At a family dinner celebrating my grandmother’s birthday, held at my brother Sergei’s apartment, I felt out of place from the start.

When everyone was already seated, my nephew Ilya approached me with a bottle of Coke. He took his time, as if he already knew he was about to become the center of attention. He stopped next to me, looked me straight in the eye, and suddenly splashed the dark, sweet liquid onto my lap.

“You don’t belong here,” he said loudly, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Grandma says so.”

There was a moment of silence at the table, and then laughter erupted. Loud, booming, almost joyful.

Someone snickered, someone clapped.

Larisa, his mother, leaned back in her chair and smiled as she told her friend that Ilya was simply saying what he thought and that “young people these days are like that, unfiltered.”

Sergey glanced at me briefly and smiled, as if it were a harmless routine.

The cold, sweet cola trickled down my skirt, soaking into the fabric and clinging to my skin. My legs instantly became damp and unpleasantly cold.

I patted my knees with paper napkins, carefully, slowly, trying not to show any irritation or pain. The laughter at the table grew louder, as if testing my limits.

I smiled calmly. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t make a single sudden movement. I sat there for a few more minutes, waited for a pause, apologized as if nothing had happened, and said I needed to go.

I got out, got in the car, and drove home. At home, I took off my ruined skirt, opened my laptop, and went into the bank account. That same evening, I officially withdrew my guarantee for Sergey’s line of credit.

By morning, my brother’s car had been towed, and a few hours later, another unpleasant surprise awaited my beloved relatives.  

By morning, Sergey’s car had been towed. The neighbors watched from their windows, and he stood in the yard with his phone in his hand, unable to understand how this could have happened so quickly.

Meanwhile, I made another call.

I called the military registration and enlistment office and calmly introduced myself. I said I wanted to clarify information about my nephew, Ilya.

I simply stated that he had no serious illnesses. That all the documents that had led to his deferment had been obtained with the help of his parents, and that perhaps it would be worth double-checking his documents.

I was certain that if I was going to grow up, at least I’d grow up somewhere where they didn’t applaud when someone else was humiliated.

By evening, they started calling me.

First, Larisa, his mother. Her voice trembled, her words slurred. She said I’d misunderstood, that it was a stupid joke, that “kids are like that these days.”

Then Sergey called. He begged. He said I’d ruin my son’s life, that it wasn’t right, that family was sacred.

Last, my grandmother called. The same one in whose honor that holiday was held. She cried and repeated that she didn’t want things to go this far, that “the boy simply said something wrong,” that I had to fix everything.

I listened silently.

“Take it back,” Larisa pleaded. “Please. We’ll do everything. He’ll apologize. We’ll make him do it.”

I answered calmly and very clearly:

“I’ve already seen what kind of person you can be. There’s nothing more to fix.”