Friday evenings before a weekend away. It could have been calming, if not for that phone call.
‘Lena, he’s my brother…’
‘I know,’ I cut in. ‘I know exactly who he is to you. I also know that the last time we all went bowling, you paid the entire bill—eight thousand rubles. For everyone. Because Oleg, quote, “didn’t have any money on him, but would pay you back later.” Did he ever?’
Andrei gave a guilty shrug.
‘And the time we went to the movies and they “just happened” to be at the same mall? Four tickets, then the café afterward, where Dima ordered three desserts and Tanya had the shrimp salad. Seven and a half thousand. Your seven and a half thousand, Andrei.’
‘Lena, I can’t tell my brother I don’t have money…’
‘Why should you have to?’ I felt that old irritation rising again, the kind that had been collecting for months—maybe even years. ‘Why is it always you? Because you earn more? Because you finished college and he dropped out of technical school after two years? Because you didn’t drink away three jobs and bury yourself in debt?’
‘He hasn’t had a drink in six months,’ Andrei said quietly.
‘That’s wonderful. Truly wonderful. But why are we supposed to finance his sobriety?’
Andrei sat down on the couch and rubbed his face tiredly. In moments like that, he looked older than thirty-eight. The lines around his eyes deepened, and the gray at his temples stood out more sharply.
‘I don’t know how to say no,’ he admitted at last. ‘Every time he calls, I remember when we were kids. I remember promising Mom I’d look after him. Before she died, she said, “You’re the older one, Andryusha, you have to…”’
There it was again—that eternal burden placed on the oldest child. You have to. You’re the older one. As if being born four years earlier meant a lifetime contract to carry someone else.
I sighed, sat down beside my husband, and took his hand.
‘Listen to me carefully. Your mother was a wonderful woman, may she rest in peace. But she couldn’t have imagined that Oleg, at forty, would still be behaving like a teenager, dumping responsibility on everyone else. Helping someone is one thing. Being used as a free resource is something else entirely.’
We left for the dacha early the next morning, just as planned. I got up at six on purpose so I could pack everything before Masha woke up. As I loaded the groceries into the car, I counted every portion with precision.
Three cuts of meat for shashlik. One pack of sausages—six pieces. Three tomatoes, three cucumbers. Bread, cheese, butter—everything strictly for the three of us. Two bottles of wine—one for me and Andrei in the evening, the second just in case. Juice for Masha. Nothing extra.
Andrei looked into the trunk and frowned.
‘Isn’t that a bit too little? You know Oleg and his family…’
‘I do,’ I replied calmly, shutting the trunk. ‘That’s exactly why I packed only for us.’
‘Lena…’
‘Andrei, I have a plan. Trust me. Please.’
He looked at me for a long moment, studying my face, and I saw a strange mixture of anxiety and… relief? Maybe he was tired of this too. Maybe he simply didn’t know how to stop it.
The dacha was about one hundred twenty kilometers from the city, in a village called Sosnovka. It was an old log house that had belonged to Andrei’s parents, with a wood stove, a well, and a bathhouse. Every spring we came out there to open the season, tidy everything up, and enjoy the silence and the fresh air.
Or at least, we tried to.
Oleg and his family arrived exactly at two in the afternoon, just as promised. Their battered old Lada thundered into the yard, kicking up dust and scaring the neighbors’ chickens.
‘We’re here!’ Dima shouted cheerfully as he spilled out of the car. ‘Hi, Masha! Do you have anything tasty?’
No hello. No how are you. Straight to the point: Anything good to eat?
Tatyana, Oleg’s wife, climbed out next, tugging at the faded T-shirt stretched over her heavy figure. She was thirty-five but looked closer to forty-five—always exhausted, with a dull expression and lips forever pinched in dissatisfaction.
‘Oh, it was such a nightmare getting here,’ she complained instead of greeting us. ‘The traffic was awful. I’m completely worn out.’
‘Come in, make yourselves comfortable,’ Andrei said, helping them unload their things.
I noted with interest that they hadn’t brought a single bag of food. Not one. Just two worn backpacks with clothes and Dima’s soccer ball.
We settled on the veranda, and I put the kettle on. I brought out cookies—exactly ten. Two each for me, Andrei, and Masha, plus four extra.
‘Don’t you have any better tea?’ Tatyana asked, eyeing the Greenfield tea bags with disapproval. ‘That one gives me heartburn. Maybe you have some herbal tea?’
‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘Only this.’
Oleg slapped his brother on the shoulder.
‘So, boys, maybe we should throw together some шашлык for tonight, huh? I can already picture it—meat, smoke, a little something to drink…’
‘Sounds good,’ Andrei said automatically, already slipping into problem-solving mode.
‘Great idea,’ I added. ‘We bought meat. For three people. Did you bring yours?’
An awkward silence fell over the veranda. Oleg blinked at me in confusion.
‘What do you mean… for three?’
‘For us. Me, Andrei, and Masha. You didn’t bring any food with you?’
Tatyana stared at me as if I had lost my mind.
‘We thought… well, usually you always… I mean, it’s always been…’
‘Yes,’ I said, taking a sip of tea. ‘It always has been. We always bought everything, we always fed everyone, we always paid. For bowling, for the movies, for cafés, for picnics. And every single time, Andrei pulled out his wallet while somehow you forgot yours at home. Or “didn’t happen to have cash.” Or “your card wasn’t working.” The details changed, but the pattern stayed the same.’
‘Lena,’ Andrei said, putting a hand on my shoulder, but I gently moved away.
‘No, Andrei, let me finish.’ I looked from Tatyana to Oleg. ‘We came here to relax at our dacha. We bought groceries for our family. If you wanted to join us—wonderful, we’re always glad to see relatives. But grown adults bring something when they visit. Or at the very least, they bring food for themselves. Especially if they’re coming as a family of three and planning to stay the whole weekend.’
Oleg’s face flushed dark red.
‘Are you serious? We’re family!’
‘Exactly because we’re family, I’m saying this openly,’ I answered calmly. ‘Because I’m tired of swallowing resentment until it explodes later in some ugly argument. I’m tired of watching Andrei feel unable to refuse you while you shamelessly take advantage of it. And I’m tired of explaining to Masha why her toys are always broken after Dima visits, and why we stay quiet because “he’s still little” and “you shouldn’t upset family.”’
‘Mom,’ Masha tugged at my sleeve. ‘Can I go outside?’
‘Of course, sweetheart.’
The children ran off into the yard, leaving the four of us alone. Tatyana swallowed hard, Oleg stared down at the table, and Andrei studied his hands.
‘I didn’t want to turn this into a confrontation,’ I continued more quietly. ‘I really didn’t. But there comes a point when your patience runs out. Remember the picnic by the reservoir last month?’
‘Well…’ Tatyana muttered uncertainly.
‘Andrei bought groceries for twelve thousand rubles. Meat, fish, vegetables, fruit, drinks. I stayed up until two in the morning making salads. And then you arrived empty-handed—and on top of that, you brought your friends Katya and Misha without warning us. In the end, there was barely enough food, and Andrei had to drive to the nearest store for beer because your friend Misha “doesn’t drink wine, only beer.”’
‘We didn’t think you’d count every last kopek,’ Tatyana snapped. ‘You’ve got plenty of money—three-room apartment, a new car…’
‘We have money because we earn it and know how to manage it,’ I said, hearing the steel in my own voice. ‘Andrei works twelve hours a day. I juggle my job and our child. We don’t blow through our salaries in the first week. We don’t take out loans for new iPhones. We don’t keep replacing our car every two years at a loss. We save, we plan, we live within our means. And yes, we have a financial cushion. But that doesn’t mean anyone else is entitled to use it…’
To be continued below in the first comment.
