“Marina, open up already—we’re freezing!” came a familiar, imperious voice from behind the door.
Marina froze with the keys in her hand. With her new hairstyle, spring-lilac manicure, and boutique shopping bags, she felt like a queen. There were still two hours before her romantic dinner with Igor—time to change into her new dress, light the candles…
Three women stood on the threshold: her mother-in-law, Anna Anatolyevna, in a fur coat; Olga with a supermarket cake; and Natalya with cheap tulips.
“Why are you standing there like a statue?” Anna Anatolyevna marched past her daughter-in-law, shaking snow off her boots right onto the clean floor. “Girls, get your coats off, we’ll have some tea.”
“But Igor and I were going to…” Marina began.
“We know, we know, March 8,” Olga cut her off, tossing her coat onto the rack. “So we came to congratulate you. Set the table—don’t just stand there like a post.”
Natalya was already taking charge in the kitchen, clattering the kettle. Marina watched as her holiday turned into yet another round of serving her husband’s relatives, and felt a dull irritation rising inside.
The evening ended predictably. Igor got home from work when his relatives were already finishing the second cake, and Marina was filling the kettle for the tenth time. The romantic dress never left the closet.
“Mom, girls—what brings you here?” he asked in surprise, kissing his mother on the cheek.
“It’s March 8, son! We came to congratulate Marinochka,” Anna Anatolyevna leaned back on the sofa with satisfaction. “Though she only served us tea. Apparently she wasn’t expecting us.”
Marina bit her lip. In three years of marriage she’d counted more than a hundred such visits. Her mother-in-law would show up on weekends to check the fridge; the sisters would “drop by to say hi” after work. All three had keys—Igor had given them out “just in case.”
“Igor, talk to them,” she asked that evening while clearing the dishes. “At least ask them to call first.”
“Marina, that’s my mother. I can’t forbid her to come,” he rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “Or my sisters, either. We’re family.”
“And me? I’m your family too,” Marina set the plates in the sink so forcefully that one cracked.
“Don’t be dramatic. They’re just looking out for us.”
Looking out. Marina remembered how, while they were on vacation, Anna Anatolyevna had rearranged everything in the closet. How Olga had taken her favorite throw without asking—“it’s old anyway.” How Natalya rummaged through drawers, criticizing her wardrobe.
Standing by the kitchen window, Marina gazed at the city lights. If she didn’t find a way to defend her territory and her space now, in a year she’d have turned into free help for her husband’s relatives. She needed a plan. Something sly and effective.
Saturday morning, Igor was loading fishing rods and a thermos of coffee into the car. Marina stood in her robe at the doorway, watching him get ready.
“Sure you don’t want to come?” he asked, closing the trunk.
“No, I’m going to repaint the bedroom walls. I’ve been meaning to,” she adjusted her hair. “You’ll be back by Sunday evening?”
“I’ll try,” Igor smirked and kissed his wife on the cheek.
Marina had barely changed into work clothes and spread out newspapers when the doorbell rang insistently. On the threshold stood Anna Anatolyevna with a bulky bag.
“Igor’s fishing,” Marina reported, not stepping away from the door.
“I know. That’s why I came,” the mother-in-law pushed firmly past her. “Someone has to keep an eye on things. This is my son’s home. I’m the mistress here, too.”
She went to the kitchen, set her bag on the table, and began taking out jars of pickles.
“The girls will come by, too—I gave them a heads-up,” added Anna Anatolyevna, opening the fridge. “Again nothing ready to eat. We girls will have to cook lunch.”
Marina looked at her mother-in-law and suddenly felt her lips spread into a smile. The usual irritation gave way to a spark of excitement. Three pairs of working hands for a whole day—that was a gift from fate.
“Perfect, Anna Anatolyevna,” she said in a honeyed voice. “I’m so glad you’re all coming. I have just the thing.”
Marina heard familiar voices out on the stairwell—the sisters-in-law were climbing up, loudly chatting about something. She flung the door open with the brightest smile.
“Girls, I’m so happy you’re here! Come in, quickly!” She practically pulled the startled “girls” into the hall.
“Marinochka, why are you so… cheerful?” Anna Anatolyevna grew wary.
“I’ve got a surprise for you!” Marina clapped her hands. “Since you came to help, I prepared everything!”
She led the women into the bedroom, where newspapers were spread across the floor, buckets of paint were set out, and brushes and rollers lay ready.
“What… is this?” Olga blinked, at a loss.
“Renovation! You wanted to be involved in everything, so I thought—who better than family to help?” Marina was already taking old smocks and kerchiefs from the closet. “Anna Anatolyevna, Igor’s shirt and pants should fit you. Olya, Natasha, here are smocks.”
“But that’s not why we—” Natalya began.
“Oh, don’t be modest!” Marina shoved a roller into her hands. “Anna Anatolyevna, you’ll do the top—you’ve got the right height. Girls, you take the lower part of the walls. I’ll show you the technique.”
The mother-in-law opened and closed her mouth like a fish. Refusing would mean admitting they came only to drink tea.
“Fine,” she ground out through her teeth. “But not for long.”
An hour later, all three women, speckled with paint, were rolling it onto the walls.
“Marina, can we take a break?” Olga pleaded, holding her lower back.
“Hang in there! We’ll be done soon, and I’ll treat you to sushi rolls!” Marina promised, topping off their tea. “You’re doing great! A real family!”
By six in the evening the bedroom was transformed—the walls shone with fresh, baked-milk color. Anna Anatolyevna sat on a stool in the hall, kneading her stiff shoulders. Her gray hair stuck out from under the kerchief; a beige blotch marked her cheek.
“That’s it, enough,” she exhaled, tugging off the paint-stained smock. “I’m going home.”
“Mom, we’re coming with you,” Olga steadied herself against the wall. Her manicure was hopelessly ruined, and paint stains had bloomed across her smock. “Natasha, call a taxi.”
Natalya nodded, pulling out her phone with trembling fingers. Over the course of the day she had managed to paint not only the walls, but her arms up to the elbows.
“How can that be?” Marina threw up her hands, feigning dismay. “What about dinner? I promised you rolls! Maybe stay?”
“No!” all three women shouted almost in unison.
“I mean… thank you, but we’re tired,” corrected Anna Anatolyevna, rising from the stool with difficulty. “And anyway, we need to get home. Things to do.”
Marina saw them to the door, pecking each on the cheek in farewell. When the door clicked shut behind the relatives, she leaned against the jamb and burst out laughing. The plan had worked perfectly.
Sunday morning began with a phone call. Marina dialed her mother-in-law’s number, sipping coffee from her favorite mug.
“Anna Anatolyevna? Good morning! How are you feeling?” Her voice was innocence itself.
“What feeling?!” the mother-in-law croaked. “My back won’t straighten, and my arms aren’t my own!”
“Oh, that’s a pity! I was going to invite you and the girls over—I’m planning to repaint the bathroom. You were so wonderful yesterday!”
Silence on the line, then a burst of indignant clucking:
“Marina! What do you think you’re doing? We’re not hired labor! My blood pressure spiked, and Olga took sick leave!”
“But you yourselves said you wanted to be involved in everything, to be the mistress of your son’s home…”
“You know what?” Anna Anatolyevna’s voice trembled with outrage. “I’m not setting foot in your place again! And I’ll tell the girls the same! Ungrateful!”
The line went dead. Marina set the phone down and smiled. No scandals, no fights—just an offer to help with renovations. Who would have thought a roller and a bucket of paint would be more effective than any locks or quarrels?
She walked to the window where a wedding photo stood on the sill. At last, the house would be quiet.
On Sunday evening, Marina greeted Igor in the refreshed bedroom. The walls pleased the eye with their even beige tone; the air still held the scent of fresh paint.
“Wow!” Igor set his fishing gear bag down in the hall. “You did all this yourself?”
“Not exactly,” Marina smiled mysteriously, smoothing the new bedspread. “Your mom and sisters helped.”
“What? Mom painted the walls?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Uh-huh. And you know what? She said she’s not coming over anymore,” Marina burst out laughing.
She took a bottle of wine and two glasses from the fridge. The house was blissfully quiet—no calls, no unexpected visits.
“What did you do to them?” Igor accepted his glass, still incredulous.
“I just asked them to help with the renovation. Very politely—and very insistently.”
She clinked glasses with her husband, savoring the moment. It turned out that stubbornness and cunning worked better than any fight. Sometimes, to protect your home, all you need is a bucket of paint and the accents placed just right.