Marina heard familiar voices already on the stairs—the sisters-in-law were coming up, loudly discussing something. She flung the door open with her brightest smile.
“Ladies, I’m so glad you’re here! Come in, quickly!” She practically dragged the stunned “girls” into the hallway.
“Marinochka, why are you so… cheerful?” Anna Anatolyevna asked warily.
“I’ve got a surprise for you!” Marina clapped her hands. “Since you’ve come to help, I’ve got everything ready!”
She led the women into the bedroom, where newspapers were spread out on the floor, paint buckets stood ready, and brushes and rollers lay about.
“This is… what?” Olga blinked in confusion.
“Renovation! You wanted to be involved in everything, so I thought—who better than family to help?” Marina was already pulling old smocks and headscarves from the closet. “Anna Anatolyevna, Igor’s shirt and pants will fit you. Olya, Natasha, here are smocks.”
“But that’s not why we—” Natalia began.
“Oh, don’t be modest!” Marina shoved a roller into her hands. “Anna Anatolyevna, you’ll do the top—you’re the right height. Girls, take the bottom of the walls. I’ll show you the technique.”
Her mother-in-law opened and closed her mouth like a fish. To refuse would mean admitting they only came to drink tea.
“Fine,” she ground out through her teeth. “But not for long.”
An hour later all three women, splattered with paint, were running rollers over the walls.
“Marina, maybe a break?” Olga pleaded, holding her lower back.
“Hang in there! We’ll finish soon, and I’ll treat you to sushi rolls!” Marina promised, topping up their tea. “You’re doing great! A real family!”
By six in the evening the bedroom had been transformed—the walls shone with fresh paint the color of baked milk. Anna Anatolyevna sat on a stool in the hallway, massaging her stiff shoulders. Her gray hair had slipped out from under the headscarf, and a beige blotch decorated her cheek.
“That’s it, enough,” she exhaled, pulling off the paint-stained smock. “I’m going home.”
“Mom, we’ll go with you,” Olga said, bracing herself against the wall. Her manicure was hopelessly ruined, and stains had spread across her smock. “Natasha, call a taxi.”
Natalia nodded, pulling out her phone with trembling fingers. Over the day she’d managed to paint not only the walls but her own arms up to the elbows.
“How can that be?” Marina threw up her hands, feigning dismay. “What about dinner? I promised you rolls! Maybe you’ll stay?”
“No!” all three women shouted almost in unison.
“I mean… thank you, but we’re tired,” Anna Anatolyevna corrected herself, struggling up from the stool. “And anyway, we need to get home. We have things to do.”
Marina saw them to the door, kissing each one on the cheek in farewell. When the door closed behind the relatives, she leaned against the jamb and burst out laughing. The plan had worked perfectly.
Sunday morning began with a phone call. Sipping coffee from her favorite mug, Marina dialed her mother-in-law.
“Anna Anatolyevna? Good morning! How are you feeling?” she asked, sounding innocent.
“What feeling?!” the older woman croaked. “My back won’t straighten, my arms feel like they’re not mine!”
“Oh, that’s such a shame! I was going to invite you and the girls—I’m planning to repaint the bathroom. You were so wonderful yesterday!”
Silence hung on the line, then an indignant clucking burst out:
“Marina! Who do you think you are? We’re not hired help! My blood pressure shot up, Olga’s gone on sick leave!”
“But you yourselves said you wanted to be involved in everything, to be the mistress of your son’s home…”
“You know what?” Anna Anatolyevna’s voice trembled with indignation. “I won’t set foot in your place again! And I’ll tell the girls the same! Ungrateful!”
The line went dead. Marina set down the phone and smiled. No scandals, no offense—just an offer to help with renovations. Who would have thought a roller and a bucket of paint could be more effective than any locks or quarrels?
She walked to the window, where a wedding photo stood on the sill. At last, the house would be quiet.
On Sunday evening Marina greeted Igor in the freshly updated bedroom. The walls pleased the eye with an even beige shade, and the air still held a trace of fresh paint.
“No way!” Igor set his fishing gear down in the hallway. “You did all this yourself?”
“Not exactly,” Marina replied with a mysterious smile, smoothing the new bedspread. “Your mom and sisters helped.”
“What? Mom painted the walls?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Uh-huh. And you know what? She said she’s not coming again,” Marina burst out laughing.
She took a bottle of wine and two glasses from the fridge. Blissful silence filled the house—no calls, no unexpected visits.
“What did you do to them?” Igor asked, taking a glass, still not quite believing.
“I just asked them to help with the repairs. Very politely and very persistently.”
She clinked glasses with her husband, savoring the moment. It turned out stubbornness and cunning work better than any scandal. Sometimes, to protect your home, all you need is a bucket of paint and the right emphasis.