My wife’s sister decided I was supposed to pick her up from the airport at 4 a.m. I turned off my phone and got a full night’s sleep — and in the morning, we had a talk…
You know that unspoken rule that seems to come bundled with a marriage certificate? It’s never written down anywhere, but it’s always implied: “When you marry a woman, you also marry her relatives’ problems and whims.” Especially if you own a car. For many relatives, the mere fact that the son-in-law has a car automatically turns him into a free, 24/7 taxi driver, courier, and moving service.
I’m not really a confrontational person by nature. Helping my mother-in-law take seedlings out to her dacha in May is practically a sacred duty — even if those tomatoes end up being “golden” once you factor in the cost of gas. Picking up my wife from a work party? No problem. But there is a line where family help ends and plain old exploitation begins. In our family, that line is called Natasha.
Natasha is my wife’s younger sister. She’s thirty years old, unmarried, works as a sales manager for something very important, and sees herself as a delicate “girly girl” who can’t possibly do anything on her own. Natasha loves to travel. Turkey, Egypt, Thailand — she flies somewhere every three months like clockwork. And every single time, without exception, her return turns into a special operation codenamed: “Get the Princess Home.”
I used to drive her. Silently. After all, she’s family. My wife would ask, “Seryozha, come on, is it really that hard for you? She’s alone, with a suitcase, in the middle of the night — it’s scary.” And I would go. I’d spend gas, time, and nerves sitting in traffic — yes, there’s traffic at night too, especially on the roads out of the airport — and listen to her stories about hotel service and the entertainment staff. In return, I’d get a dry “thank you” and a duty-free chocolate bar that she probably bought on sale.
But this time, things didn’t go according to script.
Here she was again
Tuesday evening. My wife, Lena, and I are having dinner. I’ve had a brutal week at work — quarter-end closing, inspections — I’ve been sleeping five hours a night and dreaming only of the weekend.
Natasha calls. Lena puts her on speaker.
“Heyyy!” Natasha chirps. “I bought my tickets! I’m landing Friday night into Saturday morning. Flight from Antalya, we touch down at 3:45 a.m. Tell Seryozha to leave early — there’s roadwork on the way to the airport, he could get stuck. And he should clear out the trunk too, I’ve got two suitcases, I bought loads of clothes!”
I nearly choked on my tea.
She didn’t even ask, “Seryozha, would you be able to?”
She didn’t ask, “Do you already have plans?”
She just informed me. “Tell him to leave early.” As if I were a personal driver on salary.
I looked at my wife. Lena gave me a guilty little smile and started her usual song:
“Natash, wait a second… Seryozha’s really exhausted, he’s been working a lot. Maybe take a taxi?”
“A taxi?!” the phone erupted indignantly. “Lena, are you out of your mind? At night? There are maniacs out there! And have you seen the prices? Those airport cabbies charge a fortune! Seryozha has a car sitting right there under the window. Is it really so hard for him to spend one hour helping a close relative? We’re family!”
I took the phone from my wife…You know that unspoken rule that seems to come bundled with a marriage certificate? It is never written down anywhere, but it is assumed by default: “When you marry a woman, you also marry her problems and the whims of her relatives.” Especially if you own a car. For many relatives, the mere fact that the son-in-law has a car automatically turns him into a free 24/7 taxi driver, courier, and moving service.
I am generally not a confrontational person. Helping my mother-in-law take seedlings to the dacha in May is a sacred duty in principle, even though those tomatoes end up “golden” when you factor in the gas. Picking up my wife from a corporate party, no problem. But there is a line where helping family ends and plain exploitation begins. In our family, that line is called Natasha.
Natasha is my wife’s younger sister. She is thirty years old. She is unmarried, works as a sales manager of something very important, and thinks of herself as a delicate little princess who cannot do anything for herself. Natasha loves traveling. Turkey, Egypt, Thailand, Sochi — she flies somewhere every three months like clockwork. And every single time, without fail, her arrival turns into a special operation code-named “Get the Princess Home.”
I used to drive her. Silently. Well, she is family, right? My wife would ask, “Seryozha, come on, is it really that hard? She is alone, with a suitcase, in the middle of the night, it is scary.” And I would go. I spent gas, time, and nerves sitting in traffic jams — yes, they happen at night too, especially on the way out of the airport — and listened to her stories about hotel service and the entertainment staff. In return, I got a dry “thank you” and a chocolate bar from duty-free that she probably bought on sale.
But this time things did not go according to the script.
There she was
Tuesday evening. My wife Lena and I are having dinner. I am in the middle of the hardest week at work — quarter-end closing, inspections — I am sleeping five hours a night and dreaming only of the weekend.
Natasha calls. Lena puts her on speaker.
“Hi there!” Natasha chirps. “I bought my tickets! I’m arriving on the night from Friday to Saturday. The flight from Antalya lands at 3:45 a.m. Tell Seryozha to leave early, there is roadwork on the way there, you could get stuck. And tell him to empty the trunk too, I have two suitcases, I bought tons of clothes!”
I nearly choked on my tea.
She did not even ask, “Seryozha, will you be able to?”
She did not ask, “Do you already have plans?”
She simply informed us. “Tell him to leave early.” As if I were a personal driver on salary.
I looked at my wife. Lena smiled guiltily and started her usual song:
“Natalya, wait a second… Seryozha is really exhausted, he has been working a lot. Maybe take a taxi?”
“A taxi?!” the phone protested indignantly. “Lena, are you out of your mind? At night? There are maniacs out there! And have you seen the prices? Those cabbies charge a fortune! Seryozha has a car parked right outside. Is it really so hard for him to spend one hour helping his own family? We are family!”
I took the phone from my wife.
“Natalya, hi. Listen carefully. I am not picking you up.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice turned icy.
“I mean exactly that. I have worked all week. On Friday I am coming home and going straight to sleep. At 4 a.m. I will be in the middle of my tenth dream. I am not going to the airport. Order Yandex, Uber, whatever. There are a million taxi drivers in this city who will happily drive you home for your money.”
“Are you joking?” she laughed nervously. “Seryozha, this is not funny. I barely have any money left, I spent everything. And anyway, it is not safe! Do you want me to get kidnapped?”
“Natalya, you are thirty years old. You are not a child. You found money for a vacation package, so find fifteen hundred for a taxi. Or ask your mother. I’m out.”
She hung up. Five minutes later my mother-in-law called and started lamenting that “there are no real men left,” that “a poor girl is being abandoned alone in the middle of the night.” I finished my dinner in silence and went to take a shower.
Either me or her
Friday passed in the hell of deadlines. I crawled home at nine in the evening looking like a zombie. My eyes were red, my hands were shaking.
Lena looked at me with sympathy, but still asked:
“Maybe you could go? She made a huge scene with Mom…”
“No, Lena. It is a matter of principle. If I give in now, I will be driving her around until retirement. I want to sleep.”
I lay down in bed. Set my alarm for 10 a.m. And I did what should have been done long ago — I switched my phone to airplane mode. Lena, looking at me, sighed, but left her own phone on. “Just in case something happens.”
I fell asleep instantly. I dreamed of the sea, silence, and no relatives.
Good morning! I have…
I woke up at 10:15. The sun was shining through the window, birds were chirping outside. I felt human again. Like a well-rested, energetic man.
Lena was already in the kitchen. She looked worn out.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked quietly.
“Oh yes. It was divine. Why?”
Silently, she handed me her phone.
There was a chat with Natasha.
04:10
“We landed. Where is Seryozha? I do not see the car!”
“Are you seriously sleeping?!”
“Hello?! I’m standing here in the wind!”
“Mom, they are not answering! He really did not come!”
“Jerk! Cheapskate! I hate him!”
“I called a taxi. Comfort class. 2,300 rubles! You owe me the money!”
I burst out laughing. Genuinely, from the heart.
“2,300 rubles? Well, would you look at that. Turns out taxis do exist, and they do come. And nobody kidnapped her.”
“She is very angry,” Lena said. “Mom called too, yelling. Says we abandoned her in trouble.”
“In trouble?” I stopped laughing. “Trouble is when your appendix bursts. Or when your house burns down. Coming back from vacation is not trouble. It is logistics. And an adult is supposed to know how to plan that.”
Blah blah blah
That afternoon we went to Lena’s parents’ house for lunch — it was a planned visit. Natasha was there. She sat with her lips puffed out, pointedly refusing to greet us.
“I am waiting for an apology and compensation for the taxi,” she declared when we sat down at the table.
I calmly served myself some salad.
“Natalya, there will be no apology. And no compensation either. I warned you on Tuesday: I was not going. You decided to test how serious I was? Well, you tested it. Now you know: if I say ‘no,’ it means ‘no.’”
“But you have a car!” she shrieked. “Do you really begrudge gas money for your sister?”
“I begrudge losing myself, Natalya. My sleep, my health, and my safety. Driving while half-asleep at 4 a.m. is a risk. For what? So you can save 2,000 rubles? My life and my car are worth more.”
My mother-in-law tried to intervene:
“Seryozha, but you are a man…”
“Exactly, Tamara Pavlovna. I am a man. I earn money, support my family, and solve problems. But I am not a personal driver. Natalya has a job, she has a salary. Including taxi fare in the vacation budget is normal.”
It was a difficult conversation. They called me selfish, cold, heartless. But I stood my ground. And you know what? A week later Natasha flew out again — this time on a business trip. And she called a taxi. Silently