— Lena, hi! Listen, there’s something urgent!
Anton’s voice on the phone was brisk and a little hurried, like someone taking care of important matters on the go, certain of being in the right. Lena didn’t take her eyes off the frying pan, where finely chopped carrots and onions sizzled in hot oil, turning a caramel shade. The wooden spatula in her hand moved steadily and smoothly, almost meditatively. The aroma of the sauté mixed with the smell of rich meat broth quietly simmering in the pot beside it. It was the smell of home, comfort, and the Saturday evening she had been carefully creating for the past hour and a half.
“Svetka’s car won’t start, can you believe it? Battery’s dead,” Anton rattled off without giving her a chance to speak. “She has to pick up Mom at the airport in an hour. Can you drop everything right now, pick her up, and then head to Domodedovo together? I’ve got a meeting, I can’t leave—hope you understand.”
The spatula froze in her hand. The sizzling vegetables suddenly sounded deafening, abrasive, like metal scraping glass. The cozy kitchen smell became suffocating. Slowly, she turned the stove knob, and the cheerful blue flame went out. Something inside her tightened, then snapped with a dry crack, like an over-stretched string. This wasn’t a sudden impulse—it was the result of long, methodical tension.
Just yesterday she had spent half a day taking his thirteen-year-old nephew, Svetka’s son, to the ER after he fell off his bike, because Svetka had a “manicure appointment she couldn’t cancel.” The previous weekend she had spent her only day off helping Svetka hang wallpaper in the nursery because “you’ve got better taste, Lenka, and the guys will just botch it.” And every time, it was framed as some urgent family necessity, where her participation wasn’t a request—it was an unquestionable duty.
“No,” she cut him off. Her voice sounded foreign—low and firm, like stone.
There was a pause on the other end, as if the system had malfunctioned and a familiar mechanism had stopped working.
“What do you mean, no?” Anton asked, genuinely baffled. There was no anger in his tone, just surprise, like a calculator spitting out an error on “two plus two.”
“I mean exactly that, Anton. I. Am. Not. Going,” she said, enunciating each word. “I am not your personal assistant or a free taxi for your entire family.”
She stepped away from the stove, leaving the dinner to cool—suddenly pointless. All the energy she had poured into creating this evening for the two of them evaporated, leaving only a cold, ringing emptiness.
“Lena, what’s wrong with you? This is family!” His voice shifted instantly, gaining the indignant, commanding tone he used when giving orders. He wasn’t trying to understand—he was pushing her back into the usual script.
And then the dam broke. All the exhaustion, the built-up irritation, the unspoken resentments poured out in one searing stream.
“I’m sick and tired of your family constantly calling me for help! I’m not your pack mule!”
“But it’s just—”
“It’s YOUR family, Anton! Your sister can afford a taxi. Your mother, who’s flying back from her vacation, can too. Why should I drop everything and rush across the city to solve their problems? You, as a man, should deal with them—not dump them on me! I’m done!”
She hung up and tossed the phone onto the sofa. For the first time in years, she felt neither anger nor guilt—only immense, intoxicating relief, as though she had thrown off a sack of stones she’d been carrying so long she’d grown used to its weight. She knew he’d be home soon. And that would be a different kind of conversation.
Less than twenty minutes later, the key turned sharply in the lock. The door burst open as if shoved, and Anton stood there—face flushed, nostrils flaring. Without removing his coat or shoes, he dropped his briefcase on the floor and strode into the room, radiating righteous fury.
“What’s gotten into you?” he barked, stopping a few feet from her. He stood over her, his whole posture radiating the intent to put her in her place. “What was that circus on the phone? Are you out of your mind? My mother and sister nearly got stranded because of you!”
“They weren’t stranded, Anton,” she replied evenly, looking him straight in the eye. Her calm seemed to infuriate him even more. “Moscow has this service called a taxi. I’m sure Svetka has the app. I have no doubt they got here just fine.”
“Taxi? Pay money when there’s a car right under your window and you’re just sitting at home doing nothing?” He threw up his hands and stepped closer. “Since when have you become so selfish? I don’t even recognize you! Helping family is suddenly a problem?”
She rose from the sofa so they were at eye level. For the first time, she felt no urge to apologize or smooth things over.
“Let’s count, Anton. Just count this so-called ‘normal help.’ Two weeks ago, I took a day off work to drive your aunt to another city for seedlings because you were too busy. Last month, I spent three evenings in a row helping your cousin with his economics paper because you ‘don’t know anything about that.’ Last weekend—wallpaper at Svetka’s. Yesterday—ER with her son. Today—picking up your mother. See a pattern?”
“That’s just normal family relations! Everyone helps everyone!” he protested.
“No, Anton. This isn’t mutual help. This is your family using me as a resource—my time, my energy, my car, my nerves. And you, as their dispatcher, just redirect the requests to me. Svetka calls you—you pass it to me. Your mom calls—you pass it to me. This isn’t help. It’s a free, full-service operation. And as of today, it’s closed for an indefinite audit.”
He stared at her, stunned.
“You just don’t love my family!” he finally accused.
“I used to think I did,” Lena said with a bitter smile. “Now I see I was just convenient. Not the same thing. And you know what? I even made you dinner—your favorite borscht. Thought we’d sit and eat like normal people. Then you called and reminded me what I really am in this ‘family.’ Appetite’s gone.”
Before he could reply, the doorbell rang—two sharp, insistent chimes. Anton flinched. Lena didn’t move; she already knew who it was.
At the door stood Svetka and their mother, Nina Petrovna—Svetka defiant, arms crossed, chin raised; Nina pale and solemn, leaning on her daughter like a frail martyr.
They swept in, airing grievances—Svetka accusing, Nina sighing theatrically. Anton ushered them to the living room, ordering Lena to help. She didn’t move, only stepped aside.
“What, your crown will fall off if you help an elderly woman?” Svetka hissed as she passed.
In the living room, the scene turned into a tribunal—Anton, backed by his family, accusing Lena of being unreasonable. She responded coolly, addressing them all: her kindness was gone, her willingness to be their convenient stand-in was over.
Svetka erupted, accusing Lena of being an ungrateful outsider whom Anton had “made into someone.” Lena dismantled her point by point—reminding her of unpaid babysitting, free repairs, and now the taxi she wouldn’t call. Nina tried to guilt her with talk of “being like family” and “little gifts,” but Lena calmly called it what it was—manipulation and control.
Finally, she turned to Anton. “You’re my biggest disappointment. Not the head of the family, just a weak manager hiding behind me instead of standing up to them.”
The words hung in the air like heavy smoke.
Then Lena left for the kitchen. They heard the scrape of metal. She reappeared holding the heavy pot of borscht she’d made for him. Without looking at them, she carried it to the sink and tipped it in. The thick, red soup slid out in a slow wave, chunks of meat and vegetables splashing into the drain.
She set the empty pot back on the stove, turned, and walked to the bedroom without a word—leaving them staring at the destroyed dinner, and at the silent, final end of their humiliating arrangement.
