At the family celebration for my grandmother’s birthday, which took place in my brother Sergei’s apartment, I felt out of place from the very beginning.
When everyone was already seated at the table, my nephew Ilya approached me with a bottle of cola. He wasn’t in a hurry, as if he already knew he was about to become the center of attention. He stopped next to me, looked me straight in the eyes—and suddenly poured the dark, sugary liquid over my knees.
— You don’t belong here, — he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. — Grandma says so too.
For a moment, there was silence at the table, then laughter erupted. Loud, ringing, almost cheerful. Some burst out laughing, others even clapped.
Larisa, his mother, leaned back and said with a smile to her friend that Ilya simply says what he thinks, and that “kids these days are just like that—no filter.”
Sergei gave me a brief glance and smiled as well, as if it were nothing more than a harmless moment of entertainment.
The cold, sticky cola ran down my skirt, soaking into the fabric and clinging unpleasantly to my skin. My legs instantly became wet and chilled.
I dabbed my knees with paper napkins, calm and slow, trying not to show anger or pain. The laughter grew louder, as if they were testing where my limit was.
I SMILED CALMLY. SAID NOT A WORD. MADE NOT A SINGLE SUDDEN MOVE. I REMAINED SEATED FOR A FEW MORE MINUTES, LET A PAUSE FORM, EXCUSED MYSELF AS IF NOTHING HAD HAPPENED, AND SAID THAT I HAD TO LEAVE.
I went outside, got into my car, and drove home. There, I took off the ruined skirt, opened my laptop, and logged into my online banking. That same evening, I officially withdrew my guarantee for Sergei’s credit line.
The next morning, my brother’s car was towed away, and just a few hours later, another unpleasant surprise was waiting for my dear relatives.
In the morning, Sergei’s car was indeed towed. The neighbors watched from their windows while he stood in the yard, phone in hand, unable to understand how everything could fall apart so quickly.
Meanwhile, at that same time, I made another call.
I contacted the military office and calmly introduced myself. I said I wanted to clarify some information about my nephew Ilya.
I only mentioned that he had no serious illnesses. That the documents on the basis of which he had been granted a deferment had not come about without the help of his parents—and that it might be worth reviewing those records again.
I was convinced: if one is going to grow up, then at least do it in a place where no one applauds when you humiliate another person.
BY EVENING, THE CALLS BEGAN.
First Larisa, his mother. Her voice trembled, her words stumbled. She said I had misunderstood everything, that it had just been a stupid joke, that “kids these days are just like that.”
Then Sergei called. He begged me. Said I was destroying his son’s life, that one must not do such things, that family is sacred.
Finally, my grandmother called. The very one in whose honor the celebration had been held. She cried and kept repeating that she had never wanted it to go this far, that “the boy had simply said too much,” and that I had to fix everything.
I listened in silence.
— Take back what you said, — Larisa pleaded. — Please. We’ll do anything. He’ll apologize. We’ll make him.
I replied calmly and very clearly:
— I have already seen what you are capable of. There is nothing left here to fix.
