Ever since I was a little girl, I’d dreamed of having a big, warm, close family. My parents split up when I was five, and I was shuffled between my mother and my father, always feeling like a spare piece—unneeded, unwanted. So when I met Andrey, I didn’t hesitate for a second. I agreed to marry him right away. He was ten years older—smart, attentive, reliable. I truly believed that with him I’d finally find what I’d been missing my whole childhood: a home, a sense of safety, a solid shoulder to lean on.
The first years of our life together felt like a fairy tale. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Andrey built an impressive career, and we never lacked anything. He supported me in everything and helped me start my own business. And when my dearly loved grandmother passed away and left me an apartment, my husband was the first to suggest we shouldn’t sell it—better to rent it out, he said, so I would always have income of my own and wouldn’t depend on anyone.
I renovated that apartment exactly to my taste, furnishing it with real care, almost as if I planned to live there myself. And I chose tenants very carefully. At the time, a wonderful young couple lived there—Oleg and Sveta—quiet, educated, respectful people saving up for a place of their own. I genuinely enjoyed helping them, because I’d once been in the same situation.
And then came that strange phone call—the one that, in a single moment, slashed through our calm and happy routine.
“Hello, Andryusha? Hi, sweetheart! It’s your auntie—do you recognize me?” a loud woman’s voice rang through the receiver.
Andrey winced and quickly stepped into the next room with his phone. All I could catch were bits and pieces:
“Aunt Zina… wow, what a surprise! It’s been so long… Yes, of course, I’m glad to hear from you… Divorced? Oh, that’s rough… Retirement soon? Really… You want to come visit and stay for a while? Mm-hm…”
As the conversation went on, my husband’s face grew more and more troubled. He drummed his fingers on the table, frowned, looked tense. I started to worry—had something happened? But Andrey didn’t rush to explain. He only tossed into the phone at the very end:
“Alright, Aunt Zina. Come. What choice do we have? We’ll meet you. We’ll be waiting.”
Then he hung up, let out a heavy sigh, and turned to me. He looked so dark and rattled that my anxiety spiked immediately.
“Andrey, what is going on? Who is this Aunt Zina? Why are you so upset?”
He grimaced like he had a toothache and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Masha… we’ve got an issue. Long story short—Aunt Zina is coming. To live. With us,” he forced out, sounding like he was announcing a death in the family.
“What Aunt Zina?” I blurted. In five years of marriage Andrey had never once mentioned any aunt—especially not one he intended to move into our home.
“How can you ask that?” he muttered. “My mom’s cousin. Zinaida Prokopyevna.”
Judging by his tone, Zinaida Prokopyevna didn’t stir warm family feelings in him. And honestly, it didn’t in me either. Even hearing her full name made me want to shiver.
“And where exactly is she planning to stay?” I asked carefully, already sensing the trouble ahead.
“Well… I was thinking…” Andrey said in a gentle, coaxing voice. “What if we put her in your pre-marital apartment?”
My jaw practically hit the floor.
“Andrey, are you even hearing yourself?” I snapped. “My apartment has tenants in it! Good, decent people who pay on time and don’t cause problems! And you want to throw them out on the street so some random aunt can move in? Have you lost your mind?!”
It seemed to me he even shrank a little under my reaction. He knew it sounded ridiculous. But he still didn’t back off.
“Masha, please, try to understand,” he pleaded. “Aunt Zina is… yes, she’s difficult, I won’t argue. But she’s family. My mother will make my life miserable if she finds out we turned her away. Aunt Zina babysat me when I was small—fed me pies, took me to the movies. How can I refuse her now?”
There was such genuine, almost childlike hurt in his voice that for a second I wavered. Maybe I should pity an older woman and take her in for a while?
But I immediately pulled myself back.
No, Masha. Use your head. You fought hard to keep that apartment, you poured effort into the renovation, you chose tenants carefully—and all of it just so some distant relative of your husband could come along and destroy everything in one move? Not happening.
My thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.
On the doorstep stood a short, heavy woman with a puffy, disapproving face. She wore a painfully bright, tight dress, and huge glittering earrings swung from her ears—more like chandeliers than jewelry. I disliked her instantly.
“Well, hello there, nephew!” she boomed, rudely nudging past me with her shoulder and barging into the apartment.
Here we go, I thought miserably. The legendary Aunt Zina had arrived in person.
“Come in, Aunt Zina,” Andrey mumbled and rushed to hug her.
She looked at him with sharp, unfriendly eyes, but allowed the hug. Then she scanned our spacious hallway with a critical stare, locked onto me, and sneered:
“And who’s this supposed to be? Some prissy little doll? Your precious wife, is it?”
The rudeness stunned me so hard my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Did she really just insult me—in my own home?
Before I could answer, Andrey jumped in quickly:
“Aunt Zina, what are you saying? This is Masha, my wife. Masha, this is Aunt Zina. You know, I told you about her.”
Sure. He “told” me—literally a minute ago.
“Hi,” I muttered, not even trying to sound polite. I wasn’t about to bow and scrape for a loud, vulgar stranger.
She gave me another arrogant once-over and turned away, making it clear she didn’t even want to waste her “royal” attention on me.
And yet her eyes—small, sharp, almost feral—bored straight into Andrey. Her lips curled into a spiteful little smile.
“Well then, nephew,” she said, “so you’ve built yourself a family, I see. Good—means you’re not out of strength yet. And maybe some of that family happiness will rub off on me too, huh?”
I was speechless at the audacity. So she shows up from who-knows-where, insults the homeowner at the door, and now she’s already eyeing my husband’s “family happiness” like it’s something she can claim?
Andrey looked stunned too. But unlike me, he couldn’t keep quiet.
“Aunt Zina… don’t get ideas,” he said awkwardly. “We’re always glad to see you. Stay as long as you need. We’ll help however we can.”
“Oh, spare me the polite speeches,” she waved him off. “I didn’t come here begging. We’re family—family is supposed to stand up for each other. So here’s what you’ll do, nephew,” she said, staring him down. “Vacate your pre-marital apartment. I’ll live there for a bit and then I’ll go. Or what—am I not your family?”
My jaw dropped.
What is this, exactly? She barges in, makes demands, and expects everything served to her on a silver platter. And my tenants—what are they, furniture? Toss them out so Auntie Zina can be comfortable?
But before I could say a word, my “wonderful defender” of a husband blurted:
“Masha, come on… maybe we can move your tenants here for now? Or put them in a hotel. And Aunt Zina can crash at your place in the meantime. Really—are you that stingy?”
I almost choked from outrage. So now I’m the greedy one? Me—who’s been giving my heart, my effort, my resources—now I’m the one being blamed?
Aunt Zina, sensing weakness, jumped in at once:
“Exactly, nephew! That’s what I’m saying. Don’t be cheap—give your old relative a corner to live in. I’m not a stranger. I worked my back off for you young fools too. Ungrateful!”
She practically spat that last word in my face. My hands actually started shaking with rage. One more second and I might’ve swung at her. But Andrey—thank God—came to his senses.
“Aunt Zina, what are you even saying?” he snapped. “How can you talk like that? Masha hasn’t done anything to you. Neither have I. We’re not refusing to help. You can stay here with us for now—there’s space. But as for the apartment, we’ll think about it. We’re not throwing people out onto the street overnight.”
And that, more or less, ended the immediate blow-up. The aunt gave us both a scorching look, muttered something like, “Fine—sit here with your little hen,” then turned on her heel and marched off with her chin high to haul her things into our guest room.
Andrey and I looked at each other in silence. He looked guilty. I felt bitter and hurt. Did he really think I’d bend to that vulgar woman? I’d rather sell the apartment to hell and gone than ever let someone like that move in.
But of course, I didn’t say that out loud. No need to rub salt into the wound—Andrey already looked miserable. And I did understand him. Family, after all, is family. Especially when it’s an older person. Especially when it’s an aunt who—unthinkable as it sounds—changed his diapers when he was a child. People don’t just refuse that kind of history.
So I simply walked up and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pressed my nose against his rough cheek.
“It’s okay. We’ll get through it.”
He smiled gratefully and pulled me closer.
“Thank you for understanding. I know Aunt Zina is a real pain, but she did so much for me when I was a kid. I can’t just abandon her now.”
“No one’s abandoning her,” I sighed. “We’re not refusing to help. Just… let’s agree on something right now. My apartment is my apartment. And I’m not throwing my tenants out. Not even for your aunt.”
“Of course, sweetheart. I would never force you,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “It’s just that Aunt Zina can be very… relentless. Once she gets something into her head, you can’t talk her out of it. But don’t worry—we’ll tolerate it for a month or two, and then she’ll leave on her own. Surely she doesn’t plan to sit on our necks for the rest of her life.”
“Oh, sure,” I muttered skeptically. Something about her didn’t scream “short visit.” She’d latched onto our home like a vise. But I didn’t want to upset Andrey even more. He was already barely holding it together.
So I only hugged him tighter and whispered:
“Let’s hope. And for now—hang in there, okay? We’re a team. We’ll handle whatever comes.”
I tried hard to believe it. But honestly, the idea of living side by side with Zinaida Prokopyevna didn’t appeal to me at all. Still—what choice did we have? We couldn’t throw her onto the street. We’d have to endure it. After all, she couldn’t possibly stay forever. Sooner or later, she’d leave.
If only I’d known how cruelly wrong I was.
My optimism evaporated the very next morning.
Aunt Zina sprawled across our kitchen like she owned the place and announced:
“Alright, nephew. I’ve got a list of things for the household. You need a new refrigerator—this old junk is about to die. And that washing machine? Long overdue for replacement. And you should really renovate too—the walls are peeling. It’s embarrassing to have family living in a den like this. So make it happen—after all, I worked my whole life for you.”
Andrey just sat there with his mouth half open, unable to form a sentence. I internally groaned and rolled my eyes. Here we go. Day one, and she’s already making herself comfortable. And this was only the beginning.
That’s how our “family life” dragged on—heavy, exhausting, miserable. Aunt Zina bossed us around, nitpicking every tiny thing. She didn’t like the way I cooked. She didn’t like where I cleaned. She demanded money for new clothes, then money for a sanatorium vacation. Shameless—completely out of control.
I clenched my teeth, but I endured it. Andrey stayed quiet too, though I could see in his eyes he was barely holding back from snapping. He tried speaking to her a couple times—asking her to slow down, to give us some breathing room. But it only made her worse.
“Oh, you ungrateful scoundrel!” she shrieked. “I carried you in my arms, I gave you my last piece of bread! And now you want to throw me out in my old age? Do my ears deceive me?!”
And then she would cry and wail about how heartless we were, how unlucky she was to have such family. Disgusting.
Three months passed, and she still had no intention of leaving. Worse—she dragged her ex-son-in-law to live with us too. Grandpa Miron.
“Surprise, my dears,” she said smugly. “It’ll be more fun together.”
That was it. I couldn’t take another second.
What was this—some home-based nursing home? No. Enough. This circus had to end.
One evening I gathered my husband, sat him down beside me, and said:
“Andryusha, I can’t do this anymore. Aunt Zina is going to put me in the grave. And now Grandpa Miron on top of it. How long are we supposed to tolerate this?”
“Masha, what can I do?” Andrey sagged, shoulders slumping. “They’re family… you can’t exactly kick them out…”
“We’re going to have to,” I said firmly. “Otherwise, you and I will be buried here ourselves—under the same headstone. Is that what you want?”
He exhaled heavily and shook his head.
“Neither do I,” I said, softening my tone. “Let’s do this: we’ll help your aunt and her ex with housing and food—fine. But it needs to be a separate place. Far from us. Because we can’t live like this.”
Andrey sat in silence, thinking. Then he nodded hard, decisively.
“You’re right. This can’t go on. We’ll find them an apartment. Or, if it comes to it, a retirement home. Anything—as long as it’s not here.”
That’s what we agreed.
The very next day Andrey went to have a serious talk with his aunt. I wisely stayed in our room—no need to jump into the fire when emotions were already boiling.
The conversation was loud. I heard pieces of the shouting: Aunt Zina screaming, “You monster!” and “You’re throwing your own blood out of the house!” Andrey trying to explain, slipping from pleading to threats. At one point I thought it might turn physical.
But it didn’t.
Apparently Andrey managed to convince her that it was better for everyone. By evening, Zinaida Prokopyevna and Miron Ignatyevich were grimly packing their modest belongings, tossing nasty remarks our way the whole time.
“Fine—sit in your pigsty with that painted-up priss,” she hissed, shoving loud robes into her suitcase. “You’ll regret throwing your sick old aunt into the street. You’ll be biting your elbows one day—but it’ll be too late!”
Grandpa Miron stayed quiet, only glaring. And I kept reminding myself: patience. Just a little longer.
And then, finally, the day came.
Suitcases were packed. The taxi was called. Aunt Zina and her companion stood in the entryway, grumbling, hesitating to take the last step.
“So what, we’re just going to stand here in silence?” she snapped. “You won’t even hug your old aunt goodbye? Shameful!”
With a sigh, Andrey stepped forward and awkwardly wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Call if you need anything. We’ll always be nearby.”
“Yeah, right—don’t hold your breath!” she scoffed, grabbed her bags, and marched out without even looking back. Miron shuffled after her.
When the door finally closed behind them, Andrey and I let out a breath we didn’t even realize we’d been holding, and looked at each other.
“That’s it,” I said. “We survived.”
“For how long?” Andrey gave a humorless little smile.
I shrugged.
“Let’s hope forever. But even if it isn’t… we’ll manage. The main thing is we still have each other.”
And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could breathe again. Peace returned to our home. And I prayed it would stay that way.
As for relatives… well. You have to learn to set boundaries—even when they hate it. Sometimes it’s the only way to protect your own family. It’s not easy, but it works.
Andrey and I stood in the doorway holding each other, watching the taxi carry our unwanted guests away. Of course the bitterness remained. But the important part was this: we handled it. We held our ground. And next time, we’d be wiser.
That’s what we decided.