Tatiana Leonidovna was just pouring the tea—regular, with bergamot. Suddenly, her mobile phone rang. She flinched—it was already almost nine in the evening.
— Aunt Tanya? It’s Rita! Margarita! Do you remember me?
Of course, she remembered. Her niece. Loud, red-haired, with a mole above her lip. The last time they saw each other was about five years ago, at a funeral, she thought.
— You see, we have this situation, — the voice on the other end sounded flattering and lively, — my husband Sergey and I came to look at an apartment. But the housing didn’t work out. Can we stay with you? Just for a couple of days!
Tatiana Leonidovna was silent. The words continued spilling from the phone:
— You live in a three-room apartment by yourself! We’ll be quiet, I promise. Just two or three days, until we find something!
She put the cup down and looked at Boris. The cat was peacefully napping, curled up on the couch. What does he care? But for her… She sighed.
— Fine, come over.
After hanging up, she realized that she hadn’t even tried to refuse. As usual. It would be awkward. Especially since this was her sister’s daughter.
She put the teapot down again, took out the sheets and towels from the cupboard. She thought: she hadn’t been to the store today. But there’s bread, sausage… What else do these young people like?
Boris stretched and looked at her in confusion, as if sensing that something had changed in their peaceful world.
— It’s nothing, Borya, — said Tatiana Leonidovna, stroking the cat behind the ear. — They’re just relatives. Not for long.
Five days passed. Not two. Not three. Tatiana Leonidovna sat in the kitchen, watching Margarita rearranging her spice jars. Just picking them up and shifting them around as if she were the owner here.
— Aunt Tanya, why is everything so old-fashioned? — Margarita was twirling an old salt shaker in her hands. — This is ancient!
Tatiana Leonidovna remained silent. What could she say? That the value of things isn’t always measured by their newness?
From the other room came the loud sound of the television. Sergey, Margarita’s husband, was watching yet another action movie. The third day in a row.
— How’s the apartment search going? — Tatiana Leonidovna asked, trying to keep her voice neutral. Usually. Not as if she wanted to say: “Well, when will you leave?”
— What? — Margarita slammed the cupboard shut. — Oh, nothing yet. The prices are just ridiculous! And the quality is terrible. We’ll look at a couple more options, but you won’t kick us out, right?
And she smiled. That smile that felt more like a demand than a request. Like, what are you going to do?
An entire week. Tatiana Leonidovna got up at six in the morning out of habit—and immediately heard an irritated voice from the living room:
— Aunt Tanya, what are you rustling about so early? People need to sleep!
She apologized. For no reason. In her own house.
By lunchtime, the kitchen was a mess, even though Tatiana hadn’t cooked. Crumbs on the table, dirty plates in the sink. And an empty fridge. Completely empty. Just a lonely jar of pickles and a bottle of ketchup.
How strange—feeling out of place. In her own home. At her own table. Even her beloved cat Boris seemed to have disappeared. Or rather, not disappeared, but suddenly discovered the remarkable ability to vanish. He crawled under the couch at the mere sight of Sergey. After the time Sergey yelled at him for rubbing against his pants.
— You nasty creature! Your fur is everywhere!
And then Tatiana said nothing. She remained silent. As always.
That evening, while standing in line at the supermarket, she suddenly wondered: what if they don’t leave? Ever? What if these “couple of days” drag on forever? The thought seemed crazy, but somehow very real.
At home, Margarita greeted her with a strange statement:
— We moved the furniture around a bit! Why are you stuck on all this old-fashioned stuff?
They moved the bookshelf, pushed the china cabinet to the window, and now it blocked the light.
— This is much more modern, — Margarita explained.
Tatiana Leonidovna nodded and went to the kitchen to unpack the groceries. Now they were running out three times faster than usual.
And that night, something happened that changed everything. Once and for all. Tatiana went into the hallway to get some water and overheard a conversation. Sergey was talking on the phone. Quietly, but clearly:
— Oh, come on, friend. The old lady lives alone, let her get used to it. It’s a good place, we can stay here. We’ll extend the apartment in Mytishchi for another month, and then we’ll figure it out.
Tatiana froze. An apartment in Mytishchi? So they have a place to live? All this time?
She went back to the bedroom and sat in the dark for a long time. Just staring ahead. Something inside her was growing—something big, heavy. She didn’t understand what it was at first.
Then she realized. It was rage. Pure, real rage. Not hurt, not irritation—it was rage. At herself—for allowing it. At them—for taking advantage.
And somewhere deep inside, a new feeling was born—a premonition of change.
In the morning, Tatiana woke up with a firm resolve—today everything would change.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, hearing Margarita clattering pots in the kitchen. Probably rearranging things again. Or cooking. On her groceries. In her house. And that “her” suddenly became important. Very important.
Tatiana dressed. Not in her home clothes, but in something nicer. She put on a gray dress with a neat collar. Fixed her hair. Even put on lipstick—light pink, almost invisible. And she went out.
In the kitchen, Margarita was making a big omelet. For all three of them. And humming something to herself. Sergey was slouched in the chair with his phone. Feet on the coffee table.
— Good morning, — she said. And was surprised by the steadiness of her voice.
— Oh, Aunt Tanya! — Margarita turned around. — We’re having breakfast. Want some omelet?
— No, — Tatiana replied, sitting down at the table. Straight, composed. — We need to talk.
Something in her tone made Margarita freeze with the spatula in her hand. Even Sergey put his phone down.
— What’s this about? — he squinted.
— It’s about time for you to leave, — Tatiana Leonidovna said calmly. — Today.
Silence fell. Thick, oppressive. Margarita nervously giggled:
— Aunt Tanya, what’s wrong with you? We were getting along fine…
— You promised to stay for a couple of days, — Tatiana interrupted. — A week has passed. It’s time to go.
Sergey put his phone down, straightened up, and looked at her critically.
— After all, we’re relatives, — he said slowly. — It’s not very nice to kick out family.
— Family doesn’t lie about “an apartment in Mytishchi,” — Tatiana replied, feeling the heat rising inside her.
Margarita turned pale and glanced at her husband.
— Did you eavesdrop?
— This is my house, — Tatiana cut her off coldly. — Mine. And I want you to leave. Today. By evening.
Sergey got up from the chair, looming over her—big and menacing. Was he trying to intimidate her? But Tatiana didn’t lower her gaze. Strangely, there was no fear. Not at all.
— What if we don’t leave? — he sneered. — What then, huh, aunt?
— Then I’ll call the police, — she replied calmly. — And I’ll call Zinaida Petrovna from apartment 16. She’s the head of the house committee and doesn’t like it when people live here without registration.
— You’re out of your mind! — Margarita screeched. — How can you do this?
— You have until six, — Tatiana Leonidovna said, standing up. — Then I’ll call.
And she left. Just walked out of the kitchen, feeling their gazes on her back. It was strange. Unfamiliar.
All day, they deliberately stayed silent. Tatiana sat in her room, pretending to read a book. In reality, she was listening to the sounds in the apartment: muffled swearing, the creak of suitcases, rustling noises.
At five o’clock, Margarita knocked on the door and entered without permission:
— Aunt Tanya, what’s wrong with you? We didn’t mean to stay this long!
Tatiana looked up from her book:
— By six, Rita.
— What’s gotten into you?! — Margarita threw up her hands. — So what if we stayed a little longer! Are you upset about it? You live alone! You should be happy for the company!
But Tatiana just smiled. Calmly:
— I’m glad you reminded me. Exactly because I live alone—that’s my house. And my rules. By six.
The door slammed. Something shattered in the hallway. There was some cursing. But Tatiana didn’t come out. She just sat and waited.
And exactly at six, she heard the front door slam. Loudly. Defiantly. Then came silence.
Tatiana Leonidovna got up. Slowly walked through the apartment. The kitchen was a mess. The living room had wrappers lying around. In the hallway, shards of the vase were on the floor. The one with the crack. But it no longer mattered. Not at all.
Because from under the couch, a fluffy face appeared. Boris. He crawled out, stretched, and quietly meowed. As if asking: “Are they gone? Really?”
— Yes, Borya, — Tatiana said, bending down to pet the cat. — No one will bother us anymore.
In the morning, the phone rang suddenly. Tatiana flinched. She glanced at the screen—it was her sister’s number. Strange, but there was neither anxiety nor awkwardness.
— Hello?
— Tanya! How could you do this?! — her sister’s voice trembled with outrage. — Margarita’s hysterical! What’s wrong with you?!
A year ago, a month ago, even a week ago, Tatiana would have started to explain herself. Apologize. But now she simply said:
— No one will boss me around in my house, Vera.
— What do you mean “my house”?! She’s your niece!
— Wait, — her voice was so firm that her sister stopped mid-sentence. Relatives don’t lie or exploit other people’s kindness.
Silence on the other end. Then:
— You’ve changed, Tanya.
— Yes, — she confirmed calmly. — I have.
She hung up the phone. And smiled. Because it was true. She really had changed.
Boris rubbed against her legs. Tatiana bent down and petted his back. She looked at the clock. A whole day ahead. And it promised to be good.
Tatiana took the book. The new one, with the bright cover. The one she had wanted to read for a long time but kept putting off. For “someday.” But now, “someday” was now. Right now.