Olga heard the doorbell and, for some reason, tensed immediately. Her husband Dmitry was at work, and they weren’t expecting anyone. Through the peephole she saw a familiar figure—Svetlana, Dmitry’s sister, dragging suitcases. Beside her hovered her eternally silent husband, Viktor, and between them stood five-year-old Artyom with a tablet in his hands.
“Ol, open up!” came the voice from the hallway. “It’s us!”
Us—as if they’d been invited.
Olga opened the door slowly, trying to understand what was going on.
“Svetа? Why are you here with bags?”
“Yeah, yeah—open faster, these suitcases are heavy,” Svetlana said, and without waiting for an invitation she hauled the first one into the entryway. Viktor followed wordlessly with the second. Artyom slipped between the adults and headed straight for the living-room sofa.
“Hold on, Sveta,” Olga stepped in front of her sister-in-law before she could march farther inside. “What’s going on? Dima didn’t say anything…”
“I haven’t even called Dima yet,” Svetlana replied, already shrugging off her coat while scanning the apartment with an appraising look. “We decided to come straight here and figure it out on the spot. Wow—you two have it good. Fresh renovation, new furniture… We’re suffocating in Mom’s three-bedroom, can you imagine? The three of us sleep in one room. Artyom’s already big—he needs space.”
Olga felt lightheaded. She and Dmitry had spent three years paying off the mortgage on this place. Three years of scrimping and saving, throwing every spare ruble at early payments. No vacations. No restaurants. No little pleasures—just the bank, month after month. And now…
“Svetа, wait. I don’t understand. Are you… visiting?”
“Not visiting, Ol,” Svetlana said, dropping onto the edge of the sofa where her son was already sprawled with his tablet. “Living. Properly. Three or four months. Until we sort things out.”
“What things?”
“Vitya’s business didn’t work out,” Svetlana lowered her voice, even though Viktor was standing right there in the entryway and clearly heard every word. “We’re completely broke. We pay Mom for the apartment, but you know how it is—cramped as hell. And you’ve got a spacious two-room place, just the two of you… So we’ll stay here for now, and you’ll move in with Mom. She at least has a separate room. You’re young, no kids—it’ll be easier for you to adjust.”
Heat rushed to Olga’s face. She looked at Viktor—he avoided her eyes and studied the toes of his boots. At Artyom, loudly tapping away at some game. At Svetlana, sitting on Olga’s sofa like she’d already made the decision for everyone.
“Svetа,” Olga forced her voice to stay steady. “Are you serious right now?”
“What’s the big deal?” Svetlana lifted her eyebrows. “We’re family. Dima won’t refuse his own sister. And we have a child—he needs decent conditions. You’re childless, you wouldn’t understand…”
“Stop,” Olga raised a hand. “I’m calling Dima. Right now.”
She went into the kitchen and dialed her husband. He picked up almost immediately.
“Ol, what happened?”
“Svetа’s here. With Vitya and Artyom. With suitcases. She says they’re living here for three or four months—and we’re supposed to move in with your mom. Did you know anything about this?”
There was a pause. Olga heard Dmitry exhale heavily.
“She called a week ago,” he said at last. “Asked if we could take them in for a while. I said I had to talk to you first. She promised she’d wait…”
“Wait?” Olga’s voice broke into a shout. “Dima, she’s already here! With bags! And she’s saying we have to move out to your mom’s!”
“I’m coming home,” Dmitry said quickly. “Just—don’t do anything. I’ll be there.”
“Make it fast,” Olga pleaded, and ended the call.
When she returned to the living room, Svetlana had already hung several items in the closet. Viktor set a suitcase on the floor and opened it, pulling out children’s clothes. Artyom had moved from the sofa to the rug, never looking up from the screen.
“Svetа, put your things back,” Olga said, fighting to stay calm. “Dima’s on his way. We’ll discuss it together.”
“What is there to discuss?” Svetlana waved her hand. “It’s all settled. You and Dima move to Mom’s for a bit, and we’ll set up here. We’ll pay utilities, obviously. We’re not freeloaders.”
“Svetа,” Olga felt her patience thinning, “this is our apartment. We bought it with a mortgage. We’ve spent three years saving on everything to pay it off.”
“So what?” Svetlana turned toward her, and something hard flashed in her eyes. “You want to throw your husband’s sister out onto the street? With a child? Selfish, aren’t you?”
“I’m not selfish,” Olga said, her hands beginning to tremble. “I just don’t understand why you think you can walk in and run our lives.”
“Because I’m his sister!” Svetlana’s voice rose. “And who are you? A wife. Tomorrow Dima divorces you and you’ll be nobody. But I’m his sister—blood. Family. And I have a child, by the way—an heir to the Martynov line. And what do you have? Nothing. Ten years married, and no kids. Maybe you’ll never have any. So who’s your precious apartment going to go to then?”
Something inside Olga snapped. They really hadn’t had children yet—first the apartment, careers, stability—always “later.” And the way Svetlana threw it at her like a weapon…
“Svetа, shut up,” Olga said quietly.
“Oh, does the truth sting?” Svetlana smirked. “Dima told me himself you’re not rushing kids. That you’re all about your career, work. And then you’ll be running to doctors when you’ve missed your chance…”
“Svetlana,” Olga straightened and looked her directly in the eyes, “pack your things. Now.”
“What?!” Svetlana blinked, startled. “Who do you think you are?”
“Someone who should’ve said this from the start,” Olga replied, stepping to the closet and pulling the hangers down. “This is my apartment. Ours—mine and Dima’s. We earned it. We pay for it. And no one gets to come here and dictate how we live.”
“Vitya!” Svetlana spun toward her husband. “Why are you standing there? Say something!”
Viktor shifted awkwardly, eyes on the floor.
“Svetа… maybe we shouldn’t…” he muttered. “Let me call your mom—we can go back…”
“What does Mom have to do with it?!” Svetlana jumped up. “We have a child! He needs space! And they’re sitting in a two-room apartment, no kids and never will have any, by the look of it! Selfish!”
“You know what, Sveta,” Olga said, carefully folding her sister-in-law’s clothes onto a suitcase, “you’re right. I am selfish. Because I’d rather work, pay for my own home, and live in it—than squeeze into a room at my mother-in-law’s.”
“Dima will never forgive you!” Svetlana hissed. “He won’t abandon his family!”
“That’s his decision,” Olga shrugged. “But he’ll make it here—in his home.”
The door swung open. Dmitry stood on the threshold, breathless, hair mussed.
“Svetа, what is going on?” he asked, staring at the entryway crowded with suitcases.
“Dima!” Svetlana ran to him. “Do you see what your wife is doing? She’s throwing us out! With a child!”
Dmitry looked at Olga. She stood with her arms crossed, a determination in her face he rarely saw.
“Dima,” Olga said calmly, “your sister showed up without warning, with luggage, and announced she’s living here. And that we have to move in with your mother. Because she has a child and we don’t. Because, quote, ‘you’re childless, it’s easier for you to adjust.’”
Dmitry turned back to his sister.
“Svetа… is that true?”
“Dima, don’t be a kid,” Svetlana tried to smile. “I thought you’d understand. We’re in a hard situation. Vitya’s out of work, no money, Mom’s place is cramped…”
“And so you decided you could just come and take our apartment?” Dmitry shook his head. “Without even talking to us?”
“I called you!” Svetlana snapped. “A week ago! You said you’d think about it!”
“I said I had to talk to my wife,” Dmitry replied firmly. “And you decided to show up and force it.”
“Dima, I’m your sister!” Tears appeared in Svetlana’s voice. “We grew up together! Mom always said we have to help each other!”
“Help—yes,” Dmitry nodded. “But not at the expense of my family. Sveta, Olga and I lived on almost nothing for three years to pay for this apartment. We denied ourselves everything. And now you come in and demand we move out. That’s not help—that’s nerve.”
“Nerve?!” Svetlana recoiled as if slapped. “I’m the one with nerve? Dima, I have a child! A son—your nephew! Is he really not more important than that…” she jabbed a finger toward Olga, “that career woman who can’t even give you children?!”
“Enough,” Dmitry stepped toward her, steel in his voice. “You’re crossing the line. Olga is my wife. My family.”
Silence fell. Svetlana stared at him, wide-eyed, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d heard.
“So… you choose her?” she whispered. “Over me?”
“I choose my family,” Dmitry answered evenly. “Sveta, we can help you financially if things are truly that bad. We can help Vitya find work. But you will not live here.”
“Money?” Svetlana laughed sharply. “What money, Dima? I don’t need money—I need a home! A normal home for my child!”
“Then rent one,” Olga said calmly. “Like millions of people do in your situation.”
“With what money?!” Svetlana shrieked. “Vitya doesn’t have a job!”
“And why is that our problem?” Olga stepped closer. “Sveta, I get it—you’re struggling. But that doesn’t give you the right to come into someone else’s home and demand they clear out for you. Everyone has problems. Everyone has their own life.”
“Your own life,” Svetlana repeated, drilling Olga with her eyes. “And if you had a child—would you talk like this? Or would you demand help from every relative you could find?”
“If we had a child,” Olga said without looking away, “we’d solve our own problems. The way we solve them now. We didn’t come to your mother and demand she give us a room. We took out a mortgage and we’re paying it ourselves.”
“Hypocrite,” Svetlana spat. “Just wait—you’ll cry when your husband leaves you. For a normal woman who can have kids.”
“That’s it, Sveta,” Dmitry took his sister by the arm. “Pack your things and go. Now.”
“Dima…”
“Now,” he repeated, and his voice had gone cold. “You crossed every line. You insulted my wife—in my home. Leave.”
Svetlana stared at him for a few seconds, then spun around sharply.
“Let’s go, Vitya. Pack up,” she snapped. “Artyom, grab your tablet—we’re leaving.”
They gathered their things in grim silence. Viktor shoved clothes back into suitcases in a hurry. Artyom whined, refusing to quit his game. Svetlana buttoned her coat with angry, jerking movements.
“Don’t expect anything from me ever again,” she threw over her shoulder at her brother from the doorway. “Don’t call, don’t come. You don’t have a sister anymore.”
“Svetа…”
“No, Dima. You made your choice. Live with it.”
The door slammed. Olga and Dmitry stood in the entryway in a ringing silence.
“I’m sorry,” Dmitry said quietly. “I didn’t think she’d do this.”
Olga said nothing—she just wrapped her arms around him. She could feel him shaking: anger, hurt, the realization that the sister he’d grown up with, shared holidays and childhood games with, was capable of this.
“You did the right thing,” Olga murmured. “I know it hurts. But you did the right thing.”
“She’ll call Mom,” Dmitry said wearily. “Mom will call me and say I abandoned my sister.”
“I know,” Olga stroked his back. “But this is your life. Our life. No one gets to dictate how we live it.”
Dmitry’s phone rang half an hour later. He glanced at the screen and showed Olga—Mom.
“Hi, Mom,” he answered, exhausted.
Olga couldn’t hear what her mother-in-law said, but she watched Dmitry’s expression shift—from tension to firmness, from firmness to resolve.
“Mom, stop,” he interrupted at last. “Sveta lied to you. She didn’t ask—she demanded. She showed up with bags, no warning, and announced we had to move in with you while she lived in our apartment for three or four months.”
Pause.
“No, Mom, I’m not abandoning my sister. I’m protecting my family. This is mine and Olga’s home, and no one has the right to demand we give it up.”
Another pause.
“Mom, if you think that, I’m sorry. But my decision won’t change.”
He hung up and sank heavily onto the sofa.
“She said I’m selfish,” he muttered. “That I forgot about family. That Sveta, Vitya, and Artyom will live with her in one room, and it’ll be on my conscience.”
“They’re adults,” Olga said, sitting beside him. “They have hands, legs, and a head on their shoulders. Vitya can find work. They can rent a place. They can find a way. That doesn’t mean we have to hand them our life.”
“I know,” Dmitry rubbed his face. “It’s just… Sveta was always like this. Mom spoiled her. Things always came easy for her. And I was the ‘older one’—I had to understand. And now it’s the same: I must, I’m obligated, I can’t say no.”
“You can,” Olga squeezed his hand. “And you just proved it.”
They sat quietly. Outside, it was getting dark. Their apartment—their apartment—felt especially peaceful and dear after all the chaos.
“You know,” Dmitry said suddenly, “when I stood in the entryway and listened to Sveta insulting you… I realized I didn’t recognize her. Like she thinks she has a right to our life just because we’re related.”
“Some people have a strange idea of family,” Olga shrugged. “To them, family is a license to demand—rather than a reason to help.”
“Mom will pressure us,” Dmitry warned. “Sveta too. They’ll call, write, demand meetings…”
“We’ll manage,” Olga smiled. “Together.”
Svetlana didn’t call for three weeks. Then she appeared in the family group chat with a photo of Artyom in a new jacket and the caption: “At least someone helps in hard times. Thanks, Aunt Marina.” It was their mother’s friend, apparently—the one Svetlana had managed to coax money from.
Dmitry said nothing. Olga didn’t either.
Their mother-in-law called a few more times, but gradually she accepted it. In the last conversation she even admitted, “Maybe you’re right. Sveta has always been a little… spoiled.”
A month passed. Then two. Life settled back into its usual rhythm. Dmitry and Olga kept making plans.
One evening, as they ate dinner in the kitchen, Dmitry suddenly said, “You know… maybe we should try after all. For a baby, I mean.”
Olga looked at him. There was something new in his eyes—calm confidence.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “We’re ready. We have a home, stable jobs, plans. And most importantly—we know how to protect our boundaries. Our child will grow up in a family where they’re taught to work for what they have and respect what belongs to others.”
Olga smiled.
“Then let’s do it.”
And a year later, when she gave birth to their daughter, Masha, Svetlana sent a dry congratulations in a private message: “Congrats. Now you’ll understand what it’s like to raise a child.”
Olga didn’t reply. There was no point. She’d understood it back on the day her sister-in-law showed up with suitcases—and the certainty that the world owed her everything.