The notary handed me a copy of the property registry extract. I stared at the line marked “owner” and couldn’t believe my eyes. My brother’s name was there.
My hands weren’t shaking. Inside, I felt empty, as if someone had pulled out a plug and everything—feelings, hopes, resentments—had drained out at once. I carefully folded the paper and put it in my bag.
— Galina Sergeyevna, are you all right? — the notary looked at me with professional concern.
— Yes. Thank you for the information.
I went outside and sat down on a bench by the fountain. People walked past me, children laughed, music was playing somewhere.
And I just sat there, thinking that the last twelve years of my life had just lost their value because of a single sheet of paper.
I am forty-six years old, working as a senior cost estimation engineer at a construction company. My salary is sixty-five thousand a month—not luxury, but enough to live on.
For nine years I’ve been renting a one-room apartment on the outskirts of the city. I don’t have a home of my own. Or rather, I thought I would—the three-room apartment my parents own in the city center.
They always said: “Galya, you know everything will be split equally between you and Lesha.”
Lesha is my younger brother. He’s forty-two, lives in Krasnodar with his wife and two children. He comes once a year for three days, brings a box of chocolates and a bottle of cognac.
He calls on holidays. He has never sent our parents money—not once—mortgage, kids, expenses.
But I am here. Every Saturday at their place. Groceries, medications, clinics, repairs. When Dad had heart surgery, I lived with them for two weeks: cooked dietary meals, changed dressings, drove him to checkups.
When Mom broke her hip, I went every day for three months: diapers, injections, massages.
I didn’t complain. They are my parents. That’s natural.
Yesterday Mom’s neighbor, Aunt Zoya, called me. Her voice was strange, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should speak.
— Galya, forgive me for interfering… but I accidentally overheard your mother talking to Lesha on the phone. They transferred the apartment to him. A gift deed. A month ago.
I didn’t believe it. I thought she had misheard. She’s elderly, her hearing isn’t great.
But I had to check.
The next day the property registry extract arrived. Everything was correct. Gift agreement dated March fourteenth. Donors: my mother and father. Recipient: my brother.
I read it three times. Then I closed the laptop and sat in the dark for a long time.
Twelve years. Every Saturday. Every ambulance call. Every sleepless night when Dad’s heart was acting up.
Every ruble I spent on their medications because their pensions weren’t enough. Every vacation spent not at the sea but renovating their apartment.
And the result?
Lesha got the downtown apartment. Market value around eight million. And I got a piece of paper and the realization that in my parents’ eyes, I had been the staff.
The next day I went to see them. As always—with bags full of groceries. Habit.
Mom opened the door smiling.
— Galya! Come in, I just baked a pie!
I walked in. Put the bags down. Dad was sitting in his armchair watching TV.
— Dad, how’s your blood pressure?
— Fine, sweetheart. I’m taking the pills like you told me.
I sat down at the table.
— Mom, sit down. We need to talk.
I placed the extract in front of them.
— Explain.
Mom turned pale. Dad looked away.
— Galya, you have to understand… Lesha has children. They need housing. You’re alone, you have fewer expenses…
— I don’t have my own home. I’ve been renting for nine years.
— But you work! You can still save!
I looked at the woman whose diapers I changed after surgery.
— Mom, how many times has Lesha visited in the past year?
— Well… once. For New Year’s.
— For three days. Has he ever sent you money?
— Galya, he has a mortgage…
— And I have rent. Twenty-two thousand a month. And at the end of it, I get nothing.
Dad finally spoke.
— We thought you would understand. He has a family.
— And I’m not family? Just an employee?
— We love you! — Mom burst out.
— Eight million less.
I stood up.
— The groceries are in the kitchen. That was the last time.
Mom ran after me.
— Galya, wait! Are you offended? We didn’t do it out of malice!
— For twelve years I was the one who understood everything. Now it’s your turn not to understand me.
— What does that mean?
— It means from now on Lesha will take care of you. The apartment is his—let the responsibilities be his too.
That evening Lesha called. He was furious.
— What are you doing?! Mom’s hysterical, Dad’s blood pressure shot up!
— Hi, Lesha. Long time no talk.
— Don’t change the subject! What is this stunt?
— I just created balance. You got the apartment—take responsibility.
— I live in Krasnodar!
— I had a job too. A life. Which I put aside for twelve years.
— That’s different!
— How? Because you’re a man? Because you have kids?
After a long argument, I told him:
— Arrange care for them. Move them in with you. Sell half the apartment. Or convince them to divide it fairly. But I’m out.
Three months passed. For the first time I went on vacation to the sea. Two weeks in Sochi, a decent hotel. The money I used to spend on them stayed with me.
I didn’t feel joy. More like silence. Freedom.
In September a message came from Lesha:
“Galya. Our parents agreed to change the deed. Half for you. Will you come back?”
Four million. What should have been mine from the beginning.
But going back would mean becoming “Galya” again. Saturdays, medications, sleepless nights.
I replied:
“Thank you. But no. I don’t need the apartment. I moved to a cheaper rental and I’m saving for my own place. In three years I’ll have a small apartment. Mine. Earned. I’ve forgiven our parents. But I won’t help anymore. Now you are the family.”
“Are you serious?” came the reply.
“Completely.”
That evening I sat in the kitchen of my small rented apartment. I thought about how Mom fed me with a spoon when I was sick as a child, how Dad taught me to ride a bicycle. And how they signed that paper behind my back.
I could have chosen resentment. Or return.
But I chose something else.
For the first time in forty-six years—I chose myself.
The apartment went to my brother. So be it. I’ll have my own. Small, modest—but mine. Without conditions.
My parents made their choice. And choices have consequences.
Now they live with theirs.
And I finally live my own life.
And you know what? I’m fine. Truly fine.
Not out of revenge. Not out of spite.
But because I realized: I am not obligated to pay for someone else’s love with my life.
And you? Would you be able to give up your parents’ apartment for your own dignity?
