— Katya, I’ve got bombshell news! My folks are coming!
Gena burst into the kitchen, beaming like a freshly polished samovar, and dropped his backpack onto a chair. Katya, who was stirring vegetables in a frying pan, turned her head for just a second, noting how his boots once again left a trail of street dust on the floor. Three months of living together had taught her to notice such things, though not yet how to deal with them. She decided she’d mention it later — after dinner.
— What guests? — she turned down the heat, and the vegetables hissed more softly.
— Ours! — Gena eagerly flung open the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. — My brother, Vitka, with Irka and the kids. They’re heading south for vacation, decided to make a little detour to see us. They’ll stay for a couple of weeks, see the city. Cool, right?
Katya froze, spatula in hand. Two weeks. Her one-room but cozy studio — the space she had furnished so lovingly — instantly filled in her mind with strangers. Two adults and two kids. She imagined toys scattered everywhere, constant noise, a line for the bathroom in the mornings.
— Gena, hold on, — she set the pan on a cold burner. — Two weeks? Six of us? Where exactly do you plan to put them? We’ve got one bed — the sofa.
— It’s all figured out! — he waved it off, taking a long gulp. — Vitka and Irka on the sofa, the kids on an air mattress in the corner. We’ll buy it tomorrow. I already called my parents, too. They’ll come see them off — and stay with us for a few days.
He said it so casually, as if he’d just mentioned picking up some bread. A chill ran down Katya’s spine that had nothing to do with a draft.
— So, first four people for two weeks, and then your parents?
— Well yeah, Mom and Dad for three or four days tops. Mom was thrilled! Said she finally wants to get to know you properly, not just in passing. She really wants to try your famous syrniki — I’ve told her so much about them.
That was it. The final phrase was the trigger — the click that switched her state from numb shock to cold fury. It wasn’t about the guests. It was about the fact that she, Katya, wasn’t part of this plan at all. There were Gena’s decisions, his brother’s wishes, his mother’s joy — and her syrniki, which she was, by default, expected to make for the whole company. Her apartment was merely a backdrop for their family idyll, and she herself — an unpaid servant.
— Gena, you made all these decisions without asking me? — her voice was calm, but the calmness was more dangerous than any shout.
He finally looked up from his bottle. Something began to dawn on him.
— What’s there to ask? It’s my family. Aren’t you happy to see them? They’re great. You’ll love them. Mom’s a saint — she’ll adore you.
— I don’t doubt your mom’s saintliness, — Katya crossed her arms. — I’m wondering why you think my home and my time belong to you.
— Oh, come on, — Gena rolled his eyes and slammed the bottle on the table. — What’s the difference whose place it is? We live together, so it’s ours. Or is hosting my family a problem for you? I thought you loved me — that means you should respect my family too.
His voice grew louder, indignant, accusatory. He wasn’t listening — he was attacking, painting her as selfish and ungrateful.
— Respect? — Katya turned fully toward him, her gaze hard as steel.
— Well… yeah!
— Gena, who gave you the right to decide who lives in my apartment? You’re not even my husband, yet you’re bringing a crowd here and telling me how I should behave around them. That’s not happening.
Her words hit him like a slap. The air in the kitchen, heavy with the smell of fried vegetables and his smugness, grew dense and sticky. His face shifted from surprise to confusion, then flushed with anger. He had expected tears, maybe yelling — but not this icy, composed defiance that questioned his very place here.
— What are you saying? — he took a step closer. — What do you mean, who am I? I’m your man! We live together! Or did you forget?
— I haven’t forgotten anything, Gena. I just asked a simple question, — she stayed perfectly still. — On what grounds are you making decisions about my property and my life? We moved in together three months ago. That doesn’t make this place ours.
— Ah, so that’s how it is — property! — he barked a short, bitter laugh. — I thought we had a relationship, a future family, but you’ve got it all divided — your life, your stuff! What am I then, a tenant? A freeloader? Did you bring me here to pay your rent?
He hurled accusations like stones, trying to provoke her. But Katya didn’t flinch. Her face was unreadable — no guilt, no anger. Just calm logic. She realized there was no point arguing feelings — only facts.
Without a word, she left the kitchen. Gena stood there, convinced he’d broken her, that she was off to cry in the bathroom and would soon come back meek and apologetic. He smirked and drank more water straight from the bottle.
But Katya didn’t go to the bathroom. She went to her desk, took a clean A4 sheet of paper and a black gel pen. Her movements were precise and calm. She sat down and began to write:
RULES FOR GUESTS STAYING IN THE APARTMENT AT (address).
She continued:
All visits must be coordinated with the property owner (Ekaterina) no less than 14 calendar days in advance.
Guest stays are subject to a daily fee of 1000 rubles per person, including children over 3 years old.
Quiet hours are from 22:00 to 08:00. No loud activities permitted.
Guests are fully financially responsible for any damage to the property.
Accommodation is provided only after written agreement and full prepayment for the stay.
She reread it, stood up, and pinned it to the refrigerator with two bright magnets.
— Here, — she said quietly, though her voice cut through the silence like a shot.
Gena read the sheet. His jaw dropped.
— Are you insane?! A thousand rubles per day?! For my parents?! For my nephews?! What is this, a hotel?!
Katya calmly reattached the magnets.
— Make sure your relatives are familiar with the rules, — she said evenly. — Once they’ve agreed in writing and transferred payment, I’ll gladly welcome them. This is my apartment, Gena. My rules apply here.
— You’re unbelievable! You want me to charge my family like strangers? You’re humiliating me!
— I’m enforcing boundaries, — she replied, turning back to the sink. — They apply to everyone.
He exploded — pacing, shouting, ranting about shame and family and love. But his rage bounced off her composure like bullets off glass.
Finally, he tried guilt.
He sat down, head in hands, voice trembling with hurt.
— I just wanted us all to be close… you’ve made me look like a fool before my family.
But she saw through it.
— If you wanted closeness, you would’ve asked my opinion first.
Then came his last weapon — his mother.
He dialed her number and put it on speaker.
“Katya, dear,” came the syrupy voice. “What’s wrong? Gena says you’ve had a misunderstanding.”
Katya’s reply was calm.
— No misunderstanding. Just organization. I can read you the guest rules if he hasn’t.
The voice hardened instantly.
— Rules? Are you out of your mind? We’re visiting our son in his home!
— You’re coming to my apartment, — Katya corrected evenly. — And yes, there’s a daily fee for utilities: one thousand rubles per person.
A deadly pause followed. Then his mother hissed, “So that’s it — you just want to profit off us. We’ll talk later, Gena.” Click.
Gena stared at her, humiliated and seething.
— Satisfied? You embarrassed me! You humiliated my mother!
He grabbed his bag and stormed out — but not before throwing one last threat:
— They’ll be here Saturday at ten. You’ll greet them properly — or we’ll have a serious talk about our future.
The week crawled by in icy silence. Gena acted triumphant — laughing loudly on calls, making plans for his family’s visit, pretending Katya didn’t exist.
Katya, meanwhile, quietly packed up the things she no longer needed.
Saturday came. Ten o’clock sharp — the doorbell rang.
The family swept in like a storm: brother, sister-in-law, two noisy kids, and the parents.
“Katya, darling,” crooned his mother, “we’re starving. Gena said your syrniki are divine.”
Katya set down her coffee cup, stood up, and pointed to the fridge.
— Those are the guest rules. Once you sign and pay, I’ll show you where you can settle.
Silence. Then chaos.
Shouting, accusations, outrage — until Katya quietly left the room, only to return with two large sports bags. Gena’s things.
She placed them by the door.
— You’re right, Gena. We did have a serious talk. Since my rules mean nothing to you, it’s best you all stay together — just not in my apartment.
She opened the door wide.
The family stood frozen, speechless, as a draft rustled the paper on the fridge.
Katya waited.
Then, with one quiet, final motion, she closed the door.
The lock clicked — this time, for good.
