I was standing by the stove, stirring tomato sauce, when Dmitry burst into the kitchen. His loud footsteps echoed on the old wooden floors of our rented one-room apartment. In his hands, he had a worn backpack, which he immediately threw on a chair. The smell of gasoline and tobacco smoke followed him—he had obviously just come from the auto repair shop.
“Lena, sit down, we need to talk,” his voice was low, with a rasping tone, like someone used to having others obey from the first word.
I turned off the burner, wiped my hands on my apron, and turned around. Dmitry was staring at me, arms crossed over his chest. His brown eyes were shining—whether from exhaustion or something else, I couldn’t tell. It was clear he was determined.
“What happened?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. An uneasy feeling was already growing inside me. Conversations with Dmitry rarely ended peacefully over a cup of tea.
He exhaled, as though gathering courage, and blurted out:
“Dad’s moving in with us. Tomorrow. And you’re going to take care of him. Cook, wash, give him his medicine—everything, as it should be. This is an order, Lena, and it’s non-negotiable.”
I froze. The sauce in the pot slowly cooled, and in my head, I kept thinking, “Is this for real?” Dmitry’s father, Viktor Ivanovich, was, to put it mildly, a complicated person. Sixty-five years old, a former military man, with a temperament as sharp as a rusty saw—he cut everything around him without warning. The last time we saw him was at his birthday two months ago. He pointed his finger at me across the table and loudly declared, “Today’s youth is lazy, all they do is sit in gadgets!” I stayed silent, though everything inside me was boiling. And now this.
“You’re joking, right?” I muttered, hoping it was some kind of silly prank.
“What jokes?” Dmitry frowned. “He can’t move his legs, his blood pressure is all over the place. He can’t handle things on his own. And I’m at work from morning till night. So you’re the only hope, end of story.”
“So I’m supposed to drop everything and become his caretaker?” I asked, feeling my anger building.
“Not a caretaker, a daughter!” he yelled. “He gave me life, you understand? And now he’s family to you, too. So yes, you’ll take care of him. And don’t argue.”
“Take care of him.” That word hit me like a slap. I looked at Dmitry—his unshaven face, his worn-out jacket, and that look in his eyes, full of confidence that I would just nod and run off to prepare a place for Viktor Ivanovich. And then, something inside me snapped.
“No, Dmitry,” I said quietly but firmly. “I won’t.”
He blinked, clearly not expecting that response.
“What do you mean ‘I won’t’?” he asked, moving closer.
“It means what it means,” I straightened up, looking him directly in the eyes. “I’m not your servant. And I’m not your father’s, either. If you want him to live with us—fine. But I’m not taking care of him.”
Dmitry opened his mouth, then closed it, before blurting out:
“Do you even realize what you’re saying? He’s my father! If I say so, you have to obey!”
“And what if I say ‘no’?” I countered. “What happens then? Divorce? Kick me out?”
He hesitated. It was clear that this turn of events had caught him off guard. Usually, I gave in—know, for the sake of family harmony. Sometimes I’d bake cakes for my mother-in-law or stitch Dmitry’s socks, even though he always left them lying around. But not this time. This wasn’t just about a cake; it was about my life.
“Lena, what are you doing?” His voice softened, but there was still irritation. “It’s not forever. Just a couple of months until he gets better.”
“And if he doesn’t get better?” I held my ground. “A year? Two? Am I supposed to quit my job, stay at home, and endure his ‘modern youth is lazy’ remarks? Have you ever spent an entire day with him? He’ll scream if the soup isn’t to his liking!”
Dmitry rubbed his temples, as if he had a headache.
“Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll think it over. But you could have agreed. For me.”
“For you?” I almost laughed. “And what have you done for me? For example, talk to your dad about going to a spa? Or hire a nurse?”
“A nurse?” He snorted. “Where would we get the money? You know how much I earn.”
“And I know how much you spend on cigarettes,” I couldn’t hold back. “And on beer with your buddies at the auto shop. Maybe we should start with that?”
That set him off.
“Are you going to keep throwing that in my face?!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table. “I work my ass off, and you’re here acting all high and mighty! Enough, Lena, the decision is made. Dad’s coming tomorrow, and that’s that!”
I silently watched as he grabbed his backpack and went into the room, slamming the door behind him. Inside, everything was boiling, but I didn’t run after him. No, enough is enough. Let him think he won. But I already knew what I would do.
The next morning, I woke up before Dmitry. He was still snoring on the couch, and I quietly packed my bag—laptop, documents, a few things. I grabbed my phone and dialed my sister.
“Katia, hey. Can I stay with you for a couple of days?” My voice trembled, but I tried to sound calm.
“Lena, what happened? Did you argue with Dmitry?” Katia immediately understood.
“Yeah,” I exhaled. “And not just an argument. I’ll tell you when we meet.”
“Of course! Come over!” She didn’t hesitate. “I have a free couch, and the kettle’s on. I’m waiting.”
I hung up, left Dmitry a note on the table: “Went to Katia’s. Think things through.” And I left before he woke up. A taxi was already waiting outside. The yellow car, like a lifeline, carried me away from this nightmare.
Katia greeted me with a cup of tea and a questioning look. Her small two-room apartment on the outskirts smelled of freshly brewed coffee and lavender—she loved those IKEA candles. I plopped down on the couch and spilled everything: about Dmitry, his father, and this ridiculous “order.”
“Serve him?” Katia almost choked on her tea. “Is he serious? Lena, are you a servant in their family?”
“That’s what I thought,” I said bitterly. “And he’s still surprised why I’m against it.”
“He’s just gone too far, sorry to say,” my sister shook her head. “So now what? Divorce?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know. For now, I’ll stay with you and think it over. But I’m not going back to bow to Viktor Ivanovich.”
Katia nodded, then suddenly gave me a sly look.
“Listen, what if we give him a surprise? So he knows you’re not joking.”
“What surprise?” I tensed.
“You’ll see,” she winked. “Just don’t turn off your phone.”
I didn’t argue. Katia was a woman of action. If she had something planned, it was better not to interfere.
Two days later, Dmitry called. I was sitting in Katia’s kitchen when my phone lit up with his name. I answered and put it on speaker—Katia insisted.
“Lena, where are you?” His voice was raspy, exhausted. “The apartment’s a mess, Dad’s going crazy, I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m at Katia’s,” I answered calmly. “And what about your father?”
“He arrived yesterday,” Dmitry sighed. “He’s spilled soup three times, says it’s too salty. He’s been driving me crazy since morning, asking for medicine or for the TV to be set up. Lena, come back, alright? I was wrong.”
I glanced at Katia. She rolled her eyes and silently whispered, “Don’t give in!”
“Dmitry, you said it was an order,” I reminded him. “So, do it. You’re the man of the house.”
“I didn’t think it would be like this!” he almost yelled. “He’s driving me mad! Lena, I’m sorry, let’s talk?”
“We’ll talk,” I agreed. “But not now. Show me you can handle this on your own. Without my help.”
I ended the call. Katia clapped her hands.
“Bravissimo, sister! Let him stew. Now, look what I’ve come up with.”
She pulled out her phone and showed me an ad on Avito: “Room for rent in the city center. Cheap. Urgent.” The signature—mine. The photos—our one-room apartment with Dmitry’s things removed.
“What are you doing?” I widened my eyes. “This is our apartment!”
“Exactly,” Katia smirked. “But he won’t find out until someone calls. Imagine his face!”
At first, I wanted to protest, but then… I laughed. The first time in three days. Maybe this will shake him up.
The next day, Dmitry came to Katia’s. I heard the doorbell and looked through the peephole. He was standing at the door—unshaven, eyes red, wearing the same jacket as always. He held a bag with something inside.
“Lena, open up,” he called softly. “I’m alone.”
Katia nodded at me: “Go ahead.” I opened the door.
“Why are you here?” I asked, not letting him past the threshold.
“Here,” he handed me the bag. “Pirozhki. I made them myself. Dad said the dough’s like stone, but I tried.”
I looked inside. The pirozhki really did look like bricks, but they smelled pretty good.
“And what?” I crossed my arms.
“Lena, I’m an idiot,” he lowered his head. “Dad’s with my sister now. I talked her into it. And with you… I went too far. I don’t want to lose you.”
I stayed silent. I looked at him—this big, exhausted man, who for the first time in three years of our life together admitted that he was wrong. And inside, something stirred. But not completely.
“Dmitry, this isn’t solved with pirozhki,” I finally said. “You gave me an order. Like I’m an animal. But I’m a person.”
“I know,” he nodded. “Sorry. Can we try again? No orders. Like before.”
I sighed. Katia whispered behind me: “Think it through, Lena!” But I had already thought it through. Three days. And three years before that. Maybe he really gets it? Or not?
“Okay,” I said. “But with one condition. If this happens again—I’m leaving. For good.”
“Agreed,” he smiled, for the first time in all this time. “Will you try the pirozhki?”
“I’ll try,” I muttered. “But if I get poisoned, blame yourself.”
He laughed, and I… still wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing. But one thing was certain: I would never serve anyone. Never.