“Could you tell me, do you happen to have a tablespoon?” Maxim was standing beside the dismantled stove, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other and staring at his empty hands.
The trouble had happened the previous evening: while Olga was preparing dinner, the burners had suddenly stopped responding when she turned them on. She had to look for a repairman—and now he had already been working his magic over the kitchen appliance for half an hour.
Olga raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“A spoon?”
“Yes. I left my tools in the car, and I need some kind of lever here,” he nodded toward the stubborn screw that refused to budge. “I understand, it sounds strange.”
She could not hold back a light laugh—so sincere and easy that she had not laughed like that in a long time.
“And here I was imagining a respectable repairman with a whole set of tools.”
The lady of the house brought the largest spoon from the kitchen set and sat down on a stool nearby. Maxim worked slowly and carefully, explaining what he was doing as he went. His hands moved confidently, inspiring trust.
“Do you live alone?” he asked while fastening the panel.
“Alone. I lost my husband three years ago,” Olga answered quietly.
“I’m sorry,” the repairman replied briefly, without digging any deeper into the subject, for which the woman was sincerely grateful. “By the way, the stove may be old, but it’s solid. It’ll serve you another twenty years.”
Outside the window, a dull October drizzle was falling. The apartment was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed tea and that special cozy atmosphere so typical of gloomy autumn evenings. Olga decided to put the kettle on.
“Maybe you’ll keep me company over a cup of tea? After all, you’ve spent so much time here,” she offered.
Maxim wiped his hands and looked at her attentively.
“I won’t be intruding?”
“Not at all.”
They drank tea in silence, but the silence was not heavy. On the contrary, it was surprisingly comfortable. The repairman did not try to pry into the details of her personal life, did not complain about the difficulties of his work, and did not boast about his successes. He simply sat there, sipping tea from a cozy ceramic mug and occasionally glancing out the window.
“The rain still hasn’t stopped,” he finally remarked.
“Yes, that’s October for us,” Olga agreed.
“I live in a dormitory. By now, the neighbors have probably turned the music on—and it’ll go on until morning.”
The woman nodded. There was not a drop of self-pity in his words, only a calm description of the situation. After finishing his tea, Maxim thanked the hostess and left, leaving behind a strange feeling of warmth in her heart.
A week later, another mishap occurred—the washing machine began to leak. Olga rummaged through her notebook, found Maxim’s number, and called him, hardly hoping he would agree to come.
“Maxim? This is Olga Nikolaevna, the one whose stove you repaired.”
“I remember you. What happened?”
“The washing machine is leaking. Badly.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
He arrived armed with tools, quickly identified the cause of the problem—the connections had loosened—and worked silently, focused on the job. Meanwhile, Olga set the table and prepared dinner.
“Maxim, perhaps you’ll stay for dinner?” she offered, feeling a little embarrassed.
The repairman raised his head and looked genuinely surprised.
“Really? May I?”
“Of course. Eating dinner alone isn’t much fun anyway.”
Over dinner, they talked about simple things: the changeable weather, the old houses in the neighborhood, and how appliances used to be made more reliable. Maxim said that he worked in a private repair shop, went out on service calls, and had been living in a dormitory for five years.
“Are you planning to get your own place?” Olga asked carefully.
“I am. I’m saving little by little,” he answered simply.
The hostess poured more tea and brought out homemade cookies. Outside, darkness had already fallen, and the streetlights along the Malaya Neva embankment softly illuminated the street.
“It’s very beautiful here,” Maxim said thoughtfully, looking out the window.
“Yes, I like this view too,” Olga smiled.
“I’ve dreamed of living on Vasilievsky Island since childhood. It’s the center, but without unnecessary fuss.”
They finished their tea. Maxim gathered his things to leave but paused in the hallway.
“Olga Nikolaevna, if anything else breaks down, don’t hesitate. Call me right away.”
“I certainly will,” she assured him.
The door closed quietly behind him. Olga cleared the table and washed the dishes. The apartment became quiet again, but now the silence did not feel empty—as if someone had left behind a small piece of warmth.
A month later, reasons to call appeared on their own: first the kitchen faucet started dripping, then the television began acting up, then the shelf in the hallway went crooked. Maxim would come without unnecessary words, fix the problems, and often stay for dinner. Over time, it became a habit—for both of them.
One gloomy November day, when the rain was beating especially persistently against the windows, Maxim dozed off on the sofa after dinner. Olga quietly covered him with a blanket and turned off the light. In the morning he woke up and apologized in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any inconvenience.”
“No inconvenience at all,” Olga assured him. “On the contrary, thank you for staying.”
From then on, he sometimes stayed overnight—not regularly, but often enough. The dormitory really was noisy and restless, while here there was peace and comfort. A silent understanding gradually formed between them—a quiet closeness that did not require unnecessary words. Maxim could read the newspaper, do small repairs, or simply sit in silence. Olga did not insist on conversations, did not question him about plans or feelings. She cooked, checked her students’ papers, or immersed herself in a book. Each of them was occupied with their own business, but loneliness no longer weighed on them.
In mid-December, the intercom rang sharply early in the morning, while Maxim was still sleeping peacefully on the sofa.
Olga went to the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Olga? This is Tamara Ilyinichna, your mother’s friend. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, of course, hello,” Olga replied, though her memories were vague: a middle-aged woman who had occasionally visited her mother about ten years earlier.
“May I come up? I need to talk to you about something important.”
The hostess pressed the button, then quietly woke Maxim.
“Tamara Ilyinichna is coming up—an acquaintance of my mother’s.”
Maxim nodded, quickly got dressed, and went to the bathroom to wash up.
There was a knock at the door—not loud, but persistent. On the threshold stood a plump woman of about sixty with a worn bag in her hands. Her face looked tired, but her gaze was sharp and attentive.
“Tamara Ilyinichna,” the guest introduced herself, holding out her hand. “It’s been a long time.”
“Please come in. What happened?” Olga invited her.
Tamara entered the room, looked around, and sat down on the edge of the sofa.
“Trouble, Olechka. We’re being evicted from our communal apartment—they say the building is being resettled. And we have nowhere to live temporarily. I remembered your mother and how kind-hearted she was. I thought perhaps you could shelter us for a couple of days?”
Olga was confused. It felt awkward to refuse: the woman looked exhausted. But to agree…
“My apartment is small,” the hostess began cautiously.
“I’m quiet. I won’t bother you at all. You won’t even notice me,” Tamara assured her, already examining the room as though deciding where it would be best to settle. “The sofa is comfortable, the kitchen is spacious—excellent. Your mother always said, ‘Olya is a kind soul. She won’t abandon anyone in trouble.’”
Olga’s heart tightened—the mention of her mother hit exactly where it hurt.
“All right,” she agreed softly. “For a couple of days.”
Tamara immediately brightened and placed her bag by the wardrobe.
“Thank you, dear. I’m so grateful to you. Your mother was right—you are a real treasure.”
At that moment Maxim came out of the bathroom—dressed, his hair still damp from washing. Tamara looked him over carefully.
“And who is this?”
“Maxim. He… helps me with different things around the house.”
“I see,” the guest said, a certain sharpness in her voice. “So you live together?”
“He stays sometimes,” Olga replied, feeling her cheeks flush.
“Well, that’s right. Why sit alone?”
Maxim put on his jacket and nodded to Olga.
“I’ll go. We’ll be in touch.”
The door closed behind him, and Tamara immediately began settling in: she hung her clothes in the wardrobe and moved the armchair closer to the window.
By noon, Tamara had completely made herself at home in the apartment. She took over the kitchen without asking unnecessary questions: cooking soup, criticizing the potatoes for being cut too small, and moving pots from place to place.
“Everything here is arranged wrong,” she remarked, stirring the cabbage soup. “Does that helper of yours do anything at all?”
“Maxim isn’t my helper in that sense,” Olga corrected her gently.
“Oh, of course. He just stays here for no reason,” Tamara snorted, raising an eyebrow. “It’s obvious he doesn’t value you much. A real man would have solved everything at once—housing, family, all of it.”
That evening, while Olga was washing the dishes, Tamara casually dropped:
“And Sergey will come tomorrow. My husband. You probably remember him—we used to visit your mother together.”
Olga nodded.
“I remember.”
“He’ll bring the things and stay for a while too. You don’t mind, do you?”
Olga froze with a plate in her hands, her fingers involuntarily tightening.
“You mean… for how long?”
“Don’t worry, not long. Until we find something suitable,” Tamara reassured her.
The next day Sergey appeared—a short, neat man with an attentive, tenacious gaze. He brought in two suitcases and immediately began reminiscing about the past.
“Olenka, how you’ve grown!” he said, hugging her. “Your mother was a bright soul. We were friends, we helped each other. While your father was alive, he and I often went fishing together.”
Olga nodded, trying to revive those episodes in her memory. Vague images surfaced in her mind: her father gathering fishing rods, saying something about some Sergey…
“And now we’re being evicted,” the guest continued. “They’re demolishing old buildings. Tamara says you’re kind, just like your mother. You won’t leave us in trouble.”
Olga helped them unpack their things. Sergey settled in thoroughly: he hung his shirts in the wardrobe, placed his medicines on the nightstand, then looked around.
“Where are your meters?” he asked Olga. “We need to take the readings.”
“Why?” she asked in surprise.
“Order must be maintained,” Sergey explained. “We’re not staying here for free. We’ll pay for however much we use. Otherwise, no one knows who spends how much.”
He took out a squared notebook and carefully wrote down the water and electricity meter readings. Then he walked around the apartment, making notes in the notebook.
“I worked as a building manager for twenty years,” he explained to Olga. “I’m used to precision and order.”
By evening, the atmosphere in the apartment had changed. It felt cramped—not because of a lack of space, but because of the sensation of someone else’s presence. Tamara loudly commented on every action she took in the kitchen while preparing dinner. Sergey sat at the table with his notebook, meticulously recording expenses.
“We bought bread for eighty rubles,” he muttered. “Milk for one hundred and twenty. Split in half, that makes…”
Olga sat on the sofa, holding a stack of unchecked student notebooks in her hands. She was not reading them—just holding them, staring at one point. The words blurred before her eyes; the meaning slipped away.
Maxim came late, when the guests had already gone to bed. Tamara and Sergey had taken the sofa in the room. The repairman stopped in the hallway and looked uncertainly at Olga.
“Maybe I’d better go home?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “Stay.”
He spent the night in the kitchen on a folding bed. In the morning he left early, without even having breakfast.
The days dragged on in an unfamiliar, uncomfortable way. Tamara got up first and immediately turned the radio on at full volume. She made coffee—not in a cezve, the way Olga liked it, but instant.
“Why do you bother with that cezve?” she would say. “You’re wasting time. Modern people drink instant coffee—it’s faster and more convenient.”
Sergey made detailed expense charts, calculated who should pay extra for utilities, and wrote down who got up when and how much water each person used in the shower.
“Economy has to be reasonable,” he explained to Olga. “Resources are not unlimited.”
Olga increasingly felt like a guest in her own home. Tamara rearranged the furniture and removed the family photographs from the dresser.
“Why keep photographs in plain sight?” she said. “They only bring sadness and memories.”
The quiet happiness Olga had found beside Maxim fell apart in a matter of days. There were no more peaceful dinners, no light conversations about nothing, no feeling of a reliable presence nearby. Maxim began coming less often and was constantly held up at work.
“Are you uncomfortable because of them?” Olga once asked him.
“I am,” he admitted. “They look at me like I’m a stranger. And there are constant remarks, calculations…”
On Saturday evening, during dinner, Tamara looked at Olga appraisingly.
“Olenka, don’t be offended, but your cutlets turned out rather bland. Men don’t eat things like that.”
Olga placed her cup on the saucer a little louder than she had intended.
“Maxim never complained.”
“Maxim is polite. He keeps quiet. But to himself he’s thinking: ‘It’s boring here, no spark, no character.’” Tamara smirked. “Everything about you is too smooth, with no zest. And that Maxim of yours is silent—not a real man.”
Olga slowly placed her spoon on the table. Something inside her cracked, but at the same time, she felt a firm support appear within her.
“Enough.”
Tamara raised her eyebrows.
“Enough what?”
“Enough telling me how to live,” Olga’s voice was quiet but firm. “This is my home. My food. My man. You are not my family, and you have no right to dictate conditions to me.”
“Oh, really, Olenka! I only wish you well. I’ve lived a whole life…”
“That’s enough, I said. I want you gone from here by lunchtime tomorrow.”
A tense silence fell. Sergey put down his magazine and glanced at his wife. Tamara straightened up—her face seemed to turn to stone.
“Have you lost your mind?” she said slowly. “We were friends of your parents. We’re like family to you!”
“Family doesn’t behave this way,” Olga replied firmly. “And I don’t owe you anything. It’s time you understood that you are not in your own home.”
“And how exactly are we behaving?” Tamara’s voice grew louder. “We are helping you. Yesterday Sergey fixed the faucet, and I give you advice from my life experience so your life can be easier!”
“Your mother would be shocked by such ingratitude!” Tamara added reproachfully.
Olga rose from the table.
“My mother was kind, but she would never have allowed anyone to rearrange the furniture and remove family photographs. And she certainly would not have listened to lectures on how to cook soup properly.”
“Olenka,” Sergey began conciliatorily, “we didn’t mean any harm…”
“Olga,” she corrected him. “My name is Olga. And I said: I want you gone from here by lunchtime tomorrow.”
Tamara jumped up, nearly knocking over her chair.
“Ungrateful woman! We’re like relatives to you, and you’re throwing us out onto the street? We have nowhere else to go!”
“That is not my problem,” Olga answered calmly.
“Not your problem? And who swaddled you when you were little? Your mother did! And she and I were like sisters!”
“Mother died three years ago,” Olga said quietly but firmly. “Where were you then?”
Tamara froze with her mouth open but found no words. Sergey carefully folded his magazine and stood up.
“Understood,” he said with restraint. “We’ll pack tomorrow.”
Tamara grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
“I’ll remember this!” she threw over her shoulder. “Your mother would be horrified by such ingratitude!”
The door slammed. Sergey sighed.
“She’ll clear her head and come back,” he said to Olga. “Nothing terrible.”
He went into the room and began neatly folding things into a suitcase. Olga remained in the kitchen. Silence hung in the apartment—but now it did not oppress her; it freed her. The woman cleared the table, washed the dishes, moved the furniture back into place, and returned the photographs to the dresser.
An hour later, Tamara returned—silent and gloomy. Without saying a word, she lay down to sleep.
The next day at noon, they packed their things. Tamara did not say a single word of thanks—she only cast Olga a look full of contempt. Sergey approached her before leaving and held out money in small bills.
“Thank you.”
Olga waved it away.
“I don’t need anything. Just leave.”
The door closed behind them forever. Olga walked through the apartment and threw the windows open. The autumn wind burst inside, bringing with it the smell of rain and long-awaited freedom.
That evening, as usual, Maxim came by. He set down his bag and took off his shoes.
“How are things?”
“Good,” Olga smiled.
“And I brought a pie, fresh,” Maxim said, taking a box out of his bag. “My sister works at a confectionery, so she sent it.”
Olga smiled even wider and went to put the kettle on.
“Where are Tamara and Sergey?” Maxim asked as he entered the kitchen.
“They left,” she answered quietly.
“I see.”
They drank tea with pie and talked about plans, about life. Maxim shared news from work, and Olga told him about her students. The conversations were simple, but that same lightness had returned to them—the lightness that strangers had once disrupted.
Olga suddenly remembered Tamara’s words: “Everything about you is too smooth, with no zest. And that Maxim of yours is silent—not a real man.”
“Maxim,” she suddenly said, “could you move in with me? We’re adults, after all.”
He froze with the cup in his hands.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Why do you need the dormitory if you’re already here almost all the time?”
Maxim smiled shyly.
“I’ve wanted to suggest it for a long time, but somehow it felt awkward…”
“And now?”
“Now it doesn’t.”
A week later, he moved in. He brought his tools, books, and coffee maker. The apartment filled with a masculine presence—not intrusive, but natural and cozy.
Their relationship grew stronger day by day: morning coffee, evening conversations, weekend plans. The very same quiet happiness that outsiders had almost destroyed.
A week later, the phone rang.
“Olya, this is Aunt Nina. Listen, could you shelter my nephew for a while? He was kicked out of the dormitory, and he has absolutely nowhere to go…”
“No,” Olga answered without hesitation.
“What do you mean, no? He’s family…”
“No, Aunt Nina. Goodbye.”
She hung up and felt an incredible lightness. It turned out to be so simple to say “no” once you understood the price of your own peace.
A month later, she and Maxim registered their marriage—quietly, without guests, just the two of them.
Olga often remembered those days with Tamara and Sergey. How an ordinary request for help—to shelter acquaintances for a couple of days—had nearly destroyed her relationship with Maxim. How close she had come to losing herself, and him along with her.
Everything had turned out well only because she had stepped over the habit of being convenient for everyone in time. She had stepped over the fear of offending someone and removed strangers from her home.
Now only those she had chosen herself lived there.
A home filled with warmth, understanding, and true happiness.
