My sister-in-law looked at my brand-new crossover as if I had parked a ballistic missile in her favorite flower bed, where her dahlias were blooming.
The yard around the house was so quiet that you could hear the metal under the hood slowly cooling.
— So, there’s extra money lying around — Olesya Denisovna hissed, tracing the outline of the shiny headlight with a perfectly manicured finger.
— And the family will manage somehow. We thought you were living off early mortgage payments, eating buckwheat as your main diet, but I see… you’re splurging.
I clicked the car alarm key fob. The car flashed cheerfully, as if to say: “Yes, we’re splurging, and we’re loving it.”
— Olesya Denisovna, there’s no such thing as extra money in the world — I replied calmly, hiding the keys in my purse.
— Only a well-planned budget exists — she muttered, but she wasn’t really listening anymore. In her eyes, an invisible cash register was clicking. She pulled out a worn notebook from her enormous bag, which our family quietly referred to as “The Execution List.”
— If there’s so much left over, I’ve calculated who needs help — she spread the notebook open like a general unfolding a battle plan.
— Marina needs to pay off her renovation loan. Edik, her husband, needs startup capital for his business — he wants to import some “smart mops” from China. And I could use a trip to Kislovodsk. My joints, you understand.
I glanced at my husband. Sergey, leaning against the fence, gave a barely noticeable smile and winked at me. We’d long agreed: in the circus with the horses, we’re only spectators; the tickets were in the front row.
— I’ll consider your proposal — I nodded politely, enjoying how my sister-in-law’s pupils dilated with anticipation.
Over the next week, our phone practically melted from ringing. Marina, my sister-in-law, kept sending messages on Messenger, filled with photos of Italian tiles she had “already picked out with my money.”
Edik sent ten-minute voice messages, explaining in detail how the smart mops would dominate the market and how everyone would become rich.
Then on Saturday, they made the fatal mistake — they showed up at our apartment in full force. No doorbell. A discounted cake in hand, and faces like they were shareholders of Gazprom.
Sergey and I were having our morning coffee.
Olesya Denisovna, acting like she owned the place, pushed my cup aside and set the cake on the table.
— Well, youngsters! — she said cheerfully, sitting at the head of the table.
— In a normal family, income is shared. Karl Marx even wrote that capital should work for the good of society. And our society is the family. So transfer half a million to Marina, and a million to Edik.
— And your car, Katerina… it must be sold. Buy yourself a used “Lada”; it will be enough for work.
I sipped my coffee. It was exquisite. Brazilian Arabica and the promise of triumph — a perfect combination.
— Marx, Olesya Denisovna, lived in poverty and supported his family entirely with Friedrich Engels’ sponsorship — I said softly.
— Are you suggesting I be Engels for your daughter and her unemployed husband?
But Edik immediately took over, puffing up like a Wall Street wolf.
— Kata, you just don’t get the trends! — he chuckled condescendingly.
— Bluetooth mops — guaranteed three hundred percent profit in a month. It’s an investment, you see? Business!
I pulled out the spreadsheet from the folder on the table.
— Edik, your last “business” was breeding purebred vineyard snails in the communal bathroom. They all died from chlorine in the tap water. One hundred percent mortality — not the most attractive business model for investors.
Marina, my sister-in-law, kicked in with her “humble virtue” mode.
— We are women, Kata! — she squealed, theatrically pressing her hands to her chest.
— We must energetically support each other! Family bonds are sacred!
— Your energy, Marina, only activates on manicure sale days — I noted calmly.
— In three years, you never remembered my husband, your brother’s birthday. And you only learned my middle name yesterday, when entering my details in the bank app to charge me.
Olesya Denisovna realized her plan was falling apart and escalated to nuclear blackmail. She jumped up, slamming her fist on the table.
— So now it’s clear! We are strangers to you?! Greedy, calculating girl! If Marina doesn’t have money in her account today, my foot won’t be here! Sergey! — she turned dramatically to her son.
— Your wife is insulting your mother! Choose: either this selfish woman, or your blood family!
Sergey slowly sipped his coffee, carefully placed the cup on the saucer, and looked at his mother.
— Mom, I already chose. Seven years ago, at the registry office. And you know what? Every day, I like my choice more and more.
I pulled three beautifully printed documents from my leather folder.
— But I promised I’d think about helping — I said softly, sliding the papers toward the relatives.
— And I’ve figured it out. I’m ready to allocate one and a half million.
Edik’s eyes gleamed greedily, Marina stopped whining.
— Here’s the targeted loan agreement — I tapped one of the papers with my nail.
— Interest: twenty-five percent per year. No delays. Collateral: Marina’s share in your, Olesya Denisovna, three-room apartment.
Additional condition: Edik officially starts a job and provides a 2-NDFL certificate every quarter. Once signed and notarized — the money is yours.
— This… this is slavery! — my sister-in-law hissed, retreating from the papers as if they were plague. — You want to take our apartment?!
— I just want to secure my investment — I shrugged.
— You asked for help; I’m giving you a financial instrument. Do you know your biggest problem? You confuse charity with parasitism. Money without strict legal obligations — corruption.
— If someone isn’t willing to risk their property for their own brilliant idea, the idea is crap, and the person is just looking for free handouts. Family ties don’t exempt you from financial responsibility; they should make it even clearer. So there’s no resentment later. Shall we sign?
Edik was the first to back toward the door, muttering something about “the mops can wait.” Marina grabbed her bag, forgetting the untouched cake.
Olesya Denisovna raised her head proudly but didn’t dare look at me, hissing quietly:
— My foot won’t be here!
— I will remember that promise. Have a good day — I smiled.
The door slammed behind them.
Sergey stepped up behind me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.
— How long do you think before they show up again? — he asked with a laugh.
— At least until we buy a summer house. No beds to dig there, just grills to tend — I leaned back against my husband’s chest.
We went down to the yard and got into the new car.
Inside, it smelled of expensive leather, freshness, and complete, uncompromising freedom from others’ expectations. I pressed the gas, and we drove to have coffee downtown. One must protect their boundaries beautifully and stylishly.
