“Polina, hi! We bought the tickets—we’ll be at your place in a week!”
Masha’s voice—her husband’s sister—was thick as honey in the receiver and rang with open, almost childlike excitement. At that moment, Polina was standing on the narrow balcony of their two-room apartment, hanging up freshly washed laundry. A warm June breeze pleasantly brushed her face, and down in the courtyard children were laughing. An ordinary Tuesday. A blue plastic clothespin slipped from her suddenly weakened fingers and clicked softly, almost inaudibly, as it hit the concrete floor. The air in her lungs seemed to thicken and become unfit for breathing.
“What tickets, Masha?” she asked, doing everything she could to keep her voice steady and as matter-of-fact as it had been a minute before. In her ears, however, a dull low hum was already swelling, like the air before a storm.
“What do you mean what tickets? Train tickets, of course! Like Ilyusha said, all together, the whole gang! Eight people! Mom, Dad, me and Vitya with our two little rascals, Aunt Galya and Uncle Kolya! Finally we’ll all be together! I can’t wait, I’m beside myself! Can you imagine—a whole month at your place: we’ll swim, we’ll stroll, we’ll rest like human beings!”
Eight people. For a whole month. At their place. Polina shifted her gaze from the playground to the windows of her apartment. Their apartment. Two rooms. With twelve more years to pay on it. She leaned her back against the rough, sun-warmed wall of the building, staring blankly at the world below—a world that, five minutes earlier, had been so clear and orderly. She didn’t say “great,” or “we’re waiting for you,” or “I’m so happy.” She mumbled something indistinct about being busy and hung up. The phone in her hand felt like a cast-iron ingot. She didn’t go back to hanging the rest of the laundry in the basin. Silently, with mechanical movements, she gathered the clothespins into the plastic basket, carried the basin to the bathroom, and went to the kitchen. She sat down on a chair by the window and went still. She didn’t think, didn’t rage, didn’t panic. She waited. For three hours she sat almost motionless, watching the sun crawl across the wall of the neighboring building. She simply waited, and with each passing minute her decision grew harder and colder, like cooling metal.
Ilya came home when dusk had already begun to thicken outside. Tired, smelling of street dust and exhaust fumes, he tossed his keys onto the little hallway table and, groaning with relief, started to unlace his shoes. Polina stepped silently out of the kitchen and stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He didn’t notice her at once.
“Your sister called me,” she said quietly, but in the ringing emptiness of the corridor her voice boomed. “She thanked me for my hospitality. Will you tell me how you decided—without asking me—to house eight of your relatives in our two-room apartment for a whole month?”
He froze with a half-untied lace in his hand. He straightened slowly, and that same guilty, ingratiating smile appeared on his face—the one Polina hated most of all. The smile of someone who’s misbehaved and hopes to be forgiven.
“Oh, that… Well, Polina, I wanted to surprise you… They’re family… They haven’t been to the city in so long, they miss it.”
“A surprise?” She took a step toward him, and the smile on his face began to fade slowly, as if erased by a rubber. “You decided to turn my home into a gypsy camp, my life into round-the-clock work as a free cook and cleaner for thirty days—and that, in your mind, is a surprise?”
“Polina, why are you starting like this? Where else are they supposed to stay? They’re family! We’re not strangers! We’ll fit somehow—cramped but content…”
He still tried to speak as if this were some trivial household detail that could be smoothed over with a couple of kind words. But Polina had already made up her mind. She stepped almost right up to him. Her face was utterly calm, even detached.
“Since you’ve already promised your clan you’d put them all up, then find a place to rent for that—and move in there with them. But no one comes through this door without my say-so.”
He looked at her, and it seemed to be dawning on him. This wasn’t a usual female caprice. This was a declaration of war. Cold, merciless war.
“But I already promised!” he stammered, and the phrase sounded pathetically childish, like the last argument of a guilty schoolboy.
“That’s your problem,” she cut him off. “Those are your promises, and they’re your relatives. Call them right now and cancel your surprise. Or pack your things and go live with them when they arrive at the station. Your choice.”
She turned and just as silently went back to the kitchen, leaving him alone in the half-dark corridor with his promise, which now hung around his neck like a heavy, choking stone. In the kitchen she set the kettle on the stove. Its steady, rising hum was the only sound in the apartment, but to Ilya it felt as if he’d gone deaf from the thunderous silence that had fallen between them.
Ilya stood in the corridor for a couple more minutes, as if trying to digest what he’d heard. The kettle’s humming from the kitchen frayed his nerves. He followed Polina like a boat on a towline and stopped at the kitchen table. Without looking at him, she took out two cups, spooned in tea, and poured the boiling water. Her movements were precise and calm, as if nothing had happened. That composure infuriated him far more than if she’d started shouting and smashing dishes.
“Are you serious?” he began, trying to keep his voice down, though sharp, shrill notes were already creeping in. “You’re just crossing out my family like that? The people who raised me? You want me to call my mother and say, ‘Sorry, Mom, my wife doesn’t want to see you in her house’? Is that what you expect from me?”
He braced his hands on the table, leaning toward her. He tried to press, to loom, to create a physical sense of his superiority and his rightness. Polina slowly raised her eyes to him. Her gaze was clear, transparent—and utterly icy.
“I expect you to solve the problem you created. You made a promise without consulting me. You took charge of my home, my time, my comfort as if it were your personal property. So yes, I expect you to clean up your own mess.”
“My comfort!” he barked a bitter laugh, straightening up. “What are you even talking about? It’s only for a month! What, aren’t we Russians? We’ve lived our whole lives on top of one another and nobody died! Helping each other is normal! It’s the only thing we’ve got—family! And you talk like an egoist who begrudges an extra bowl of soup!”
He rolled out the heavy artillery—accusations of callousness and selfishness. He expected her to start justifying herself, proving she wasn’t like that. But Polina only took a sip of hot tea.
“Fine,” she said in that same even voice. “Let’s forget about egoism and talk math. Our apartment is fifty-four square meters. Two rooms. Ten people, counting you and me. Let’s place them. Your parents, say, in our bedroom, on our bed. You and I—on an air mattress in the living room. Where will Masha, her husband, and their two kids sleep? Also in the living room, on the floor, in a heap? And Aunt Galya and Uncle Kolya? In the hallway by the front door? Or maybe in the kitchen, on these two chairs?”
Her eyes swept the tiny kitchen. Ilya kept silent, his jaw clenched.
“Moving on,” she continued pitilessly. “Ten people. We have one bathroom combined with the toilet. Morning rush hour. Do you picture that line of eight adults and two children? Do you picture how much hot water we’ll need? Our boiler is sized for two, three at most. After fifteen minutes the water turns icy. Who showers last? Your mother? Or your nephew?”
He wanted to object, but she didn’t let him get a word in.
“And now the most interesting part. Food. Ten people need three meals a day. That’s thirty portions a day. Nine hundred portions a month. Who’s going to buy groceries in those volumes? Who’ll haul those bags? Who will stand at the stove from five in the morning to cook breakfast for this entire camp, and then wash a mountain of dishes? You? I doubt it. You’ll be ‘spending time with the family.’ Which means I’ll be doing it. And I don’t want to. I didn’t sign up to be an unpaid cook.”
She set the cup down. The sound was sharp and final.
“So this isn’t about selfishness, Ilya. It’s about common sense. Your grand gesture isn’t hospitality. It’s stupidity and irresponsibility. You promised something physically impossible without turning our life—and your relatives’ lives—into a communal hell. So pick up the phone. Call them. Explain you miscalculated. Or find an apartment. You have a week.”
For the next two days the apartment became a zone of silent estrangement. They moved along the same route—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, corridor—but as if in different dimensions, carefully avoiding even accidental touches. Ilya slept on the living-room sofa. Not because Polina had banished him, but because he couldn’t bring himself to enter the bedroom. He felt like an intruder, guilty—and that submissive capitulation irritated Polina more than their initial argument. He waited. Waited for her to “cool off,” to “change her mind,” to “come around.” He didn’t understand that, for her, the matter was already closed, poured in concrete and strung with barbed wire.
On the third day the calls began. His mother, of course, was first—Valentina Petrovna. Polina was in the kitchen when she heard Ilya’s muffled muttering from the living room. She wasn’t trying to listen, but scraps of phrases reached her on their own. “No, Mom, everything’s fine… Just tired… Yes, of course, we’re waiting…” He was lying. Awkwardly, pathetically, trying to save face with his mother and at the same time not provoke a new explosion from his wife.
When he finished, he came into the kitchen with the face of a man headed to the scaffold.
“Mom called,” he announced the obvious. “They’re already packing their suitcases. The kids drew pictures for you. She’s asking what homemade preserves to bring.”
He looked at her with hope. Pathetic hope that the mention of children, drawings, and pickled goods would melt her icy heart. Polina was slowly drying a plate, her movements measured and precise.
“And what did you tell her?” she asked without turning her head.
“I said we don’t need anything, we have everything… Polina, you don’t understand—they’re already set on this. They’re living for it. How can I tell them ‘stop’ now? It will be a blow. My mother won’t survive it.”
New notes crept into his voice. This was no longer simply a request but a demand wrapped in concern for a mother’s heart. He shifted responsibility for his relatives’ feelings onto her.
“Then she’ll have to survive somehow,” Polina replied calmly, setting the plate in the rack. “Or you can spare her the blow. You’ve got four days to find them lodging. A small house in the suburbs for a month won’t be that expensive if your close-knit clan chips in.”
“Are you kidding me?” he flared. “What house? They’re coming to me! To their son! To my home!”
“It’s my home too,” she turned to him at last. “And right now my share of common sense outweighs your share of filial devotion.”
Before he could answer, Polina’s phone vibrated on the table. The screen showed “Masha.” She looked at Ilya, then at the phone, and something like battle-ready sparkled in her eyes. She accepted the call and turned on speaker.
“Polinochka, hi!” his sister trilled in the receiver. “Just a minute—I wanted to check if everything’s okay. Ilyusha sounded upset on the phone, I got worried. Maybe you need help before we arrive? We’re not going to a hotel, we understand everything. I can help with cooking and cleaning…”
It was a well-thought-out move. Masha displayed understanding, involvement, and readiness to help, putting Polina in an unfavorable light if she continued to resist. She was essentially saying: “See, I’m not a freeloader; I’m ready to share the work—so what’s your problem?”
“Masha, everything’s fine with us,” Polina answered in an even, friendly tone, looking her husband straight in the eye. “As for why Ilya sounded upset, it’s better to ask him. He had a very interesting surprise we’re discussing right now. Sorry, it’s not a good time to talk—lots to do. We’ll be in touch later.”
And without waiting for a reply, she ended the call. Ilya stared at her, mouth open. Right before his eyes she had repelled the attack and redirected all the arrows at him. She hadn’t started a fight with his sister. She politely suggested Masha take it up with the one responsible.
“What are you doing?” he hissed when silence fell over the apartment again. “You’re siccing them on me!”
“Me?” Polina raised her eyebrows in feigned surprise. “I simply told the truth. It was your surprise. Your promises. So explain yourself to them now. Or did you think I would lie to your family to cover your stupidity? You were wrong, Ilya. Very wrong.”
One day remained. One day until the train that was supposed to bring eight people—and chaos—into their life. Ilya couldn’t find a place for himself. He paced the living room like a caged animal. The phone in his hand buzzed with messages and missed calls from Masha and his mother. They were in a state of anticipation, sending photos of packed suitcases and asking whether he would meet them at the station. And he looked at Polina’s unreadable face as she sat in an armchair with a book and realized he had lost. The awareness of his own helplessness and of the stupidity he had trapped himself in boiled into a poisonous rage.
He stopped right in front of her, snatched the book from her hands, and hurled it to the floor.
“Enough!” he roared, and there was no longer plea or confusion in his voice—only raw, animal anger. “Is this what you wanted? Happy now? You trampled my family and humiliated me in front of them! You’re not a woman, you’re a chunk of ice! You just like torturing me, watching me squirm, forcing me to lie to the people closest to me!”
Polina slowly raised her eyes to him. She wasn’t afraid. There was nothing in her gaze but weariness and cold contempt.
“I didn’t trample anyone, Ilya. I simply didn’t allow anyone to wipe their feet on me and on my home. Those are different things.”
“Your home?!” he exploded. “And what am I here—an errand boy? I work here, I pay this damned mortgage no less than you do, and you get to decide who crosses the threshold and who doesn’t? My mother, who devoted her life to me, now has to ask your permission to see her son? You just hate them! You hate them for being simple, normal people—not like your fancy city friends!”
He spewed out everything that had built up. All his guilt, all his weakness, he tried to reforge into accusations against her. He wanted to hurt her, strike the sorest spot, make her scream, cry, argue. But Polina was silent, and that silence was scarier than any scream. She just looked at him, and in that look he saw a final verdict.
At that moment the doorbell rang. Short, insistent, businesslike. Ilya flinched. “They’re here, he thought. Early. They found the address. Now it begins.” He rushed to the door, ready to greet his kin, praying God that Polina wouldn’t stage a scandal right on the threshold.
But it wasn’t his relatives at the door. Two close-cropped men in matching blue coveralls were holding tablets.
“Good afternoon. We’re here to remove the items. Is this the right address?” one of them asked matter-of-factly.
Ilya stared at them, stunned, not understanding what was happening. Polina stepped out from behind him.
“Yes, that’s right, come in,” she said calmly, stepping aside to let the movers into the apartment.
The men nodded and, without unnecessary words, entered. Ilya watched as they deftly went into the bedroom and came out with five enormous bags. He shifted his baffled gaze to his wife.
“W-what is this?” he whispered.
“I solved the problem for myself,” she said quietly but distinctly, watching a mover pass by. “You were worried they’d have nowhere to sleep. I don’t have that problem anymore.”
She took a step toward him.
“Since you’ve already promised your family to take them all in, find an apartment for that and move in there with them. But no one comes in here without my say-so.” She repeated her first words, but now they sounded entirely different. This wasn’t an ultimatum. It was a fact. A statement of a new reality in which there was no longer a place for him, his family, or his things.
She walked past him into the kitchen. Ilya’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Masha. He stood in the middle of an apartment emptying before his eyes, amid the scrape of moving furniture and the presence of strangers. He looked at Polina’s back, at his own bags in the movers’ hands—men who were waiting for an address to take it all to—and he realized that he would now have to answer the call and tell his jubilant family that the home awaiting them no longer existed. That her brother’s surprise had turned out to be the end of everything…