A call from my mother caught me while I was working on reports at the office. She never called during work hours—she knew I was busy. Her voice sounded uncertain, as if she herself didn’t quite know what to ask.

“Anyuta, I have a delicate matter to discuss with you…”

I put down my pen and leaned back in my chair. Eight years in St. Petersburg had taught me to recognize her intonations. When Mom said “delicate matter,” it meant someone in the family had gotten into trouble again.

“I’m listening, Mom.”

“Aunt Lena called. Do you remember Aunt Lena? Dad’s cousin, she lives in Kaluga…”

I vaguely remembered her—a tall woman with dyed hair, whom I’d met a couple of times as a child at family gatherings. After Dad died, contact with his relatives had almost completely stopped.

“So,” Mom continued, “she has a son, Denis. He’s twenty years old. He wants to apply to university in Petersburg to study programming. He says they only teach properly there.”

I was already guessing where the conversation was headed, and I didn’t like it.

“They have money for the down payment and are ready to pay the mortgage while he studies. Then he’ll pay it himself once he starts working. But the problem is—the bank refused them. And they probably will approve you. You have work experience, a good salary, and a Petersburg registration…”

“Mom,” I interrupted, “are you seriously suggesting I take out a mortgage for an apartment for a guy I’ve never even seen?”

“Anya, I understand I’m asking a lot… But Aunt Lena helped me so much when you left. She lent me money and sent repairmen when my radiator burst. Without her, I wouldn’t have coped…”

I closed my eyes. Guilt is the most effective weapon parents have. Mom used it skillfully, even if she didn’t realize it.

“Mom, what if they stop paying? What if something happens? The loan will be in my name.”

“Oh, what are you saying! Lena is a serious, responsible woman. Her husband runs his own workshop and has plenty of orders. They wouldn’t have decided on this without good reason. Their son is capable, he just needs guidance.”

After the call, I couldn’t concentrate on work all day. The numbers in the reports blurred before my eyes, and the same thoughts kept spinning in my head. On one hand, I really owed my mom. She raised me alone after Dad died, scrimping on everything to give me an education. On the other hand, taking responsibility for someone else’s loan seemed insane.

In the evening, I sat for a long time in the kitchen of my rented one-bedroom apartment, drinking tea and looking out at the gray Petersburg rooftops. The city had become home to me over the years. Here, I got my degree, found a job, built a career. I had a life I was proud of. And now Mom was asking me to risk all that for a nephew I barely remembered.

I picked up the phone and dialed Mom’s number.

“All right,” I said without letting her even greet me. “I agree.”

“Anyuta, dear!” Mom’s voice trembled with relief. “You’re such a good person! Not everyone would take on such responsibility for family.”

A week later, Aunt Lena and her husband arrived in Petersburg. They really were nice people—simple, open, and moved to tears by gratitude. Uncle Vova, a sturdy man with golden hands, kept repeating, “Anyutka, we will owe you our whole lives.” Aunt Lena cried and called me an angel.

But their son Denis gave me a very different impression. Tall, thin, with an eternally displeased face. While we went to agencies and banks, he didn’t look up from his phone, playing some game. He answered all questions with monosyllables, and when his parents asked his opinion about the apartment, he shrugged: “What difference does it make?”

We found an apartment quickly. A small one-bedroom in the center, in an old building on the Griboedov Canal. The window had an amazing view of the water and the embankment. The apartment was renovated, bright, cozy. I really liked it—it was just the kind I had dreamed of buying someday.

“Beautiful!” Aunt Lena admired. “Denis, look at the view!”

Denis glanced out the window briefly and went back to his phone.

“Fine,” he muttered.

The paperwork took a long time. I was nervous signing the documents, realizing I was taking on a huge responsibility. Aunt Lena assured me she would transfer money to my account every month to pay off the loan.

The first months went according to plan. Aunt Lena sent the money regularly; Denis got a state-funded spot at university. Although, judging by his rare messages, he didn’t study very hard, but the parents were happy that at least their son was in Petersburg and at least a student.

Years flew by quickly. I climbed the career ladder, my salary increased, life settled. Sometimes I thought about the apartment on the canal that I was formally paying for but where a stranger lived. I also thought that someday I’d want to buy my own home, but I knew with the current loan, that would be difficult.

My personal life was not going well. There were relationships, but nothing serious. At thirty, I was a successful, independent woman, but still alone. The plan to get married and register the mortgage to my husband had failed.

By the seventh year of payments, I was seriously thinking about buying my own apartment. My salary allowed for a mortgage, and I had saved a decent sum for a down payment, penny by penny. But the bank told me: while the first loan is active, they won’t give a second. I had to either pay off the old loan early or wait.

I started regretting my decision from seven years ago. A good deed, helping family, but in the end, I myself became a hostage to the situation.

A call from the bank came on Thursday morning. A polite voice informed me of a missed payment. I didn’t immediately understand what it was about—the money from Aunt Lena had come regularly for seven years.

“Sorry, but the last payment was three months ago,” the bank employee explained. “You have a serious debt.”

My hands trembled as I dialed Mom’s number.

“Mom, Aunt Lena stopped paying for the apartment. What happened?”

A long pause. Then Mom’s quiet voice:

“Anyutka… Lena and Volodya died six months ago. A car accident on the highway. I thought you knew…”

The world swam before my eyes. I sank into my chair, still not believing what I heard.

“How… how six months ago? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“I thought… I mean, I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t dare. I knew you’d be upset. And about the loan… I thought Denis would manage it himself.”

Denis. I had completely forgotten about him.

“Mom, give me his phone number.”

Mom’s number was old, but luckily Denis hadn’t changed it. He didn’t answer right away; his voice was sleepy—I must have woken him at noon.

“Denis, this is Anya, your cousin. I need to talk to you about the apartment.”

“Oh, it’s you…” He yawned. “Listen, what’s going on with the apartment?”

“What do you mean? The loan! Your parents died, and no one is making payments. I already have a big debt to the bank!”

“Yeah, parents… that’s sad, of course,” there was no trace of grief in his voice. “What can I do? I don’t have a real job, I get by on odd jobs. My girlfriend buys me food. I have no money.”

“Denis, but you understand the loan is in my name? If you don’t pay, the bank can start foreclosure!”

“Listen,” his voice became irritated, “I never asked my parents to buy me that apartment. It was their idea. I could’ve managed without it. I don’t know what you want me to do about the loan. That’s your problem now. I can stay with my girlfriend.”

He hung up. I sat in the office, clutching the phone, unable to believe what was happening. For seven years, I helped this kid, and now he didn’t even bother to apologize for the situation.

In the evening, I counted my savings. I had enough money to pay off the loan early, but then I would have to forget about my own apartment for several years. Or I could try to find another solution.

I called Denis again.

“Listen, here’s what we’ll do,” I said as calmly as possible. “You move out of the apartment, and I’ll handle the loan myself.”

“No problem,” he sounded almost happy. “Honestly, I didn’t really want it. I’m already living with Nastya. When should I move out?”

“In two weeks.”

“Okay.”

Two weeks later, I stood with the keys in front of the apartment door on the Griboedov Canal. The very one I had once liked so much and that had been mine on paper for seven years.

Denis left the apartment in terrible condition. Dirty dishes, some old stuff, a peculiar smell. On the kitchen floor were pizza boxes and empty bottles. I opened the window, and fresh air from the canal rushed in.

The view hadn’t changed—still the embankment, the same old facades reflected in the dark water. I stood by the window and thought about how strangely life sometimes unfolds.

Of course, the apartment needed repairs. Of course, I faced big expenses to fix it up. And yes, now I had to pay the loan myself, which took a significant part of my budget.

But on the other hand… I looked around and slowly smiled. In the center of Petersburg, with a canal view, in an old building—this was exactly the kind of apartment I had always dreamed of buying. And now it was mine. Not quite as I planned, but still.

I took out my phone and called a cleaning service. Tomorrow I would start fixing up the apartment. The day after, buy new furniture. And in a month or two, I could move in.

The family really wanted to take out the loan for the apartment in my name. But they didn’t consider one detail—for all the documents, I was and remain the owner of this property. And now, seven years later, everything turned out very differently than they expected.

I walked around the apartment once more, imagining how everything would look after the renovation. Yes, it would cost money. Yes, I’d have to pay the loan myself. But I would have my own apartment in the heart of my beloved city and for much less than it costs now.

Sometimes life throws surprises that at first seem like a disaster, but then turn out to be a gift.