I was just dusting the shelf in the living room when a loud knock came at the door – so sudden that the vase on the windowsill trembled and nearly fell off. I sighed, knowing that this sound was no good omen. Volodya peeked out from the kitchen, where he was washing a cup after breakfast, and shrugged wearily.
— “They’re at it again, huh?” he muttered, though it was already obvious.
I barely had time to approach the door before it burst open, and Valya, shoving her shoes aside, barged into the hall. A satisfied smile lit up her face, as if she’d just returned from a victory parade. Her husband Fyodor followed, struggling to squeeze in with his backpack slung over his shoulder and a tired look about him. Last of all, Dimka came flying in like a whirlwind—his jacket already on the floor, his shoes scattered in all directions.
— “Oh, Volodya! Hi, dear!” Valya shrieked, throwing herself at her brother and hugging him like a bear. — “We’re only here for an hour, we were just next door.”
I raised an eyebrow skeptically. An hour? That’s what she always says.
Before I could utter a word, Valya was already heading toward the kitchen, tossing over her shoulder:
— “Do you have anything to nibble on? We’re starving from the road!”
I pursed my lips and cast a troubled glance at Volodya. He simply spread his arms as if to say that arguing was useless.
The refrigerator door in the kitchen banged shut, and I hurried there—but it was too late. Valya, pulling out a plate of pies that I had baked especially for our Sunday dinner, immediately grabbed three of them and shouted to Fyodor:
— “Hey, come here! They’ve got treats!”
I froze in the doorway, watching as Valya methodically laid out our delicacies on the table – a cold cut platter, cheese, salads. Everything I had lovingly prepared for the celebration instantly vanished onto the plates.
Meanwhile, Dimka was running around the rooms, stomping loudly, and eventually reached the toy chest that Volodya had long ago set on the mezzanine—thinking he’d tucked it away. One by one, the little cars flew to the floor, and the clatter and laughter echoed down the entire corridor.
— “Lena, haven’t you brewed the tea yet?” Valya shouted indignantly as she began slicing the cake. — “You never wait for guests!”
I took a deep breath and held back the retort that was already twirling on my tongue. Volodya silently sat on a stool, leaning his elbows on his knees and massaging his temples with his fingers. I wanted to shout, but I only quietly replied:
— “I’ll brew it now…”
Valya pulled out a jar of expensive olives, generously poured half of them into the salad bowl, and speared one with a fork with a crunch. I glanced at Volodya – he exhaled heavily, as if gathering the last crumbs of his patience.
And in my head, one thought kept spinning: how much longer are we going to put up with this?
Valya visited regularly, like clockwork. Every Sunday – to our place, the next week – to her brother Slavic’s, then back to us again. It was her endless cycle of “family invasion.” And every time, the house descended into chaos. She acted like the mistress of the place, conducting an inventory of our supplies and laying out everything she found on the table. Fyodor usually flopped on the sofa with the remote in hand, channel-surfing, while Dimka wreaked havoc throughout the apartment, scattering toys and turning everything upside down.
— “What a habit she has…” I mumbled, dropping my shoulders. — “Just raiding the refrigerator and scooping out all the best stuff.”
— “She didn’t even ask if it was okay,” Volodya added bitterly. — “As if someone gave her the right to our food.”
I couldn’t even remember the last time I spent a day off in peace. All my time went into restoring the apartment after their visits. Yesterday, for example, Valya managed to open a jar of expensive marinated mushrooms that I had been saving for my mom’s anniversary. And she said with a smirk:
— “Well, you understand, at a party it’ll all be eaten anyway, so why wait?”
I felt a heavy sense of irritation, almost anger, wash over me. Does Valya really not understand how hard it is for us? Or does she simply not want to understand?
Monday morning began in tense silence. I sat in the kitchen, mechanically stirring my tea, even though it had long gone cold. Volodya appeared later – disheveled, gloomy, with dark circles under his eyes after yet another sleepless night. I knew he was still bothered by the previous day’s Valya invasion and her family’s antics that had exhausted us to the limit.
— “Lena…” Volodya sat down opposite me, resting his elbows on the table. — “This can’t go on. I’m serious. I’m at my breaking point.”
— “And what are we supposed to do?” I sighed. — “Valya will come anyway, even if we pretend to be away. They have a key – last time they didn’t even knock.”
Volodya closed his eyes as if contemplating something.
— “You know, I’ve been thinking…” he began. — “What?” I raised my eyebrows with interest. — “What if we make it so that she simply doesn’t want to come?”
I frowned, trying to grasp what he was getting at. Volodya leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice:
— “We’ve gotten used to tolerating her antics because we’re afraid of conflict. But what if they decide on their own not to come anymore?”
— “How?” I asked, puzzled.
— “An empty refrigerator.” His lips twitched into a slight smile. — “Imagine: they come as usual, and our fridge is empty. Well, almost empty.”
— “And what do we feed them?” I began to understand the scheme, feeling a sly thrill at the mischievous idea.
— “Buckwheat porridge. Nothing else. And… a little mustard. So it looks like a full meal.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. The idea struck me not just as sensible, but almost brilliant in its simplicity.
— “Are you serious? Buckwheat and mustard?”
— “Why not?” Volodya shrugged. — “We’re not stopping them from coming. It just happens to be how things are.”
— “Quite accidental…” I smirked, imagining Valya’s face when she’d peek into the refrigerator.
Decision made. We set to work with an enthusiasm we hadn’t felt in ages. Everything in our main refrigerator – the sausage, cheese, salads, even the leftover pie – was moved to the small refrigerator in the storage room. It was old, but it worked; we usually stored our reserves and canned goods there. Now it became a hideaway for all our food.
We carefully packed cookies, gingerbread, candies, and fruits into containers and sealed jars, and hid them on the far shelves. I even wrapped the jar of caviar in an old newspaper – just in case Valya suddenly decided to stick her nose in.
Volodya neatly placed a pot of buckwheat on the shelf in the main refrigerator – yesterday’s batch, thick and almost tasteless. Next to it, he put a jar of mustard – as if made especially for a “festive dinner.” I checked once more – not a scrap of sausage or a slice of cheese remained; everything was carefully hidden.
— “Do you think it’ll work? At least temporarily take away their desire to come?” he said thoughtfully, closing the refrigerator door.
— “I hope so…” I smiled, feeling a strange lightness as if a weight had been lifted off our shoulders.
The plan was simple and a bit crazy, but the thought of it made me feel both pleased and even a little amused. It was as if we had finally taken the first step toward setting boundaries – if not openly, then clearly enough to say: enough of intruding on our peace.
Now all that was left was to wait for Sunday – the day when Valya would come again on schedule with her family.
That Sunday morning, I woke with a slight anxiety. Everything seemed under control, everything ready, yet the thought of the upcoming meeting with Valya still made me nervous. I quietly slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen. Volodya was already sitting there with a book, pretending to read.
— “Did you sleep at all?” I asked softly as I approached the sink. — “A bit,” he replied without looking up. — “And you?” — “Not really,” I sighed.
It wasn’t even an hour later when a clatter sounded in the hall – as if a pipe had burst on the landing. Valya was the first to burst through the door, glowing as if she had been eagerly awaited with a festive treat. Behind her, Fyodor squeezed in, and then – Dimka, who immediately dashed for the toy chest and noisily dumped its contents onto the floor.
— “Volodya, Lena! So, are you ready for your Sunday feast?” Valya didn’t even bother to take off her shoes and immediately headed for the kitchen, shaking off the wet snow from her coat.
Fyodor, as usual, flopped on the sofa with the remote. Meanwhile, Dimka began rifling through the toy cars, scattering them all over the floor. I instinctively adjusted the curtain on the window, trying to occupy my hands and hide my nervous tension.
— “Lena, put the kettle on!” Valya shouted from the kitchen, as if I were her personal servant.
I heard the refrigerator door creak open, and then—a suspicious pause. My heart beat faster, and I couldn’t help but glance into the kitchen. There stood Valya in front of the open refrigerator, having slid the lid off the pot, sniffing the buckwheat suspiciously.
— “Lena, where’s the food?” she demanded, as if I were obliged to account for it. — “Here,” I nodded towards the pot. — “Buckwheat.”
Valya blinked, as if not understanding the joke, then glanced around the empty shelf and looked back into the refrigerator, as though the food might miraculously reappear.
— “Only buckwheat?” she repeated, eyeing me suspiciously.
— “Yep,” I nodded, trying to appear unruffled. — “We didn’t have time for groceries this week.”
Volodya entered the kitchen, feigning ignorance and pretending to be surprised.
— “Valya, did something happen?” he asked, as if nothing were amiss.
— “Nothing…” she mumbled, putting the pot back. — “You don’t have any food at all?”
— “Well, just buckwheat,” Volodya shrugged. — “This week finances are tight, we decided to get by on porridge.”
Valya looked at both of us skeptically, then picked up the jar of mustard from the top shelf and stared at it, as if the mustard could explain everything.
— “Buckwheat with mustard?” she finally blurted out. — “Are you kidding?”
— “No, no,” Volodya waved his hand dismissively. — “Just, you know, a crisis. Not really the time for delicacies.”
A displeased voice came from the living room – Fyodor:
— “Valya, I’m hungry. Let’s go home.”
— “Let’s go,” she said irritably, pursing her lips. — “What’s the point of staying when there’s not even food to eat?”
Meanwhile, Dimka threw a tantrum – not wanting to leave, clinging to a toy tractor. Valya, waving him off, grabbed her son in frustration and practically pushed him into the corridor. The door slammed with a bang, and silence fell over the apartment. I cautiously peeked out from the kitchen, hardly believing my luck. At that moment, I felt relief.
— “Did you see her face?” Volodya asked, barely containing a smirk.
— “It was like she had been banished to a desert without water,” I laughed. — “Maybe it’ll at least temporarily curb her urge to show up.”
We sat in the kitchen, sipping our tea and exchanging looks as if silently checking each other’s mood. An unexpected calm had settled over us, as if we’d finally regained control of our lives.
— “If I had known it was so easy to drive them away, I’d have let the buckwheat fight,” Volodya snorted.
— “Well, we’ll see how long the effect lasts,” I smiled, feeling a warm surge of joy.
A few days passed after that Sunday. Valya neither called nor appeared at the door. I kept listening for any rustle outside, but the silence felt unusually pleasant. The house was so peaceful that I began to savor every minute – not fearing the knock that might signal the return of the “traveling circus.”
Volodya was calm and even, it seemed, pleased. Sometimes I noticed him smirking to himself, as if replaying the scene of the empty refrigerator in his head. I tried not to wonder if I was fooling myself by enjoying this lull, but deep down I couldn’t help but wonder: did we do the right thing?
The phone on the kitchen table vibrated. I startled and immediately looked at the screen. It was Slavic. Volodya answered on speakerphone.
— “Hi, Slavic! What’s up?” he asked. — “Well…” Slavic sighed, clearly irritated. — “Valya and Fyodor showed up at our place this weekend. I thought they’d come to you, but they went straight here.” — “Really?” Volodya shot me a quick look. — “And what happened this time?” — “As usual…” Slavic chuckled. — “They came, ate everything, and Dimka scattered the toys all over. And Valya complained that you supposedly had no food. She said you were practically starving because your refrigerator had nothing but buckwheat with mustard.” I couldn’t help but burst into laughter and covered my mouth with my hand. Volodya couldn’t help but smile too.
— “Yes, it happened…” he replied calmly. — “Listen, Slavic, aren’t you tired of cleaning up after them every time?” — “It’s almost become a habit,” Slavic grumbled. — “But they’re really getting on my nerves. I wish I could have a quiet weekend for once.” Volodya looked at me and winked. — “You know, brother, we decided to influence Valya a little differently. We simply left in our refrigerator nothing but a pot of buckwheat and mustard. Nothing else.” — “No way!” Slavic laughed. — “And what did she do?” — “She got offended. But she left quickly,” Volodya said. — “Why don’t you try it too—if only once. You might see it work.” — “Hmm…” Slavic mused. — “Maybe I’ll actually give it a try. Thanks for the idea.”
When the call ended, I sat next to Volodya on the couch and shook my head: — “Do you think Slavic will actually do it?” — “Maybe not,” Volodya shrugged. — “But at least he’ll think about it. And if Valya realizes that she isn’t always welcomed with open arms, maybe she’ll rein in her enthusiasm.” We sat together for a long time, discussing plans for the next weekend. It was nice to know that our little act of resistance had finally paid off. Boundaries were set – and it seemed that the first lesson had been learned.
Even though things with Valya hadn’t gotten any easier, at least we had learned to protect our space. Sometimes, you just have to show that you don’t have to tolerate everything—even if it’s family.
