In less than an hour, Irina’s home would no longer feel like her own. Every Sunday, her husband Viktor’s relatives took over the apartment. For thirty years, she’d hosted these gatherings — and for thirty years, Viktor never noticed how draining they were for her.
The doorbell rang. Olga, Viktor’s sister, burst in with her daughters. They dropped coats, turned on the TV, and scattered without a word. Minutes later, Tamara Pavlovna, Viktor’s mother, arrived with her usual sharp remarks. “Did you clean the stove?” she asked. Irina clenched her jaw.
Then came the crash.
Irina’s vase — her late mother’s gift — shattered in the living room. Her nieces ran into her bedroom uninvited, laughing over old photos. Irina’s heart ached. She felt invisible in her own home.
Finally, she stood and said, “That’s enough.” Her voice was calm, but firm. The room fell silent.
Viktor, stunned, sided with her.
The next Sunday, the phone rang. Tamara was at the door, holding a pie. “Your mother’s recipe,” she said. “May I come in?”
From that day on, Sundays changed. Fewer visitors. Softer voices. More respect.
And Irina — finally — felt seen, heard, and at home.
