**Diary Entry**
*Monday, 8th October*
“Have you lost your mind?” he hissed, stepping closer, invading my personal space. “Why didnt you let my sister in?”
Oliver didnt just walk into the flathe stormed in, bringing with him a gust of cold autumn air from the hallway and the sharp scent of his irritation.
The key turned violently in the lock, the door slammed against the wall, and he froze on the threshold, still wearing his rain-drenched jacket. His face, usually good-natured and a bit lazy, was twisted with anger he didnt bother hiding.
In the kitchen, on the small sofa by the window, sat Marina. She was reading.
The lamplight fell softly on her hair and the thick hardback in her hands. She didnt flinch at the noise, didnt look up. Only her finger, tracing the line of text, stilled.
She waited until he repeated his question, louder this time, edged with barely restrained fury.
“Marina, Im talking to you! Sophie rang me, nearly in tears. She and her husband made a special trip here during their lunch breakhungryand you didnt even open the door! What was I supposed to say? That my wife decided to be difficult?”
Only then did Marina look up, slowly, as if reluctant. She didnt close the bookjust slid a thin bookmark between the pages and set it beside her.
Her gaze was clear, cold, like winter sky. No fear, no guilt, no regret. Just a quiet, bone-deep exhaustion.
“I heard the bell,” she said evenly. “And I saw through the peephole who it was. Thats why I didnt answer.”
Oliver hadnt expected that. Hed braced for excuses, claims of a headache, or that she simply hadnt heard. Her directness threw him. He stepped forward, muddy footprints staining the clean floor.
“So you did it on purpose?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You saw it was my sister and deliberately left her standing outside? Whats this about, Marina? Theyre used to having lunch here!”
The last words carried the weight of an unbreakable law. Tradition carved in stone.
*Used to.* The phrase hung in the air, thick with his righteous anger and her silent refusal.
For him, it was normalhis sister and her husband, working nearby, dropping in for lunch every day. Convenient, economical, and, in his mind, perfectly reasonable. Hed never questioned where the food came from, who cooked it, who cleaned up after. It simply existed, like the sun rising.
Marina stood without a word. She was shorter than Oliver, slimmer, but in that moment, she seemed to fill the entire kitchen.
She walked to the counter, resting her hands on the cool edge. “Used to?” she repeated softly, but the words struck like a whip.
Her head tilted slightly, studying him as if he were a strange object. “Time to break the habit.”
Oliver froze. His mind refused to process it. This was rebelliona direct violation of the unspoken contract he believed held their marriage together.
The initial angersparked by his sisters complaintshifted into something deeper, more personal. A violation of his rules, his territory.
“Have you lost your mind?” he hissed, stepping forward again. “Who do you think you are, deciding who comes into *my* home? Shes my sister! My own blood! Theyre not here for youtheyre here for me! And as my wife, you should be hospitable. Its your *duty*!”
His voice boomed, filling the kitchen with outrage. Every word was an accusation, not a question. He painted a world with clear roleshim as the provider, her as the homemaker, ensuring comfort and hot meals for him and his family.
Now that world was cracking.
“Youve become greedy, Marina! A selfish, petty woman! You begrudge my own family a plate of soup? Do you realise how this looks? Theyll laugh at me! Say Im henpecked, that my wife dictates who I can see!”
Marina listened without reaction. She didnt look away, didnt interrupt. When he finally stopped, breathless, she didnt engage. Instead, she walked past him, opened a drawer, and pulled out a cheap calculatorthe one she used for household bills. Then she grabbed a notepad and pen.
Oliver stared, baffled. Hed expected tears, shouting, argumentsanything but this cold, methodical efficiency.
She sat at the table, turned on the calculator. The clicks echoed sharply in the silence.
“Lets do the maths,” she said, her voice as flat as a newsreaders. “Starting with groceries.”
“Meat, vegetables, bread, butter. Feeding four adults costs, on average” Her fingers flew over the buttons. “About twenty pounds a day. Just lunch. Multiply by twenty working daysthats four hundred. And thats just food, from our shared budget.”
Oliver watched, an uneasy chill creeping up his spine.
“Now, my time.” She kept writing. “Shopping, cooking, serving, cleaningtwo hours a day. A cleaner and a cook would charge, say, fifteen an hour. Thats sixty a day. Another four hundred a month.”
She circled the totaleight hundred poundsthen turned the notepad toward him.
“Thats the cost of your sisters *habit*. Since there are two of them, split itfour hundred per person. But since they dont come daily, well charge per visit.” She wrote at the top: *Menu Prices*.
“From now on, lunch or dinner for your relatives is fifty pounds. Per person. Per meal. Tell them. Payment upfront, by card.”
She set down the pen.
“Oh, and Ill bill you for tonights dinner too. If this is a restaurant for your family, everyone pays. Or they can eat elsewhere.”
She tore out the page, laid it before him. He stared at the neat numbers, the absurdity of it, and knew she wasnt joking.
This was a wall. Built of facts and figures, against which his comfortable world had just shattered.
His free canteen for family was closed. Permanently.
Oliver crumpled the page in his fist, said nothing, and walked out. When he returned, phone in hand, he spoke loudly, making sure Marina heard.
“Sophie? You wont believe what shes No, shes home! Shes just Shes lost it. She gave me a *bill*! For your lunches!”
He listened, nodding at nothing. “Yes, yes, fifty per person. Says were running a restaurant now. I dont know whats got into her, I swear!”
He didnt repeat her arguments about costs or time. Instead, he painted her as suddenly, inexplicably greedy. Easier that way. Easier than admitting hed let his wife be treated like staff for years.
The next day, at noon sharp, the doorbell rangnot a polite tap, but a long, demanding press. Marina, dusting the living room, set down the cloth and answered.
Sophie stood there, righteous fury in her eyes. Beside her, her husband, Marka broad man with a perpetual scowl. Sophie didnt greet her.
“Im here to see my brother!” she snapped, trying to push past.
Marina didnt move, just rested a hand on the doorframe, blocking her. “Hes busy.”
“Were not here to disturb him! Were here for lunch! Or have you forgotten people have lunch breaks? Move!”
Another shove, met with steel.
Oliver appeared then, flustered. “Sophie, MarkMarina, come on, let them in. Well talk”
“Nothing to discuss,” Marina cut in, eyes still on Sophie. “We settled this yesterday.”
“*Settled*?” Sophies voice rose. “You call handing us a *bill* settled? Have you no shame? Were *family*!”
Marina didnt blink. “Family? The kind that comes to *my* house like a canteen for two years, never even bringing biscuits for tea? The kind who think I exist to serve them, spending my time and money?”
She let the words sink in. Oliver tensed, but Sophie barrelled on.
“How *dare* you! Were here for my brother, not you! Its his home too!”
That broke the dam. Marina turned to Oliver, voice low but razor-sharp.
“Its *my* home, not your sisters personal diner. If they want meals here daily, theyll pay restaurant pricesbecause Im not hired help.”
Silence. Even Sophie faltered.
“Want lunch?” Marinas gaze flicked between them. “Fine. A hundred pounds. Now. Cash or transfer. Once I have it, Ill put a pan on.”
Humiliation, pure and simple. Sophie looked to Mark, to Oliverbut he just stood there, helpless.
