During a routine day at work, a call from my mother unexpectedly interrupted my focus. She rarely disturbed me during office hours, fully aware of my busy schedule. Her hesitant tone suggested uncertainty, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to approach the topic.
“Anyuta, I need to discuss something sensitive with you…” she began.
Setting my pen aside, I reclined slightly, recalling that after eight years in St. Petersburg, I had become attuned to my mother’s voice. When she mentioned a “sensitive matter,” it generally implied another family issue had arisen.
“I’m listening, Mom,” I replied.
“Aunt Lena called. Do you remember her? She’s Dad’s cousin and lives in Kaluga,” she continued.
My memory of Aunt Lena was faint — a tall woman with dyed hair I’d encountered only a few times during childhood family events. After Dad passed away, our ties with his relatives had diminished significantly.
“Well,” Mom said, “she has a son named Denis, twenty years old, who wants to study programming at a Petersburg university because, as he says, only there do they teach properly.”
I already suspected the direction this conversation was taking—and I wasn’t enthusiastic.
“They have the down payment ready and are willing to cover the mortgage while he studies. Then he plans to take over payments once employed. However, the bank refused them. They believe you might be approved because of your work history, decent income, and Petersburg registration…”
Interrupting, I said, “Mom, are you seriously proposing I take out a mortgage for a young man I’ve never met?”
She replied, “Anya, I know this is a big ask… But Aunt Lena helped me so much after you moved away. She lent me money and even arranged repairs when my radiator broke. I don’t know how I would have managed without her.”
I closed my eyes, realizing how skillfully parents wield guilt without realizing it.
“Mom, what if they default? What if something happens? The loan will legally be under my name.”
“Oh, come on! Lena is responsible and serious. Her husband owns a workshop with plenty of business. They wouldn’t do this lightly. Their son just needs some guidance,” she reassured me.
That day, I couldn’t focus on my work. The figures in the reports blurred together, and my mind continuously circled the situation. On one side, I owed my mother so much—she had raised me alone after Dad’s death, sacrificing to support my education. On the other hand, committing to someone else’s loan felt reckless.
Later that evening, I sat in my rented one-bedroom kitchen, sipping tea while staring at the grey roofs of Petersburg. Over the years, the city had become my home. Here, I’d earned my degree, secured employment, and established a career. I had built a life I was proud of. Yet, Mom’s request risked it all for a nephew I barely recalled.
Taking a deep breath, I dialed Mom’s number.
“Okay,” I said before she could speak, “I agree.”
Mom’s voice quivered with relief. “Anyuta, dear! You’re such a wonderful person! Not everyone would take on this responsibility for family.”
A week later, Aunt Lena and her husband visited Petersburg. They were kind, straightforward people, moved to tears by gratitude. Uncle Vova, a robust man skilled with his hands, repeated, “Anyutka, we will forever be in your debt.” Aunt Lena cried, calling me an angel.
However, Denis left quite another impression. Tall, slender, always wearing a scowl, he barely lifted his eyes from his phone during visits to agencies and banks. His responses were monosyllabic, and when asked about the apartment, he simply shrugged: “What difference does it make?”
We quickly found a small one-bedroom apartment in a historic building by the Griboedov Canal. Its window offered a breathtaking view of the water and embankment. Bright and cozy after renovation, it matched the kind of home I had once hoped to own.
“Beautiful!” Aunt Lena exclaimed. “Denis, look at that view!”
Denis glanced briefly before returning to his phone. “Fine,” he muttered indifferently.
The paperwork process was lengthy and nerve-wracking. I signed the documents, aware that this commitment was substantial. Aunt Lena promised to transfer funds monthly to cover the mortgage payments.
The first months proceeded smoothly. Aunt Lena sent money diligently, and Denis secured a state-funded university place. Despite his sparse messages indicating minimal study effort, his parents were pleased that he was at least in Petersburg and enrolled.
Years sped by. I advanced professionally, earning more and settling into routine. Occasionally, I thought of the canal apartment I was paying for but that a stranger inhabited. I also wondered about buying my own place someday, which seemed improbable with the ongoing loan.
My love life was less successful. Relationships came and went without depth. By thirty, I was a successful independent woman, yet single. The plan to marry and transfer the mortgage to my husband had failed.
- By the seventh year, I considered purchasing an apartment myself.
- My income could support a mortgage and I had saved a considerable down payment.
- However, the bank refused to grant a second loan until the first was fully paid.
Regret crept in for the decision made seven years earlier; a kind act for family had imprisoned me in circumstances I hadn’t anticipated.
One Thursday morning, a bank call shattered my calm. A polite agent informed me about missed payments. Confused, I learned the last installment was over three months late, leading to significant debt.
My hands shook as I dialed Mom.
“Mom, Aunt Lena stopped paying the mortgage. What happened?”
After a silence, Mom’s quiet answer came: “Anyutka… Lena and Volodya died in a car accident on the highway six months ago. I thought you knew…”
The world blurred around me. In disbelief, I sank into my chair.
“How… how could this be six months ago? Why was I never informed?”
“I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you’d be upset. About the loan—I thought Denis would manage it.”
I had forgotten Denis entirely.
“Give me his number, please,” I said.
Thankfully, Denis still used the same phone number. When I called, he answered groggily.
“Denis, it’s Anya, your cousin. We need to discuss the apartment.”
“Oh, it’s you…” he yawned. “What’s wrong with the apartment?”
“The loan! Your parents are gone and no payments are being made. I owe a large sum to the bank!”
His voice lacked sympathy. “Yeah, parents… that’s sad, sure. What can I do? I don’t have a stable job and live off odd jobs. My girlfriend buys me food. I have no money.”
“Denis, the mortgage is in my name. If you don’t pay, the bank may seize the apartment!”
His irritation grew. “Look, I never asked for that apartment. It was their decision. I never wanted it. I don’t know what you expect me to do. That’s your problem now. I’ll stay with Nastya.”
He hung up. Sitting there clutching the phone, I couldn’t believe the indifference from someone I had supported for so long.
That evening, I calculated my savings carefully. Though I had enough to clear the loan early, I knew it meant postponing my own homeownership plans for years. Alternatively, I could seek another approach.
I called Denis again.
“Here’s the plan,” I said calmly. “You move out, and I’ll take full responsibility for the loan.”
“No problem,” he answered almost cheerfully. “I didn’t want it anyway. I’m living with Nastya. When shall I leave?”
“Two weeks,” I replied.
At the two-week mark, I stood holding keys to my apartment by the Griboedov Canal — the very one I had liked so much and owned only on paper for seven years.
Denis left it in poor condition. Dirty dishes, clutter, and a strange smell filled the space. Old pizza boxes and empty bottles littered the kitchen floor. Opening the window, I welcomed fresh air from the canal.
The view remained unchanged — the embankment, historic facades reflected in the dark waters. Gazing out, I marveled at life’s twists.
Clearly, significant repairs were necessary, and costly. Also, now I had to bear the loan’s financial burden alone, which strained my budget.
Key Insight: Despite unexpected challenges, I had acquired the very kind of apartment I once dreamed about—situated in central Petersburg with a canal view.
Taking out my phone, I ordered cleaning services. Tomorrow would begin renovations. Soon after, I’d purchase new furniture. Within months, I planned to move in.
The family initially hoped to place the mortgage on me, but they overlooked one vital detail—I was and remain the rightful owner of that apartment. Seven years later, everything unfolded quite differently than anyone anticipated.
Walking around once more, I envisioned how the space would transform post-renovation. Yes, it required investment and personal sacrifice, but I would finally hold my own place in the heart of a city I cherish deeply—and for far less than current market values.
Sometimes, what appears to be misfortune at first can reveal itself as a hidden blessing in time.
This journey taught me the complexities of family bonds intertwined with financial obligations. Though the path was unexpected and fraught with difficulty, it ultimately granted me something I always wished for—a home.