At half past six in the morning, the news blasted at full volume in the living room.
Yulia opened her eyes. Through the wall, the announcer was droning on about the weather in the Volga region and the dollar exchange rate. Then the cheerful theme music played. Konstantin Yurievich watched the morning news every single day, from 6:30 to 8, always at maximum volume. He was hard of hearing in his left ear and didn’t like it when people reminded him.
Yulia lay there staring at the ceiling. She had a recording scheduled at nine. Her client, a small publishing house, had ordered an audiobook version of a children’s story. The narrator was coming over to her little home studio. Yulia had spent three years setting up that studio herself: soundproof panels on the walls, a good microphone, a double door. But the news from the living room would make it through, even with that double door.
Vladimir was sleeping beside her, with the blanket pulled over his head.
«Vova,» Yulia said softly. «Please ask your dad to turn it down. I have a recording at nine.»
«Mmm,» her husband replied from under the blanket. «Ask him yourself.»
Yulia got up, slipped on her robe, and went to the living room. Konstantin Yurievich was sitting on the unfolded sofa, wearing a tank top and sweatpants, holding a mug of tea. The remote was resting on his stomach.
«Good morning, Konstantin Yurievich. Could you please turn it down? I have work at nine and I need it quiet.»
«What?» Her father-in-law turned his right ear toward her.
«Please, turn it down.»
«Ah,» he reluctantly lowered the volume by two notches. «Why are you up so early anyway?»
The smell of fried onions was already drifting from the kitchen. Nadezhda Petrovna had been making lunch since six in the morning. Three pots were on the stove.
Yulia went back to the bedroom. Vladimir was already asleep again.
The recording had to be postponed that day. The narrator, a polite elderly man, arrived at nine, stood in the hallway, listened as Konstantin Yurievich loudly discussed a football match with the TV in the living room, while Nadezhda Petrovna made a racket with pans in the kitchen, and politely said:
«Yulia Andreyevna, maybe we should try another time?»
A week later, the publisher wrote to say they’d found another studio.
Yulia had bought the apartment three years before she got married. It was a three-room place in a new building on the edge of the city, on the ninth floor. She was twenty-seven back then. She worked as a sound engineer at the regional radio station and took freelance jobs in the evenings—editing podcasts, mixing audiobooks, recording voicemail menus for other people’s answering machines. It took her five years to save up for the down payment. She paid the mortgage herself. Six years to go.
She’d turned the small room into a studio from the very beginning. She glued the panels on the walls by hand, ordered acoustic foam, took three months to pick out a microphone. It was her quiet world. A place where she could close the double doors, put on headphones, and be alone with sound. Yulia loved silence. Her profession had taught her to hear what others never noticed: the fridge humming, neighbor’s floorboards creaking, a dripping tap two walls away.
She met Vladimir at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He was an engineer at the waterworks, calm, not much of a talker, and told funny stories about pipes. A year later, they got married. Vladimir moved in from his rented room.
The first few months together were truly wonderful. They settled into their new life—Vladimir hung shelves in the hallway and replaced the kitchen faucet. In the evenings, they watched classic movies, and on weekends, strolled along the river embankment. Yulia learned to share her space with someone else and, to her surprise, found that she really enjoyed it.
She told her husband about guests right away.
«Vova, I really don’t mind if your parents come to visit. Honestly. Just as long as they give us a heads-up—at least a week in advance. Sometimes I have clients at home and I need to plan ahead.»
«Of course, Yulia. No problem at all.»
Nadezhda Petrovna and Konstantin Yurievich lived in the district center, about a three-hour drive away. Her father-in-law used to work as a craftsman at a furniture factory, and her mother-in-law was an accountant in the local administration. They were both retired.
The first time they visited was three months after the wedding. Without calling ahead. It was Saturday, eleven in the morning. Yulia opened the door wearing her pajamas.
«Oh, look, we’re here!» Nadezhda Petrovna breezed into the hallway without waiting for an invitation. «Kostya has to see a doctor in the city for a consultation. Why get a hotel if our son has an apartment here? We’ll stay a couple of days.»
Right behind her came Konstantin Yurievich, carrying two large bags.
Yulia looked over at her husband. Vladimir was smiling.
«Mom, Dad! Come in!»
They stayed for three days. Yulia didn’t object. So what if they came unannounced—these things happen, she thought. They’re elderly, they just didn’t think about it.
A month later, they came again. Once more without warning. This time for a week—Nadezhda Petrovna needed new curtains, and they just don’t sell the right ones back in their town. Then they stayed for ten days over the New Year holidays. After that, they came for two weeks in May: Konstantin Yurievich wanted to buy fishing gear and Nadezhda Petrovna wanted to go to the theater. Then, in August, they stayed for three weeks—just because. To enjoy some time in the city.
Every time was unannounced. Each visit, they arrived with bags in tow. Each time, Yulia only found out they were coming when she opened the door.
She canceled appointments. Rescheduled meetings. Gave up on her own plans. In August, she and Vladimir were celebrating their two-year wedding anniversary and had planned a weekend getaway to Suzdal. Yulia had booked a guest house and bought bus tickets. On Friday morning, her mother-in-law called from the car: «We’re already on the road, we’ll be there in an hour!» Vladimir returned the tickets.
From day one, Nadezhda Petrovna took over the kitchen. She rearranged all the dishes, reorganized the pantry, and threw away Yulia’s spices, calling them «weird.» She cooked from morning to night—borscht, fatty cutlets, pies. She scoffed at Yulia’s light salads, referring to them as «rabbit food.»
«Volodya, eat properly. Otherwise she’ll feed you nothing but grass.»
One day, Yulia couldn’t find her jar of sourdough starter in the fridge. It was rye sourdough she had nurtured for three years and used to bake bread every Saturday.
«Nadezhda Petrovna, where’s the jar? The glass one with the cloth on top?»
«Oh, that one. I tossed it out. Something had gone bad in there—it smelled awful. I cleaned your fridge for you.»
Yulia didn’t say a word. She just stood in front of the fridge, staring at the empty shelf. Three years.
Konstantin Yuryevich had taken over the living room since morning. He would turn on the news, then switch to fishing shows, then football, then back to the news. This went on until midnight. Yulia stopped going into the living room. In the evenings, she stayed in the bedroom or the studio.
Every time, she asked her husband for just one thing.
«Vova. I don’t mind that they come over. Let them visit. But can they please give us a heads-up? A week in advance. At least three days. So I can reschedule my appointments, free up some time.»
«Yulia, they’re my parents. Do they really have to ask permission just to visit their son?»
«Not permission. Just a warning.»
«Yulia, why are you making this a problem? So they show up, so what? They enjoy it here.»
Vladimir didn’t see an issue. Or didn’t want to. Yulia kept making the same request, over and over. Each time, her husband brushed her off. Each time, his parents showed up without notice.
Yulia put up with it. For the sake of peace with her husband. So there wouldn’t be arguments. She kept telling herself, they’re his parents, what’s the big deal? Vladimir took her patience for granted. As if that’s just how it should be. As if it was her duty.
After every visit, when her in-laws left, Yulia would lock herself in the studio. She’d shut the double doors, put on headphones, and cry. Silently, with no one around to see. Vladimir never noticed. He kept watching TV in the living room, not realizing his wife had been sitting in the studio for hours, with nothing to do there.
She felt more and more like a stranger in her own apartment. As if it wasn’t her place at all, but just a hotel for her husband’s parents. And she was just the maid.
October brought a tough week at the radio station: the station’s anniversary, a live broadcast marathon, twelve hours straight at the control board. On Friday, Yulia left the studio close to nine in the evening. Her head was buzzing, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.
Earlier that day, Vladimir had texted her: «Yulia, how about we order pizza tonight and watch a movie? Just the two of us. You deserve it.»
Yulia smiled and reread the message three times. Just the two of us. She couldn’t even remember the last time they had an evening to themselves. His parents had only left three weeks ago.
She got home just before ten. Vladimir had already ordered the pizza, and plates were set out on the coffee table. Yulia changed into something comfortable, took out her contacts, lay down on the sofa, and rested her head in her husband’s lap.
«This is so nice,» she said. «Quiet.»
Vladimir stroked her hair and started the movie.
About twenty minutes later, a sound came from the landing. Yulia recognized it immediately. Suitcase wheels clattering across the tile—heavy, loud, with that unmistakable rattle at the seams.
Yulia lifted her head.
The noise stopped right at their door.
Her phone vibrated on the coffee table. On the screen: «Nadezhda Petrovna.»
Yulia answered the call.
«Daughter-in-law, are you sleeping in there? Open up, we’re at the door with our suitcases!» her mother-in-law announced.
Yulia slowly lowered her phone and looked at her husband.
Vladimir avoided her gaze, staring at the TV where the movie characters were having a heated argument.
«Volodya,» Yulia said quietly. «Did you know?»
He said nothing.
«Did you know they were coming today?»
«Well… Mom called on Wednesday. She said they might come. I thought they wouldn’t.»
«You knew on Wednesday. Today’s Friday. You just wrote to me today saying ‘let’s be together.’ And you didn’t say anything else.»
Vladimir stayed silent. His eyes were glued to the TV.
The doorbell rang—long and insistent.
Yulia got up from the couch, walked to the hallway, and opened the door.
Out on the landing stood Nadezhda Petrovna in her autumn coat, clutching a large suitcase with wheels. Behind her was Konstantin Yuryevich, holding two bags and a grocery sack.
«Finally!» her mother-in-law exclaimed, nudging the suitcase forward. «What took so long? We’ve been standing here for five minutes already.»
Yulia didn’t move aside. She stood blocking the doorway, one hand on the doorframe and the other gripping the door.
The suitcase bumped into her knees.
«Yulia, what are you doing?» Nadezhda Petrovna frowned. «Let us in.»
«Nadezhda Petrovna. Konstantin Yuryevich. Good evening.»
«Good evening, yes. Come on, let us in, it’s heavy.»
«Did you let us know you were coming?»
Her mother-in-law looked at her in surprise.
«I called Volodya.»
«You didn’t call me.»
«Why would I call you? I called my son.»
Yulia stood blocking the doorway, feeling her knees tremble. But her voice was calm.
«Nadezhda Petrovna. You’ve been coming here for two years now. I’ve counted. Eleven times. Not once did you let me know in advance. Not once. The first time, you showed up on a Saturday morning and I answered the door in pajamas. In May you came for two weeks; I had to cancel three appointments. August—we were supposed to go to Suzdal for our wedding anniversary. You called from the road and we ended up returning our tickets. Last year at New Year’s you stayed ten days. Because of your news at half past six in the morning, I lost a client—a publishing house. You threw away my starter dough that I’d been growing for three years. Every time, you just showed up. Every time, I had to change my plans. Every time.»
Nadezhda Petrovna turned red.
«How can you say that to us? You’re blaming us? We came to visit our son!»
«You came to my apartment.»
«This is my son’s apartment!» her mother-in-law raised her voice. «You’re married, so it’s his place too! You’re mean, Yulia. Mean and selfish. Leaving your husband’s mother standing at the door like a stray dog!»
«Nadezhda Petrovna. I bought this apartment three years before I met Volodya. Spent five years saving for the down payment. I pay the mortgage myself. Volodya lives here because he’s my husband. But that doesn’t make it his apartment. And it’s definitely not yours.»
Her mother-in-law caught her breath. Then she turned her head and shouted into the apartment over Yulia’s shoulder:
«Volodya! Volodya, do you hear this? Get in here now! Tell her!»
Vladimir walked into the hallway, stopping two steps behind Yulia.
«Volodya,» Nadezhda Petrovna stared past her daughter-in-law at her son. «Tell your wife to let us in. You’re a man, aren’t you? Put her in her place!»
«Vova,» Konstantin Yuryevich called from behind his wife. «Why are you just standing there? Say something.»
Yulia turned around. She was waiting too. One last time. If only he would say anything— «Mom, let’s talk tomorrow.» «Mom, you should have let us know.» Anything that would show he was on her side. Or at least not on theirs.
Vladimir stared down at the floor. At the rug near the door. At the suitcase wheels. He said nothing.
Yulia looked at her husband and realized something. He would never stand by her side. Not today, not tomorrow, not a year from now. This was how he liked things. Let Yulia bear it, let the parents come, let everyone sort out their own problems. The most important thing for him was that he wouldn’t have to say anything himself. He always chose what was easiest for him. Every single time.
Nadezhda Petrovna pushed her suitcase forward again.
«That’s it, enough. Let me through.»
«No,» Yulia said. «Please leave. Both of you. Now.»
«What?!»
«Please go. Nadezhda Petrovna, Konstantin Yuryevich. I won’t let you in.»
«Are you out of your mind? Where are we supposed to go at this hour?»
«To a hotel. There’s a hotel three stops from here. Or go home.»
Yulia turned to her husband.
«And you, Volodya. You should go too.»
For the first time, Vladimir looked up at her.
«What?»
«Go with them. I don’t want to live like this anymore. You knew they were coming. You knew how hard this was for me. You knew I only asked for one thing: a warning. For two years you heard this and did nothing. And now you just stand behind me and say nothing. So it’s easier for you with them. Go with them.»
«Yulia, what’s wrong with you? Are you serious?»
«I’m serious.»
Then the fight broke out. Nadezhda Petrovna yelled so loudly the whole stairwell could hear that her daughter-in-law was shameless, that she was tearing the family apart, that her son had no rights in this house. Konstantin Yuryevich boomed that back in his day things like this never happened… The neighbor’s door cracked open, a woman in hair rollers peeked out and quickly shut herself back in. Vladimir tried everything: he pleaded with Yulia, shouted at her, tried to explain things to his mother.
Yulia stood in the doorway. She didn’t cry. She didn’t shout. She didn’t back down.
«Volodya. Pack your things. Just for tonight. The rest later.»
Vladimir stared at her for a long time. Then he turned, walked into the bedroom, and came back with his backpack. He put on his jacket in the entryway.
He squeezed past her into the hall. Took one of the bags from his father. Nadezhda Petrovna was crying loudly, sobbing. Konstantin Yuryevich silently pressed the elevator button.
Yulia closed the door. Turned the lock twice. Leaned her back against the door.
Through the door, she could hear the elevator arrive, the sound of things being loaded, the doors closing. Then it became quiet.
On the coffee table in the living room sat an untouched pizza. A scene from the movie they never finished was still frozen on the TV screen.
Vladimir called the next day at eleven in the morning.
«Yulia. We’re at the hotel. Four thousand eight hundred a night, can you believe it? Mom cried all night. Dad had his blood pressure checked.»
«I’m sorry, Volodya.»
«Yulia, come on, that’s enough. Let me come back. Just call my mom and apologize, you know, just to smooth things over. She’ll calm down, and everything will be fine.»
«No, Volodya.»
«What do you mean, no?»
«I’m not going to apologize. And you’re not coming back.»
She hung up the phone.
Three days later, he came to get his things. With his father. Nadezhda Petrovna stayed waiting in the car. Vladimir walked around the apartment collecting his jackets, sweaters, laptop, tools. Konstantin Yuryevich stood in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot, watching Yulia.
When Vladimir carried his first box to the elevator, his father suddenly said quietly:
«Yulia. You know, about the news. I didn’t realize it bothered you. If you’d just said something…»
«I did tell you, Konstantin Yuryevich. Many times.»
My father-in-law stayed quiet for a moment. Then he nodded.
«Yeah. I can’t hear well out of my left ear,» he said.
He picked up the second box and walked out.
A week later, they filed for divorce. Vladimir didn’t argue. A month later, he signed the papers at the registry office, looking grim and avoiding her gaze. He didn’t lay claim to the apartment.
He didn’t call. He didn’t write. Through a mutual acquaintance, Yulia found out he had moved in with his parents in the district center and got a job at the local water utility. People said his mother woke him up every morning at six thirty, because his father turns on the news.
Two weeks after the divorce, Yulia bought rye flour at the market. That evening, she mixed it with water in a glass jar, covered it with a cloth, and set it on the kitchen windowsill. She fed the starter every day. For the first three days, nothing happened. On the fourth, the first bubbles appeared. After ten days, the sourdough rose and had just the right smell: sour, warm, alive.
On Saturday morning, Yulia woke up at eight. On her own, without an alarm. No news blaring through the wall. The apartment was quiet. All she could hear was the hum of the fridge and, far off, the entrance door slamming shut on a lower floor.
She kneaded the dough. Let it rise. Shaped a round loaf, scored it with a cross, and put it in the oven.
Forty minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the smell of fresh bread.
Yulia took out the loaf, set it on a wooden board, and went to her studio for the portable recorder. She placed it next to the bread and pressed record. Then she took a knife and scored the hot crust.
The crust crackled—loud, dry, and crisp. Yulia listened to the sound through headphones and smiled. She couldn’t think of a better opener for the podcast she was working on.
