We live in my apartment. That matters—a lot. But my husband’s family has a convenient way of forgetting it, as if it were some tiny typo in the flawless fantasy they prefer to live in. My husband, Sergey, a man with the ego of Napoleon and the paycheck of a small-town librarian, sincerely believed that his very presence in my life was a gift from above. He was especially fond of delivering speeches about “traditional values” while sprawled across the sofa I had, incidentally, bought with my maternity money.
“Kristinochka,” he began one evening, puffed up with importance, “Mom called. Aunt Valya’s place is being renovated, so she needs somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks. I told her we’ve got plenty of room. You’re home anyway, so you can keep an eye on her and feed her. She needs Diet Table No. 5.”
I looked up from my laptop—because freelance work does not magically disappear just because my six-month-old son is sleeping in the cradle—and studied my husband the way a scientist might observe a rare insect.
“Sergey,” I said mildly, “did you happen to ask your mother whether she’s confusing our three-bedroom apartment with a health spa in Mineralnye Vody?”
He rolled his eyes as though I had handed him sour wine.
“Oh, here you go again. This is family! You stay home all day—would it kill you to pour someone a bowl of soup? A woman is supposed to be the keeper of the hearth, not a calculator.”
“The keeper of the hearth, dear, protects it from drafts and unnecessary people. What you’re describing is domestic staff.”
“You’re getting cold!” he snapped, throwing up a hand. “Mom says maternity leave ruins women. You’re losing touch with reality!”
“No, Sergey,” I replied, “losing touch with reality is believing groceries reproduce on their own inside the fridge.”
He snorted, failed to come up with a comeback, and marched off to the bathroom—the one place in the house where his authority remained absolute.
The next day, Lidiya Semyonovna arrived. She came carrying a bag of cheap gingerbread cookies and a list of assignments.
“Kristina,” she began, without even bothering to take off her shoes, “Svetlanka has a school performance coming up. She needs a squirrel costume. Here’s the fabric. You’re home anyway, your sewing machine is just sitting there. And I bought some curtains that need hemming. Five windows. You can finish by tomorrow, right?”
She spoke like a general briefing raw recruits. In her world, I was a complimentary attachment that came with her son—somewhere between a multicooker and a sewing machine with voice control.
“Lidiya Semyonovna,” I said, carefully sliding away the mothball-smelling fabric, “I’m afraid I can’t. I have the baby’s massage, our walk, and work scheduled.”
She froze. Her eyebrows climbed so high they nearly merged with her hairline.
“Work? You’re on maternity leave! Your job is diapers and borscht!” She flung up her arms. “What is wrong with young people? We washed clothes in ice holes, gave birth in fields, and never complained! You have automatic washing machines and still you’re tired? It’s laziness, Kristina. Pure laziness!”
“In ice holes, you say?” I blinked at her innocently. “Well, that’s wonderful.”
“You insolent girl!” she hissed.
Then she stormed out, slamming the door behind her with the drama of a judge dropping a sentence. I simply shrugged. The performance was only beginning.
That evening, the “family council” convened. Sergey had clearly received a fresh dose of poison from his mother over the phone and came home ready for battle.
“You offended my mother!” he announced the moment he stepped inside. “She asked for help! You owe her an apology, and you’re going to sew that stupid squirrel costume!”
“Sergey,” I said, pulling out a printed A4 sheet from a folder, “I gave some thought to what you said about family and contributing to the household. You were absolutely right.”
He blinked. He had expected tears, a fight, maybe a scene—but certainly not agreement.
“Well… see? I knew you were a smart woman,” he said, already smiling in anticipation of his triumph.
“That’s why I drew up a business plan,” I continued, handing him the sheet. “Take a look.”
It was titled:
Price List for LLC “Wife on Maternity Leave”
Squirrel costume sewing
(express service + emotional damages) — 5,000 rubles
Curtain hemming
(per linear meter) — 400 rubles
Cooking fish cutlets from customer-provided fish
(including scale removal from every kitchen surface) — 2,000 rubles
Accommodation for Aunt Valya
(bed + three meals a day, Diet Table No. 5) — 3,500 rubles per day
Listening to advice on “how to live properly”
— 1,500 rubles per hour
Sergey kept reading, his eyes widening more and more.
“Are you out of your mind?” he whispered. “That’s my mother! That’s Aunt Valya! You’re really going to charge family?”
“No, of course not,” I said sweetly. “You’ll be paying. You’re the head of the family, the client ordering the services. I’m just the contractor. Free-market economy, darling. You said it yourself: time is money. Mine has value too.”
“That’s greed!” he shrieked in a voice so high it nearly cracked. “You should do it out of love!”
“Out of love, I sleep with you and give birth to your children,” I said, dropping my smile. “Cleaning three kilos of carp for your mother is catering. Payment on delivery, or full prepayment.”
Sergey snatched the page, crumpled it, and threw it to the floor.
“I’m not participating in this madness! Tomorrow Mom is bringing fish, and you are frying it! Otherwise—”
“Otherwise what?” I stepped right up to him. “You’ll move in with your mother? Let me remind you—the apartment is mine. I can change the locks faster than you can say ‘fish patty.’”
He went still.
For the first time, he realized that the ground he had always assumed was granite was, in fact, quicksand.
The climax came a week later. Lidiya Semyonovna was turning sixty. At first, the plan had been to celebrate at a restaurant, but then my mother-in-law decided to save money—naturally, at my expense—and declared:
“We’ll all gather at Kristina’s! Her living room is big. Kristina will prepare the table—she’s home anyway. Around twenty people. Just family.”
Sergey relayed this to me in a tone that was meant to sound firm, though he kept glancing uneasily at my “Price List,” which I had attached to the fridge with a magnet.
“All right,” I said. “There will be a table.”
He exhaled in relief. He thought I had given in, that the “female rebellion” had been crushed. For the rest of the week he strutted around like a victorious rooster, humming under his breath. My mother-in-law called daily to dictate the menu: aspic, braised pork ribs with vegetables, three different salads, homemade cake. I dutifully wrote everything down.
On the big day, guests started arriving at five. My sister-in-law came with her husband and children, Aunt Valya showed up, along with a handful of third cousins I barely recognized. Lidiya Semyonovna swept into the apartment in brocade and gold, fully expecting to find a grand feast laid out for her.
They entered the living room.
A large table stood in the middle of the room, covered with a beautiful tablecloth.
Completely empty.
On the spotless white cloth stood only a vase with a single rose and a neat stack of laminated menus from the nearest pizza place.
“Kristina…” my mother-in-law’s voice cracked in disbelief. “Where is… the food?”
I stepped out to greet the guests. Not in an apron with my hair in a soapy bun, but in an evening dress, with makeup on and a glass of wine in my hand.
“Good evening, dear relatives!” I beamed. “Happy anniversary, Lidiya Semyonovna! Since the client”—I nodded toward Sergey, who had gone pale—“failed to make the advance payment on the estimate I gave him a week ago, the ‘Homemade Banquet’ option has been canceled. But I have taken care of you! Here are the delivery menus. Pay the courier by card or cash. I recommend the pepperoni—it’s excellent.”
“You… you…” Sergey gasped for air. “You humiliated us! In front of the family!”
Lidiya Semyonovna collapsed into a chair, fanning herself with a napkin.
“You snake! We took you in, and this is how you repay us! Son, how do you even live with her?”
“He lives very well,” I said flatly, dropping the smile. “Warm, clean, comfortable, and completely free of charge. But the era of throwing banquets at someone else’s expense is over. If you want a celebration, pay for it. If you want me to work for you, respect my labor. I am not the help. I am a wife and a mother. And I would also like to enjoy holidays instead of collapsing at the stove.”
My sister-in-law tried to mutter something about “a woman’s duty,” but I gave her a look that made the words die in her throat.
“And now,” I said, taking a sip of wine, “who’s ordering pizza? I think I’ll have the seafood one. On the birthday girl’s tab, naturally.”
The scandal was enormous. Shouting, threats, curses. But the funniest part? They were hungrier than they were angry. Forty minutes later, a courier arrived with ten boxes of pizza and sushi. Sergey paid, grinding his teeth so hard I thought the enamel might crack.
The evening dragged on in an atmosphere more suited to a funeral than a birthday, but I felt magnificent. I sat there eating rolls I had not spent three hours preparing and casually swinging my leg under the table.
Once the guests finally left, Sergey attempted a post-battle debrief.
“You humiliated my mother!” he began, replaying his favorite broken record.
“I taught her respect,” I replied calmly. “And you, too. By the way, you owe me 5,000 rubles for cleaning. Your relatives tracked mud through the hallway and spilled sauce on the carpet.”
“I’m not giving you a single kopeck!” he roared.
“Fine,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Then I’m changing the Wi-Fi password, I’m no longer cooking your dinners, and I’m done washing your shirts. Also, tomorrow I’m going out to a café with my friends, and you’re staying home with our son. For free. You’re his father, after all.”
Sergey looked at me. Then at the mountain of empty pizza boxes. Then at the comfortable sofa. In his eyes, greed and convenience fought a brief but dramatic battle.
Convenience won by knockout.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll transfer it. But this… this isn’t human.”
“No,” I said. “It’s market-based. Get used to it.”
Half a year has passed since then. My husband’s relatives now come to my home only by prior arrangement—and they bring their own cake. My mother-in-law no longer asks me to hem curtains. She found an atelier instead, one that, according to her, “charges a fortune,” but at least does the work without commentary.
Sergey, quite surprisingly, has become much easier to manage. He finally understood that the phrase “you’re home anyway” is far too expensive. And me? I still work, raise my son, and love my husband.
The difference is that now this love comes with very clear boundaries—and, in special cases, a price list.
And remember this, girls: if someone believes your time is worth nothing, do not be afraid to send them an invoice. Sometimes that is the only way to make people understand that you are priceless.