Four rooms, a bright kitchen, and a living-room the size of a dance floor—Sasha led Alena through the new flat like a tour guide showing off a museum of his own achievements.
“Look at the scale of it all!” he swept his arm across the living-room. “Now every relative can fit in—and we’ll still have space left over. Mum says she’s dreamed of a place where the whole family can gather.”
Alena listened and nodded. A twenty-year mortgage was serious, of course, but at least the home was theirs—no more rentals, no more living with parents. After five years in a studio whose kitchen was hardly bigger than a wardrobe, this felt like a real palace.
The first months disappeared into renovations and furnishing. Full of enthusiasm, Sasha chose wallpaper, argued with builders, and sketched furniture layouts. He proudly showed every stage to friends who dropped by—each with a bottle—to toast the new place.
Quietly, Alena rejoiced over the new kitchen appliances: dinner could now be cooked in half the time.
“Can you imagine the feasts we’ll throw?” Sasha repeated again and again. “Everyone in my family loves getting together! Mum adores big family gatherings.”
Alena could imagine. Her mother-in-law, Svetlana Pavlovna, already liked to appear for surprise inspections—to see how her precious son was living. What would happen now?
They celebrated the move modestly—Sasha wanted a huge party, but Alena insisted they settle in first.
“We’ll have time,” she said. “Let’s unpack every box and put everything in its place.”
That conversation happened on a Friday. On Sunday morning the phone rang.
“Sashenka, we thought we’d drop by and see how you’ve settled,” his mother’s voice sounded so innocent that Alena instantly understood—they were prepared for a full visit.
“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked tensely.
“Mum and Natasha. They won’t stay long,” Sasha waved it off. “Just tea.”
“Just tea” stretched into the whole day. The moment she crossed the threshold, Svetlana Pavlovna began giving orders:
“Alena, put the kettle on. What do you have for tea? Nothing? Well, I brought something.”
She settled into an armchair like a queen on her throne and pulled a box of pastries from her bag.
“I don’t eat these shop-bought things,” she declared, “but I bought them for you.”
Natasha, Sasha’s sister, immediately set off on a tour of the flat.
“Such… interesting wallpaper,” she commented in the bedroom. “An unusual choice.”
Alena let it slide. Wallpaper was wallpaper—neutral grey with a faint pattern.
“And what kind of tiles do you have in the kitchen? I’d never have chosen those,” Natasha ran a finger along the worktop. “Is white even practical?”
By evening, when the visitors finally left, Alena felt wrung out like a sponge. She cleared cups, washed pastry plates, and said to Sasha,
“Next time they should warn us, all right? I’d at least fix my hair properly.”
Sasha just laughed. “Come on, it’s my family—no formalities.”
The next visit didn’t take long to arrive. A week later Kolya—Sasha’s brother—appeared at the door with his wife Irina and their two kids.
“Hi-hi! Mum said you’re living in style now,” Kolya clapped Sasha on the shoulder and barged in without wiping his feet.
The children scattered through the rooms, while Irina perched on the sofa, looking around with interest.
“We’re only here for an hour,” she said. “Just to have a look.”
That “hour” lasted until late evening. The kids tore around like two little hurricanes. One knocked over a vase of flowers, soaking the new rug. Alena rushed to mop up, but Irina only waved a hand:
“Oh, it’ll dry. It’s just water! Kids will be kids.”
At ten o’clock, when the guests finally gathered their things, Alena felt a fierce urge to bolt the door and never open it again.
“Great evening,” Sasha yawned after the door closed. “We should do it again sometime.”
“Sometime,” Alena echoed, staring at the stain on the carpet.
But “sometime” came the very next week. And the week after. And the one after that.
Sunday visits slowly became tradition. Sometimes Sasha’s mother showed up with Natasha, sometimes Kolya arrived with his clan, and sometimes they all came together. Every time, Alena ended up at the stove.
“You won’t serve guests an empty table, will you?” Sasha was baffled whenever she protested. “That’s rude. Whip something up. You know there’ll probably be visitors on Sunday—stock up for everyone.”
By the tenth Sunday Alena had learned to get up an hour early so lunch would be ready before the guests arrived. By the twentieth she stopped making her own weekend plans. By the thirtieth she counted down the days to the next visit with dread, like waiting for an inevitable disaster.
Sasha openly enjoyed the gatherings. He glowed when his mum praised Alena’s cooking, or when Kolya looked around the spacious living-room with awe and envy.
“It’s like a good restaurant now!” he boasted. “Always a laid table, pleasant music, room for everyone.”
Alena just smiled through her fatigue. At the college where she lectured on literature, people thought her patient and gentle. Students loved her classes; colleagues valued her calm. No one saw how, every Sunday, she turned into a workhorse pulling an endless cart of obligations she’d never wanted.
By the end of the first year she stopped asking questions. She spent half of every Friday inventing menus, shopped on Saturday, and rose with the first light on Sunday to cook. By year two she could smile so convincingly no one saw the strain. By year three she’d almost accepted that her home had become a public thoroughfare and she herself a silent attachment to the stove.
Three years. One hundred fifty-six Sundays. Thousands of hours spent cooking, setting tables, cleaning up. Alena counted the time the way prisoners count the days to freedom.
Her mother-in-law gradually came to see the visits as a given. She no longer asked if she might come—she simply arrived with a box of chocolates or a supermarket cake. Sometimes on Saturday, sometimes Sunday.
“I was just passing by,” she’d say, heading straight for the kitchen. “Thought I’d pop in on the kids.”
Every time, Alena mentally inventoried the fridge, guessing what could be made quickly from what was on hand. Even if her mother-in-law turned up unannounced, there had to be food in the house—an unwritten rule after all these years. And if Alena didn’t manage to cook something in time, Sasha always reminded her once the guests had left.
“Mum loves your casserole,” he’d say with reproach. “And you couldn’t be bothered to make anything decent. They don’t come every day—only on weekends.”
“They come every Sunday, Sasha. And often without notice,” Alena tried to argue.
“They’re my family,” he snapped. “I want them to feel at home here.”
And Alena wondered more and more—where she was supposed to feel at home.
She knew altogether too much about this family’s tastes: his mother hated anything spicy, Natasha wouldn’t touch onion, Kolya accepted only Olivier salad, and his kids turned up their noses at anything not resembling fast food.
Weekdays were calmer. Alena taught at the college, Sasha worked at his office, their son Denis was at school. Evenings they ate together and watched films; sometimes Alena managed to read. But once the weekend arrived, order crumbled and the house filled with other people’s voices, requests, demands.
She tried to talk to Sasha.
“Could we meet up less often?” she ventured. “Maybe once a month?”
“What?” he was genuinely surprised. “Why? Mum likes visiting us.”
“But it’s every week, Sasha. I’m exhausted.”
“Exhausted from what?” he stared at her. “You cook every day anyway.”
“Compare making a simple dinner for three to a feast for ten!” Alena burst out. “Your mum wants one thing, Natasha another, Kolya something else, and the kids won’t eat anything. It’s not just the cooking—it’s a whole day of tension when I can’t rest, read, or even take a shower in peace.”
Sasha frowned, as if the thought had never occurred to him.
“Mum says a proper woman should be able to host guests,” he said slowly. “It’s a sign of a good homemaker. You wouldn’t want her to think you’re—”
“Think I’m what?” Alena cut in. “A bad homemaker? A bad wife? Or simply a person with her own needs and wishes?”
“Don’t twist my words,” he winced. “I just want a normal, close-knit family. For Mum and the others to feel good here.”
“And what about me feeling good? Does that fit your definition of a normal family?”
Sasha didn’t reply. He just waved a hand and left the room—the conversation over before it had begun, like so many before it.
She submitted. Or nearly did. Outwardly, yes—she no longer argued, rose early every Sunday, and cooked for the crowd. But inside, irritation and incomprehension kept piling up.
“You’re acting so strange lately,” Sasha remarked one day. “So quiet and withdrawn.”
“I’ve always been quiet,” she replied.
“No, you used to be… different,” he tried to find the right words. “More cheerful, perhaps.”
Alёna fell silent. What can you say when no one really listens anyway? What can you say when constant tension and endless work for the public leave you with no strength even for a smile? When exhaustion piles up like a snowball, pressing and pressing…
That fateful Sunday, nothing heralded any change. An ordinary day, ordinary guests, ordinary conversation at the table. Her mother-in-law had arrived early—to “help,” which in her language meant to sit in the kitchen and dole out advice. Natasha had brought another box of candies, which was immediately opened and devoured with tea. Kolya, along with his wife and children, joined for lunch.
From the morning, Alёna felt a vague irritability. Not anger, not wrath—just a dull, endless weariness, like a toothache that just wouldn’t quit.
“Alёnchka, why are you so sullen?” her mother-in-law inquired as she watched Alёna slicing vegetables. “Did you not sleep well?”
“Everything’s fine,” Alёna answered without looking up.
“And what kind of salad are you going to make? With mayonnaise? You know, I’m on a diet.”
“Dressing on the side—I remember.”
“And will you roast or fry the chicken?”
“I’ll roast it.”
“Mmm. I much prefer it fried.”
Alёna silently opened the refrigerator and pulled out a second chicken. So, it would have to be done both ways. Well, not the first time.
By one o’clock the table was set. Roasted chicken, fried chicken, potatoes, two types of salad, sauces, bread, drinks. Alёna called everyone to the table.
“Oh, how beautiful!” Natasha exclaimed as she sat down. “You’re always amazing.”
Alёna forced a weak smile and remained at the stove—she needed to take the pie out of the oven.
“Alёn, where’s the salt?” Sasha called out to her.
“It’s on the table.”
“I don’t see it.”
Alёna approached and silently placed the salt shaker right in front of him.
“Alёnchka,” her mother-in-law interjected immediately, “is there any sauce for the chicken? It seems a bit dry, doesn’t it?”
“Right there in the sauce boat,” Alёna nodded in that direction.
“And what about the garlic one? You know I get heartburn from garlic.”
Alёna returned to the kitchen and made another sauce, this time without garlic. Yet again today, yet again in these three years.
Returning to the living room, she found that everyone was already enthusiastically devouring the meal, talking loudly. Her place at the table had been taken by her mother-in-law’s purse.
“Oh, sorry,” the woman feigned a sudden start upon noticing Alёna’s look. “I just put my things here. I’ll remove it right now.”
Alёna set the sauce on the table and sat on the edge of a chair. She wasn’t hungry. She wanted to lie down, close her eyes, and have everything vanish. To have silence descend.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Sasha asked with a mouthful. “It’ll get cold.”
“Later,” she shook her head.
The conversation at the table went on as usual. They discussed someone’s wedding, then rising prices, then the children’s success at school. Alёna could only catch fragments of phrases, as if through cotton.
“Alёna, where’s that wonderful mustard of yours?” Kolya suddenly asked. “Remember, last time it was so sharp you’d lick your fingers.”
“I’ll bring it right now,” she said as she stood and went into the kitchen.
But there was no mustard in the refrigerator. Apparently, it was finished; maybe she’d forgotten to buy it. Or not forgotten, just overlooked—amid an endless cycle of shopping and cooking, it wasn’t surprising to miss something.
“No mustard,” she said upon returning.
“What do you mean, no mustard?” Kolya theatrically flailed his arms. “How can I live without mustard? Oh, you’ve completely disrespected your guests!”
It was a joke. She knew it was a joke. But something inside her trembled, stretched to its limit like a string just before it snapped.
“Alёn,” Sasha said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “there’s still some compote in the fridge. Bring some, will you?”
Silently, she went and brought the compote. She poured it into glasses and returned to her seat.
“Just a little for me,” her mother-in-law capriciously insisted. “I might get diabetes from too much sweetness.”
Alёna took her glass and poured about half of it back into the jug.
“Don’t you feel like you’re a bit twitchy today?” Sasha whispered to her as he leaned in. “At least smile a little—the guests will get cold food.”
She forced a smile, one that made her lips spasm painfully.
“That’s it, dear,” he patted her hand. “You know how much I love it when you smile.”
The meal was nearing its end. Alёna began gathering the empty plates.
“Leave them; you can wash them later,” Sasha waved his hand. “Bring the pie.”
She brought the pie, cut it, and served each person a slice.
“Alёn, where are the whipped cream?” Kolya immediately asked. “You always brought whipped cream with the pie!”
“And make me some coffee too,” Sasha added. “Coffee goes so much better with pie than tea.”
She made the coffee. She whipped the cream. She served everyone and then sat down again in her chair, feeling her shoulders numb with exhaustion.
“Exquisite!” Sasha said as he delightedly took a bite of the pie, smearing his lips with cream. He reached toward the vase of fruit and pulled out a big orange.
“Peel it for me, will you?” he said, handing the orange to Alёna. “I’d get my hands all messy and then have to wash up again.”
She looked at his hands. They were clean, neat—even with a tidy manicure. She looked at the orange—a round, ordinary, orange fruit. Then she looked back at Sasha, then at her mother-in-law, and then at all the others seated at the table.
Three years. And this orange. This very ordinary orange.
“No,” she said.
Her voice rang out unexpectedly loud in the sudden silence. She herself was surprised at how distinctly that single word had sounded.
“What?” Sasha asked, not believing his ears.
“I said—no,” Alёna repeated. “I’m not going to peel your orange.”
A silence fell over the table so deep that the ticking of clocks in another room could be heard. Her mother-in-law froze with a fork in hand, not even managing to get a piece of pie to her mouth. Natasha snickered nervously as if she’d heard an indecent joke. Kolya stared into his cup, trying with all his might to ignore the awkwardness.
“Are you… joking?” Sasha attempted a smile, but it came out crooked and forced.
“No, I’m not joking,” Alёna replied. Now, with that first word spoken, everything came pouring out. “I’m not going to peel your orange. And I’m not going to bring any more compote. And I’m not going to top it off any longer. Enough.”
“Alёna, what’s gotten into you?” her mother-in-law’s voice carried a tinge of righteous indignation. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Absolutely fine,” Alёna nodded. “For the first time in a long time.”
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Sasha said, standing abruptly and knocking over a chair. “We need to talk.”
He grabbed her hand and almost forcibly dragged her into the kitchen. Once there, he firmly closed the door and turned to her.
“What are you doing?” he hissed, barely holding back from yelling. “Did you decide to embarrass me in front of the whole family?”
“I’m not embarrassing anyone,” Alёna leaned against the refrigerator. “I just said ‘no.’”
“But why do it in front of everyone? Why not later, or in private? How dare you say ‘no’ right there in front of your mother-in-law!”
“Sure, in front of your mother, your brother, your sister. Get used to it.”
Sasha looked at her as though she had suddenly started speaking an alien language.
“Have you decided to humiliate me?” he spat out between gritted teeth. “Is this some sort of revenge?”
“No, Sasha. I’m not trying to humiliate you. And it’s not revenge,” Alёna shook her head. “I’m just tired of being treated like furniture with arms. I said ‘no’—directly to you. And to all this… circus.”
“What circus?”
“This one right here,” she said, gesturing around the kitchen. “Every Sunday I get up at the crack of dawn to cook for ten people. I set the table, clear it, wash the dishes, cook again, set the table again. And all the time you all sit there, talk, have fun. And I… I serve you. And you’ve all gotten so used to it that you don’t even notice.”
“You’re saying some nonsense,” Sasha began to pace the kitchen nervously. “No one’s forcing you…”
“Of course no one is forcing me,” Alёna agreed. “And that’s what hurts even more. You all think that this is just how it should be. That it’s normal—to come into someone else’s home and expect to be served as if in a restaurant.”
“This isn’t someone else’s home—it’s my family’s home!”
“And mine too,” Alёna said quietly. “But I feel as though I’m not living here, I’m working. And you know what’s the most painful part? That all these years it would have been enough for me to say just one word: ‘no.’ But I never said it. And now I have.”
Sasha opened his mouth, ready to argue, but at that moment the kitchen door cracked open, and her mother-in-law’s head appeared in the doorway.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. “We just finished our tea…”
“Everything’s fine, Mom,” Sasha replied without looking at her. “Go on, we’re coming.”
The door closed, yet the presence of her mother-in-law seemed to linger in the air—unseen but palpable.
“Listen,” Sasha lowered his voice, “maybe you’re just exhausted? Is it work stress?”
Alёna let out a soft, genuine laugh.
“No, Sasha,” she shook her head. “This isn’t about being tired or stressed. It’s a revelation. I suddenly realized that I am a person too. And I have the right to say ‘no.’”
She turned and left the kitchen, feeling an unprecedented lightness—as if she had shed a heavy backpack she’d been carrying for years.
In the living room a deathly silence reigned. Everyone pretended to be absorbed in the contents of their plates, but the tense postures made it clear—everyone had heard every word. Alёna approached the table, picked up the orange from the vase, sat down, and began peeling it. Slowly and carefully she removed the peel in a spiral, just as she had done in her childhood.
Sasha stood at the doorway, frozen, not knowing what to do next. Alёna divided the orange into sections, handed one to her son—who had silently observed everything the whole time.
“Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, and in his eyes Alёna saw something new—respect.
Sasha resumed his seat, took a second orange, and clumsily began peeling it, tearing off uneven pieces of the skin. No one uttered a word. Her mother-in-law opened her mouth several times but said nothing.
“Perhaps we should be going,” Natasha finally said as she rose. “Thank you for the lunch, Alёna.”
“Thank you.” For the first time in three years, Alёna heard that word of gratitude from her.
The guests departed with surprising speed. Usually they would stay until late into the night, but today everyone suddenly remembered they had urgent matters. Within half an hour the apartment was empty.
Sasha stood by the window, watching as relatives hurried into their cars.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked without turning around. “You chased them all away.”
“I didn’t chase anyone away,” Alёna said, gathering the plates from the table. “I simply said ‘no.’”
“And now what?” he turned to her. “You’re never going to cook for my family again? You’re going to ban them from coming?”
“No, Sasha. I don’t mind if your family comes. I’m against being a waitress in my own home. If your relatives want to come—let them come. But from now on, we’ll cook together. Or order food. Or they can bring something with them. Like in a normal family.”
“You do know Mom can’t cook…”
“At seventy-plus, one could have learned by now,” Alёna shrugged. “Besides, there are plenty of delivery services, semi-prepared meals, ready-made salads. We’re not living in the Stone Age.”
Sasha sank onto the couch and hid his face in his hands, exhausted.
“I don’t understand what came over you,” he murmured. “You’ve always been so… accommodating.”
“Exactly,” Alёna said as she sat down beside him. “Too accommodating. But you know what? I learned one simple thing: ‘No’ is also a word. And it’s important to know how to say it.”
She rose and walked to the kitchen to wash the dishes—not because she had to, but because she chose to. And that was the fundamental difference.
The following Sunday, the phone was silent. No one came. Sasha spent the day looking sullenly at his watch, but by evening he couldn’t bear it any longer and called his mother.
“Mom, aren’t you coming today?”
Alёna didn’t hear what his mother replied, but from the expression on her husband’s face she understood—something had changed.
A week later, her mother-in-law herself called.
“Sashenka, Natasha and I want to drop by. Just for a little while. I made a salad and baked a pie.”
When they arrived, Alёna greeted them at the door like ordinary guests, not like masters come to inspect her domain. Her mother-in-law awkwardly extended containers of food.
“Here, I prepared a little something… Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you should…”
“Thank you,” Alёna said sincerely. “It means a lot.”
They sat down at the table of four—Alёna, Sasha, her mother-in-law, and Natasha. Alёna brought out a cake she had purchased from a confectioner; Sasha made the coffee; her mother-in-law distributed her salad onto the plates. All together.
“You know, it’s actually even more pleasant this way,” Natasha suddenly remarked as she served herself a slice of pie. “It feels… homely.”
Alёna caught Sasha’s eye across the table. In his gaze she saw surprise and something else—perhaps understanding? She smiled at him and, for the first time in a long while, felt not like a servant but the mistress of her own home. Of her own life.
No—that is also a word. And sometimes that single word is worth more than a thousand meaningless “yes.”
Do you agree with Alёna’s stance?
