— We came here to relax, not dig around in the dirt! — the relatives shouted. — Then enjoy the fresh air for free, because the food is locked in the car.
“Listen, why isn’t our marinated meat already sizzling on the hot grill? We’re so hungry after that long drive that we could eat an entire elephant,” Oksana complained, settling into a comfortable wicker chair on the veranda and stretching out her tired legs in spotless white sneakers.
“Denis promised on the phone yesterday evening that by the time we arrived, everything would be sizzling and grilling deliciously, but you haven’t even lit the coals yet.”
I was standing by the outdoor washbasin, trying to scrub old soot from a cast-iron cauldron with a stiff metal sponge, feeling a sticky drop of sweat slowly run down my back. The June sun was merciless, heating the slate roof of our small country house, while the buzzing of annoying horseflies only added to the tension of an already stressful day.
“Yes, Alina, we’ve been sitting at an empty table for almost half an hour waiting for lunch, and you’re still messing around with dirty bowls instead of properly feeding your guests,” my husband happily supported his sister, lazily leaning back against a wooden bench and taking a large sip of ice-cold beer from a misted glass.
I closed my eyes for a second, squeezing the metal sponge tightly in my soapy hands, and took a deep breath, trying not to burst into a scream.
I had bought this country house in early spring, investing all the money I had received from selling the car I owned before marriage into the modest plot with its sturdy wooden cottage.
Back then, my husband had enthusiastically described how we would spend every summer weekend enjoying the ringing silence, breathing clean air, grilling vegetables, and properly resting from the noisy bustle of the city.
Reality turned out very differently.
Apparently, Denis was the only one who intended to relax in the countryside, while all the exhausting responsibilities of country-house life quietly but firmly settled onto my shoulders.
The evening before, after a difficult workweek in a stuffy office, I had driven alone to a huge supermarket outside the city. I pushed a heavy cart piled high with large bags of charcoal, fresh farm meat, vegetables, fruit, drinking water, and mountains of different snacks.
Denis blamed terrible Friday traffic and extreme exhaustion, promising that he would join me directly at the property.
In the end, I carried all those impossibly heavy bags from the trunk to the house myself, washed the veranda floors after a slanting rainstorm myself, and stayed up late marinating five kilograms of pork neck, crying from the sharp onions under the dim kitchen light.
That morning I had woken up at six so I could weed the overgrown strawberry beds and cut the tall, thick grass near the gate before the intense heat arrived.
Meanwhile, Denis slept peacefully under a warm wool blanket, explaining that when a person was at the country house, their first priority should be getting enough sleep and restoring their nervous system.
Closer to noon, a sparkling-clean SUV slowly pulled up to our old metal gate.
My husband’s relatives stepped out wearing light-colored, perfectly ironed designer clothes, smelling of expensive perfume and comfortable city life.
My mother-in-law carried only a small, obviously cheap wafer cake in transparent plastic packaging. She presented it to me with such a superior expression that one might have thought she was handing over family diamonds from a safe.
From the moment they noisily appeared on the property, an exhausting marathon of household demands began.
My mother-in-law immediately announced that there was too much wind on the open veranda and insistently demanded that I bring her a warm blanket, carefully checking it for dust first.
Oksana loudly and theatrically complained about the complete absence of ice cubes for her favorite cold cocktail, ignoring the obvious fact that our tiny freezer was completely packed with the meat they expected us to cook.
And Denis constantly fussed around them, playing the extraordinarily generous host entirely at my expense.
“The grass near your fence is terribly tall and prickly, Denis. You should hire an experienced gardener if you’re obviously incapable of maintaining such a basic property yourselves,” Galina said disdainfully, adjusting the wide brim of her straw hat while inspecting our modest land with an assessing gaze.
“Alina just never manages to cut it properly with the gasoline trimmer, Mom,” Denis casually replied. “I’ve told her a thousand times that she needs to have everything perfectly prepared before our long-awaited guests arrive instead of running around at the last minute with dirty rags and buckets.”
He said it as though mowing grass were some naturally ordained female responsibility.
I silently rinsed the cleaned cauldron under a strong stream of freezing water from the rubber hose, dried my reddened hands with a rough kitchen towel, and walked over to the long wooden table covered with freshly washed vegetables.
Inside me, a dark, muffled rage mixed with physical exhaustion was slowly but inevitably beginning to boil.
I took a large kitchen knife and began slicing crisp, bumpy cucumbers, trying to focus on the repetitive movement and ignore their lazy conversation.
“And slice the tomatoes very thinly, Alina, please. Transparent circles. Not those huge rustic chunks you usually make when you’re rushing,” Galina said demandingly, pointing toward the wooden cutting board with one perfectly manicured finger.
“My sensitive stomach simply cannot tolerate such crude, inelegant presentation of fresh vegetables.”
I stopped abruptly.
The sharp knife blade froze barely a millimeter above the glossy red skin of a large tomato.
Slowly, I lifted my head and looked carefully at the three healthy, fully rested adults in front of me.
They were sitting comfortably in the deep shade beneath the fabric canopy, leisurely enjoying cold drinks, laughing loudly at private jokes, and patiently waiting for their personal servant—me—to finally bring them hot meat on a beautiful platter.
At that moment, I fully and permanently understood the monstrous absurdity of the situation.
My husband’s relatives had come to the country house expecting everything to be prepared for them and demanded constant attention.
So I handed them shovels and made them help, because my personal reserve of angelic patience and sincere desire to be a hospitable hostess had finally run out.
Without saying a word, I placed the heavy knife on the edge of the wooden board, carefully wiped my damp hands on my apron, pulled it over my head in one sharp movement, and carelessly tossed it onto the nearest bench.
Then I turned and walked confidently past the relaxing group toward the old log shed where we stored our gardening and construction equipment.
Inside, the air smelled strongly of dry peat soil, pine boards, and machine oil.
In the dusty darkness, I quickly found two heavy spade shovels with long wooden handles, grabbed a large metal rake, and pulled several pairs of thick work gloves with rubberized palms from a cardboard box.
Stepping out of the dark shed into the blinding sunlight, I headed straight toward the carefree group on the veranda.
The heavy metallic clatter of the garden tools made them stop their lively conversation and turn toward me in surprise.
When I reached the table, I dropped the shovels and rake onto the wooden veranda floor with a deafening crash, directly at Oksana’s feet.
The work gloves followed, landing softly and dustily on the wooden boards.
“And what exactly is this sudden exhibition of agricultural equipment in the middle of our long-awaited family vacation?” my sister-in-law asked with a nervous, openly confused laugh, pulling her expensive sneakers away from the dry gray dirt stuck to the shovels.
“These are your personal admission tickets to today’s festive lunch with hot shashlik,” I replied calmly, without raising my voice, looking directly into my husband’s widened eyes.
“Since you came to a working country house where everything requires constant physical effort, you’re going to honestly earn your lunch through work instead of sitting in the shade talking.”
Galina gasped loudly and theatrically, clutching the collar of her light silk blouse.
Her carefully maintained face immediately became covered in ugly red patches of outrage.
“Alina, what do you think you’re doing in front of your elder relatives?” my mother-in-law shouted, desperately trying to make her trembling voice sound authoritative.
“We came to visit our own son on a perfectly legitimate weekend so we could breathe fresh air and enjoy nature, not dig around in your filthy soil like cheap hired workers!”
“You can breathe the fresh country air completely free and in unlimited quantities while sitting on that wooden bench,” I replied sharply, crossing my arms and refusing to look away from her reddened face.
“But hot shashlik, drinks with ice, clean towels, and fresh tomatoes cut into perfect little circles require serious energy.”
“And since Denis is apparently exhausted from the extremely difficult task of relaxing in a wicker chair, you will be the ones helping me with the property today.”
Denis jumped from his seat so suddenly that he nearly knocked over his tall glass of unfinished beer onto the spotless tablecloth.
His flushed face displayed extreme outrage and deeply wounded masculine pride.
“Stop this ridiculous circus immediately before I completely lose my temper!” he hissed viciously, moving threateningly toward me.
“You’re deliberately humiliating me in front of my own mother and sister! Take the knife, go back to the grill, and start cooking the meat now before you ruin everyone’s mood!”
I didn’t move.
I simply stood where I was.
Inside, everything was completely silent and frighteningly calm.
My usual fear of a huge family scandal had disappeared without a trace, leaving behind only cold, calculating determination to see this through to its logical conclusion.
“The hot grill has officially been canceled for an indefinite period, Denis,” I said.
“I generously poured cold water over the coals about five minutes ago.”
I watched their shocked expressions with grim satisfaction.
“The plan for the next hour is extremely simple. If, within ten minutes, the huge pile of sand near the gate hasn’t been moved by wheelbarrow to the far garden beds, and the strawberries near the fence haven’t been properly weeded, I’ll put all the food I bought into the trunk of my car and drive back to the city.”
Oksana jumped up hysterically behind her brother, waving her perfectly manicured hands.
Her voice immediately rose into a shrill, piercing scream.
“You wouldn’t dare leave us out here in the middle of nowhere without proper food! We drove for two hours through horrible traffic! We’re exhausted and we want to spend a nice time together as a family, exactly as we were promised!”
She glanced anxiously toward the untouched bowl of marinated meat.
I completely ignored her dramatic outburst.
Instead of arguing, I turned around, walked to the table, picked up the heavy plastic bowl filled with fragrant, spice-covered meat, grabbed a large bag of chopped vegetables, and headed toward my car parked near the metal gate.
I took the keys from the pocket of my denim shorts, deliberately opened the trunk, placed the food inside, slammed the lid shut, and pressed the lock button on the key fob.
Denis immediately understood that I wasn’t bluffing.
Our country settlement was forty kilometers from the nearest supermarket or restaurant.
Food delivery services didn’t come here at all, and the crooked little local shop sold little besides stale bread and old canned food.
I was the only person with keys to the only car.
The prospect of being trapped at an empty country house with hungry, furious relatives had an extremely sobering effect on my previously bold and domineering husband.
“All right, all right, Alina. Calm down and don’t do anything stupid because you’re emotional,” Denis began muttering hurriedly, suddenly changing his aggressive tone into a pleading one.
“Open the trunk and bring the meat back to the table. We all understand your complaints perfectly.”
He awkwardly turned toward his relatives, who were frozen in shock.
“Oksana, Mom, let’s help Alina move that stupid sand quickly. It’ll only take twenty minutes of actual work, and afterward we can sit down properly and have a delicious lunch.”
Oksana muttered curses through clenched teeth, silently mourning her fresh manicure.
With a heavy, defeated sigh, she realized they had no real alternative.
Disgustedly, she picked up the dirty shovel, trying to keep it as far from her clean designer clothing as possible, and reluctantly pulled on the rough work gloves.
My mother-in-law, finally realizing that her unquestioned authority no longer worked here, received a personal assignment from Denis: collect the rotten fallen apples beneath the old apple trees into a large bucket.
I checked that the car containing the food was securely locked so nobody would be tempted to stop working before the agreed time.
Then I made myself a large glass of ice-cold lemonade with fresh mint, pulled a lightweight folding chair into the cool shade beneath a spreading cherry tree, and sat down to carefully observe their work.
The next hour was the quietest, calmest, and most productive hour in the short history of our country house.
Oksana, sweating heavily and breathing in exhausted bursts, pushed metal wheelbarrows filled with yellow sand across the property.
Denis miserably swung the rake, gathering the damp grass I had cut that morning into large piles.
Galina groaned, complained about her aching lower back, and silently dropped rotten apples into a plastic bucket, doing her best not to look in my direction.
Only after the huge pile of sand had completely disappeared from the pathway and the garden beds looked neat and well maintained did I finally decide to slowly rise from my folding chair.
The relatives sat exhausted on the wooden veranda steps, dirty and completely worn out, their faces bright red from unfamiliar physical labor.
Not a trace of their polished city elegance from that morning remained.
Without saying anything, I removed the food from the locked trunk, lit fresh charcoal in the grill, and began cooking the juicy meat.
Dinner took place in a silence that was completely unusual for our family.
Nobody complained anymore that the tomatoes were sliced too thickly or that the black tea wasn’t brewed strongly enough.
They ate greedily and silently with the enormous animal appetite that only appears after honest physical work in the fresh air.
There were no further complaints about the country-house service.
Sunday morning began with unusual, nervous haste.
The relatives quickly and silently packed their few belongings into bags, hurriedly drank instant coffee from cracked mugs, and, claiming they had urgent business in the city, left before noon without even waiting for a hot breakfast.
Denis and I were left alone on the empty property.
My husband walked around the yard in circles for a long time, gathering his confused thoughts, before finally deciding to voice the complaints that had accumulated overnight.
“You deliberately and cruelly humiliated my family yesterday by forcing them to work in the heat instead of allowing them to have a normal, civilized rest,” he said resentfully, looking at me from beneath lowered brows while nervously clenching his fists.
“After such a disgusting welcome, they’re never going to come to our country house again.”
I stopped in the middle of the yard, holding the dirty metal grill rack in my hands, and looked directly into his eyes.
I felt absolutely no regret and none of the guilt he was trying to impose on me.
“That is exactly the wonderful result I was trying to achieve, Denis.”
“And now take the sponge and go clean the grease from the cauldron, because free service on this property is permanently over.”
