I grew up in a single-parent family, my father left when I was less than two years old. For some reason my mother always loved my older sister more, giving her gingerbread and giving me a slap on the wrist. That’s how my whole childhood and school years went on. I was constantly reproached with an extra piece of bread, dumped with the most unpleasant and thankless work, and I dreamed of when, at last, I would finish school and go to school and go to the city. For the sake of this I studied diligently even at night, and my efforts were not in vain.
Admission to college was trouble-free, then my mother did not even ask where I entered, where my dormitory was, just sighed: “At last you’re getting smart, otherwise everything was on my hands!”
When I arrived after my first year in the village, I realized that no one was waiting for me there, so, after meeting up with a few buddies, I left again for the dormitory. Five years flew by unnoticed. I called my mother, congratulating her on the holidays, but instead of thanking her, she always wanted to know if I had any income to help her and her sister. I had no income at the time, except an increased stipend. It went very quickly in the city, and I could not transfer anything to my relatives, for which they were very offended.
When I started working, my mother started asking me about my income again. I sent them small remittances, but not very often. Renting an apartment pulled a significant amount out of my salary, but again my in-laws decided that I just didn’t want to communicate with them, and after four years I really lost interest in them. They never cared if I had enough money for the most basic things, the stereotype of “living in the city means rich” was doing its evil work in their minds. My sister married a fellow villager, had two children, divorced, married again, had another child, and divorced again. I guess the men couldn’t get along with her. Knowing her squabbling nature, I was not surprised.
The notary’s letter fell on my head like a snowball. After visiting the office and talking to the notary, I learned that my grandfather, my father’s father, had decided to leave me his house in the suburbs after his death. I do not know why he liked me so much, because the direct heir was my father, whom I absolutely did not remember, and when I met him I would never know.
Most likely, he told my mother about my inheritance. When I saw my mother’s number pop up on the phone, I was surprised – it was her first call to me.
The surprise quickly passed, though, when I heard that my sister needed help with housing. My mother wanted me to sell the house and give the money to my sister to buy an apartment. This was not part of my plans, so I told my mother. Long enough she tried to talk me into it, my sister called and complained about her miserable life, and when I asked if she knew how I had lived all these years, my sister suddenly stopped talking and hissed angrily: “You never loved me!” Asking her counter-question about her sisterly love for me, I heard a short ringing tone on the phone…
Six months later I inherited, then successfully sold the house, and by the day I married my future wife we already had our own two-bedroom apartment, in which we still live.
I have no contact with my mother and sister. They couldn’t forgive me for getting an apartment, disregarding their requests and demands that I give my inheritance to them.
