Artyom drove his father’s car out of the service station yard and immediately felt like a man who finally owned a vehicle again instead of a four-door musical instrument.
His own car had been performing a full symphony for the third week in a row—whistling, coughing, and dying at the intersection near the market. The mechanic had said one word:
“A week.”
Artyom had mentally translated that as “two” and called his father.
“Take mine. Just don’t race,” his father had said. “And don’t touch the right-side mirror. I’ve adjusted it scientifically.”
“According to what science?”
“Mine. I can see everyone driving behind me in it, plus half the people thinking badly about me.”
The sea stretched out on his left, smooth and glossy, as though someone had pulled it tight and flattened it with the palm of a hand. At the end of August, the little seaside town seemed to speak in two voices: rolling suitcases and screaming gulls.
 
His phone vibrated in the dashboard holder. Polina’s name appeared on the screen.
“Did you get the car?” his wife asked.
“I got the car, my father’s blessing, and detailed instructions about the mirror.”
“Then keep both hands on the wheel,” Polina said. “Zhanna called. She and Ruslan are passing through town. They want to stay with us overnight.”
“Passing through,” Artyom repeated. “Like in a movie? They appear for two scenes and disappear before the credits?”
“Something like that. I already aired out the guest room.”
“You’re supposed to be resting, not airing rooms.”
“I sat down and commanded the air conditioner with the remote,” Polina replied. “That practically counts as physical therapy.”
Artyom turned into a supermarket parking lot and grabbed a shopping cart with a personality problem. It kept pulling sharply to the left as if it considered itself the owner of the place.
He bought chicken, vegetables, cheese, bread, water, two boxes of cookies, and a large bag of things for breakfast. Guests weren’t a reason to throw a banquet, but neither were they a reason to pretend the cupboards were empty.
He barely knew his wife’s sister except through family updates. Zhanna would divorce Ruslan, get back together with him, announce another breakup, then reconcile again. By now the family had lost count, like children playing a game where everyone had forgotten the rules but continued arguing anyway.
When Artyom got home, the apartment smelled of fresh bed linen. Polina had managed to organize everything—or rather, she had issued instructions while Artyom himself had made the guest bed that morning.
Her wheelchair stood beside the table, and she sat in it perfectly upright, with that stubborn posture that had once made a doctor remark, “Excellent spine. Difficult personality.”
“Supplies,” Artyom announced, unloading the bags. “Chicken, vegetables, cookies. The fireworks display has been canceled for technical reasons.”
“What technical reasons?”
“Someone would have to clean it up afterward.”
Their daughter Asya came flying out of her room, wrapped both arms around her father’s knees, and demanded to know whether he had brought anything that came in a crinkly package.
Artyom produced the cookies.
In exchange, Asya handed him a drawing in which Grandpa’s car was approximately the size of their apartment building.
Polina’s mother called.
Artyom could hear only half of the conversation, but even that half was familiar, like an old song from a kitchen radio.
“Yes, they’re coming… Yes, the room is ready… No, I’m not angry,” Polina said evenly. “I rarely get angry. I draw conclusions.”
“What does she want?” Artyom asked after Polina hung up.
“She’s asking me not to be angry with Zhanna.”
“For what exactly? The list is long. I’d like to know which item we’re forgiving today.”
Polina gave a small smile.
Artyom knew the story by heart.
After their grandfather died, Polina’s mother had persuaded the younger daughter to give up her share of the inheritance in favor of the older one.
“Zhanna has it harder. Her life is unstable,” everyone had said.
Zhanna promised to return the money as soon as she sold the property, found her footing, and sorted out her life.
The money never came back.
 
When Polina mentioned it once—calmly, without drama—Ruslan shouted at her that it was shameful to count other people’s money.
The subject was closed like a window in winter and never opened again.
“I said back then that I wouldn’t ask again,” Polina reminded him. “And I haven’t.”
“You’re not patient,” Artyom said. “You’re consistent. Different diagnosis.”
The guests arrived at seven.
Zhanna entered first, cheerful and loud, carrying two bags and declaring, “We’re literally only here for a minute.”
Ruslan followed her inside, looked around the hallway, glanced at Polina in her wheelchair, and immediately announced with obvious satisfaction:
“Oh, look! The meat on wheels has arrived!”
The hallway went silent, like the pause between two waves.
“Ruslan!” Zhanna snapped, elbowing him. “He’s joking. It’s from a movie.”
“From a movie,” Artyom agreed. “Though in that movie, the character who said it wasn’t exactly someone people felt sorry for later.”
“Oh, come on.” Ruslan waved dismissively. “I meant it affectionately.”
“Your affection must still be in the trunk,” Polina said. “You should unload it before it spoils.”
Despite that beginning, the evening moved along peacefully enough.
Artyom chopped vegetables, cooked, and set the table. Polina supervised from her chair because standing at the stove was uncomfortable for her, and she admitted honestly, “I’m more of an obstacle than help over there right now.”
Asya carried forks to the table one at a time with the solemnity of a military parade.
Dinner was simple: chicken, vegetables, bread, and conversation about the road and ticket prices.
Ruslan ate a lot and talked even more.
Eventually he leaned back in his chair.
“So,” he said to Artyom across the table, nodding toward Polina, “has she gotten completely lazy now? You’re doing the cutting, cooking, serving…”
“She’s recovering from surgery,” Artyom replied without looking up from his plate. “What are you recovering from?”
“I’m asking nicely.”
“Then ask nicely. You might get it right on the second attempt.”
Zhanna laughed much too quickly and much too loudly, then immediately began telling a story about traffic.
But Ruslan was not a man who knew when to stop.
 
“And what does your little dumpling do all day?” he asked, nodding toward Asya. “Watch cartoons?”
“My name is Asya,” the girl said.
“Ruslan.” Artyom put down his fork. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Before you say something, think first. Just for one second. I’ll wait. I’m patient up to a certain number.”
“Oh, everyone’s offended now,” Ruslan drawled. “Of course. Everything in this house is made of glass.”
“Everything in this house is alive,” Polina said. “The glass is what’s rattling inside your head.”
Later, when everyone had gone to their rooms, Artyom heard fragments of a conversation through the wall.
“The rest of our things are arriving tomorrow,” Ruslan was saying quietly. “From what I understand, he has no idea we’re staying long-term.”
“Keep your voice down,” Zhanna hissed. “I’ll talk to my sister in the morning. She’ll understand.”
Artyom was putting Asya to bed when he noticed that she was lying far too quietly.
Asya was only that quiet when something serious had happened.
“What is it?”
“Uncle Ruslan called me chubby,” she whispered into her pillow. “The kids used to call me that at kindergarten. You went there and talked to them.”
“I did,” Artyom said. “And they stopped.”
“He knows. Aunt Zhanna told him.”
“Then he wasn’t joking,” Artyom said. “He made a choice.”
He left her room and crouched beside his wife’s chair.
“Talk to your sister,” he said. “Tell her to explain to her husband where his mouth is and where the entrance to this apartment is.”
“I’ll talk to her in the morning,” Polina said.
“I’ll add a few things afterward.”
The next morning, Artyom drove Asya to kindergarten and left for work.
Polina invited her sister to sit at the table.
The conversation started quietly.
It stopped being quiet very quickly.
“Zhanna, yesterday your husband called me meat and called my daughter a dumpling and chubby,” Polina said. “Artyom asked me to pass this along: either Ruslan learns to control what comes out of his mouth, or he sleeps somewhere else.”
“He’s blunt, but he isn’t cruel,” Zhanna replied. “You’ve always taken everything too personally.”
“I take things exactly as they’re addressed,” Polina said. “If something is addressed to my child, I open it.”
Zhanna was silent for a moment, turning her glass between her fingers.
Then, as casually as she could manage, she said:
“Polina, we’re not actually staying for a couple of days. We’ll probably be here a month. Maybe two.”
Polina stared at her.
“What do you mean, two?”
“Well… things happened. We need somewhere temporary.”
“‘Things happened’ is what you say about rain,” Polina replied. “This is called ‘we made a decision on your behalf.’ Are you going to tell me why?”
“It’s complicated.”
“With you, everything is complicated. Simple things only happen to people who actually communicate.”
Polina picked up her phone and called their mother with Zhanna still sitting across from her.
She deliberately put the call on speaker.
“Sweetheart, did everyone settle in?” their mother asked. “Did you give Zhanna a decent room?”
“Yes,” Polina said. “Did you know they planned to stay for two months?”
The pause was short.
But long enough.
“Well, what’s the big deal?” her mother finally said. “You’re not living on the street. Family should help family.”
“I already helped family,” Polina replied. “I still remember the amount I was promised back. At this point, I dream about it with interest.”
“There you go talking about money again!”
“No. I’m talking about the order in which things are supposed to happen. First you ask. Then you move in. That’s all. Love you.”
She ended the call.
 
The silence landed on the table like a lid.
Zhanna stared away with the expression of someone who had bet everything on red and was now pretending she had merely walked past the roulette table.
Polina immediately called her husband.
“Artyom,” she said without introduction. “We were misled. Actually, we were lied to. They intend to live here for a month or two.”
Artyom said nothing for a moment.
Then:
“Understood.”
He hung up.
Zhanna heard that single word and visibly tensed.
Men who shouted were often less frightening than men who simply said, “Understood.”
Artyom came home that evening carrying two baskets.
He placed one in front of Polina. It was filled with heavy, dark grapes—the kind she had loved since childhood.
He gave the second basket to Asya. It was full of large strawberries, each one shaped like a tiny heart.
“So the guests get nothing?” Ruslan called loudly from the hallway. “We’re people too, you know.”
“Guests get respect,” Artyom replied. “It’s free, but you have to show some before receiving any.”
Ruslan walked past Asya’s chair and, without even looking at her, grabbed the three largest strawberries from her basket.
“Put them back,” Artyom said.
“Oh, relax. Kids shouldn’t eat that many anyway.”
“Put them back.”
Artyom’s voice had changed.
Ruslan smirked.
Then he closed his fist around the strawberries and crushed them.
Red juice ran between his fingers and dripped onto the napkin.
“Asya,” he said calmly, “Daddy will buy you more.”
“Artyom,” Polina said quietly.
“Polina.”
He turned toward his wife.
“Don’t be angry with me for what’s about to happen. I just need you to nod.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
 
Artyom wiped his hands.
“Listen carefully, both of you. You said you were passing through. It turns out you were planning to stay for two months. That isn’t hospitality. That’s moving into someone else’s home according to your own schedule.”
“We were going to explain…” Zhanna began.
“Don’t interrupt,” Artyom said. “Next. In two days, your husband has called my wife meat on wheels, called my daughter a dumpling and chubby, and informed everyone that Polina has become lazy. I counted at least another dozen smaller insults, but I’m not keeping official minutes.”
“You’re emotional right now,” Ruslan said.
“I’m in my own home right now,” Artyom replied. “Two days, and my daughter is in tears while my wife has been humiliated twice. You leave in the morning.”
He paused.
“No. Not in the morning. You leave now.”
At that exact moment, Polina’s phone rang.
Her mother.
“Yes,” Polina answered. “I’m listening. No, everything is fine. My husband is simply throwing your older daughter and her husband out of our apartment right now.”
Whatever her mother said next could not be heard, but judging by Polina’s pause, the woman on the other end had temporarily forgotten how to breathe.
“Later,” Polina said and ended the call.
Ruslan started shouting.
He shouted about conscience, family, how “this isn’t exactly a palace,” how “Zhanna is still her sister,” and how “real men don’t behave like this.”
His voice cracked and rang like a spoon against an empty glass.
Artyom did not grab him.
He did not drag him toward the door.
Instead, he picked up a glass of water from the table and, with one quick movement, threw the water into Ruslan’s face.
Silence.
Water ran down Ruslan’s chin and dripped onto his shirt.
Zhanna covered her mouth with one hand.
“Cool off,” Artyom said. “You seem overheated. There’s a clean towel in the bathroom. I hung it there this morning.”
“You…” Ruslan gasped.
“Me,” Artyom agreed. “Pack your suitcase.”
Zhanna rushed toward her sister.
“Polina, tell him! We’re family!”
“Zhanna,” Artyom interrupted, “this isn’t a question for her. It’s a question for you. Yesterday, your husband humiliated my wife at the dinner table. You laughed and started talking about traffic. Today he took food from a child and destroyed it in front of her. You stayed silent again.”
“I’m not responsible for him!”
“You’re responsible for your silence. If you stay silent while he humiliates people, you’re participating. You’re just doing it more quietly and conveniently.”
“We were getting divorced!” Zhanna shouted. “I threw him out a hundred times!”
“And took him back a hundred times,” Artyom said. “That isn’t resistance. That’s a subscription.”
“Polina!”
Zhanna turned toward her sister, her voice suddenly desperate.
“Where are we supposed to go now? It’ll be dark soon!”
“A hotel,” Polina answered. “There are plenty in town. The season is only starting, so you might even find a discount. Get a room and discuss which one of you came up with the brilliant idea of saying you were ‘passing through.’”
She turned her wheelchair, took Asya by the hand, and went into the bedroom.
The door closed softly.
No slamming.
“That’s it,” Artyom said. “Conversation over. From now on, only suitcases.”
Ruslan packed loudly, providing commentary for every sock.
 
He announced that Artyom was a terrible host, that men like him would never have been allowed near a proper table in the old days, and that greed made people small.
“Greed is an interesting accusation,” Artyom remarked, “coming from someone who planned to live here for two months without asking.”
Zhanna tried to get past him toward the bedroom.
Artyom silently stepped into the doorway and leaned one shoulder against the frame.
“I need to talk to my sister!”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re deciding for her now?”
“I’m standing in front of a door. Those are different things, especially in terms of consequences,” Artyom replied. “She already said everything she wanted to say. She isn’t going to repeat herself. She doesn’t hold grudges for years. Her shelf life for resentment is about twenty-four hours.”
The apartment door closed behind the guests at twenty past nine.
Outside the building, Zhanna turned on her husband in a furious whisper loud enough for the entire courtyard to hear.
“Couldn’t you keep your mouth shut for one evening? One evening!”
“Why does he think he’s so important?” Ruslan snapped. “I was joking!”
“Your jokes are like old brooms. The only thing they’re good for is sweeping the yard!” She nearly choked on the words. “Why did you have to go after the child?”
“I meant it affectionately…”
“You don’t even know how to say hello affectionately!”
Zhanna’s phone rang.
Her mother.
“Yes, he threw us out,” Zhanna said. “And he wouldn’t let me go to Polina. He stood in the doorway. No, he didn’t shout. That’s the worst part. He didn’t shout at all.”
Her mother’s wounded outrage poured through the phone: “ungrateful,” “he’s controlling my younger daughter,” “we’ll remember this.”
Just then, a delivery van pulled up in front of the building.
The driver opened the rear door and, in four trips, unloaded ten enormous taped-up bags and bundles onto the pavement.
Suitcases.
Boxes.
A package of blankets.
A rolled-up mattress.
“Here you go,” he said, holding out a form. “Sign here.”
Ruslan looked at the luggage.
Then at the apartment entrance.
Then at the luggage again.
And finally understood.
These were their belongings.
Everything from the apartment they had sold.
“Zhanna…” he began.
“I forgot,” she said blankly. “I completely forgot they were coming.”
“And where are we supposed to put all this now?”
 
“Wherever you want.”
Zhanna handed him the form.
“You created this mess. You deal with it. I’m going to a hotel.”
She called a car and drove away without looking back once.
Only after the taillights disappeared around the corner did Ruslan remember the most important detail.
The money from the apartment sale was in his wife’s bank account.
It had come from her inheritance.
His own card contained enough for maybe one night in the cheapest hotel he could find—and the taxi ride there.
He called her seven times.
Each time, a polite automated voice informed him that the subscriber was unavailable.
Ruslan stood among the bags and cursed everyone he could think of.
He cursed his wife for delaying the apartment sale and then putting the money into her own account.
He cursed his mother-in-law for her brilliant suggestion that they “stay with Polina for a while because their apartment is big.”
Most of all, he cursed Artyom.
Artyom had not mumbled.
He had not felt sorry for them.
He had not drowned everyone in endless speeches about family.
He had simply put them outside the door like strays that had wandered into the wrong yard.
Everyone was guilty.
Everyone.
And the debts were still waiting.
They did not care who was guilty.
Polina’s mother called her daughter three times.
On the fourth call, Artyom answered.
“Yes?”
“What do you think you’re doing?!”
“I removed people from my home who insulted my wife and my child,” Artyom replied calmly. “They are no longer welcome here. Good night to you.”
He ended the call.
Polina’s mother sat holding her phone and spoke into the silence about how her son-in-law had taken control of her younger daughter, how Polina used to be gentle, how everything had gone wrong.
Only afterward did she remember the most important thing.
The apartment belonged to Artyom.
And Polina had no inheritance money left because years earlier it had been given to her older sister—at their mother’s own insistence.
Back at home, the apartment was quiet.
Asya fell asleep quickly, hugging her pillow, her face unusually serious even in sleep.
Polina wheeled herself out of the child’s room and gently closed the door behind her.
On the small table stood a peach sliced into neat pieces, a glass of cool berry drink, and the basket of grapes—whole and untouched.
Artyom sat nearby, drying his hands on a towel as though he were still trying to wipe away something sticky.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Calm,” Polina replied. “Almost indecently calm.”
“I may have gone too far with the water.”
“You didn’t go far enough,” she said. “But this is better. I like the apartment dry.”
He smiled and pushed the plate toward her.
“Eat. The peach is soft. I spent so long choosing it that the saleswoman started looking at me like I was a man with highly specific requirements.”
“You are,” Polina said. “You insist that people speak to your family like human beings. Very unreasonable of you.”
“Very,” Artyom agreed. “But I’m stubborn.”
 
She took a slice of peach and sat quietly for a moment.
“You know, I don’t feel sorry for them,” she finally said. “And I’m not angry either. There’s just an empty space where the feeling of family used to be.”
“An empty space isn’t a hole,” Artyom said. “It’s usable floor space. We can put something there later.”
“Like what?”
“A cabinet.”
“Why a cabinet?”
“Because you can put everything unnecessary inside it and close the door.”
Polina laughed softly and touched his hand.
“If Zhanna calls and apologizes properly—without saying ‘you take things too personally’—I’ll talk to her. I won’t invite her back inside. But I’ll talk.”
“Fine,” Artyom said. “Preferably across the threshold. In daylight. With witnesses. And seagulls.”
“And if my mother calls?”
“Then we say: we love you, stay healthy, come visit for one day, leave that evening.” He shrugged. “Kindness is a wonderful thing. But it needs working hours.”
Polina looked at him for a long moment, her expression warm.
 
“Thank you for not shouting.”
“Shouting is what people do when they admit they’ve lost control,” Artyom said. “I handled it. Quietly. Neatly. With one glass of water.”
Beyond the walls, August murmured through the town.
The city was settling down for the night.
Somewhere below, a car passed along the street.
Polina picked up another slice of peach.
“Tomorrow, buy Asya some strawberries,” she said. “Not three. A whole basket.”
“I’ll buy two.”
“One for her and one for what?”
“Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“A good day,” Artyom said. “Those are the only kind we have on the schedule now.”