“Are you kidding right now? Please tell me this is some stupid joke, and I’ll finally be able to breathe,” Ulyana said, frozen with a coffee cup halfway to her lips. Her eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were now filled with sheer disbelief.
“If only, Ulya. If only,” Taras replied, dropping heavily into the chair across from her. He dragged a tired hand over his face, as if he had just unloaded a truck full of fabric samples instead of finishing a phone call. “My mother called ten minutes ago. Aunt Galya has decided that the perfect venue for her darling Slava’s thirtieth birthday is our apartment.”
“Our apartment?” Ulyana repeated, setting the cup down carefully so she wouldn’t spill a drop. “Taras, we’ve been married three years. We live here, we pay the bills, we paid for the bathroom and kitchen renovations. But legally…”
“Legally it belongs to my mother, I know,” he cut in, bitterness dulling his voice. “And that’s exactly the sore spot she keeps pressing. Her argument is simple: ‘I let you live there, so show some respect to the family.’ Apparently Aunt Galya is having ‘temporary financial problems,’ and Slava’s milestone birthday just can’t go uncelebrated. Plus, since we’re in the city center, it’s so convenient for all their guests.”
Ulyana exhaled slowly, trying to organize the insanity into something logical. As a purchasing manager for a major company, she dealt with irrational suppliers and disastrous deadlines all the time, but family entitlement managed to shake her far more effectively than any workplace emergency ever could.
“Let’s go step by step,” she said, her voice turning colder, more professional. “Aunt Galya wants to bring a crowd of people here. Who’s going to cook? Who’s paying for the groceries? Who’s cleaning up afterward?”
“Exactly,” Taras said with a dark smile. “You’re asking the right questions, and my relatives have wonderfully slippery answers. Mom said, ‘Come on, they’re family, not strangers. You’ll put together a proper spread for them.’ She honestly thinks it’s some kind of privilege for us to host her precious sister and nephew.”
“‘For family’…” Ulyana echoed, lips twisting into a sarcastic smile. “This is the same Slava who got drunk at our wedding and tried to sell fake supplements to your coworker, right? And the same Aunt Galya who screamed ‘Kiss!’ louder than anyone, handed us an empty envelope, and claimed she had transferred the gift money to our card, which somehow never showed up?”
“The very same,” Taras nodded. “I tried to explain to Mom that this was a bad idea. No, actually, that’s putting it too mildly. I told her it was a complete disaster waiting to happen. I reminded her that we already had plans. That I never signed up to be chef, host, and entertainer for her sister. But you know my mother. She instantly switched into her poor helpless relative act and started talking about filial duty and how we’ve become arrogant.”
Taras got up and went to the window. Outside, the evening city shimmered with lights, people hurrying along with their own concerns, completely unaware that a domestic war was building in one ordinary apartment. He worked as a buyer for a large clothing chain, selecting collections, tracking trends, negotiating with impossible Italians and stingy Chinese suppliers. But dealing with his own mother, Larisa Petrovna, was harder than securing a discount on luxury cashmere.
“Ulya, listen,” he said, turning back to her. “I keep thinking about that thing that happened two years ago. Remember I told you? When Aunt Galya dragged me into that café.”
“Golden Carp?” Ulyana asked.
“Yeah. I was just walking by when she spotted me through the window. She ran outside, practically grabbed me by the sleeve. ‘Tarasik, sweetheart, come sit with us, Slava and I are just having a bite.’ Like an idiot, I went along with it. Thought I’d have a coffee out of politeness and leave. Turns out they had ordered themselves a full feast—oysters, expensive wine, marbled steaks. Galya was chirping away, Slava was stuffing his face, and when the waiter brought the bill, she suddenly clutched her chest dramatically, pretended to search for her wallet, then announced she’d left her card in another purse. And the way she looked at me… as if saying, you’re not really going to let your own aunt be humiliated in front of the staff, are you?”
“And you paid,” Ulyana said flatly.
“I paid. Nearly half my monthly salary back then. She swore she’d pay me back ‘in a few days.’ Two years later, not a cent. But now there’s a brand-new request—not a café this time, but an entire home restaurant, funded by us, naturally. I reminded Mom about that over the phone just now. Do you know what she said?”
“That you’re petty and hold grudges?” Ulyana guessed.
“Exactly. And then she added, ‘Galya was just flustered, and you, like a true gentleman, saved the family. You should be proud, not resentful.’”
Ulyana shook her head. In this family, the word gentleman seemed to mean exactly the same thing as walking wallet. Her eyes drifted to the old laptop at the edge of the table. The screen flickered, the fan roared like an airplane engine. She desperately needed a new computer for remote work. Taras’s car had started jerking during gear shifts, and even the diagnostic bill for the transmission promised to be painful, let alone the repair itself.
“Taras, we can’t afford this,” she said firmly. “And it’s not just about the money, even though that matters too. It’s the principle of it. We already have plans for the weekend. We’re supposed to meet Vadim. He’s bankrupt and selling everything off, and that plot near the forest is exactly what we’ve been dreaming about. We’ve been saving for the deposit for six months. If we blow our money feeding Slava and his freeloading crowd, we’ll lose that land. A chance like this doesn’t come twice.”
“I know,” Taras said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know all that. But Mom… she told them yes already. They think it’s settled.”
“Then we need to unsettle it,” Ulyana said, standing up and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Or set terms so awful that they refuse on their own. You need to call your aunt directly. No more having your mother play messenger.”
“You think that’ll work?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t just sit here waiting for them to invade our kitchen. Call her. Now.”
Taras stared at his phone for a long time, gathering his courage. Talking to Aunt Galya always felt like trying to explain quantum physics to a pigeon: lots of noise, zero understanding, and a strong chance you’d end up covered in something unpleasant. Finally, he hit the call button.
“Hellooo, Tarasik!” his aunt’s voice blasted so loudly that Ulyana winced from a meter away. Some cheap pop song screeched in the background. “Your mother and I were just talking! What’s the occasion, did you miss me already?”
“Hello, Aunt Galya. I’m calling about Slava’s birthday.”
“Oh, what’s there to discuss? Everything’s already settled!” she cut him off immediately. “Your mother is a saint, may God bless her. She said, ‘Come, children, celebrate.’ We’ll keep it modest, just a little family gathering. Don’t worry.”
“Aunt Galya, listen carefully,” Taras said, forcing himself to stay calm. “Ulyana and I are in a difficult spot right now. Our finances are planned down to the last ruble. The apartment renovation isn’t even fully finished—there are still places without baseboards. And most importantly, we were not planning to host guests. We already have plans for the weekend.”
“What could possibly be more important than your cousin’s thirtieth birthday?” his aunt snapped, and that coarse, aggressive tone she usually hid beneath fake warmth slipped right out. “Don’t start acting difficult, Taras. We’re not asking you to rent out some luxury place. We’ll sit down, chop a few salads, boil some potatoes. Buy a chicken. Nothing fancy.”
“Who’s buying it?” Taras asked.
“Well…” There was the briefest pause on the other end. “We’ll sort out the food somehow, don’t fuss. I’ll bring something, maybe open a few jars of my homemade pickles. Slava will get the cake. Your main job is to organize the space with your wife. Pull out the table, borrow chairs from the neighbors. And yes, drinks are on you. The man of the house should provide the spread.”
“Stop right there.” Taras felt cold anger rising inside him. “Aunt Galya, let’s be honest. I remember Golden Carp. I’m not repeating that. If you want to celebrate, fine, but not in my home and not on my money.”
“Why are you throwing the past in my face?” she snapped, sounding offended. “Listen to him, acting all important! So you helped your aunt once, and now you’ll hold it over my head forever? You’re stingy, just like your late father—he pinched every penny too. Anyway, enough of this. Your mother gave permission, didn’t she? It’s her apartment, isn’t it? So stop talking back. We’ll be there Saturday at two. My show is starting.”
She hung up.
Taras stared at the dark screen for a second, then slowly set his phone down on the table.
“Well?” Ulyana asked, though his face had already told her enough.
“She thinks that because it’s Mom’s apartment, my opinion doesn’t matter. And yes, we’re apparently also responsible for the alcohol. Plus setting the whole table. They’ll bring ‘pickles,’” Taras said through clenched teeth. “They say audacity is a kind of счастье, but in her case it seems to be the only thing she has.”
At that exact moment, the phone rang again. The screen said: Mom.
“Here comes part two,” Taras muttered darkly as he answered. “Yes, Mom?”
“Taras!” Larisa Petrovna’s voice trembled with outrage. “Why did you upset Galya so badly? She just called me in tears! She says you practically threw a crust of bread in her face and all but kicked them out of the apartment before they’ve even arrived! Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Mom, I didn’t upset her. I just said we can’t host anyone. And I didn’t throw anything in her face—I reminded her that the last time, I paid for her feast myself.”
“Oh, enough with the money already!” his mother shouted. “Blood is thicker than water! Slava has a big birthday. They’re strapped for cash right now, they’ve got a mortgage, Slava is looking for work…”
“Slava has been ‘looking for work’ for five years, Mom.”
“That’s not the point! And you… you’re selfish! I asked you for one thing—one thing! The apartment is mine, I have every right to invite my sister! So everything had better be ready by Saturday. Tell Ulyana to make aspic—Galya asked for it—and a big bowl of Olivier salad. And arrange a nice meat and cheese platter. Don’t embarrass me in front of the family!”
She hung up.
Taras stood in the middle of the kitchen wanting to smash the phone against the wall. But phones were expensive now, and they didn’t have money to waste.
“Aspic,” Ulyana said quietly. “And a giant bowl of Olivier.”
“You know what’s worst of all?” Taras said, sinking into a chair and covering his face with his hands. “A part of me actually feels guilty. She has this way of twisting everything until I’m the monster who can’t spare a plate of soup for starving relatives.”
“That’s manipulation, sweetheart. Pure manipulation,” Ulyana said, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around him. “They’re not starving. Aunt Galya was in Turkey last summer posting beach photos online. And Slava carries around the latest iPhone. This isn’t need. It’s greed. And a desire to ride somebody else’s back for free.”
“So what do we do? Mom has keys. If we just lock ourselves in, she’ll let herself in with her own set. If we don’t cook, they’ll come, see an empty table, and start a screaming match right here.”
“We need more information,” Ulyana said, narrowing her eyes. “Your aunt said it would be ‘small and family-only.’ But I have a feeling her version of modest and ours are very different. Call Marina.”
Marina was Taras’s cousin, the daughter of another uncle. She was the only sane person on that side of the family, worked in logistics, and had a gift for blunt honesty.
That evening Taras called her.
“Hey, sis. Do you know anything about the grand circus Slava’s putting together for Saturday?”
“Oh, brother, my condolences,” Marina said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I heard you’ve been appointed chief sponsor of the spectacle. Galina’s been telling everyone you’re going all out.”
“What does ‘all out’ mean? She told me it was just close family.”
“Sure. Close family the way a traffic jam is ‘a few cars.’ Here’s the list—I nearly choked when I heard I was invited too, even though I can’t stand Slava. There’ll be Galina, her boyfriend Uncle Vitya—the one who lives to drink for free—birthday boy himself with his newest girlfriend, Grandma Zinaida, so prepare the corvalol, and, best part, Slava invited three of his buddies. Apparently they’re ‘real men’ and he’s planning some sort of business with them. So altogether, twelve to fifteen people, not counting you two.”
“Fifteen people…” Taras felt his hands go cold. “In our two-bedroom apartment?”
“Yes. And Galina’s been telling everyone the table will be overflowing. That you’re rich, successful, treating everybody. Slava’s friends are practically discussing the menu already. They’re talking expensive whiskey and barbecue on the balcony.”
“Barbecue on the balcony? Have they lost their minds? Our loggia is enclosed—plastic windows!”
“They don’t care. Honestly, Taras, this isn’t a birthday, it’s a full-scale invasion. I already said no way, I’m not coming, I’ve got a shift. And my advice to you? Run.”
Taras thanked her and ended the call. Ulyana, who had heard the conversation on speakerphone, sat very still, staring into space.
“So. Barbecue. Slava’s friends. Whiskey,” she said at last.
“This is a nightmare,” Taras said, looking defeated. “If they come, they’ll destroy the apartment. The neighbors will call the authorities. Mom will curse me forever. But if I let them in, we’ll lose money we don’t even have.”
“No, Taras,” Ulyana said, straightening up. Her eyes had taken on a dangerous glint—the same look he had seen once before when she tore apart a supplier trying to pass off defective bearings as acceptable goods. “We are not doing this. We are not the victims here.”
“But the keys…”
“Let your mother keep the keys. We’ll handle this differently.”
The next two days felt like a covert military operation. Taras and Ulyana stayed quiet and answered his mother’s calls vaguely: “Yes, we’re getting ready,” “Yes, it’s all being handled.” It was a lie for survival.
Ulyana made a plan. Hard, ruthless, but absolutely necessary.
“Look,” she said Thursday evening while packing valuables into boxes. “Anything important has to go. Laptops, documents, your vinyl collection, my jewelry. All of it goes into the trunk.”
“You really think they’d go through our stuff?” Taras asked, horrified.
“I think fifteen drunk people, including Slava’s ‘real men,’ are capable of anything. Add Aunt Galya’s greed to the mix. Remember when your French cologne disappeared last year? The one I gave you? She ‘accidentally’ slipped it into her handbag when she visited.”
Taras said nothing, just nodded as he helped her pack away fragile decorations.
Friday evening, Taras’s friend Vadim called.
“Taras, hey. We still on for tomorrow? I’ll be at the property from ten in the morning. People are calling, interested, but I’m holding it for you. I need the money urgently—you know how bankruptcy goes…”
“We’re coming, Vadim. With the money. No question,” Taras assured him. “For us this is practically life and death. Figuratively speaking, but only just.”
“Great. It’s a beautiful place. Quiet, forest nearby. You’ll breathe again there.”
We’ll breathe again, Taras thought, looking at their empty refrigerator. They had deliberately bought nothing. In the freezer sat a lonely bag of dumplings and an ancient chunk of ice. On the shelves: one jar of mustard and half a bottle of kefir.
Saturday morning, they got up early. Taras felt like a saboteur preparing to blow up a bridge. He turned the water almost completely off in both the bathroom and kitchen, leaving just the thinnest trickle—“so nobody can say it’s broken.” The gas was shut off entirely. Ulyana locked the bedroom and the second room, which served as a home office.
“I’m taking the room keys with me,” she said, dropping them into her purse. “That leaves them the hallway, the kitchen, and the bathroom.”
“Harsh,” Taras muttered.
“Fair,” Ulyana corrected.
By nine in the morning, they were gone. Taras looked back at the apartment door one last time. Behind that slab of wood, an apocalypse would soon unfold.
“Let’s go,” Ulyana said, getting into the car. “Our land is waiting.”
The guests began arriving around two in the afternoon. Oddly enough, the first one there was Taras’s mother, Larisa Petrovna. She had dressed for the occasion: a smart dress, carefully styled hair, and a cake in a plastic container. She rang the bell. Silence. Rang again. Nothing.
“That’s strange,” she murmured. “Maybe they stepped out to the store?”
She used her key and opened the door. The apartment was quiet—unnaturally quiet. It smelled not of food and preparations, but of cool emptiness.
“Taras! Ulyana!” Larisa Petrovna called out.
No answer. She walked into the kitchen. The table was bare. The stove was spotless and cold. No signs of cooking. She yanked open the refrigerator. The light came on, illuminating a single jar of mustard.
Just then the doorbell rang again. On the threshold stood Aunt Galina—large, flushed, wearing a leopard-print blouse. Behind her lingered Uncle Vitya with a bag full of clinking cheap alcohol. Then came birthday boy Slava himself, a hulking thirty-year-old in an Adidas tracksuit, followed by three friends whose faces showed no signs of being burdened with deep thought. Bringing up the rear was Grandma Zinaida, breathing heavily after the climb to the third floor.
“Well, Larisa, welcome the guests!” Galina boomed, nudging her sister aside with a hip and barging into the hallway. “Wow, why is it so quiet? Where’s the music? Where’s the birthday atmosphere?”
“Galya…” Larisa Petrovna had gone pale. “They’re not here.”
“Who’s not here?”
“Taras and Ulyana. And there’s no food.”
The silence that filled the hallway was worse than shouting. Galina rushed into the kitchen. One look at the empty table and barren fridge, and she let out a sound like a tire deflating.
“What do you mean, no food?” Slava barked, shoving his way in after her. “Aunt Larisa, you said everything was handled! We promised the guys a real spread!”
“This is a scam!” one of Slava’s friends shouted—a bald guy with a tattoo on his neck. “We came across the whole city! I even paid for a taxi!”
“Larisa!” Galina screeched. “What is the meaning of this? You told me your son had agreed! We were counting on this! I’ve only got enough money on me for bus fare!”
With trembling hands, Larisa Petrovna pulled out her phone and called her son.
At that exact moment, Taras and Ulyana were standing in the middle of a field covered in tall grass. Forest surrounded them, smelling of pine and freedom. Vadim was pointing out the boundaries of the plot.
“The markers are here,” he was saying. “You could put the house there, and maybe a bathhouse over there…”
Taras’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, took a deep breath, and switched it to speaker.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Where are you?!” his mother shrieked loud enough for the birds in the trees to hear. “We’re here! Everyone is here! The fridge is empty! The rooms are locked! Is this some kind of joke? This is humiliating! Galya is hysterical, Grandma’s blood pressure is up!”
“Mom,” Taras said calmly, “I told you. We had our own plans. We left.”
“But I asked you! I demanded this! It’s my apartment!”
That was when Ulyana stepped closer to the phone and spoke in a tone so cold it could have frosted glass.
“Larisa Petrovna, you wanted to use your apartment for a celebration? Fine. We left you the space. The walls are there, the roof is there, the table and chairs in the kitchen are there. You’re the owner—manage it however you like. But we were never hired as cooks, waiters, or sponsors.”
“You little—!” Aunt Galya’s voice exploded through the phone. “What do you think you’re doing? I’ve got hungry guests here! Slava is practically in tears! Get to a store right now and bring food! Immediately!”
“Galina Ivanovna,” Taras said, his voice turning hard, “watch your tone. We don’t owe anyone anything. You wanted something for free? That’s over. If you want food, order delivery. And pay for it yourself.”
“You’ll regret this!” his aunt screamed. “Larisa, say something to him! Can you hear what this little nerd is saying?” In the background came the angry, half-coherent noise of Slava’s friends swearing and complaining.
“We’re busy,” Ulyana said, and ended the call. Then she looked at Taras and smiled. “Turn the phone off.”
Back at the apartment, the scene unfolding was worthy of satire.
“So what now?” Slava snapped, dropping onto a stool. “I’m starving. And there’s nothing to eat with the booze.”
“Larisa!” Galina loomed over her sister like a thundercloud. “This is your son! Your upbringing! You invited us! You promised a full table! Fix it!”
“I… I didn’t know they’d do this…” Larisa Petrovna stammered, hands pressed to her chest.
“I don’t care what you knew!” Uncle Vitya roared, having already started drinking from his bottle on an empty stomach. “The celebration is ruined! We look like idiots!”
“All right, here’s what happens,” Slava announced in a brisk, businesslike tone. “Aunt Larisa, hand over the money. We’ll order pizza, sushi, meat. And proper whiskey. Since your son ditched us, you need to make it right.”
“I don’t have that kind of cash on me…” Larisa said weakly.
“Take out the credit card!” Galina snapped. “Or we all go to a restaurant and you cover the bill. Otherwise don’t bother calling me your sister ever again! You ruined this day!”
Pressed from every side by yelling relatives, a moaning grandmother—who recovered remarkably fast the moment a restaurant was mentioned—and the grim looks of Slava’s friends, Larisa Petrovna broke.
“All right… let’s go to that café nearby, Ashot’s place… I’ll pay…” she whispered, already feeling sick at the thought of the bill.
The celebration at the café turned into chaos. Slava’s friends, realizing someone else was footing the bill, ordered the most expensive dishes. Slava demanded brandy that cost five thousand rubles a bottle. Galina paid the local musicians to sing songs and shouted toasts into the microphone, blessing her “dearest family” while cursing her “ungrateful nephew and his wife.” Larisa Petrovna sat pale as paper at the end of the table, watching the numbers on the bill rise. Fifty thousand. Seventy. One hundred…
They never returned to Taras’s apartment afterward. Larisa, having handed over her credit card and plunged deep into debt, called a taxi and sent the drunken crowd home. Slava vomited in the cab, which cost extra. Aunt Galina complained that the evening still hadn’t been good enough and that her soul “wanted more.” Uncle Vitya passed out face-first in a salad and had to be dragged out of the café.
Taras and Ulyana came home late that night exhausted—but happy. In Taras’s pocket was the preliminary sales contract and a receipt for the deposit. The land was theirs.
When they opened the apartment door, they were met by silence. But not peaceful silence. Tense silence.
Larisa Petrovna was sitting in the dark kitchen at the empty table. She hadn’t gone home.
Taras flicked on the light. His mother looked up at him, and there was so much hatred mixed with despair in her face that even he felt uneasy.
“So. You’re back,” she rasped.
“We’re back, Mom. And we have great news, we—”
“Don’t say a word!” She slammed her palm on the table. “You… you destroyed me! You humiliated me! I just spent one hundred and twenty thousand rubles in that restaurant! One hundred and twenty thousand! That was all my savings—and now my credit card is maxed out too!”
“We warned you,” Taras said quietly, taking off his jacket. “We told you no. You refused to listen.”
“You should have listened to me! You should have respected your mother!” she screamed, spitting with rage. “Galya won’t even speak to me now! She says I humiliated her, that even the restaurant spread was pathetic! Slava keeps calling and demanding more! And all because of you two misers!”
Ulyana walked into the kitchen and stood beside her husband.
“Larisa Petrovna, stop this hysteria,” she said firmly. “No one forced you to drag that entire circus to a restaurant. You could have turned them away. You could have sent them home. But instead you chose the easiest route because you were too afraid of your sister.”
“You owe me that money now!” Larisa Petrovna shouted, glaring at them with wild eyes. “You will return my one hundred and twenty thousand! Right now! Transfer it!”
Taras looked at Ulyana. The guilt was gone from his face.
“No,” he said. “We are not paying you back anything. That was your decision. Your guests. Your celebration. We had nothing to do with it. We spent our money on something else today.”
“On what? What could you possibly have spent it on?”
“We bought land,” Ulyana said. “A plot of land. We’re going to build our own house. Somewhere no one can appear uninvited, and no one can let themselves in with their own keys.”
Larisa Petrovna froze.
“Land… You bought land while your mother was sinking into debt? How dare you? Traitors! Monsters!”
She jumped to her feet.
“I can’t even look my sister in the eye anymore! And you—out! Get out of my apartment! I don’t want you here! Leave!”
“We will,” Taras said calmly. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a rental until the house is built. But we are not paying for your stupidity or your sister’s. Not one ruble.”
Larisa Petrovna stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Taras sank into the chair she had just abandoned. Ulyana poured water into two glasses.
“Well,” Taras said at last, “that’s that. We’re officially enemies of the people now. My aunt hates us, my mother hates us, and Slava with his little thug squad is probably already flooding social media with curses.”
“But we’re free,” Ulyana said, taking a sip of water. “And now we have our own piece of earth. Real, ours.”
“You know,” Taras said with a sad smile, “the worst part is that they still learned nothing. Mom isn’t thinking about the fact that her sister used her as a wallet. She’s only thinking that we are ‘bad children.’ She’ll pay off that credit debt, feel sorry for herself, and keep bringing treats to Slava, who doesn’t value her at all.”
“That’s her choice, Taras. We can’t save someone who refuses to be saved. But we can save ourselves.”
They sat in the empty kitchen of an apartment that no longer felt like home. Somewhere else in the city, Aunt Galina was badmouthing her sister over the phone, Slava was nursing a vicious hangover, and Larisa Petrovna was probably counting credit card interest with a bottle of heart drops nearby. Greed and shamelessness had punished themselves, but as so often happens, the lesson was only truly learned by the people who never needed it in the first place.
“Let’s start packing tomorrow,” Taras said. “Vadim mentioned he has a rental apartment too. He needs the money.”
“Let’s do that,” Ulyana agreed.
Night was deepening outside the window. The city was falling asleep, indifferent to private family catastrophes. But for the first time in a long while, Taras and Ulyana felt that their lives finally belonged only to them.
