“— You, Lena, are a real leech!” shouted Oleg, throwing the spoon into the sink with such force that the borscht splashed across the freshly mopped tiles.
“— I work like an ox, and you sit at home with three kids, wasting away. Parasite!”
Lena froze. In one hand, she held a wet rag; in the other, little six-month-old Masenka. The two older children, born close in age, went quiet in the nursery, frightened by their father’s shouting.
“— Parasite?” Lena asked softly, while icy anger began to boil inside her. “Me? With three small children, no help, no nanny, no grandma?”
“Who else?” Oleg grew bolder, hands on his hips. “The apartment is yours, thanks to your late father-in-law, but I’m the one supporting you all! I’ve had enough, Lena. I need space, not this permanent daycare.”
He expected tears. He thought his sleep-deprived wife would start apologizing, rushing around, making tea. But Lena silently put down the rag. Her gaze became heavy, like a cast-iron skillet.
“Need space?” she asked, then swung the front door open. “Then go. Right now. I’ll throw your stuff out the window later.”
Oleg grinned mockingly. He couldn’t believe it. But he should have. An hour later, he was standing in the stairwell with a suitcase, listening to the locks click shut. Forever.
Three years passed. Lena bloomed. The kids grew, went to kindergarten and school, and she returned to work, building a career in logistics. That’s when Vitya appeared in her life.
Vitya was a kettlebell trainer. Broad shoulders, Hollywood smile, conversations about healthy eating and “chi energy.”
He courted her well, literally carrying the children in his arms, fixing the taps. Everything for happiness seemed perfect.
They lived in harmony for a year. Then, during dinner, while poking at the steamed meatballs with his fork, Vitya casually said:
“— Lenuska, listen, for work I need to raise my category, submit some papers… So, would you register me at your place? Just temporarily. I’m from out of town; commuting is a hassle.”
Lena set down her knife. Something clicked in her head. She knew Vitya had his own two-room apartment — he only rented it out to pay off the fancy car loan.
“Vitya,” she said gently, “why would you need to register at my place if you have your own apartment forty minutes away?”
“Why are you being difficult?” pouted the burly man. “Do you feel sorry for me? We’re almost a family. A stamp in the passport is trust. Or do you not trust me?”
Lena remembered Oleg. How hard it had been to kick a “former family member” out when they found a legal loophole.
“I trust you, Vitya. But I’ll only register my children at my apartment. That’s the rule.”
Vitya got offended, wandered around like a dark cloud for a week, then caused a scene, breaking dishes and yelling about “materialistic women.” Lena calmly pointed to the door. It didn’t hurt anymore. Experience had been a harsh teacher.
Five years passed. Lena turned forty. She no longer sought love — love found her. András.
A cultured, soft-spoken man, head of a bank department. He didn’t demand, didn’t shout, he just was there. He showered the children with gifts, took Lena to countryside hotels on weekends. It seemed this was real, mature happiness.
“— Let’s get married,” he said after six months. “And meet my parents. Old-fashioned, simple, but kind-hearted people.”
The introduction dinner was held at Lena’s. She roasted a duck, prepared salads, brought out the festive dinnerware. The apartment was clean and cozy.
András’s parents, Galina Petrovna and Nikolai Ivanovich, arrived with measured formality. The mother in a shiny dress and teased hair, the father quiet and submissive. They assessed the apartment with sharp eyes.
Galina Petrovna even ran her finger along the windowsill — found no dust, pressed her lips in disappointment.
The evening started well. András poured wine, the kids politely greeted, then disappeared into their room. Toasts were sweet: “To the young couple,” “To a cozy home.”
Then, when tea was served with the cake, Galina Petrovna put down her cup, wiped her mouth, and, fixing her gaze on the bridge of Lena’s nose, spoke:
“— You have a beautiful apartment, Lenochka. Spacious. Four rooms, downtown. Clever girl. Your father and I have discussed and decided… Since you’re marrying András, there’s a matter that needs to be handled.”
Lena tensed. András suddenly became very interested in studying the tablecloth.
“— What matter?” Lena asked politely.
“— We have an uncle, my third cousin Kolya,” Galina Petrovna began circumstantially. “He lives in the countryside now, and the medical care there… you know.
It would be good to arrange a city pension for him, a proper clinic. We’d like you to register him at your place.”
Silence fell in the room. You could hear the tick of the hallway clock.
“— Excuse me?” Lena thought she’d misheard. “Register the uncle? A stranger?”
“Why would he be a stranger?” Galina Petrovna asked in surprise, as if requesting salt. “You’ll be family with András. Then Uncle Kolya is also a relative. He won’t live here, it’s just registration.”
“András has his own apartment?” Lena asked, looking at her fiancé.
“— Yes, a studio,” the mother answered quickly. “But why there? Small. We might even sell it to finish the vacation home. You have space.”
And anyway — Galina Petrovna’s voice hardened — one must enter a family with an open heart. You live too well. So life doesn’t seem like a fairy tale, you must help others.
Lena looked at András.
“— You think the same?”
András looked up, eyes filled with anguish and obedience to his mother.
“Lena, it’s just a formality… Mom is asking.”
At that moment, Lena didn’t feel pain, only immense relief. As if a long-developing abscess had finally burst.
“Formality?” She stood up. “So it won’t seem like a fairy tale?”
She went to the cabinet, took a folder with documents, spun it in her hands, then put it back.
“— You know, Galina Petrovna, I have a great idea for Uncle Kolya. He can register in the countryside — the air is fresh there. And you…”
— Lena looked at them with a smile that made András freeze inside — “…get out.”
“— What?!” Galina Petrovna gasped. “We came with pure intentions!”
“Out,” Lena repeated quietly, but loud enough to make the windows tremble. “Take the uncle and your spineless son. This is not a registry office or a shelter. This is my home. Mine and my children’s.”
András mumbled something about compromise, but Lena was already opening the door.
Two years later, Lena sat in a café with her old friend Tamara, who was a notary.
“— Have you heard about your ‘almost fiancé’?” Tamara grinned, stirring her latte.
“About András? No. Since I kicked him out, I haven’t heard from him.”
“Wow, it’s a full-blown soap opera there!” Tamara’s eyes sparkled. “His mother found a woman, made her son fall in love, and convinced him to register Uncle Kolya.”
“And?”
“Uncle Kolya wasn’t an innocent lamb; he was an ex-con with a strong personality. As soon as he got the stamp, he moved in. He said: I have the right.”
Now it’s hell there: he smokes “Prima” cigarettes in the kitchen, brings friends over, and loud chanson plays until dawn. They can’t evict him — he got disability, the court protects him.
The woman kicked out András; the apartment is being sold at a bargain with the “uncle,” and Galina Petrovna runs from hospital to hospital because her son moved into the two-room apartment with her and she’s screaming from boredom.
Lena looked out the window. The sun was shining; her children — almost grown — were laughing as they came home from school.
“— You know, Tami,” she smiled, “the would-be mother-in-law was right.”
“— About what?”
“— That for life not to seem like a fairy tale, sometimes you just have to close the door in time to strangers.”
Lena drank her coffee. It was sweet, delicious. And so was her life — calm, almost magical, without strange uncles. Justice is not when you punish.
It’s when you don’t stop people from ruining their own lives.
