“I Forgot My Card—Pay for Now,” My Husband’s Brother Said at the Checkout as Usual. But This Time, His Tried-and-Tested Trick Failed
“Verochka, we decided that you and Seryozha must be bored out here in the middle of nowhere, so prepare to welcome your dear guests for an entire week!” my husband’s forty-three-year-old elder brother, Oleg, announced loudly as he barged into our hallway as though determined to fill every inch of available space with his presence.
That July was unbearably hot, with the city asphalt practically melting, so their visit was hardly unexpected.
As a lordly gift to their country relatives, our guests brought an already opened packet of oatmeal cookies, a bottle of acid-yellow lemonade, and an ironclad conviction that a village house produced meat by itself during the night, baked its own bread, shaped homemade dumplings, and miraculously supplied clean sheets.
Behind Oleg’s broad back, his wife, Natalia, shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.
Their seventeen-year-old son, Nikita, did not even look up from his smartphone. Instead of saying hello, he immediately asked where he could get an internet signal and why the Wi-Fi password was so complicated.
Of course, I like having guests. But after twenty years of working as a veterinary paramedic, I know far too much about the many different forms of life.
In nature, you see, there is a fascinating phenomenon called obligate parasitism. It occurs when one organism is incapable of surviving independently and exists exclusively at the expense of its host.
Yet even the most shameless tapeworm has enough decency not to explain to the dog that it has settled inside it purely for the dog’s entertainment and to save it from loneliness.
My husband’s relatives were unfamiliar with the laws of biology, so they proudly described their arrival at a fully stocked house as “helping with the household” and “a polite family visit.”
The helping began the very next morning.
For a window installer who carried heavy frames up to fifth-floor apartments without elevators every day, Oleg lost his strength remarkably quickly whenever anyone suggested chopping wood for the bathhouse, bringing water from the well, or at least taking out his own rubbish in the heat.
Until lunchtime, my brother-in-law restored the health damaged by the bustle of city life by sleeping deeply. During the day, he heroically walked down to the river to frighten the local frogs. In the evening, he was always the first to materialize at the dinner table, loudly banging his spoon against his plate.
Oleg plunged into the depths of the refrigerator with the grace of a cunning ferret that knew by scent exactly where the owners had hidden the best food.
“Oh, we’re having shashlik tonight!” he exclaimed happily, selecting the finest pieces of pork neck from the freezer with the obsessive care of a hereditary jeweler examining flawless diamonds. “Seryoga, get the grill ready! I found the meat!”
Natalia was no less enthusiastic than her husband when it came to exploring our supplies.
She opened jars of my preserves with such solemn exhaustion that one might have thought she had spent sleepless nights sealing those crunchy cucumbers and pickled tomatoes over a blazing stove and was now fully entitled to enjoy the fruits of her labor.
Nikita silently constructed towering sandwiches from the roast pork I had been saving for a special occasion.
I watched this magnificent gastronomic display and realized that the supplies my husband and I had stored were disappearing faster than spring snow beside a heating pipe.
Generosity is a remarkable quality, especially when you are prepared to give away the shirt off someone else’s back.
By the third day, only a few lonely remnants of rich solyanka floated in the enormous pot, while nothing remained of the golden cabbage pies except fond memories and greasy crumbs on the formal tablecloth.
Our neighbor, Baba Shura, stopped by to borrow some salt. She stared for a long time at Oleg chewing, then at the empty shelves in the pantry, snorted, and whispered in my ear:
“Verka, those aren’t relatives you’ve got here. They’re a natural disaster. You’d better put a barn padlock on the cellar, or you won’t survive until winter.”
I merely sighed. Family duty is a unique kind of currency: for some reason, I am always expected to pay it out, while my husband’s brother does nothing but cash it in.
When the refrigerator became so spacious that we could have rented out its shelves and held discos inside, my husband, Sergey, silently started his old but reliable UAZ.
Sergey is an exceptionally practical man, with a dry sense of humor and the strong nerves of a school-bus driver who can no longer be shaken by shouting or shameless behavior.
“I’m going to the district center,” he said calmly, slowly wiping the dust from the windshield with a cloth. “The chickens need feed, and we need a few basic groceries. Soon we won’t even be able to find a fly in the kitchen.”
“Oh! Seryoga, I’m coming with you!” Oleg instantly perked up. He was finishing the last juicy cutlet, thoughtfully dipping it into my homemade sauce. “It’s about time we put some proper food on the table! I’ll do a full shopping trip. Tonight, we’ll have such a magnificent banquet that you’ll lick your fingers! Natasha, my sunshine, what kind of wine should I get you? Red or white?”
Natalia, reclining grandly in a hammock beneath the shade of an apple tree, requested semisweet red wine. Oleg gave his younger brother a lordly slap on the shoulder, and they left.
I merely smiled and continued methodically weeding the carrot beds. I knew my husband. And I knew he would be fine.
As Nikita later described in vivid detail—he had gone with them solely for the stable internet connection near the shopping center—the two men immediately took separate carts in the supermarket.
Sergey methodically placed the harsh realities of village life into his cart: bread, milk, buckwheat, pasta, soup bones, potatoes, a bottle of sunflower oil, and a heavy sack of chicken feed. Everything was strictly according to the list, with nothing unnecessary.
Oleg, meanwhile, fluttered between the shelves like an inspired poet during a fit of springtime madness.
Into his cart flew sticks of premium dry-cured sausage, slices of the most delicate smoked sturgeon, lightly salted trout, sophisticated mold-ripened cheeses in beautiful boxes, two bottles of expensive vintage wine, and a large, potbellied bottle of French champagne.
He even called his wife again and loudly asked which Swiss chocolates she preferred to ensure her complete emotional well-being in the countryside.
There was a short line at the checkout. Sitting behind the register was Galina, an imposing woman with purple eyeshadow and a gaze that could see through customers more effectively than any X-ray machine.
Sergey placed his modest purchases on the black conveyor belt first.
“These are separate, please,” my husband told Galina in an even, expressionless voice. “His groceries will be the next transaction.”
She nodded and quickly scanned the basic supplies.
Sergey tapped his card against the terminal. It beeped approvingly, and my husband calmly began placing the bags in his cart.
Then it was Oleg’s turn. Galina efficiently scanned the delicacies, and the electronic display showed a substantial total—equal to a considerable portion of my salary.
That was when the performance began. In our family, it had long been known as “phantom-pocket syndrome.”
Oleg’s expression suddenly became almost tragic. He began frantically slapping his thighs, anxiously checking the breast pockets of his light jacket, turning out the empty pockets of his jeans, and staring helplessly at the ceiling as though expecting money to fall from above along with manna from heaven.
He had performed this worn-out trick involving sudden amnesia many times before: at supermarket checkouts, in restaurants, while buying tickets, and whenever the family collected money for a relative’s present.
“Oh, Seryoga! What terrible luck!” my brother-in-law cried dramatically, portraying the highest possible degree of despair as he clutched his head. “I forgot my card! Can you imagine? And, just my luck, I left my cash at home in my other trousers! What an idiot I am! Pay for now, brother. Help me out! I’ll give you every last kopeck in cash the moment we get home. I swear on my life!”
Oleg looked at Sergey with the affectionate smile of a man who had just played a brilliant chess game and was waiting for his opponent to surrender.
He was accustomed to people finding it easier to pay quickly in such awkward situations than to create a scene in front of strangers.
Sergey slowly tied his shopping bag with a double knot and calmly suggested:
“Transfer the money to my phone number now, and I’ll pay.”
“My banking app is asking for the password again!” Oleg replied instantly without blinking. “Nothing works properly out here in the countryside. I’ll give you cash at home. Why are you making a problem out of this?”
Sergey slowly looked at the mountain of delicacies, then turned his gaze toward Galina and her purple eyeshadow.
“Galya, cancel the purchase,” he said with complete calm. “The gentleman has miscalculated his budget.”
The smile vanished from Oleg’s face as quickly as though someone had blasted it away with icy water from a hose.
Galina had encountered far more cunning customers during her shifts. Without asking a single unnecessary question, she pressed the appropriate buttons. The stunned relative’s cart was roughly pushed aside, and a store employee immediately approached to return the red fish, blue cheese, and champagne to the shelves.
“Seryozha, what the hell are you doing?!” Oleg shouted across the entire store, his face turning dark red with anger as he clenched his fists. “We came here together! Can’t you help a relative in trouble? You’re humiliating me in front of everyone!”
“I’ve already helped you,” my husband replied calmly, taking hold of his cart and heading toward the automatic exit doors. “I drove you here in my own vehicle to a store where food is freely available and bank cards are accepted without difficulty. Unfortunately, a driver’s salary does not allow me to sponsor your gastronomic fantasies.”
Oleg remained silent for the entire journey home. He sulked like a punished schoolboy and made a point of turning toward the window.
When they entered the yard, I was finishing the washing-up. Sergey carried in his heavy bags, and I quickly sorted the purchases. The vegetables and grains went into the lower cupboard, while the milk and soup bones were placed on one of the now-empty refrigerator shelves.
It was basic food, intended to replace at least a small portion of what our dear guests had already managed to devour.
About ten minutes later, Oleg, who had been sitting in the yard, entered the kitchen empty-handed. Stomping loudly and wearing the expression of an offended count who had just been deprived of his ancestral estate, he examined our modest groceries and indignantly threw open the refrigerator.
“And what are we supposed to have for dinner now?” he almost shrieked, pointing at the lonely carton of milk. “Where’s the fish? Where’s the sausage I spent an entire hour choosing? I read every label!”
“At the store,” Sergey replied calmly without looking up from his newspaper. “Together with the card you suddenly forgot. If you still desperately need those products, you can go back right now and complete the purchase yourself. You know the way.”
Hearing the noise, Natalia flew into the kitchen like a bullet. After assessing the empty table, the absence of the promised luxurious banquet, and her furious husband, she immediately rushed to defend her wronged spouse.
“Vera, Seryozha, how could you possibly behave like that?” she wailed in a dreadful voice, theatrically pressing her hands against her ample chest. “It’s simply inhuman! Oleg forgot his card—these things happen when people are in a hurry! You’re his closest relatives! You could have paid. It was only food for everyone to share! Couldn’t you spare a piece of sausage for your own brother? Oleg would have paid you back the moment you got home!”
I slowly dried my wet hands on a waffle-weave towel, set it aside, and looked directly into Natalia’s shifting eyes. The time had come to make everything clear.
“Natasha,” I began quietly, but with such firmness that the kitchen suddenly felt cramped, “Oleg still hasn’t paid us back for last year’s petrol, when we drove your family to your summer house three times. He never repaid us for the building materials Sergey bought at a discount for your new balcony. And he never paid for that meal at the roadside café two years ago, where his memory, wallet, and conscience also disappeared completely unexpectedly.”
I took a step forward.
“No one has abolished the law of balance in life, my dears! You’ve grown accustomed to riding on other people’s backs with your legs dangling comfortably, and the moment you’re dropped onto the ground, you complain that the asphalt is too hard! You mustn’t give up when people are riding on your back. Therefore, our family bank has officially suspended the issuing of interest-free, non-repayable loans. The service counter is closed.”
“I really did leave it at home!” Oleg exploded, trying to shout over me while hysterically slapping the pockets of the same light jacket. “In my other trousers! I swear on my health! What kind of person do you think I am?”
At that tense moment, Nikita strolled lazily into the kitchen.
He looked up from the screen of his eternal smartphone for a second, examined his red-faced father with a long, prematurely cynical gaze, and said in a completely ordinary tone:
“Dad, stop lying. You put the card in the inside pocket of that exact jacket. I saw you do it myself when we were leaving home.”
An incredibly heavy silence descended upon the kitchen. We could hear the old clock ticking steadily on the veranda, measuring out the minutes of the summer heat.
Oleg froze as though struck by lightning. His right hand moved involuntarily inside his jacket, into that very inner pocket, and—what a great miracle!—a shiny plastic bank card emerged into the light.
“Well, would you look at that? It must have slipped right into the corner of the pocket,” Oleg mumbled pitifully, instantly losing all his accusatory grandeur and breaking out in sticky sweat.
Natalia immediately deflated and lost all her enthusiasm when Nikita finally revealed the truth about his father.
Even she, his eternal defender, stopped making excuses for her husband once she realized how pathetic, petty, and miserable this failed piece of cheap theater looked.
“Amazing,” Sergey snorted, taking a sip of cold fruit drink. “Modern bank cards travel from home to the store and back remarkably quickly, easily overtaking their owners. It must be teleportation. We should write to some scientists and have them patent it.”
There were more than three tedious hours remaining before the next scheduled bus to the district center.
Oleg categorically refused to sit around hungry and sober. His stomach demanded a celebration, while his pride demanded immediate revenge. Wearing the face of a martyr walking toward the scaffold, he took out his phone and called a local village taxi.
The colorful Mikhailych arrived in an old Lada.
Mikhailych was a straightforward man. He named his price once and did not negotiate. The journey to the district center, the return trip, and the time spent waiting outside the store cost Oleg dearly. Whenever he tried to complain, Mikhailych silently closed the window and pretended he was about to drive away.
Our relative returned two and a half hours later—angry, sweaty, and considerably thinner financially.
By the afternoon, local summer residents had already bought some of the discounted products. Natalia’s favorite French champagne was no longer available, so Oleg had to grit his teeth and buy a different French brand, which was even more expensive and no longer discounted.
Instead of the delicacies he had previously selected, his thin plastic bag contained only a ring of ordinary Krakowska sausage, a piece of the simplest cheese, and a tray of chilled chicken thighs.
Natalia met her exhausted husband on the porch. Through the open kitchen window, I listened with undisguised pleasure as she furiously scolded him for buying the wrong brand of champagne, choosing cheap cheese that smelled like rubber, and wasting a fortune on the taxi.
Family mutual assistance is an astonishing thing. It works flawlessly only as long as someone else’s wallet is being used to perform the rescue.
The moment tricksters are forced to pay from their own hard-earned pockets, all their boundless generosity instantly disappears and is replaced by arguments over every last kopeck.
That evening, Oleg apparently expected me to follow the good old tradition by rushing to slice his sausage, peel vegetables, and set the table. He demonstratively threw the bags onto the kitchen table.
“Well then, hostess, lay out the feast!” he said, struggling to restore his usual cheerful, patronizing tone.
“The hostess is resting today,” I replied with a radiant smile. I took my favorite detective novel from the shelf and settled into the rocking chair. “It is my lawful day off. Seryozha is repairing hinges in the shed, and I am enriching myself spiritually. The food is yours and was purchased with your money, so you can cook it yourselves. The pots are in the lower cupboard on the right, the frying pans are on the left, and the cutting utensils are attached to the magnetic strip. Enjoy your meal.”
The process of preparing dinner looked as though Oleg were trying to dismantle a complicated clock mechanism whose components happened to be slippery chicken thighs.
He awkwardly cut away the excess skin, cursed the knife, and repeatedly ran out to the veranda to ask his wife when he should salt the water and whether pasta needed to be stirred.
Natalia helped him without the slightest enthusiasm or smile. Every unevenly cut slice of cheese was no longer a free treat but part of a receipt brutally paid from their own family budget. Each piece was difficult to swallow.
The next sunny morning, Sergey and I officially announced the new and strict rules of our improvised health resort.
“For the remaining four days, we will eat entirely separately,” I declared firmly at breakfast while spreading homemade butter on a slice of fresh bread. “Our ordinary village food is intended exclusively for us. You may buy delicacies and cook for yourselves. We’ve been prescribed a strict diet, you see.”
“What kind of diet?” Oleg grumbled, poking at yesterday’s pasta with his fork.
“A financial wellness diet,” I replied sternly. “For our wallet.”
Sighing heavily, Oleg had to travel to the district center again, this time on a stuffy scheduled bus filled with summer residents carrying empty glass jars for the coming preservation season and squeaky plastic buckets.
This time, he clutched his magical bank card tightly in his sweaty hand before he had even left the house, apparently terrified that it might perform another unauthorized leap through space.
Instead of sophisticated cheeses, smoked fish, and premium alcohol, his creaking bags now contained pearl barley, ten eggs, a loaf of dark bread, mayonnaise, the cheapest discounted sausages made mostly of paper, a net of potatoes, several tomatoes, cucumbers, and a small piece of inexpensive pork that Oleg had saved for the promised farewell barbecue.
Economy must be economical when you are paying for it yourself.
On the final evening before their eagerly awaited departure, Oleg finally decided to organize the feast he had promised. Apparently, his pride had flared up, and he wanted to preserve at least the miserable remains of his dignity in front of his younger brother.
Cursing through clenched teeth, he took out the pork he had saved, marinated it in vinegar, lit the barbecue himself after burning through half a box of matches, and chopped the vegetables unevenly with his own hands.
Sergey and I walked out to the table in the yard as honored invited guests.
On principle, we did not peel potatoes or run to the kitchen for sauces, and we warned everyone from the very beginning that we would not be washing the dishes after this luxurious banquet.
Sitting at our own table, drinking our own cherry compote, and watching with delight as my brother-in-law hurried around, sweated, and served everyone was unfamiliar but incredibly, devilishly satisfying.
When everyone had finally taken their seats and Oleg had wiped the sweat from his forehead, Sergey slowly poured apple compote into a faceted glass. He rose, looked around at the silent relatives, and spoke with an absolutely serious, granite-like expression.
“I would like to raise this glass to the great miracles of modern science and technology! To bank cards, which possess a truly astonishing and mystical quality: without exception, they are always found at the precise moment when everyone else’s money has finally run out! Bottoms up!”
Oleg turned crimson, resembling an overripe tomato, and remained silent, resentfully burying his face in his plate of burned shashlik.
Natalia nervously adjusted a paper napkin without saying a single word in his defense. At the other end of the table, however, Nikita burst out laughing and almost choked on a piece of meat while desperately trying to hide his wide grin behind a large glass of apple compote. Teenagers have an excellent instinct for hypocrisy.
The following morning, our dear relatives departed.
They climbed heavily onto the arriving bus with the gloomy expressions of people who had just completed a term of forced labor in a quarry. No one chattered about the wonderful time we had spent together in the countryside, no one rushed to embrace us, and—most importantly—no one promised to return the following year.
The bus coughed out a cloud of exhaust and disappeared around the bend, carrying their shamelessness away with it.
I entered the cool house, took a deep breath, and savored the blessed peace. Then, by force of habit, I opened the refrigerator to wipe down its glass shelves after the guests.
In the darkest corner of the lower shelf, the same large, expensive bottle of French champagne was hiding bashfully—the one Oleg had tearfully purchased with his own hard-earned money after his journey with Mikhailych.
He had clearly been saving it until the final moment. He had been unwilling to open it at the rather modest feast and had intended to take it back to the city. But in the morning rush, anger, and confusion, he had simply forgotten it.
I picked up the heavy glass bottle, wiped the drops of condensation from it, looked at the beautiful golden label, and smiled broadly and sincerely.
About an hour later, my husband’s phone rang. It was Oleg. Judging by the tension in his voice, he had already discovered the loss.
“Seryoga… did I leave my champagne at your place?” he asked, poorly concealing his hope.
“You did,” I answered honestly, taking the phone. “It’s standing in the refrigerator, waiting.”
Oleg exhaled heavily into the receiver. He clearly had no desire to endure another bumpy bus journey for the sake of a single bottle, spend more money on tickets, and lose half the day.
“Just keep it,” he muttered after a long silence. “I’m not coming back.”
“As you wish,” I agreed lightly. “After all, family mutual assistance ought to work in our favor occasionally.”
That evening, my husband and I opened the champagne.
And you know what? It tasted absolutely wonderful.
Especially because of the pleasant, heartwarming thought that, for the first time in many years, Oleg had genuinely treated us at his own expense.