A House Divided
“Vera, enough already,” Igor snapped, pushing away his half-eaten bowl of borscht. His patience was wearing thin. “How long are you going to keep making a fuss over this? Anya is our guest. She won’t be here forever.”
“Guest?” Vera scoffed, her voice laced with sarcasm. “She’s been ‘guesting’ here for three months. And in that time, she’s helped herself to our money, bought a three-thousand-ruble bottle of wine, and smothered caviar onto her sandwiches like butter. Meanwhile, payday is still a week away, and we’re counting every ruble. But sure, she’s just a guest.”
“You act like she’s living in luxury,” Igor shot back, slamming his palm on the table. “Yesterday, she told me how difficult the divorce has been for her. I won’t turn my back on my own sister.”
“Your own sister, your own sister,” Vera repeated mockingly. “And yet, I’m the one scrimping at the market while she swipes your card for designer perfume. Have you even asked yourself why she does this?”
Before Igor could respond, Anya appeared in the doorway, holding a cup of tea with lemon. Her expression was one of mock offense.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your little drama. I’ll leave so you two can finish tearing each other apart. As they say, the king of the house makes the rules.”
“Anya, wait!” Igor stood abruptly, but his sister was already disappearing into her room, the door slamming behind her.
Vera smirked. “There goes your ‘guest’—slamming doors, spending our money, and still thinking she’s the victim.”
Igor exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Why did you have to attack her?”
“Attack her?” Vera clenched her fists. “She’s draining us dry. Today it’s money, tomorrow she’ll want the car. And then what? When do you draw the line?”
Silence filled the kitchen. Outside, stray dogs barked in the night.
“She’s only here temporarily,” Igor muttered, more to himself than to her.
“Three months, Igor. And do you know what the funniest part is?” Vera leaned forward. “She won’t even thank you when she leaves. She’ll just go back to Voronezh and brag about how she squeezed everything she could out of ‘Moscow.’”
Igor stubbed out his cigarette and sank back into his chair, his face unreadable.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice heavy. “Throw her out onto the street?”
Vera stood, gathering the dirty dishes. “No,” she said coldly. “I want you to open your eyes.”
The only sound in the kitchen was the low hum of the refrigerator, filling the air with an eerie tension.
“Let’s just go to bed,” Igor muttered, rubbing his temples.
“You go ahead. I have dishes to wash,” Vera replied without looking at him.
He left, and Vera stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the untouched sandwich with caviar still sitting on Anya’s plate. Without hesitation, she picked it up, walked to the trash can, and let it fall in.
From behind the wall, she could hear the soft hum of Anya’s radio playing an old chanson. Vera smirked to herself. Quite fitting. As they say, to each their own.
The next morning, Anya sprawled on the couch, idly spinning a coffee cup between her fingers.
“You wouldn’t believe it, Igor,” she said lazily. “I was reading about this famous thinker—what’s his name? The one who talks about success? Anyway, he says, ‘Life is like chess, and if you’re a pawn, don’t complain when you get eaten.’ True, right?”
Igor barely looked up from his phone, nodding absentmindedly.
“Mmm-hmm. And who’s the queen in your version?” Vera entered the room, toweling off her damp hair, her voice laced with sarcasm.
“Well, I’m certainly not a pawn,” Anya smirked. “And you know, Vera, sometimes it’s better to stay quiet than to expose your ignorance about intellectual matters.”
“Oh, forgive me,” Vera said, throwing her hands up mockingly. “I just came from the market—where only ‘appropriate’ thoughts are allowed.” She turned on her heel and slammed the bedroom door behind her.
Igor sighed, surveying the apartment. The walls seemed to be closing in, the space smaller than before. Anya’s presence had changed everything. She had always been the golden child, the center of attention. Their mother had coddled her, and when Igor left for Moscow, Anya had stepped comfortably into her role as the favored one.
And now, she was here, taking up space that didn’t belong to her.
“Can you stop with the quotes?” Igor finally said, his patience fraying.
“What do you mean?” Anya asked, feigning innocence.
“These—these ridiculous sayings. You don’t even know who wrote them.”
“Not my fault if you don’t appreciate philosophy,” she teased. “In Voronezh, they admire me for my intellect.”
Igor fell silent. In Voronezh. She spoke of it constantly, as if it were a distant utopia rather than the place she had fled after her disastrous marriage.
“Bring me another blanket,” she said suddenly. “It’s getting cold.”
“Get it yourself,” Igor muttered.
“There you go again! You could help your own sister,” she huffed, crossing her arms.
Vera, from the kitchen, clenched her jaw. She had heard enough.
“You know, Katya,” she had confided in a friend just the other day, “I understand helping family. But Anya? She acts like a queen. The way she eats caviar by the spoonful—you’d think she was some duchess!”
“And what does Igor say?” Katya had asked.
“As usual, nothing. He’s afraid to stand up to her,” Vera had responded bitterly.
Now, standing in the kitchen, Vera held a crumpled receipt in her hand. Her voice trembled with controlled fury.
“Shampoo for thirteen hundred rubles? Anya, are you serious?”
Anya emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a plush towel, her expression amused.
“Are you allergic to numbers, Vera? Or just jealous that I take care of myself? A woman should always look presentable. As they say, ‘Clothes make the man.’”
“And other people foot the bill, right?” Vera shot back. “Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Of what?” Anya shrugged. “Did I steal? No. Igor told me to take what I needed.”
Vera stepped closer, her voice quiet but firm.
“Listen, ‘wise one,’ have you ever thought about what we need? That I eat soup for lunch all month so our budget doesn’t collapse? Or do you just not care, as long as you look ‘presentable’?”
Anya snorted. “Vera, you’re so small-minded.”
Vera’s fists clenched. “Anya, you’re a guest here. And I’m telling you now—this needs to stop.”
At that moment, Igor walked in, tired from work. Vera threw the receipt at him.
“Do you even know what your sister spends our money on?”
Igor glanced at the crumpled paper, then at Anya. He hesitated.
“Maybe… don’t buy such expensive things?” he finally said.
Anya’s expression darkened. “Igor, are you serious?”
Vera folded her arms. “Either she leaves, or I do.”
Silence.
“Tomorrow morning,” Igor finally said, his voice quiet but resolute. “You’re leaving, Anya.”
She gasped. “You’re choosing her over me?”
Igor didn’t respond.
The next morning, Anya packed in silence. She didn’t say goodbye.
That evening, Vera returned home. She didn’t speak when she saw the empty apartment. They sat in the kitchen in silence, both exhausted.
After a long pause, Vera whispered, “You did the right thing.”
Igor exhaled, staring out the window. He didn’t answer.
But for the first time in months, the apartment finally felt like home again.