One Sunday morning, while Nika prepared breakfast in the kitchen, she heard the familiar sound of Lev entering, his voice groggy but expectant.

— Good morning, — Lev said sleepily as he entered the kitchen. — What’s for breakfast?

— Omelet with mushrooms and tomatoes, — Nika smiled as she retrieved ingredients from the refrigerator. — And some fresh coffee.

Lev came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

— You really are the mistress of the house, aren’t you? — he remarked in a tone that immediately put Nika on guard. There was something in his voice that usually foretold something… well, not very good.

— What’s wrong? — Nika turned, squinting.

— Nothing in particular, — Lev looked away. — It’s just that Mom and Kristina are planning to come over. Well, for lunch.

Nika exhaled again. “Just for a little while” in the understanding of Lev’s relatives often stretched to a couple of hours or more. She clenched her hands, trying not to betray her anxiety.

— What time will they be here? — she asked, the tension in her voice evident.

— Around one to two. And… — Lev paused. — Kristina will bring the kids.

Nika silently counted to ten. Kristina’s children—the six-year-old twins—were not merely mischievous but genuine hurricanes. After their visits, the apartment resembled a battlefield.

— Fine, — Nika said as she grabbed a frying pan and turned on the stove, trying not to let her irritation show. — Then perhaps I’ll have to dash to the store. There won’t be enough food.

— Honey, you know how much Mom loves your dishes, — Lev attempted to approach and embrace her, but Nika, pretending not to notice, sidestepped. Why did she need that right now?

In truth, Varvara Dmitrievna never missed an opportunity to criticize her cooking. Sometimes the soup was too salty, sometimes the meat was raw, sometimes the salad was too plain.

By two o’clock, the apartment gleamed with cleanliness, and in the kitchen, the oven housed a slowly roasting potato with meat that already smelled delightful. In the refrigerator, that very cake that Varvara Dmitrievna adored was waiting for its moment.

The doorbell rang precisely at 14:15. Nika adjusted her apron and went to answer.

— Niku-sha! — Varvara Dmitrievna burst into the hallway like a hurricane, her coat billowing. — How are you, dear?

Soon after, Kristina entered with the children. The twins, as soon as they stepped into the apartment, dashed into the living room without removing their shoes.

— Kids, shoes! — Nika shouted, but Varvara Dmitrievna waved her hand dismissively and replied:
— Let them be, let them run around. You know how hard it is for them to sit still.

Nika pressed her lips together, watching the light carpet being marred by dirty footprints. She wondered every time why no one could make them take off their shoes at the door, but she never said it aloud—nobody ever listened anyway.

— What’s for lunch? — Kristina asked as she entered the kitchen. — Oh, casserole? Mom, remember last week I made one with mushrooms? It was a real masterpiece!

— Of course, I remember, sweetheart, — Varvara Dmitrievna sat down at the table, smiling. — Niku-sha, you should learn from Kristina. She has such a gift for cooking.

Nika remained silent as she arranged the cutlery. Suddenly, a loud crash resounded from the living room, as if something had fallen to the floor.

— Lev, check what your nephews have done, — Nika said calmly.

— Oh, come on, — Lev waved her off without even turning around. — Let them play; they’re just kids.

— Exactly, — Varvara Dmitrievna supported her son. — Otherwise, Nika, you’re so proper. Everything must be perfect.

— I just love order, — Nika replied softly.

— A home should be full of life! — Varvara Dmitrievna declared loudly. — You, Niku-sha, are always obsessing over cleanliness. Imagine having kids—you’d be chasing them with a rag.

Nika felt her cheeks burn. The subject of children was painful—for after two unsuccessful attempts, the doctors had advised her to wait a bit before trying again. But she remained silent, holding back all the words that were bursting to come out.

Lunch passed in the same manner. Varvara Dmitrievna handed out advice, Kristina boasted about her culinary achievements, and the twins dashed around the apartment, leaving a trail of destruction. Lev sat quietly, enjoying the moment, oblivious to the growing tension in Nika.

— You know, Niku-sha, — Varvara Dmitrievna said while finishing a second slice of cake, — Kristina and I were thinking… Maybe we should gather at your place every Sunday? Your kitchen is so spacious, and you cook… well, with soul.

Nika froze, standing with a cup in her hand, and looked at her.

— Every Sunday? — she repeated, trying to calm herself.

— Of course! — Kristina eagerly joined in. — It’ll be wonderful! I can bring my signature dishes, Mom can share recipes. And the kids love playing here!

Somewhere in the living room there was another crash. Judging by the sound, it was a figurine Nika had brought back from a trip to Italy.

— Lev, what do you say? — Varvara Dmitrievna turned to her son.

— Great idea! — Lev smiled, ignoring the trace of displeasure on Nika’s face. — Right, darling?

With noticeable effort, Nika set her cup on the table, feeling how the thought that her opinion meant nothing was filling her mind.

— I don’t think… — Nika began, but Varvara Dmitrievna was already making plans: