“You’re disgracing our family name with those relatives of yours,” Artyom snorted, tossing his spoon onto his plate.
Dasha stood up and laughed loudly in his face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Please repeat that profound thought. I’d like to write it in a notebook and preserve it as a sacred relic.”
“Are you mocking me?” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m serious. Your parents live in a run-down three-room apartment, wear the same clothes for ten years, and give us jars of homemade pickles for holidays. It’s humiliating.”
“The pickles are excellent, by the way. You’ve been devouring them and praising them for the past two years.”
“I was being polite!” he said, raising his voice. “But I’m tired of being polite. We have a family name. My family has a reputation. And you keep dragging this provincial nonsense into our home.”
Dasha sat down opposite him and folded her arms. On the table between them lay a thick cream-colored envelope with gold embossing. It had arrived that morning, and Artyom had already turned it over in his hands several times without opening it.
“Let’s discuss this calmly,” she began gently. “What exactly don’t you like about my parents?”
“Everything! They’re boring and dull. They have no connections, no money, no glamour.”
“They’re quiet, educated people. Is that some kind of disease?”
“It’s a death sentence for our family. Don’t you understand? We’re supposed to be moving upward, while your parents are dragging us down.”
“Artyom,” she said with a patient smile, “have you ever once asked my father what he does?”
“Why would I?” He grimaced. “It’s obvious just by looking at him. He’s probably some penniless secondhand bookseller who spends his days sniffing old books.”
“And have you ever asked what my mother does?”
“She probably spends all day in her vegetable garden feeding chickens.”
Dasha slowly nodded as though she agreed with him and pulled the envelope toward herself.
“You know, I always thought a well-mannered person learned something about people before passing judgment on them. But apparently, you prefer to save time.”
“Don’t try to be clever,” he muttered. “Just tell me what that piece of paper is.”
“An invitation. To a major ceremonial event. It’s happening next week, right in the city center, in a hall you’ve seen on television.”
“And who would let you into a place like that?” he sneered.
“They’re not letting me in. They’re inviting me. Those are two different verbs, Artyom.”
Her phone rang. The screen displayed the name “Veronika.” Dasha went into the kitchen, leaving him at the table, nervously turning the envelope in his hands and wondering why the gold embossing suddenly looked so expensive.
The café on the corner was quiet, with round tables and heavy ceramic cups. Veronika was already waiting and waved when she saw Dasha.
“Well, tell me,” she blurted out as soon as Dasha sat down. “Did the envelope arrive?”
“It did. Artyom decided it was a pizza advertisement.”
“Oh my God.” Veronika laughed. “He still has no idea?”
“No. And you know what? I’m actually curious to see how much longer he’ll keep living inside this fantasy about my impoverished relatives.”
“Dasha, it isn’t funny anymore. He humiliates you in front of other people. Last week, he called your mother ‘that old woman with the chickens.’”
“He did.” Dasha calmly took a sip of coffee. “I kept quiet that time. I thought he would grow out of it and eventually understand.”
“But he isn’t growing out of it. He’s becoming more shameless. And his brother is just as bad.”
“Kirill? He’s a separate story altogether.”
“Listen.” Veronika lowered her voice and leaned closer. “Do you know why they’ve suddenly become so agitated? Why they’ve started talking about their ‘family name’ and ‘reputation’?”
“Is there a particular reason?”
“There certainly is. Someone told me something in confidence. Their family is in serious trouble. Financial trouble. That famous ‘reputation’ of theirs is falling apart.”
Dasha put down her cup.
“Tell me more.”
“I don’t know the details yet.” Veronika spread her hands. “But they’ve suddenly remembered that you exist. Not Dasha the person, but Dasha the resource. Do you understand? They need something from you.”
“How interesting,” Dasha said thoughtfully. “One moment I’m a disgrace, and the next I’m a valuable resource.”
“Be careful. Gennady has invited you to a ‘family dinner’ this weekend. That’s when everything will come out.”
“Well.” Dasha smiled. “I’ll go. I enjoy learning new things about people, especially when they think I know nothing.”
Artyom’s parents’ house was large, with heavy curtains and an abundance of gilded frames on the walls. Every frame was empty, as though they had bought them solely for the frames themselves.
Gennady, Kirill, and Artyom were already seated at the table. Dasha entered, greeted them, and sat down.
“My dear Dasha,” her father-in-law said with a sugary smile that immediately made her uncomfortable. “I’m so happy to see you. You look absolutely radiant.”
“Thank you. And I see that you’ve finally begun to notice me. That’s progress.”
“Oh, come now. We have always valued you.” He fussed with the teapot as he poured the tea. “Family is the most important thing. We are all one, aren’t we?”
“An hour ago, I was a disgrace,” Dasha calmly said to Artyom. “Now we’re all one. That’s quite a rapid promotion.”
“Stop picking apart every word,” Kirill muttered, sprawling in his chair. “We’re here to discuss something serious.”
“You have my full attention.”
Gennady cleared his throat and clasped his hands together.
“You see, my dear Dasha, these are difficult times. We’re experiencing certain… minor complications. Temporary ones, of course. We need a particular sum of money to stabilize the situation. And we thought…”
“What did you think?”
“We thought you could ask your parents,” Kirill blurted out. “They’re the quiet, secretive type. People like that always have something hidden under the mattress. Pretending to be modest, right? We know their kind.”
Dasha slowly turned her gaze toward him.
“So my ‘dull and impoverished’ parents have suddenly become an ATM?”
“Oh, stop it,” Artyom said, grimacing. “Family helps family. It’s perfectly normal.”
“How much do you need?”
Gennady named the sum. Kirill chuckled and rubbed his hands together. Artyom looked at her expectantly, wearing a faintly arrogant smirk, as though the matter had already been settled.
“And what makes you think my parents have that kind of money?” Dasha asked quietly. “You’re the ones who kept saying they lived in a dump and had worn the same jackets for decades.”
Silence fell over the table. Gennady shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Well… people are different. Quiet people can be cunning. They hide things.”
“I see.” Dasha nodded. “So your strategy is to insult them while it suits you and milk them for money when you’re desperate.”
“How dare you speak to us like that?” Kirill exploded, half rising from his chair. “We welcomed you into this family! We fed you and gave you a place at our table!”
“You fed me my mother’s pickles,” Dasha reminded him. “The ones you called provincial garbage.”
Two days later, Dasha visited her parents in that same supposed “dump”—an ordinary, bright apartment with books lining the shelves and the warm scent of homemade food coming from the kitchen.
Her father, Lev, looked up from the manuscript he was reading.
“Dashunya, has something happened?”
“Something has happened, Dad. They want to use me as a wallet.”
“Sit down.” He removed his glasses. “Tell us everything from the beginning.”
She told them about the insults, the envelope, the dinner, and the amount of money Artyom’s family wanted. Her mother, Galina, listened silently while stirring her tea.
“And what do you intend to do?” Lev asked.
“I’m not the kind of person who postpones unpleasant things,” Dasha replied. “Why drag it out? I’ll simply show them who everyone really is. No shouting. Just once.”
“Do they even know what your father and I do?” Galina asked.
“That’s the best part.” Dasha smirked. “They don’t. It never occurred to them to ask. They’ve lived near you for two years and decided you were nobodies simply because you don’t shout about your titles and accomplishments from every street corner.”
“Why would we shout?” her father said with a shrug. “A person’s dignity isn’t measured by how loudly others speak about them. It’s measured by who that person remains when no one is talking about them at all.”
“Exactly, Dad. And that’s why this is going to be beautiful.”
“What is going to happen, sweetheart?”
“That ceremonial event—the one the gold envelope was for. I never told Artyom who the evening was honoring. Two people will be celebrated onstage. One is a world-renowned scientist whose work revolutionized an entire field. The other is the director of a huge enterprise that supplies food to half the country.”
Galina smiled quietly.
“Are you saying…”
“I’m saying that my father is the famous professor whose name they probably couldn’t even pronounce. And my mother is the woman who runs a poultry enterprise employing hundreds of people. All our modest ‘poverty’ is simply the result of never developing the habit of measuring people by their money.”
The hall glittered beneath soft lights. It had soaring ceilings, rows of seats, and a grand stage.
Artyom, Kirill, and Gennady arrived in new suits. Dasha had given them invitations after all, since they were supposedly “members of the family.” They entered like victors, looking around and calculating which influential person might be worth approaching.
“This is a serious crowd,” Kirill whispered to his brother. “We should introduce ourselves to someone useful.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Artyom adjusted his tie. “At least Dasha has finally proven useful for something. She got us into a respectable place.”
“The important thing is to get the money,” Gennady muttered. “We can deal with everything else afterward.”
The host stepped onto the stage. The hall fell silent.
“Tonight, we honor people whose work speaks for itself,” he began. “Please rise for a man whose scientific research is studied throughout the world—Lev Andreyevich.”
Lev stood. The entire audience rose with him and gave him a standing ovation. Artyom looked around in confusion.
“Who’s that old man?” he whispered. “His face looks familiar…”
“And now,” the host continued, “we welcome the woman under whose leadership one of the region’s largest enterprises operates—Galina Sergeyevna.”
Galina rose beside Lev.
Only then did Artyom recognize them.
They were Dasha’s parents. The very same people he had called provincial peasants. The “old woman with the chickens.” The “penniless secondhand bookseller.”
The color drained from his face.
“Is that… Is that really them?” Kirill stammered. “Those are her parents?”
“They are,” Dasha calmly confirmed, appearing beside them. “The same people you wanted to turn into your personal wallet. The same people who, according to you, had nothing.”
“Dasha, wait.” Artyom grabbed her by the elbow and began speaking quickly, his tone suddenly ingratiating. “I didn’t know! How could I possibly have known? You never told me!”
“Did you ever ask?” She removed his hand from her arm. “Not even once in two years. You made every decision about them yourself. You humiliated them without even knowing their names. You called them a disgrace while sitting at their table and finishing the pickles they had made.”
“My dear Dasha,” Gennady interrupted. He had turned pale, and his voice rose to an almost hysterical squeak. “We’re relatives! We made a mistake! But the money… We still need that money. You understand, don’t you? We’ll be ruined without it!”
“Now this is interesting.” Dasha turned toward him. “An hour ago, you were masters of the universe. Now you’re clinging to ‘the old woman with the chickens’ as though she were a life preserver. Do you ever listen to yourselves?”
“Don’t speak disrespectfully to your father-in-law!” Kirill shrieked, flecks of saliva appearing on his lips. “We allowed you into our family! You owe us!”
“I owe you?” Dasha laughed, lightly and without anger. “I owe you nothing. You were the ones who owed me something—the most basic human respect. But apparently, there wasn’t any of that in your wallet.”
“Dasha, that’s enough of this performance,” Artyom hissed, pulling her aside. “Everyone is watching us. After the ceremony, go to your father, quietly ask him for the money, and we’ll put this behind us. I’ll forgive you.”
“You’ll forgive me?” She tilted her head. “Remind me—for what? For not being as poor as you wanted me to be?”
“For your insolence! I’m your husband, after all!”
“You were,” she said simply.
“What do you mean, I ‘was’?” His voice rose, causing several people to turn toward them.
“I don’t like postponing unpleasant things,” Dasha replied. “So I’ll tell you now, without any long dramatic scenes. We’re getting divorced. I’ll file the papers myself, calmly and legally, without listening to your shouting. You won’t even have to make an effort.”
“You… You can’t do this!” He gasped for breath. “What about me? What about my family? We’re in trouble!”
“Then solve your problems yourselves. Without me and without my parents. You’re so proud of yourselves. Remain proud until the very end.”
Gennady jumped up, waving his arms.
“This is shameless! You’re abandoning your family in its time of need! Where is your compassion?”
“Where was your respect when you called my parents filth behind their backs?” Dasha looked steadily at him. “Compassion isn’t an ATM for people who spit on you the moment your back is turned.”
“We’ll make you regret this!” Kirill howled.
“How?” she asked with genuine surprise. “You have nothing to threaten me with. Even that family name you were so proud of was built entirely on other people’s expectations. And now those expectations are gone.”
Lev approached them. He was calm, dressed in a simple but perfectly tailored suit.
“Is there a problem, sweetheart?” he asked gently.
“Not anymore, Dad.” Dasha smiled. “Artyom was just saying goodbye. Forever.”
“Lev Andreyevich!” Gennady rushed toward him, instantly changing his voice to a syrupy, flattering tone. “What an honor! We’re practically relatives! You see, we’re experiencing some temporary difficulties. It’s purely a family matter. We only need a little assistance…”
“This is only the second time I’ve seen you,” Lev calmly replied. “In two years, you never once took an interest in who I was. But now that you’ve discovered the value of the nameplate on the stage, you’ve suddenly remembered the word ‘relative.’ Do you know what that is called?”
“W-what?” Gennady stammered.
“Greed wearing the mask of love. But masks always slip at the most inconvenient moment.”
“Dad has always had a way with words,” Dasha remarked.
Galina joined them and calmly looked over the three men.
“We never shouted about what we had,” she said. “We considered it improper. And do you know what we discovered? The people who shout the loudest are usually using all that noise to conceal their own emptiness.”
Artyom stood motionless, having run out of words. Every card he had played—his “family name,” his “reputation,” his ambition to “move upward”—had fallen apart in a single minute.
“Dasha,” he finally said in a quiet, pitiful voice. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Live.” She shrugged. “Learn to ask people about themselves before attaching labels to them. It’s a useful exercise, actually. I recommend beginning today.”
A month later, everything had been finalized—quietly, without scandal, exactly as Dasha had promised. She didn’t delay the proceedings, try to persuade anyone, or offer second, third, or tenth chances.
“Do you regret it?” Veronika asked when they were once again sitting in the same café.
“Regret what?” Dasha stirred her coffee. “That I stopped apologizing for the parents I’m proud of? No.”
“He called me, by the way. He asked whether there was any possibility of getting everything back.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That he had missed his chance. And he said, ‘But I didn’t know who her parents were.’”
Dasha laughed freely and sincerely.
“That’s Artyom through and through. Until the very end, he believed my value depended on someone else’s nameplate. He never understood the most important thing.”
“What was that?”
“That you don’t choose a person because of their parents’ family name. You choose them because of how they behave when they think no one is watching. Artyom believed he was playing games with someone who was worthless. But in the end, he was the worthless one.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Honest,” Dasha corrected her, raising her cup. “To the pickles, Veronika—the pickles that turned out to be worth more than their entire ‘reputation.’”
And they both laughed.
