“Olenka, what are you doing?” her mother-in-law burst out. “Where do you think you’re going, and who will ever need you with two kids? Come to your senses!”
“Mum, they came again,” Nastya whispered, without lifting her eyes from her textbook.
Olga froze in the hallway, clutching the grocery bags. Strange men’s shoes were piled up by the door—worn-out sneakers, work boots, expensive trainers. From the kitchen came the familiar rumble of male voices, the clink of bottles and a coarse laugh. Her daughter sat in the corner of the hallway, hands pressed over her ears, pretending to read math.
“How many of them?” Olga asked quietly as she took off her coat.
“Three. Uncle Seryozha, some new one, showed up.”
Olga sighed and headed for the kitchen. Four men were sprawled around the table—Igor and his usual crew. Empty beer bottles stood on the table, leftovers from yesterday’s dinner lay scattered about, the ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.
“Olya, hey!” Igor waved, a half-empty bottle in his hand. “Meet Sergey from the garage. Great guy.”
Sergey nodded without looking up from his phone. His fingers flew over the screen—either a game or messaging. A burnt pan was smoking on the stove, and a mountain of dirty dishes rose in the sink.
“Igor, we agreed you’d warn me,” Olga said, putting the bags down on the only free spot by the window.
“Oh, come on, it’s not the end of the world,” her husband brushed her off. “I ran into Sergey by chance, we decided to hang out.”
The friends snickered. Tolik, the older one, balding, raised his bottle:
“To meeting the hostess!”
Olga turned to the stove and began scraping off the burnt eggs. The muscles in her neck tightened. They only called her “hostess” when her husband’s drunk friends were around. Igor himself never thought of her as the mistress of the house—at best, a free cleaning lady.
“Igor, is your fridge well-stocked?” the skinny guy with the tattoo on his neck asked. “Wouldn’t mind some sausage or something.”
“Olya, you heard that?” Igor shouted without getting up. “The guys are asking for snacks.”
Olga silently opened the fridge. She took out sausage, cheese, tomatoes—everything she’d bought to make dinner for the kids. She sliced it mechanically, feeling the familiar heaviness growing inside.
“Mum, where am I supposed to do my homework?” Seven-year-old Artyom appeared in the doorway with his notebook in hand.
“In the room, honey.”
“But the uncles are watching TV in there.”
Olga glanced into the living room. The four men had already moved in there with their beer and turned the football on full blast. Artyom was standing in the middle of the room with his toy cars in his hands, staring helplessly at the occupied sofa.
“Go play in the hallway for now,” Olga said wearily.
She went back to slicing. Her hands moved on their own, but her thoughts were in a tangle. Once again the apartment had turned into a thoroughfare. Once again the children were sitting in corners, afraid to disturb daddy’s friends.
“Mum, why did Uncle Tolik take my car?” Artyom tugged at her sleeve, pointing toward the living room.
Olga looked in there. Tolik was indeed fiddling with a red BMW model—her son’s favourite toy.
“Just a second,” she said shortly, wiped her hands and went to the living room.
“Tolik, that’s a child’s toy.”
“Huh?” He tore his eyes away from the car. “Relax, I’m just looking at it. Cool model.”
“Give it back, please.”
Olga held out her hand. With obvious reluctance, Tolik handed the car over. The men exchanged glances, irritation in their eyes.
“Strict lady,” Sergey snorted, still not looking up from his phone.
Olga took the car and gave it back to her son. He hugged the toy to his chest and ran off to the hallway. On the screen the commentator suddenly yelled—someone had scored a goal. The men roared, clinking their bottles.
Olga went back to the kitchen, finished the cold cuts and put the plate on the table. Igor didn’t even thank her—he grabbed a slice of sausage and carried it to his friends.
Ten in the evening. The kids were supposed to be asleep, but shouting and swearing were still pouring out of the living room. Olga sat in the children’s room, stroking Nastya’s head. The girl was lying with her face to the wall, her shoulders trembling.
“I can’t fall asleep,” her daughter sobbed into the pillow.
“They’ll leave soon.”
“Mum, Lena wanted to come over tomorrow to work on our biology project. But with all these uncles around, it’s awkward.”
Olga felt everything clench inside her. Nastya was a straight-A student, a responsible girl. She was embarrassed to invite classmates over because of her father’s drunk friends.
“We’ll definitely solve this problem,” Olga promised, kissing the top of her daughter’s head.
She herself knew full well that tomorrow she’d be ashamed in front of the neighbours again. More apologies for the noise, more sidelong looks on the stairwell.
Something crashed out in the hallway. Artyom woke up and called out in fright:
“Mum!” From the living room came:
“Damn it, Sergey, watch where you’re going!”
“It’s fine, guys! We’ll fix the chair!”
Laughter, the sound of breaking pieces.
Olga tucked her son in, then trudged to the kitchen. The sink was packed with dirty dishes—plates, forks, ashtrays. Crumbs were all over the floor, beer puddles spread across the table.
Half past eleven. At last she heard voices in the entryway, doors slamming, footsteps on the stairs. The men were leaving. Olga began gathering the empty bottles, the cigarette butts from the balcony, wiping down the tables.
Igor sprawled out on the couch, scrolling through his phone. His face was red, his eyes glassy.
“You don’t need to make that face,” he muttered without looking up. “They’re decent guys.”
“Igor, the kids can’t study, the neighbours are complaining,” Olga said tiredly as she loaded bottles into a bag.
“So what, I can’t relax once a week?”
“Once?” Olga stopped and looked at him. “On Monday Vitek and Dima were here. On Wednesday Tolik came over. Today is Thursday, and it’s another get-together.”
“So what? I work, I have the right to unwind.”
Igor got up from the couch and went to the bedroom. Olga stayed in the kitchen, rag in hand. Streetlights glowed outside, the city was falling asleep. And she just kept cleaning and cleaning, erasing the traces of someone else’s fun.
In the morning at breakfast, Nastya pushed her oatmeal around with her spoon, not lifting her eyes.
“Lena’s not coming today,” she said quietly. “She told her mum it’s noisy at our place. I’m ashamed.”
Igor snorted as he spread butter on his bread:
“What nonsense. Everything’s fine.”
“Dad, can I study at the library?” his daughter asked cautiously.
“What for? There’s a desk at home.”
“It’s quiet there.”
Olga felt the anger boiling up inside her. Her daughter had to run away from home just to be able to study in peace. But in front of the kids she held herself back, only squeezing her coffee cup tighter.
After breakfast, as she walked Nastya to school, she took her daughter’s hand:
“Tonight I’ll have a serious talk with dad. I promise.”
Nastya nodded, but there was no hope in her eyes. She had heard too many promises over the years.
That evening, at the entrance to their building, Olga ran into Sveta, the neighbour from the fifth floor. Sveta was carrying a shopping bag but stopped when she saw Olga.
“Hey, was there a fight at your place yesterday?” Sveta asked, shifting the bag to a more comfortable grip. “The lady from the third floor says you lot were yelling till one in the morning.”
Olga felt her face flush.
“No, it’s just… the TV was loud.”
“The TV?” Sveta narrowed her eyes. “Olya, why are you so pale? Igor isn’t causing trouble, is he?”
“Of course not, I’m just tired from work.”
Olga quickly jabbed the elevator button, avoiding Sveta’s gaze. Sveta said nothing more, but her face made it clear—she didn’t believe a word.
“If anything happens, call me,” she said as the elevator arrived. “I mean it.”
At home, Olga stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time, studying her reflection. Dark circles under her eyes, pale skin, tense lines at the corners of her mouth. When had she grown so old?
On Wednesday evening Igor brought a group over again. Olga heard the familiar voices already in the stairwell and froze on the landing, clenching the keys in her fist.
“But they were already here on Monday!” she blurted out as soon as she stepped over the threshold.
“So what?” Igor shrugged, helping Vitek with his jacket. “It’s his birthday, what, we’re not supposed to celebrate?”
“But we talked about this…”
“We didn’t talk about anything,” her husband cut her off. “Vitek, head to the kitchen, we’ll get the snacks ready.”
The friends took over the kitchen, sat around the table, demanding the usual service. Olga silently sliced sausage, feeling fury choke her. In the living room Artyom started crying—he wanted to watch cartoons, but the TV was once again occupied by football.
“Mum, can I go to grandma’s?” he asked, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
Olga squeezed the knife in her hand. Her son was ready to flee the house just to escape this nightmare.
The next day at work she called Lyudmila Vasilievna, Igor’s mother. She spoke quietly so her colleagues wouldn’t hear.
“Lyudmila Vasilievna, please talk to your son. The children are suffering.”
“Olenka, you should be glad he’s at home!” her mother-in-law’s voice was indignant. “Instead of hanging around bars! A man has the right to relax after work…
Continued in the comments
