This is what the 90s look like, which still live in our apartment.

We live together as four in a regular two-room "Khrushchyovka."
Mom and Dad sleep in the living room on a fold-out sofa.
And I share a bedroom with my brother.

I'm 15, he's 17. The difference is just two years.
We are of different genders. And we still have one room for both of us.

I haven't been angry at my brother for a long time.
I'm angry at my parents.

Every time I say, "It's not normal when at 15 you don't have your own space," they nod and reply the same thing:
— Yes-yes, you're right, sweetheart. In the future, we will definitely buy a three-room apartment.

In my head, I understand: this is nonsense.

Mom is a nurse at the city hospital.
Dad is a loader and locksmith at shabby metal recycling centers.

They really try hard. But there's only enough money to simply survive.

And I'm ashamed.
I'm ashamed to tell my friends what my parents do, when theirs are directors, business owners, doctors with private practices.

I believed for a long time that we would "just endure a little now, and then everything will be fine."
But recently I suddenly realized.

I'm not special.
I'm ordinary.

And my parents deceived me. Not out of malice. Just because they believed in this fairy tale all their lives.

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