“The relatives came to ‘finish the salads’ after New Year’s. But this time, the surprise wasn’t on the table.”
“Go on, Pash—open the door. Your mom’s calling,” Natalia said. Her voice was unnervingly steady, but inside her, that familiar string was already pulled tight—the one that usually snaps with a loud, ugly twang.
Pavel choked on his tea, threw his wife a guilty look, and hurried into the hallway. January 3rd. The traditional “let’s eat what’s left” day. The day when a family’s boundaries were erased by Tamara Grigoryevna’s heavy boots and Oksana’s glossy, over-the-knee leather shoes.
Natalia stood by the window, watching the gray courtyard dusted with snow. She was thirty-six, a lead operations specialist at a major bank. Millions passed through her hands, and she could calm down the most hysterical clients with one sentence. But at home, under this avalanche of “family love,” she always turned into a mute housemaid.
“Nataashka! So, you alive after the holidays?” Oksana’s voice flooded their small two-bedroom apartment. “We won’t stay long—just popping in, purely symbolic!”
A crowd poured into the entryway: Oksana, reeking of heavy, sugary perfume; Nikolai Fyodorovich with his usual bag that clinked; and Tamara Grigoryevna. The mother-in-law strode in like an admiral boarding a captured ship—eyes sharp, scanning everything.
“Ugh, it’s stifling in here,” Tamara Grigoryevna sighed instead of greeting anyone, unwinding her scarf. “Pasha, why haven’t you cleaned the hood? Natalia’s probably been too busy again—our little career woman.”
Pavel helped his mother out of her coat and only muttered, “Mom, it’s fine. Come in.”
Natalia came into the hallway, drying her hands on a towel. Her smile was strained but polite.
“Hello. Come to the table—I’ll bring out something hot.”
“What hot food? We’re family, we’re simple,” Oksana waved her off, already sliding into the kitchen and opening the fridge like she owned it. “Oh, there’s still caviar? My kids love caviar, but I didn’t buy any this time—had to close out a loan. By the way, Nat, do you have containers? I’ll pack some up for the boys right now. They’re home starving with their useless dad.”
Natalia clenched her teeth. Oksana had come alone—without her hyperactive twins—but, as always, with the entitlement of someone collecting humanitarian aid.
At the table the conversation flowed down the usual channel. Nikolai Fyodorovich silently piled jellied meat onto his plate, Pavel fussed with the teapot, and Tamara Grigoryevna conducted her inspection.
“The Olivier’s a bit dry,” she announced after poking it with her fork. “Did you skimp on the mayo? Or buy the cheap stuff? I told you—get the ‘Provensal’ in the blue pack. Honestly… kids these days. Pasha, want some? You’ve gotten so thin with this wife of yours.”
“Mom, it’s good,” Pavel said softly without lifting his eyes. “Don’t start.”
“And I’m not starting—I’m telling the truth!” his mother threw up her hands. “Who else will tell you the truth besides your own mother?”
Just then, ten-year-old Anya—Natalia and Pavel’s daughter—quietly entered the kitchen. Thin, bespectacled, her braid messy. She held a brand-new set of professional watercolor markers pressed to her chest—a New Year’s gift from Natalia. Anya dreamed of becoming an illustrator, and those markers had cost nearly half of Pavel’s paycheck.
“H-hi,” the girl whispered, trying to slip past toward the kettle.
“Oh look—our bride’s all grown up!” Nikolai Fyodorovich boomed. “Why so skinny? Your mother doesn’t feed you?”
“What’s that you’ve got?” Oksana’s eyes flashed—sharp and greedy. She snatched the box right out of Anya’s hands. “Whoa! That brand… Listen, Nat, give these to my little monsters, yeah? What does Anya need such expensive stuff for? She just doodles anyway. Mine need it for school—for crafts. Or just drawing. They’ll be thrilled!”
The kitchen went dead silent. Anya froze. Her lower lip trembled, her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t say a word. She was used to it: in this family, her wishes were “whims,” but her cousins’ wishes were law. She looked at her dad. Pavel looked away and reached for bread.
“Well, yeah,” Nikolai Fyodorovich added. “Family, right? Share. Don’t be greedy, sweetheart.”
“Exactly,” Tamara Grigoryevna agreed, spreading butter on bread. “What’s the point for her? They’ll just dry out. But the boys will be happy. Oksana, toss them in your bag.”
Oksana was already sliding the box toward her giant tote.
“Put it back,” Natalia said—not loud, but so clearly that Nikolai Fyodorovich stopped chewing.
Oksana froze, mouth open.
“What? Are you really going to deny children? Over markers? You’ve turned to stone working in that bank.”
“They’re not markers, Oksana,” Natalia replied. She walked up, gently took the box from her sister-in-law, and placed it into her daughter’s shaking hands. “Go to your room, Anya. Close the door.”
When the girl ran off, Natalia turned back to the relatives. She no longer felt fear. No need to please. Only cold, crystal clarity.
“This is a professional tool. It costs five thousand rubles. And it belongs to my daughter.”
“Five thousand?!” Tamara Grigoryevna shrieked. “Pasha! Did you hear that? She’s throwing money away while you’ve been wearing the same jacket for three winters!”
“And speaking of money,” Oksana said, switching to her favorite weapon—guilt. “I didn’t come just to ‘drop by.’ Nat, you work in a bank. They won’t approve my loan, they say my debt load’s too high. Take it out in your name. I’ll pay it, I swear! I need it for equipment—new lamps…”
Pavel tensed. He knew Oksana “paid” the same way she “stopped in for a minute.”
Natalia slowly sat down, folding her hands in her lap. Her face went professionally neutral, the way it did at work when she refused scammers.
“No, Oksana. I’m not taking a loan. And I’m not co-signing.”
“What do you mean?” Oksana even dropped her fork. “We’re family! You can’t spare it?”
“This isn’t about ‘sparking’ anything,” Natalia said evenly, pronouncing each word like a verdict. “There’s a thing called DTI—debt-to-income ratio. If it’s over fifty percent, the bank refuses. It’s not spite. It’s math. If they won’t lend to you, it means you can’t service the debt. Taking a new loan to patch old holes is the road to bankruptcy. I’m not risking my child’s wellbeing for your ‘lamps.’”
“Look at her!” Tamara Grigoryevna turned blotchy red. “So smart now! Lecturing us! We came with love—helping you finish your salads—and she… Pasha, are you a man or not? They’re humiliating your sister!”
Pavel shrank in his chair. He hated these moments.
“Natalia, maybe… maybe Oksana really will pay…” he started.
Natalia looked at her husband. The look was so heavy he stopped mid-sentence.
“No, Pasha. She won’t,” Natalia said. “Just like she didn’t pay back the last repair. Or the winter tires. Enough.”
The doorbell rang—sharp and sudden, cutting through the thick air like a knife. Pavel rushed to open it. On the doorstep stood Lena, their neighbor, in a bathrobe, holding an empty salt shaker.
“Guys, sorry… I ran out of salt, and the store’s closed…” Lena trailed off when she saw the furious mother-in-law and Oksana with murder in her eyes. “Am I interrupting something? Is this… a wake?”
“We’re figuring out who’s in charge here!” Tamara Grigoryevna barked. “Look at this, Lena! The daughter-in-law won’t even share bread with family—stingy with cheap pencils for the grandkids! If it were up to me, I’d kick her out!”
Lena—straightforward, no-nonsense, an accountant at a factory—looked from the food-laden table to Oksana, who had already packed half the chicken into a container, then to Natalia standing tall and stiff.
“Tamara Grigoryevna,” Lena said suddenly, her voice surprisingly firm. “These walls are thin. I heard your Oksana just yelling at Natalia to take a loan in her name. And I’ve seen those ‘pencils’—Anya showed me. The girl’s been drawing with them for two days like she’s afraid to breathe on them. And you tried to take them for kids who rip wallpaper? That’s not ‘cheap pencils.’ That’s cruelty.”
“Hey—why are you butting in?” Nikolai Fyodorovich blinked. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is this,” Lena stepped into the kitchen and stood beside Natalia. “Article 45 of the Family Code. One spouse’s debt can be collected only from that spouse’s property. If Natalia takes a loan for Oksana, your family pays for it—meaning Pasha pays too. Are you pushing your own son into a debt pit, ma’am?”
Natalia gave Lena a grateful nod and finally made the decision that had been growing for years.
“Stand up,” she said quietly.
“What?” Oksana didn’t understand.
“Stand up and leave. All of you. You’ve eaten your salads? Filled your containers? Goodbye.”
“You’re kicking us out?” Tamara Grigoryevna clutched her chest—dramatically, like an actress. “From my son’s home?!”
“This apartment was bought with a mortgage that Pavel and I pay,” Natalia snapped. “You have no share here. I’m done being devalued. Done with my daughter being treated like second class. Done with my husband being used as a wallet. Out.”
Pavel sat with his head down. His mother yanked his sleeve.
“Pasha! Say something!”
Pavel raised his eyes. Looked at his mother, at his sister with a chicken container, at his father chewing jellied meat. Then he looked at the closed door to the children’s room—where his daughter was crying.
“Mom…” his voice shook, then steadied. “Leave. Natalia’s right. You hurt Anya. Why?”
The hallway exploded with noise. Oksana threw on her boots, swearing. Tamara Grigoryevna cursed the day her son married. Nikolai Fyodorovich waited by the elevator in silence.
When the door finally slammed behind them, the apartment filled with a ringing quiet. Lena was still in the kitchen, squeezing the empty salt shaker.
“Well, damn,” the neighbor let out. “You’re made of steel. I thought they’d chew you up.”
Natalia sank onto a chair—her legs suddenly felt like cotton.
“Thank you, Lena. If you hadn’t…”
“Oh, come on.” Lena smirked. “So… you got salt or not?”
Pavel came into the kitchen. He looked five years older, but also—strangely—lighter. He walked up to Natalia and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I’m an idiot. I just… got used to thinking that’s how it had to be.”
Natalia covered his hand with hers.
“It doesn’t, Pash. Not anymore. Never again.”
The kids’ room door creaked open. Anya peeked out, still clutching her box.
“Mom? Did they leave?”
“They did, sweetheart. For good,” Natalia opened her arms, and her daughter ran into them.
Natalia stroked her hair, breathed in the smell of it, and felt tears running down her cheeks. But these weren’t tears of hurt. They were tears of relief. For the first time in ten years she didn’t feel like a function, like a doormat—she felt like the owner of her own life.
Justice isn’t when others get punished. Justice is when you finally protect your own.
And on the table sat a lonely bowl of half-eaten Olivier—now it looked unbelievably delicious. Because no one was stuffing it into someone else’s bags anymore, and for the first time in a long time, Natalia was eating not “for the relatives,” but for her family.
