Irina stood by the window, watching gusts of wind carry leaves across the yard.

In less than an hour, her home would no longer be her own.

Every Sunday, her husband Viktor’s relatives descended like clockwork, turning their quiet apartment into a bustling thoroughfare.

For thirty years, Irina had been married to Viktor. And for thirty years, he never once found his glasses, socks, or keys without her help.

Just as he never seemed to realize how exhausting these Sunday gatherings were for her.

The doorbell rang earlier than usual. Irina sighed.

As always, Olga, Viktor’s younger sister, stepped inside unannounced, her teenage daughters trailing behind.

She dropped her coat on the kitchen bench without so much as a greeting. Her daughters dashed to the living room, where the television was soon blaring.

Irina clenched her jaw. Ever since she’d retired, her mother-in-law had declared it Irina’s duty to host weekly family dinners. And with that came constant jabs about her housekeeping.

The doorbell rang again.

Tamara Pavlovna, Viktor’s mother, marched in with her usual oversized bag of containers and an air of authority.

“Irina, have you cleaned the stove? You always forget — it should shine after cooking!”

Irina’s hands trembled slightly. The stove was spotless. She scrubbed it nightly. But explaining that never helped.

A crash from the living room made her flinch. One of the girls had broken something.

Her vase — the one her late mother had given her. Irina shut her eyes. A knot formed in her throat. She swallowed it down.

More relatives trickled in: uncles, cousins, people she barely knew. The apartment buzzed with chatter, laughter, and footsteps.

“Aunt Ir, can we hang out in your bedroom?” one niece yelled. “The TV’s bigger!”

Without permission, they ran in. Minutes later, she heard furniture scraping and giggles.

“Mom, look at this picture of Aunt Ir!” one of them called. “Look at her hair!”

Irina’s heart sank. They were going through her photo album — the one she kept in her bedside drawer. It held her life’s most cherished memories: her parents, her courtship with Viktor, and their wedding.

No one had asked.

She drifted back to the window, trying not to cry. Lately, she felt like a ghost in her own home. Her belongings were disrespected, her space invaded, and no one even noticed.

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

Suddenly, Irina turned. Her voice was calm but clear.

“That’s enough.”

Silence fell.

“I’ve had enough,” she said again. “Of being criticized, ignored, and treated like I don’t matter. This is my home, and I’m no longer going to let myself be trampled in it.”

Viktor slowly stood, eyes wide, as if seeing her anew.

“What hurts isn’t your rudeness,” Irina continued. “It’s how normal it’s become for you. But not anymore. Things will change.”

All eyes were on Viktor now. He looked between his wife and his mother. For the first time in decades, he had to choose.

He took a breath. “Mom… Irina’s right.”

Tamara Pavlovna’s eyes flashed. “Well, fine then! Come, Olga! Let’s leave her here alone in her little cave! See how she manages without us!”

In minutes, the apartment was silent again. Only the ticking clock and the distant hum of traffic remained.

Viktor stepped toward her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was blind.”

“I’m tired, Vitya,” she whispered back. “So tired of feeling like a stranger in my own home.”

He squeezed her hand. “It won’t happen again. I swear.”

The following week passed in peace. No phone calls. No sudden visits. Irina rearranged the furniture, bought a new vase — simpler than the one her mother gave her, but still blue.

That Sunday morning, the phone rang.

Irina froze. But Viktor placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

At the door stood Tamara Pavlovna. She looked uncertain. In her hands, she held a small package.

“May I come in?” she asked, for the first time ever, waiting to be invited.

Irina nodded.

“I baked a pie,” she said softly. “Your mom’s recipe. The one you always loved.”

They sat together in the kitchen. The silence, for once, felt gentle.

“I’ve thought a lot,” Tamara finally said. “You were right. I forgot what it’s like to be a young wife under constant scrutiny. I overstepped.”

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

From then on, Sundays changed. Visits became warmer, quieter. Calls were made in advance. Advice came softly, if at all.

And Irina — at last — felt like the true mistress not only of her home, but of her life.