“We’re arriving tomorrow morning — be there. Morning train at 7:20.”
Anastasia, perched on the edge of the couch, kept staring at her phone screen as if it might display a continuation. But after those words, the caller simply hung up. No “Is it okay?” No “Does it work for you?” — just a message short as a command. Beeps. That’s it.
It was Veronika, her cousin, with whom she hadn’t spoken in years. She hadn’t expected the call. Veronika only ever called when she needed something. Never just to say hello.
A small nudge in her belly — the baby seemed to respond to her mood. Artyom, her husband, was still at work. She mechanically scrolled through her to-do list for tomorrow: groceries, cooking, a doctor’s appointment. And now — unexpected relatives.
Anastasia already knew: they wouldn’t be staying in her apartment. Even if it caused a scene. Let them be offended. But not this time.
Anastasia had good reason to react strongly to Veronika’s call. She remembered their last visit in painful detail — and it was anything but pleasant.
That was about five years ago. At the time, Anastasia still lived with her parents in a cramped three-room apartment. Standard Soviet layout: one walk-through room, one room of her own, and the parents’ bedroom. That visit felt like an invasion — and it was. Aunt Raisa and her daughter Veronika showed up. Initially, it was supposed to be “for a couple of days,” but they ended up staying almost a week.
Aunt Raisa was her mother Sofia Petrovna’s older sister — someone the whole family feared a little. She spoke loudly, demanded a lot, and bossed people around as if she owned the place. Anastasia’s dad, Oleg Pavlovich, fled to the garage for the duration, while her mother fluttered around the kitchen like royalty had arrived.
Veronika moved right into Anastasia’s room, and Aunt Raisa took the walk-through room — no one had asked. From the first hour, Veronika acted like she was at home: pulling clothes from the closet, using Anastasia’s creams, rummaging through her makeup.
“Come on, I’m just trying it,” she said with a smile, applying Anastasia’s mascara. “We don’t have this stuff at home. You’ve got it nice here!”
And then more:
“Can I wear this outfit today? Look how perfectly it fits me. Honestly, it doesn’t suit you anyway.”
Anastasia tried to protest, but Aunt Raisa would step in:
“What’s the big deal? You’re cousins. You should share. I see you’ve got plenty. We don’t.”
Sofia Petrovna would lower her eyes guiltily:
“Come on, Nastya… They’re family. They’re going through a hard time. Be patient.”
In the end, Anastasia hid some of her belongings in her parents’ room and gave a few things away. But the worst part was the feeling: being in your own home — and not feeling at home. Constantly watched, constantly tense.
Five years had passed. Anastasia had married Artyom, landed a job at a design studio where she finally felt fulfilled, and recently moved into a new apartment — bright, with large windows and the living room of her dreams. They were expecting a baby. Life was calm. No unannounced visitors.
And now — this.
The word “surprise” echoed in her ears like a taunt.
She knew immediately: this time would be different.
Artyom picked her up that evening, right on time, as always, with coffee and her favorite cookies.
“Rough day?” he asked, glancing at her.
“Veronika called. They’re arriving tomorrow. Morning train. Seven twenty. No invitation. No asking. Just: ‘Be there. Surprise.’” She spoke evenly, but there was clear hurt in her voice she no longer tried to hide.
“They’re coming to see you?”
“I don’t even know. They just stated it like a fact. I think they’ll go to my mom’s. They still remember her address. Not mine. Thank God.”
“Then let them go there,” Artyom said calmly as he drove. “You’re not made of steel. And you’re certainly not a hotel. And anyway, you can’t stress out. A surprise is supposed to be flowers, not luggage at your door.”
The city buzzed and sparkled outside the car window, but inside, it was peaceful. She was beside someone who wouldn’t expect her to be the “good girl.” He would protect her. He understood. He was there.
The next morning, Saturday, the phone rang early.
“Are you still sleeping? We’re at the station. Why aren’t you here to meet us?” Veronika’s annoyed voice snapped.
“Good morning, Veronika,” Anastasia replied calmly, stretching. “Yes, I was still asleep. Artyom’s already at work. I’m about to head out too. You’ll have to take a taxi.”
“What about your parents?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t talk yesterday. They’re probably home. Call them.”
“So you didn’t even warn them?”
“You didn’t ask me to. You just told me you were coming.”
“But I did call!”
“Yes. You called. But you didn’t ask if we could meet you. Everyone has their own plans, Veronika. My home isn’t a hotel.”
Anastasia hung up and exhaled. It was surprisingly easy not to be afraid of being “inconvenient.”
Elsewhere in the city, in a three-room apartment with a balcony crowded with jars of pickles, Sofia Petrovna rushed between the kitchen and hallway. The phone had been ringing since morning, each call making her heart race.
“We’re at the station! No one came to meet us!” Raisa declared indignantly when Sofia picked up.
“Why didn’t you let us know?” Sofia stammered. “Oleg’s out getting bread — he’ll be back soon and can come pick you up. Or just take a taxi. It’ll be quicker. You must be tired…”
“We’re not just tired — we’re offended! Nika and Vadim barely got time off work. And no one was even expecting us.”
Sofia hung up and began frantically setting out everything from the fridge. No time for elaborate dishes, but the table looked decent: pie, jam, salad, chicken patties, pickled cucumbers. When Raisa, Veronika, and her husband Vadim finally showed up — tired, offended, wheeling suitcases — Sofia greeted them with a strained smile:
“Come in. Sorry we didn’t meet you. It was unexpected. You should have warned us.”
“Waited two hours at the station. Some relatives,” Veronika muttered, already eyeing the room.
It was déjà vu. Raisa criticized, Veronika pouted, Vadim stared at his phone, yawning like it was all beneath him.
That evening, Sofia sat on the edge of the bed, drained. Oleg stood beside her, watching her warily.
“Maybe Nastya could take them? They’ve got more space…” he ventured.
“She won’t,” Sofia sighed. “She’s… already dealing with a lot. Pregnant. Working. I didn’t tell her anything. Didn’t want to worry her. And really… she shouldn’t have to put up with this again.”
In the other room, the guests unpacked. Veronika casually remarked:
“I hear Nastya’s apartment is really nice. Downtown, new building. Would be more fun staying there.”
“Yeah, it’s cramped here,” added Raisa meaningfully.
Sofia just nodded, too tired to argue. History was repeating itself.
On Sunday, as planned, Anastasia and Artyom invited them over — for one evening. Veronika entered the apartment and looked around with surprise. High ceilings, panoramic windows, Scandinavian minimalism — cozy and tasteful.
“Wow,” she said with open admiration. “Nastya, this is like something out of a magazine. Vadim and I could totally stay here. Way better than with the old folks.”
Raisa also glanced around as if on a house tour:
“So, son-in-law, how are things? Mortgage, I assume? Or did someone gift it to you?”
Artyom nodded as if he hadn’t heard. Anastasia invited them to the table.
The conversation was strained. Veronika boasted about exhibitions they’d seen and how they “missed culture.” Raisa grumbled about neighbors, stores, the weather. Vadim devoured the food silently. Artyom participated politely, but kept glancing at Anastasia — she held her own, but was clearly tired.
When the clock struck seven, Artyom stood up, gathered the plates, and said evenly:
“Well, it’s been a nice evening. Time to wrap up. Nastya’s got work tomorrow. She needs rest. Pregnancy isn’t a joke.”
Raisa raised her eyebrows:
“We thought we might stay the night. Didn’t want to drag ourselves back.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not possible,” Artyom replied gently but firmly. “We’ve got a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”
They saw the guests out. The door shut. Silence — real silence — filled the apartment for the first time that day.
But it didn’t last. Monday afternoon, Anastasia’s father called.
“Nastya, come over. Your mom’s not well. We called an ambulance.”
She and Artyom left immediately. Outside her parents’ building stood an ambulance; a neighbor waved them over.
Inside, Sofia lay on the couch, pale, a damp cloth on her forehead. Raisa and Veronika sat nearby, stunned but silent.
The doctor handed Anastasia a prescription:
“Nothing critical. Blood pressure spiked. She’s exhausted. Needs rest, vitamins, quiet. At her age, better not to push it.”
Anastasia took her mother’s hand. Her mother’s eyes were glassy, her voice weak:
“I’m okay, sweetheart. Just tired.”
Artyom stepped closer, standing by the door, and looked directly at Raisa:
“Listen… maybe that’s enough? Sofia Petrovna’s ill. She needs rest. You treat this like a vacation home.”
“What?” Raisa flared up. “We’re in the way now?”
Anastasia stepped in, voice calm and clear:
“Mom’s exhausted. She’s really unwell. We can’t let you stay here anymore. Please give us your passports — we’ll buy train tickets. Or, if you want to stay in the city, move to a hotel.”
“But we have theatre tickets for the day after tomorrow!” Veronika protested.
“Theatre is nice,” Anastasia nodded. “Just not at the cost of someone’s health.”
Raisa exhaled loudly but said nothing. Veronika turned toward the window. Heavy silence fell over the room.
Anastasia stood at the kitchen window, watching her father walk slowly toward the pharmacy. Artyom sat at the table with his laptop, booking tickets.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said without looking up. “Soonest I could get. We’ll buy the tickets ourselves — just to get them out faster.”
Anastasia nodded. In the other room, Raisa and Veronika muttered and packed. Wardrobes opened and shut.
Sofia lay quietly, head propped up. She didn’t try to move or fuss anymore.
“Mom…” Anastasia sat down beside her. “Now — rest. No more ‘let’s just put up with it.’ Deal?”
Sofia nodded. Gratitude flickered in her eyes. Anastasia hugged her — and knew: everything was finally in its place.
Later, when Artyom drove them to the station, Veronika tried to take one last jab:
“Didn’t think you guys were like this. Buying us tickets — like you’re kicking us out.”
Artyom replied calmly, looking in the rearview mirror:
“That’s right. No more uninvited visits. It’s not normal to force yourself on people.”
Raisa huffed, but said nothing.
The goodbye at the station was dry. No hugs. No promises to visit.
That evening, Anastasia sat wrapped in a blanket, gazing at the city as dusk fell — and felt only one thing: the anxiety was gone. Her home was her fortress. Her mother — safe. And her child would be born into a world where you have the right to say no.