— Dash, I wanted to talk, — Semyon started cautiously as soon as she stepped over the apartment threshold. He stood in the middle of the hallway, shifting from foot to foot, and his look — guilty yet filled with some inappropriate determination — immediately stirred a dull irritation in Darya.
She silently took off her shoes, feeling her buzzing feet happily spread out on the cool laminate. Her shoulder ached under the weight of the bag that seemed to carry the entire burden of the past workweek. Ahead were two days. Two blessed days of silence, long sleep, hot baths, and a book she hadn’t touched for a month. Her personal, small, hard-earned paradise.
— Just not about the balcony renovation, please. Let me get to the couch first, — she passed by him, throwing the bag on the ottoman. The air in the hallway thickened as if Semyon had filled it with his unspoken request.
— No, it’s something else. About Sveta, — he said behind her back.
Darya froze halfway into the room. This was worse than the balcony. Much worse. His sister’s name always heralded some small or big disaster that, for some reason, they had to solve. She slowly turned around.
— What now? Is the cat giving birth? Flood in the downstairs neighbors’ apartment? Again, she needs to urgently borrow money until payday that never comes?
Semyon winced as if in toothache. He stepped closer, trying to look her in the eyes; his voice became coaxing, penetrating. It was the very tone he used when about to ask for something inevitably unpleasant.
— Dash, it’s serious. She’s completely worn out with her little monsters. You know Nikita and Lyoshka — they’re not children, they’re two endless engines. Sveta is on the edge of a breakdown; she called today, almost crying into the phone. She says if she doesn’t get at least a couple of days off, she’ll just go crazy. She needs to exhale, be alone, come to herself to continue being a mother.
He paused, waiting for her reaction. Darya looked at him, and her initial tired irritation quickly turned into cold, sharp indignation. She saw the whole picture clearly: his pitiful face, the pre-prepared speech about “women’s lot,” and the final chord — a request that would ruin all her plans for the next forty-eight hours.
— And I suggested that we could take the boys to our place. For the weekend. Just two days, Dash. Help her, be understanding. We are family.
The explosion came without warning. Darya didn’t shout, no. Her voice sounded as if forged from steel.
— Are you out of your mind, Semyon? For the entire weekend? Two of them? Here? I worked my ass off all week, counting down the minutes until Friday evening just to lie down and stare at the ceiling in silence. In si-len-ce, do you understand that word? And you want me to arrange a 24/7 circus here with two uncontrollable kids?
Her gaze locked onto him, demanding immediate retreat, surrender. But Semyon, fueled by brotherly duty, stepped forward.
— Dasha, why are you like this? They’re children. Yes, noisy, but…
— Exactly! — Her voice grew louder, filling the entire apartment.
— Dash…
— If you want to, then you take care of your sister’s kids, I don’t want to! And I don’t want to see this daycare at home! Got it?!
— Wait a minute…
— I want to rest in my own home, not work as a free nanny for my nephews because their mother is “tired.” I’m tired too! But for some reason, no one offers to take me to a quiet resort for the weekend!
— But, Dasha, she’s my sister! — he squeezed out what he thought was his trump card.
Darya gave a crooked smile. That smile was scarier than any scream.
— Exactly. Yours. So take Monday off from work, take a taxi, and go save your sister. You can live at her place for a week, entertain her kids, take them to the zoo, feed them with a spoon. That’s your right and your family duty. But if you think you’ll turn my apartment into a branch of her personal kindergarten, you’re very wrong.
Darya’s words hung in the air like thick smoke from a fire abruptly extinguished. They didn’t disperse but settled on the furniture, on the walls, on Semyon himself. He stood looking at her, and confusion slowly gave way to the expression of wounded pride. He expected arguments, persuasion, maybe even some female tantrums that he could gently soothe. But he got a direct, harsh refusal backed by a humiliating permission for him to go save his sister alone. It wasn’t just a disagreement; it was a challenge to his authority, to his role as a man and brother.
— I don’t recognize you, Dasha, — he finally said, cold notes piercing his voice. — When did you become so… callous? I’m talking about helping a close person, my sister, who is raising two kids alone, and you talk to me about your rest and silence. Don’t you care about anyone else? We’re a team, a family. Or does that only work when you need something?
He deliberately hit the most painful spots: accused her of selfishness, questioned her humanity. It was his favorite tactic — to shift focus from the inconvenient request to the moral character of the one who dared to refuse. Darya silently went to the kitchen; her back was straight as a taut string. She took a mug from the cupboard, filled it with tea, clicked the electric kettle’s button. Every movement was deliberately calm, and that irritated Semyon much more than if she kept shouting. He followed her, unwilling to let the last word stay with this insulting silence.
— What, no answer? I’m right, aren’t I? Easier to hide behind the kettle than admit you’re just too lazy to stretch for two days for my family!
Darya slowly turned to him, leaning her hip on the countertop. The kettle behind her started to quietly hum, gathering power.
— Your family? Semyon, what are we? A project? Temporary cohabitation? You so easily separate “your family” from ours when it suits you. You want to talk about help and callousness? Fine, let’s talk. Remember our anniversary two years ago? The cottage by the lake I booked three months in advance. We were already packing; I was looking forward to the weekend. Remember what happened on Friday afternoon?
Semyon tensed. He remembered well.
— Sveta called, — Darya continued in a calm, merciless tone, — and said Nikita suddenly had a temperature of thirty-seven point two. And she couldn’t handle such a catastrophe alone. And you, dropping everything, rushed to her. Our anniversary, the cottage deposit, my plans — all went to hell because of your nephew’s runny nose.
— That’s different, don’t compare! — he tried to object, but his voice was unconvincing. — It was a critical situation! The kid was sick!
— Critical? — Darya smirked, but there was no amusement in her eyes. — A critical situation is when on Saturday morning Sveta posts photos from the spa with her girlfriends on social media with the caption “finally got to relax, thanks to my beloved brother.” And her “mortally ill” son happily wrecks your apartment under your careful supervision. Or did you forget how he spilled juice on my laptop? You also said back then, “He’s a kid, he didn’t do it on purpose.” Did you pay for the repair? No. You just told Sveta she owed you. Did she pay? No.
Each of her words was like a precise blow knocking the air out of his lungs. He tried to argue, to justify, but all his arguments crumbled before these cold, indisputable facts. He wasn’t defending his sister; he was defending his own image as a noble savior, which Darya was now systematically destroying.
— She just pulls strings, Sema. And the main string is your guilt and duty. Her “crisis” happens exactly when we have plans. Not before, not after. And every time you dance to her tune, completely forgetting you have a wife who also has desires and needs. So don’t talk to me about callousness. I’m just tired of being a prop in your play of rescuing Princess Sveta.
The kettle clicked off behind Darya, and the sharp sound cut through the heavy atmosphere in the kitchen. She calmly poured boiling water over the tea leaves in her mug, fragrant steam rising. That steam, her composed action, was worse than a slap for Semyon. He saw not fatigue but contempt. Contempt for his words, his sister, his sense of duty. All his righteous brotherly grief instantly evaporated, replaced by a dull, masculine resentment.
— So that’s how it is, huh? — he stepped forward, invading her tiny space by the countertop. — You just decided to cross my sister out of your life because she dared ask for help? You twisted everything, made her some kind of schemer and yourself the victim. Convenient position, no doubt.
He spoke now in a harsh, accusing tone. His tactic changed: if pity didn’t work, accuse.
— You just don’t like my family. Never did. Any excuse is good to show your superiority. She “ruined” your laptop. Dasha, it’s ridiculous! You earn ten times more than your laptop is worth! And for her, that’s a lot of money! But it’s more important for you to shove that juice in her face than show a shred of generosity!
Darya put down the mug. She didn’t even take a sip. She looked at him as if at someone hopelessly lost in the woods yet fiercely insisting he found the right way.
— It’s not about money, Semyon. And you know it well. It’s about attitude. That you let her treat our home, my things, and my time as something taken for granted. As a resource to be used at will without giving anything back. Not even simple respect.
The argument reached a deadlock. He spoke about family ties, she — about personal space and self-respect. They were in the same kitchen but saw the situation from different planets. Semyon saw a sister driven by circumstances. Darya saw a grown woman skillfully manipulating her brother, shifting responsibility for her own life onto him. And this argument could go on forever in circles with the same points until someone made a decisive move.
And Darya made it. She straightened up, her voice quiet but no less weighty.
— I’ll tell you once, Semyon, and won’t repeat. This is my apartment. Mine. And I don’t want to see her kids or her problems here. I want silence. If you think your duty is to go save her, that’s your choice. But if you get up now and leave for her place, don’t come back.
She wasn’t threatening. She stated a fact. It wasn’t an emotional outburst but a cold, measured ultimatum. A line drawn in the sand. Here — their home. There — his sister. And he had to choose which side to stay on.
Semyon’s face contorted. He didn’t expect this. He thought she’d argue, bargain, protest but not put it so bluntly. Panic flashed in his eyes, then changed to angry, desperate resolve. He realized he lost this round outright. So he did what people cornered do — decided to blow up the entire playing field.
He sharply pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers banging roughly on the screen.
— Oh, really? You want that? Fine! — he hissed, looking at her defiantly. — You don’t want to talk to me? You’ll talk to her!
He found Sveta’s number and demonstratively pressed the speakerphone icon, placing the phone in the middle of the kitchen table. Long rings sounded. Darya looked at him without changing expression. She understood what he was doing. He was dragging their private conflict into the open, trying to shame her, force her to obey under the gaze of a third, invisible judge.
The ringing stopped.
— Hello? Sema? — came Sveta’s slightly tired but hopeful voice from the phone.
Semyon leaned toward the device, his face instantly transforming. Anger gone, replaced by a mask of caring brother.
— Sveta, hi! Don’t worry, everything’s fine! We’re waiting for you! Yes, yes, everything’s settled, Dasha is also very happy to help. Pack the boys, we’re ready to take them right now.
Sveta’s voice, coming through the speaker, was thin and full of tearful gratitude. It sounded alien in this kitchen soaked with resin-thick tension. Darya looked at her husband, his face twisted with false, sugary care, his pose — protector and savior. He not only lied. He tried to break her, using his sister as a battering ram, a human shield, painting Darya as a soulless monster if she dared to object. This cheap manipulative trick was the last straw.
— Dashenka! My angel! I knew you wouldn’t refuse! — chirped Sveta on the other end. — I almost packed their things! Oh, you’re saving me so much, I owe you forever…
Semyon cast a triumphant look at his wife. The look of a winner who just put a stubborn brat in her place. He expected her to shrink now, fall silent, forced to obey the fait accompli. But he didn’t count on one thing: a person with nothing to lose can’t be cornered.
Darya took two quiet steps to the table. She didn’t look at Semyon. Her gaze fixed on the black rectangle of the phone, from which the stream of gratitude continued. She stretched out her hand and, without touching the device, just leaned toward it.
— Sveta, this is Dasha, — she said. Her voice was even, almost colorless, devoid of any emotion. That dead tone sounded louder in the kitchen than any scream.
A moment of silence followed on the other end.
— Oh, Dashenka, hello to you too! I’m just talking to Sema…
— Don’t pack the kids, — Darya interrupted her with the same calm, metallic tone. — They won’t come here. Not today, not tomorrow, never. Your brother lied to you. I don’t agree.
The words fell on the table like chunks of ice. Semyon jerked as if hit. He rushed to the phone to stop this, but it was too late. Pandora’s box was open.
— What? — Sveta’s voice instantly changed. The tearful gratitude vanished, replaced by confusion and thinly veiled irritation. — What do you mean you don’t agree? Sema, what’s going on with you two? You said everything was settled!
— Sveta, wait, don’t listen to her, she’s not herself! — mumbled Semyon, trying to regain control. His face turned crimson; sweat appeared on his forehead. He looked pathetic.
— What do you mean “not herself”?! — Sveta shrieked, her voice full of venom now. — What kind of games are you playing behind my back? You promised me! You gave me hope! And now what? Should I tell the kids Uncle Sema is a liar?!
— Sveta, I… Dasha, say something! — he turned to his wife with a desperate plea.
Darya looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. This stranger, pacing man who first betrayed her, now begged to save him from the consequences of his own betrayal. She leaned toward the phone again.
— He told you the truth, Sveta, — she said in the same icy voice. — He’s a liar. He promised you what he couldn’t fulfill, at my expense. Now look for another fool to solve your problems. Our family is no longer involved.
After that, she took the phone and pressed the hang-up button. The conversation was over.
Semyon went limp as if the air had been let out of him. He stared at the silent device like a dead snake. He was humiliated. Destroyed. And it happened not only in front of his wife but also his sister, for whom he tried so hard to be a hero. He slowly raised his eyes to Darya. There was no anger, only emptiness and dull, animal confusion. He didn’t understand how everything collapsed so quickly.
Darya silently took her now-cold mug, poured out its contents into the sink, and rinsed it. Her movements were measured and calm, as if nothing had happened. As if she had just finished washing dishes after an ordinary dinner. She put the mug on the drying rack and, without looking at her husband, passed by him toward the kitchen exit. Already at the door, she stopped and, without turning, threw over her shoulder:
— You’ll sleep in the living room. And find a big box. Tomorrow morning, pack everything that reminds you of your sister and take it to her. Along with yourself…
