Natasha opened the refrigerator and, with annoyance, discovered that there was no milk again. Yesterday she had bought two cartons, but this morning not a drop was left. Well, almost none—there were literally a few sips rattling at the bottom of the package, which someone had put back on the shelf.
“Dimochka, the milk’s finished,” came Galina Ivanovna’s voice from the living room. “Maybe you could go to the store?”
Natasha gripped the refrigerator handle tighter. Dimochka. Her father-in-law called her forty-year-old husband Dimochka, and that irritated her the most. Especially when Nikolay Stepanovich asked Dimochka to go to the store at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, while Natasha’s own husband was peacefully snoring in the bedroom after a hard workweek.
“I’ll go now,” Dmitry’s sleepy voice answered from the hallway.
Natasha closed the fridge door and went to the kitchen. At the table sat Galina Ivanovna and Nikolay Stepanovich, slowly having breakfast of oatmeal porridge, which her mother-in-law had cooked early in the morning. A frying pan with leftover scrambled eggs steamed on the stove.
“Good morning,” Natasha greeted, trying not to look at the greasy spots around the burners.
“Good morning, dear,” Galina Ivanovna replied without lifting her eyes from her plate. “Dmitry went to the store to buy milk. We ran out completely.”
Yesterday was Friday. It had already been the second week since Dmitry’s parents came to stay for the weekend. At first, Natasha was happy — they hadn’t seen each other in a long time, and the apartment was big, three rooms, plenty of space for everyone. But the first weekend smoothly slid into the second, then the third, and now her husband’s parents had settled in the living room so thoroughly it felt like they had always lived there.
Natasha poured herself some coffee from the cezve and sat down at the table. Nikolay Stepanovich was turning the pages of a newspaper Dmitry had bought especially for his father. There hadn’t been newspapers in the house before — Natasha and her husband read all the news online.
“Natashen’ka, why do you buy such an expensive dishwashing detergent?” Galina Ivanovna nodded toward the bottle of gel by the sink. “It costs almost four hundred rubles. You can get the regular one for a hundred rubles, just as good.”
Natasha took a slow sip of her coffee. Galina Ivanovna studied the labels of all the cleaning products in the house and passed judgment on each one. The laundry detergent was too expensive, the fabric softener was a waste, and the air freshener was frivolous.
“I like the scent,” Natasha replied.
“What kind of scent can dish soap have?” her mother-in-law shook her head. “The main thing is that it washes the grease off, not smells.”
Nikolay Stepanovich put down the newspaper and looked at Natasha over his glasses.
“You have nice, quality parquet floors,” the father-in-law remarked. “But you have to be careful with water drops. You don’t walk on the floor with wet feet; wood gets damaged.”
Natasha blinked. The night before, after the shower, she had walked barefoot through the corridor, and her father-in-law noticed.
“I always dry my feet,” Natasha said.
“Well, not always,” Nikolay Stepanovich softly objected. “There were drops yesterday. Good thing I noticed right away and wiped it.”
Galina Ivanovna nodded approvingly.
“Parquet is expensive nowadays; it needs to be taken care of. We have linoleum at home, but it’s practical. Here everything is… expensive.”
There was a hint of reproach in the mother-in-law’s voice, as if buying quality parquet was something to be blamed for.
The hallway door slammed — Dmitry returned with a bag of groceries.
“I bought the milk,” Natasha’s husband announced, entering the kitchen. “And some bread, it was running out.”
“Good job, son,” Galina Ivanovna smiled. “It’s not cozy without milk.”
Dmitry put the bag on the table and hugged his wife’s shoulders.
“How are you, bunny?”
“Fine,” Natasha leaned into her husband. “Only the coffee’s already cold.”
“Pour some hot,” Dmitry kissed his wife on the cheek and sat down nearby. “Dad, what’s in the newspaper?”
While the men discussed political news, Natasha washed her cup and thought about how the atmosphere in the house had changed. Weekends used to be calm — she could linger in bed, order food delivery, watch a movie. Now Galina Ivanovna got up at seven in the morning and by eight was already making breakfast for everyone. And if Natasha didn’t appear in the kitchen by nine, her mother-in-law started worrying if her daughter-in-law was sick.
“Natasha, what are we having for lunch?” Galina Ivanovna asked. “Maybe we should make soup? I have a good recipe with meatballs.”
“I was thinking of ordering something,” Natasha replied. “It’s Saturday, after all.”
Galina Ivanovna exchanged a glance with her husband.
“Why are you always ordering, dear? You can cook yourself. It’s cheaper and healthier. All these deliveries… who knows what they put in the food.”
“Mom’s right,” Dmitry supported his wife. “It’s always better to cook at home.”
Natasha felt the muscles in her neck tense. Before Dmitry’s parents arrived, they cooked at home at most twice a week. Both worked, time was scarce, and food delivery was a real salvation. Now every order became a reason for a lecture.
“All right, we’ll make soup,” Natasha agreed.
“That’s better,” her mother-in-law approved. “I’ll help you, I’ll show you how to make meatballs.”
Natasha had made meatballs before but said nothing.
After breakfast, the men settled in the living room to watch football, and Natasha helped Galina Ivanovna prepare lunch. Her mother-in-law directed the process, explaining how to properly peel carrots and why onions had to be diced that way.
“And salt — just a little,” Galina Ivanovna instructed, closely watching Natasha’s every move. “It’s easy to over-salt, and then you can’t fix it.”
Natasha nodded and patiently followed the instructions. Outside, the summer sun shone, her friends were probably strolling in parks or sitting in cafes, and her day off had turned into a cooking master class from her mother-in-law.
When the soup was ready, everyone sat down to eat. Nikolay Stepanovich praised his wife for the tasty meatballs, Dmitry agreed and asked for seconds. Natasha ate silently, wondering when her husband’s parents would finally leave.
“What are your plans for next week?” Natasha cautiously asked.
“No special plans,” Nikolay Stepanovich replied. “We have a dacha, but it’s very hot there now. Better to sit in the cool.”
“And besides, Dimochka is rarely home,” Galina Ivanovna added. “He works a lot, gets tired. We want to spend more time with our son.”
Dmitry smiled at his mother and hugged her shoulders.
“That’s right, mom. We’re good together.”
Natasha clenched her spoon so tightly her knuckles turned white. So it turned out her husband’s parents weren’t going anywhere. They had settled in the living room, turned the kitchen into the headquarters of their culinary experiments, and started controlling every step Natasha took in her own home.
After lunch, Galina Ivanovna began washing the dishes, not letting Natasha near the sink.
“You rest, dear,” her mother-in-law said. “I’ll finish quickly.”
But Galina Ivanovna did not finish quickly. First, she carefully studied the dish soap’s ingredients and shook her head, then meticulously scrubbed every plate, and in the end began re-washing all the dishes in the cabinets, claiming there was dust there.
Natasha went to the bedroom and closed the door. She needed to talk to her husband. Seriously talk.
Dmitry came back an hour later, when the football match ended.
“Dim, we need to discuss something,” Natasha began, sitting on the bed.
“What happened?” her husband sat beside her and took her hand.
“Your parents… they came for the weekend, and now it’s already the second week.”
“So what?” Dmitry shrugged. “There’s enough space for everyone. What’s the worry?”
“It’s not about space,” Natasha tried to choose softer words. “It’s just… they’re starting to set their own rules. They control what I buy, how I cook, how I move around the house.”
“Mom doesn’t mean any harm,” Dmitry objected. “She’s just used to running the household. And she has more experience than us.”
“But it’s my home, Dim. Our home. I bought this apartment before we got married.”
Her husband was silent, looking out the window.
“Listen, they’re not here forever. They’ll stay a bit and leave. Meanwhile, let them rest at their son’s. They’re bored in the village, all alone.”
Natasha felt her insides twist with hurt. Dmitry didn’t understand her or didn’t want to. To him, it was natural that his parents treated the daughter-in-law’s house like their own territory.
“All right,” she said quietly. “But let’s at least agree on some rules. So everyone feels comfortable.”
“What rules?” Dmitry frowned. “We’re grown-ups, we’ll sort it out.”
From the living room came Galina Ivanovna’s voice, calling her son to have tea. Dmitry kissed his wife on the forehead and went to his parents.
Natasha was left alone. Outside, poplar leaves rustled, children played somewhere, and her house was gradually turning into a branch of Dmitry’s parents’ home. And apparently, her husband was only happy about how things were developing.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. July passed into August, and no one even hinted at leaving. Galina Ivanovna had completely taken over all the kitchen duties, planned the weekly menu, and personally checked every purchase Natasha made. Nikolay Stepanovich turned the living room into his personal office — newspapers were neatly stacked on the coffee table, and the TV remote was always next to his favorite spot on the sofa.
Natasha felt like a stranger in her own home. Every morning started with her mother-in-law already bustling in the kitchen, every evening with family gatherings where plans for tomorrow were discussed. Plans in which Natasha’s opinion was of no interest.
“Tomorrow we’ll go to the market,” Galina Ivanovna announced at dinner. “We’ll buy fresh vegetables for preserving.”
“What preserves?” Natasha was surprised.
“Well, what kind? Pickling cucumbers, canning tomatoes. It’s August, the perfect time.”
“But we don’t do preserves,” Natasha cautiously objected. “There’s little space in the apartment, and it’s easier to buy.”
Galina Ivanovna shook her head with pity.
“Today’s youth. Always buying and buying. But homemade is always better than store-bought.”
Dmitry supported his mother, and the matter was settled. The next day Natasha found boxes of vegetables in her kitchen to be processed for canning. The kitchen turned into a pickling workshop, and the balcony into a storage for jars.
But the real shock awaited Natasha one evening when she came home from work. In the living room, where her favorite light-colored sofa used to be, stood a huge brown armchair. Old, worn out, with peeling armrests.
“What’s this?” Natasha asked, stopping in the doorway.
“Oh, the armchair!” Nikolay Stepanovich answered cheerfully. “Brought it from the dacha. Very comfortable, doesn’t hurt your back.”
“But where did it come from? When?”
“Dimochka went this morning to help bring it over,” Galina Ivanovna explained. “It was a good chair; it was a shame to leave it at the dacha.”
Natasha approached and gasped. Under the massive legs of the armchair, the parquet was deeply dented. The expensive flooring, installed only two years ago, was now hopelessly damaged.
“The parquet is damaged,” Natasha said, sitting down next to the chair.
“Nonsense,” Nikolay Stepanovich waved it off. “Furniture isn’t featherweight, marks are inevitable.”
“Oh, come on,” Dmitry added, entering the room. “Small dents, nothing fatal.”
Natasha stood up and looked carefully at her husband. Small dents? Deep grooves in the wood that would remain forever?
“Dim, it’s expensive parquet. We picked it together, remember?”
“I remember. But what now? The chair is already here.”
“We can move it, put something under the legs.”
“Why move it?” Nikolay Stepanovich was indignant. “It’s a good spot, comfortable. You can see the TV, enough light.”
Natasha felt her hands tremble. Two months of silence, two months of patience and compromises led to the fact that a foreign piece of furniture appeared in her home, ruining her property. And her husband considered it trivial.
“This is my apartment,” Natasha said quietly.
“So what?” Dmitry didn’t understand.
“Mine!” Natasha repeated louder. “I bought it, I pay for it, I live here!”
Galina Ivanovna and Nikolay Stepanovich exchanged surprised looks.
“Dear, what’s wrong with you?” her mother-in-law became worried. “We’re family.”
“I didn’t invite you to live here!” Natasha exploded. “And you even ruined my parquet!”
Dead silence hung in the living room. Nikolay Stepanovich slowly put down the newspaper, Galina Ivanovna froze with her knitting in her hands. Dmitry looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time.
“You came for the weekend,” Natasha continued, unable to stop herself. “For the weekend! But you’ve been living here for two months! Telling me what to buy, how to cook, how to walk in my own house! And now you even brought your furniture!”
“Natasha, calm down,” Dmitry tried to intervene.
“I won’t calm down!” Natasha turned to her husband. “Do you even understand what’s happening? This is my apartment, which I bought with my own money before our wedding! And no one is going to dictate conditions to me here!”
Galina Ivanovna stood up from the sofa, her mother-in-law’s face turned pale.
“How can you say that? We’re trying to help…”
“I didn’t ask for help!” Natasha cut her off. “I didn’t ask you to cook your soups, didn’t ask you to criticize my purchases, didn’t ask you to bring your chair!”
“Well, you’re something,” Nikolay Stepanovich shook his head. “Such ingratitude.”
“Ingratitude?” Natasha laughed, but it was bitter. “For what should I be grateful? For you turning my apartment into your dacha?”
Dmitry tried to take his wife’s hand, but Natasha pulled away.
“Dim, tell me honestly — when do your parents plan to leave? When?”
Her husband was silent, eyes downcast.
“Exactly,” Natasha nodded. “Never. They intend to stay here forever, and you encourage this.”
“Don’t yell at your parents,” Dmitry said quietly.
“Then explain to them that visiting can be a week, two tops. But not living at someone else’s expense for months!”
Galina Ivanovna threw up her hands.
“At someone else’s expense? We buy the groceries ourselves, cook ourselves!”
“In my kitchen, in my apartment,” Natasha replied. “And whose money do you use to buy the groceries? Dmitry pays, and Dmitry is my husband. So it’s still my money.”
A long pause followed. Nikolay Stepanovich stood and walked to the window.
“So you’re kicking us out,” the father-in-law stated.
“I ask you to respect my right to my own home,” Natasha said firmly. “And yes, I think two months of guests is too much.”
Galina Ivanovna began to gather her knitting, her lips trembling.
“Well then,” her mother-in-law said. “Apparently, we are unwanted here.”
“Not unwanted,” Natasha objected. “Guests should be guests, not permanent residents.”
The next morning, Dmitry’s parents silently packed their things. Nikolay Stepanovich was taking apart his armchair, grumbling something about ungrateful youth under his breath. Galina Ivanovna packed the jars of preserves they hadn’t managed to make.
Dmitry was gloomier than a thundercloud, barely spoke to his wife, and helped his parents with the move all day.
“Mom, maybe don’t be so harsh?” Natasha overheard her husband say in the corridor.
“No, son,” Galina Ivanovna replied. “If we’re not wanted here, there’s no need to impose.”
By evening, the apartment was empty. The stacks of newspapers disappeared from the table, the jars from the balcony, the pots from the stove. Only the light sofa stood in the living room again, but deep dents from the armchair remained on the parquet — a memory of the two-month invasion.
Natasha walked through the apartment, breathing in the silence. For the first time in a long while, the house belonged to her again. She could make coffee without lectures about caffeine’s harms, order pizza without moralizing about homemade food, and walk barefoot on her own parquet calmly.
Dmitry sat in the kitchen, gloomily looking out the window.
“Well, satisfied?” her husband asked without turning around.
“Dim, they can visit anytime,” Natasha answered calmly. “But only as visitors. On weekends, on holidays. Not move in to live.”
“You hurt them.”
“Who hurt me these two months?” Natasha sat opposite her husband. “Who asked my opinion when your father dragged the chair here? Who cared if I want to eat soup every day and listen to lectures about my expenses?”
Dmitry was silent.
“Maybe you’re right,” the husband finally admitted. “But you could’ve expressed it more gently.”
“I expressed it gently for two months,” Natasha said wearily. “And what did I get? Damaged parquet and the feeling that I’m a stranger in my own home.”
Her husband nodded and hugged her.
“All right. Next time we’ll immediately limit the visit length.”
Natasha leaned against Dmitry, feeling the tension finally ease. The house had become a home again, and boundaries were restored. Now everyone knew the rules of the game, and no one would dare turn her apartment into their own property again.