“Olya, just don’t get upset,” Volodya said, placing his phone face down on the kitchen table. “Zhenya called. They’re coming next Saturday. With the kids. For twelve days.”
I froze with a carton of kefir in my hand. I set it on the counter and stared at my husband. He was not joking. Volodya rarely joked at all, and when it came to his relatives, he never joked.
“Next Saturday,” I said. “In four days. Zhenya — that’s your second cousin’s nephew from Saratov? With his wife and two children? The same ones who broke the garden lantern last year and said it fell by itself?”
“Olya, what am I supposed to tell him?” Volodya spread his hands. “He’s already bought the tickets. He says the kids want the sea, and their budget is tight. They can sleep on the floor. They don’t need much.”
I sat down on the stool. It was June second. Our season of quiet had only just begun: I had submitted my annual report, and he had finished a project at the port and taken two weeks off. Our house, which we had bought six years earlier with a long mortgage, stood in a village near Tuapse, twenty minutes on foot from the beach. Three rooms, a kitchen, and a veranda.
When we bought it, Volodya’s mother, Nina Sergeyevna, had said, “Why do you need such a big place? There are only two of you, the children are grown.” But now this house was considered the family nest, a place where anyone could come as long as they had seen Volodya’s grandfather in a photograph at least once.
It had not started yesterday. That very first summer after we bought the house, when we had not even properly settled in ourselves, Volodya’s cousin Ksyusha called. She, her husband, and their youngest son were passing through our area. Could they stay for three days? We said yes. They were relatives, it was only for a short time, it was the decent thing to do. Ksyusha stayed for nine days.
Her husband, tall and silent Roma, spent entire days on his phone, while seven-year-old Matvey opened every cupboard and inspected the contents of every shelf. Ksyusha kept saying, “Oh, how lovely, what a lucky purchase,” and not once did she offer to help. When they left, I counted four broken plates and a missing beach umbrella. Later, Ksyusha wrote in the family group chat: “Thank you for your hospitality, it was wonderful, we’ll definitely do it again next year.”
The following year, they were not the only ones who repeated it.
By the third summer, we had a schedule. June was for Volodya’s aunt, Zinaida Vasilyevna, and her friend. The friend was new every year, and every time she demanded a separate room and fresh towels every two days. July was for a distant cousin, Pavel, with his wife and teenage daughter. The daughter took forty-minute showers, after which the boiler showed a temperature unsuitable for washing. August was for some old friends of Volodya’s parents, usually without warning, with the phrase, “We were just passing by and thought we’d stop in.”
They did not ask us for money. That would have been more honest. What they expected from us was service. A free boarding house with three meals a day, an excursion program, and a twenty-four-hour reception desk. At the same time, they sincerely believed they were doing us a favor. “We come to you with all our hearts,” they said, settling in as if it were their house and we were temporary staff.
The first year, I tried. I bought fruit, baked pies, drove the guests to the viewpoint, showed them the market and the best beaches. By the second year, I began to get tired. By the third, I began to count the money. By the fourth year, I was keeping a spreadsheet on my phone: who came, when, for how many days, how much food was bought, how many times the washing machine was used, how much extra water and electricity had been consumed. Volodya saw the spreadsheet and said I was being tedious. I replied that a tedious person was someone who counted other people’s money. I was counting my own.
In the fifth year, I tried to have a serious conversation with my husband. We were sitting on the veranda at the end of September, finally alone. I showed him the figures. Over the season, twenty-three people had passed through our house. The additional expenses for food, water, electricity, and cleaning supplies exceeded the cost of our own modest vacation.
“They’re your relatives, Olya,” Volodya said. “Mine and yours. They come to us with warmth, and you’re putting them under the category of ‘utilities.’”
“They don’t come to us with warmth, Volodya,” I answered. “They come to us with suitcases. Warmth doesn’t ask for a separate towel and doesn’t complain that breakfast is porridge again instead of croissants. Warmth doesn’t occupy the bathroom for an hour and a half when you have to leave for work in forty minutes.”
Volodya took offense. Not at me — at the situation. He understood everything himself, but he did not know what to do. For him, refusing relatives meant betraying something important from childhood, when doors were always open and everyone helped one another. In his worldview, “open doors” meant exactly that: you arrived, you stayed. In mine, it meant: you arrived, you helped. Or at least you did not interfere. Or at the very least, you asked whether it was convenient for us.
At the end of the fifth summer, an incident happened that I remembered for the rest of my life. Volodya’s cousin’s daughter, Anya, arrived with her husband and their one-year-old child. They warned us two days in advance. Our washing machine had just broken, so I told them to bring enough clothes because there would be nowhere to do laundry. Anya replied, “No problem, we’ll wash by hand.”
They arrived. That evening, Anya came up to me with a basin of baby clothes and asked where we kept the laundry powder. I reminded her about the broken washing machine. Anya smiled. “Olya, well, you’re a woman, you know how to wash things by hand. I just thought you’d help; you have more experience.”
I washed them. Not because I could not refuse, but because a one-year-old child was not to blame. But after that, I stopped baking pies and buying fruit in advance. Whoever wanted fruit could go to the market themselves. I did not lock the refrigerator, but I no longer stocked it especially for guests. It was a small, quiet strike.
And then came the sixth summer. And Zhenya bought tickets four days before arriving.
“Volodya,” I said, looking at the carton of kefir, “let’s count. Zhenya, his wife, two children. Twelve days. Do you understand what that means?”
“I understand,” he sat down across from me. “I understand everything. But what do you suggest? Calling him and saying, ‘Don’t come’?”
“I suggest calling him and saying, ‘Come, but let’s discuss how you’re going to eat and how you’re going to get to the beach.’”
“Olya, that’s awkward. He’ll be offended.”
“And is it comfortable for me to sleep in my own living room on a folding bed because our bedroom has been given to guests?”
Volodya was silent. He loved his relatives. Not all of them, and not equally, but he loved them. And he loved me. And these two loves came into conflict every summer, and every summer Volodya chose neutrality, which in practice meant my defeat.
Zhenya arrived on Saturday. With his wife Larisa, their ten-year-old son Timofey, and their seven-year-old daughter Verochka. One enormous suitcase, three bags, and an inflatable flamingo ring. They came in, took off their shoes, and Larisa said right from the doorway, “Oh, nothing has changed here,” even though it was her first time in our house. Timofey immediately asked for the Wi-Fi password. Verochka began touching everything she could reach.
I made dinner. Pasta with cutlets, cucumber and tomato salad, tea. Larisa looked at the table and said, “We thought you’d welcome us with seafood, since you live by the sea.” I replied that seafood was at the market, and the market was a fifteen-minute walk away; I would show them tomorrow. Larisa pursed her lips. Volodya pretended not to notice.
By the third day, I realized that my quiet protest was not working. The guests did not notice it. They did not notice that I was not buying delicacies especially for them. They simply went to the refrigerator, took whatever was there, and ate it. When the food ran out, Larisa would say, “Olya, you’re out of milk.” And I would go to the store. Because not buying milk when there were children in the house was something I could not do — that would no longer be a strike, but cruelty.
On the fifth day, I told Volodya, “I can’t do this anymore. If you don’t talk to them, I will. And you won’t like the way I do it.”
Volodya talked to them. I heard fragments from the kitchen: “…help a little… at least the dishes… Olya gets tired…” Zhenya answered something cheerfully. That evening, Larisa demonstratively washed three plates, loudly clattering them in the sink, and then said to me, “I hope you’re satisfied now.” I did not answer. I was thinking over the wording of an announcement.
The idea matured over several days while I watched Zhenya and his family. I saw how they lived: they slept late in the morning, then went to the sea, returned for lunch, ate everything that was on the stove, left wet towels on the sofa, went back to the sea in the evening, returned for dinner, sat on their phones for a long time, and fell asleep. They were not interested in our lives, our plans, or the fact that Volodya’s vacation ended in three days and after that he would be working night shifts, which meant he needed to sleep during the day. Once, Timofey turned the television up to full volume at two in the afternoon, just after Volodya had lain down. I asked him to lower the volume. Larisa said, “The child is resting; he needs cartoons.”
And then I sat down at my laptop and opened Excel.
I pulled up all the records from the past five years. Using receipts and messages, I reconstructed who had stayed with us and when. I calculated the average water consumption on guest days and compared it with ordinary days. I calculated the electricity. I added up how much food was eaten beyond our usual diet. I did not include the cost of lodging or wear and tear on the furniture — that would have been too much. Only direct utility and food expenses. I divided the resulting amount by the number of guest person-days.
The figure came out modest, but convincing. I printed it in large font, together with a table of average monthly expenses and a chart showing the house’s occupancy by week. On the chart, I marked two weeks in August as occupied — the time of our own vacation, the only days when the house belonged only to us.
I hung the sheet in the kitchen, on the refrigerator door, on Monday morning. Zhenya and his family had just left — finally, after ten days instead of the promised twelve, because Larisa had gotten tired of the heat. Before leaving, Zhenya said, “Thank you, it was great. Let’s do it again next year.” I said nothing. Volodya said, “We’ll talk.”
That same day, I wrote in the family group chat — the very one where they usually sent seaside photos and arranged visits. I wrote: “Dear relatives, Volodya and I truly appreciate your desire to spend your vacation with us. Our home is open to you, but so that everyone is comfortable, we have put together a schedule of available weeks and an approximate list of expenses for utilities and food. The table is hanging on the refrigerator; if anyone needs it, I’ll send a photo. Please plan your visits in advance and keep in mind that in August we are on vacation and are not accepting guests.”
The chat fell silent. Not for an hour, not for a day — for four days. That was a record for a chat that usually buzzed like a beehive. On the fifth day, Volodya’s mother called.
“Olenka,” Nina Sergeyevna’s voice was cautious, “what have you come up with over there? Zinaida Vasilyevna called me. She says you’ve decided to make money off relatives.”
“Nina Sergeyevna,” I replied, “we are not making money. We simply showed how much hosting guests costs us. It is not a demand for payment; it is information to think about.”
“Zinaida Vasilyevna is very upset. She says she has always treated you like family, and you put her in a spreadsheet.”
“Everyone is in the spreadsheet,” I said. “It’s statistics.”
Nina Sergeyevna was silent for a moment. She was a wise woman and, I think, the only one among Volodya’s relatives who understood what was happening. She herself had stayed with us twice, but she always arrived with a trunk full of groceries, washed her own dishes, and offered to help around the house.
“Well, Olya,” she finally said, “of course you’re right. But the way you presented it… maybe you could have done it more gently?”
“Nina Sergeyevna, I tried being gentle for six years. Gentle doesn’t work.”
She sighed and hung up. Three days later, Volodya’s sister arrived.
Lyudmila lived in Rostov, worked in the HR department of a large retail chain, and was a person so straightforward that she could seem harsh. She had never stayed with us — she had her own dacha on the Don, and she did not like seaside vacations. But this time she arrived without warning, on Tuesday at ten in the morning. I was alone; Volodya had gone to his shift.
I opened the door. Lyudmila stood there with a small sports bag over her shoulder. Her expression made it look as though she had come not to visit her brother, but to conduct an inventory.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m here on business. Show me your spreadsheet.”
I led her to the kitchen. Lyudmila stopped in front of the refrigerator, took off her glasses, put them back on, and read the sheet from beginning to end. Then she read it again. She turned to me.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you understand that this is insulting?” Her voice was even, but I could hear the tension of a person holding herself back with all her strength. “You hung up a price list. In a house where family comes to visit. You calculated how many liters of water they used.”
“I calculated how many liters of water we paid for,” I corrected her. “From our family budget. Which consists of my salary as an accountant and Volodya’s salary as an engineer at the port. We are not oligarchs. Every extra cubic meter of water and every extra kilowatt is paid for with money we could have spent on ourselves.”
“Didn’t you ever try simply refusing?” Lyudmila asked. “If it’s so hard for you?”
“I tried. It doesn’t work. When I say no, Volodya says yes. When I explain that I’m tired, they tell me, ‘We’ll help.’ Their help consists of washing three plates and treating it as a great favor. And then I scrub the house for three days after they leave.”
Lyudmila took off her glasses. She rubbed the bridge of her nose — exactly like Volodya, a habit inherited from their father.
“You know, Olya,” she said, “I understand that you’re tired. I really do. But you chose the worst possible way. You humiliated people. You put our relatives on the same level as guests in a cheap hotel. You took away their right to simply come to family.”
“Lyudmila, have you ever been in the shoes of these ‘family members’? Not the ones who come, but the ones they come to? Do you know what it’s like to scrub the bathroom after someone else’s child on your only day off? Or to run to the store at nine in the evening because the guests ate all the bread and didn’t think to buy more? Or to give up your own bedroom and sleep on a folding bed because ‘you’re the hosts, you’re used to it’?”
Lyudmila was silent. I continued:
“I am not against guests. I am against the fact that our home stopped being a home. It turned into a transfer point. People don’t come here to see us. They come here to live by the sea for free. To them, we are not relatives — we are service staff.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Last year, your distant cousin Pavel left us a broken deck chair and a cherry juice stain on the sofa as a keepsake. He didn’t even apologize. He said, ‘Well, these things happen.’ And the year before last, Zinaida Vasilyevna asked me to order her a taxi to the airport, and when I said a taxi cost money, she was surprised: ‘Aren’t you going to drive me?’ We drove her. At four in the morning. Volodya then spent the whole day at work with red eyes.”
Lyudmila put her glasses back on. She looked at the table, then at me.
“So what now? Are you going to bill everyone who wants to come?”
“I’m going to show them this spreadsheet. Whoever wants to come may come with the understanding that their stay costs something. I am not asking for money. But let them know: their vacation is paid for by us. Not by abstract ‘hospitality,’ but by specific amounts. Maybe then they’ll at least say thank you.”
Lyudmila shook her head.
“No, Olya. They won’t. They’ll say something else. They’ll say you ruined their vacation.”
She picked up her bag and left. She did not even drink tea. I watched her car drive from our dirt road onto the asphalt and thought: maybe she was right? Maybe I really had gone too far? But then I remembered Larisa, who had not once in ten days asked whether I needed help. I remembered Anya with the basin of baby clothes. I remembered Pavel and the cherry juice stain. And I stopped doubting myself.
That evening Volodya came home. He already knew — Lyudmila had called him as soon as she drove away from our house. Volodya silently ate dinner, silently washed his plate, and sat down across from me.
“Olya,” he said tiredly, “couldn’t you have discussed it with me first?”
“I discussed it with you for six years, Volodya. For six years I said, ‘Let’s change something.’ Every time you agreed, but nothing changed.”
“I didn’t know you would hang this on the refrigerator. As if we were a hotel.”
“We were a hotel. A free one. With cleaning, meals, and transportation. I simply made it public.”
Volodya sat silently for a long time. Then he got up, went to the refrigerator, and took down the spreadsheet. I tensed. But he did not tear it up. He carefully folded the sheet in half and placed it on the table.
“Keep it,” he said. “But not on the refrigerator. In the drawer. Whoever needs it — we’ll show them.”
It was a compromise. Not a victory, not a defeat — a small step toward each other. I agreed. The spreadsheet moved to the kitchen table drawer, but it did not disappear.
What happened next surprised me. A week later, a message appeared in the group chat from Pavel — the very one with the cherry juice. He wrote: “We’ve been thinking; maybe this year we’ll go to a tourist camp? Olya and Volodya probably have plenty of their own things to do.” Half an hour later, Zinaida Vasilyevna wrote: “I bought a voucher to a sanatorium. They have a mineral-water pool there; they say it’s good for joints.” Ksyusha wrote that she, her husband, and Matvey had decided to go to Abkhazia, where it was cheaper.
I read those messages and could not believe my eyes. For six years, these people had treated our house like their own summer cottage. For six years, they had arrived without asking and left without gratitude. For six years, I had tried to get through to them with politeness, hints, and direct requests — nothing worked.
And now one sheet of paper with numbers was enough. One spreadsheet showing what they preferred not to notice: every visit costs something. And we are the ones who pay for it.
Zhenya and Larisa never appeared again. Lyudmila did not call for three months, then called as if nothing had happened to ask for my pickled cucumber recipe. She did not mention the spreadsheet. Neither did I. At first, Volodya worried that the relationships had been ruined, but by autumn he noticed that no one was deeply offended. They had simply stopped seeing our house as a free vacation option. Those who wanted to stay in touch did. They called, wrote, invited us over. They simply stopped asking to live with us.
In August, Volodya and I spent two weeks of vacation together for the first time in six years. Just us, the sea, the veranda, and silence. No one occupied the bathroom, asked for the Wi-Fi password, complained about the weather, or demanded entertainment. The house became a home again.
Sometimes I take that spreadsheet out of the drawer and look at it. The numbers are outdated, the rates have changed, but the essence remains the same. It is not a price list. It is simply an honest conversation. As it turns out, sometimes the only way to reclaim your home is to explain how much it costs. Not in money, but in strength, time, and silence. But money, strangely enough, is what people understand faster.
So now I keep thinking: maybe we are wrong to feel embarrassed about saying that hospitality is labor? If we had said directly from the beginning, “Dear ones, we love you, but every guest’s visit means several thousand extra rubles a week and three hours of daily work,” would everything have turned out differently?
Or would we still have had to go through this scandal for everyone to understand?
And is it even possible to preserve both your home and your relatives when your relatives confuse your home with a hotel?
