The Cuckoo Stayed Longer Than Expected — Seriously? She can’t be for real! — Sasha flared up. — Yura, come here! Right now! Her husband, just having kicked off his trainers in the hallway, peeked through the doorway, unbuttoning his collar as he entered. — Sash, what now? I’ve only just got home, my head’s splitting… — ‘What now?’ — Sasha gestured furiously at the edge of the bath. — Have a proper look. Where’s my shampoo? What about the hair mask I literally bought yesterday? Yura squinted, his eyesight not what it once was, scanning the neat row of bottles. A giant bottle of tar shampoo (who even uses that?) had pride of place, next to a family-sized “Burdock” and a heavy brown glass jar of some unbelievably dark hair cream. — Erm… That’s all Mum’s stuff. She must have brought it round. She probably finds it easier having her things to hand… — he muttered, avoiding eye contact with his wife. — Easier? Yura, she doesn’t even live here! And now, check down there. Sasha crouched and pulled out a plastic basin from underneath the bath. Her expensive French toiletries had been dumped inside, along with her loofah and razor. — What is this, Yura? She’s swept all my things up into this filthy tub and arranged her own products like royalty! She decided my things belonged next to the mop, but her “Burdock” deserves pride of place on the bath ledge! Yura gave a heavy sigh. — Sash, don’t get worked up. Mum’s really not well at the moment, you know that. I’ll just put it all back, and we can go have dinner. She’s made cabbage rolls, by the way… — I’m not eating her cabbage rolls, — Sasha shot back. — Why is she always here anyway? Why does she treat my home like her own, Yura?! I feel like a lodger, and I’m lucky if I’m even allowed to use the toilet. Sasha stormed out, pushing past her husband, while Yura quietly slid the tub of her things back under the bath with his foot. The so-called “housing problem”, the one that’s plagued millions, hadn’t even touched Sasha and Yura. Yura had his own spacious flat in a new-build, inherited from his paternal grandfather. Sasha had a cosy one-bedroom she’d got from her grandma. After their wedding, they decided to settle in Yura’s place — it was recently renovated, had air-con — and Sasha’s was let out to a nice family. Relations with Yura’s parents had always followed the “armed neutrality verging on polite sympathy” rule. Svetlana Anatolievna and her husband, the ever-civil and practically mute Viktor Petrovich, lived on the other side of London. There were weekly teas, the usual check-ins about health and work, polite smiles exchanged. — Oh Sasha, you look like you’ve lost weight, — Svetlana would say, nudging a slice of cake her way. — Yura darling, aren’t you feeding your wife? — Mum, we’re just going to the gym now, — Yura would laugh it off. And that was it. No unannounced visits, no advice on managing the house. Sasha would even boast to her friends: — I’m so lucky with my mother-in-law. She’s golden. Never interferes, never lectures me, never nags Yura. Everything fell apart one gloomy Tuesday, when Viktor Petrovich, husband of thirty-two years, suddenly packed a suitcase, scrawled a note — “Gone to the seaside, don’t look for me!” — blocked every contact, and vanished. Turns out “midlife crisis” wasn’t just a phrase, but an actual sun-tanned administrator from a Bognor Regis spa hotel they’d visited together over the past three summers. For sixty-year-old Svetlana, her world turned upside down. First came the tears, then 3am calls, endless rehashing: — How could he? Why? Oh Sasha, how could this happen?! Sasha was genuinely sympathetic at first. She bought sedatives for her mother-in-law, listened to the same story for the tenth time and nodded, even when Svetlana cursed “that ancient womaniser”. But soon her patience wore thin — and the ceaseless whining started to really get on her nerves. — Yura, she called five times before noon, — Sasha grumbled one breakfast. — She wants you to change a lightbulb in her hallway. I get it, I do. But… when will it ever end? Yura looked crestfallen. — She’s lonely, Sash. She’s always had Dad to rely on, it’s… Don’t be upset with her, please… — She can change a bulb or call a handyman. She just wants one of us to come over. Why should I have to? Then came the sleepovers — her husband started staying at his mum’s. — Sash, Mum can’t sleep alone, — Yura said apologetically, packing his overnight bag. — She says the silence is too much. Just a couple nights at hers, yeah? — Couple nights? — Sasha frowned. — Yura, we’ve only just got married and you’re already moving out half the week! I don’t want to sleep alone every other night. — Sash, it’s temporary. She just needs to get her bearings, then things’ll go back to normal. “Temporary” dragged on for a month. Svetlana demanded her son stay four nights a week — evenings and nights. She feigned dizzy spells, panic attacks, even engineered drains to get blocked in the sink — all to keep Yura there. Sasha watched her husband being ground down, split between two homes, and finally made the mistake she’d regret every day afterwards. *** She decided to have a heart-to-heart with her mother-in-law. — Listen, Svetlana, — she began at Sunday lunch. — If you really can’t stand being alone in those four walls, why don’t you come to ours during the day? Yura’s at work, I often work from home. You can wander the park, sit with us… Yura can drop you home in the evenings. Svetlana gave her a strange look. — Actually, Sasha, you clever thing… Why am I rotting at home? Sasha expected a visit or two a week, imagining the mother-in-law would rock up around noon and leave by the time Yura was back… But Svetlana had her own ideas — she arrived at exactly 7am. — Who’s there? — Yura murmured, half asleep, hearing the doorbell. He went to open it himself. — It’s me! — rang out Svetlana’s cheery voice. — I brought you some fresh cottage cheese! Sasha pulled the covers over her head. — For crying out loud… — she hissed. — Yura, it’s 7am! Where does she even get fresh cottage cheese at this time?! — Mum’s an early bird, — Yura was already pulling on his trousers. — You go back to sleep, I’ll let her in. From then on, their life became a nightmare. Svetlana didn’t just visit — she spent every working hour in the flat. Sasha tried to work, but her mother-in-law hovered: — Sasha, haven’t you dusted the telly? I found a cloth, here, I’ll do it now. — Svetlana, I’m actually busy, I’ve got a call in five minutes! — Oh, what call? Just staring at the screen. And by the way, dear, you iron Yura’s shirts wrong. The creases should be sharp. I’ll show you, while you’re waiting for “clients”. Everything was criticised. How she chopped veg: “Yura likes them sliced, not diced like a school canteen.” How the bed was made: “The cover should reach the floor. Yours is half-hearted.” How the bathroom smelt: “Should be fresh and lovely; smells musty in here.” — Sash, darling, don’t take it the wrong way, — her mother-in-law’d say, peering in the soup pot. — But you’ve oversalted this. Yura’s got a sensitive stomach, you knew that, right? You’ll ruin him, cooking like that. Move aside, I’ll fix it. — He likes the soup, — Sasha muttered, fists clenched. — He had two bowls last night. — Oh, he’s just too polite to upset you, the poor thing. By lunch, Sasha was ready to snap. She’d hide in a coffee shop for hours just to avoid hearing the relentless nagging. When she returned, her mood soured further. First, her “favourite mug” appeared — a massive, tacky thing saying “Best Mum”. Then a spare raincoat turned up on a hook, and a week later, Svetlana had a shelf in the wardrobe for “indoor things” and a couple of housecoats. — Why do you need housecoats here? — Sasha asked, finding a pink terry monstrosity squeezed in with her silk slips. — Well, darling, I’m here all day. I get tired, so I want to change into something relaxing. We’re family. Why so huffy? Yura had a single answer to every complaint: — Sash, have a bit of understanding. She’s lost her husband. She needs to feel wanted. It’s just a shelf. — It’s not the shelf, Yura! Your mum is squeezing me out of my own flat! — Don’t exaggerate. She cooks, she cleans. You said yourself you hate ironing. — I’d rather be wrinkled than pressed by her! — Sasha shouted. Her husband didn’t hear. *** The bottles in the bathroom were the last straw. — Yura, come out, — Svetlana called from the kitchen. — The cabbage rolls are getting cold! Sasha, come on, I made yours with less pepper. I know you don’t like the heat. Sasha burst into the kitchen, where her mother-in-law was already setting out plates. — Svetlana, — she said as calmly as possible. — Why did you put my things under the bath? Her mother-in-law didn’t even blink. She gently placed a fork beside Yura’s plate and smiled: — Oh, those bottles? But yours were nearly empty, taking up space. And the smell… so strong, gave me a headache. I’ve put my own in — they’re much nicer. Yours are safe under there, out of the way. You don’t mind, do you? A bit of a tidy was overdue anyway. — I do mind, — Sasha moved towards the table. — That’s my bathroom. My things. And my home! — Oh, is it really yours, dear? — Svetlana sat down with a theatrical sigh. — The flat’s Yura’s, after all. You’re in charge, of course, but… you know. A wife should have respect for her husband’s mother, too. Yura, pale at the door, stammered: — Mum, come on… Sasha’s place is ours too, we just live here… — What place? — his mother waved him off. — Just an old granny flat. Yura, sit down. Look, your wife’s in another mood again – probably hungry. Sasha looked at her husband. She waited. Waited for him to say, “Mum, enough. You’ve crossed the line. Pack your things and go home.” Instead Yura hesitated, flicking his eyes between them… and sat down at the table. — Sash, come on, eat something. Let’s just talk this through, calmly. Mum, you shouldn’t have touched her stuff… — See! — Svetlana exclaimed. — He understands. But you, Sasha, you’re so hard. Don’t be so territorial. Family is about sharing. Sasha’s patience finally shattered. — Sharing? — she echoed. — Fine. She turned and left the kitchen. Yura called after her, but she didn’t listen. She packed her things in twenty minutes, stuffed everything into suitcases. Didn’t bother with the bottles — she’d buy new ones. She left to a chorus of voices: her husband pleading, her mother-in-law sighing with barely-veiled insults. *** Sasha didn’t look back. She filed for divorce almost the moment she left. Her still-legal husband calls daily to beg her return, while her mother-in-law slowly transports her belongings into his flat. Sasha is certain: that was what she wanted all along.