Veronika sat quietly by the window, watching the evening breeze move the leaves in the yard. The usual Sunday gathering of her husband’s relatives would soon begin, and her peaceful home would be overtaken by noise. She sighed softly as she adjusted the tablecloth— the fifth one this year, all ruined by her husband’s nieces, leaving stains from food and lipstick.
“Irka, have you seen my fancy tie?” her husband, Igor, called from the bedroom.
“It’s in the wardrobe, top shelf,” she replied calmly, without turning to face him.
Viktor, her husband of twenty years, could never find anything without her help. Just like he never noticed the sacrifices she made for these weekly family gatherings.
The doorbell rang earlier than expected. As usual, Olga, Viktor’s younger sister, showed up unannounced, along with her two teenage daughters.
“Irka, hello!” she entered without waiting for an invitation. “We’re early today. Mom asked me to help with the pies. Is that okay?”
Without waiting for a reply, Olga moved toward the kitchen, throwing her coat onto the bench. Her nieces, giggling, rushed to the living room, turning the TV volume up to its maximum.
“Aunt Irina, has the Wi-Fi password changed?” one of them asked loudly.
Irina silently tied her apron, bracing herself for yet another round of interference in her home. Olga was already busy in the kitchen, clattering dishes and pots.
“Why do you keep the salt in a packet? Mom always says a good housewife has everything organized,” Olga remarked, feigning surprise.
Irina bit her lip, feeling the weight of another subtle criticism. For the past year, Olga and her mother-in-law had made it clear they didn’t think much of her housekeeping. Ever since her retirement, her mother-in-law had decided it was now Irina’s responsibility to host the family every Sunday, without question.
Before Irina could respond, the doorbell rang again.
It was Tamara Pavlovna, her mother-in-law, entering with a flourish, her arms full of containers.
“Vitya!” she shouted, ignoring Irina completely. “Son, where are you? I’ve brought your favorite jelly!”
Viktor rushed out of the bedroom, tying his tie as he walked.
“Mom, why are you here so early?” he asked, surprised.
“Is it not okay for a mother to visit her son?” Tamara Pavlovna asked, entering the kitchen. “Irina, your stove is dirty again. I’ve told you so many times—always clean it after cooking!”
Irina felt her hands shake slightly, but she stayed quiet. The stove was spotless—it was a daily routine for her, scrubbing it until it gleamed. But arguing was pointless.
“And these curtains…” Tamara Pavlovna continued, inspecting the kitchen critically. “I told you to hang maroon ones, like mine. These light ones are all stained.”
Irina had to bite her tongue. The stains weren’t from her; they were from the frequent family gatherings.
Suddenly, a loud crash came from the living room—one of the nieces had knocked something over.
“Oh, Aunt Ir, the vase is a little…” one niece began.
“It’s more than just a little, it’s broken!” the other interrupted with a laugh. “The blue one, the one you didn’t like.”
Irina’s favorite vase—one that had been a gift from her late mother—was now broken. She closed her eyes, counted to ten. A lump formed in her throat.
“Irka, what’s wrong?” Olga nudged her as she passed by, trying to distract her. “Come on, help! Mom, did I do it right with the dough, it’s too stiff?”
Tamara Pavlovna nodded approvingly. “That’s how you’re a real housewife, not like some…”
The evening continued to spiral.
Uncle Kolya and his wife, Viktor’s cousin and her husband, and some distant relatives filled the apartment. The noise grew louder, the apartment feeling like a disturbance of a beehive.
Olga suddenly suggested moving the furniture. “The couch would be better by the window, it’ll be cozier.”
“Great idea!” Tamara Pavlovna agreed. “Irina, what are you standing there for? Help move it!”
Irina felt a chill in her bones. That couch, chosen by her and Viktor together, was her favorite spot for reading, right by the wall.
“Maybe we shouldn’t…” she began.
“What do you know about interiors?” Tamara Pavlovna waved her off. “Vitya, come help the girls!”
Viktor got up obediently and started rearranging the furniture. Irina watched in disbelief as the familiar layout of her home crumbled.
“Aunt Ir, can we hang out in your bedroom?” one of the nieces asked. “The TV’s bigger, and the bed’s more comfortable.”
Without waiting for a response, the girls ran to the bedroom, followed by loud sounds of furniture being shifted.
“Mom, look at this funny photo of Aunt Ir!” one of the nieces called. “Is that her when she was young? With that hairstyle?”
Irina froze. They were going through her personal album, one she kept in the bedside table. It contained photos of her parents, her first meeting with Viktor, and their wedding.
“Irina!” Tamara Pavlovna’s loud voice broke through her thoughts. “What’s this salad you’ve served? Why is the mayonnaise so sour? Are you cheaping out on the groceries?”
“The mayonnaise is fresh, Tamara Pavlovna,” Irina replied, trying to stay composed. “I bought it this morning.”
“Don’t mind her, mom,” Olga chimed in. “I’ll make my special salad. I know how to do it right.”
Irina stepped back, trying to suppress the tears rising in her eyes. For the past year, she had felt like a shadow in her own home, her personal space violated without hesitation.
“Vitya,” Tamara Pavlovna called out. “Why is Irina walking around all gloomy? Is she sick? My neighbor’s daughter-in-law was always grumpy, and it turned out she had high blood pressure…”
“Mom, stop,” Viktor spoke up, his voice filled with uncertainty for the first time that evening.
“Do you see what I mean?” Tamara Pavlovna asked, her voice trembling with annoyance. “She’s miserable, and I’m the one who’s wrong?”
Irina’s patience finally snapped. She straightened up, turned around, and said loudly:
“Enough.”
The room fell silent. Everyone froze in shock. Even the nieces stopped laughing.
“I said – enough,” Irina repeated, her voice firm. “Enough humiliation in my own home. Enough criticism and invasion of my life.”
Viktor slowly stood up, a look of realization crossing his face.
“Do you know what hurts the most?” Irina continued. “It’s not your rudeness. It’s that you don’t even see how much you hurt me. For you, it’s all normal. But from today – no more. This is my house. MINE. And here, my rules will apply.”
Tamara Pavlovna gasped, her face turning pale. “How dare you…”
“I dare, Tamara Pavlovna. Yes, I dare. If you want to visit, fine. But only by invitation. If you want to talk, let’s do so with respect. If not, there’s the door,” Irina said, pointing to the exit.
Viktor’s decision came swiftly.
“Mom,” he said firmly, “Irina is right.”
The next few minutes were filled with an intense silence as Tamara Pavlovna and Olga fumed, but ultimately left. Irina, for the first time in years, felt a sense of relief.
Later that evening, Viktor came to her, remorseful and apologetic.
“I’m sorry, Irina. I didn’t realize how much I’d been ignoring your needs.”
Irina simply nodded, feeling the weight of the years lift slightly. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she had taken control of her life. The following week, Viktor and Irina began to rebuild their relationship, but this time, with mutual respect and understanding.
As she moved forward, Irina knew one thing for sure: sometimes, it takes standing up for yourself to truly reclaim your life.
