“Think you’re the mistress here? Only I can make decisions in this place!” the husband snapped when she forbade him from housing his relatives in her apartment.
Yana turned the key in the lock and sighed with relief. Finally, home. Another exhausting day at the office was behind her, where clients demanded the impossible and management pressed with deadlines. Her two-room flat welcomed her with its familiar order and silence—everything in its place, no dust, no chaos.
She slipped off her shoes by the door, walked into the living room, and sank into her favorite armchair. Her gaze wandered over the perfectly arranged furniture and spotless shelves. This was her kingdom—small, but ideal. No intruders, no disorder.
Oleg was, as usual, late at work. Yana didn’t hurry with dinner—let her husband come first, and then they would eat together at the kitchen table, discussing their day.
The sound of a key in the lock came around nine. Oleg entered, tired but cheerful.
“Hi, sunshine,” he kissed Yana on the cheek and went to wash his hands. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” Yana was putting salad into bowls. “And you? Any news?”
Oleg sat down across from her and thoughtfully stirred his soup with a spoon.
“You know, Maksim called today. My nephew, remember? My brother’s son.”
“Of course I remember,” Yana nodded. “What about him?”
“He had a big fight with his parents. Left home, can’t rent a place yet. He asked if he could stay with us for a few days, until things settle down or he finds something.”
Yana set her fork aside and looked closely at her husband. His eyes held both a plea and readiness for refusal.
“Of course we can help,” she said gently. “He’s young, hot-headed. These things happen with parents. Let him come.”
Oleg’s face lit up.
“Thank you, Yana. I knew you’d understand. Maksim’s a good guy. He won’t be a bother.”
…
Maksim arrived with a small backpack, tall and lean, with a polite smile and grateful eyes. He thanked them profusely, promised to be careful and stay only briefly.
And he was—quiet, discreet, almost invisible. A week later, he reconciled with his parents and left, but small traces remained: scratches on the coffee table, a greasy stain on the sofa, missing cosmetics in the bathroom. Yana forced herself to dismiss the irritation—what mattered was that they had helped.
…
But soon came Oleg’s sister’s request about their niece Liza. Unlike Maksim, she was noisy, careless, left dirty dishes everywhere, invited friends over, laughed and talked loudly at night. Weeks turned into a month, and Yana could barely cope.
She asked Oleg to talk to Liza, but he shrugged it off:
“Come on, she’s young. Don’t dramatize. She’ll move out soon.”
And once again, Yana bore the weight of “family hospitality” alone.
When Liza finally left, peace returned—two months of quiet and order restored her strength. Yana cherished every moment of privacy. She thought the lesson had been learned.
But one evening, the phone rang again. Oleg, nodding and promising something, finished the call and announced:
“It was Uncle Vova. Denis needs a place to stay while his apartment is under renovation.”
Yana froze, the knife in her hand over cucumbers. The memories of Maksim and Liza came rushing back—ruined furniture, sleepless nights, exhaustion.
“Oleg, maybe we can find another option?” she suggested cautiously. “Remember what happened with Liza? It’s hard for me to constantly host people.”
“What are you saying?” Oleg stared at her in surprise. “This is family, our own blood. When did you become so heartless?…”
Continued in the comments