Dmitry placed his phone on the table and said it as if he were reading out an approved order. Calmly, confidently, leaving no room for objections. Natasha stood by the stove, slowly stirring the sauce.
“Here’s how it’s going to be: we’re spending the vacation with my parents. The money we’ve been saving is going toward repairs at their house. Your parents can manage somehow on their own.”
Natasha turned off the burner. Then she turned around and looked at him steadily.
“Dima, we agreed we’d go to my parents this year. You promised back in February.”
“The situation has changed. My father’s roof needs fixing. That’s serious money, Natasha. It’s not some whim.”
“My father’s porch has been falling apart for two years. You know that. Every time, he’s the one we postpone.”
“A porch is a porch. A roof is a roof. The scale is completely different. Don’t compare them.”
She poured herself some soda and sat down opposite him. Her movements were calm, but something had appeared in her eyes that Dmitry had never noticed before. Or had never wanted to notice.
“Dima, I’m not against helping your parents. But why is it the same thing every year? My parents are waiting for us. My father calls every week asking if we’re coming.”
“Let him call. What does that have to do with me? My parents objectively have the bigger problem.”
“Objectively means we look at the situation together and make a decision together. But you’ve already decided everything. Alone.”
Dmitry raised an eyebrow. In eight years of marriage, Natasha had never objected so directly. She had always agreed — quietly, obediently, with a faint sadness he had trained himself not to notice.
“What’s gotten into you? I explained it normally. The roof. Repairs. The money needs to go there.”
“And I’m asking normally: why does ‘there’ always mean your parents? We’ve gone to Valentin Petrovich’s place five years in a row. Five years, Dima.”
“Because there’s a house there, nature, a proper place to rest. Your parents have a two-room apartment, a sofa bed, and a dacha.”
“My parents have my father, who recently had surgery. A father who wants to see his granddaughter. A father I promised I would bring Alisa to for the summer.”
Dmitry stood up and paced around the kitchen. It irritated him that the conversation wasn’t going according to plan. Usually, Natasha nodded by the second minute.
“I’ll take Alisa to my parents. It’s better for her there. Fresh air, the river.”
“Are you serious right now? You’re deciding for me, for our daughter, and for my family — without even asking?”
“I’m the head of the family. I make the decisions.”
Natasha pushed her glass aside. She looked at him carefully, without anger, but with something new — the look a person gets when they finally truly see the one sitting across from them.
“Fine. Then I’ll put it this way: I’m going to my parents. With Alisa. This is not a discussion. It’s a decision.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Completely.”
For two days, they barely spoke. Dmitry walked around the apartment like an offended monarch whose servant had dared to contradict him. Natasha took care of their daughter, cooked, and went about her usual routine — but inside, she had already started calculating.
On the third day, Rita, Dmitry’s sister, called. Natasha answered because the number didn’t show up right away.
“Natashenka, hi! How are you? How’s little Alisa?”
“Hello, Rita. Everything’s fine. Alisa is well.”
“Listen, Dima told me about your conversation. Natasha, you do understand that Dad’s roof is really in emergency condition, right? If they don’t fix it now, the whole second floor will be flooded by autumn.”
“I understand. And I never said we shouldn’t help. I said that for five years in a row, all our money and every vacation have gone only to your side of the family.”
“Well, we have a big house. It needs investments. Your parents have an apartment — what can really happen there?”
“Rita, my father’s porch at the dacha is falling apart. He’s sixty-four. He had knee surgery. It’s hard for him even to go outside because the steps are unstable.”
“Natasha, come on, a porch… That can be fixed for pennies. Just nail down a couple of boards.”
Natasha gripped the phone a little tighter. There it was — the same dismissive attitude she had swallowed for years. “Just nail down a couple of boards.” As if her parents were second-class people.
“Rita, thank you for calling. But my decision won’t change.”
“What decision? Dima said you want to take Alisa and go to your parents. Alone. Is this some kind of ultimatum?”
“It’s not an ultimatum. It’s a promise I made to my father. And I’m going to keep it.”
“You’re selfish, Natasha. Sorry, but you are. Dima is trying for the family, and you…”
“Rita, ‘family’ includes my parents too. Goodbye.”
She hung up. A minute later, Dmitry came out of the room. From his face, it was obvious he had heard the conversation.
“You’re being rude to my sister now?”
“I politely ended a conversation I never invited third parties into. Why did you involve Rita?”
“I thought she could explain it to you properly. Woman to woman.”
“Explain what? That my parents don’t deserve attention?”
“Don’t twist my words. Nobody said that.”
“Rita just said the porch is ‘a couple of boards.’ Do you honestly think the same?”
Dmitry looked away. Natasha noticed it immediately. He didn’t argue. He didn’t defend her family. He simply stayed silent.
“I see. So you do.”
“Natasha, stop blowing this out of proportion. Let’s just do what I said. We’ll go to my parents, help with the roof, and then we’ll see.”
“Then when? You’ve been saying ‘then’ for five years. I’m done waiting for ‘then.’”
“What is this, a rebellion?”
“No. It’s fairness.”
He scoffed and went into the other room. Natasha took out her phone and called her father.
“Dad, hi. Alisa and I are coming next week. Yes, for sure. No, not ‘if it works out.’ We’re coming.”
Oleg Vasilyevich’s voice trembled on the other end of the line. He didn’t ask for details. He simply said, “I’ll be waiting, my girl.”
Natasha started packing on Wednesday. Neatly, calmly — her things and Alisa’s. Dmitry watched her with growing irritation.
“Are you seriously packing?”
“Seriously.”
“And the money? Are you planning to take money from the account?”
“I’ll take my half. Exactly half. The rest is yours. Do whatever you want with it.”
“What half? We saved that money together!”
“Exactly. Together. Which means half is mine. I’ll spend it on fixing my father’s porch. And on tickets.”
Dmitry turned pale. He hadn’t expected Natasha to actually follow through. Usually, she objected quietly, then gave in, then cried in the bathroom. He had grown used to that pattern. This new pattern frightened him.
“You can’t just take the money.”
“I can. The account is in my name. You insisted on it yourself — ‘it’s simpler that way,’ remember?”
He remembered. It had been two years earlier, when he needed to hide savings from someone he knew. A convenient arrangement had turned against him.
“Natasha, that’s low.”
“What’s low is telling my father for five years, ‘next year we’ll definitely come,’ and then never coming. What’s low is spending shared money only on your side of the family and calling it a ‘family decision.’”
“I never forbade you from visiting your parents.”
“No, you didn’t forbid it. You just made sure we never had enough time or money left for my family. It’s subtler than a ban. But the result is the same.”
Dmitry’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen — his father, Valentin Petrovich.
“Yes, Dad. No, we haven’t decided yet. Yes, I know about the roof. I’ll handle it.”
He spoke in short, clipped phrases. Then he turned to Natasha.
“My father is asking when we’re coming. The workers are already scheduled to start in two weeks. They need an advance payment.”
“Dima, I already told you. My half is for my family. Yours is for yours. That’s fair.”
“Fair? The roof costs four times more than some porch!”
“Then ask Rita to contribute. Or use the money you’ve been saving separately.”
A pause. A long one. Dmitry blinked.
“What money?”
“The money on the card registered in Rita’s name. You’ve been transferring fifteen thousand there every month since January.”
“How did you…”
“Dima, I’m not blind. I saw the notifications. You forgot to turn them off when you left your phone charging on Friday.”
He froze. Now he truly felt uncomfortable. Not because he had been caught, but because Natasha wasn’t yelling, crying, or making a scene. She simply knew. And she was acting on it.
“That money is for the roof. I was saving separately so we wouldn’t have to touch the joint account.”
“So the money for the roof already exists. Separate money. Money you hid from me. Then why do you need our shared savings too?”
He had no answer.
“I’m taking my half, Dima. Tomorrow. And I’m going to my father.”
In the morning, Natasha withdrew the money. Exactly half, down to the last coin. She called her friend Lena and asked for help with the tickets.
“Lena, I need two tickets. For me and Alisa. For Saturday.”
“Natasha, what happened? Your voice sounds…”
“My voice is fine. I’m just going to see my father. Finally.”
“And Dmitry?”
“Dmitry is going to his parents. As always. Only this time — alone.”
Lena didn’t ask questions. She had known Natasha for twenty years. If Natasha had made a decision in that tone, that meant it was final. There was no turning back.
That evening, Dmitry brought reinforcements. The door opened, and his father, Valentin Petrovich, entered the apartment. Tall, heavyset, and used to having the final word.
“Hello, Natasha. Sit down, please. Let’s talk.”
“Hello, Valentin Petrovich. I’ll stand, thank you.”
“Dima told me you took the money. Half of the family savings.”
“My half. Not someone else’s.”
“Natasha, we’ve always lived peacefully. Why these divisions? The roof is urgent. You’ve been to our house yourself. You’ve seen the condition it’s in.”
“I’ve seen it. And for five years, I waited for my father to finally receive help too. He never did. So I’m going myself.”
Valentin Petrovich turned to his son. Dmitry stood by the wall like a man who had just lost his trump card.
“Dima, can’t you come to an agreement with your wife?”
“She won’t listen. She’s dug her heels in, that’s all.”
Natasha didn’t cross her arms. She simply stood there, her hands relaxed at her sides, and somehow that looked stronger than any defensive pose.
“Valentin Petrovich, I respect you. But I want you to understand something. My father is no less important. He is waiting for his granddaughter. He is unwell. He needs help no less than you do. It’s just that in this house, people don’t usually talk about that.”
“Natasha, I’m not against you visiting your parents. But why touch the money?”
“Because it’s my money too. I earned every ruble of that half. Not Rita. Not Dima with his separate little card. Me.”
Valentin Petrovich looked at his son. Dmitry lowered his eyes.
“What separate card?”
“You didn’t know? Dmitry has been transferring fifteen thousand a month since January to a card registered in Rita’s name. He says he was saving separately for the roof.”
Valentin Petrovich slowly turned toward Dmitry. Something unfamiliar appeared in his eyes — not anger, but confusion.
“Dima? Is that true?”
“Dad, I… I wanted the money to be ready by summer. I wanted to surprise you.”
“On Rita’s card? Why on her card and not yours?”
Dmitry said nothing. Natasha said nothing either. She had no intention of finishing him off. The truth was enough.
“Does Rita know about these transfers?”
“Of course she knows. It’s her card.”
Valentin Petrovich took out his phone and called his daughter. The conversation was brief.
“Rita, the money Dima has been sending you — that was for the roof? How much is there? No, tell me exactly. Ninety thousand? And how much have you spent? On what?”
A pause. A long one.
“On a kitchen? What kitchen? Your own?”
Another pause.
“So my son was sending you money for repairs on my house, and you spent it on furniture for your apartment?”
Valentin Petrovich put the phone away. He sat down on a chair and looked at Dmitry with a long, heavy stare.
“Did you know?”
“Dad, I thought she was keeping it separate. I didn’t check.”
“You didn’t check. Ninety thousand. You didn’t check. But you hid it from your wife. Put Natasha in front of a done deal. And told me there wasn’t enough money.”
Natasha silently took Alisa by the hand and led her into the children’s room. She had no reason to listen to what happened next. She had said what she needed to say. The rest was their family’s own matter.
Saturday. The train station. Lena helped carry the bags. Alisa held her toy horse close and looked around with that special childlike curiosity that turns every train station into an adventure.
“Natasha, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Lena, I’m more okay than I’ve been in years. I’m going to my father. With my daughter. With money for the repairs. Everything I need is with me.”
“And Dmitry?”
“Dmitry is sorting out what he created for himself. Turns out Rita spent his ‘secret’ savings on her own needs. Valentin Petrovich knows. Now they’re having their own family council.”
“Wow. And how do you feel?”
“Honestly? Light. I didn’t need to prove anything. I just needed to stop agreeing.”
Oleg Vasilyevich called.
“Natashenka, have you left yet?”
“In twenty minutes, Dad. Alisa can’t wait to see you. She wants to show you how she learned to read.”
“I swept the porch. It’s still shaky, of course, but it’s clean. I’ll meet you.”
“Dad, don’t go out onto the porch until we fix it. Stay inside. We’ll come in ourselves.”
“All right, all right. My little commander.”
She smiled. Lena hugged her, kissed Alisa on the cheek, and left.
An hour later, when the train had already started moving, a message came from Dmitry: “Natasha, it’s not what it looks like. Rita said she’ll return the money. Come back and let’s discuss this properly. I got carried away.”
Natasha read it and typed back: “We’ll discuss it when I return. In three weeks. For now, I’m where I should have been five years ago. With my father.”
The second message came from Rita: “Natasha, why did you tell Dad? That was between me and Dima. You ruined everything.”
Natasha answered briefly: “I didn’t tell him anything. He called you himself. You two ruined it when you decided my parents didn’t count.”
The third message was from Valentin Petrovich: “Natasha. I’m sorry this happened. I didn’t know. Not about the card, not about your father’s porch. Turns out Dima didn’t tell me a lot of things. If you need help with the repairs, tell me. I’ll send Timofey. He knows this kind of work.”
She stared at the message for a long time. Then she replied: “Thank you, Valentin Petrovich. I’ll manage. But thank you for offering.”
Alisa leaned against her shoulder and asked:
“Are we going to Grandpa Oleg?”
“Yes, sweetheart. We finally are.”
“And Dad?”
“Dad will come later. When he figures out something important.”
“What?”
“That you can’t love only one half of a family. You have to love both.”
Alisa thought for a second and nodded, as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world.
And two weeks later, when the new porch was finished, when Oleg Vasilyevich stepped onto it for the first time without fear that a step would collapse, when Alisa was running around the yard with the neighbor’s cat, Dmitry called.
“Natasha, I’m coming. To you.”
“Why?”
“I want to see the porch.”
She was silent. Then he added quietly:
“And apologize. To Oleg Vasilyevich. In person.”
“Come. But know this: if these are just words again, words that mean nothing, I won’t wait a sixth year, Dima. Five was enough.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t understand yet. But maybe you’ll start.”
She hung up and stepped out onto the new porch. The boards were light, even, and smelled of fresh wood. Her father was sitting on the top step, watching Alisa chase a butterfly.
“Natasha, thank you,” he said without turning around.
“There’s nothing to thank me for, Dad. This should have been done a long time ago.”
“I’m not talking about the porch.”
She sat down beside him. He placed his hand on her shoulder. And nothing more needed to be said.
