My Best Friend Asked to Stay for a Few Nights – and Ended Up Trying to Run My Home – Why are your towels so rough? Honestly, they’re like sandpaper, not proper soft terry at all. I nearly scraped my skin off drying after my shower yesterday! Lena, you’re a woman, can’t you buy a decent fabric conditioner? Or are you cutting corners on comfort? Olga froze mid-sip, staring at her old friend Larissa, who lounged at the kitchen table in a silk dressing gown – Olga’s own special-occasion robe, no less. Larissa slathered butter on toast, casting a critical eye around the kitchen like a health inspector on a bad day. – Larissa, they’re new towels, – Olga replied, keeping her irritation out of her voice. – Bamboo fibre is supposed to be a bit firm. And I use hypoallergenic conditioner, unscented. – That’s just it! – Larissa jabbed a purple-ringed finger in the air. – Unscented means soulless. A home should smell fresh, like lavender and wild meadows! Yours is all… I don’t know, sterile. Dull, Lena, you lead such a boring life. No imagination. Olga turned silently to the porridge simmering for her husband. Viktor was still asleep but due up for work soon – his patience had worn thin, and she prayed for a drama-free morning. Larissa had appeared on their doorstep three nights ago. Panicked phone call, voice choked: “Lenochka, help! Upstairs neighbours flooded my flat, absolute disaster, can’t live there – mould, damp! Let me crash for a few days, I’ll be out as soon as the builders dry it out, I beg you!” Of course Olga, ever the kind soul, agreed. How could she refuse a childhood friend, even one she’d barely seen in years? “A few days” dragged into a fourth, and Larissa showed no signs of packing, but she’d certainly started making herself at home. – About the porridge, – she wrinkled her nose at the saucepan – Are you really making that glue again? Viktor needs protein! A man should eat eggs, meat, not… mush. You’ll drive him to an ulcer or worse. – Larissa, Viktor loves porridge. He’s got gastritis, the doctor ordered a special diet, – Olga dished up the oats, gripping the ladle tight. – Doctors know nothing, they’re in bed with Big Pharma! – Larissa declared, crunching her toast so loudly the sound seemed to echo through the flat. – I follow a top nutritionist who says all illness comes from carbs. Fine, don’t listen – but I would worry about why your man looks so pale. Viktor appeared: not so much pale as sleep-deprived and grim. He mumbled “good morning”, reached for his usual mug – a huge, navy blue “World’s Best Fisherman.” It wasn’t on the table. – Where’s my mug? – he asked, scanning the scene. – Oh, Viktor, morning! – Larissa chirped. – I put it away. So gloomy, ruins the energy. Look, I found you a lovely floral one! From your cabinet set, just gathering dust. Things should be used, not just sit as dead weight! In front of Viktor stood a dainty china cup with pink peonies, holding maybe 150ml tops. Viktor looked from the cup to Olga, eyes pleading: “Why?” – Larissa, – he said quietly, – that’s my great-grandmother’s china. We don’t touch it. My mug’s special – it holds half a litre of tea. Can you please give it back? – Such boring traditionalists! – Larissa threw up her hands. – Dull, closed-minded people! I was going for style. Your mug, by the way, had a crack – I threw it out. A ringing silence. Olga’s spine went cold. That mug had been a gift from Viktor’s late father. The crack was tiny, but Viktor treasured it. – You… what? – he said, voice flat. – Threw it out, – Larissa repeated, oblivious to the tension. – Broken cups bring poverty and bad luck. You should thank me for caring about your karma. Viktor slowly stood, walked to the bin, and started rooting through rubbish. Olga froze. After a minute, he pulled out his mug, a bit smeared with coffee grounds, rinsed it, and filled it at the kettle, ignoring the boiling water. – If you touch my things again, – he said, meeting Larissa’s eyes, – your karma really will nose-dive. – Rude! – Larissa burst out as Viktor left, breakfast in hand. – Lena, you see? That’s abusive behaviour! Controlling, aggressive! How do you put up with him? You need therapy – boundaries! Olga sipped her cold coffee. She didn’t want therapy; she wanted to drag Larissa out with her cosmetics and “right” books. But her damned polite upbringing held her back. – Larissa, when’s your place going to be sorted? You said a couple days. It’s been four. – Oh, it’s complicated, – Larissa waved it off, shifting instantly from accusatory to plaintive. – They need to open the floor up. Might be another week. But we’re besties! I’m helping, making the place nicer. I’ll cook dinner tonight, can’t watch you choke on frozen food. Olga left for work with a heavy heart. All day at the office, she daydreamed of Larissa reorganizing her flat and felt sick. That evening, Olga bumped into neighbour Mrs Evans on her way in. Usually friendly, today she pursed her lips. – I know guests mean fun, love, – she said – But why full-blast music at 2 p.m.? My blood pressure was up and your flat shook with “It’s Raining Men”! – Sorry, Mrs Evans, – Olga blushed. – Friend… I’ll speak to her. Won’t happen again. Climbing the stairs, Olga rehearsed her speech. Firm, unyielding. She’d tell Larissa hotels were a brilliant invention and she’d happily pay for one, if it meant regaining her peace. But when she opened the door, all words vanished. The hall rug was gone, replaced by a scratchy straw mat. Viktor’s and Olga’s shoes, always neatly shelved, were now heaped in a corner, shelf filled by Larissa’s, arranged in rainbow order. – Larissa! – Olga called. – In the kitchen! – came the reply. – Ready to taste! Olga gaped: her favourite linen curtains had vanished. The window stood bare. Flowerpots from the windowsill – violets, geranium, kalanchoe – were clustered in the centre of the table, crowding the plates. – Where are the curtains? – was all she managed. – In the wash! – Larissa chirped. – Dreadful dusty things! Stuck them in the machine on 90 degrees to kill “mites”. Olga’s knees felt weak. Linen curtains, on a boil wash. – Larissa… linen shrinks. You only wash it at thirty… – Don’t fuss! – Larissa waved her away. – Quality doesn’t shrink. If it does, it was tat anyway. I already found some online – so bright, geometric, bang on trend! Sit, I made “Tibetan cleansing soup”. Great for chakras and digestion. Olga eyed the murky-green concoction, which smelled strongly of boiled cabbage and odd spices. – I don’t want soup. – Olga steadied herself – I want to know why you move my things without asking. Flowers need sunlight, they’ll die on the table! – They have enough light! But the kitchen’s energy was blocked, – Larissa explained like a guru to a simple child. – Corners should be free. I put the flowers there to open the wealth zone. You’ll thank me when Viktor gets his bonus. Speaking of Viktor – I popped into your bedroom… – You went into our bedroom?! – Olga’s rage welled up. – Of course. Door was open. Air was stuffy, so I aired it and moved the bed. Bad luck to sleep with feet to the door. I spun it east – nearly broke my back, heavy thing! Olga imagined Larissa, grunting, shoving their double bed, scratching the parquet. Touching sheets, pillows… This was more than boundary-crossing: it was invasion. – Larissa, sit down. – What? You’re tense. Want some valerian? Found some in your medicine cupboard; expiry’s next month though, so I poured it away. You can get fresh tomorrow. Olga clenched her fists. “Poured away. Threw out. Moved.” – Listen carefully. Go gather all your belongings now. Everything. Tubes, bottles, underwear drying on the radiator. Then pack your suitcase. Larissa froze, ladle in hand. The smile slipped. – You’re kicking me out? At night? Over curtains and a bed? Are you mad? I just wanted to help! Your flat’s a bog, stuck in old ways; I was bringing it to life! – You didn’t bring life, you suffocated us, – Olga retorted. – It’s my home. My bog. I like it just as it is. I didn’t ask for a renovation, a feng shui facelift, or marriage advice. You were meant to wait out your repairs, not turn my life into a home-makeover show. – But I can’t live there! – Larissa wailed. – It’s damp! I’ll fall ill! You want me to die? – I want peace. Hotels exist. Hostels. Other friends. But you’re leaving here tonight. Just then, the door slammed – Viktor returned. He surveyed the flower table, bare window, strange soup, and saw Olga’s trembling hands. – What’s going on? What’s that smell? Why is our bed sideways? I nearly broke my leg changing! – Victor, help! – Larissa rushed to him. – I tried to do good, and she’s throwing me out! Is that how friends act? We’ve known each other since nursery! Viktor looked her up and down, then at Olga. Saw her shaking. – Larissa, – he said calmly – You have twenty minutes. Not gone by then, I’ll pack your stuff myself. And I won’t be gentle – it’s going out the window. We’re on the eighth floor. – You… You’re savages! – Larissa spluttered. – Philistines! Obsessed with your junk! I’ll never set foot here again! I’ll tell everyone what you’re really like! – Nineteen minutes, – Viktor checked his watch. Larissa stomped off, wailing, slamming cupboard doors as she packed. Olga sank onto a chair. – Sorry, Viktor, – she whispered – Didn’t mean for this. Viktor hugged her tight, kissed her hair. – Not your fault. Some people are like mould: don’t clear them quick, they take over. Sad about the curtains? – Sad, – Olga sobbed – I’d searched half a year for them. Bet she scratched the floor, too. – We’ll sand the parquet, buy new curtains – main thing, we survived “Tibetan soup.” Just look at the colour! Fifteen minutes later, Larissa flounced out with her suitcase, lips pursed, nose high. – I’m leaving, – she announced. – But know this: you’ve lost the only person who cared. Enjoy your filth and toxic vibes. Goodbye. She thundered out; Olga locked the door behind her and leaned her head against it, laughing – that nervous, hysteria-tinged laugh of relief. Viktor appeared, bin bag in hand. – I dumped the soup, – he said. – Even the toilet was shocked, but coped. Shall we put the bed back? – Yes, – Olga nodded, wiping her tears. – And the flowers. And the rug. They spent all evening restoring their flat. The bed had left deep scars in the floor, but once reset, it covered them up. The curtains Olga fished from the wash were pitiful rags – Larissa really had boiled them. – Oh well, – said Olga, tossing the ruined linen – At least it’s brighter now. As they finally sat down to dinner – plain pasta with cheese, no “chakra-cleansing” in sight – Olga’s phone pinged. A photo from Larissa at a café: coffee and cake. Caption: “Free from toxic people! Wishing everyone light and love!” Olga blocked her number in silence. – You know, – Viktor mused, twirling his fork – She was actually right about one thing. – What? – Olga tensed. – We really do need to change our locks. Who knows if she made a spare while “balancing our energy”? Next day, they called a locksmith. Only then could Olga finally breathe again. Their flat once more smelled like home, not wild perfumes nor mad schemes. After a month, Olga heard from friends that Larissa now lived at a distant cousin’s place in the countryside – rumour had it she’d already dug up the whole vegetable patch for “proper” tomatoes, and the cousin was desperate to ship her off to a spa somewhere far, far away. Olga smiled; lesson learned. Help people – but only let them into your castle when you know they won’t start rebuilding the walls. She even bought new curtains. Bright, geometric. Strangely, Larissa had a point – they really did freshen the place up. Not that Olga was about to admit it. How do you deal with overbearing visitors who try to take over your home? Share your stories in the comments, hit like, and subscribe – we’ve got plenty more real-life discussions ahead!