“I don’t understand why you put up with this,” Natasha, Yulia’s colleague, said, shaking her head in surprise. “I would’ve put my foot down long ago.”
Yulia just sighed, stirring her coffee. The lunch break was almost over, and talking to her friend hadn’t brought any relief.
“You know, sometimes it feels like I live in a public thoroughfare,” Yulia pushed her cup aside. “Imagine: I come home after a meeting, barely able to stand. And there are my mother-in-law and her friend in the kitchen having tea—like it’s their place! And Andrey didn’t even warn me.”
“And what did you do?”
“What could I do? I smiled, of course. Put the kettle on, got out some cookies…”
Natasha shook her head.
“You trained them yourself. You’ve been tolerating this for five years.”
Yulia rubbed her temples automatically. The headache that had become her constant companion in recent months was back.
“Andrey thinks I should be happy—says his parents treat me like a daughter.”
“Do they show up often?”
“Three or four times a week at least. Especially my father-in-law—he loves dropping by unannounced. He’ll come in, sit in the armchair and start: ‘Back in our day…’ And he’ll be sure to ask what’s for dinner.”
Just then Yulia’s phone chimed. Andrey wrote that his parents would stop by in the evening—to discuss weekend plans.
“Here, have a look,” Yulia handed the phone to her friend. “He doesn’t ask; he states a fact.”
“And the apartment is yours, right?” Natasha squinted.
“Mine. I bought it before the marriage—took out a mortgage up to my ears. Three more years to pay. But I don’t take a penny from my husband. My dad nagged me to death: ‘What if you divorce, you’ll have to split the apartment.’ So I pay for it myself and even keep all the receipts.”
“And they know this?”
“Of course. It means nothing to them. Viktor Stepanovich said outright, ‘Now this is the family nest.’”
The workday dragged on endlessly. Yulia tried to focus on reports, but her thoughts kept returning to the coming evening. After talking with Natasha, something inside had cracked. Before, she’d managed to convince herself everything was fine, that this was how a family should be. But now…
At six o’clock, packing up, Yulia decided—tonight she wouldn’t cook dinner. Let them feel, just once, that she’s a living person and not the help.
At home, the first thing she did was shower and change into something comfortable. She didn’t even look into the kitchen. She sat in her favorite armchair with a book—something she’d been meaning to read for a long time.
The doorbell rang exactly at seven. On the threshold stood Viktor Stepanovich with a fresh newspaper under his arm, and behind him came her mother-in-law, Raisa Nikolaevna, with a bag of sunflower seeds.
“We’ve come to see you!” the mother-in-law announced cheerfully, heading straight for the kitchen.
Yulia nodded in silence. The father-in-law, without taking off his street shoes, went into the living room and settled into the armchair as usual.
“What’s for dinner today?” he inquired, unfolding the newspaper.
“Nothing,” Yulia answered curtly.
Viktor Stepanovich lowered the paper.
“How’s that—nothing? Don’t just stand there like a post! Go cook something!”
The front door banged—the sound of Andrey coming in.
“Hi, everyone!” he called from the hallway. “Oh, Mom, Dad, you’re already here!”
Raisa Nikolaevna poked her head out of the kitchen.
“Andryusha, here’s the thing… Yulia didn’t make anything.”
“Didn’t make anything?” Andrey frowned, looking at his wife. “You knew my parents were coming.”
“I knew,” Yulia replied calmly. “You told me at lunch.”
“So what? You could’ve thrown something together. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Yulia noticed her mother-in-law exchange a meaningful glance with her husband.
“Exactly—it wouldn’t be the first,” Yulia rose from the armchair. “Or the tenth. I’m tired of being a round-the-clock cafeteria.”
“Dear, what are you saying…” began Raisa Nikolaevna.
“I’m not your ‘dear’!” Yulia’s voice trembled. “I have a name. And my own life. And my own apartment, for that matter!”
“Yulia!” Andrey stepped toward his wife. “Stop the hysterics!”
“Hysterics?” Yulia let out a bitter laugh. “You call it hysterics when, for the first time in five years, I said ‘no’?”
Viktor Stepanovich ostentatiously folded his newspaper.
“You know, Andrey, I always said—you spoiled her. And here’s the result.”
“And you…” Yulia turned sharply to her father-in-law, then fell silent. A lump rose in her throat; her hands were shaking.
“What—me?” he raised an eyebrow. “Go on, finish what you started.”
Yulia clenched her fists. Five years of pent-up resentment burst to the surface.
“You’re used to treating my home as your own. You come whenever you feel like it, you give orders, you constantly demand food… But this is my apartment! Mine! And I have the right to be alone in it once in a while!”
Raisa Nikolaevna threw up her hands.
“Andryusha, do you hear? She’s throwing us out!”
“Yulia, stop it right now,” Andrey grabbed her by the elbow. “Apologize to my parents.”
“I won’t,” Yulia pulled her arm free. “I’m done apologizing for wanting a normal life. Without daily visits and instructions on what to do in my own home. I don’t want to cook for others all the time! I’m exhausted!”
Her husband’s parents got ready to leave. The mother-in-law muttered that Yulia was mean and ungrateful. For a while, everything was quiet. Yulia even hoped things had settled.
But one evening Andrey announced that his parents would come and stay for a couple of days. Yulia had just returned from a three-day business trip—tired, drained by endless meetings.
“Andrey, I just got off the plane. I need to rest, to pull myself together…”
“You know how much they love coming here,” Andrey didn’t even look at his wife, his eyes glued to his phone.
“They just love eating for free,” flashed through Yulia’s mind, but she said nothing aloud.
The parents arrived in the evening with two huge suitcases. The sheer amount of stuff immediately put Yulia on alert.
Viktor Stepanovich went straight to the living room and turned the TV up to full volume. Raisa Nikolaevna, without even taking off her coat, headed for the kitchen.
“Yulia dear, our stomachs have cramped up from the road. Come on, make something quick.”
“I’m working,” Yulia nodded at her laptop. “My deadline’s burning.”
“Working, she says,” the mother-in-law snorted. “You could make an effort for your husband’s parents.”
From the living room came the father-in-law’s voice:
“By the way, about work! Yulia, could you help me with my phone? Something’s wrong with the internet…”
“I can’t right now, sorry.”
“She’s always like this,” the father-in-law said loudly to his son. “No respect for her elders.”
Andrey kept silent, pretending not to hear. Yulia clenched her teeth and went back to work. Half an hour later her mother-in-law’s voice rang out from the kitchen again:
“Yulia! How much longer are you going to pretend you’re busy? We’re sitting here hungry!”
“Order delivery,” Yulia snapped at last. “There’s a magnet on the fridge with a menu and number.”
“Ugh,” Raisa Nikolaevna grimaced. “We prefer homemade food. In my day, daughters-in-law…”
“I’m not your daughter-in-law from the last century!” Yulia slammed her laptop shut. “I have my own life, my own job, my own plans! Why should I drop everything every time you need something?”
Silence settled over the room. Even the TV seemed to grow quieter.
“Andrey,” Viktor Stepanovich said slowly, “do you hear how your wife is speaking to us?”
“Yulia’s just tired,” Andrey tried to smooth things over. “I’ll take care of dinner myself.”
“No, son,” the father-in-law rose from the armchair. “It’s not about being tired. Your wife has gotten conceited. She’s decided that since the apartment is hers, she can look down on us.”
“You know what?” Yulia stood up too. “Yes, it is my apartment. And I have the right to decide who lives here and when!”
“Yulia!” Andrey put a hand on her shoulder. “You could be a little more tolerant! They’re my family!”
“Let go of me,” Yulia said quietly. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Enough!” the mother-in-law suddenly cut in. “Come on, start cooking if you have time to argue.”
Three pairs of eyes bored into Yulia. And she gave in.
A few days later, Andrey’s parents finally moved out. Yulia hoped peace would return to the home. Two months passed relatively calmly.
One day, coming back from work, Yulia dreamed of a hot bath and a cup of tea. The day had been especially hard—three meetings in a row, a difficult client, traffic jams. Unlocking the door with her key, Yulia froze on the threshold.
Voices and the clatter of dishes came from the kitchen. Viktor Stepanovich and Raisa Nikolaevna were already making themselves at home—groceries from the fridge spread out on the table, pots set out.
“Ah, there you are!” Viktor Stepanovich tore himself away from the newspaper. “Well, what are you making for dinner today?”
Yulia slowly set down her bag.
“Nothing.”
Andrey, who had been silently standing by the window, looked away. Viktor Stepanovich frowned:
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’? We didn’t come here for you! We came for your food! Come on, get to the stove!”
Something snapped inside Yulia. Her suspicions were confirmed. Five years of humiliation, endless concessions, attempts to please—it had all been for nothing. No one thought of her as a person.
“I see,” Yulia straightened up. “So it’s for the food? And here I was thinking you came to see your son.”
“Yulia, don’t start,” Andrey tried to intervene.
“No, darling, I’m going to finish,” Yulia turned to her husband. “This isn’t a cafeteria. Not a hotel. This is my home! Mine! And I will no longer let anyone boss around here.”
Raisa Nikolaevna threw up her hands.
“Andryusha, do you hear what she’s saying?”
“You haven’t heard me for five years,” Yulia went on. “For five years I’ve cooked and put up with your visits. And you”—she looked at her husband—”have never once taken my side. Not once!”
“Because you’re wrong!” Andrey flared. “You’re acting like…”
“Like what?” Yulia cut him off. “Like someone who’s tired of being a servant in her own home?”
Viktor Stepanovich stood up.
“We’d better go. We won’t get in the way of your figuring things out.”
“Right,” Yulia nodded. “Go. And don’t come again without an invitation.”
“Yulia!” Andrey grabbed her hand. “Apologize. Now!”
“No,” Yulia pulled her hand free. “Enough. Choose, Andrey. Either you start respecting my boundaries or…” —she paused— “go to your parents. For good.”
A heavy silence fell. Yulia watched Andrey shift his gaze from her to his parents and back again. At last he lowered his head.
“Sorry, Yulia. But they’re my family.”
“And me?” Yulia asked quietly. “What am I?”
For several minutes Andrey stared intently at his wife’s face, as if searching for answers there.
“You won’t change your decision?” he asked sullenly.
Yulia shook her head. She had found the strength to change the situation, to take it into her own hands. And she wasn’t about to give up her freedom.
Andrey silently took his jacket and followed his parents out. The front door slammed, and the apartment grew unusually quiet. It was the end of the marriage.
Yulia sank onto a chair. For some reason, the tears didn’t come. Instead of bitterness and despair, she felt a strange relief, as if she had dropped a heavy backpack she’d been lugging around all these years.
Her phone vibrated—a message from Natasha: “How are you?”
Yulia smiled and began to type: “Can you imagine, I finally…”