It all started with that ill-fated cauldron.
My husband Anton bought it a week ago and hasn’t stopped being happy about it since. A real Uzbek cast-iron cauldron, twelve liters. It cost as much as my monthly salary, but he was as happy as a child with a new toy.
“Len, can you imagine what kind of pilaf we’ll have now!” he exclaimed, stroking the cauldron like a cat. “Real, like grandpa used to cook in Tashkent!”
I stayed silent. I can cook pilaf, but I’m not eager to experiment in the kitchen for his relatives. Because if they hear about the new cauldron, they will definitely want to try it.
And sure enough! The next day Anton came home from work beaming:
“Mom called! She says we absolutely must try your pilaf in the new cauldron. She, Ira, and Nastya are coming for the weekend!”
Great. Mom is my mother-in-law, Galina Pavlovna. Ira is his sister. Nastya is the niece, Ira’s daughter. The holy trinity that turns my home into a theater of the absurd.
“Awesome!” Anton continued. “We’ll really put the cauldron to the test!”
I knew I couldn’t refuse. Anton would be offended for a week, saying I don’t love his family. And honestly, I don’t really like his family. But I put up with it. For my husband’s sake.
His entire family lives in another city, visiting once every two or three months for the weekend. Anton and I live in a two-room apartment — bedroom and combined living room-kitchen.
When guests arrive, it turns into a communal flat. They sleep anywhere, make noise, eat everything, and discuss my life.
But the worst is their way of communicating. Constant jabs disguised as care and love.
Galina Pavlovna always says:
“Lenochka, dress up nicer, you’re the hostess! You’re such a pretty girl, don’t embarrass yourself in that grubby robe.”
I obediently change into decent clothes. Try to look presentable. Then at the table, niece Nastya quietly says:
“Oh, you finally bought a normal blouse! Last time you looked like Granny Lyuba from the station.”
Everyone laughs. Including my husband. I get up, silently clear the plates, and put on a face of complete indifference. Smile forcedly and don’t join the conversation anymore.
“Lenka is offended,” Nastya giggles.
“Oh, don’t be offended,” Ira says. “We’re just joking! Family style!”
Family style means constantly poking you in your flaws, but under the guise of “care.”
Last time Galina Pavlovna spent an hour telling how her neighbor lost fifteen kilos:
“Lenusya, you should try it too. Anton is sporty, and you… well, you know.”
I understood. I knew the scales showed three kilos more than a year ago. And that Anton really goes to the gym. And that his mother considers me unworthy of her son.
“Mom,” Anton weakly defended me then. “Lena is fine.”
“Of course she’s fine!” my mother-in-law agreed. “She just could take better care of herself. Men love with their eyes!”
After such “family gatherings,” it takes me a week to recover. And Anton acts like nothing happened.
But the worst was two months ago.
The same three came again, but with a surprise. Ira brought a “gentleman,” as she called him.
“This is Dmitry,” she introduced a stranger about forty. “My new boyfriend. We met recently, but he’s so interesting! Anton, you don’t mind if he stays overnight?”
Anton, of course, didn’t mind. But I did. But no one even asked me.
Dmitry turned out to be from Yekaterinburg. He worked for some construction company, constantly traveling. How he met Ira was a mystery. She’d known him only a week but already dragged him to meet us like family.
He looked decent — tall, not overweight. But there was something unpleasant in his eyes. He looked too intently, came too close, “accidentally” touched my hand too often when I served plates.
“You have a beautiful wife,” he said to Anton at dinner.
“Thanks,” my husband replied. “I’m lucky.”
“Very lucky,” Dmitry looked me up and down. “Women like you are rare.”
I felt uncomfortable. But no one else noticed anything wrong. Or pretended not to.
Initially, the guests were supposed to stay one day. But it turned out Dmitry could stay until Monday — “work allows.” Ira decided to stay too. And Galina Pavlovna and Nastya as well.
So the weekend turned into a three-day ordeal.
They put him to sleep in the living room on the fold-out couch. Anton and I in the bedroom. The rest wherever they could. Ira on an inflatable mattress in the kitchen, Galina Pavlovna and Nastya on the living room floor.
The first night I couldn’t sleep. Too many people in a small apartment, too noisy, too stuffy. And Dmitry looked at me all evening like a hungry wolf eyeing a sheep.
At two in the morning I wanted water. Quietly went to the kitchen — and was stunned. Dmitry was sitting by the window in casual clothes, smoking and looking into the dark.
“Oh, Lena!” he greeted cheerfully, almost naked. “Can’t sleep either?”
“I wanted some water,” I muttered, trying not to look at him.
“Join me?” he offered, taking a drag. “Let’s talk heart to heart. I thought — we barely talked.”
“No, thanks. I want to sleep.”
“Don’t rush,” he stood and moved closer. “Such a beautiful woman sitting at home. Does Anton appreciate you?”
Goosebumps ran down my spine. Not from the compliment — from fear.
“Good night,” I cut him off and quickly went to the bedroom.
Anton was asleep like the dead. I nudged him:
“Anton, your sister’s boyfriend is acting strange.”
“Mm… what?” he mumbled half-asleep.
“Dmitry. He’s… looking at me unpleasantly.”
“He’s a normal guy,” Anton muttered. “Go to sleep.”
I didn’t sleep till morning. Lay awake listening for someone coming to our door. Luckily, no one came.
In the morning Dmitry acted like nothing happened. Joking at breakfast, helping wash dishes, playing cards with Nastya. Model guest.
But when no one looked — he winked at me, stared at my chest, “accidentally” touched me passing by.
I tried not to be alone with him even for a second. If he came into the kitchen — I left.
Anton didn’t notice. Or didn’t want to. Male solidarity over his wife’s silly fears, apparently…
“Dmitry’s a normal guy,” Anton said Sunday, sprawled on the couch. “Ira is lucky.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Lucky her.”
By Sunday evening, I was dreaming they would all finally leave. But no — they decided on a farewell dinner.
“Let’s go to the store,” Galina Pavlovna suggested. “We’ll buy something tasty for the road.”
They all went shopping together. I refused — my head was pounding from their constant chatter.
“Len, want me to buy you something?” Anton asked, putting on his jacket.
“Some painkillers,” I asked. “My head is splitting.”
They left as a group, finally leaving me alone. I climbed into the bedroom, closed the door, and lay on the bed. Silence! The first time in three days.
About thirty minutes later, I heard someone come back. The sound of a lock, footsteps in the hallway.
“I forgot my phone,” Dmitry said loudly, apparently to reassure me.
I lay quietly, hoping he would quickly find his phone and leave. But the footsteps headed my way.
Knock on the door.
“Lena? Not asleep? I want to say something.”
“I’m sleeping,” I lied. “My head hurts.”
“Come on, open up. It’ll be quick.”
I got up and went to the door but didn’t open. There are no interior locks in our apartment — only bolts. I leaned my back against the door and froze.
“Lena, listen…” his voice grew softer, more intimate. “You’re amazing. I felt good with you these days.”
“Thanks. Goodbye.”
“Wait! Open the door, let’s talk properly.”
“What is there to talk about?”
“I can see — you’re interested in me too. Don’t pretend.”
Goosebumps again. Not from the compliment — from fear.
“You misunderstood.”
“Come on! Anton doesn’t even notice you. I saw how he treats the furniture.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is! Because I like you. Really like you.”
I was silent, pressed against the door with my whole body. My heart pounded wildly.
“Lena, don’t be stupid. I’m leaving tomorrow — we won’t see each other again. Open up.”
He pushed the door. Not hard, but I felt it move. I braced my feet against the floor and held on with all my might.
“Don’t,” I said. “Please leave.”
“What are you afraid of? I just want to talk.”
He pushed the door harder again. I pressed my back harder, but I knew — if he really wanted to enter, I wouldn’t hold him.
At that moment voices sounded — the others returned. Dmitry stepped away from the door.
“Fine,” he said. “Your choice. We’ll talk later.”
When everyone came back, I left the bedroom pale and shaking. Anton didn’t even notice my state.
“Did you get the painkillers?” he offered pills. “Feeling better?”
“Much,” I lied.
I spent the rest of the evening next to my husband, not leaving his side. Dmitry didn’t harass me anymore but looked at me with a smirk. Like, I know your secret.
On Monday morning, they finally left. Dmitry shook my hand goodbye a little longer than necessary:
“It was very nice to meet you, Lena. Hope we meet again.”
“Unlikely,” I replied.
Anton saw them off at the station. I stayed home and cried for half an hour in relief.
The next day Ira called:
“Len, thanks for your hospitality! Dmitry and I are no longer seeing each other. We didn’t get along.”
“Got it,” I said.
“He turned out to be quite a piece of work. Imagine, he harassed the train conductor! Luckily, I realized immediately — not my type.”
Anton didn’t know about their “characters.” And I didn’t tell him. Why spoil things? He wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
Two months have passed since then. I tried not to think about that terrible weekend. Life was returning to normal.
And yesterday Anton came home beaming:
“Len, great news! My family is coming this weekend! Mom, Ira, and Nastya. They say we absolutely must try the pilaf in the new cauldron! Will you cook pilaf? Set the table like always! We’ll really test the cauldron properly!”
I froze, rag in hand. Them again. Those jabs, laughs, advice on “how to live properly.” Again my apartment will become a thoroughfare.
“Great!” Anton continued. “Just the excuse to try the cauldron! Mom is so looking forward to your pilaf! And by the way — Ira is bringing someone new too. A new acquaintance. She says he’s a very nice man.”
I froze. Another guest. Another stranger in my house.
“What kind of acquaintance?”
“Don’t worry,” Anton waved his hand. “Ira said — polite, intelligent. Works for some serious company. She met him recently, but it’s already serious — she wants us to meet.”
My insides tightened. History repeats. The trinity plus a stranger again. My home turns into a hotel for strangers again.
“And where will he sleep?”
“Well, as usual — in the living room. There’s a sofa.”
As usual. Like last time with Dmitry.
I turned to him and looked into his eyes:
“I’m not taking part.”
Anton froze with a smile:
“What do you mean ‘not taking part’?”
“Exactly what I said. I’m not taking part in this weekend.”
“Len, come on… It’s my family…”
“Your family. Then entertain them yourself.”
“But what about the pilaf? The new cauldron?”
“Great. You know where the fridge is, you can cook pilaf, entertain them yourself.”
Anton opened his mouth, but I was already going to the bedroom to pack my bag.
“Lenka, where are you going?”
“To a friend’s dacha. For the weekend.”
“But we planned…”
“We planned nothing. You planned. I’m just leaving.”
“Len, don’t do something stupid…”
“Stupid is putting up with your family’s rudeness. Now I’m doing the right thing.”
I took out my phone and wrote to Katya: “Can I come to your dacha for the weekend? Really need it.”
The reply came in a minute: “Of course! Come, we’ll drink and talk about life.”
“Len, it’s silly! Why like this?”
“Because I’m tired of being the entertainer in my own home.”
I closed the bag and went to the door. Anton followed:
“Len, don’t go! What will I tell Mom?”
“Tell her your wife went to rest. Because weekends are her life too, not a family theater in her kitchen — with her as the main character — ENOUGH!”
“Len!”
But I already closed the door.
Outside it was cool and fresh. I called a taxi and felt a huge weight fall from my soul.
Let Anton explain to his mother why his wife ran away. Let him cook pilaf in his precious cauldron. Let him listen to jabs about not being able to control his own wife.
And I’m going to Katya’s dacha. I’ll drink, read books, and enjoy the silence. Because my weekend is my time. And I have the right to spend it how I want.
Not how his family demands.
I think she should have told her husband everything. What do you think — was that the right thing for the heroine to do?
