“I’m sorry, did you just drag a filthy plastic suitcase wheel across my beige wallpaper for what exactly?” “To add a little avant-garde to the decor?” Dasha stood in the hallway with her arms folded, watching the invasion of her three-bedroom condo with the calm focus of a woman studying a problem she already intended to solve.
The invasion smelled like cheap perfume, stairwell dust, and stress. Her husband, Mike, red-faced from effort and embarrassment, was trying to wedge a third oversized duffel bag through the narrow entryway. Behind him stood his mother, Eleanor, solid and immovable as a courthouse column, and beside her, leaning dramatically against the doorframe with the back of one manicured hand pressed to her forehead, was Mike’s thirty-two-year-old sister, Susan.
“Dasha, have a little decency,” Mike hissed, shooting a guilty glance at his mother. “She’s been through something awful. She needs peace.” “It’s only for a week.”
“A week?” Dasha lifted an eyebrow, taking in the sheer volume of luggage. “Judging by the amount of stuff, Susan looks ready to ride out a recession in here. And why am I finding out about these houseguests when they’re already ringing the bell on a Friday night?” Eleanor edged past her son and stepped onto the rug, immediately leaving a wet muddy print from the slush outside.
“Dasha,” Eleanor said, her voice tight with righteous indignation, “how can you be so cold?” “The doctors gave Susan a final diagnosis. She can’t have children.”
“She’s under terrible stress, and she just broke up with that no-good man who never appreciated her sensitive nature.” “She needs a change of scenery, and where better to recover than with family?”
