Mom said Aunt Valya, Uncle Borya, and Denis are going to stay with us. Don’t worry, it’s only for three nights,” Pasha said in an upbeat, artificially casual tone, carefully keeping his eyes on his laptop screen instead of looking at me.
I froze with a damp towel in my hands. Water slowly dripped from it onto the pale laminate floor.
“When did she tell you this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
“Yesterday. You were on shift.”
“And you’re telling me today. When they’re already on the train.”
Pasha grimaced without looking away from the screen.
“Anya, I’ve been completely swamped at work. You know how crazy things are right now. It slipped my mind.”
“And of course you agreed.”
Pasha finally looked up from the monitor and gave me the expression that usually meant I was about to hear a lecture about family values.
“Anya, it’s Mom’s anniversary. She’s turning sixty. Where is she supposed to put them in her studio apartment? Two people can barely move around in there, and there are three of them. They’re coming from far away.”
Our apartment was a typical compact one-bedroom unit measuring forty-two square meters. We had a separate bedroom that could fit only a bed and wardrobe, and a combined kitchen-living room with a small pull-out sofa. One bathroom. And a tiny entrance hall where two people wearing winter coats already felt crowded.
“Three adults, Pasha. Aunt Valya, Uncle Borya, and twenty-two-year-old Denis. Where exactly are they going to sleep?”
“Well, Aunt Valya and Uncle Borya can sleep on the sofa, and I’ll borrow an inflatable mattress from Lyokha for Denis. We’ll put it right here near the television.”
“And where are we supposed to walk? Across the ceiling?” I tossed the towel over the back of a chair and approached the table. “Pasha, open my calendar on my phone. Open it and look at this weekend.”
I work as a veterinary anesthesiologist at a large twenty-four-hour animal hospital. My shifts are twelve hours of nonstop concentration. I calculate doses of anesthetics and pain medication, monitor capnography, and watch patients’ blood pressure on the operating table. If I make a mistake in my calculations because I’m sleep-deprived, even by a couple of milliliters, someone’s dog might never wake up.
I need sleep.
Normal, deep, uninterrupted sleep.
And my work shifts happened to fall on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.
“I’ve seen your schedule,” my husband said conciliatorily. “They won’t bother you. They’ll drink some tea in the evening and go to bed.”
“I have to get up at six in the morning. Am I supposed to get ready in the dark while stepping over Denis on the mattress? And are we going to schedule bathroom time with a stopwatch?”
Pasha looked away and said nothing.
He hated conflict. Especially when my comfort was on one side of the scale and his mother’s displeasure was on the other.
Elena Viktorovna knew how to take offense in such a way that guilt spread over everyone within a ten-kilometer radius.
I picked up my phone and called my mother-in-law.
“Elena Viktorovna, hello. Pasha told me you invited your relatives to stay with us.”
“Anyechka!” my mother-in-law exclaimed with exaggerated delight, beneath which I could immediately detect combat readiness. “Yes, Pashulya agreed to help us out. We’re family, after all.”
“Elena Viktorovna, our apartment is forty-two square meters and we have one sofa. I have three twelve-hour shifts in intensive care one after another. I physically cannot host guests.”
Her tone instantly changed into something patronizing and reproachful.
“Oh, Anyechka, don’t start. You’re young. You can put up with it. We used to have six people living in a two-bedroom apartment and nobody complained.”
“That was thirty years ago,” I reminded her.
“But you’re the woman of the house,” my mother-in-law deployed the heavy artillery. “Can’t you endure three days for the sake of family? You can cook them some porridge in the morning and give them tea in the evening. Valya wanted so much to see your new apartment. It would be embarrassing in front of people if they found out we wouldn’t even let our own relatives through the door.”
“You can cook them some porridge in the morning.”
There it was.
The real reason.
Elena Viktorovna wanted to look like the generous, hospitable sister—but using someone else’s hands.
Pasha worked as a sales manager for auto parts. His schedule was nine to six in an office.
If his relatives stayed with us, all the household work would fall on me.
Who would buy groceries before work?
Anya.
Who would cook breakfast for five people?
Anya.
Who would wash the dishes after their evening gatherings?
Anya.
And Pasha would simply come home from work smiling and ask, “So, how are things going here?”
“Elena Viktorovna, I won’t be able to cook porridge. I leave the house at seven in the morning.”
“Oh, then Pasha can cook it! Why are you making such a problem out of nothing? That’s enough, Anya, I don’t have time for this. I’m finalizing the menu with the restaurant.”
She hung up.
I opened a short-term rental app.
In our neighborhood, literally two streets away, there was a bright one-bedroom apartment available with a large double bed and a pull-out armchair.
Three and a half thousand rubles per night.
Fourteen thousand for four nights.
I turned the screen toward Pasha.
“Here. The next street over. I’ll pay for it myself. We’ll meet them at the station, drive them there, and give them the keys. It’s clean, quiet, and there’s a kitchen.”
Pasha stared at the screen as if I were showing him forged documents.
“Have you lost your mind? Renting an apartment for my own aunt?”
“Pasha, it’s perfectly normal. People come to visit and stay in an apartment or hotel so they don’t inconvenience the hosts.”
“That’s not how things are done in our family,” he snapped. “Hotels are for strangers. They’ll never forgive us.”
“But all of us sleeping on top of each other is normal?”
“Anya, I already promised Mom!”
He went out onto the balcony with his phone.
Through the glass, I watched him gesture nervously while talking to his mother.
He came back with a red face.
“Mom’s crying. She said that if we kick her sister out into a rented apartment, she’ll cancel the whole banquet and birthday celebration. She said I’m henpecked and that you hate our family.”
I remained silent, assessing the situation.
“Anya, don’t humiliate me,” Pasha lowered his voice, switching to a pleading tone. “Forget the rental idea. I’ll do everything myself. I’ll buy the groceries. I’ll cook breakfast. I’ll entertain them in the evenings. You won’t even notice them, I swear. Just let them stay here for these three days.”
We had bought the apartment during our marriage, and we had saved the down payment together.
It was his home too.
I wasn’t going to stand in the doorway and physically refuse to let his relatives inside, turning everything into a screaming match in the stairwell.
But I also had the right to protect my boundaries.
And my work.
“You promise that you’ll take care of absolutely everything related to them?” I asked slowly.
“Yes! I promise. I’ll do everything myself.”
“Fine.” I nodded. “Let them stay here. I don’t mind.”
Pasha exhaled loudly, the tension leaving his shoulders.
“Thank you, Anya. I knew you’d understand.”
“But I’m not canceling the apartment reservation,” I added, pressing the confirmation button and paying for the rental with my card.
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to live there.”
Pasha froze.
“What?”
“I’m going to sleep there for these four nights.”
“You’re joking,” he said with a nervous laugh.
“Not at all. Their train arrives at four in the morning. You’ll go meet them, they’ll come crashing in with their suitcases, and I won’t be able to fall asleep again before work.”
I walked into the bedroom, took a small travel bag from the top shelf of the wardrobe, and began packing.
A spare work uniform.
My cosmetics bag.
Phone charger.
Clean underwear.
Pajamas.
My husband followed me, unable to believe what he was seeing.
“You’re leaving your own home because of guests? Anya, this is ridiculous!”
“I’m leaving my home so I can sleep, Pasha. You promised your mother you’d host the guests. You promised me you’d take care of them yourself. I’m not interfering with anyone. In fact, I’m freeing up an entire room, the bathroom, and the stove for you. Ideal conditions.”
“What am I supposed to tell Mom?! What am I supposed to tell Aunt Valya?!”
“Tell them the truth. Anya has difficult shifts, she leaves early and gets home late, and so that she doesn’t wake our dear guests by rattling pots at six in the morning, she decided to stay closer to work. That sounds incredibly considerate, Pasha. The family should appreciate it.”
I zipped up my bag.
Pasha tried to block my way in the hallway.
“Anya, stop this circus. Unpack your things.”
“Move,” I said calmly.
There was no hysteria or challenge in my voice.
Only exhaustion and complete certainty in what I was doing.
He looked me in the eyes and slowly stepped aside.
The rented apartment was perfectly quiet.
It smelled of clean sheets.
No strangers’ belongings hanging over chairs, no unnecessary noises behind the walls.
I ordered dinner, took a hot shower without worrying that someone would start pulling at the bathroom door, and fell asleep at ten in the evening.
On Friday morning, we had a long operation—four hours under anesthesia.
My phone, locked away in my locker, didn’t start vibrating until lunchtime.
Pasha:
“They arrived early this morning. Denis is complaining that the mattress keeps deflating. Where’s the pump?”
I replied briefly:
“On the balcony, in the gray box.”
At six in the evening, another message arrived.
“Anya, where are the new towels? Aunt Valya says the ones hanging up are too rough.”
I answered:
“In the dresser, bottom drawer.”
At eleven that night, when I was already lying in bed at the rented apartment, Pasha called.
His voice sounded dull.
“Anya, are you asleep?”
“Almost.”
“I’m exhausted. Completely exhausted. I cooked dinner for four people. They ate literally all the cheese, sausage, and eggs we had. Aunt Valya said the soup was too salty. Denis spent forty minutes in the bathroom, and I was late for work because of him. Tomorrow I’ll have to get up at seven and go to the hypermarket.”
“You promised your mother you could handle it,” I reminded him gently. “Good night, Pasha.”
Saturday evening was the anniversary celebration itself.
They had booked a banquet at a Caucasian restaurant.
I arrived after work, stopping first at the rented apartment to change clothes.
I was wearing a dark green dress, my hair was styled, and there wasn’t a single dark circle under my eyes.
The same could not be said for Pasha.
He met me at the entrance to the banquet hall.
His face looked gray, and there were real shadows beneath his eyes.
His shirt collar had been badly ironed—obviously done in a hurry while someone was banging on the door.
Elena Viktorovna sat at the head of the table, glowing beneath a massive necklace.
When we approached to congratulate her, she looked me over sharply.
“Anyechka. You look well. Apparently, resting away from the family agrees with you.”
She said it loudly enough for Aunt Valya, sitting nearby, to hear.
The woman immediately pursed her lips.
“Oh, Lena, tell me about it. Modern wives are so delicate these days. Back in our time, we managed everything—we worked and hosted houses full of guests. But now, apparently, someone gets too tired.”
Pasha tensed, preparing to mumble some excuse, but I spoke before he could.
“Elena Viktorovna, Aunt Valya, you’re absolutely right.” I smiled politely. “I’m terribly delicate. Today I had three seriously ill patients on the operating table. A sleep-deprived anesthesiologist is bad news for any of them. I simply couldn’t expose our dear guests to my schedule. But Pasha was able to give you all his attention and show you how happy we are to have you. Isn’t that right, Pasha?”
My husband swallowed and nodded, staring into his empty plate.
Aunt Valya snorted, but she couldn’t argue with the point about patients under anesthesia.
Elena Viktorovna pursed her lips.
Apparently, her attempt to portray me as a bad hostess had failed.
I had officially handed the crown of hospitality over to her son.
I spent the rest of the evening eating shashlik with an excellent appetite and pleasantly chatting with distant relatives.
Pasha barely drank.
In just a day and a half, the guests had exhausted him so completely that he could barely stay on his feet.
And after the banquet, he still had to take them home and, judging by everything, wash dishes after their late-night tea in our kitchen.
On Sunday morning, I received a short message from my husband:
“Uncle Borya snored so loudly last night that the windows shook. Denis’s mattress completely deflated, so he moved to the sofa. I gave our bedroom to Aunt Valya and Uncle Borya. I slept in the kitchen on chairs. I can’t do this anymore.”
Monday was my day off.
At eleven in the morning, I opened the door to our apartment.
The smell hit me immediately—a mixture of fried onions, stale socks, and some sharp cologne.
Dirty footprints covered the entrance mat.
I walked into the kitchen.
It looked like a battlefield.
A mountain of dishes with dried food stuck to them filled the sink.
Two empty beer bottles sat on the table beside spilled sugar and sticky teaspoons.
The pull-out sofa had been folded up crookedly, and a blanket was lying on the floor.
Pasha sat at the table.
In front of him was a cup of half-finished tea.
He was wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and had taken an unpaid day off work.
Hearing my footsteps, he raised his head.
His eyes contained universal sorrow.
“They left for the station at eight this morning,” he said hoarsely.
“I noticed.” I carefully set my travel bag on a clean corner of a chair. “How was the weekend?”
Pasha covered his face with his hands.
“It was hell, Anya. Absolute hell.”
Then he started talking, the words pouring out of him in a hurried stream.
“They never stopped talking for a single minute. Aunt Valya constantly criticized the way I cut bread and how I brewed tea. Denis ate everything I bought on Friday in one day. On Saturday I had to spend fifteen thousand rubles at the hypermarket just to feed them. And they still complained to Mom on the phone that our refrigerator was empty! Denis broke the shower holder. Uncle Borya watched television at full volume until two in the morning. For three days I worked as a cook, cleaner, and entertainer. I didn’t sleep properly for a single minute.”
He fell silent, breathing heavily.
Then he looked at me.
“Anya. I’m sorry. Please.”
I didn’t gloat.
I walked over to the refrigerator and opened it.
Inside stood a lonely jar of mustard and half a dried-up lemon.
“Do you understand now why I left?” I asked, turning toward him.
“Yes. If you had stayed, all of this would have fallen on you. And I would have simply come home from work in the evenings. I was an idiot.”
“You wanted to be a good son at my expense, Pasha. That’s not how it works. Hospitality is work. It costs time, money, and nerves. If you decide to invite guests, you have to be prepared to bear those costs yourself.”
Pasha nodded.
He looked as though he had aged several years.
I took a packet of good coffee beans from my bag—the kind I had bought on the way home—and poured them into the coffee machine.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said calmly, watching the dark stream of coffee flow into the cup. “We’re setting new rules. No more overnight guests in this apartment. Ever. If relatives come to town, we help them find somewhere to stay. We go to a restaurant with them. We walk around the city together. But they do not sleep here. If this happens again, and someone puts me in front of a fait accompli, I’ll rent an apartment again. But next time it won’t be for a few days. It’ll be permanently. Do you understand me?”
Pasha was silent for a moment.
“What if your parents come?”
“Parents are different. But we decide together and in advance, not the night before their train arrives.”
“I understand,” Pasha said firmly.
He stood up from the table, went to the sink, turned on the hot water, and picked up a sponge.
“Go take a shower, Anya. I’ll clean everything here, and then I’ll order some proper food.”
I picked up my cup of coffee and went to the bedroom.
Ahead of me was a day off, clean sheets, and silence.
Behind the wall, dishes clinked as Pasha silently put the kitchen back in order.
