“You are obligated to help your sister! Twenty-five thousand a month—that’s the minimum!” her mother’s voice reached Anna as she stood on the landing.

The apartment door slammed behind her with such a crash that the echo rolled through the entire stairwell. Anna leaned against the cold wall of the hallway, trying to calm the trembling in her hands. Her temples throbbed, and everything before her eyes blurred from indignation.

“Twenty-five thousand a month!” the thought pounded in her head. “The average salary in this city is lower than that! Has Mom completely lost her mind?”

Her phone vibrated in her pocket—Igor had sent a smiley asking how the meeting went. Anna frantically typed a reply: “Heading home. Mom insists we support Marinka and her future husband. I’m in shock.”

As she descended the stairs, she still could not believe what she had heard. “Why should I support someone else’s family?” Anna paused by the mailboxes, still unable to accept the reality of what was happening. Her mother demanded it as though it were a debt that simply could not go unpaid.

Three years ago, Anna and Igor made a decision that changed their lives. Tired of the meager salaries in local offices, they decided to try remote work. Anna was earning fifteen thousand rubles at the accounting department of the factory—the very same one where her mother had worked all her life. Igor earned slightly more at a local IT company, but even thirty thousand barely covered living expenses.

“You know,” Igor said one day while browsing job postings on international platforms, “for the same work I do here, Americans pay ten times more.”

“And what’s stopping us?” Anna asked.

“Only the fear of trying.”

The first year was grueling. They worked sixteen hours a day: days in the office, evenings and nights remotely. Anna mastered international accounting standards, improved her English, and started with simple tasks for Asian startups. Igor simultaneously took on freelance projects, building his portfolio.

Lyudmila Petrovna, Anna’s mother, had been skeptical of their endeavor from the start:

“What nonsense is this? Normal people go to work, not sit at home. Look at Marinka—she goes to the office every day, as it should be.”

Marina was indeed the exemplary daughter in her mother’s eyes. Five years younger than Anna, she worked as a manager at a trading company, wore formal suits, and every evening reported her office day to their mother. Lyudmila Petrovna approved—everything was “as it should be.”

Now, three years later, Anna handled accounting for four companies in Singapore and Hong Kong, while Igor became a permanent developer at an American startup. Their combined income exceeded two hundred thousand rubles a month—a staggering sum for their provincial town.

But to Lyudmila Petrovna, they were still “lazy people staring at a computer all day.”

Anna had long learned not to argue with her mother. It was easier to nod, to agree that yes, they stayed home, yes, it wasn’t real work. Arguments led nowhere—Lyudmila Petrovna simply could not understand how one could work without leaving the apartment.

“Did you at least dress like a human today?” her mother asked at every meeting. “Or again in pajamas all day?”

Anna didn’t tell her that she got up at six in the morning to join calls with Asian clients. She didn’t talk about deadlines, the need to understand tax laws of different countries, or the sleepless nights at the end of the quarter. Why bother? Her mother still believed that real work meant waking up to an alarm, riding a crowded bus, and sitting in an office from nine to six.

But deep down, it hurt. She wanted recognition, respect for her work. It was especially painful to hear the constant praise for Marina:

“Marinka is such a hard worker! She gets up at the crack of dawn and stays in the office till evening. And you? Half the day you sleep, half the day you sit at a computer.”

Two weeks ago, Marina announced her pregnancy and upcoming wedding. Anna was genuinely happy for her sister. Despite their mother’s comparisons, she loved Marina. Marina never imposed advice or judged their lifestyle.

“Congratulations!” Anna hugged her sister. “When’s the wedding?”

“In a month, we’ll celebrate quietly. Alyosha doesn’t want a big party, and I’m not up for it in my condition.”

Anna immediately decided—they would give fifty thousand. For their city, it was a very generous amount, more than the monthly salary of most guests. She imagined how happy Marina would be—the money would surely be useful for the young family.

Today’s meeting with their mother started as usual. Lyudmila Petrovna immediately commented on Anna’s appearance:

“Jeans again? You could at least wear a dress when visiting your mother.”

Anna remained silent. Then came the standard questioning about “sitting at home,” lamenting that “normal people go to work.” Anna nodded, agreed, waiting for the moment to shift the conversation to the wedding.

“Mom, Igor and I have decided to give Marina and Alyosha fifty thousand for the wedding.”

Lyudmila Petrovna grimaced, as if she had bitten into a lemon:

“Only that much? You could have given more—you have money falling from the sky. You sit at home, do nothing, and still money keeps coming in.”

Anna felt irritation rising inside her, but she held herself back:

“Mom, fifty thousand is a decent amount…”

“For whom is it decent?” her mother interrupted. “For those who slave away at the factory for pennies? But for you, lazybones, it’s pocket change. Here’s what I’m telling you: Marinka will soon go on maternity leave. Alyosha alone won’t be able to support the family; he earns thirty thousand. So you and your husband will help them.”

“What do you mean?” Anna tensed.

“I mean exactly what I said. You’ll give twenty-five thousand a month. Your money is easy, unearned, while your sister will have a baby. Or do you want your nephew to go hungry?”

Anna opened her mouth in astonishment:

“Mom, are you serious?”

“Absolutely. It’s your duty as the older sister. Marinka has worked her whole life like a madwoman, and you sit at home. It’s only fair that you share.”

Something inside Anna snapped. Years of silent agreement, swallowed grievances, unspoken objections—all of it suddenly burst out:

“Mom, do you even realize what you’re saying? Twenty-five thousand—that’s more than the average salary in the city! Why should I support grown adults?…”

“Because your money isn’t earned!” Lyudmila Petrovna raised her voice. “You sit at home in pajamas, tapping away at the keyboard—and the money flows. But people actually work for a living!”

“Actually work?” Anna stood up. “Mom, I get up at six in the morning! I work with clients from five different countries! I’ve completed four international certifications! Igor writes code for a system used by millions of people! Isn’t that real work?”

“Don’t make me laugh!” her mother waved her off. “Work is when you go to the factory, stand at the machine. When you sit in an office from nine to six. And you… you just got lucky. Easy money—you should share it with your family.”

Anna looked at her mother and suddenly realized: it was pointless. Lyudmila Petrovna would never recognize their work as equal. For her, there was only one proper way to earn a living—the way she had done for forty years at the factory.

And surprisingly, instead of anger, Anna felt relief. No more need to justify herself, to prove anything, to seek recognition. Her mother had made her choice—to consider her daughter a lazy girl with easy money. Well, that was her right.

“You know what, Mom,” Anna said, picking up her bag, “I’m not going to pay Marina twenty-five thousand a month. If I want to help, I will—but on my terms, not by your command. And yes, our money isn’t easy. You just refuse to see that.”

“Anna!” her mother exclaimed. “How dare you?”

“I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago. I’m setting boundaries. I love you, Mom, I love Marina, but I am not obligated to support her family. Period.”

Stepping out of the building, Anna got into her car and sat for a few minutes, processing what had just happened. Her phone vibrated again—Igor was worried.

On the way home, she replayed the conversation in her mind. Did she regret what she said? No. Could she have said it more gently? Perhaps. But after so many years of silence, the words had come out on their own.

She would help Marina if needed—but not under Mom’s orders and not with a fixed sum. Maybe she would pay for professional courses or help with baby supplies. But it would be her decision, not a forced obligation.

At home, Igor greeted her with a cup of tea:

“So, what happened?”

Anna told him everything: about the fifty thousand for the wedding, her mother’s disdain, the demand for monthly payments.

“Twenty-five thousand a month?” Igor set his cup on the table. “She’s serious?”

“Absolutely. And she didn’t even ask if we could manage it.”

They sat in the kitchen, and for the first time, Anna didn’t feel the need to justify her mother. Before, she would have added something like, “She’s just worried about Marina,” or “Maybe she’s tired.” But now she stayed silent.

“You refused, right?”

“Yes. I said I’m not obligated to support my sister and her husband.”

Igor nodded and put his arm around her shoulders. They understood each other without words.

The next morning, Anna woke with an unusual feeling of lightness. Igor was already working in the office—keystrokes and a muted voice coming from the speakers.

At breakfast, she opened the family chat. Ten unread messages from her mother, three from Marina. Anna closed the messenger without reading them.

“Don’t want to check?” Igor asked, pouring coffee.

“Later. Or maybe not at all.”

A week later, Marina reached out personally, asking about the wedding gift. Anna replied honestly: fifty thousand. Her sister thanked her, without reproach or hints.

Work continued as usual. Anna no longer justified herself to an imaginary mother for every break. She didn’t feel guilty when she watched a show at lunch instead of “real work.”

A month later, she herself offered to pay for an online design course for Marina—her sister had long dreamed of changing careers. It was her decision, free from coercion or obligation.

“You know,” she said to Igor that evening, “for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like a bad daughter.”

“Because you never were one,” he replied.

And for the first time, Anna believed it.