## The Annexed Saturday

“Yana, here’s the thing… Will you drive Mom to Aunt Vera’s? She’s been getting ready since morning; leave around ten.”

The words dropped into the kitchen’s morning silence like pebbles into a still, deep pond. **Yana** didn’t turn around. She kept her gaze fixed on the courtyard, which was already flooded with morning sun, where a sleepy janitor was lazily chasing a few dry leaves. This was her Saturday. Not just a day off, but a hard-won, complete, and **precious** Saturday—the only one she’d secured in a month-long, frantic work schedule.

The air in the apartment was distinct: thick, unmoving, smelling of freshly brewed coffee and absolute calm. Her plans for the day would have seemed like the height of idleness to anyone else, but to Yana, they were a **vital luxury**: a long bubble bath, the new book she hadn’t even had time to unwrap, and perhaps just a few hours of staring at the ceiling while listening to her favorite music.

**Timur**, her husband, already dressed and full of brisk energy, rustled past her toward the fridge. His voice was businesslike, assertive, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. He wasn’t asking; he was **informing**, presenting a *fait accompli* as easily as announcing the evening’s menu. He took out a bottle of water, slammed the door, and only then noticed that his wife hadn’t responded. She hadn’t even shifted.

“Did you hear me?” he repeated, a hint of impatience already creeping in.

Yana slowly turned her head. Her face was utterly calm, almost serene. She took a small sip of coffee from her favorite mug, savoring the bitterness. She needed that pause to ensure, with absolute certainty, that she hadn’t misheard. That this man she lived with had truly decided to annex her one free day without consultation.

“No,” she said. The word was short, quiet, but it landed with the undeniable weight of a **steel ball bearing**.

Timur froze halfway to the door, blinking in confusion, as if a speck of dust had suddenly materialized in his eye. Genuine bewilderment crossed his face, like a man who has flipped a switch and found the electricity disconnected.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” he actually chuckled, still clinging to the hope that this was some strange, tired morning joke. “What does ‘no’ mean? Mom’s waiting.”

“It means I am not going anywhere,” Yana explained just as evenly, setting her cup down. “It is **my day off**.”

The reality finally seemed to penetrate. The smile evaporated, replaced by mounting irritation. He walked up to the table, braced his knuckles against the edge, and spoke with forceful emphasis, lecturing her like an unreasonable child.

“Yana, I don’t understand the issue. What difference does it make if it’s your day off? It’s not difficult for you—you’re at home anyway. We need to help. Mom can’t endure those awful buses; you know she gets carsick.”

There it was. “You’re at home anyway.” The casual phrase, laced with light disdain, instantly devalued all her long-awaited rest, reducing it to meaningless stagnation within four walls. Her plans, her peace, her fundamental right to personal time—all of it weighed less than **Zinaida Pavlovna’s** temporary discomfort on public transport.

“Three hundred kilometers there, three hundred kilometers back,” Yana calculated coolly, speaking the numbers aloud. “That is six solid hours of driving, not accounting for city traffic. Plus at least an hour while your mother has tea and says her goodbyes. That is my entire day. All of it. From morning till late evening. In exchange, I receive nothing but a sore back and a headache. No, Timur. The answer is **no**.”

He straightened up, the bewilderment in his eyes finally giving way to full-blown outrage. He looked at her as if she had just sprouted horns. He either couldn't or wouldn't understand. In his framework, his mother's request was an **axiom**, and his wife was a **convenient tool** for its execution. And now, the tool had suddenly refused to function.

“Are you serious right now?” Timur’s voice was hard and flat. “I ask you to help my mother and you pull out some kind of mileage report? What kind of attitude is that?”

He stood in the center of the kitchen, feet planted, bracing for a fight. His gaze bored into Yana, attempting to burn through her composure, searching for a weak spot. But Yana didn't look away. She returned his gaze with cold, almost **scientific curiosity**. As if observing a predictable, yet repellent, chemical reaction.

“It isn’t an attitude, Timur. It’s **facts**,” she answered, the clinical levelness of her voice infuriating him further. “The fact is that, because of your mother’s aversion to public transport, I am expected to sacrifice my only day off. I am not prepared to make that sacrifice.”

“Aversion?” he practically spat the word. “You call it an aversion that an elderly person is uncomfortable rattling around for seven hours in a stuffy tin can? Do you have even a shred of **respect** for her at all?”

Here it came: the heavy artillery. Accusing her of disrespecting his mother was Timur’s ultimate trump card, intended to instantly shame Yana and force her capitulation. But this time, the mechanism failed.

“Respect means not turning me into a free taxi driver,” Yana finally snapped, a razor-sharp **metal edge** cutting into her voice. “Respect means valuing my time and my plans as much as you value Zinaida Pavlovna’s comfort. She is an adult, competent person. She wants to visit a friend? Wonderful. There are plenty of ways to do that without turning another person’s life into a logistics nightmare.”

Color flooded Timur’s face. He paced the small kitchen like a caged tiger, stopping only to fling more accusations.

“I cannot believe what I’m hearing. A logistics nightmare? We’re calling helping my mother that now? Any **normal wife** would just get in the car and drive! No discussion, no conditions!”

That was the last straw. The phrase “a normal wife,” tossed out like a label of her defectiveness, shattered the icy dam Yana had maintained. She stood up abruptly, her composure replaced by searing, furious contempt.

“But it’s not *me* who needs to go to the ends of the earth—it’s **your mother**! Why should *I* drive her to her pal’s? There are buses! There are trains! **So let her go take one!**”

The words hung in the air: crude, angry, final. Exactly what Timur had least expected. He froze mid-step, his mouth falling open. He looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. All his mock righteousness, all his rehearsed reproaches, turned to dust in the face of this bullet-clean bluntness. He’d expected a fight, coaxing, perhaps tears. Instead, he got: “let her go take one.” Unvarnished, pure irritation that no longer cared to hide behind polite phrasing.

“What…” he rasped, regaining the power of speech. “What did you say? Say that again.”

“You heard me perfectly,” Yana replied coolly, walking over to the coffee maker and quite deliberately beginning to wash its parts. Her hands moved sharply, precisely. “I will not spend my day catering to someone else’s whims. **Discussion over**.”

For a few seconds, Timur simply stood there, breathing hard. Then he turned without a word, left the kitchen, and Yana heard him in the other room, speaking into the phone with fierce, muffled intensity. She knew who it was. The heavy artillery was on its way.


## The Price of Functionality

Yana didn’t react to her husband’s call. She finished cleaning the coffee maker, methodically wiping every mesh and curve. She set the parts on the drying rack as if putting pieces back in place on a lost chessboard. She knew the script: the call was a summons for reinforcements, the activation of the main emotional weapon.

The doorbell rang about forty minutes later. Not the short, neutral chime of a delivery, but two long, melodic presses, heavy with **dignity**.

Timur, who had been sitting gloomily in the living room, darted to the door. Yana remained in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. She heard muffled voices, the rustle of a coat being taken off, then footsteps.

They entered the kitchen together. Timur walked slightly behind, like a squire carrying his liege's banner. In front, with a perfectly straight back, in an elegant travel suit, stood **Zinaida Pavlovna**. At her feet sat a small but tightly packed travel bag.

Her face showed no anger. Instead, it displayed universal sorrow, quiet martyrdom, and boundless, bitter disappointment. She swept her gaze over Yana with a look that communicated: *I understand everything, my child, I do not condemn your cruelty, I merely suffer from it.* It was a performance honed over years.

“Hello, Yanotchka,” her voice was soft and sad, as if she were speaking at a sickbed. “Timur said you weren’t feeling well? I became so worried. Maybe we shouldn’t make this trip if you’re unwell.”

It was a brilliant maneuver. She didn't accuse. She framed Yana not as an egoist, but as a **malingerer** hiding behind a made-up illness, giving her a chance to “confess” and capitulate in shame. Timur instantly joined the act.

“No, Mom, she isn’t sick,” he said, his voice dripping with sorrow, looking at Yana with reproach. “She just… has other plans. More important than driving my mother on necessary business.”

Zinaida Pavlovna gave a theatrical gasp and pressed a hand to her chest. Her eyes, expertly moistened, fixed on her daughter-in-law.

“Other plans? What plans can be so important on a Saturday? Yanotchka, I truly didn’t want to bother anyone. I thought we’d do a good deed, take a drive, get some fresh air. I even baked your favorite little pies for the road…” She nodded toward the bag, from which a faint, cloyingly sweet smell of fresh pastry now wafted.

*Pies.* The killing blow. Not just food, but a potent symbol of care, hominess, and the unbreakable family values that Yana was now supposedly trampling. She stood under the crossfire of silent accusations and mournful looks. The kitchen felt morally suffocating, thick with their righteous indignation and her cold stubbornness.

“I am not unwell, Zinaida Pavlovna,” Yana said calmly and distinctly, addressing her mother-in-law directly and ignoring Timur completely. “And I am not sick. I have a day off that I planned to spend at home. **Alone**. With a book. Those are my plans.”

Zinaida Pavlovna slowly lowered herself onto a kitchen chair, which her attentive son immediately pulled out. She let out a quiet, suffering sigh.

“With a book…” she whispered, as if the concept itself was foreign and absurd. “So the book… is more important. I understand everything. No words are necessary, Timur. None. I am clearly just a burden to everyone. I’ll go to the station—maybe I can still catch some bus…”

She made a feeble motion to stand, but Timur stopped her.

“Mom, sit! You are not going to any station!” He turned to Yana, his face contorted by rage. “Do you see what you are doing to her? Do you enjoy this little show? Is this what you wanted?”

Yana was silent. She looked at this perfectly synchronized duet, this performance, and felt nothing but an icy emptiness and a growing certainty of her own absolute rightness. They didn't want to understand her. They wanted to **break her**. To induce guilt, to label her ungrateful and defective. They had invaded her home, her morning, her only day off, to ram through their decision, utilizing every form of manipulation. She realized she could not retreat. If she gave in now, she would never have another Saturday to call her own.

“No,” Yana said so quietly that the word, in the ensuing silence, was deafening. “The performance is over.”

She pushed off the counter and took a step forward, moving into the center of the kitchen. She was no longer the cornered target. Something new appeared in her posture, in her gaze: the unflinching certitude of a surgeon ready to operate.

“You are both looking at me right now and you don’t understand what is happening,” she continued in an even, colorless voice. “You think I am just a stubborn, selfish witch who won’t help ‘poor Mom.’ But you are missing the main point. **You don’t see me at all.**”

Her eyes moved over first the bewildered face of Zinaida Pavlovna, then the anger-contorted face of her husband.

“To you, I am not a person. I am a **function**. A convenient add-on to your family life. There’s a car? Great, that means there’s a driver. There’s a day off? Perfect, that means this time can be used for family needs. *Your* family, Timur. Your mother wants to see her friend—and just like that, my Saturday, my rest, my nerves, and my gas become trivial bargaining chips for solving her minor issue. And those pies,” she gave a brief nod toward the bag, “they are not care. They are **payment**. A cheap attempt to buy my time and my consent.”

Zinaida Pavlovna opened her mouth, but Yana raised a hand, not raising her voice, yet stopping her with a single gesture.

“I am not finished. Today is not an accident. It is a **system**. A system in which I always must. Must be understanding, make allowances, sacrifice, be flexible, be convenient. A system in which my wishes and plans are, by default, less important than your whims. And **I don’t want to live in this system anymore.**”

A brief pause let the words saturate the kitchen air. Timur stared at her, the anger on his face slowly giving way to stunned bewilderment. He had expected shouting. He was not ready for this icy, merciless analysis.

“You want your mother to be driven?” Yana looked him straight in the eyes. “Fine. No problem. You think it’s the family’s duty and that the car should serve that purpose. I accept your point of view.”

She turned and, without another word, left the kitchen. Timur and his mother exchanged a look of total confusion. Her sudden compliance was more terrifying than any scream. A few seconds later, Yana returned. In her hand were the car keys. She walked to the table, where her half-finished cup of coffee stood, and laid the keys down on the light surface with a dry, metallic tap.

“Here,” she said, just as calmly. “Take them. **Drive your mother.** To Aunt Vera’s, to the dacha, to the ends of the earth, if you like.”

Timur looked at the keys, then at his wife. He couldn’t locate the trap.

“Now listen to me very carefully, Timur,” Yana continued, her voice turning hard as granite. “This is your choice. If you take these keys now to fulfill your filial duty, I won’t say a word against it. But from this very moment, **this car stops being ours**. It becomes **yours**. Yours and your mother’s. It will be your personal transport for errands, visits, and shopping.

I won’t touch it again. I’ll take taxis, the metro, I’ll walk. I will cross it out of my life. And every time you have to drop everything at work, cancel your plans, or spend your day off to drive your mother on her business, you will look at that steering wheel and remember this day. You will be her personal driver.

**Always.** That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be a good, dutiful son? Here is a perfect opportunity. **Choose.**”

She fell silent. Absolute, dead silence settled over the kitchen. Zinaida Pavlovna stared at the keys as if they were a snake poised to strike. Her performance was ruined; the role of the suffering victim had become completely absurd. Timur stood white as a sheet, looking from the keys to his wife.

He understood everything. This wasn't a threat of divorce; it was a **sentence** he himself would have to carry out to the end. He’d been driven into a trap built from his own sense of entitlement and manipulation.

Yana took one last look at their petrified faces, turned, went into her room, and firmly shut the door. She picked up the new, still-wrapped book from the nightstand and sat down in the chair by the window. The scene was over.

And out in the kitchen, in the middle of her stolen morning, on the table lay the keys, waiting for their master—because Timur had never intended to spend his own time driving his dearest mommy around on her errands.