— Katya, I’ve got bombshell news! My folks are coming soon!
Gena burst into the kitchen, shining like a freshly polished samovar, and tossed his backpack onto a chair. Katya, who was stirring vegetables in the pan, glanced back for just a second, noting that his boots had once again left a trail of street dust. Three months of living together had taught her to notice little things like that, but not yet how to deal with them. She decided she’d mention it later, after dinner.
“Which guests?” she lowered the heat, and the vegetables hissed more quietly.
“Ours!” Gena flung open the fridge door with enthusiasm and pulled out a bottle of water. “My brother, Vitya, with Irka and the kids. They’re going south on vacation and decided to swing by us on the way. They’ll stay a couple of weeks, see the city. Awesome, right?”
Katya froze with the spatula in her hand. Two weeks. Her one-room but spacious studio, which she had furnished with such love, filled in her mind with other people. Two adults and two children. She pictured scattered toys, constant noise, a morning queue for the bathroom.
“Gena, hold on,” she set the pan down on a cold burner. “Two weeks? Six of us? Where are we going to put them all? We have one sleeping spot—the sofa.”
“It’s all figured out!” he waved her off, taking a long swig. “Vitya and Irka on the sofa, the kids on an air mattress in the corner. We’ll buy one tomorrow. I already called my parents, too—told them the good news. They’ll come see them off and stay with us as well.”
He said it as casually as if he were talking about buying bread. A chill ran down Katya’s back, and it had nothing to do with a draft.
“So first four people for two weeks, and then your parents, too?”
“Yeah—Mom and Dad for three or four days, no more. Mom’s thrilled! She said she finally wants to get to know you properly, not in passing. She really wants to try your signature syrniki; I’ve told her so much about them.”
There it was. The last line was the click that shifted her from quiet stupor to cold fury. It wasn’t about the guests. It was that she—Katya—didn’t exist in this plan at all. There were Gena’s plans, his brother’s wishes, his mother’s delight, and Katya’s syrniki, which she was, by default, supposed to get up early to make for the whole crowd. Her apartment was merely a backdrop for their family idyll, and she herself—an add-on, a function, the service staff.
“Gena, you decided all this without asking me?” Her voice was even, but there was more threat in that evenness than in any shout.
He finally lifted his eyes from the bottle to look at her. Something seemed to dawn on him.
“What’s there to ask? It’s my family. Aren’t you happy to see them? They’re great—you’ll like them. Mom’s a golden woman, she’ll love you right away.”
“I don’t doubt your mother’s fine qualities,” Katya crossed her arms. “I’m interested in another question. Why are you managing my home and my time as if they belong to you?”
“Oh, here we go,” Gena rolled his eyes and set the bottle on the table with such a thump that it bounced. “What difference whose home? We live together, so everything’s shared. Or is hosting my relatives a problem for you? I thought you loved me, which means you should respect my family.”
His voice was rising, tinged with offended, accusatory notes. He wasn’t trying to understand her; he went straight on the attack, painting her as selfish and ungrateful.
“Respect?” Katya turned fully toward him. She looked him straight in the eyes, her gaze hard as steel.
“Well… yeah!”
“Gena, on what basis are you deciding who gets to live in my apartment and who doesn’t? Who are you here? You’re not even my husband, and you’re already hauling in a crowd of your relatives and telling me I’m supposed to tiptoe around them! Not happening.”
Her words struck him like a slap. The air in the kitchen—until then filled with the smell of fried vegetables and his self-satisfaction—turned dense and viscous. Gena stared at her, his face slowly changing: surprise gave way to puzzlement, then to a crimson wave of anger. He’d expected anything: tears, pleading, a plate-smashing scene—but not this icy, lethal calm and a question that challenged his very place there.
“What… what are you saying?” he breathed, taking a step toward her. “What do you mean ‘who am I’? I’m your man! We live together! Or did you forget?”
“I haven’t forgotten, Gena. I asked a direct question,” Katya didn’t move; her stance stayed closed, her gaze unwavering. “On what grounds do you make decisions about my property and my life? We moved in together three months ago. That doesn’t make my apartment our joint property.”
“Oh, so that’s it! Property!” He gave a short, barking laugh. “I thought we were in a relationship—future family—and it turns out you’ve got everything divided: your property, your life! So what am I? A freeloader? A boarder? Is that why you asked me to move in—so there’d be someone to pay for the place?”
He hurled accusations like stones, trying to wound, to throw her off balance, to make her justify herself. He was used to winning arguments by shouting louder and pressing harder on emotions. But Katya didn’t budge. She looked at him, and in her eyes he saw neither guilt nor hurt. She looked at him the way you look at a complex but solvable math problem. Arguing was pointless. He wasn’t hearing her arguments—only an encroachment on his rightness. And then she realized she needed to speak a different language. Not feelings, but facts.
Without another word, she turned and left the kitchen. Gena remained standing in the room, breathing hard, sure she’d fled, unable to withstand his pressure. Now she’d go cry in the bathroom, then come back subdued and ready to compromise. He’d won. He smirked and drank from the bottle.
But Katya didn’t go to the bathroom. She went to the studio’s living area, stepped up to a small desk by the window, opened a drawer, and took out a perfectly clean A4 sheet. Then she picked up a black gel pen from its stand. Her movements were precise and calm, utterly unhurried. She sat, placed the sheet before her, and paused for a moment, tapping the pen cap on the table. Gena watched her from the kitchen with contemptuous curiosity. What was she writing? A resignation letter? A list of his flaws?
In neat, almost calligraphic handwriting Katya wrote the heading: “HOUSE RULES FOR GUESTS AT THE APARTMENT LOCATED AT…”. She filled in her address, paused briefly, then began listing the points, choosing each wording with care.
Approval of any visit with the property owner (Ekaterina) is mandatory no less than 14 (fourteen) calendar days before the proposed arrival date.
Guest stays are paid. Utilities and depreciation of furniture and appliances during the stay are to be covered at the rate of 1,000 (one thousand) rubles per day per guest, including children over 3 years old.
Quiet hours from 22:00 to 08:00 are mandatory. No loud events permitted.
Guests bear full financial responsibility for any damage to the owner’s property and agree to maintain cleanliness and order in common areas.
She reread what she’d written, then added the final, decisive clause:
Check-in is possible only after written agreement with all of the above points and 100% prepayment for the entire period of stay.
Finished, she stood, took the sheet and, without looking at Gena, went to the fridge. She took two bright magnets from the door, fixed the document squarely in the center—the most visible spot—and stepped back to assess. The sheet hung perfectly straight.
“Here,” she said quietly, but in the stunned silence of the kitchen her voice cracked like a shot. Gena came closer, still not understanding. He devoured the tidy lines with his eyes. His face lengthened with every word. When he reached the clause about payment, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
“Have you lost your mind?!” he roared, ripping the sheet off the fridge so the magnets clattered onto the floor. “A thousand a day per person?! From my parents?! From my nieces and nephews?! What is this, a hotel?!”
Katya calmly picked up the magnets and put them back on the fridge door.
“Let your relatives read it,” she said evenly, looking not at him but at the empty spot where the document had just hung. “As soon as they agree in writing to all points and pay in advance to my card, I’ll be very glad to see them. This is my apartment, Gena. And my rules apply here.”
Gena stood clutching the sheet, now a crumpled wad of nerves. His face was twisted with disbelief and rage. He looked from Katya to the smooth, spotless surface of the fridge where that humiliating document had just been. He expected her to waver, to back down, to say it was a silly joke. Instead, Katya calmly went to the sink, turned on the water, and began washing the dishes from the interrupted cooking. Her movements were measured, as if nothing had happened. That demonstrative calm infuriated him more than any shout.
“You’re serious?” he growled, tossing the crumpled page on the table. “You really plan to demand money from my family?”
“I plan to demand compliance with the rules established in my home,” she replied without turning. Water murmured softly; plates clinked. “They’re the same for everyone.”
“What rules, for heaven’s sake?! That’s my mother! My father! My own brother with his kids! They’re not ‘everyone’! Don’t you see the difference? You want to humiliate me in front of them? What am I supposed to say—‘Sorry, my girlfriend sent you a bill like at a cheap motel’?”
He’d switched to shouting, pacing the kitchen like a caged tiger. He hoped pressure and volume would break her defense. He was used to problems being solved by emotional battering until the other side surrendered from exhaustion. But he seemed to be ramming an invisible wall. Katya turned off the water, carefully dried her hands, and faced him.
“You’ll tell them the truth, Gena. That you invited them to someone else’s apartment without informing the owner. And that the owner has now set her conditions. Very simple.”
Realizing the frontal attack had failed, he switched tactics. The rage on his face gave way to plaintive hurt. He sat, dropped his head into his hands, and spoke in a muffled, dejected voice.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me, Katya. I’m trying for us. I wanted you to be friends with my family so they’d accept you. I’ve told them so many good things about you… And you… you just spat in all their faces. And in mine.”
It was a skillful manipulation meant to stir guilt. But Katya saw through him. He wasn’t “trying for them.” He was trying for himself—for his convenience and for maintaining his image as a good son and brother at her expense.
“If you’d wanted us to be friends, you would’ve asked my opinion first,” she said coldly. “Not presented me with a fait accompli two weeks before a crowd of people arrives.”
Seeing that this trick didn’t work either, Gena resorted to a last measure. He pulled out his phone.
“Fine. I get it. You don’t want to talk to me. Then you’ll talk to my mother. I’m not going to explain to her myself why she’s not welcome here.”
He dialed and put the call on speaker, setting the phone on the table between them. Katya silently looked at the device. A few seconds later, a cheerful female voice came from the speaker: “Yes, son?”
“Hi, Mom. Here’s the thing… Katya’s here, she wants to tell you something about your visit,” he began, playing the part of a rattled, upset son.
There was a brief pause, then a voice dripping with sugary concern: “Katyusha? Hello, dear. Did something happen? Gena sounds so agitated. Did you two quarrel?”
“Hello, Lyudmila Ivanovna,” Katya answered evenly. “No, we didn’t quarrel. Some organizational points have come up.”
“Oh, what points could there be, dear? We’re not going to a hotel, we’re visiting our family!” The would-be mother-in-law’s voice carried a faux warmth with a distinct undertone of steel. “We’ve missed you so much, we want to see you all! Don’t worry, we won’t get in the way—we’ll live quietly in a corner.”
“It’s not about that,” Katya picked up the sheet Gena had smoothed out on the table. “There are certain guest rules. They apply to everyone without exception. I can read them to you, if Gennady hasn’t already.”
At that, the voice in the phone changed. The syrup vanished; only cold metal remained.
“What do you mean ‘rules,’ dear? Are you in your right mind? We’re going to our son’s, to his home.”
“You’re coming to my apartment, Lyudmila Ivanovna,” Katya corrected calmly. “And the rules are simple: advance coordination and payment of utilities. One thousand rubles per day per person.”
Silence on the line. Gena hunched his shoulders. He’d hoped his mother’s authority would smash Katya’s stubbornness, but instead she laid it all out with surgical calm.
“I understand perfectly,” the voice said at last, now stripped of warmth. “You’ve decided to profit off old people. Got it. Gena, we’ll talk later.”
The call ended. Gena looked at Katya with hatred. His plan had collapsed with a deafening crack. He hadn’t just failed to fix the problem; he’d made it worse by dragging his mother into it and making himself look like a complete fool.
“Happy now?” he hissed. “You humiliated me. You humiliated my mother.”
He jumped up, grabbed his backpack from the chair, and headed for the door. At the threshold he turned, his gaze venomous.
“They’re coming Saturday. Ten a.m. Either you greet them properly—with a smile and a laid table—or you and I are going to have a serious talk about our future. Understood?”
The week after Gena’s ultimatum passed in a dense, icy silence. He behaved as if he’d already won. Coming home, he ostentatiously discussed upcoming outings with his brother on the phone, laughed loudly as he told his mother how they’d all go to the park together. He didn’t address Katya directly, but every gesture, every word tossed into the apartment’s air was meant for her. It was a psychological siege, meant to show her her place and the inevitability of her capitulation. Katya, it seemed, noticed nothing. She calmly went about her business, cooked dinner for one, read books, and methodically packed into big trash bags the things she wouldn’t need anymore. Gena, catching this out of the corner of his eye, smirked, deciding she was clearing closet space for his folks.
Saturday dawned clear and sunny. Right at ten sharp—like a punctual train—the doorbell rang. Not a short ding, but a long, insistent, almost triumphant buzz. Gena, who’d been posted at the window for the last fifteen minutes, sprang from the sofa. A triumphant smile lit his face. He shot a look full of superiority at Katya, serenely seated in an armchair with a cup of coffee, and went to open the door.
His whole family stood on the threshold. Brother Viktor, a big man with a booming voice; his wife, Irina, with a sharp, appraising gaze; their two restless kids; and at the head of the procession—Lyudmila Ivanovna with her husband looming silently behind. They poured into the apartment like liberators, filling the space with noise, bustle, and the smell of road dust. Suitcases and bags thudded onto the hallway floor.
“Well then, son, let’s be received!” Viktor boomed, clapping Gena on the shoulder. “Where do you keep slippers for dear relatives?”
“Katyusha, hello,” said Lyudmila Ivanovna, addressing Katya with an intonation that suggested she was bestowing a great favor. Her eyes slid over the apartment with thinly veiled disapproval. “We’re a bit hungry from the road. Gena said you make excellent syrniki.”
They behaved as if the weeklong conflict had never existed. As if her ultimatum were a petty feminine whim that had been safely forgotten. They ignored her, looked through her, making it clear she was just a temporary add-on to their son and brother.
Katya slowly set her cup on the side table. She stood and walked over to them, calm. The hallway hubbub gradually faded. All eyes turned to her. Gena stood beside his mother, arm around her shoulders, and stared at Katya with a challenge. He waited. He waited for her smile, her apology, her invitation to the table.
“Hello,” Katya said evenly. She swept her gaze over the whole group. “Before you start settling in, I need to clarify something.”
She stepped toward the fridge and pointed to that same sheet, still in its place like a silent reminder.
“These are the house rules. I’m expecting your written agreement and full prepayment for the planned period. You can transfer it to my card. As soon as the conditions are met, I’ll gladly show you where you can settle.”
For several seconds, absolute silence reigned. Gena’s family looked from Katya to the sheet to Gena’s reddening face. His mother was first to recover.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” she hissed, dropping the mask of propriety. “No shame at all? Shaking money out of relatives! Gena, what were you thinking, getting involved with someone like this?!”
“Katya, stop this circus right now!” Gena roared, realizing his triumph was turning into a spectacular humiliation before his whole family. “I told you they were coming!”
“Yes, you told me. And I told you under what conditions,” she replied, her voice steady as ever.
The scene exploded. Everyone spoke at once. Viktor shouted that she’d insulted them; his wife, Irina, chimed in that they hadn’t come to a flophouse; and Lyudmila Ivanovna lamented the ingratitude and lack of respect for elders. They unleashed their collective fury on her, certain they’d crush her with righteous anger.
At the peak of the storm, with Gena spluttering that she had ruined him forever, Katya quietly turned and walked deeper into the room. For a moment the relatives fell silent, thinking she’d broken and fled. But half a minute later she returned. In each hand she carried a large, tightly packed duffel bag. They were Gena’s things.
She set both bags down in the hallway beside the family’s colorful suitcases and lifted her perfectly calm eyes to the stunned Gena.
“You’re right. We did have a serious talk,” she said softly, and the softness sounded louder than their shouting. “Since your family is here and my rules mean nothing to you, then you’d all better be together. Just not in my apartment.”
She reached out and flung the front door wide open, a draft rustling the lone sheet on the fridge. Then she stepped back, clearing the way. Her expectant gaze left no room for any other outcome. Dazed Gena, his affronted family, and their mountain of luggage found themselves on the landing. The door swung shut slowly and inexorably in their faces. The lock clicked. This time—for good.