“Liza, We Won’t Take Much”: A Story About Family, Labor, and Boundaries
“Liza, we won’t take much. Just pack us your signature pie and a couple jars of jam for the road,” Gleb stretched lazily, a smile on his face.
Liza stared at the guest, unable to believe the audacity. How could he ask so shamelessly? Her mind raced with thoughts of how much effort she had put into making that pie perfect, how she had prepared the house for their arrival. And now Gleb — who hadn’t lifted a single rake all week — was lounging in the shade, demanding takeaway treats.
She glanced at Artem, who seemed oblivious to his brother’s behavior.
“Gleb, aren’t you asking a bit much?” Liza asked, trying to remain calm.
“Oh come on, Liza!” he waved her off without even turning. “We’re family, we’re supposed to share. And you’ve got plenty of everything here!”
Liza felt anger beginning to boil inside her. This lakeside cottage, bought three years ago, had become a true refuge for her and Artem. Summers here were never lazy: early mornings, weeding, berry picking, tending chickens, preserving food for winter. Every helping hand was worth gold.
That’s why Gleb’s demand felt like an insult. He didn’t — or refused to — see the effort involved. To him, the cottage was a free resort, and Liza and Artem were staff.
It all started three weeks ago when Gleb called, offering to “visit, help with the household, and relax in nature.”
The words sounded strange. Gleb and his wife Olga were city people to the core: parties, bars, movies, weekend shopping.
“Help?” Liza repeated with some doubt, but Gleb continued enthusiastically:
“Yeah! We’re family! It’ll be easier for you, and good fresh air for us. I’ve been wanting to pick some blueberries, fire up the sauna…”
After hanging up, Liza sat on the porch, absentmindedly twisting her apron. She knew Gleb’s nature — big on promises, short on follow-through. Deep down, she had doubts, but Artem was excited:
“Maybe they’ll actually pick some berries. And hey, maybe they’ll even help with the fence.”
Liza spent the following days in a flurry of preparation, as if the governor himself were coming. She washed and ironed the linens, readied clean towels, and went to town for groceries — fresh fish, meat for kebabs, fruit, sweets — so the family would feel welcome.
“Maybe it’ll be fine,” she told herself while hanging towels. “Even a little help is better than none.”
When Gleb and Olga finally arrived, Liza greeted them with a smile, trying to hide her skepticism. They looked relaxed, as if returning from a spa.
“Well, here we are!” Gleb declared cheerfully, arms wide.
Liza forced a smile and invited them to the table. Salads, hot pies, and cold compote were already waiting on the veranda. The first half hour passed in lively chatter and updates, until Artem gently brought up the plan for the coming days:
“Tomorrow we’ll start with the hay, then gather blueberries. Lots to do, but we’ll manage together.”
“Yeah, sure,” Olga nodded, but Liza caught a flicker of confusion — maybe even panic — in her eyes, as if “haymaking” was from another world.
Something about that look struck a chord in Liza. A quiet instinct told her that “help” might be an illusion.
The first day passed like a celebration. Liza tried to ignore the overgrown grass, weed-choked strawberries, and buckets of apples waiting in the shed.
Gleb was in high spirits, cracking jokes, spitting sunflower seeds, bragging about how “sick of the city” he was and how great it was to be “out in nature.” Olga, in a new sundress, posed for sunset-and-lake selfies. Artem smiled — happy his brother had come, hoping the work would now go faster.
But by the next day, things started to shift. Liza woke at dawn to the rooster’s crow, pulled on her rubber boots, and stepped outside. The dew shimmered on the grass, the air smelled of freshness and hay. The chickens bustled, demanding food. Liza scooped up some grain and glanced at the guest room window — still and dark, curtains drawn.
By 8 a.m., she had already fed the birds, picked a bucket of cucumbers, and fetched water for the beds. Artem came out with a cup of tea and said:
“Gleb and Olga went into town. Said it was something urgent.”
Liza nodded silently, though something twinged unpleasantly inside. She had hoped the “helpers” would at least join them after breakfast.
They returned only in the evening, beaming and cheerful. Gleb unloaded chips, soda, and beer from the trunk like he had accomplished something heroic.
“Liza, this place is like a spa!” he laughed, sinking into a chair on the porch. “Everything does itself!”
The next day, Liza felt irritation building. She mowed the grass alone, hauled heavy buckets, mopped the floors, cooked lunch. Gleb lounged in the hammock, scrolling his phone and moaning about a headache.
“Must be a cold. Gonna lie down today.”
Olga stretched out on a beach towel by the water, taking selfies. Her social media posts soon read: “#CountryRelax”, “#LifeIsBeautiful”, “#NatureVibes”.
Liza grew more exhausted and irritable by the day. She rose at six and collapsed after midnight, washing dishes and cleaning up after “guests.” They never offered to help — truly believing their mere presence was a gift.
“We’re guests, after all,” Olga said, bewildered, when Liza asked her to help with the dishes. “Guests don’t work.”
From that moment, Liza’s smile became forced, and every new request felt like a slap to her patience. The end of hospitality was coming — slowly, but inevitably.
By the fifth day, Liza couldn’t keep quiet anymore. After a long day of weeding and hauling water, laughter echoed from the porch, where Olga lounged with her phone.
When Artem returned from the fields, dusty and tired, Liza met him with a serious face.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “They don’t even clean up after themselves! Gleb asked me to wash his shirt, and Olga said the breakfast was ‘boring’!”
Artem nodded. That evening, they decided to involve their guests in the work. Gleb would help fix the fence, Olga would weed the strawberries. Liza hoped they would finally understand: rest is nice, but the household doesn’t run itself.
“Gleb, we need to fix the fence tomorrow,” Artem said at dinner. “Will you help?”
“Sure, sure,” Gleb waved it off, chewing kebab and glued to his phone. Clearly, his messenger app held more importance than the yard.
The next morning, Artem got up early. The air smelled of hay and dew. He prepared the tools, checked the boards and nails, even brewed strong tea for his brother.
He knocked on the guest room door. Silence. Knocked louder. Still silence — just the hum of the AC. When he peeked in, the room was empty. A note on the nightstand, scribbled in big handwriting:
“Went to town, be back by evening! Let’s do barbecue!”
In the evening, Gleb and Olga returned with bags of meat, beer, and chips, chatting about the “awful traffic” and the heat. Liza, exhausted, stood at the porch.
“We agreed to work in the yard,” she said.
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Gleb replied offhandedly, waving a bag of meat. “Tomorrow for sure. Promise.”
But on the seventh morning, he announced:
“We have to leave urgently. Shame we couldn’t help!”
Then added, smiling:
“Liza, pack us your signature pie for the road. And give us a couple jars of that amazing jam!”
That was the breaking point.
Liza felt her anger boil over. A week of hard work — garden dawns, endless cooking, laundry, cleaning, and looking after ungrateful guests — erupted in one firm refusal.
“We’re not giving you anything,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, though it trembled. “You haven’t done a single chore all week.”
Gleb froze, stunned. His face turned red, his eyes narrowed.
“So this is what you’re like!” he yelled, his voice rising to a screech. “What about hospitality? We came with love!”
“With what love?” Liza snapped. “You came here to freeload! I worked alone while you lounged in a hammock and went shopping!”
Artem, usually conflict-averse, stood beside his wife, placed a hand on her shoulder, and looked his brother in the eye:
“Gleb, you offered to help. But all you did was eat, drink, and complain about the heat.”
“What nonsense, Artem!” Gleb exploded, stepping forward. “We’re family! And you’re charging us for food? Disgraceful!”
Olga, standing by the porch, let out a loud sigh, raised her hands to the sky in dramatic protest, and headed for the car. She slammed the door, indignant at the “scandal” instead of the “warm welcome.”
“Let’s go, Gleb!” she shouted with hurt drama. “We’re not appreciated here! Some family!”
Gleb turned back toward Artem and Liza. He opened his mouth to say something — then just waved dismissively and stomped to the car.
Gleb slammed the trunk and got into the driver’s seat, face twisted in anger, his eyes full of bewildered offense, as if the world had wronged him.
“Choke on your damn pies!” he shouted, slamming the door. “You won’t see us again!”
When the car disappeared down the road, Liza and Artem stood on the porch. For the first time in a week, silence fell. They felt relief — and the weight of emotional exhaustion.
Artem sighed and sat on the steps.
“An expensive lesson, but a useful one,” he said. “No more freeloaders.”
Liza nodded, understanding the value in the negative experience.
“You know,” Artem added, “I always thought family was sacred. But sometimes, you need to set boundaries.”
That evening, they walked the property, assessing the undone work — the fence still broken, strawberries needing weeding, hay uncut.
They strolled slowly, listening to the sounds of the garden. And Liza realized that physical fatigue was better than emotional fatigue from someone else’s entitlement.
That night, they lit the sauna and drank tea with cherry jam — the very jam Gleb had insisted on taking. They gazed at the lake, and Liza felt that their little home had become peaceful again.
“From now on, we’ll only host guests who arrive with rakes, not phones,” Liza said, and they both laughed, knowing that mutual respect and support were what truly mattered.
Artem hugged his wife, and she felt the stress finally melt away. They talked about how they’d spend the rest of the summer — doing what truly mattered to them.
The next morning, they went into the garden together. Liza happily resumed her chores, and Artem worked alongside her. They picked berries, tended the plants, and Liza felt joy return — joy in what they were building together.
“You know,” she said, stretching her back after weeding a row, “I’m glad it happened this way. It was a good lesson.”