My husband brought guests over while I was sick—and I had to give them a ‘memorable’ welcome
“Please don’t get mad, but we’re already in the elevator,” her husband’s cheerful voice boomed through the phone, sounding to Tatyana like thunder on a clear day. “Sergey and his wife are passing through town, I just ran into them by chance. I couldn’t not invite old friends! We’ll be there in a minute. Can you put the kettle on?”
Tatyana stared at the dark smartphone screen as if it had turned into a venomous snake. Her head buzzed like a transformer station, her throat felt raw as if she’d swallowed a handful of broken glass, and the lonely thermometer on her nightstand had showed an unpleasant 38.9 just ten minutes ago.
She was buried under two blankets, shaking, her hair tangled and unwashed for three days. The room reeked of medicine, “Zvezdochka” balm, and lemon peels—the only thing she could sniff without getting nauseous.
“Guests…” she murmured with parched lips. “Okay.”
Her first instinct, of course, was to get up—an ingrained habit from years of being a “good hostess.” She needed to clean up the tissues scattered over the couch, air out the stuffy “infirmary,” put on some mascara to hide the dark circles under her eyes, and find anything in the freezer that could serve as a quick snack.
Tatyana tried to sit up, but the room spun, the floor seemed to disappear beneath her, and a lump formed in her throat. She collapsed back onto the pillow, panting. She didn’t even have the strength to get to the bathroom, let alone set the table for guests.
The doorbell rang insistently from the hallway. She heard the lock turn—Andrey had his own keys.
“Come on in! Don’t be shy!” Her husband’s voice was unnaturally loud and cheerful—the one he used when he wanted to impress. “A house full of plenty! Tanya will feed us, she always has something tasty ready.”
Tatyana closed her eyes. Hot, heavy anger started rising from somewhere deep inside, pushing out the chills. He knew. Andrey knew perfectly well she’d been sick for three days. He’d brought her raspberry tea and clucked sympathetically over her fever just that morning. And now he brought guests—because he couldn’t say no to his friend, because his image as the perfect host mattered more than his wife’s health.
“Tanya! Where are you? Come greet our guests!” Andrey yelled from the hallway.
At that moment, something inside Tatyana snapped. Or maybe, finally, things fell into place. All these years, she’d tried to be ideal—convenient. Always smiling, always a table set, even if she came home after him, even if she was exhausted, even if her head was pounding. “You’re the woman, the keeper of the home,” his mother would say. And Tatyana kept it. And endured.
But today, her patience was finally gone.
She slowly tossed off the blanket. She was wearing an old, faded pajama set with goofy teddy bears—her go-to for sick days because it was soft and warm. On her feet: mismatched wool socks (the other pairs lost somewhere). She didn’t bother to smooth her hair or wipe the sweat off her forehead.
“Keeper of the home, huh…” she croaked, then shuffled toward the bedroom door.
The hallway buzzed with activity. Sergey, a burly red-faced man, was pulling off his shoes, bracing himself against the wall. His wife—a tall, elegant woman with a perfect hairstyle—looked with disdain at the coat rack, obviously searching for a spot for her expensive coat.
“Ah, there’s our hostess!” Andrey turned, but his grin fell from his face as though a mask had suddenly dropped.
Tatyana stood in the bedroom doorway, bracing herself against the frame so she wouldn’t fall. She looked, to put it mildly, frightening. Fever-flushed cheeks, inflamed eyes, crazy hair, and that ridiculous pajama set.
“Oh…” Sergey’s wife gasped, stepping back and clutching her purse tightly.
“Hi,” Tatyana rasped. “I wasn’t expecting you. Andrey said you were just passing through. Well, since you’re here, come in. But we are under quarantine.”
“Tanya, why are you dressed like that?” Andrey tried to salvage the moment with a nervous chuckle. “They’ll think we don’t respect them. Go change, freshen up.”
“Why?” Tatyana blinked slowly at her husband. “I’m sick, Andrey. I’ve got a fever of 39. You said you were bringing friends. So surely friends will understand. Right?”
She shifted a heavy gaze toward the guests. Sergey froze, one shoe still in his hand. His wife (Irina, she thought) wrinkled her nose.
“Andrey, you never said your wife was about to die,” Sergey rumbled. “We could’ve just gone out somewhere.”
“Oh please, don’t be dramatic!” Andrey waved him off, growing angry and red-faced. “Just a cold. She always exaggerates. Tanya, quit the theatrics. Our friends came from afar and are starving. Put together something for the table. There are dumplings in the freezer—boil them. And get out the pickles.”
Tatyana felt the room start to spin again. This time, she almost welcomed it. She turned silently and trudged to the kitchen. The guests and Andrey exchanged glances and followed her.
The kitchen was in its usual chaos: a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink (Andrey “forgot” he was supposed to wash them yesterday), crumbs on the table, and an empty medicine box. Tatyana slid a chair out and sank onto it.
“Take a seat,” she motioned to the others. “Make yourselves at home.”
The guests sat down awkwardly. Irina, making a show of it, brushed invisible lint off the chair before placing her coat down.
“So, what’s for dinner?” Andrey chimed in, opening the fridge. “Ah, there’s some sausage, cheese. I’ll slice it now. Tanya, where’s the clean knife?”
“In the sink,” Tatyana answered indifferently. “Wash it.”
Andrey froze. He wasn’t used to washing dishes in front of guests—it just wasn’t “manly” enough for him. Shooting his wife an angry glare, he saw that Tatyana was staring right past him at a spot on the wall.
“Uh, okay then,” he said, grabbing the knife and rinsing it under the tap (without a sponge), then started hacking at the sausage directly on a plate since he couldn’t find the cutting board.
“How about tea?” Sergey asked, drumming his fingers on the table.
“The kettle’s on the stove,” Tatyana replied. “Matches are in the drawer. There’s no water in the filter, you’ll need to use the tap.”
An awkward silence hung over the kitchen. Andrey bustled around, dropping pieces of cheese on the floor, swearing, searching for cups. Tatyana sat motionless, hands folded in her lap. She was hot, then cold, then hot again.
“Tatyana, do you have any napkins?” Irina asked, eyeing the greasy stains on the table with revulsion.
“Yes,” Tatyana nodded. “In the cupboard, top shelf. If you can reach them—they’re yours. I can’t get up, I’m too dizzy.”
Irina pressed her lips together and looked at her husband. Sergey cleared his throat.
“Andrey, maybe we should just go? She’s clearly unwell. Let’s hit a pizza place instead.”
“Just sit down!” Andrey exploded. “I’ll handle everything! Tanya’s just being difficult, showing off her mood. Get up and set the table like normal! It’s embarrassing in front of people!”
Tatyana slowly lifted her head. Her eyes, usually soft and kind, were now dark and dangerous.
“Embarrassing?” she repeated, quietly but with such force that Andrey fell silent. “You’re embarrassed your wife is a living person, not a robot vacuum with a multicooker function? Embarrassed that I can’t dance attendance on your friends when I have a temperature of nearly 40? But bringing people into a house with a sick person—doesn’t that embarrass you? Risking your friends getting sick—no shame there?”
She started coughing—a deep, barking fit—without covering her mouth, straight at the table where the sausage was. Irina recoiled in horror, shielding herself with her purse.
“It’s a virus,” Tatyana said, catching her breath. “Highly contagious. The doctor said it spreads instantly through the air. Two-hour incubation. So you’re probably already exposed.”
Sergey’s face went ashen. He was petrified of getting sick.
“Why didn’t you say so before?!” he roared, jumping to his feet. “I’ve got a business meeting tomorrow! I can’t afford to get sick!”
*continued in the first comment
“Please don’t be mad, but we’re already in the elevator,” her husband’s cheerful voice boomed through the phone, shocking Tatyana like a bolt from the blue. “Sergey and his wife are just passing through the city, I ran into them by chance—I couldn’t NOT invite our old friends! We’ll be there in a minute. Can you put the kettle on?”
Tatyana stared at her phone’s darkened screen as if it had suddenly turned into a venomous snake. Her mind buzzed like a transformer station, her throat scratched as if she’d swallowed a handful of broken glass, and the lonely thermometer on her nightstand had given her the dreadful news—38.9 degrees—just ten minutes ago.
She lay buried under two blankets, shivering uncontrollably, her hair hopelessly tangled after three days without shampoo. The room reeked of medicine, Star Balm and lemon peels—the only thing she could sniff without getting nauseous.
“Guests…” she whispered through dry lips. “Okay, just a moment.”
Her first instinct, of course, was to jump up. Years of being the ‘perfect hostess’ kicked in. She needed to quickly pick up the tissues scattered on the couch, air out the stuffy ‘sickroom’, add mascara to hide the blue circles under her eyes, and find anything in the freezer that could pass as a snack.
Tatyana tried to sit up, but the room spun, the floor slipped away, and a lump rose in her throat. She collapsed back onto the pillow, breathing heavily. She didn’t even have the strength to reach the bathroom, let alone set the table.
The doorbell chimed in the hallway—persistent, demanding. Moments later, she heard the door unlock—Andrey had his own keys.
My husband brought guests over while I was sick, and I had to give them a truly ‘unforgettable’ welcome.
“Come on in, don’t be shy!” her husband called out in a voice that was unnaturally loud and cheerful—the one he used when he wanted to impress. “There’s plenty for everyone! Tanya will take care of us, she always has something delicious up her sleeve.”
Tatyana closed her eyes. Hot, heavy anger began to well up inside her, pushing aside the chills. He knew. Andrey knew perfectly well she’d been sick for three days. That very morning, he’d brought her tea with raspberries, clucking sympathetically at her thermometer. And now he’d brought home guests. Because he couldn’t say no to his friend. Because playing the perfect host was more important to him than his wife’s health.
“Tanya! Where are you? Come greet our guests!” Andrey shouted from the hallway.
In that moment, something inside Tatyana snapped. Or maybe, finally fell into place. All these years she’d tried to be perfect. Convenient. Always smiling, always setting the table, even if she got home later than him, even when she was exhausted, even with a pounding headache. “You’re a woman, you’re the keeper of the home,” her mother-in-law used to say. And Tatyana always kept the home. She endured.
But today, her patience finally ran out.
She slowly pulled back the blanket. She was wearing her old, faded pajamas covered in ridiculous teddy bears—the ones she only put on when she was sick because they were soft and warm. Mismatched wool socks clung to her feet (the other matching sock had disappeared somewhere). She didn’t bother to fix her hair or wipe the sweat from her forehead.
“Keeper of the hearth, huh…” she rasped, shuffling her feet as she headed for the bedroom door.
The hallway was buzzing with activity. Sergey, a large man with a red face, was tugging off his boots while leaning on the wall. His wife, a tall woman with a haughty expression and perfect hair, glanced distastefully at the coat rack, searching for a spot for her expensive coat.
“And here comes the hostess!” Andrey turned around, but the smile vanished from his face like a mask dropping away.
Tatyana stood in the bedroom doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame to keep from falling. She looked, to put it mildly, frightening. Her face was pale with a feverish flush, her eyes inflamed, hair messy, and there she was in that ridiculous pajama set.
“Oh…” Sergey’s wife gasped, instinctively taking a step back and clutching her purse.
“Hi,” Tatyana’s voice sounded like scraping metal. “I wasn’t expecting you. Andrey said you’d just be passing through. Well, come in since you’re here. Just so you know, we’re under quarantine.”
“Tanya, why are you dressed like that?” Andrey tried to smooth things over, letting out a nervous chuckle. “They’ll think we don’t respect them. Go change, wash up or something.”
“Why?” Tatyana blinked slowly, staring at her husband. “I’m sick, Andrey. I’ve got a fever of thirty-nine. You said you’d bring friends over, so I figured friends would understand. Right?”
She turned her heavy gaze toward the guests. Sergey froze, one shoe still in his hand. His wife—her name was probably Irina—wrinkled her nose.
“Andryukha, you didn’t say your wife was at death’s door,” Sergey rumbled. “We’d have gone to a café instead.”
“Oh, she’s not dying!” Andrey waved his hand, getting angry and turning red. “It’s just a cold. She always exaggerates. Tanya, enough with the theatrics. People just drove in, they’re hungry. Make something for the table. We had dumplings in the freezer, boil them. And get out the pickles.”
Tatyana felt the room begin to spin again. Strangely, this time she even welcomed it. Without a word, she turned and trudged to the kitchen. The guests and her husband exchanged glances and followed her.
The kitchen was a hive of mess: a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink (Andrey had promised to wash them yesterday, but ‘forgot’), crumbs on the table, an empty medicine box. Tatyana pulled out a chair and sat down heavily.
“Have a seat,” she gestured toward the other chairs. “Make yourselves at home.”
The guests sat down uncertainly. Irina, making a show, brushed an invisible speck off her chair before setting her coat on it.
“So, what should we eat?” Andrey asked cheerfully as he opened the fridge. “Ah, there’s some sausage, cheese. I’ll slice them up. Tanya, where’s the clean knife?”
“In the sink,” Tatyana replied indifferently. “Wash it.”
Andrey froze. He wasn’t used to washing dishes in front of guests. In his view, that was ‘unmanly.’ He shot an angry glance at his wife, but Tatyana stared right through him, fixated on a spot on the wall.
“Ahem, fine then,” he muttered, took a knife, rinsed it quickly under the tap (not even bothering with a sponge), and started slicing sausage directly onto a plate, since he couldn’t find the cutting board.
“How about some tea?” Sergey asked, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Kettle’s on the stove,” said Tatyana. “Matches are in the drawer. There’s no water in the filter, you’ll need to fill it from the tap.”
A heavy silence settled in the kitchen. Andrey bustled around, dropping pieces of cheese on the floor, cursing, and searching for cups. Tatyana sat motionless, her hands folded on her lap. First she felt hot, then cold, then hot again.
“Tanechka, do you perhaps have any napkins?” Irina asked with a grimace, eyeing the greasy stains on the countertop.
“Yes,” Tatyana nodded. “In the cupboard, top shelf. If you can reach them, you can have them. I can’t get up, I’m feeling faint.”
Irina pursed her lips and looked at her husband. Sergey coughed awkwardly.
“Andrey, maybe we really shouldn’t stay? You see she’s sick. Let’s just go to a pizzeria instead.”
“Oh, just stay!” Andrey exploded. “Everything will be ready soon! Tanya’s just being dramatic. She’s trying to show some attitude. Get up and set the table properly! You’re embarrassing me in front of our guests!”
Tatyana slowly raised her head. In her eyes, usually kind and gentle, something dark and dangerous flickered.
“Embarrassing?” she repeated quietly, but in a way that silenced Andrey instantly. “You’re embarrassed that your wife is a living person and not a robot vacuum with a slow-cooker function? Embarrassed that I can’t jump around for your friends when I’ve got a 104-degree fever? But you’re not embarrassed to bring guests into a home where someone is sick? Not ashamed to put them at risk of getting infected?”
She started coughing. Deep, barking, without covering her mouth, straight toward the table where the sliced sausage lay. Irina recoiled in horror, clutching her purse like a shield.
“It’s a virus,” Tatyana continued after catching her breath. “Highly contagious. The doctor said it’s airborne—you catch it instantly. Incubation period’s about two hours. So, folks, you’re basically already exposed.”
Sergey’s face turned gray. He had a panic-level fear of getting sick.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?!” he bellowed, leaping from his chair. “I’ve got meetings tomorrow! I can’t afford to be sick!”
“I told Andrey,” Tatyana replied calmly. “This morning. And in the afternoon. And when he called from the elevator. But Andrey said you’d ‘understand everything.'”
Everyone turned to look at Andrey. He stood there holding a piece of cheese, red as a beet.
“She’s lying! It’s just a regular cold!” he tried to defend himself, but it sounded pathetic.
“A regular cold with a 102-degree fever?” Irina retorted sharply, standing up. “Thanks for the hospitality, Andrey. This has been… quite the evening. Sergey, let’s get out of here. Fast. We need to swing by the pharmacy and pick up antivirals.”
“Wait, just stay! At least have some tea!” Andrey dashed to the door, trying to stop them.
“Tea? Are you out of your mind?” Sergey barked, pulling on his shoes. “Your wife is spreading germs everywhere and you’re thinking about tea! You could’ve just invited us to a restaurant, cheapskate!”
The door slammed shut. Silence filled the apartment, broken only by the humming fridge and Andrey’s heavy breathing. He stood in the hallway for a minute, then walked back to the kitchen.
Tatiana was still sitting at the table. Suddenly, she felt unbelievably light. Her head still hurt, but the weight on her heart was gone.
“Well, are you happy now?” Andrey hissed, tossing a knife into the sink. “You’ve embarrassed me in front of my friends. They won’t talk to me anymore. Irka will tell everyone we live in a pigsty, and you’re the town lunatic in a filthy pajama.”
“Let them talk,” Tatiana shrugged. “At least they’ll stay healthy. And about the pigsty… You know, Andrey, you live here too. You’ve got hands. You could have washed the dishes while I was sick in bed for three days. Or did you think the place cleans itself?”
“I work! I earn the money!” he started his usual tune.
“I work too,” Tatiana cut him off. “And I earn money. But somehow the second shift at the stove and with the cleaning rags is always on me. And when I collapse, you can’t even wash your own cup. Instead of letting me rest, you drag guests over to boost your ego. ‘Look at my wife, see how well she serves!’”
“Don’t twist my words!”
“I’m not twisting anything. I’m finally seeing things clearly. You know what I’m going to do now?”
“What? Demand a divorce?” he smirked.
“No. I’m going to the bedroom, getting in bed, and staying sick. You’ll clear the table, wash the dishes, air out the apartment, and make me chicken broth. Real broth, not from a bouillon cube.”
“And why should I?” Andrey’s eyes widened.
“Because if you don’t, next time you invite people over, I won’t come out in pajamas. I’ll come out naked and sing folk songs. Trust me, I will. I’ve got nothing to lose—thanks to Ira, I already have the reputation of being crazy.”
She stood up, leaning on the table, and looked him straight in the eyes. There was so much calm, cold determination in her gaze that Andrey involuntarily stepped back. He suddenly realized he was seeing a stranger. Not the easygoing Tanya who always smoothed things over, but someone strong, exhausted, and very angry.
“Broth?” he repeated, bewildered.
“Broth. The chicken’s in the freezer. And don’t forget to throw in a whole onion.”
Tatiana turned and walked to the bedroom with the dignity of a queen, even in her mismatched socks. She got into bed, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding, but she felt no fear.
Half an hour later, the sound of clattering dishes came from the kitchen. Then water was running. Andrey was washing the plates loudly, making sure everyone could hear how displeased he was—but he was washing them. Then the fridge door slammed. Soon, the smell of boiling chicken spread through the apartment.
Tatiana smiled faintly and drifted off to sleep—the first peaceful sleep in three days.
In the morning, she woke up to someone checking her forehead. Andrey was sitting at the edge of the bed with a bowl of steaming broth on a tray. He looked guilty and a little rumpled.
“Looks like your fever’s gone down,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “Here, eat something. And, well… I tidied up the kitchen. Wiped the floors in the hallway, too.”
Tatyana sat up with the help of her pillows.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the plate.
“Sergey called,” Andrey added after a pause. “He apologized. Said it was stupid of them to barge in on someone who was sick. Irka too… she sends her greetings. Told you to get better soon.”
“Really?” Tatyana was surprised. She had expected them to be angry with her.
“Yeah. He said… said I was an idiot for not taking care of my wife. That any decent husband would’ve turned the guests away instead of making his sick wife host them. He really gave me a piece of his mind.”
Andrey sighed and rubbed his neck.
“I’m sorry, Tanya. Honestly, I just… didn’t think. I’m so used to you handling everything. I figured you’d get up, smile through it, and it would be fine. Selfish of me.”
Tatyana looked at her husband and could see he was truly ashamed. The lesson from the ‘unforgettable reception’ was good for more than just the guests—it helped him too. Sometimes, to be heard, you need to stop whispering and start speaking loudly. Or just walk out in your pajamas and cough on the sausage.
“Alright, I forgive you,” she said, tasting the broth. It was a little under-salted, but it was the best broth she’d ever had. “But next weekend, no guests. I plan to soak in a bubble bath and read a book. You’ll be the one vacuuming.”
“Deal,” Andrey gave a weak smile. “Eat up. Before it gets cold.”
Life was slowly returning to normal. But something had subtly changed. Andrey started asking more often: “Are you tired?” “Do you need help?” Tatyana stopped being the perfect hostess. She became simply a woman who respects herself and her health. And surprisingly, the home only became cozier. Guests now came only after calling ahead and confirming. And when Tatyana said “no,” it meant “no,” not “try to convince me.”
Because trying to please everyone else is the surest way to become uncomfortable for yourself. And Tatyana wasn’t going to let that happen anymore.