“You’re a leech, Lena!” Oleg snapped, hurling his spoon into the sink so hard the borscht splashed onto the freshly scrubbed tiles. “I’m working myself to the bone, and you sit at home with three kids, wasting away. A parasite!”
Lena went still. In one hand she held a wet dishcloth; in the other, little Masha—only six months old. The older two, born just a year apart, fell silent in the kids’ room, frightened by their father’s shouting.
“A parasite?” she echoed quietly, feeling a cold, steady fury rising inside her. “Me—alone with three babies, no nanny, no grandmothers, no help?”
“And who else?” Oleg barked, swaggering now, hands planted on his hips. “Sure, the apartment is technically yours—thanks to your late dad—but I’m the one feeding you! I’m tired, Lena. I need space, not this round-the-clock daycare.”
He expected tears. He expected his worn-out wife—broken by sleepless nights—to start justifying herself, bustling around, pouring tea. But Lena only set the cloth down. Her gaze grew heavy, like a cast-iron pan.
“Space, huh?” She swung the front door wide open. “Then go. Right now. I’ll throw your things out the window later.”
Oleg smirked. He didn’t believe her. He should have. An hour later he stood on the landing with a suitcase, listening to the locks clicking shut—one after another. Forever.
Three years passed. Lena came back to life. The kids grew, started kindergarten and school. She returned to work, built a career in logistics. And that’s when Vitya appeared.
Vitya was a kettlebell trainer—broad shoulders, a movie-star grin, endless lectures about healthy eating and “chi energy.” He courted her beautifully: carried the kids in his arms (literally, two at once), fixed taps, handled little repairs. It seemed like a dream you’re allowed to keep.
For a year they lived in perfect harmony. Then one evening at dinner, picking at a steamed cutlet with his fork, Vitya dropped it like it was nothing:
“Len, listen… I need to upgrade my work category, file some documents. So… can you register me at your place? Just temporarily. I’m technically from outside the city, and commuting is a headache.”
Lena put her knife down. Something invisible clicked in her mind. She knew Vitya had his own two-bedroom—he just rented it out to pay off the loan on his fancy car.
“Vitya,” she said sweetly, “why do you need registration with me if you have your own apartment forty minutes away?”
“Why are you starting?” the giant frowned. “What, you’re sorry for me? We’re practically a family. A stamp in the passport means trust. So you don’t trust me?”
Lena remembered Oleg. She remembered how hard it is to get “former family members” out if they decide to dig in their heels.
“I do trust you,” she said. “But I register only my children in my apartment. That’s my rule.”
Vitya sulked for a week, gloomier than a thundercloud, then staged a full-blown tantrum—smashing dishes and ranting about “money-grabbing women.” Lena calmly pointed at the door, without heartbreak this time. Experience is a brutal teacher.
Five more years went by. Lena turned forty. She wasn’t chasing love anymore—but love found her anyway.
Andrey.
A well-mannered man with a gentle voice, a department head at a bank. He didn’t demand, didn’t shout—he simply stayed close. He spoiled the kids with gifts: building sets, tablets. He took Lena to countryside hotels on weekends. It felt like this was it—mature, real happiness.
“Let’s get married,” he said after six months. “And I’ll introduce you to my parents. They’re old-fashioned—simple people, but warm-hearted.”
They decided to hold the “meet the parents” dinner at Lena’s place. She set the table: roasted duck, made salads, brought out the good china. The apartment shone with cleanliness and comfort.
Andrey’s parents—Galina Petrovna and Nikolai Ivanovich—arrived with stiff politeness. His mother wore sparkly lurex and a teased-up hairstyle; his father was quiet, obedient, the kind who never contradicts her. They surveyed the rooms with a sharp, measuring look. Galina Petrovna even ran a finger along the windowsill—found no dust and pursed her lips in visible disappointment.
The evening went smoothly at first. Andrey poured wine, the kids said hello politely and escaped to their room. Toasts sounded sugary: “To the young couple,” “To a cozy home.”
And then, when tea and cake appeared, Galina Petrovna set her cup aside, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and—staring straight at Lena like she was aiming for the bridge of her nose—announced:
“You’ve got it good here, Lenochka. Spacious. Four rooms, city center. Well done. Your father and I talked and decided… since you and Andryusha are signing the papers, we need to sort out one little matter.”
Lena tensed. Andrey suddenly became intensely fascinated by the pattern on the tablecloth.
“What matter?” Lena asked politely.
“We have an uncle—my distant cousin, Uncle Kolya,” the future mother-in-law began, taking a long detour. “He lives in the village now, and the medical care there—you know, it’s awful. He needs to register for a city pension and attach himself to a proper clinic. We want you to register him at your address.”
A ringing silence dropped over the room. The hallway clock was loud enough to count.
“Excuse me?” Lena honestly thought she’d misheard. “Register your uncle? A complete stranger?”
“Why a stranger?” Galina Petrovna looked offended, as if Lena had refused to pass the salt. “You and Andryusha will be family. That means Uncle Kolya is your family too. He doesn’t have to live here—he just needs the registration.”
“Does Andrey have his own place?” Lena asked, looking at her fiancé.
“He does—a one-bedroom,” his mother answered quickly. “But why there? It’s cramped. And we might sell it to finish the dacha. You’ve got the space. And besides, Lenochka,” her voice hardened into steel, “you join a family with an open heart. You’re living a bit too sweet. If you don’t want life to feel like a fairy tale, you need to help others.”
Lena turned to Andrey.
“Do you feel the same?”
Andrey lifted his eyes—full of suffering, and total obedience to his mother. “Len… it’s just paperwork. Mom’s asking.”
At that moment Lena didn’t feel pain. She felt something like relief—clean, sudden, undeniable. Like an infection that had been brewing for months finally bursting.
“Just paperwork?” Lena rose to her feet. “So life shouldn’t feel like a fairy tale?”
She walked to the cabinet, pulled out a folder of documents, turned it in her hands, then tossed it back.
“You know, Galina Petrovna, I have a wonderful idea for Uncle Kolya,” she said calmly. “Let him register in the village—fresh air is good for everyone. And you, dear guests…” She smiled her most charming smile, the kind that made Andrey’s stomach go cold. “…get out.”
“What?!” Galina Petrovna choked on air. “How dare you—! We came to you with open hearts! Rude, ungrateful woman!”
“Out,” Lena repeated softly—yet the word hit the room so hard it felt like the glass might shiver. “And take your Uncle Kolya with you. And take your spineless son. This isn’t a passport office and it isn’t a shelter for distant relatives nobody remembers. This is my home. Mine—and my children’s.”
Andrey tried to mumble something about “compromise,” but Lena was already opening the door.
Two years later, Lena sat in a café with her old friend Tamara, a notary.
“Heard about your ‘almost-husband’?” Tamara snorted, stirring her latte.
“Andrey? No. Once I kicked him out, he vanished.”
“Oh, it’s a whole soap opera,” Tamara said, eyes lighting up. “His mommy still managed to find some poor fool—some woman—got her wrapped around her finger, and convinced her to register that same Uncle Kolya.”
“And then?”
“And then!” Tamara leaned in. “Turns out Uncle Kolya wasn’t some harmless old dandelion. He’s an ex-con with an attitude. The second he got the registration, he moved right in. Told the woman, ‘I have rights by law.’ And now it’s hell: he smokes cheap cigarettes in the kitchen, drags his buddies over, blasts prison chansons all night.”
“They can’t kick him out?” Lena asked.
“They can’t. He got disability status, and the court is protecting him. The woman dumped Andrey, is trying to sell the apartment at a huge discount—basically ‘with Uncle included.’ And Galina Petrovna is running around hospitals with high blood pressure, because her son moved back into her two-bedroom and howls from misery.”
Lena looked out the window. The sun was shining. Her kids—already so grown—were walking home from school, laughing.
“You know, Tom,” Lena smiled, “my would-be mother-in-law was right after all.”
“About what?”
“That if you don’t want life to feel like a fairy tale, sometimes you just have to shut the door in time—before strangers walk in.”
Lena finished her coffee. Sweet. Delicious. And her life was exactly that—calm, bright, and blissfully free of anybody else’s “uncles.”
Because justice isn’t always about punishing people yourself. Sometimes it’s simply refusing to stop them from ruining their own lives.
Thank you for reading this story to the end! I tried to capture real emotions—and that sharp “salt” of everyday situations many women face. If this story touched you, moved you, or made you smile at the triumph of fairness, please like and subscribe to the channel. It’s the best reward for the author—and the best motivation to keep writing new real-life stories for you.