An Unexpected Visit and the Start of Chaos
While dusting the living room shelf, a sudden, thunderous knock on the door startled me so much that a vase on the windowsill shook precariously. A sigh escaped me, sensing this was a troubling sign. In the kitchen, Volodya glanced out from washing his breakfast cup and gave a tired shrug.
“They’re at it again, aren’t they?” he muttered, although it was already clear what was coming.
Before I could reach the door, it flew open with a bang. Valya barged inside, tossing her shoes aside and wearing a triumphant grin, as if she had just returned victorious from a grand expedition. Her husband, Fyodor, followed closely, struggling to squeeze in with a heavy backpack and an exhausted expression. Finally, Dimka stormed in like a whirlwind, immediately discarding his jacket and scattering shoes around.
“Oh, Volodya! Hi, dear!” Valya exclaimed loudly, throwing herself at her brother in an embrace. “We’re only here for an hour, just next door,” she explained cheerfully.
I raised an eyebrow skeptically. An hour? She always said that.
No sooner had I opened my mouth than Valya was already heading for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Do you have any snacks? We’re starving after the trip!”
I pressed my lips together and exchanged a worried look with Volodya, who raised his hands helplessly, signaling the futility of resistance.
The kitchen’s refrigerator door slammed shut behind her, and I hurried over — but I was too late. Valya snatched three of the pies I had baked for our Sunday dinner and loudly beckoned Fyodor.
“Hey, come quick! There’s food!”
I stood frozen at the doorway, watching as she systematically spread out our carefully prepared dishes across the table—the coldcuts, cheese, salads—all the lovingly arranged treats vanished onto their plates.
Meanwhile, Dimka was energetically rushing through the rooms, stomping loudly until he reached the toy chest on the mezzanine that Volodya thought was safely tucked away. One by one, toy cars were hurled to the floor, their clattering mixed with his delighted laughter echoing down the hallway.
“Lena, why isn’t the tea ready yet?” Valya shouted impatiently while slicing the cake. “You never wait for your guests!”
I inhaled deeply and swallowed the retort spinning on my tongue. Volodya quietly sat down on a stool, resting his elbows on his knees, massaging his temples. I answered softly, “I’ll get it brewing now.”
Valya poured half a jar of pricey olives into the salad bowl and noisily speared one on her fork. I glanced at Volodya, who released a heavy sigh as if collecting the last bits of his patience.
In my mind, one question circled endlessly: how much longer must we endure this intrusion?
“Valya’s regular visits have become an unending routine—a cycle of family invasions every Sunday and then elsewhere the next week, before returning to us again.”
Every visit turned our home upside down. She assumed the role of mistress, inspecting our supplies and laying out everything she could find. Fyodor often collapsed on the couch, remote in hand, while Dimka wreaked havoc, scattering toys and disorder in every corner.
- Valya regularly raided our refrigerator, helping herself to the best food without asking.
- Fyodor remained disengaged, absorbed in TV channel surfing.
- Dimka’s wild antics left messes that took hours to clean.
“This is such a frustrating habit,” I mumbled, my shoulders sagging. “She never even asks if it’s okay.”
“As if she owns our food,” Volodya added bitterly. “She acts like she has an unspoken license to help herself.”
I couldn’t recall the last time I enjoyed a peaceful day off. All my energy went into restoring order after their visits. Just yesterday, Valya opened a jar of expensive marinated mushrooms reserved for my mother’s anniversary, smirking, “It’ll get eaten at the party anyway, so why wait?”
I felt irritation growing, simmering almost to anger. Did Valya truly not grasp how hard things are for us? Or did she simply refuse to understand?
A Bold Plan to Reclaim Our Peace
Monday morning arrived tinged with tension. Mechanical movements filled the kitchen as I stirred cold tea while Volodya appeared later, disheveled and weary from yet another sleepless night—dark circles emphasizing his exhaustion. His mood was clearly weighed down by the previous day’s relentless invasion.
“Lena,” he said abruptly, sitting across from me and leaning on the table, “this can’t continue. I’m honestly at my limit.”
“And what can we do?” I sighed. “Valya will come regardless—even if we pretend to be out. She has a key, and last time, she didn’t even knock.”
Volodya closed his eyes momentarily, thinking. “You know,” he began cautiously, “what if we discourage her from coming on her own?”
I raised my eyebrows in curiosity. “How?”
“We leave an empty fridge,” he revealed, a slight grin tugging at his lips. “They arrive as usual, but the refrigerator is practically bare.”
“And what would we feed them?” I laughed, sensing a mischievous scheme forming.
“Buckwheat porridge. Just that, with a bit of mustard to make it look like a meal,” Volodya suggested.
His idea struck me as not only clever but refreshingly straightforward.
“Really? Buckwheat and mustard?” I chuckled.
“Why not?” Volodya shrugged. “We’re not preventing their visits; it’s just how things will be.”
“Accidentally on purpose,” I grinned, picturing Valya’s reaction when she opened the fridge.
We eagerly set to work, relocating all our delicacies—sausages, cheese, salads, leftover pies—into the old, small fridge in the storage room, usually reserved for canned goods. We sealed cookies, candies, and fruits in containers and carefully hid them on distant shelves. Even a jar of caviar was wrapped in old newspaper to avoid detection.
Volodya placed a pot of thick, bland buckwheat on the main fridge shelf accompanied by a jar of mustard, perfectly staged for the “celebratory” meal. I double-checked—no slices of cheese or sausage remained visible; all carefully concealed.
“Do you think this will actually deter them, at least for a while?” Volodya pondered aloud, closing the fridge door.
“I hope so,” I smiled, feeling as though a heavy burden had lifted from our shoulders.
This simple yet bold plan represented the first step toward setting clear limits—not confrontationally, but unmistakably.
The Sunday Test and Unexpected Calm
Anticipation gnawed at me Sunday morning. Despite feeling prepared, anxiety crept in about Valya’s arrival. Quietly, I slipped out of bed and found Volodya already at the kitchen table, feigning engrossment in a book.
“Did you manage any sleep?” I asked softly.
“A little,” he replied without looking up.
“Not much, for me,” I admitted.
Before long, a thunderous noise at the door announced their arrival as usual: Valya stormed in glowing, predictably followed by Fyodor and then Dimka, who immediately dived toward the toy chest, emptying it noisily.
“Volodya, Lena! Ready for your Sunday feast?” Valya called out, not bothering to remove her shoes, heading straight to the kitchen.
As Fyodor slumped on the sofa and Dimka scattered toys, I adjusted the curtain nervously, hoping to deflect my tension.
“Lena, put the kettle on!” Valya demanded, treating me like household staff.
Soon, the fridge door creaked open. Then silence. My heart raced as I peered discreetly into the kitchen. Valya stood before the open fridge, lifting the pot’s lid and sniffing the buckwheat suspiciously.
“Lena, where’s the food?” she demanded, expecting an explanation.
“Here,” I said calmly, nodding toward the pot.
Her eyes blinked, processing the stark emptiness on the shelf. She glanced back into the fridge as though the food might magically reappear.
“Only buckwheat?” she repeated, suspicion heavy in her voice.
“Yes,” I nodded steadily. “We didn’t have time for groceries this week.”
Volodya entered, playing innocent. “Valya, anything wrong?”
“Nothing,” she muttered, placing the pot back. “You really don’t have any food?”
“Just buckwheat,” Volodya replied. “We’re tightening our budget this week.”
Valya eyed the mustard jar as if it held the answers.
“Buckwheat with mustard?” she scoffed.
“No jokes,” Volodya shrugged. “Just a bit of a crisis. No delicacies today.”
From the living room, Fyodor grumbled, “Valya, I’m starving. Let’s leave.”
“Let’s,” she snapped, pouting. “What’s the point staying without food?”
Dimka resisted, clutching a toy louder than ever until Valya finally dragged him out. The door slammed, and the apartment fell eerily silent.
I peeked cautiously, hardly daring to believe the relief washing over me.
“Did you see her face?” Volodya smirked.
“Like she’d been exiled to a desert without water,” I laughed. “Maybe this will at least temporarily curb her visits.”
We sipped tea quietly, exchanging looks suggesting a mutual sense of victory. A serene calm had settled, as if control over our lives had been restored.
“If I’d known it was this simple,” Volodya chuckled, “I’d have let the buckwheat plan start sooner.”
“We’ll see how long this lasts,” I smiled, feeling a comforting surge of warmth.
Ripples Beyond Our Door
Days passed without a single call or visit from Valya. The quiet was surprisingly soothing. Peace enveloped the home, allowing us to cherish moments without fearing that ominous knock signaling an unruly arrival.
Volodya seemed lighter, occasionally smirking as if replaying the empty fridge scene. I resisted wondering if I was fooling myself, but a quiet hope fluttered: had we done the right thing?
The kitchen phone buzzed; the screen displayed Slavic’s name. Volodya answered on speakerphone.
“Hi, Slavic! What’s going on?”
“Well,” Slavic sighed, annoyed, “Valya and Fyodor came to my place this weekend. I thought they’d visit you, but they went straight here.”
“Really?” Volodya glanced at me.
“As usual,” Slavic chuckled. “They ate everything, Dimka scattered the toys, and Valya complained you had no food—said your fridge only had buckwheat and mustard.”
I burst into laughter, covering my mouth. Volodya smiled too.
“It’s true,” he confirmed calmly. “Listen, Slavic, aren’t you tired of cleaning up after them?”
“It’s become a habit,” Slavic grumbled. “But they’re driving me crazy. I just want a quiet weekend.”
Volodya winked at me. “Brother, we decided to try something different—leave only buckwheat and mustard in the fridge. Nothing else.”
“No way!” Slavic laughed. “What did she do?”
“She got mad, but left quickly,” Volodya said. “Maybe you should try it once. See if it works.”
“Hmm,” Slavic considered. “Maybe I will. Thanks for the tip.”
When the call ended, I turned to Volodya. “Do you think Slavic will actually do it?”
“Maybe not,” he shrugged. “But at least it’ll make him think. And if Valya senses she isn’t always welcomed with open arms, perhaps she’ll tone down her visits.”
We remained on the couch, discussing plans quietly, comforted by the feeling that our small act of defiance had yielded a breakthrough. Boundaries were in place, and it seemed the first lesson was learned.
Key Insight: Sometimes, protecting your personal space means standing firm with subtle, creative strategies—even when it involves family.
Though things with Valya didn’t immediately improve, we had discovered how to defend our home and our peace. Sometimes, it’s necessary to quietly declare: enough is enough.