Sofiya had long since known there was no hope—they would come. They would definitely come. It was inevitable, like the change of seasons, like the first snow. New Year’s holidays for Arkady Stepanovich and Veronika Pavlovna were like a powerful magnet: it pulled them to their son’s city apartment with an irresistible, almost physical force. They simply could not imagine celebrating the New Year anywhere except within walls they considered an extension of their own home.
She stood by the window, looking at the snow-covered rooftops, and felt her anxiety grow with every minute. That anxiety was a cold, heavy stone at the bottom of her soul. She knew her quiet, hard-won plans were about to collapse under the onslaught of boundless and brazen family involvement.
“Sasha,” she called to her husband, who was peacefully dozing in front of the TV, where some kind old movie was playing softly. “I think they’re already here. I hear footsteps on the stairs.”
Alexander didn’t even open his eyes, only muttered drowsily:
“So what? They’re my parents. The holidays are coming. How could they manage without us?”
“The holidays…” Sofiya repeated lifelessly and slowly, as if walking to the scaffold, went to the kitchen. She looked at the fridge where the groceries lay, carefully chosen and calculated for exactly two people. For the whole week. She had planned this on purpose, made lists, dreamed of quiet vacation days: long breakfasts, interesting books, watching favorite films under a warm blanket, gentle conversations. No extra fuss, no intrusive attention, no feeling that you’re living someone else’s life.
The doorbell sounded deafeningly loud, like a verdict that could not be appealed.
“Sonny! Sofiyushka!” Veronika Pavlovna burst into the hallway with arms flung wide, smelling of frosty air, vanilla perfume and tangerines. “At last! We’ve missed you so much! Without you, it’s not a real holiday!”
Behind her, puffing, squeezed in Arkady Stepanovich, bent under the weight of a huge plastic net bag filled to the brim.
“Brought you a little something from the dacha,” he announced cheerfully, crashing his load down right onto the freshly washed tile floor in the entryway. “Our own harvest, prime, elite! You can’t buy this in a store!”
Sofiya stared silently at that bag. Potatoes. They had brought potatoes again. She felt something bitter and helpless boil up inside her. She looked at the knobby, earthy tubers—twenty kilos at least—and couldn’t squeeze out a single word of greeting. Just potatoes.
“Come in, come in, you two,” Alexander fussed, helping his father off with his coat. “How was the trip? Not too cold?”
“Oh, it’s fine, we’re used to it,” said Veronika Pavlovna, already tugging off her felt boots. “Though it was stuffy on the train, everyone’s out walking around. But we endured it. As long as we could get to you faster.”
“Sofiyushka, what are we planning to have on the table tonight?” His mother-in-law strode confidently into the kitchen, sweeping her eyes over the space with an appraising, proprietary look. “Oh dear, it’s rather empty in here! The fridge is almost bare! Good thing we arrived in time. Arkady, bring our little potatoes in here, we’ll think what to make with them.”
“We’ve already had dinner,” Sofiya tried to object quietly, almost in a whisper. “Maybe later? We could have some tea?”
“Oh, what are you saying, my dear, we’re starving like wolves after the road! And besides, what kind of holiday is it without a proper dinner? Sasha darling, do you have any meat? Or some chicken? We’ll make potatoes with meat, and maybe a light salad…”
Sofiya opened her mouth to say that the chicken was reserved for tomorrow’s lunch, but met her husband’s gaze. Alexander barely, almost instinctively, shook his head: don’t, don’t stir things up, it’ll pass. They’re my parents, they won’t stay forever.
“There is chicken,” she gave in weakly. “But it’s for tomorrow…”
“Wonderful!” cut her off Veronika Pavlovna, already opening the fridge and examining its contents. “Oh, and you’ve got sausages! And cheese! Arkady, look at this lovely bologna! Imagine, you can still find real ‘doctor’s’ sausage. We haven’t seen this in our shop in ages.”
“Because it costs as much as an airplane wing,” Sofiya thought bitterly, watching her week’s worth of supplies disappear.
By evening, on her favorite tablecloth, there really did stand a huge frying pan with fried potatoes and chicken, Olivier salad (for which all that very “doctor’s” sausage and a good half of the mayonnaise went), and a plate of sliced cheese and vegetables…
Veronika Pavlovna energetically directed the whole process, constantly commenting:
“You see how cozy it is when everyone is together! A family should be together, especially on days like this. It feels so lonely to celebrate in an empty apartment.”
Sofiya silently sliced bread and thought about how “together” somehow always meant that she washed, peeled, chopped and fried, while her mother-in-law provided valuable guidance. That her personal, carefully chosen groceries were magically transformed into a “shared” festive dinner, and the main gratitude and “contribution” was considered to be that very bag of potatoes.
“Sofiyushka, did you not make pickled cucumbers this year?” Veronika asked, smacking her lips. “What a pity. We would’ve brought our own, famous ones with dill, but the jars are heavy, we can’t carry them. Right, Arkady, we were going to, weren’t we?”
“We were, we were,” replied her father-in-law from the living room, already comfortably settled on the sofa and scrolling news on his tablet. “But we thought Sofiya had her own supplies. She’s such a homemaker, there was always everything.”
“I didn’t manage it this year,” Sofiya answered briefly and curtly.
“Ah, and I was counting on your cucumbers,” her mother-in-law sighed theatrically. “Well, it’s all right, we’ll somehow survive. The main thing is we’ve got our own fragrant potatoes.”
After dinner, when his parents finally settled down in the living room (in the very room where Sofiya kept her easel and craft table, and which now turned into the guest bedroom), she pulled her husband into the kitchen and closed the door behind them.
“Sasha, this isn’t what we agreed on. You promised.”
“Sof, what can I do?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “They’re my parents. It’s the holidays. They can’t imagine New Year’s without us.”
“You’ve said that already. But Sasha, they didn’t even call! They didn’t ask if it was convenient! They just showed up on the doorstep!”
“So they did, what’s so terrible? How can we help them, after all?”
“By the fact that we had food planned for two. Exactly for seven days. And they brought this bag and are now consuming all our supplies.”
“Sofiya, that sounds so… mercenary. Potatoes are help too, homegrown, eco-friendly.”
“Help?” she felt her voice start to tremble with hurt and injustice. “Sasha, that sack of potatoes on the market costs at most a hundred rubles. And today alone they’ve eaten at least a thousand rubles’ worth of food, if not more. And this is only the beginning! They’re going to stay here all week!”
“Don’t say ‘eaten,’ it sounds rude. Besides, they’re old. Do you want me to throw them out onto the street?”
Sofiya looked at him—her kind, gentle, conflict-averse Alexander—and with bitterness realized that all conversation was useless. He simply didn’t see a problem. For him, this model of behavior was normal, established and unshakable: the parents come, his mother runs the kitchen, his father rests, and the wife provides everyone with comfort. That’s how it had always been.
“Do you remember our conversation after their last visit?” she asked quietly, almost in a whisper. “After the May holidays?”
She remembered that visit all too well. Back then, Arkady and Veronika had swooped in for three days and managed not only to empty the fridge, but also to borrow “until payday” five thousand rubles (which, of course, were never returned because “we’re family after all”). When leaving, they took several containers of leftover food with them—“so it doesn’t go to waste, it will spoil with you anyway.”
“I talked to them,” Alexander muttered, staring at the floor.
“And what exactly did you say?”
“I said that if they want to come, they should somehow help, contribute.”
“And they brought potatoes,” finished Sofiya, and there was icy bitterness in her voice. “Do you see the irony? They took it literally. They brought a huge sack of potatoes, as if it were a gold reserve.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that? They listened to what I said!”
Sofiya closed her eyes, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over her. Useless. Completely useless. He didn’t want to understand.
The following days became a living illustration of her worst expectations. Veronika felt like the full mistress of the house: got up closer to noon, ate for breakfast what Sofiya had planned for lunch, gave unsolicited advice on housekeeping (“Sofiyushka, you should get that cobweb in the corner, look how you’ve let it go”), monopolized the TV late into the night. Arkady spent most of his time on his smartphone, dozing in an armchair and periodically asking if there was “something tasty for tea.”
Sofiya turned into an unquestioning maid. She cooked. She washed mountains of dishes. She ran to the store for extra groceries—because her carefully calculated supplies had completely vanished by the third day. She smiled. She silently endured.
On the fourth day, Veronika announced with shining eyes:
“Sofiyushka, let’s have a real family dinner! We’ll invite Olechka and Sergey.”
Olechka and Sergey—the younger sister of Alexander and her husband. They lived in the same city, but on the other side of town, worked without days off, rented a tiny apartment and barely made ends meet. Yet they considered it their duty to regularly visit Alexander—“as guests,” which in their language meant eating well at someone else’s expense.
“Maybe we shouldn’t?” Sofiya tried timidly. “We’re already short on groceries… We’re barely managing.”
“Oh, what are you saying! Family should gather at the same table! I’ve already called them, they’ll be here by evening. We’ll cook something simple. There’s still half a bag of potatoes left!”
Sofiya felt cold goosebumps run down her back, and the same long-suppressed, dark and bitter resentment boil up inside her.
“Veronika Pavlovna, to cook those potatoes, they need to be peeled, boiled or fried. They need other foods with them. Meat, for example. Vegetables.”
“Well, then go to the store and buy what you need,” her mother-in-law said carelessly with a wave of her hand. “Or Sasha can run out. The exercise will do him good.”
“And with what money?” Sofiya asked quietly but very clearly.
“What do you mean, what money?” Veronika raised her eyebrows in astonishment, as if she had heard something completely absurd. “With your own, of course. We brought you a whole sack of potatoes! That’s no joke!”
And something snapped inside Sofiya. Her long, submissive patience burst like an overfilled vessel.
“That’s it. Enough.” She rose slowly from the chair and looked her mother-in-law straight in the eyes, her gaze firm and direct. “Veronika Pavlovna, you came to us without a single call, without warning. You brought a bag of potatoes whose market price is peanuts, and in four days you have consumed groceries worth a very large sum. You run my kitchen as if it were your own, you watch my television, you sleep on my couch in my studio. And now, without my consent, you invite guests into my apartment and expect me to feed them!”
“Sofiyushka, what are you saying?” Veronika turned pale, her eyes round with genuine shock. “We’re family… We’re close…”
“In a normal family, people respect each other and care about each other’s comfort! And what is happening here? You care only about your own convenience, and I must be a silent service staff!”
“Sasha!” the mother-in-law shrieked toward the living room. “Sasha, come here, your wife is not herself! Talking nonsense!”
Alexander rushed into the kitchen, his face alarmed:
“What happened? What’s going on?”
“What’s happened is that I can’t take it anymore!” Sofiya’s voice was breaking, but she no longer could or wanted to restrain herself. “I’m tired of being a maid in my own home! Tired of cooking, cleaning, buying food that your relatives eat without even saying a simple ‘thank you’! I’m tired of our apartment being used as a free cafeteria and all-inclusive hotel!”
“Sofiyushka, how can you say that!” Veronika threw up her hands, her voice trembling with hurt. “We brought you a whole sack of prime potatoes! From our dacha!”
“Potatoes!” Sofiya suddenly burst out laughing, and her laughter was bitter and hysterical. “To hell with your potatoes!”
“Sofiya, calm down, you’re not in control of yourself,” Alexander tried to take her by the elbow, but she jerked her arm back.
“No, Alexander. I am perfectly calm. And I want your parents to pack their things and leave. Right now. Today.”
“You have no right to throw us out!” Veronika squealed. “This is my son’s apartment! He’s the master here!”
“We bought this apartment together,” Sofiya said coldly, enunciating each word. “And I put in my very substantial share. And I have every moral and legal right to decide who will be in my home and disturb my peace.”
“Sasha!” his mother turned to her son in despair. “Do you hear what she’s saying to me? Your wife is throwing your own parents out!”
Alexander stood there, caught between his mother and his wife, and Sofiya saw how he was torn, unable to find the right words, unable to bring himself to choose. And at that moment she realized with horror that she was exhausted not only by the relatives’ shamelessness. She was worn out by his weakness, by this eternal “well, mom…”, “well, they’re old…”, “well, it’s the holidays…”, this constant avoidance of conflict at any cost.
“If they don’t leave,” she said quietly but very distinctly, “then I will.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the apartment. They could hear the elevator starting up behind the wall.
“Sofiyushka, come on now,” Arkady appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking puzzled. “Over some trifle, over potatoes, you’re starting a scandal…”
“It’s not about the potatoes!” Sofiya shouted, and all the pain accumulated over the years rang in her voice. “It’s about disrespect! About your nerve! About how you think it’s absolutely normal to burst into our life uninvited, consume our resources, dictate how we should live, and at the same time sincerely believe that a bag of cheap potatoes is a royal gift and full payment for a week of living here!”
“We thought you’d be happy,” Veronika mumbled in confusion, almost in a whisper, tears now running down her cheeks. “We wanted to do good… to help…”
“Happy?” Sofiya looked at her with open astonishment. “Happy that all my holiday plans have been ruined? That instead of resting I’m working as a cook and cleaning lady? Happy that I’m being used, with no regard for my feelings, my time, or my wallet?”
“Sofiya, stop it,” Alexander finally found the courage to intervene. “You’re overdoing it. This is too much.”
“I am?” She looked at him long and searchingly, her gaze full of pain and disappointment. “I’m overdoing it? And what about them? Aren’t they overstepping every possible boundary when they burst into our life without an invitation? When they take money and don’t return it? When they walk off with food from our fridge that we bought with our hard-earned money?”
“That’s enough,” Arkady said unexpectedly firmly and headed to the entryway. “Veronika, pack your things. We won’t bother them anymore. We’re clearly not welcome here.”
“Oh, you certainly won’t,” Sofiya said quietly but distinctly after them.
“Sofiyushka,” Veronika sobbed, gathering her belongings scattered around the living room. “How could you? We’re your own family… We love you…”
“People who are truly close respect each other’s space and work,” Sofiya replied with incredible tiredness. “But you… you just take advantage of our kindness and my silent patience.”
About forty minutes later, filled with deathly silence and nervous movements, Alexander’s parents left the apartment. They took that notorious bag of potatoes with them (Sofiya had deliberately placed it in the hallway). The door closed, and an unusual, deafening quiet settled over the home.
“You were too harsh with them,” Alexander finally broke the silence, not looking at his wife.
“And you were too soft. And that’s our main problem,” Sofiya replied quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m tired of being the only adult and responsible person in this relationship. You’re unable to tell your parents ‘no.’ You don’t know how to set boundaries. You prefer to pretend everything’s fine and hope the problems will somehow disappear on their own.”
“But they’re my family,” he repeated stubbornly, like a memorized mantra.
“And I’m your family too!” raw pain sounded in Sofiya’s voice. “Yet somehow their interests, their comfort are always more important to you than my feelings and my peace of mind!”
“That’s not true.”
“Really? Then why didn’t you take my side? Why did you stay silent while your mother ruled my kitchen like an absolute mistress? Why didn’t you object when she invited your sister and her husband without asking my opinion, knowing we were already short on food?”
Alexander remained silent, staring at the pattern on the rug. He could find no words to justify himself.
“You see?” Sofiya nodded, her gesture laden with boundless fatigue. “Because it’s easier for you this way. Easier to let me suffer the inconvenience and swallow the resentment than to tell your mother a bitter but necessary truth.”
They didn’t speak for the rest of the day. Sofiya washed all the dishes, scrubbed the kitchen surfaces until they gleamed, wiped up every crumb—she did it with such total absorption it was as if she were trying to wash away not only the countertops, but also all the filth of grievances and unsaid complaints that had piled up over the years. Alexander sat in the living room in the dark, staring out at the frosted window where the snow was slowly falling outside.
Late that night he finally came to her. She was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “You were right. About everything. I just… I never thought about it. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been taught that this is how it should be. That parents are always right.”
“It should be different,” Sofiya raised her eyes to him, empty with exhaustion. “You and I are one team. We must protect our shared peace, our home. Together.”
“I understand now,” he sighed heavily. “Too late, but I do. So what do we do now?”
“Now you take your phone, call your mother and clearly, calmly explain our rules. If they want to visit in the future, they must give us at least a few days’ notice. They must either bring enough normal groceries or ready-made dishes, not symbolic tribute in the form of potatoes. And they don’t have the right to boss around in my kitchen or dictate what happens in my home.”
“She’ll be very hurt. She’ll cry, say that you turned me against them, that you destroyed the family.”
“Let her. Sometimes hurt is the only way to get the truth across. Or would you prefer that I be the one who feels hurt and cries?”
Alexander shook his head slowly, as if an unbearable weight had been placed on his shoulders, then took his phone out of his pocket. Sofiya watched him dial, watched his finger freeze over the call button, watched him search inside himself for the strength to have this difficult conversation. And she suddenly realized with horror that she wasn’t sure—would he have enough courage, would he see it through?
“Mom?” Alexander’s voice trembled. “I need to have a serious talk with you.”
Sofiya got up and stepped out onto the balcony. The frosty air burned in her lungs. The city below was sprinkled with millions of lights, as if someone had scattered a handful of diamonds into the darkness. Somewhere in the distance she could hear snatches of music, someone’s laughter—someone was still celebrating. And for her and Alexander, one era had just ended and, perhaps, another was beginning. An era of respect—for themselves and for each other.
About forty minutes later the balcony door creaked open. Alexander stepped out to join her. He looked tired and drawn, but in his eyes there was a new, unfamiliar glint of determination.
“I said everything,” he exhaled, his breath steaming in the cold. “Everything you asked. And even more. She cried. Said you’d turned me against them, ruined the family.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said it was my own, adult, conscious decision. That I completely agree with you and that we have to respect each other. And that our family—you and I—is also a family, and its boundaries must be respected.”
Sofiya silently embraced him, pressing her cheek against his cold jacket. They stood there together in the prickly January air, warming themselves with each other, listening to the distant cry in the night: “Happy New Year! To new happiness!”
“And what if they never come to visit us again?” Alexander asked quietly, not really expecting an answer.
“Then we’ll go visit them ourselves,” Sofiya replied. “With gifts. With treats. With that very food we’ll buy and cook ourselves. Like adults, independent people paying a visit to other adult, respected people. By prior arrangement.”
“For example, bringing potatoes?” Alexander gave a tentative little snort.
They looked at each other and burst out laughing. First softly, then louder. It was a tired, but very sincere, cleansing laughter that washed away the tension of the last few days.
“No,” Sofiya gasped through her laughter. “I think we’re covered for potatoes until the next harvest.”
The silence in the apartment was no longer oppressive, but peaceful, filled with the promise of a new beginning. Outside the frosted window, snowflakes drifted slowly, each one unique and fragile, like the understanding between two close people. They knew there were still many hard conversations and, perhaps, new hurts ahead. But for the first time in a long while, they stood side by side, ready to defend their shared hearth, their small world where the main values were not symbols like potatoes but a quiet “thank you,” a shoulder to lean on at the right moment, and laughter born not at someone’s expense, but together.
And that laughter—light and pure, like the first snow—melted into the night, making way for hope. Hope that next year they would greet the holiday truly together—not just under the same roof, but in the same rhythm of their hearts, in a shared movement of souls, where each hears and values the other. And that promise was the most precious gift they could give one another under the shimmering New Year stars.