Natalya was hauling bags up to the fourth floor, cursing the broken elevator. The October rain had soaked through her jacket, and all she wanted was a hot shower and some peace. Working as an architect in a design bureau was draining—especially when clients changed plans at the last minute.
The key turned in the lock with difficulty—the lock was aging along with the building. Natalya pushed the door open and froze. In the narrow hallway stood two huge blue suitcases, taking up almost all the free space.
“Seryozha?” Natalya called, tugging off her wet boots.
Her husband stepped out of the living room. Sergey looked unusually tense for someone who usually greeted his wife with a smile and questions about her day.
“Oh, you’re back. Listen, here’s the thing…” Sergey rubbed the back of his head and nodded at the luggage. “This is my son—he’s going to live with us now.”
Natalya slowly hung her jacket on the hook, processing what she’d heard. Gleb, Sergey’s fifteen-year-old son from his first marriage, lived with his mother in another district. In the three years they’d been together, the boy had shown up at their place at most on weekends, and even then rarely.
“What do you mean, ‘going to live with us’?” Natalya frowned and tilted her head, trying to make sense of it.
“Just like that. Get used to it—and you’ll be the one feeding him. You’re the homemaker,” Sergey shrugged, as if he were announcing he’d bought a loaf of bread.
Natalya felt the blood rush to her face. Three years ago, when she married Sergey, she understood that a teenager came with the package. But occasional visits were one thing; living together permanently was something else entirely—especially when the decision was made without the slightest discussion.
“You decided it—so you handle it,” Natalya said evenly, suppressing the urge to raise her voice.
Sergey blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction.
“What do you mean? We live together, so—”
“So you inform me about your decisions instead of presenting me with a fait accompli,” Natalya cut him off. “Where’s my child?”
“Lena’s at a friend’s, doing homework. She’ll be home for dinner.”
Natalya nodded and went to the kitchen. Her daughter was in seventh grade and often stayed over at her classmate Sveta’s— the girls had been friends since first grade, and their parents kept warm relations.
Muffled voices sounded from the living room. Sergey was saying something to his son, but the words were indistinct. Natalya took food from the fridge for dinner. She usually cooked with leftovers in mind—Sergey liked to eat his fill, and Lena, at thirteen, could pack away an adult-sized portion.
Today she boiled exactly enough pasta for two. She fried two cutlets. She made a small bowl of salad.
“Dinner!” Natalya called.
All three came to the table. Gleb looked uncertain, glancing from his father to his stepmother. He’d grown since their last meeting, taller and broader in the shoulders, but he still held himself stiffly.
Natalya set out plates—for herself and for Lena. In front of Sergey and Gleb, the places at the table remained empty.
“And for them?” Sergey looked in surprise at the bare spots.
“You brought him—so you provide for him,” Natalya replied calmly, serving pasta to her daughter.
Lena raised her eyebrows but kept quiet. The girl had inherited from her mother the ability not to wade into adult conflicts unless absolutely necessary.
Gleb sat silently, staring at his empty plate. The atmosphere at the table thickened until it could be cut with a knife.
“Natalya, what are you doing?” Sergey spoke more quietly than usual, but tension vibrated in every word.
“Me? I’m having dinner. What are you doing?”
“Gleb is a child!”
“Gleb is your child. I feed my daughter; you feed your son.”
Natalya put a piece of cutlet into her mouth and began to chew, not taking her eyes off her husband. Sergey sat red-faced, his fists clenched on the table.
“Mom, can I go to Sveta’s?” Lena asked softly.
“Of course, sunshine. Just be home by ten.”
Her daughter quickly finished eating and disappeared into the hall. The front door slammed.
“Dad, I’m not really hungry,” Gleb mumbled.
“Sit,” Sergey snapped. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Natalya finished her cutlet and moved on to the salad. The silence stretched. Finally Sergey couldn’t stand it.
“Explain to me what’s going on!”
“What’s there to explain? You made a decision on your own—now handle it on your own.”
“We live in the same apartment!”
“In my apartment,” Natalya corrected him. “Which I bought before I met you. In my apartment, I set the rules.”
Sergey stood up sharply, knocking over his chair.
“Have you lost your mind? Gleb’s been left without a mother!”
“What do you mean, ‘without a mother’?” Natalya looked up. “Did something happen to his mother?”
“No, but… she’s getting married. To an American. She’s moving to the States. Gleb refused to fly—he wants to stay in Russia.”
“I see. And you decided to shift responsibility for raising your son onto me?”
“I thought you’d understand!”
“I do understand. I understand that you don’t think you need to consult me about matters that concern our family.”
Natalya stood and began clearing the table. The clatter of plates rang louder than usual.
“Gleb, go to your room,” the woman said without turning around.
“He doesn’t have his own room!” Sergey exploded.
“Then let him settle in yours. Or buy a bigger apartment.”
“With what money? I’m not an architect!”
Natalya stopped, dishes in her hands. Sergey worked as a metalworker at a factory, earning little and not overexerting himself. She made several times more, and he knew it perfectly well.
“Exactly. You’re not an architect. You didn’t buy this apartment. And you don’t get to decide who lives in it.”
Gleb rose from the table and slowly shuffled toward his parents’ bedroom. The boy was hunched, as if trying to make himself invisible.
“Natalya, think with your head!” Sergey lowered his voice. “Where am I supposed to put my son?”
“With his mother. Let her take him with her.”
“He doesn’t want to go!”
“Then to his grandmother’s. Rent him a room. There are plenty of options.”
“I don’t have that kind of money!”
Natalya put the dishes in the sink and turned to her husband.
“Sergey, I’m not against Gleb. I’m against you making decisions for me. If you want your son to live with us—let’s discuss the terms. Like adults.”
“What terms?” Sergey looked bewildered.
“Elementary ones. Who buys groceries, who cooks, who does the laundry, who cleans. Who pays the utilities, which will go up with a third resident. Who buys furniture—the boy needs somewhere to sleep, not the couch in the living room. Who goes to parent-teacher meetings, who handles doctors and tutors.”
Sergey stood silent, shifting from foot to foot.
“Did you think about any of that when you dragged in those suitcases?” Natalya continued. “Or were you counting on me taking everything on while you come home from work to a hot dinner and ironed shirts?”
“That’s not what I meant…”
“What did you mean, then?”
“Well… we’re one family now…”
Natalya sat down on a stool and looked closely at her husband.
“Sergey, in three years you’ve never once asked my opinion about raising Gleb. You’ve never asked how I feel about the boy coming here and behaving like it’s a hotel. He shows up, eats, sleeps, leaves. He’s never once said thank you.”
“He’s just shy…”
“Maybe. But that’s not my problem. That’s your problem as his father.”
“So what do you suggest?”
Natalya stood and opened the fridge. She took out eggs, bread, and sausage.
“I suggest you feed your child. And tomorrow morning we’ll calmly talk about the conditions under which Gleb can stay here.”
Sergey took the eggs and cracked them into the pan without a word. Natalya went into the bedroom. Gleb was sitting on the edge of the marital bed, staring at his sneakers.
“Gleb,” the woman called.
The boy looked up. His eyes were red.
“I have nothing against you,” Natalya said gently. “But decisions that affect everyone should be made by everyone. Do you understand?”
Gleb nodded.
“Good. Then tomorrow we’ll discuss how we can best live together.”
Natalya grabbed her pajamas and went to the bathroom. The mirror reflected the tired face of a thirty-six-year-old woman who had suddenly realized that family life could serve up surprises worse than a broken elevator.
On the other side of the wall, the eggs were sizzling, and a father was saying something quietly to his son. Natalya turned on the tap and began washing her face with cold water, wondering what the next day would bring.
On Monday morning, Sergey woke earlier than usual. Natalya heard him fumbling in the kitchen, trying to make breakfast. The sounds said it all—pans clanging, oil hissing, curses muttered through his teeth.
“Mom, what’s that smell?” Lena asked, appearing in the kitchen.
“Your stepfather is making breakfast for his son,” Natalya replied, pouring her daughter some juice.
“Smells burnt.”
“Then something’s burnt.”
Sergey came out of the kitchen red-faced and disheveled, holding a plate with a charred omelet.
“Gleb, breakfast is ready!” he shouted toward the bedroom.
The boy shuffled out, looked at the black mass on the plate, and grimaced.
“Dad, maybe just bread and butter?”
“Eat what you’re given,” Sergey snapped, though he knew himself the dish was inedible.
Silently, Natalya got her daughter ready for school, kissed her, and sent her off. Sergey left for the factory as well. Gleb stayed alone in the apartment—his classes at school wouldn’t start until the next day.
In the evening, her husband came home tired and hungry. As usual, Natalya cooked dinner for two—herself and Lena.
“Natalya, can you stop this mockery already?” Sergey sat across from his wife with an empty plate.
“I’m not mocking anyone. I’m eating.”
“Gleb was hungry all day!”
“And where were you all day?”
“At work!”
“Good. Then tomorrow leave him money for lunch or cook in the morning.”
Sergey was silent, realizing he had no argument. After dinner, he went to the store and bought convenience foods—dumplings, sausages, instant noodles.
On Tuesday morning, the story repeated itself. Sergey boiled the dumplings, but overcooked them until they turned to mush. Gleb poked at the soggy dough with his spoon and sighed.
“Dad, can I go to Grandma’s?”
“Why?”
“No reason… it’s just boring here.”
“Bear with it a bit. You’ll get used to it.”
But Gleb didn’t get used to it. He drifted around the apartment, watched TV, played on his phone. By midweek, the teenager started complaining that the place felt stuffy and uncomfortable.
“Dad, when is Mom coming back from America?”
“She’s not coming back, Gleb. She lives there now.”
“Maybe I should fly to her then?”
Sergey didn’t answer, but it was clear his patience was wearing thin. He wasn’t used to cooking, doing laundry, or keeping things tidy. By Thursday, a mountain of dirty dishes had piled up in the sink, laundry lay scattered across the bedroom, and the trash can overflowed with empty packaging from convenience foods.
“Everything’s on me!” Sergey exploded on Thursday evening. “I’m working, cooking, cleaning!”
“Welcome to the world of adults,” Natalya replied calmly, rinsing her plate.
“You can see I’m not managing!”
“I can. And?”
“Help me!”
“Why? This was your decision.”
Sergey grabbed his head and began pacing the kitchen.
“You’re cruel!”
“I’m consistent.”
“Gleb is a child!”
“Gleb is your child. You’re his father. Cope with it.”
Natalya stood and went to her room. Half an hour later, her husband tried to start a scene in the bedroom, but each time the woman calmly repeated the same thing:
“That was your decision.”
On Friday evening, the landline rang. Sergey snatched up the receiver.
“Hello, Mom… Yeah, everything’s fine… How are you? Gleb? He’s fine, adjusting…”
The voice on the other end grew louder. Natalya caught fragments:
“He called me! He’s complaining! He’s going hungry!”
“Mom, come on…”
“Bring him over immediately! Today!”
Sergey tried to object, but his mother clearly wasn’t going to listen. The call lasted about ten minutes. He put down the phone and sighed heavily.
“Mom’s taking Gleb to her place.”
“Good,” Natalya nodded, not looking up from her book.
“Good? You don’t care?”
“It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that I feel relieved. The apartment will be in order again.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
Saturday turned out rainy. Sergey packed his son’s things into the same blue suitcases he had brought a week earlier. Gleb helped his father, but it was obvious the boy was more relieved than anything to be moving to his grandmother’s.
“Anna Petrovna is a good woman,” Natalya told her husband. “She’ll handle it better than you.”
“She’s a pensioner! She’s seventy!”
“But experienced. She raised a son; she’ll raise a grandson.”
Sergey zipped the suitcase and straightened up.
“Maybe I was wrong… somewhere.”
“Not ‘somewhere’. Specifically. You made a decision without consulting me. And you shifted the responsibility onto my shoulders without even asking my consent.”
Sergey dragged the suitcases into the hall. Gleb put on his things and went to stand by the door.
“Natalya, thank you for letting me stay,” the boy said quietly.
“You’re welcome, Gleb. You can always come visit. But as a guest—when you’re invited.”
The boy nodded, catching the subtext.
The door closed behind father and son. Natalya was left alone in the quiet apartment. She walked through the rooms, assessing the damage. A major cleanup would be needed—the men had managed to make quite a mess.
But first, she sat in an armchair and opened the book she had set aside for a week. The home smelled of cleanliness and calm. No one had to be fed against her will. No one was shifting their responsibilities onto someone else.
Around eight, Lena came back. She’d spent the weekend at her friend’s, waiting out the family crisis.
“Mom, where is everyone?”
“Gleb moved to his grandmother’s; your stepfather took him.”
“Did he talk to us about it?”
“He does now,” Natalya smiled.
“So we’re having dinner for two?”
“For two.”
Mother and daughter set the table for two. Lena told stories about her weekend at Sveta’s, and Natalya listened, understanding that the week of standoff hadn’t been for nothing. Her husband had learned the main rule: in this house, decisions are made together, and no one takes on someone else’s responsibilities.
Around nine, Sergey returned. He looked tired and guilty.
“How are things?” Natalya asked.
“Fine. Mom cooked him soups for the week. She was happy to have her grandson.”
“That’s good. Anna Petrovna loves taking care of someone.”
“And you don’t?” Sergey asked quietly.
“I do. But those I choose myself. And when I’m asked, not forced.”
Sergey nodded and sat at the table. Natalya silently set a bowl of soup in front of him. He looked up in surprise.
“That’s for you. Because today you did the right thing—you found the child a suitable place without shifting the responsibility onto me.”
Sergey picked up the spoon and began to eat. Over the week, he had come to understand that being a parent is hard work—and forcing that work onto others is wrong and unfair.
“Natalya, I’m sorry,” he said between spoonfuls.
“For what?”
“For not thinking. For not asking. For deciding for you.”
“Good. The important thing is that it doesn’t happen again.”
“It won’t.”
Natalya poured herself tea and sat across from her husband. Peace and order reigned in the apartment once more. Most importantly, Sergey had learned his lesson. He now knew: his wife would not let anyone decide for her, and she would not take on someone else’s duties without her own consent.
The evening passed quietly. A family of three had dinner, watched TV, and planned the next day. No one had to be forced to eat. No one complained about discomfort. Harmony was restored in Natalya’s home—built on mutual respect and shared decisions.