Enough, I said! No more guests. Not tomorrow, not in a week, not ever.

Mary said it was not shouting. She didn’t even raise her voice. But when Kirill turned back from the hallway, with a bag that clinked and rolled around, he realized — there would be no jokes. Saturdays had long ceased to be days of rest at their home. Exactly at four-thirty, reliably, as if on a timer, the intercom rang, and behind it, the door. Today it was his nephew Toma — eternally hungry and loud, Thomas's girlfriend with pink hair, and Kirill's mother, Anne, with a signature cake and her usual remarks. At that moment, Mary was standing by the stove — a frying pan in one hand, a ladle in the other, something was sizzling on the stove, meat was in the oven, and in her head, mathematics: would there be enough salad for six people?— Come in! Family! Mary, greet them, — shouted Kirill, already unbuttoning the guests' jackets. Mary didn't turn around right away.— Aha, I hear, — quietly, almost to herself. Then louder:— Good evening. Make yourselves comfortable. Kirill, show them where the slippers are.

 Anne was already clicking her tongue: Huff, it smells like onions... We need to air out the place more often. Thomas took the speaker into the living room and turned the music up loudly. His girlfriend asked if she could charge her phone. Kirill got out the glasses and started pouring wine. There weren't enough chairs in the living room — he took one from the kitchen. And Mary was already washing the third frying pan. It was 5:20 PM. An hour later, the table was overflowing: meat, mashed potatoes, two plates of salads, tartlets, and pickles. No one was offering help. No one asked if she had eaten. Only Anne snorted: — Mary, you forgot the bread. And the men can't be satisfied without bread. Bring it, please. She brought it. And some napkins. And hot water. Then a pie. Then a greater — for the cheese.' Every time she stood up, it felt like her legs were made of cotton. — Mary, where's your borscht dish? Come on, ladle it out! — Kirill called cheerfully. She went to the kitchen. She took a ladle. Then plates. Her hands were shaking. When the dishes were almost rinsed, and the leftovers put away, Mary heard a quiet voice behind her: — Mary... do you ever take a break? It was Lera — Thomas's girlfriend.

She held an empty glass in her hand and looked confused, almost guilty. Mary didn’t turn around. She just said: — Not now. But then she turned around after all. And for the first time — not with a forced smile, not with feigned ease, but honestly: — I have work from eight to six. I come home — I cook, clean, shop. You come on Saturdays. Every time. Every week. I don't rest at all. Kirill thinks it's his job to 'create an atmosphere.' And I do all the grunt work. And he doesn't even notice how tired I am. — But... you’re family... He doesn’t do it on purpose... — And what good does it do if it’s 'not on purpose,' but consistent? — Mary chuckled. Kirill walked into the kitchen. — Mary, where are the dishes? The guys are asking! And some tea too! She took off her apron. — In the fridge. Heat them. The kettle is there. Brew it yourself. He froze. — What’s wrong?.. Are you angry? — No. I'm done. That’s it. She went to the sink and turned off the water. She turned around, her wet hands dripping onto the floor. — Sit down. We are going to talk like adults. He sat down. For the first time, not with a plate, but just like that.

 Astonished. Mary did not shout. She spoke quietly. And harshly. — From this day on — no guests. Until I say so. Not you. Me. Everything related to food, cleaning, and cooking is split in half. If you would like to invite guests, we should discuss it at least a week in advance. Not an hour. Not on the way home. A week. You cook — or order. You clean. You pour the wine. You wash the dishes. And yes — if even one of your relatives enters our house without my consent next time, then that very evening I'll leave. Forever. No jokes. I am not a slave. Not a cook. Not a hostess. I am a woman who is tired of being a home for everyone but herself.

 Kirill tried to interject, to justify himself. About "I didn't know," "I meant well," "I thought you liked it." But she looked straight at him. Without trembling. Without fear. — I no longer believe in "I didn't know." You knew. It was convenient for you. That night, he washed the dishes. Seriously. Silently. Until it squeaked. And in the morning, he vacuumed, even though he didn't know where the dust bags were. He found them. Food? He heated them by himself. Mary slept peacefully for the first time in a long time the following week.

There were no guests for a week. Not in a week. Not in a month. Kirill started asking before inviting anyone. Sometimes he even suggested going to a cafe. Anne once called and asked, "Why don’t you invite us anymore?" Kirill answered calmly: — Because Mary is not obligated. And because everything is different now. It has been too long for it to be any other way.