Lera sat on the floor of her tiny one-room apartment, surrounded by boxes stuffed with string lights, pom-poms, and cardboard unicorn cutouts. Her phone wouldn’t stop ringing—another mother wanted to talk through her daughter’s birthday: Frozen theme, a mid-level budget, but with ambitions of something grand. Lera smiled as she opened her notebook. Six months earlier, she would’ve laughed if anyone told her she’d be paying her bills by hanging balloons and hand-lettering congratulations posters.
Getting laid off from the office hadn’t felt like a tragedy. Weirdly, it felt like being let out of a cage. At first, sure—she panicked: a mortgage, utilities, the comfort of steady paychecks. Then, by pure accident, she saw an ad for children’s party decorator courses. She thought, Why not? As a kid, she’d always been the one who wrote skits for school events, made wall newspapers, and could turn scraps into atmosphere.
Her first job came through a friend of a friend. A quiet boy, a cramped apartment in an old block building, parents watching her cautiously like, We’ll see what this girl can really do. But Lera went all in—transformed their tight living room into a jungle with vines made from green paper, arranged toy animals, created a photo corner with homemade masks. The birthday boy’s mother cried from emotion; the father transferred the payment without a word and added an extra thousand “for tea.” After that, word spread fast.
Lera truly loved the work. She loved the way children’s faces lit up, the way exhausted parents—buried under everyday routines—became kids again for a couple of hours, posing in ridiculous party hats and laughing. She loved the process itself: watching a scattered pile of materials become a single, magical world. And for the first time, she felt like she was doing something that was hers—not sitting in an office for someone else’s goals.
More clients came. Lera started social media pages and posted photos of her setups: soft pink-and-gold compositions for little girls, bold space-themed decor for boys, parties inspired by cartoons. Reviews poured in: “Valeria is a fairy!”, “Such taste, such imagination!”, “So accommodating—met us halfway on everything!” That last one was true. Lera genuinely tried to keep clients happy. She didn’t pick fights over small things, redid details if something didn’t work, and stayed pleasant even when it cost her time.
Her brother Igor called on a Saturday evening. They weren’t especially close—an age gap, different interests, and after he married Kristina their contact had shrunk to occasional holiday messages. Kristina made it clear early on that her husband’s relatives weren’t high on her list. Lera didn’t take it personally; she simply accepted it.
“Hey, Ler,” Igor said, his voice oddly tentative. “Listen… I showed Kristina your social pages. Miroslava’s turning five soon, and we want to throw a party. Kristina is obsessed with your work. Will you help?”
Lera let out a quiet chuckle. Miroslava was her niece—she’d seen the child maybe three times in her entire life. The last time was at the christening, where Kristina had arranged the seating so Lera’s parents ended up at a far table, away from the “important guests”—Kristina’s friends and Igor’s colleagues.
“Sure,” Lera said. “Let’s meet and talk details.”
“Seriously? That’s awesome!” Igor sounded relieved. “Kristina will be thrilled. Actually, she wants to talk to you herself—hold on, I’ll hand you over.”
Kristina spoke rapidly, constantly cutting herself off and jumping ahead. The party had to be perfect—family friends were invited, “useful people,” as she called them, and they needed to make an impression. The theme was princesses, but not cheesy—stylish, pastel tones with gold accents. A photo zone was mandatory, preferably with real flowers. The dessert table would be a separate area; everything had to be photogenic.
“You can pull that off?” doubt slipped into her tone.
“I can,” Lera replied evenly. “Send me the room measurements, an approximate guest count, and a photo of the birthday girl—I’ll match the colors to her.”
“Oh wow, you’re so professional,” Kristina said, not even hiding her surprise. “And what’s it going to cost?”
Lera did the math in her head. For a job that size she usually charged around thirty thousand rubles—materials, time, delivery, setup on site. But this was family, technically.
“For you—free,” she said. “A birthday gift for my niece.”
There was a pause. Then Kristina burst into thanks, but it sounded oddly stiff—like she’d received something unexpected, not entirely welcome.
The next two weeks were a pleasant whirlwind. Lera bought fabrics—soft blush chiffon, peach tulle, creamy satin. She made paper flowers—huge peonies and roses—each one taking nearly three hours. She ordered foil balloons shaped like crowns and swans. She planned the dessert table: tiny pastries in gold wrappers, cupcakes decorated with pearl-like fondant beads, macarons matched to the palette. The photo zone would be the centerpiece: an arch of flowers and airy fabric, a “throne” for the birthday girl piled with cushions.
Every evening Kristina messaged with more questions: “Can we add these balloons too?”, “Will the napkins be gold or just beige?”, “What if the peonies wilt?” Lera answered patiently, calmed her down, showed sketches. Not once did she mention she was doing all of it for free—and could be using that time on paying clients.
Three days before the party, Lera’s mother called.
“Lerochka… are your father and I invited to Miroslava’s birthday?”
“I don’t know, Mom,” Lera frowned. “I’m just handling the decor. Ask Igor.”
“I did. Igor said Kristina decides, and she isn’t answering my calls.”
There was hurt in her mother’s voice, and Lera understood. Igor was their son. Miroslava was their granddaughter. Not inviting grandparents to a five-year-old’s birthday was blatant disrespect.
“Mom, I’ll talk to them,” Lera promised, though something inside her tightened.
When Lera asked directly, Kristina answered evasively.
“You know, Lera, our apartment isn’t that big, and we have a lot of guests. We’ll invite Igor’s parents later, separately—just family. On Saturday it’ll be mostly Miroslava’s friends and our acquaintances.”
Our acquaintances. Not our family. Lera ended the call and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Irritation stirred, but she did what she always did—pushed it down. Not your business, she told herself. You’re doing the party setup. Who they invite is on them.
Saturday was bright and sunny. Lera arrived three hours early—she needed time to hang everything, place everything, build the atmosphere. The apartment turned out to be a spacious three-bedroom in a new building, with panoramic windows and designer finishes. Kristina opened the door wearing a robe, hair in curlers, clearly stressed.
“Lera, thank God! Come in—quick, there’s so much to do, I’m losing my mind!”
Without comment, Lera walked into the living room and assessed the space, mentally laying her plan over it. Yes—everything fit. She got to work: draping fabric along the walls, attaching flowers, assembling the photo arch. Igor came out to greet her, helped carry the heaviest boxes from the car, then disappeared—probably to pick up the cake.
Kristina fluttered nearby, gasping and squealing, filming the process on her phone.
“It’s turning into a masterpiece! Lera, you’re seriously talented! My friends are going to be blown away!”
Lera smiled as she tied bows onto chair backs and arranged paper flowers along the table. She worked with focus and precision, genuinely enjoying how the room transformed. Two and a half hours later it was done. The living room had become a princess’s fairy-tale castle—light, delicate, every detail exactly where it belonged. The photo zone looked like it had been lifted from a glossy magazine spread.
“Amazing!” Kristina clapped her hands. “Ler, thank you so much! Now I have to go do my makeup—guests will start arriving any minute.”
Lera stood in the center of the room, tired but pleased. She wiped her hands with a wet wipe and looked over her work. Miroslava, a small curly-haired girl in a fluffy dress, ran out of her room and froze in the doorway, mouth open.
“Mommy!” she breathed. “Is this… for me?”
“For you, princess,” Lera said, crouching to meet her. “Happy birthday, Miroslavochka.”
The girl squealed and rushed forward to touch the flowers and stroke the fabric. Igor returned with a huge crown-shaped cake and whistled when he saw the decorations.
“Ler, you’re magic. Seriously. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Lera said, picking up her jacket. “Alright, I’ll head out then.”
“Head out?” Igor blinked. “Stay—there’s a party.”
Lera hesitated. In the rush, she hadn’t thought about that moment. On one hand, it made sense to stay—family, niece. On the other, her parents weren’t invited, and no one had actually invited her as a guest—she’d come to work.
“I don’t know,” she started awkwardly. “I’m not dressed for a party, and—”
“Oh, come on, you look fine,” Igor waved it off. “Go help Kristina—she’s about to collapse.”
Help Kristina. Not “sit down and relax,” not “you’ve done enough,” but help. Lera noticed it—and said nothing. She went to the kitchen, where Kristina, now in an elegant dress with flawless makeup, was arranging canapés on plates.
“Ler, can you put this on the table?” she asked without looking up. “And place these napkins next to the plates. Oh—and the glasses need wiping too!”
Lera silently did it. Placed, arranged, polished. An odd discomfort spread through her, though she couldn’t quite name it yet. It seemed normal, she told herself—she was helping; they were family, after all.
The first guests began to arrive: dressed-up women with children, men in business shirts. Kristina bloomed, smiling brightly as people complimented the decorations.
“Did you do all this yourself?” asked one guest—an elegant blonde in an expensive suit.
“Oh no,” Kristina waved a hand carelessly. “I hired a decorator. Found a girl who does it professionally.”
Lera stood near the table, straightening a shifted arrangement, and heard every word. Hired a decorator. A girl. Something inside her tightened like a pulled string.
More guests poured in. Kristina floated from group to group, accepting gifts, thanking people, showing off Miroslava. The children ran in a pack to the photo zone; adults pulled out their phones, taking pictures.
“Kristina, this is gorgeous!” one of her friends exclaimed. “Where did you find someone this good?”
“That’s my sister-in-law,” Kristina nodded toward Lera, who was walking past with a tray. “Valeria—she’s a decorator. She’s helping us with the organization.”
Lera stopped in place. Helping with the organization. Like staff. She looked at Kristina, then at Igor, who stood nearby smiling at the guests. He didn’t even flinch when he heard it.
“That’s very sweet of her,” Kristina’s friend drawled, giving Lera a flat, indifferent glance.
And in that moment, Lera understood. She understood why she hadn’t been invited as a guest. Why Igor had said, “Go help Kristina.” Why she’d been introduced not as his sister, but as “a decorator” and “the sister-in-law,” as if the profession mattered more than the relationship—as if her family tie was an afterthought.
Slowly, she set the tray down on the table. Her heart hammered; her temples throbbed. Hurt rose in a hot, bitter wave. Two weeks of work—free—“for family.” Hours spent creating their perfect celebration. And here she was, treated like hired help.
Lera walked up to Kristina, who was still chatting with her friend, and lightly touched her elbow.
“Kristina, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Of course,” Kristina turned with a bright smile. “Is something wrong?”
“Can we speak privately?”
They moved aside near the window. Lera took a deep breath.
“Kristina… am I correct in understanding that you want me here today not as a guest, but as… staff?”
Kristina blinked, thrown off for a second.
“Well… you said you’d handle the decor…”
“I did. Everything is done. For free—because I believed we were family. But right now you’re introducing me as ‘a decorator’ who’s ‘helping with organization,’ not as your husband’s sister who came to her niece’s birthday.”
Kristina gave a tense little laugh.
“Lera, what are you talking about? I just meant you do this professionally. I wanted to praise you in front of my friends…”
“Really?” Lera tilted her head. “Then why wasn’t I on the guest list? Why did Igor tell me, ‘Go help Kristina,’ instead of ‘Sit down, rest—you’ve done so much’?”
Kristina’s cheeks flushed.
“Listen, don’t make a scene—there are guests—”
“Don’t worry,” Lera said with a thin smile. “There won’t be a scene.”
She returned to the living room, picked up her bag. Igor walked over.
“What’s going on? You’re leaving already?”
“Wait a second.” Lera pulled out her notebook and pen, scribbled a few lines, tore the page out. “Give this to Kristina.”
“What is it?”
“An invoice,” Lera said calmly. “For decorating and event coordination. Thirty thousand rubles. Standard rate for this amount of work.”
Igor stared at her.
“What? But you said it was free!”
“That was when I thought I was welcome here as family,” Lera met his eyes evenly. “But apparently I’m just hired help. And hired help, Igor, doesn’t work for free.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Kristina rushed over.
“What is happening?”
Igor silently handed her the paper. Kristina read it, went pale, then turned red.
“Are you out of your mind? An invoice? We agreed—”
“We agreed I’d help family,” Lera said softly, but there was steel in her voice. “But I was wrong. To you, I’m not family—I’m a decorator. Fine. Decorators get paid.”
“Lera, stop,” Kristina hissed, glancing around as a few guests began to turn and listen. “We’ll talk about this later—”
“No,” Lera shook her head. “We’ll talk now. One simple question: who am I to you today? Igor’s sister and Miroslava’s aunt—or your staff?”
Kristina opened her mouth and couldn’t find the words. Igor stood beside her, face dark with embarrassment, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Right,” Lera nodded. “Then here’s my position.” She raised her voice just enough for the room to hear. “So I’m expected to throw you a celebration… but there’s no place for me at it? That’s not how this works. Either I’m family and a guest, or I’m a contractor and you pay for the service. There is no third option.”
Several guests were clearly listening now. One of Kristina’s friends watched with open curiosity. Kristina looked like she’d been slapped.
“Fine,” she ground out through her teeth. “Fine, Lera. You’re family. Sit down. Be a guest.”
“No, thank you,” Lera said, slipping on her coat. “After that kind of welcome, I’m not in the mood to celebrate. I’ll be waiting for the payment to my card by Monday.”
She turned toward the door. Igor grabbed her hand.
“Ler, wait. Don’t do this. We honestly didn’t mean to hurt you—”
She pulled her hand free.
“You know what hurts, Igor? Not even that you didn’t invite me as a guest. It’s that you pretended you did—then used me. That you didn’t invite Mom and Dad, the grandparents, but you invited a crowd of strangers. And that you stayed silent when Kristina introduced me like I was staff. That’s what hurts.”
She stepped into the hallway and put on her boots. Behind her she heard Kristina whispering something like, “God, what a humiliation—she made a scene in front of everyone.”
Lera turned back.
“You know what’s humiliating, Kristina? Not that I asked to be paid for my work. What’s humiliating is inviting your sister-in-law to work for you for free—and then not even giving her a seat at the table.”
The door shut behind her. Lera walked down the stairs, hands trembling—from hurt, anger, and the late realization of how neatly they’d used her. But also—from a strange sense of relief. She hadn’t swallowed it. She hadn’t endured it. She hadn’t allowed herself to become that convenient relative who is expected to do everything for free—and be grateful for the chance to serve.
In the car, she checked her phone. Seven missed calls from Igor. Three messages from Kristina: “Lera, don’t be stupid, come back,” “You ruined our daughter’s party,” “I didn’t think you were this petty.”
Lera smirked. Petty. Because she refused to work for free for people who didn’t even think she deserved a chair at the праздничный table.
A message from her mother popped up: “Sweetheart, Igor called and said something about an invoice and a scandal. What happened?”
Lera typed a long explanation. Her mother called a minute later.
“Lerochka, you did the right thing,” her mom said, pride ringing in her voice. “Absolutely right. We’ve bent over backward for that show-off long enough. She didn’t invite us—the grandparents—to our granddaughter’s birthday, but she made you work for free and then humiliated you in front of guests! I’ll tell her exactly what I think when I see her—”
“Mom, don’t,” Lera sighed. “I’ll handle it. I’m just not dealing with them anymore.”
“And will you demand the money?”
Lera paused. Honestly, she didn’t care about the thirty thousand. She’d written the invoice for principle, not profit—to make one point: she wasn’t someone you could use.
“If they transfer it, fine,” she said. “If not, it’s not the end of the world.”
On Monday, a transfer landed in her account—exactly thirty thousand rubles, to the kopek. From Kristina. With the note: “For decorator services.”
Lera sent half of it to her parents—“for a gift to your granddaughter, since they didn’t invite you to the party.” Her mother replied with heart emojis and a message: “Proud of you, my girl.”
Igor didn’t call. Kristina didn’t either. Lera wasn’t worried. She knew sooner or later they’d resurface—people like that always need something. Preferably free. But now she knew her worth—her time and her work. And she wasn’t going back to being convenient.
Her phone rang again—another new order. A mother with an excited voice wanted to plan her son’s birthday: pirate theme, a good budget. Lera smiled, opened her notebook, and began taking notes. Life moved on—bright, creative, full of clients who valued what she did. And relatives who confuse “family” with “free labor” could go to hell.
Because blood isn’t a reason to tolerate disrespect—and it’s certainly not a lifetime coupon for unpaid work.