Saturday morning had started perfectly.
I was standing on the wooden veranda of our house on the Baltic coast, enjoying the fresh air scented with pine trees and the sea. Inside the little Turkish coffee pot, a thick layer of foam was slowly rising.
My husband, Pasha, was still asleep upstairs, wrapped in a heavy blanket.
Two peaceful days were waiting for us.
No work.
No guests.
No noise.
Just us.
Then my phone vibrated.
The message was from Marina, my cousin from Voronezh.
We hadn’t really spoken for almost two years, apart from obligatory holiday greetings, so the unusually long message immediately made me uneasy.
I opened it.
“Anya, hi! We talked everything over and decided the kids absolutely need some time by the sea this year. The doctor says the sea air will be good for Danya. Tolik and I are exhausted too, so we desperately need a break.
So we bought the tickets!
We’ll arrive on June 1 and leave on August 28.
We’re staying with you for the whole summer, so get the rooms ready!
Mom is coming with us too. She really needs a break from the garden.
See you soon! Kisses!”
I nearly choked on my coffee.
June 1.
Today was May 15.
That meant they would arrive in just over two weeks.
For three months.
Five people.
In our house.
I read the message again.
Then a third time.
Unfortunately, the words hadn’t changed.
“Whole summer.”
“Get the rooms ready.”
“Mom is coming too.”
The problem was that this wasn’t the first time my relatives had treated our home like a free vacation resort.
Three years earlier, when we still lived in Moscow, Marina, her husband Tolik, their two energetic boys, Danya and Maksim, and Aunt Lyuba had stayed with us for two weeks.
I still remembered that visit with a shudder.
Tolik spent most of his days lying on our sofa, drinking cheap beer and loudly commenting on political shows on television.
Marina treated me like her personal chef.
Every afternoon she would ask:
“Anya, what are we having for dinner? The boys want homemade pizza, and Tolik wants something with meat. You’re home all day working on the computer anyway.”
Aunt Lyuba was even worse.
She rearranged my kitchen, criticized my cooking and complained about the way I ironed Pasha’s shirts.
And, of course, she had plenty of opinions about our decision not to have children yet.
“The clock is ticking,” she would say. “You can’t live only for yourselves forever.”
But the boys were the real disaster.
They broke my favorite vase, scribbled on the hallway walls and eventually spilled sweet tea all over my expensive graphic tablet.
When I complained, Marina simply shrugged.
“They’re children! Why are you making such a big deal out of it? You should have put your things somewhere else. We’re family!”
Family.
That magical word people sometimes use when they want to cross your boundaries without feeling guilty.
And now they wanted to stay for three months.
In the house we had spent years rebuilding.
Four years earlier, Pasha and I had sold our tiny Moscow apartment, invested all our savings, taken out a substantial mortgage and bought an old German house in Svetlogorsk.
It had been practically falling apart.
Rotten floors.
A leaking roof.
Cracked plaster.
A garden so overgrown it looked like the perfect setting for a horror movie.
For three years, we poured nearly every spare ruble and every free minute into that house.
We restored the old wooden windows. We refinished the floors. We replaced insulation and repaired pipes. Pasha learned to tile, while I became an expert at restoring old wooden frames.
Only last autumn did we finally finish.
The house became our dream home.
Panoramic windows. A fireplace. Bright bedrooms. A huge kitchen. A beautiful garden.
We had finally started enjoying the peaceful life we had worked so hard to create.
But to my relatives, none of that mattered.
They didn’t see the years of work.
They saw only one thing:
“We have a house by the sea.”
Pasha eventually came out onto the veranda.
“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” he asked.
I handed him my phone.
He read the message.
His expression changed immediately.
“June first… August twenty-eighth…” he murmured. “Three months?”
“Exactly.”
“Are they serious?”
“If I say no, there will be a family war,” I sighed. “Mom will get upset, Marina will complain that we’ve become selfish, and Aunt Lyuba will remind everyone that family should help family.”
Pasha sat down.
Then he looked at me thoughtfully.
“Do you know why they’re coming?”
“Because they miss me?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Because it’s free.”
I stared at him.
“They don’t need to pay for a hotel. They don’t need to cook. They don’t need to clean. They don’t need to entertain the kids. For them, this is a completely free vacation.”
And suddenly, I had an idea.
If the free vacation disappeared, perhaps their enthusiasm would disappear with it.
I opened Marina’s message and started typing.
“Marina, what wonderful news! We’re absolutely thrilled you’re coming! You have no idea how much we need you right now.
Unfortunately, we’ve had some serious problems. Pasha lost his job, we have huge debts from the renovation, and the bank is threatening to auction the house.
So from June onward, we’re renting out all the rooms to tourists.
We’ll be living in the unheated summer annex on an air mattress.
Of course, because you’re family, we’ll give you a special discount. Two rooms for only 3,000 rubles per day each!
And Tolik’s help would be a lifesaver. The veranda roof is leaking, and we can’t afford a contractor. He can help Pasha repair it.
Aunt Lyuba will be a blessing too! I found a local restaurant that will pay us to make homemade dumplings. We’ll start at five in the morning.
The boys can help weed the garden and collect rubbish after the guests.
We’re so happy you’re coming!
Should I send you the bank details so you can transfer the first month’s payment?”
Pasha read the message.
For several seconds, he just stared at me.
Then he burst out laughing.
“You’re evil.”
“I’m simply preparing a warm family welcome.”
I hit send.
Marina read the message almost immediately.
Then the words appeared on my screen:
“Marina is typing…”
They disappeared.
Then came back.
Then disappeared again.
Five minutes later, her reply arrived.
“Anya, we talked it over. Tolik can’t take that much time off work, and his boss threatened to fire him. Mom’s blood pressure has been unstable too, and the doctor doesn’t recommend travel. The children will probably be better off staying home. So we’re going to return the tickets. We don’t have extra money right now either. Good luck with the bank!”
I stared at the screen.
Then I smiled.
No argument.
No family drama.
No guilt.
The moment their “vacation” required money and work, everyone suddenly found a reason to stay home.
Pasha poured himself another coffee.
“Well?”
I leaned back in my chair and breathed in the fresh sea air.
“Cancelled.”
“Why?”
I smiled.
“Tolik doesn’t want to fix the roof.”
We both burst out laughing.
That morning taught me something important.
Family is precious when there is love and mutual respect.
But being related to someone does not give them unlimited access to your home.
Your kindness is not an invitation to take advantage of you.
And sometimes, when people only appreciate you for what you provide, the easiest way to protect your peace is to stop making everything free.
Because apparently, some people only love being “family” when family costs them nothing.
