“Just try bringing your nephews here one more time, Sasha! I have no use for those little rugrats, and on top of that I’m the one who has to watch them and clean up because you want to relax after work! Enough!”
Marina said it without raising her voice. She stood in the middle of the living room—spotless, smelling of lemon furniture polish and something faintly sweet left over from the children’s cookies. She didn’t gesture, didn’t shout. Her hands were calmly folded across her chest, her gaze clear and steady on her husband, who had just walked in. He hadn’t even taken off his jacket; his face still wore the benevolent expression of a man who’d done a good deed and was looking forward to a well-earned rest.
Sasha closed the door behind him and exhaled wearily. The evening drive through traffic to take the irrepressible Vitya and Kolya back to his sister had drained him. He expected anything—reproaches, a pout, the usual grumbling that he’d failed to warn her again. But this icy, almost emotionless statement caught him off guard.
“Marina, why are you starting in? I just helped my sister—she had a crunch at work, a rush project. Who else if not me? We’re family; we have to support each other.”
He hung his jacket on a hook and headed for the kitchen, assuming dinner would be waiting. Marina didn’t move. She silently waited for him to come back to the hall and then handed him a neat A4 sheet printed from the computer.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking the page with a baffled look. He’d expected a shopping list or another reminder, but the text was laid out in lines with numbers.
“A price list,” Marina replied evenly.
Sasha ran his eyes over the lines. First came confusion, quickly replaced by a crooked smirk. He decided it was some new, peculiar joke.
“Schedule of fees for the provision of childcare and supervision services on the provider’s premises.”
Nanny services (supervision, organizing activities, conflict resolution) — 500 rubles/hour. Time provided: 6 hours. Total: 3,000 rubles.
Meal services (preparing lunch and afternoon snack, children’s menu) — 300 rubles/person. Quantity: 2 people. Total: 600 rubles.
Cleaning services (heavy-duty cleanup after active play: mopping floors, removing crumbs and modeling clay from furniture, removing marker stains) — 1,000 rubles. Grand total due: 4,600 rubles.
“Are you out of your mind?” He finally laughed, but the laugh came out short and nervous. “Four thousand six hundred? For sitting with my nephews? They’re kids, Marina! It’s my family!”
“Exactly,” she nodded, her voice unwavering. “The family is yours; the labor is mine. Your sister got six free hours to handle her stuff. You got six hours of downtime after work while I scrubbed their artwork off the light-colored sofa and dug building blocks out from under the cabinet. And I got six hours of unpaid labor instead of my own rest and errands. I simply calculated the minimum market value of my time and effort.”
Sasha stopped smiling. He looked from the paper in his hands to his wife and didn’t recognize her. Standing before him was not Marina—his gentle, sometimes grouchy, but always understanding wife. Standing before him was a stranger, cold, speaking to him in the language of numbers and services.
“You… you’re serious? You want me to pay you for helping my own sister?”
“I want you to pay me for my work. You’ve turned our home into a free daycare with an entertainer and a cleaner in my person. I’ve simply put a price on the position. And”—she paused briefly, looking him straight in the eye—“from this day on, you pay for my services in advance. You transfer the money to my card, I receive the bank notification, and only then do your nephews cross this threshold. If there’s no money, there’s no service. Simple as that. No credit, no post-factum. This is a commercial operation, not a charity.”
The next few days, the apartment lived in a regime of glacial politeness. Gone were the evening chats over tea, the shared movies, the lazy morning hugs. Marina and Sasha moved around their shared space like feuding flatmates in a communal apartment. They exchanged short, functional phrases: “Pass the salt,” “Should I save you dinner?” “I’ll be late.” The air was so thick with the unsaid it felt you could slice it with a knife. Sasha waited. He was sure this was a whim, a woman’s caprice taken to the absurd. Marina would blow off steam, realize how silly it was, and everything would go back to normal. He even snickered a couple of times, seeing that same “price list” on the kitchen table being used as a trivet.
The showdown came on Saturday morning. Sasha was lying on the couch with his phone, enjoying a rare day off, when a call came. “Lena—Sister” flashed on the screen. He tensed at once.
“Hey, Lena,” he began brightly, instinctively lowering his voice, though Marina was in another room.
“Sasha, help me, I’m begging!” his sister rattled off. “They’ve dragged me in to work, total emergency, the servers are down, the sysadmin’s on vacation. I need to run in for literally three or four hours. And there’s no one to take the boys, you know that. Can you keep them? I’ll be quick, I promise!”
Sasha closed his eyes. Here it was—the moment of truth. A swarm of thoughts tore through his head. Refuse his sister? Impossible. She wouldn’t understand. Explain his wife’s “price list”? Shameful, humiliating. He pictured her widening eyes, then the snide comments to their mother later. No way. Only one path remained: push Marina. Persuade, cajole, insist if necessary. He was the man of the house, after all.
“Yeah, sure, Lena, no problem. Bring them over,” he said with false confidence and hung up.
He got up and headed to the kitchen, where Marina was methodically wiping the already spotless cabinet fronts. She turned as he came in, her face utterly calm, as if she already knew why he’d come and how it would end.
“Lena’s bringing the kids,” he began as casually as he could. “It’s a crunch at work—just a couple of hours.”
Marina quietly set the cloth aside, washed her hands, dried them on a towel. Then she took her phone from the table, unlocked it, and opened the banking app. Without a word, she held it out to Sasha. On the screen: her card details and a field to enter the amount.
Sasha froze. This wasn’t a joke. Her face was serious, her movements precise. There wasn’t a hint of anger in her—only businesslike focus.
“Marina, stop this circus. I said it’s just a couple of hours. We’re not strangers.”
“An hour costs five hundred rubles,” her voice was as smooth and clean as the kitchen surfaces she’d just polished. “Your sister said ‘three to four hours.’ Let’s count the minimum. Three hours is fifteen hundred for nanny services. Plus lunch for two—six hundred rubles. I won’t charge for cleaning today; a discount for a first-time client. Total: two thousand one hundred rubles.”
She gave the phone a slight tilt, reminding him it was still there. Blood rushed to Sasha’s face. It was humiliating. Paying his own wife to watch his nephews. In his own home.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he hissed.
“I would,” she said simply. “You have a choice. Either you transfer the money now and in half an hour I greet the children with a smile. Or you tell your sister our plans have changed and I don’t open the door. There is no third option.”
He looked into her cool, resolute eyes and knew she wasn’t bluffing. She truly wouldn’t open the door. And the entire shame of it would fall on him. He’d look like a ridiculous henpecked fool who couldn’t handle a basic family matter. With loathing, he yanked his phone from his pocket and opened the bank app. His fingers fumbled as he typed the amount: 2100. Payment description. He paused for a second, then typed with a spiteful smirk: “For services rendered.” He hit “Send.”
A moment later Marina’s phone emitted a short, dry chime. She glanced at the screen, gave a small nod to herself as if acknowledging a completed task, and slipped the phone into her pocket.
“Excellent. Tell your sister it’s on. Lunch will be ready in an hour.”
She turned and went back to her interrupted business—restoring immaculate order—as if nothing had happened. Sasha remained standing in the kitchen, a nasty taste of his own powerlessness in his mouth. He had just paid for something that had always been taken for granted. And that crisp, digital click of the bank notification sounded like a funeral bell for his married life.
A week passed. Then another. The new order of things, which at first had seemed to Sasha an absurd piece of theater, began to take on the suffocating routine of everyday life. Twice in those two weeks his sister asked them to sit with the boys, and twice Sasha, teeth clenched, transferred money to Marina’s account. He learned to do it silently, with a stony, unreadable face, as if paying for parking or utilities. But inside, a dull, impotent rage boiled. He began to see Marina not as his wife but as some kind of domestic racketeer levying tribute on his family feelings.
He tried to fight back with the means available to him—passive aggression and belittlement.
“So, did you get your paycheck, businesswoman?” he spat one evening when Marina came back from the store with bags obviously bought with her “earnings.”
“I did,” she said calmly, putting the groceries away. “Turns out my time isn’t that cheap. Strange no one noticed earlier.”
Each of her answers was like a perfectly honed stiletto—no windup, no wasted motion, straight to the mark. She didn’t pick fights, didn’t get wounded by his barbs. She simply adhered to the new rules of the game—her rules—with the inevitability of clockwork.
Another Thursday—Lena called again. This time the request was trickier. It wasn’t just work; it was a corporate event sliding into an after-party. Which meant she wouldn’t be able to pick up the kids until late, around eleven.
“And, Sasha, one more little thing,” she trilled, clueless about the bill that would be issued for that “little thing.” “Vitya’s got a math project—he needs help cutting and gluing geometric shapes; I just won’t manage. And Kolya’s begging for your signature cottage-cheese pancakes—remember how you used to make them? Make some, please? For your favorite nephew.”
Sasha hung up and went to the kitchen where Marina was reading. He already had his phone ready for another humiliating transaction.
“Lena’s asking us to keep the kids tonight until eleven,” he started from the doorway. “Go on, calculate what I owe you, my personal calculator.”
Marina set down her book, placing a marker. She looked at him without the slightest irritation, with the calm interest of a researcher studying an insect’s habits.
“Until eleven—that’s five hours. At the standard rate—two and a half thousand. Dinner for two—six hundred. Total: three thousand one hundred.”
“Perfect,” Sasha ground out, opening the bank app. “What, checking homework is extra now? Maybe I should tip you for a smile, too?”
He thought the jab would sting, but Marina just tilted her head slightly.
“Help with the math project isn’t included in the basic ‘Supervision’ package. That’s an educational service. ‘Tutor’ rate, plus five hundred. And the cottage-cheese pancakes are a higher-complexity dish; they’re not part of the standard children’s menu of ‘pasta and sausage.’ That’s the ‘Personal Chef’ service, plus four hundred for complexity and ingredients. Which brings us”—she did the math in her head—“to an even four thousand.”
Sasha froze with the phone in his hand. He stared at her, feeling like he was seeing her for the first time. That businesslike tone, those terms—“basic package,” “educational service,” “tariff.” She wasn’t just taking money; she was building a business model on the ruins of their family. It wasn’t merely humiliating anymore. It was monstrous.
“You… you’re kidding, right? You just made that up!”
“I’m not making it up; I’m optimizing the process,” she parried. “You want extra services beyond what’s been agreed? Be ready to pay. Or you can sit with Vitya yourself and glue his octahedrons. And you can go to the kitchen and fry pancakes for Kolya. Meanwhile I’ll do my basic job—make sure they don’t burn the apartment down. Your call.”
And he realized he was trapped. He couldn’t refuse his sister. He couldn’t say, “You know, Lena, my wife wants a surcharge for pancakes.” But he wasn’t about to do it all himself either—he wanted to relax, watch a series, lounge on the couch. He wanted things to be like before, with someone else footing the bill. And now the bill was on him.
Without another word, he typed “4000” into his phone and, in the payment description, spitefully wrote: “Full board.” He hit “Send.”
That evening, from his armchair, he watched Marina—once the payment had arrived—patiently and methodically explain to Vitya how to fold the cardboard to make a cube. Then she went to the kitchen, and within half an hour the smell of vanilla and frying batter wafted out. She didn’t coo over the kids, didn’t play with them with showy enthusiasm. She simply delivered the paid-for services. Competently, professionally, efficiently. And that efficiency sent a chill down Sasha’s back. He wasn’t looking at his wife and nephews. He was looking at a hired worker and two small clients whose leisure was fully covered per the price list.
A month passed. Sasha got used to paying. He no longer argued, no longer sniped, no longer tried to appeal to whatever was left of what he once called a family. He became a client. A neat, compliant client who knew that every extra option would cost extra. The system Marina had built ran with the faultless precision of a Swiss watch. It was cold, inhuman, but predictable. And in that predictability Sasha found a strange, twisted kind of calm. No more quarrels, reproaches, or resentments. There were only services and their timely payment. Their marriage had turned into a long-term cohabitation contract with outsourced household and educational tasks.
The climax came on a Friday. His sister’s call caught him at work. Her voice rang with anticipation.
“Sashulya, hi! We’ve got mega-news! The girls and I are going to a resort for the whole weekend! Friday evening to Sunday evening! Can you imagine—two days of freedom!” She made a theatrical pause. “You know what I’m hinting at, right? Help me out, bro! Take the boys, please? I’ll bring you and Marina a nice bottle of cognac after!”
Sasha shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The whole weekend. Not three hours and not five. Forty-eight straight hours of “service provision.” He mentally estimated the scale of the outlay. Forty-eight nanny-rate hours. Two breakfasts, two lunches, two dinners. Plus, undoubtedly, “additional services”—walks, homework help, entertainment. The sum was astronomical—comparable to his quarterly bonus. But he couldn’t refuse his sister. That would be tantamount to publicly admitting his family was a fiction and his wife a hired worker.
That evening he came home braced for the toughest negotiation of his life. Marina was in the living room. She wasn’t reading or watching TV—just sitting in a chair, looking out the window.
“Lena’s got plans for the weekend,” he began without preamble, like a client discussing a large order. “She’s asking us to take the kids from tonight until Sunday evening. Name your price.”
He expected anything: that she’d take out a calculator, start listing rates on paper. Instead, Marina stood, went to the sideboard, took out several A4 sheets stapled together, and handed them to him.
“Please review the commercial offer,” she said evenly.
Sasha took the papers. It wasn’t a price list. It was a “Service Agreement for Temporary Lodging and Supervision of Minors.” Printed, with margins, numbered sections and subsections. Written in dry, lifeless bureaucratese. “Provider” Marina Igorevna and “Customer” Alexander Dmitrievich. Subject of the agreement, rights and responsibilities of the parties, payment procedures.
He skimmed the sections and felt a cold horror wash over him. “2.1. The Provider undertakes to deliver the ‘Full Board’ service, which includes…” “3.4. In the event the Customer fails to remove the ‘objects of supervision’ (hereinafter ‘the Children’) upon the agreed deadline, penalty sanctions shall be imposed on the Customer at the rate of 1,000 rubles for each hour of delay.” “4.2. Payment shall be made as an advance in the amount of 100% of the full cost of services specified in Appendix No. 1 (Itemized Estimate).”
At the end, an estimate was attached. The total for two days came to twenty-two thousand rubles. With a note: “Expenses for leisure activities (cinema, attractions) and treatment in case of sudden illness are to be covered by the Customer separately upon submission of receipts.”
Something in Sasha snapped. He didn’t shout. He laughed—short and hollow, as if someone had punched the wind out of him.
“An agreement… penalty sanctions… objects of supervision…” He slowly raised his eyes from the document to his wife. “You… you’ve completely lost it. You’ve destroyed everything. You’ve turned our home, our family into a limited liability company called ‘Family Comfort, LLC.’”
He flung the papers onto the table. The pages fanned out over the polished surface.
“I thought it was a game—to teach me a lesson. But it’s not! You like this! You like being not a wife but the director of this poorhouse!”
His voice broke, but Marina did not move. Her calm was more frightening than any scream. When he fell silent, catching his breath, she answered. And her words were not a blow but a final, point-blank shot.
“You destroyed the family, Sasha. You. The very day you decided I was a function. A free add-on to your life, meant to serve you and your whole clan. I didn’t destroy the family. I just gave your treatment of me an official status and a price tag. You made me a servant; I simply became a very expensive servant. And you know what? I prefer being a highly paid employee in this house to being a rightless slave working for the privilege of living next to you. So yes, this is an LLC. And if you don’t like the terms, you can look for another provider.”
She turned and walked to the kitchen. Sasha stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the scattered pages of the agreement. He understood this was the end. Not the kind of end where dishes fly and property is divided. Another kind, far more frightening—where two people keep living under one roof, but there’s nothing left between them except invoices, estimates, and commercial offers. He was no longer her husband. He was just a client who had just been refused service…