"Open the door! We know you're inside!"

Marina froze in the hallway of her small one-room apartment, clutching her phone tightly to her chest. Her father’s voice was as commanding and harsh as it had always been when she was young—scolding her for the smallest mistakes, like breaking a cup or bringing home a B instead of an A.

Bang! Bang! His fist struck the iron door, making the key holder rattle. Marina could almost feel the neighbors peeking through their peepholes.

A message from her mother appeared on the screen: “You’ve torn the family apart. We never expected this from you.”

"Marina!" Now her mother’s voice sounded desperate. "What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

Tamara’s trembling fingers hovered over the screen as she reread the message. A lump rose in her throat, and her lips trembled despite her best efforts to stay calm.

"But now I know what to expect from you," she whispered into the empty apartment.

The pounding on the door grew louder, rattling the frame. Marina stood frozen, her mind racing, replaying how everything had shifted in the past two weeks.

Two weeks ago, Marina had believed that family was unbreakable.

She had been in the hallway of her parents’ apartment, taking off her wet boots. The same faded rose-patterned wallpaper still adorned the walls, unchanged for the last fifteen years. Bills for utilities piled up on the table, waiting to be paid through the bank app tomorrow.

“Marina, could you tidy the living room?” Her mother called from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “My back’s bothering me again.”

“Of course, Mom,” Marina replied automatically, as she had every weekend. She would buy groceries, get her father’s blood pressure meds, and handle the household issues. Her brother, Artyom, would visit occasionally—just to eat Mom’s cooking and ask for money that, as always, never came.

She plugged in the vacuum and started dusting the shelves—old books, framed photos, and postcards from years past. She worked methodically, knowing exactly where everything was. But when she reached for a stack of magazines between old photo albums, a thin folder slipped out.

It was a clear plastic folder, with a grayish edge. Marina was about to place it back when a single folded sheet of paper fell to the floor. She picked it up, unfolded it, and read.

It was a will.

Her gaze immediately locked onto her brother’s name. “All real estate, including the apartment at [address], the summer house, the car, I bequeath to my son, Artyom Gennadyevich.” Marina read the line three times before reading it again.

Her name appeared only at the very end: “With love to both children.”

“What… what is this?” she whispered.

She sank into her father’s chair, holding the document. The apartment she’d grown up in, the summer house she’d spent every holiday in—everything left to Artyom. The brother who only reached out when he needed something.

“Marina, the kettle’s boiling!” her mother called from the kitchen.

“Coming,” Marina answered, but didn’t move.

Staring at the wall where her literature certificate hung next to a childish drawing by Artyom, she stood up, the will still in her hand, and walked into the kitchen.

Her mother was pouring boiling water into cups with golden rims—the special ones “for guests.” Her father was by the window, muttering about sugar prices while reading the newspaper.

“Dad,” Marina’s voice was softer than she expected. “What is this?”

Her father looked at the will without surprise, then glanced at her mother, who stood silently by the stove. “So, you found it,” he said. “I thought I hid it well.”

“And that’s it?” Marina asked, placing the will on the oilcloth by the sugar bowl. “Just ‘found it’?”

Her mother sat down next to her, attempting to soften the conversation with a sweet tone. “Marina, you understand. You have everything: an apartment, a steady job, a salary. And Artyom... where is he supposed to go?”

“Where?” Marina shot back. “To work! He’s thirty years old! He’s not incapable!”

“Marish, don’t start,” her father interrupted, not looking up. “You’re strong, you’re smart. We always knew that. But he’s not like you.”

“Did you ever ask how I feel?” Marina’s voice cracked. “Who pays your bills? Who handles the pharmacy, the doctors? Who’s here when there’s a fever or blood pressure problems, or when the internet breaks?”

Her mother snapped, “Don’t raise your voice, Marina. We raised you, we fed you—”

“And him too! But for him, it’s ‘never worked out.’ Five jobs in seven years—that’s not trying, that’s running away. And all this time, you’ve taken care of him. But for me, it’s ‘you’ll manage.’”

Marina knocked the chair over as she stood up.

“But why should I support you, and he gets the inheritance?”

A long silence followed.

“You know,” Marina’s voice was low but steady, “I thought family didn’t keep score. That love was unconditional. But I guess I was wrong.”

Her mother turned away, but Marina’s anger was too much. “That’s enough,” she said, her tone final. “Figure it out yourselves.”

She left the apartment, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders.

For two weeks, Marina lived in quiet. No calls for help with bills or trips to the pharmacy. She bought coffee beans—the kind she had always passed by, saying “not now.” But now was the time.

Then, like clockwork, a message came from her father:

“Utility bills due by the 15th. Will you pay?”

Marina, sitting at the table, sipping coffee and spreading butter on toast, read the message, then set the phone down. After finishing her coffee, she typed: “Ask Artyom. It’s his apartment now.”

Five minutes later, her phone buzzed. First, her mother:

“What are you thinking, Marish?” her voice trembling. “That’s your father! Are you out of your mind?”

Marina answered simply: “Figure it out yourselves,” and hung up.

Next, Artyom called.

“Marina, come on,” he mumbled. “Mom and Dad didn’t mean to hurt you...” The call dropped.

Then her father’s voice:

“Are you serious? Leaving the family over nonsense?”

Marina muted the phone and shoved it in the desk drawer.

On Sunday, they came—her mother, father, and Artyom. Marina watched through the peephole. Her mother’s eyes were red from crying, her father’s face impassive, and Artyom fidgeted, looking down.

“Open up!” her father called. “We need to talk!”

She opened the door just a crack, keeping the chain on.

“Speak from here,” Marina said, firm.

“What’s wrong?” her mother’s pleading voice began. “You’ve always been understanding.”

“We’re family,” Artyom interjected. “You can’t just do this because of a piece of paper—”

“Because of a piece of paper?” Marina’s anger flared. “It’s a will, Artyom. A document that shows who really matters to our parents.”

“You have everything!” her father shouted. “An apartment, a job! We just wanted to help Artyom!”

“Then help him. Without me.” Marina nodded and closed the door.

The next morning, Marina posted on social media, sipping her coffee.

“I didn’t raise a daughter to grow old alone. But I guess I was wrong about the person. When parents need help, true children don’t turn their backs. And the selfish ones reveal their true nature.”

Dozens of sympathetic comments flooded in. “How awful,” “Young people have no heart,” “Stay strong, Nadusha.”

Minutes later, a post from Artyom appeared about family values and how his sister had “forgotten where she came from.” Her father shared it with the comment: “That’s when you see who people really are in tough times.”

The phone buzzed non-stop. Aunt Lena: “Marin, what’s going on?” A coworker: “Are you okay?” A neighbor greeted her ambiguously in the hallway.

By evening, Marina sat in her empty apartment, staring at her laptop screen. She debated staying silent, but the pressure inside her needed to be released.

She typed:

“For seven years, I paid the parents’ bills. For seven years, I bought groceries, medicines, solved household problems. I found out about the will by accident—all the property goes to my brother. When I asked ‘why?’ I heard: ‘You have everything; he can’t manage.’ Now I’m the selfish one because I’m tired of being convenient. Don’t judge until you’ve been in my shoes.”

Marina reread the text three times. Every word was truthful, no insults, just the facts.

She clicked “Publish.”

Within a minute, the first supportive comments appeared. People shared similar experiences. It turned out there were many “convenient” children just like her.

For the first time in a month, Marina didn’t feel alone.

Her phone buzzed constantly—comments, private messages, reposts. Marina sat on the couch, scrolling through the endless responses.

“Girl, you’re amazing! I did the same with my lazy husband,” wrote a stranger with a cat avatar. “Parents are to blame themselves. They shouldn’t have shown such preferences so openly,” commented a middle-aged man. But others: “How can you abandon your elders? Heartless.” Marina set the phone aside and made tea. Her phone vibrated again. A message from Aunt Lena, her mother’s sister: “Mashenka, you finally stood up for yourself. About time.”

Then—from a former classmate: “Saw your post. Hang in there, you’re doing the right thing.”

And then—a message from her father: “You’re a traitor. After everything we did for you.”

From her brother: “You’re just jealous. Always jealous that they love me more.”

Marina stared at these lines for a long time. Then, with a steady hand, she blocked them both. She had already blocked her mother’s number yesterday.

“Enough,” she said to the empty apartment.

She pulled out a cake from the fridge—the kind she only bought on holidays. Today felt like a holiday. The start of a new life.

A month passed, unnoticed. Marina sat on the balcony, an open book resting on the table. For the first time in a long while, she felt the desire to read.

The apartment was bathed in evening shadows. The fridge hummed quietly in the kitchen. A ficus—a recent purchase—stood on the windowsill. From the neighboring apartment, soft melodic music played. Somewhere below, a dog barked, and the entrance door slammed shut. The usual sounds of a typical evening.

The phone had been silent for a week. No calls asking for help, no requests for money, no health complaints.

“I’ve learned to say ‘no,’” Marina said aloud, surprised by the sound of her own voice. And it felt good.