— “No more of your relatives in my house!” the wife finally snapped, showing what she was capable of.

— “No more of your relatives in my house!” the wife finally snapped, showing what she was capable of.

Olga heard the doorbell ring and froze with a ladle in her hand. The soup was bubbling on the stove, half-chopped vegetables for the salad lay on the cutting board, and a pile of unwashed dishes towered on the kitchen table. She glanced at the clock—half past eight in the evening. Who could that be?

“Olga, open up!” her husband’s voice called from the hallway. “It’s a surprise!”

A surprise. Olga felt something tighten inside her. Viktor’s last “surprise” had been half a year ago, when he brought three of his friends home in the middle of the night, and she had to fry potatoes and slice cured pork at two in the morning.

She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the door. Viktor stood on the threshold with a broad smile, and behind his back crowded familiar figures: his mother Raisa Petrovna, his sister Lyudmila with her husband Tolya, and their two teenage children.

“Here we are!” Viktor announced solemnly. “They’ve come to visit us for a week! I told you I’d invited them ages ago.”

Olga didn’t remember any invitations. She remembered Viktor mentioning in passing that “we should invite the family over,” but that had been two months ago, and the conversation had somehow fizzled out on its own.

“Hello,” she forced out, stepping aside.

Her mother-in-law went in first, sweeping the hallway with an appraising look.

“Well, I bet you weren’t expecting us, were you?” she snorted, shrugging off her coat. “Vitya said you’d be happy. We were rattling along the whole way—four hours on the bus, can you imagine?”

“Come in,” Olga said mechanically, watching a whole mob of relatives surge into the apartment with bags and parcels, filling the evening quiet with loud voices.

Lyudmila headed straight for the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re making borscht? But I’ve been dreaming of pilaf. Do you know how to cook pilaf? In Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears there was such a beautiful pilaf, remember?”

Olga stared at her sister-in-law in silence. Pilaf. Now. At half past eight at night, when she’d already been standing at the stove for two hours.

“Lyuda, maybe tomorrow?” she suggested carefully. “It’s already late, the borscht is almost ready.”

“Oh, come on,” Lyudmila waved it off. “We’ll wait. You’re a housewife—it’s not hard for you. Vitya said you sit at home all day anyway.”

Olga worked remotely as a web designer, but explaining that would be pointless. To Viktor’s family, “working on a computer at home” had always meant “doing nothing.”

“Vitya, where are we going to sleep?” Raisa Petrovna asked, settling on the couch. “You’ve only got two rooms, right?”

“Mom, you and Lyuda will sleep in my and Olya’s bedroom,” Viktor began assigning places. “Olya and I will sleep on the couch here in the kitchen, and Tolya and the boys can set up in the living room.”

The living room. A small ten-square-meter room with her desk, computer, and bookshelves. The place where she spent eight hours a day creating design mockups for clients.

“Vitya, I have to work tomorrow,” she said quietly. “I have a deadline.”

“It’s nothing,” he waved her off. “You can put up with it for one day. Or get up early.”

Olga looked at her husband—at his carefree smile, the way he slapped Tolya on the shoulder, kicked off his shoes, and flopped into an armchair, pleased with himself. And she said nothing.

The first three days were like a marathon with no finish line. Olga got up at six in the morning while everyone slept and tried to get at least something done for work. By eight the guests started waking up, and hell began.

“Olenka, make us coffee!” her mother-in-law shouted from the room.

“Olya, can you do eggs with bacon? Like in American movies!” Lyudmila echoed.

The teenagers sat silently, glued to their phones, dropping crumbs on the floor. Tolya demanded a “real man’s breakfast”—with meat, fried potatoes, and pickles.

Viktor left for work at nine, kissed Olga goodbye, and said:

“You’re doing great, sunshine. I knew you could handle it. They’re so happy to see you!”

By lunchtime Olga’s head was already pounding. Raisa Petrovna walked around the apartment like an inspector, finding dust in the most unexpected places.

“Olya, when was the last time you washed the corners? There are cobwebs here. And under the couch, I see, you’ve got dust built up. We may live simpler in the village, but our cleanliness is always perfect.”

Olga said nothing and scrubbed the corners.

Lyudmila scrolled through social media and sighed dramatically.

“Oh, I really want to go to a beauty salon! Vitya said you have all these trendy salons here. Like in that movie—I forgot the name—remember how the heroine went to the hairdresser? I wish I could do that!”

“I can give you some addresses,” Olga began.

“What are you talking about!” her sister-in-law protested. “It’s basically our first time in the city. You have to take us, book us in, explain everything. Otherwise we’ll get scammed or get lost.”

“You have to.” That phrase came up more and more often.

Olga had to cook what they’d “seen in films.” Had to watch the kids when Lyudmila and Tolya wanted to “walk around the city.” Had to wash other people’s laundry because “we’re family—why be formal.”

On the fourth day, when Olga was washing dishes after dinner—another “made-to-order” meal, this time grilled steaks and vegetables, which she’d spent two hours cooking after a workday—Raisa Petrovna came up to her and looked the kitchen over critically.

“You know, Olenka, Vitya’s first wife was much quicker on her feet. She managed cooking in an hour and always smiled. And you’re walking around all crumpled and worn out.”

Olga really wanted to answer, but she clenched her teeth and kept scrubbing the frying pan.

On the fifth day in the morning, when Olga was making breakfast for the sixth time that week, Lyudmila announced:

“Olya, we decided—today we’re going to the beauty salon! Mom wants a hairstyle like that actress from the series—I told you about it yesterday, remember? And I want a manicure and all that. You’ll book us into the best one, yeah? And you’ll come with us, of course.”

“I have an online meeting with a client at two,” Olga said, flipping pancakes.

“Cancel it,” her mother-in-law said simply. “We’re only here for a week. Work won’t go anywhere, but we’ll leave, and who knows when we’ll see each other again.”

“I can’t cancel. It’s an important project.”

“What an egoist!” Lyudmila threw up her hands. “So your relatives are a burden to you, huh? I knew it! Vitya, do you hear what your wife is saying?…”

Viktor came out of the bathroom, buttoning his shirt.

“Olya, come on—really, you can reschedule a meeting just this once. Family doesn’t come to visit every day. Do a good deed, make them happy.”

“I do a good deed every day,” Olga said quietly. “I cook, I clean, I take everyone shopping, I’m losing two projects because I can’t work properly.”

“Oh, stop pitying yourself!” Raisa Petrovna snorted. “We’re helping you, aren’t we? Tolya took out the trash yesterday.”

The trash. Once in five days.

“Olenka, don’t be such a bore,” Viktor said, kissing the top of her head. “You’re kind, you’re patient—that’s why I love you. Alright, I’ve got to run. See you tonight.”

And he left.

Olga stood by the stove and stared out the window. Outside, it was a bright sunny day. Somewhere out there, people were drinking coffee in cafés, strolling through parks, getting on with their lives. And she was here—held hostage by strangers who didn’t even try to hide the fact that they considered her a servant.

The beauty salon became the final straw. Lyudmila chose the most expensive place she could find online. For four hours, Olga sat in a stuffy lobby, answering work emails on her phone and listening to her sister-in-law loudly telling the stylist about “life in the backwoods” and “how stuck-up everyone is in the city.”

When it came time to pay, Lyudmila said with an innocent look:

“Oh, I left my money back at the apartment. Olya, you’ll pay, and I’ll pay you back later, okay?”

“I don’t have that kind of money on me,” Olga lied, staring at the receipt for twenty thousand.

“Then pay by card!” Raisa Petrovna waved her hand. “What’s the problem? You won’t go broke. Vitya makes good money—he told us himself.”

Olga paid. She knew no one would repay her. Just like they hadn’t repaid her for groceries last week, for the taxi three days ago, for the movie tickets she had supposedly “offered” to take everyone to.

That evening, when they returned, the apartment greeted them with chaos. Tolya and the kids were watching soccer, scattering chips over the couch and leaving empty beer bottles on the table. In the kitchen, a mountain of dirty dishes had piled up—they’d decided to “grab a bite” while the women were gone.

“Olya, what’s for dinner?” Tolya asked without taking his eyes off the screen. “We were thinking—maybe shashlik? Like outdoors, but at home. They showed it on TV—so nice the way they serve it.”

Olga walked into the kitchen without a word. Looked at the dishes. At the empty fridge—she hadn’t had time to buy groceries because she’d spent all day at the salon. Looked at the clock—half past six. Viktor would be home in an hour and of course he’d expect dinner to be ready.

She opened the freezer. There was a piece of pork inside—she’d wanted to use it over the weekend. She took it out, set it on the counter. And suddenly she understood that she couldn’t anymore.

She simply couldn’t.

“Olenka, why are you just standing there?” Lyudmila peeked into the kitchen, primping in the hallway mirror. “There’s not much time and we’re hungry. And make it pretty—like in a restaurant! I want to take a photo for social media.”

That’s when Olga realized she couldn’t put up with it anymore.

She put the meat back in the freezer and shut the door.

“There won’t be any shashlik,” she said calmly.

“What do you mean, there won’t be?” Lyudmila looked confused. “Are you kidding? We’re hungry!”

“Order delivery.”

“You’ve got some nerve!” Raisa Petrovna burst into the kitchen. “Delivery? Refusing guests!”

“I’m not refusing anyone. I’m just not going to cook.”

Olga went into the room—her former bedroom—and started taking her things out of the closet. Her hands moved calmly, almost automatically. She pulled out a suitcase and began folding clothes into it.

“What are you doing?” her mother-in-law appeared in the doorway, with Lyudmila behind her. “Where are you going?”

“To a hotel. For a week,” Olga said without turning around. “While you’re here.”

“A hotel?!” Lyudmila shrieked. “You can’t do that! At least ask Vitya!”

“That’s exactly who I’m going to ask,” Olga said. “When he gets back.”

Tolya and the teenagers stuck their heads out of the room; the soccer match was forgotten. Everyone stared at Olga as if she were a suddenly rabid house pet.

She zipped up her bag, walked past them into the hallway, and sat down to wait for her husband. The relatives buzzed, protested, tried to shame her. Raisa Petrovna even teared up, wailing about “ingratitude” and “the loose morals of modern wives.”

Olga said nothing.

Viktor came back around eight. Cheerful, carrying a bag of fruit for his mother.

“Hi, everyone! How’s it going? What’s for dinner?” He froze when he saw the bag in the hallway and his wife’s stony face. “Olya, what happened?”

“Vityusha!” his mother rushed to him. “She’s throwing us out! Can you imagine? We’re sitting here hungry—she refused to cook and says she’s leaving!”

Viktor looked at Olga.

“Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said evenly. “I’m going to a hotel.”

“But why? What happened?”

Olga stood up and stepped close to her husband. She spoke quietly, but every word was crisp.

“For five days I’ve cooked three times a day what they ‘saw in movies.’ I clean, I do laundry, I take them to shops and salons. I canceled four client meetings and lost one contract because I can’t work. They made me pay twenty thousand at the salon, and no one is going to reimburse me. They call me an egoist when I say I’m tired. And you—you just ask me to endure it and make your relatives happy.”

“Olya, they didn’t mean any harm,” Viktor began. “They’re just from the village—they don’t understand city ways. Just hold on a little longer, two more days.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Exactly that. No. I’m not going to endure it anymore. I’m not going to wait on people who treat me like I’m nobody.”

“Vitenka, do you hear how she’s talking about us?” Lyudmila flared up. “About your own mother!”

Viktor stared back and forth between his mother and his wife, bewildered.

“Olenka, don’t do this. Let’s talk calmly. Maybe you’re just tired. Yes, sometimes they ask for too much, but they’re family. You can’t just…”

“You can,” Olga said, picking up her bag. “I’m leaving. And remember my words well, Vitya.”

She turned to everyone. Her voice was cold as ice.

“So that your relatives are never in my home again!”

A deathly silence fell. Lyudmila parted her lips. Raisa Petrovna clutched at her chest. Tolya cleared his throat and pretended he urgently needed the bathroom.

“Olya, what’s gotten into you?” Viktor tried to take her hand.

She pulled away.

“I’m serious. Either they leave right now, or I leave and file for divorce. Choose.”

“Divorce?! For what?” Viktor went pale. “Olya, you’re not yourself! This is absurd!”

“What’s absurd is that I’ve spent five days as a servant in my own apartment and my husband doesn’t see a problem. What’s absurd is that your mother compares me to your ex-wife. What’s absurd is that I’m spending my money on salons for people who don’t even say thank you.”

“We did say thank you!” Lyudmila flared up.

“Not once,” Olga said, looking her straight in the eyes. “Not. Once. In. Five. Days.”

A heavy pause hung in the air. Viktor’s gaze darted from his wife to his mother, from his mother to his sister. His face was confused—almost pitiable.

“Olya, how can I kick them out? They’re my family. They came from far away.”

“And what about me?” Olga asked softly. “Who am I?”

“You… you’re my wife.”

“Then act like a husband. Protect me. Take my side. Or I’m leaving—and you can stay with your family.”

Raisa Petrovna stepped forward.

“Vityusha, you’re not going to let that… that ungrateful woman talk to us like that, are you? We raised you, gave you everything! And she’s throwing us out!”

“Mom, wait,” Viktor said, raising a hand. He looked at Olga, and for the first time in days there was something in his eyes that resembled understanding.

“Olya… will you really leave?”

“I’m already leaving,” Olga said. “The only question is whether it’s forever or for a couple of days.”

He was silent. One second. Another. Five. Ten.

Olga opened the door.

“Wait,” Viktor said.

She froze.

He turned to his relatives. His face was pale, but determined.

“Mom. Lyuda. Tolya. You need to leave. Tomorrow morning.”

“What?!” Raisa Petrovna howled. “Have you lost your mind?! You’re choosing her over your own mother?!”

“I’m choosing my family,” Viktor said firmly. “Olya. My wife.”

“Vitenka!”

“No, Mom. Olya’s right. You came without warning, you gave orders, you demanded things, you didn’t say thank you. I thought she’d manage, that it was normal to help family. But this isn’t help. It’s exploitation.”

Lyudmila choked with outrage.

“Oh, so that’s how it is! Fine—then to hell with both of you! Vitya, you’ll regret this! Mom, come on, let’s pack!”

They marched into the room dramatically, slamming the door so hard it rattled.

Viktor walked up to Olga.

“Forgive me. Please. I was a blind idiot.”

Olga looked at him. The exhaustion crashed over her all at once as the adrenaline finally began to drain away.

“Are you really sending them home?”

“Yes. In the morning I’ll buy them bus tickets. And I’ll pay—so there won’t be any complaints.”

“And the salon? Twenty thousand?”

“I’ll pay you back. Every last kopek. And I’ll apologize to your clients too, if I need to.”

Olga set the suitcase down on the floor. Sat on it right there in the hallway. And cried. Quietly, without sobbing—just tears rolling down her cheeks.

Viktor sat down beside her and hugged her.

“I really didn’t see how bad it was for you. I thought you were just a little tired. Forgive me—I’m an idiot.”

“An idiot,” she sniffled.

“An idiot,” he agreed.

From the room came loud voices, indignant wailing. Tolya came out, nodded to them, and mumbled:

“We’ll leave early tomorrow. Sorry, Olya. I honestly didn’t think we were… anyway. Forgive us.”

And that was the first real apology in all five days.

In the morning the relatives packed in complete silence. Raisa Petrovna didn’t say goodbye. Lyudmila slammed the door so hard the glass trembled. Tolya mumbled another apology.

When the door closed behind them, Olga and Viktor were left alone in their wrecked apartment.

“What a nightmare,” Viktor muttered, taking in the mess.

“Yeah,” Olga agreed.

“Will you help me clean up?”

She looked at him. For a long time. Seriously.

“I will—if you clean with me. As equals.”

“As equals,” he nodded. “Deal.”

They started with the kitchen. They washed dishes, took out trash, silently absorbed in their thoughts. Then they wiped down floors, changed the bedding, put things back where they belonged.

By evening the apartment was their home again—without strangers, without other people’s demands, without someone else’s chaos.

Olga sat down at her computer. Turned it on. Opened the project she hadn’t been able to work on all week.

“Olya?” Viktor peeked in. “I ordered pizza. I’m thinking today we don’t feel like cooking.”

She smiled.

“Pizza works.”

“And one more thing,” he said, stepping inside and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “I was thinking… maybe we should set a rule? If someone wants to visit for more than a day, we discuss it in advance. Together. And we can say no if we’re not up for hosting.”

“That would be wonderful.”

Olga stood, went over to him, and hugged him.

“You know, it was hell. Real hell. But maybe we needed it—so I’d understand I have the right to say ‘no.’ And you’d understand that your family is me. First and foremost.”

“You are my family,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.”

The doorbell rang—the courier had brought the pizza. They sat on the couch, opened the box, put on some light movie. For the first time in a week, the apartment was quiet. Real, peaceful, cozy.

“Do you think Mom will forgive me?” Viktor asked.

“I don’t know,” Olga answered honestly. “And to be honest, right now I don’t care.”

He nodded.

“Me neither.”

They finished the pizza, and suddenly Olga laughed—softly at first, then louder.

“What?” Viktor asked, surprised.

“I just thought… I showed what I’m capable of. And you know what? I liked it.”

He smirked.

“I liked it too. You were like… some kind of warrior. Terrifying and beautiful at the same time.”

“Next time, will you be on my side right away?”

“Next time there won’t be your side or my side,” he said seriously. “There will only be our side.”

It was a beginning. Not perfect—but real.

And sometimes real matters more than perfect.