Irina stood quietly by the window, watching the wind sweep leaves across the yard.

In under an hour, the home she cherished would no longer feel like hers. Every Sunday, like clockwork, Viktor’s family arrived — transforming their peaceful apartment into a chaotic gathering place.

She had been married to Viktor for three decades. And for those thirty years, he had never managed to locate his glasses, socks, or keys without her. Just as he never seemed to notice how draining these Sunday visits were for her.

The doorbell rang — earlier than usual. Irina sighed.

Olga, Viktor’s younger sister, strolled in without knocking, her teenage daughters in tow. She flung her coat over the kitchen bench with no greeting. The girls darted into the living room, the TV blaring seconds later.

Irina clenched her jaw. Since retiring, her mother-in-law had decided it was now Irina’s duty to host the family weekly. Along with that came her sharp remarks about Irina’s cleaning.

Another ring at the door.

Tamara Pavlovna, Viktor’s mother, entered carrying her familiar oversized bag full of containers, radiating control.

“Irina, did you clean the stove properly this time? It should sparkle after cooking!”

Irina’s hands shook slightly. The stove was spotless — she scrubbed it every evening. But explaining that never helped.

A sudden crash from the living room. She winced. One of the girls had broken something.

Her vase — the one her late mother gave her. Irina shut her eyes. A lump caught in her throat. She swallowed it down.

More relatives filtered in — uncles, cousins, faces she barely recognized. The apartment filled with noise and footsteps.

“Aunt Ir, can we chill in your bedroom?” a niece shouted. “The TV’s bigger in there!”

Before she could respond, they ran in. Moments later, she heard the furniture scraping — followed by laughter.

“Mom, look at Aunt Ir’s hair in this old picture!” one girl yelled.

Irina’s heart dropped. They were flipping through her photo album — the one hidden in her bedside drawer. Inside were her most treasured memories: her parents, her young romance with Viktor, their wedding.

No one had asked permission.

She drifted back to the window, holding back tears. Lately, she felt like a visitor in her own home — her things disrespected, her space ignored.

“She’s never been much of a housekeeper,” Tamara said in the kitchen. “In my time…”

Irina turned. Her voice, steady and firm:
“That’s enough.”

Silence fell.

“I’ve had enough,” she repeated. “Of being dismissed, criticized, and treated like I don’t matter. This is my home — and I won’t be trampled in it anymore.”

Viktor stood, stunned, as if seeing her for the first time in years.

“What hurts isn’t your rudeness,” Irina added. “It’s how normal it’s become to you. But no more. This ends today.”

All eyes turned to Viktor. He looked between his wife and his mother. For once, he had to decide.

He inhaled. “Mom… Irina’s right.”

Tamara’s eyes narrowed. “Well, fine! Olga, we’re leaving! Let her rot here alone in her little cave!”

Minutes later, the apartment was quiet again. Only the ticking clock and the murmur of distant traffic remained.

Viktor stepped closer. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t see it.”

“I’m tired, Vitya,” she whispered. “So tired of feeling invisible.”

He took her hand. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

The next week passed in peace — no calls, no unexpected guests. Irina rearranged the living room and bought a new vase — simpler than her mother’s, but still blue.

On Sunday, the phone rang.

Irina froze. But Viktor touched her shoulder. “I’ll handle it.”

Tamara stood at the door. This time, she looked unsure. In her hands was a small box.

“May I come in?” she asked — for the first time, waiting for permission.

Irina nodded.

“I baked a pie,” she said. “Your mother’s recipe. The one you always liked.”

They sat in the kitchen. The quiet between them felt peaceful.

“I’ve done some thinking,” Tamara finally said. “You were right. I forgot what it’s like to be a young wife constantly judged. I crossed a line.”

She looked up. “Can we start over — with more kindness?”

And so, Sundays changed. Visits became softer, more respectful. Calls were made first. Advice came gently.

And Irina — finally — felt like the true mistress of her home, and of her life.