Burnt food, sour dishwater, that thick, stale air that only forms when too many people live crammed together in too small a space, without order or care.

The apartment door was slightly open.

Inside, there was chaos.

Dried food scraps were stuck to the kitchen counter. The sink was piled with several days’ worth of dirty dishes. The refrigerator stood wide open—almost empty: half a lemon, a wilted head of lettuce, a tub of margarine. The trash bin was overflowing.

In the living room, Aunt Irene sat on the couch with her arms crossed.

— Finally, she said coldly. I hope you’re going to cook something proper now, because this was unbearable.

I stayed where I was, coat still on. I didn’t even take it off.

— Where’s Gábor? I asked quietly.

— In the bedroom. He has a headache. This whole week has been very hard on him, my mother-in-law replied, as if defending him.

I went into the bedroom. Gábor was sitting on the bed, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes. When he saw me, he stood up at once.

— Éva… it was hell.

— Tell me, I said calmly.

— I didn’t know what to cook. Everyone wanted something different. The kids screamed, my mother complained nonstop, Zsuzsa got offended because I didn’t order pizza every night. And the money… the account is almost empty.

I let out a bitter laugh.

— Almost empty? Do you know how much I spent in one month? Do you know when I last got to be just a person instead of a free servant?

He didn’t answer.

I returned to the living room. All eyes were on me.

— We’re going to sit down and talk, I said firmly. It wasn’t a question.

Silence fell.

— In one month, I spent over eighty thousand forints feeding all of you, I continued. I didn’t ask for thanks. But this ends now.

— That tone is unacceptable! my mother-in-law snapped.

— It’s the tone of reality, I replied. Starting tomorrow, everyone contributes—food, utilities, everything. If you don’t want to, you can go home.

— This is outrageous! We’re guests! Aunt Irene protested.

— No. You’re roommates who don’t pay.

Zsuzsa jumped to her feet.

— Gábor! Are you really letting her say this?

Gábor looked at me. Not at his mother. At me.

— She’s right, he said quietly. I tried living the way she does for one week. I couldn’t handle it.

A heavy silence filled the room.

The next morning, suitcases snapped shut. No hugs. No tears. Just offended looks and hurried movements.

When the door closed behind them, I sat down on a chair in the middle of the kitchen. Gábor sat beside me.

— I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t see how much they were using you. How much I was using you too.

— You saw it, I answered calmly. It was just easier to do nothing.

He didn’t argue.

That evening, I didn’t cook. We ordered food. We ate together in silence. It wasn’t perfect. But for the first time, it was honest.

And that was the moment I decided: I will never again pay for other people’s comfort with my silence.