I gave my parents a dacha. They sold it and bought my sister a car. But you can’t buy a conscience…
Natasha saw the photo in her feed by accident. Vika next to a new foreign car — white, with a red bow on the hood. The caption read: “Thanks to my parents! Now I can get to the kids faster!”
Her knuckles turned white. Natasha tightened her grip on the phone.
She dialed her mother.
“Hello?”
“What’s this car Vika has?”
“Oh, you saw it? Beautiful, right? We helped.”
“Where did you get the money?”
A pause.
“We sold the dacha.”
Natasha didn’t understand at first.
“What dacha?”
“Yours. The one you gave us. We decided — why do we need it? Our backs hurt, we don’t go there. And Vika needs a car with the kids. You understand, don’t you?”
Around her — the hum of the hospital corridor, someone laughing. Someone called out to her, but she didn’t turn.
“Natash, why are you silent? You’re not against it, right? She’s your sister. We’re your parents, we know better.”
Natasha hung up.
Five years ago, she had sold her grandmother’s apartment — the one that was willed only to her. She added all her savings. Bought her parents a dacha.
Her mother cried then. Her father said, “You’re our golden girl.”
Golden.
That evening Natasha went to their place. Without calling.
Her mother opened the door:
“Why didn’t you warn us?”
Natasha walked into the room. Father was by the TV — didn’t even turn around.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the dacha?”
Her mother pressed her lips together:
“Why would we? We decided ourselves. It’s our property.”
“Mine. I bought it.”
“You gifted it — so it’s ours. We decided Vika needs it more. She has kids, a husband, work far away. And you’re alone, you’ll manage.”
Her father turned:
“What are you whining about? Being greedy?”
Natasha looked at him. At her mother. They truly didn’t see anything wrong.
“You could have asked.”
“Asked?” her mother curled her lip. “Vika is the youngest, she has it harder. You always manage. You’re strong.”
Natasha stood up. Didn’t say anything. Left. Closed the door — quietly, without slamming.
For two weeks she stayed silent. Went to work, came home, lay down on the couch.
Her son asked once:
“Mom, why are you sad?”
“Just tired.”
He went to his room. Didn’t pry.
And Natasha kept remembering: how they stood on the doorstep of that dacha. Her mother crossing herself. Her father hugging her: “Thank you, dear daughter.” Back then Natasha felt right. Needed. Good.
Now she understood: she had just been convenient.
On Friday evening Vika called.
“Why are you ignoring Mom? She’s beside herself.”
“Hi, Vik.”
“She says you’re offended because of the dacha. Natasha, seriously? I really need the car. Kids, daycare, work — you understand. Or are you just being stingy?”
Natasha closed her eyes.
“It didn’t occur to any of you to ask me?”
“Why? The parents decided. They know better.”
“I bought it with my own money.”
“So what? You gifted it. A gift is when you give it and don’t interfere.”
Natasha hung up. Stood up. Went to the closet. Took out a folder with documents — the gift deed, statements, receipts.
She sat down at the table. Opened her laptop.
An hour later she found what she was looking for.
On Monday Natasha went to her parents again. With the folder.
Her father opened the door, frowned:
“Why are you here again?”
Natasha walked past him. Her mother from the kitchen:
“Came to your senses finally?”
Natasha put the folder on the table. Opened it. Laid out the papers — slowly, one by one.
“I reviewed all the documents for the dacha.”
Her mother tensed…
“The dacha is registered to you, but the money came from my account. By law, if the recipient of a gift shows ingratitude, the deal can be contested. I’m gathering documents for court.”
Her mother turned pale.
“What nonsense are you talking about?”
“Either you return the money, or we settle this publicly. In court. In front of everyone.”
Her father jerked forward:
“Are you out of your mind?! Want to shame us?!”
“I want what’s mine back.”
Her mother grabbed her hand:
“Natasha, we’re family!”
Natasha pulled her hand away.
“You yourselves chose who’s more important in this family.”
She turned and walked out.
Behind her, her mother shouted something about ingratitude, about how Natasha was killing them.
Natasha didn’t turn back.
Three days of silence. Then it began.
Vika kept calling — Natasha didn’t answer. She texted: “Are you insane?! You want to take the car?!”
Natasha didn’t reply.
An hour later — a voice message. Natasha put it on speaker while chopping vegetables for dinner.
Vika’s voice — hysterical, strained:
“Natashka, do you even get what you’re doing?! My husband said if we have to sell the car because of you, he’ll kick me out! I have kids! Do you understand?! You were always selfish! Always only thought about yourself!”
The message cut off.
Natasha kept slicing tomatoes. Evenly. Calmly.
The next day — her father called:
“Natasha, enough. Stop this circus.”
She was silent.
“Do you hear me? Your mother hasn’t eaten in two days, she’s crying nonstop. Do you realize what you’re doing?”
“I do.”
“Then stop. We’re not returning anything. Get over it.”
“I won’t. Return it or we go to court.”
“Oh, go to hell!” her father snapped. “Ungrateful! We raised you, fed you, and you drag us to court?!”
Natasha hung up.
Her hands were shaking — but not from fear. From anger. From the fact that she had finally stopped being silent.
Another day passed. Vika came. No call. Natasha opened the door — her sister stood there pale, eyes red.
“Can I come in?”
Natasha silently stepped aside.
Vika walked in, sat at the edge of the couch. Was silent for a minute. Then:
“Are you really going to sue?”
“I already filed.”
Vika flinched.
“Why?”
“Because you all decided I’d swallow it. That I always swallow it.”
Vika pressed her lips together.
“Natash, I didn’t know it mattered so much to you. Mom and Dad said — we decided. I thought you were okay with it.”
“No one asked me.”
“Well, I’m sorry! I really didn’t mean to hurt you!”
Natasha looked at her. Vika was always like this — first screams, then tears.
“Sell the car. Return the money.”
Vika turned pale:
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Natasha, my husband will kick me out!”
“That’s your problem. You took what wasn’t yours — now return it.”
Vika jumped up:
“You’re just taking revenge! You’re jealous that I have a family, children, and you have no one!”
Natasha stood up. Opened the door:
“Leave.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
“Yes. Leave right now.”
Vika walked to the door, turned at the threshold:
“You’ll regret this. Mom was right — you’re selfish.”
Natasha closed the door. Leaned against it. Exhaled.
A week of silence. Then a message from her mother: “You’ve destroyed us. Hope you’re happy now.”
Natasha didn’t reply.
The next day — a bank transfer. From Vika. Comment: “Sold the car. Happy now?”
Natasha wrote back briefly: “Waiting for the rest from the parents.”
Three days later — another transfer. From her father. Less than what was owed, but still a significant amount.
Natasha accepted the money.
She wrote one message in the family group chat:
“Received the money. I want nothing else from you. Don’t write to me. Don’t call me.”
She left the chat. Deleted it. Blocked all three of them.
She sat in the kitchen. Looked out the window — evening was settling in, streetlights glowing.
The phone was silent.
Not painful. Just empty.
She stood up. Turned on the kettle.
Tomorrow — work. The day after — her son’s school meeting. Life goes on. Only now — without those who thought she’d endure everything.
Two months passed.
Natasha lived as usual — work, home, her son. The phone no longer rang nonstop. No one invited her to family dinners, no one asked for help, no one reminded her: “You’re the eldest, you must.”
Silence. Unfamiliar, but peaceful.
At dinner one evening, her son asked:
“Mom, doesn’t Grandma call anymore?”
“We had a fight.”
“A bad one?”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t make up?”
“No.”
He nodded. Didn’t ask further. Smart kid.
A month later, a message came from an unknown number:
“Natash, it’s Vika. I’m writing from someone else’s phone. You were right. I’m sorry.”
Natasha read it. Deleted it. Blocked the number.
Not out of anger. Just too late.
On Saturday, she and her son looked at apartments. Natasha decided — she’d add her savings to the returned money and buy a bigger two-bedroom. Her son would soon be seventeen; he needed a proper room of his own.
The third option — a bright kitchen, big windows. Her son walked around, peeking out the windows:
“Mom, look, there’s a school nearby!”
Natasha walked over. Looked. Smiled.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes. Are we taking it?”
“We’re taking it.”
That evening they rode home by bus. Her son scrolled his phone, Natasha looked out the window. The city passed by — evening lights, bustle, people hurrying about their lives.
Suddenly her son said:
“Mom, I’m glad you didn’t stay silent back then.”
Natasha turned:
“Why?”
He shrugged:
“I don’t know. You’re just… different. Stronger, I guess.”
Natasha smiled. Put her arm around his shoulders:
“Thank you.”
He nodded. Went back to his phone.
And Natasha looked out the window, thinking: yes, she had become different. Someone who wasn’t afraid to defend what was hers. Someone who would never let herself be used again.
And that was right.
