24 #2
My three sisters are over forty, all married, all with picture-perfect family calendars.
They live in their houses on the estate with a new couch, crisply ironed curtains, and a shopping list stuck to the fridge with magnets.
They’ve got a WhatsApp group for everything: the school field trip, the padel tournament, Saturday’s cookout, and a Pinterest-y birthday dessert table with little signs.
Their husbands work here too, all doing important things.
Their kids wear their uniforms without a wrinkle and do three after-school activities a day. The full package.
When they see me roll in with short hair and a leather jacket, they look me up and down and hit me with a “How’s work,” with a pause, like the word “work” is suspect.
Then they offer me a headband “in case you feel like looking different.” I laugh so I don’t start a fight.
Sometimes they toss a “You’ll settle down,” and I think, I don’t fucking want to.
And yeah, they judge me. There’s always a background comment, a question laced with mild poison.
I’m the youngest and, according to the family manual, I was supposed to be the spoiled one.
Reality: I’m the black sheep. Because I’m a lesbian, because I wear a black jacket in summer, because I work with Irina on the serious stuff. To them, I’m post-dinner gossip.
I’ll give them this: if my laptop cable breaks, they show up with a spare; if I run out of ibuprofen, they drop off a box; if I forget my keys, they let me in without making a scene. Logistics? They nail it. And they bring food. I appreciate that.
I don’t care, or that’s what I say. I wouldn’t take their life, not even for a month.
I have no patience for husbands who fall asleep watching the game, obligatory dinners, and china that only comes out at Christmas.
But I also don’t feel like putting up with their faces when I tell them who I’m seeing or what time I get back.
Sometimes I bite my tongue, grab a slice of cake, and put music on my phone.
Other times, I answer back and that shuts the conversation down.
And I keep going. Because I’m me and I’m not asking permission to exist.
“Nat!” Ivan yells again from downstairs, amped. “Come on, my dad gets pissed if you don’t move your ass!”
And then Boris. Mr. Expectations. I love him in my own way, but that “straighten your life out now” stare of his wears me out. I’m not signing that contract—he knows it and keeps pushing.
I hit pause on the game and get up in one go.
I close the in-game chat, shove my phone in my pocket, look for matching socks and fail.
I throw on jeans, a black T-shirt, my usual jacket, hair gel, deodorant, keys, and I’m out.
If they want princesses, they can go up to the mansion—the brand-new leading ladies are up there.
I take the stairs two at a time and there’s Ivan, smug, holding a helmet that smells like sweat and gasoline.
“I knew you’d come out. You’re not getting out of this,” he says, pleased with himself.
“You’re not my dad,” I growl, yanking the helmet off him. “Start it.”
I climb on behind him and he shoots off. The moped vibrates, makes a racket, and churns my stomach. I think about my couch, my pajamas, and my stale cheese puffs. But nope—Velikanov day on the agenda.
We take the dirt roads through the estate. Dust in my mouth, cold air on my face, branches grazing us. We pass the cottages, the cameras swivel, the guard’s dogs sound off. I pray for a flat tire, a fallen sign. Nothing.
The engine holds out all the way to my mother’s front door. I take off the helmet and the usual smell hits me: sour cabbage, dill, meat stewed with pepper like there’s no tomorrow. My stomach likes it; my anxiety, not so much. Full combo of childhood and mandatory Sunday.
I barely set foot in the yard and I can already hear the low hum of voices with laughs that don’t quite sound natural.
The table takes up half the patio. There are deep plates everywhere, steaming bowls of borscht, huge trays of potato salad, herring fillets with onions, baskets of dark rye bread, butter, pickles, mustard, tall glasses, bottles of water and kvass.
Smells like the stove’s been on since 8 a.m. My mother, for sure.
“Well, look who showed up!” Oksana, the oldest, pops off in her TV-host voice, floral dress ironed within an inch of its life. She smiles without her eyes. Message received: about time.
“We thought you were too busy for your family,” Tatiana, the second, tosses out in her pop-quiz tone. She doesn’t even look at me; she stirs the soup and sets the ladle down like a judge.
“Or too tired from your… night shifts,” Katerina, the third, finishes, the one with the perfect bun and the quick tongue. Everything neat, everything critical.
I bare my teeth in a smile. They’re not getting a single sour face out of me today.
“Great to see you too. You really put on a feast.”
I take the one empty chair in the corner, pull my plate closer, grab a napkin, and set my phone face down. I’m here, I showed up, let’s eat and keep the peace.
My brother sits there in full boss posture.
He’s big, old-school gym strong, thick neck, hair buzzed down to the millimeter, shirt tucked in, belt cinched tight, and a huge watch set to the second.
His eyes are ice-cold and his face is locked on serious.
He looks at me like he’s taking roll. I tug at my T-shirt, pick a piece of lint off my pants, and think: here we go—family audit.
He gets up, gives me a quick hug, touch-and-go. I blank a little, because this man doesn’t hand out affection even at Christmas. If he’s hugging me, the afternoon’s going better than I thought.
“About time, Nat,” he says in Russian, low, the voice that means don’t argue.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I answer in the same tone. No drama, no sucking up. Neutral.
He lets go, scoots my chair in with one hand, and points at the soup bowl he’s set in front of me.
“Be good and eat.”
“Okay,” I say, and I laugh a little because the bowl’s steaming and it smells good. “I promise I won’t throw anything.”
And then the matriarch appears. Big, heavy, square jaw, tight bun, white apron over a black dress. Her shoes click on the tiles, she smells like flour and that same old perfume that clings to clothes. When she advances on us, even Boris lowers his head. She runs this place.
“Natasha!” Thunder voice, two kisses on my cheeks. “You’re late. You think the soup’s going to wait on you?”
“No, Mom,” I answer automatically, fifteen-year-old version, with the memory of her cigarette busts.
She runs her eyes over me, head to toe, shakes her head, and huffs.
“You don’t know how to do your hair, you don’t know how to dress. Good thing you at least know how to eat. Eat and keep quiet.”
I slip past the nieces and nephews who barely talk to me and the sisters drilling me with their eyes.
The borscht steams in front of me, deep red.
Dill, garlic, beet, a hit of vinegar. My nose burns and hunger and anger hit at once.
My mother doles out, barks orders at my brothers-in-law, straightens the flatware, nudges the chairs half an inch and then nudges them again. Nobody says a word.
“Let’s see if this time you eat properly, Natasha,” she snaps, ladling me another scoop that almost burns my hand.
“Sure, Mom,” I say, and I sink the spoon.
The same taste as always—tangy, strong. It slams me with memories of a hot kitchen, towels on the radiator, loud arguments, winters with soup every day.
I look around: my mother at the head with the ladle raised, my oldest brother stuck to the place of honor, the sisters all done up, the blond grandkids in a row.
And me, on the edge, the one who never makes it into the picture without someone frowning.
I lean toward Boris. He’s got the bread under control: perfect slices, not a crumb loose, board clean, knife straight. Slicing soothes him, and watching him so perfect makes me nervous.
“And what are you even doing here, brother?” I lower my voice, confiding. “And where’s your… new girlfriend?”
I let that “new” hang for a beat.
Boris shoots me a warning look, though he doesn’t hide.
“New? I’ve been with her for years. She’s in Barcelona. She had things to do,” he says, flat, and pins down another slice, everything squared off.
I tilt my head. I can’t help myself.
“Uh-huh. So you traded Rashel for… what was it? Oh, right. Someone who poses a lot and talks a little. All show.”
Tatiana chokes on her soup and looks at me with her eyebrows up and her lip trembling. Her husband, Alexei, snickers and then pretends he didn’t.
“Natasha, please,” Oksana says through tight lips. “There are children at the table.”
I shrug, half a smile and a nail dug into my palm.
“What? Rashel’s gorgeous, smart, and steps like she means it. The other one is filters, gloss, and silence. Not a single interesting idea—not half of one.”
Katerina can’t hold back.
“Look who’s talking about ideas. You’re in no position to hand out diplomas.”
I’m about to fire back—it’s right there on my tongue—but Boris beats me to it. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to.
“Enough,” he says. He fixes his stare on Katerina first, then on Oksana and Tatiana, who suddenly find the tablecloth fascinating. “Nat doesn’t need your digs. She’s done something none of you here has done: she found the twins. That matters, and you respect it.”
No one says a word. Just the sound of bread tearing in his hands. I go still. I can’t remember the last time Boris gave me credit in front of everyone. My ears get hot.
The kids set their spoons down halfway and stare at me. And sure enough, here comes the interrogation.
"The twins?" Oksana asks, pure gossip. "Do they really exist? I still haven't seen them."
"Of course they do," Tatiana puts in. "Even the press covered it."