“In those ten days, I’ve spent about two hundred forty dollars on food alone,” I continued. “That doesn’t include water, electricity, or the hours I’ve lost cooking instead of taking paid work. If this keeps up, by the end of the month we’ll be close to eight hundred dollars. So maybe we should all contribute?”
The silence that followed was so sharp I could hear the faucet dripping.
Barbara’s face went a dark, angry red.
“Are you serious?” she snapped. “You’re asking family for money?”
“I’m suggesting we split the expenses,” I said evenly. “Kevin and I don’t make enough to feed six adults.”
“Kevin, do you hear her?” Barbara turned toward her son. “She’s trying to squeeze money out of us!”
Kevin lifted one hand, as if that could stop the whole room from exploding.
“Laura, come on. Why say it like that? In front of everyone?”
“When was I supposed to say it?” I asked. “When we’re alone, you don’t listen.”
Brian pushed his plate away from him.
“Wow, Laura. That’s something else. We came here as guests. Who charges guests?”
“Guests stay for three days,” I replied. “A month is called living here.”
Megan finally looked up. Her eyes met mine, and for one brief second I saw something there that almost resembled pity.
Dinner ended without another word. I washed the dishes by myself afterward—thirty-four separate items. I counted them. Not one person offered to help. Not one person put a dollar on the table.
That night, Kevin didn’t come to bed. He slept in the car. I saw him from the window.
On the twelfth morning, Barbara’s voice woke me at six-thirty.
“Laura! You need to start the borscht! I’m used to having lunch at noon!”
Six-thirty in the morning. Saturday. My one day off, the only day I didn’t have urgent reports hanging over me.
I lay still, staring at the ceiling. Behind the wall, Brian was coughing. Megan was rustling through plastic bags. Robert had turned the television on at full volume because he couldn’t hear well.
Kevin appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. He smelled like cold upholstery and stale air, which meant he’d spent another night in the car.
“Laura,” he murmured. “Please get up. Mom’s waiting.”
I sat up and looked at my husband. At his broad shoulders, which folded in on themselves the second his mother’s voice carried from the kitchen.
“Kevin,” I asked quietly, “did you ever ask me before inviting them?”
He exhaled. “Laura, not this again.”
“Yes. This again. You invited four people to stay in our apartment for a month. You didn’t warn me. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even check whether I had work, plans, deadlines—anything. You just announced, ‘They’re coming Saturday.’ That was it.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. The same tired gesture I had watched for seven years.
“They’re family, Laura. What was I supposed to do? Say no?”
“You didn’t say no to me either,” I said. “You simply didn’t ask me.”
“So what do you want me to do? Throw them out?”
I didn’t answer.
I got out of bed, walked into the kitchen, and started the borscht. Four hours of beets, cabbage, broth, sautéed vegetables, and simmering. Barbara sat beside me on a stool and monitored every pinch of salt.
“That’s not enough. Borscht without salt isn’t borscht.”
I added another half spoonful.
“Still not enough.”
I added more.
“There. Better. But you did the beets wrong again.”
Twelve days. Four hours of cooking a day. Forty-eight hours total. A full workweek, plus an extra day. And there were still eighteen days left.
After lunch, Barbara called Kevin out onto the balcony. I was washing dishes, and through the open window I heard every word.
“She isn’t right for you, Kevin. She’s cold. Greedy. Counts every dollar when it comes to your own family. You deserve better.”
I turned off the water.
The plate in my hands had gone slick with soap. I placed it in the drying rack with almost unnatural care. Perfectly straight. Perfectly calm.
Then I dried my hands on a towel, went into the bedroom, opened my laptop, and began searching for last-minute vacation deals.
Turkey. Antalya. Flight the day after tomorrow. Twenty-eight days. Three-star hotel. All-inclusive. Four hundred eighty dollars. I had a little over five hundred on my card.
I clicked “book.”
My hands didn’t shake.
For the first time in twelve days.
On the morning of the fourteenth day, I woke before everyone else. Five o’clock. Dark outside. Silent apartment.
I packed my suitcase. Summer dresses. Swimsuit. Sandals. Sunscreen. Charger. Passport. The suitcase was small, carry-on size. I had bought it three years earlier specifically so I wouldn’t have to check luggage.
On the kitchen table, I left a note. I wrote it by hand, in large letters, so there would be no chance of anyone “not seeing it.”
“Welcome! Your gracious hostess has gone on vacation. For one month. There’s chicken and dumplings in the freezer. Borscht takes four hours; Barbara knows the recipe. Enjoy your stay!”
I set the spare keys beside the note.
Then I left.
The taxi was already waiting outside the building. The driver lifted my suitcase into the trunk.
“JFK?”
“JFK.”
I slid into the back seat, buckled my seat belt, and looked up at the windows of our apartment. They were dark. Everyone was still asleep.
The car pulled away from the curb.
I leaned back and let out a breath so deep it almost hurt. It felt as if someone had finally opened my ribs and given my lungs space. I hadn’t realized I’d been breathing shallowly for twelve straight days. My shoulders dropped. The ache in my neck began to loosen.
My phone rang at 7:42. I was already sitting at the gate.
Kevin.
I declined the call.
He called again.
I declined it again.
A message appeared.
“Where are you?!”
I typed back, “At the airport. Flying out on vacation. For a month. Just like your family—without warning. Read the note.”
For twenty-three seconds, there was nothing.
Then the messages started coming in one after another.