Marina heard the doorbell just as she was putting little Alyosha down for his afternoon nap. He was only just drifting off—his eyelids growing heavy, his plump fingers loosening against her chest. The bell rang again—insistent, demanding. Marina carefully laid her son in the crib and went to answer, smoothing her light hair as she walked. She’d dyed it blonde a month earlier—she’d wanted a change after winter’s dull gray.
Valentina Petrovna stood on the doorstep with two enormous bags.
“Hello, Marinochka,” her mother-in-law said, squeezing into the entryway without waiting to be invited. “I’m here for a week. Andryusha asked me to come—said his project is complicated. I decided you two could use some help.”
Marina blinked, confused. Andrey hadn’t mentioned inviting his mother. But it was too late to argue—Valentina Petrovna was already slipping off her shoes and heading toward the living room.
“Alyosha is sleeping—please be quiet,” Marina tried to stop her, but her mother-in-law had already halted in the middle of the room, looking around like an inspector surveying new territory.
“So you’re a blonde now,” Valentina Petrovna narrowed her eyes, examining her daughter-in-law. “Why? You suited being a brunette more. Is this some new trend?”
“I just wanted to,” Marina said, feeling a tight string pull inside her. She knew that tone well—here we go.
“Wanted to,” her mother-in-law repeated, and the judgment packed into those two words made it sound as if Marina had admitted to something shameful. “Mm-hm. And what a flashy manicure. Red. Married women usually choose something more modest.”
Marina glanced at her nails—neat red polish she’d done two days ago while her own mother watched Alyosha. Marina liked how her hands looked. Andrey had liked it too—he’d even kissed her fingers.
“Valentina Petrovna, would you like some tea?” Marina tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Later, later. Let me unpack first. You’ll make up a bed for me in the living room, yes?”
The next three days turned into a slow torture disguised as politeness. Valentina Petrovna settled into the apartment like a general on occupied ground. She woke early, cooked porridge no one ate—because Marina made breakfast her own way—rewent over already clean dishes, and commented on every move her daughter-in-law made.
“Off to the gym again?” Valentina Petrovna raised an eyebrow on the third day when Marina appeared in leggings and a sports top. “Alyosha is still tiny. Mothers with nursing babies don’t run off to fitness clubs.”
“My mom will come and sit with him,” Marina said, fastening her sneakers and trying not to meet her gaze. “I go three times a week. I need it.”
“Need it,” Valentina Petrovna snorted. “After I gave birth, I didn’t even go to the hairdresser for two years. There was no time. And you—look at you—gym, manicure, hairstyle. Who are you trying so hard for?”
Marina froze, not believing her ears.
“What exactly are you implying?”
“Oh, come on—you know,” her mother-in-law said, pouring herself tea and turning away theatrically. “Women don’t put in that kind of effort for their husbands. I’m telling you as someone with experience. When a wife starts showing herself off, there are two options: either she has a lover, or she’s looking for one.”
Heat rushed to Marina’s face. She straightened, fists clenched.
“Are you serious? You think I have a lover because I go to the gym?”
“I’m not stating facts,” Valentina Petrovna shrugged with an innocent expression. “I’m just saying how it usually goes. A decent married woman should think about her family, not herself. What did I wear at your age? Comfortable pants and warm sweaters—to walk with Andryusha, cook porridge. And you’re all tight clothes, short skirts, heels. On display.”
“That’s called taking care of yourself,” Marina said, fighting to keep her voice steady, though it trembled anyway. “I’m twenty-seven. I want to be beautiful for my husband. What’s wrong with that?”
“For your husband?” her mother-in-law gave a skeptical little hum. “Sure. Andryusha is at work from morning until night, trying to deliver his project. And you’re at the gym. Interesting. Very interesting.”
Marina turned and left the apartment, afraid she’d say something she couldn’t take back. On the stairs she leaned against the wall, trying to breathe. A lover. God. She was raising their son, getting up with him at night, breastfeeding—and still finding the strength to look good, for herself, for Andrey, for their family. And in return—suspicions and insinuations.
That evening she tried to talk to her husband.
“Andrey, your mom keeps hinting that I’m having an affair.”
“What?” He didn’t look up from his laptop; his fingers moved quickly over the keys. “Marinka, I’m sorry—my call is in an hour. Can we talk later?”
“Andrey, it matters. She says I take too much care of myself and that it’s suspicious.”
“Well, Mom’s always like that—you know,” he finally glanced at her, but his eyes were distracted, his mind still on the numbers on the screen. “Ignore it. She means well.”
“Means well?” Marina felt something cold tighten in her chest. “She’s suggesting I’m cheating, and you call that ‘meaning well’?”
“She’s not accusing you, it’s just…” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Marin, I really have a crunch right now. We deliver in three days. Let’s discuss it later, okay? Mom will leave soon.”
Later, Marina thought as she returned to the kitchen, where Valentina Petrovna was scrubbing an already clean stove. Everything was always later. Her feelings, her boundaries, her dignity—those could all wait until Andrey finished yet another project.
On the fourth day Marina came home from training drained, tired, but satisfied—she’d finally managed a full, proper stretch. The apartment greeted her with an unusual hush. Valentina Petrovna had gone shopping, as the note on the fridge announced. Andrey, as always, was in his office at the computer.
Marina headed toward the bathroom, but in the hallway she stumbled over something large. A huge black garbage bag sat right in the middle of the corridor.
She bent down, untied it—and went still.
Inside were her belongings. A pink off-the-shoulder blouse she’d bought last month. A coral dress—Andrey’s birthday gift. Three lipsticks—red, plum, berry. Eye shadow. Skinny jeans. A short skirt. High heels. Everything folded neatly, as if someone had packed it for shipment.
Marina sank slowly into a crouch, sifting through the contents. Her hands shook. This had been done methodically. Valentina Petrovna had gone through the entire closet, picked out everything she deemed “too provocative,” and set it aside to be thrown away. Like trash. As if Marina had no right to wear what she liked. As if she wasn’t the owner of her own home.
She stood up and walked to the office. Andrey sat with headphones on, discussing something with colleagues. Marina knocked on the glass door. He raised one finger—wait a minute.
She waited. Then another minute. And another.
Ten minutes later Andrey took off his headphones.
“What happened? Couldn’t this wait?”
“Your mother put my things into a garbage bag,” Marina said very softly, because she was afraid she’d scream. “My makeup, my clothes. She wants to throw them away.”
Andrey closed his eyes and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Marin… not now. Please. I can’t talk about this right now. In three minutes I’m back on a call with the client. This project is worth one and a half million. I can’t ruin a meeting because of… because of some bag.”
“Some bag?” Marina didn’t recognize her own voice. “Those are my personal things. Your mother went through my closet, rummaged through my belongings, decided she has the right to throw them out like garbage—and you’re saying ‘not now’?”
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, tired irritation creeping into his voice. “Start a fight right before a call? I’ll talk to her tonight, I promise. Just take the things out of the bag and that’s it.”
“You’ll talk,” Marina repeated. “Like you said yesterday, when she implied I was cheating?”
“She didn’t accuse you,” Andrey shook his head. “She expressed concern. That’s different.”
“To you, maybe,” Marina said, turned, and walked out.
In the living room she stopped in the center of the room and stared out the window. Down in the courtyard, young mothers pushed strollers. Life moved along as usual. And here, in this apartment, someone was systematically sorting through her private things, deciding what she could wear and what she couldn’t. And her husband considered it too insignificant to bother him.
Something inside Marina finally burned out.
She went into the room where Valentina Petrovna’s things were stored. She pulled her mother-in-law’s bag from the closet and carefully took everything out. A robe. A nightgown. Slippers. Spare shoes. Sweaters. Skirts. A toiletry pouch with creams. Everything Valentina Petrovna had brought with her.
Marina stuffed it into the same bags her mother-in-law had prepared for Marina’s things. Then she stepped onto the balcony.
They lived on the first floor. Below was only a neatly kept lawn.
She didn’t think. She simply acted, gripped by a strange calm.
One bag went over. Then the second.
They landed with soft thuds on the grass, spilling partly open—colorful sweaters, slippers, tubes of cream.
Marina stood on the balcony for a moment, looking down, then went back inside. She sat on the sofa, took her phone, and texted her mother: I’ll pick Alyosha up myself today.
That evening the front door opened with a lively slam. Valentina Petrovna’s voice rang out:
“Marinochka, I’m back! Where are you?”
Marina sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Alyosha was asleep—his day with Grandma and an evening walk had tired him out.
“Andryusha!” her mother-in-law called from the hallway. “Andrey!”
The office door opened.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Where are my things?” Valentina Petrovna’s voice jumped up into a shrill pitch. “I left them in the room, and now there’s nothing! No bag, no clothes!”
“What?” Andrey stepped into the hallway. “Marina!”
Marina finished her tea, set the cup down, and walked over. They stood by the guest-room door—Andrey looking lost, Valentina Petrovna red with outrage.
“Where are my mother’s things?” Andrey asked his wife, genuinely not understanding.
“I threw your mother’s things off the balcony,” Marina said calmly.
Silence fell. Valentina Petrovna opened her mouth, but no sound came out at first. Then—
“What did you do?! You… you threw them out?!”
“Yes,” Marina said, hands in the pockets of her robe, feeling oddly steady. “The same way you were going to throw mine out. Into a garbage bag and overboard.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Andrey grabbed his head. “Marina, what the hell?!”
“She packed my clothes into a bag,” Marina said evenly, holding his gaze. “My personal things. She went through my closet, pulled out my lipsticks, my clothes, and prepared it all to be thrown away—without my permission—in my home. I just did the same thing with her things.”
“I was trying to set you straight!” Valentina Petrovna screamed. “You’re behaving indecently! A married woman with a child shouldn’t dress like that!”
“And a married woman with a child should tolerate humiliation in her own home?” Marina’s voice rose for the first time. “She should listen to hints about infidelity? She should let someone rummage through her private belongings?”
“Marina, do you even understand what you did?” Andrey had gone pale. “Those were my mother’s personal things!”
“I understand,” she nodded. “I threw out someone else’s things without asking. Exactly what your mother was about to do with mine. Only I actually went through with it.”
“It’s not the same!” Valentina Petrovna gasped, shaking with fury. “I had good intentions! I wanted to teach you! And you… you…”
“I protected my boundaries,” Marina felt taller than her own height. “Valentina Petrovna, for a week you’ve been telling me I’m a bad mother, a bad wife—that I’m having an affair—that I dress like a slut. You went into my closet and decided you have the right to throw my things away. You don’t. This is my home, my family, my life.”
“Andrey!” the mother-in-law spun toward her son, tears streaming down her face. “Do you hear how she talks to me?! I raised you, I did it alone, and this… this…”
“Mom, calm down,” Andrey patted her shoulder awkwardly, but he looked at Marina with undisguised anger. “Marina, go downstairs right now and bring the things back.”
“No,” Marina shook her head.
“What do you mean, no?!” he stepped toward her. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I realize I defended myself,” Marina picked up her bag and phone. “I need some air. When I come back, I hope your mother won’t be here.”
“You’re throwing me out?!” Valentina Petrovna sobbed. “Out of my own son’s home?!”
“I’m asking a person to leave my home—the person who insulted me, hinted I was cheating, and tried to destroy my property,” Marina said as she put on her jacket. “Andrey, decide for yourself. But while your mother is here, Alyosha and I won’t be.”
She walked out to Valentina Petrovna’s shouting and her husband’s silence.
Outside, Marina stopped and leaned against the building wall. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from relief. She had finally said it. Finally done it. She hadn’t swallowed it. Hadn’t endured. Hadn’t postponed it for “later.”
She glanced at the lawn where her mother-in-law’s things lay scattered. A few neighborhood kids were staring at them with curiosity. Marina looked away and walked along the avenue.
She rang her mother’s doorbell again. Her mother asked no questions—she only poured tea and rubbed her daughter’s back.
“Did I do the right thing?” Marina asked at last.
“What do you think?” her mother studied her carefully.
“I think I did,” Marina hugged her cup tighter. “I think there was no other way.”
“Then you did,” her mother kissed the crown of her head. “Boundaries have to be defended. Always. Even with family.”
When Marina returned home, only a single lamp was on in the living room. Andrey sat on the sofa with their son asleep in his arms.
“Mom left,” he said without looking up. “She picked everything up from outside and went home.”
Marina nodded, went to the nursery, and laid Alyosha in his crib. When she came back, Andrey was still sitting the same way.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” he asked, and hurt and confusion filled his eyes. “That’s my mother.”
“I understand,” Marina said, sitting across from him. “And I don’t regret it.”
“How can you not regret it? She was crying. She…”
“Andrey,” Marina cut in, “your mother spent a week humiliating me in my own home. She implied I was cheating. She rummaged through my things and packed them to be thrown out because she decided I dress ‘indecently.’ And every time, you asked me to wait, not to disturb you, to endure.”
“I had an important project…”
“I’m your wife,” Marina’s voice trembled. “The mother of your child. I matter too. My feelings matter. My dignity matters.”
Andrey said nothing, staring at the floor.
“Did you ever take my side?” Marina continued. “Even once—did you tell her she was wrong? Or is my wanting to look beautiful for my own husband ‘suspicious’ to you too?”
“I don’t think you’re having an affair,” he lifted his head. “Of course not.”
“But you didn’t tell her that,” Marina felt tears rise. “You didn’t tell her anything. Because the project mattered more. Because ‘Mom is like that, you know.’ Because I’m supposed to tolerate it, and you two aren’t.”
“That was extreme,” he shook his head. “Throwing her things…”
“And packing my things into a garbage bag wasn’t extreme?” Marina stood up. “Andrey, I love you. I want to be with you. But I will not tolerate disrespect. From anyone. Even from your mother. And if you can’t understand that…”
She didn’t finish. She went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Andrey stayed in the living room until late at night. Marina couldn’t sleep; she heard him pacing, muttering to himself, sitting back down, getting up again.
When he finally lay down beside her, it was well past midnight.
“Mom called,” he said in the morning when Marina opened her eyes. “She was crying. She says I have to divorce you.”
Marina tensed, but stayed silent.
“I told her she was wrong,” Andrey went on. “That she shouldn’t have touched your things. That she shouldn’t have said… that. That you’re a good wife and a good mother.”
Marina turned toward him. In the morning dimness she could barely make out his face.
“And what did she say?”
“That I betrayed her for some woman,” he gave a bitter laugh. “That you bewitched me. That I used to be different.”
“Maybe you were,” Marina said quietly. “Maybe you used to be a mama’s boy who put her opinion above his wife’s.”
Andrey was silent for so long Marina thought she’d offended him. But then he spoke.
“You know… my whole life I did what she wanted. University—the one she chose. Work—the one she approved of. I even met you because she said it was time I got married. And I thought that was normal. That it was how it should be. But today I looked at her—standing there, yelling at you, calling you names—and for the first time I thought: she’s wrong. Completely wrong.”
Marina gently took his hand.
“I’m sorry it came to this,” she said. “Truly. I didn’t want a scene. I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I understand,” he squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you earlier. I was… I was a coward.”
They lay there holding hands, and Marina felt something shifting between them—something becoming stronger.
“Do you really think I look good?” she asked suddenly. “Blonde, manicure, tight jeans…”
Andrey turned toward her and wrapped her in his arms.
“I think you’re the most beautiful woman I know,” he whispered. “And I like that you take care of yourself. I like that other men look at you. And I’m proud of you.”
Marina pressed her face into his shoulder, and finally tears slid down her cheeks—relief, exhaustion, release.
“Go wash up,” he told her. “I’ll feed Alyosha myself.”
Marina paused in the bathroom doorway, watching as her husband clumsily but carefully tended to their son. Andrey caught her gaze and smiled—guilty, but warm.
“By the way,” he said, “we closed the project. So now I’m all yours. No more ‘not now’ excuses.”
Marina smiled back. She knew this was only the beginning—conversations with Valentina Petrovna would still be long and difficult. She knew boundaries would have to be defended again and again. But she also knew she wasn’t alone anymore. That beside her now stood not a boy hiding behind his mother’s back, but a man ready to stand up for his own family.
And the rest—would fall into place.
Marina looked at herself in the mirror. Light hair, bright lips, a woman pleased with herself. A wife. A mother.— I threw your mother’s things off the balcony, — his wife said calmly that evening.
17.01.2026admin17.01.2026
Marina heard the doorbell just as she was putting little Alyosha down for his afternoon nap. He was only just drifting off—his eyelids growing heavy, his plump fingers loosening against her chest. The bell rang again—insistent, demanding. Marina carefully laid her son in the crib and went to answer, smoothing her light hair as she walked. She’d dyed it blonde a month earlier—she’d wanted a change after winter’s dull gray.
Valentina Petrovna stood on the doorstep with two enormous bags.
“Hello, Marinochka,” her mother-in-law said, squeezing into the entryway without waiting to be invited. “I’m here for a week. Andryusha asked me to come—said his project is complicated. I decided you two could use some help.”
Marina blinked, confused. Andrey hadn’t mentioned inviting his mother. But it was too late to argue—Valentina Petrovna was already slipping off her shoes and heading toward the living room.
“Alyosha is sleeping—please be quiet,” Marina tried to stop her, but her mother-in-law had already halted in the middle of the room, looking around like an inspector surveying new territory.
“So you’re a blonde now,” Valentina Petrovna narrowed her eyes, examining her daughter-in-law. “Why? You suited being a brunette more. Is this some new trend?”
“I just wanted to,” Marina said, feeling a tight string pull inside her. She knew that tone well—here we go.
“Wanted to,” her mother-in-law repeated, and the judgment packed into those two words made it sound as if Marina had admitted to something shameful. “Mm-hm. And what a flashy manicure. Red. Married women usually choose something more modest.”
Marina glanced at her nails—neat red polish she’d done two days ago while her own mother watched Alyosha. Marina liked how her hands looked. Andrey had liked it too—he’d even kissed her fingers.
“Valentina Petrovna, would you like some tea?” Marina tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Later, later. Let me unpack first. You’ll make up a bed for me in the living room, yes?”
The next three days turned into a slow torture disguised as politeness. Valentina Petrovna settled into the apartment like a general on occupied ground. She woke early, cooked porridge no one ate—because Marina made breakfast her own way—rewent over already clean dishes, and commented on every move her daughter-in-law made.
“Off to the gym again?” Valentina Petrovna raised an eyebrow on the third day when Marina appeared in leggings and a sports top. “Alyosha is still tiny. Mothers with nursing babies don’t run off to fitness clubs.”
“My mom will come and sit with him,” Marina said, fastening her sneakers and trying not to meet her gaze. “I go three times a week. I need it.”
“Need it,” Valentina Petrovna snorted. “After I gave birth, I didn’t even go to the hairdresser for two years. There was no time. And you—look at you—gym, manicure, hairstyle. Who are you trying so hard for?”
Marina froze, not believing her ears.
“What exactly are you implying?”
“Oh, come on—you know,” her mother-in-law said, pouring herself tea and turning away theatrically. “Women don’t put in that kind of effort for their husbands. I’m telling you as someone with experience. When a wife starts showing herself off, there are two options: either she has a lover, or she’s looking for one.”
Heat rushed to Marina’s face. She straightened, fists clenched.
“Are you serious? You think I have a lover because I go to the gym?”
“I’m not stating facts,” Valentina Petrovna shrugged with an innocent expression. “I’m just saying how it usually goes. A decent married woman should think about her family, not herself. What did I wear at your age? Comfortable pants and warm sweaters—to walk with Andryusha, cook porridge. And you’re all tight clothes, short skirts, heels. On display.”
“That’s called taking care of yourself,” Marina said, fighting to keep her voice steady, though it trembled anyway. “I’m twenty-seven. I want to be beautiful for my husband. What’s wrong with that?”
“For your husband?” her mother-in-law gave a skeptical little hum. “Sure. Andryusha is at work from morning until night, trying to deliver his project. And you’re at the gym. Interesting. Very interesting.”
Marina turned and left the apartment, afraid she’d say something she couldn’t take back. On the stairs she leaned against the wall, trying to breathe. A lover. God. She was raising their son, getting up with him at night, breastfeeding—and still finding the strength to look good, for herself, for Andrey, for their family. And in return—suspicions and insinuations.
That evening she tried to talk to her husband.
“Andrey, your mom keeps hinting that I’m having an affair.”
“What?” He didn’t look up from his laptop; his fingers moved quickly over the keys. “Marinka, I’m sorry—my call is in an hour. Can we talk later?”
“Andrey, it matters. She says I take too much care of myself and that it’s suspicious.”
“Well, Mom’s always like that—you know,” he finally glanced at her, but his eyes were distracted, his mind still on the numbers on the screen. “Ignore it. She means well.”
“Means well?” Marina felt something cold tighten in her chest. “She’s suggesting I’m cheating, and you call that ‘meaning well’?”
“She’s not accusing you, it’s just…” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Marin, I really have a crunch right now. We deliver in three days. Let’s discuss it later, okay? Mom will leave soon.”
Later, Marina thought as she returned to the kitchen, where Valentina Petrovna was scrubbing an already clean stove. Everything was always later. Her feelings, her boundaries, her dignity—those could all wait until Andrey finished yet another project.
On the fourth day Marina came home from training drained, tired, but satisfied—she’d finally managed a full, proper stretch. The apartment greeted her with an unusual hush. Valentina Petrovna had gone shopping, as the note on the fridge announced. Andrey, as always, was in his office at the computer.
Marina headed toward the bathroom, but in the hallway she stumbled over something large. A huge black garbage bag sat right in the middle of the corridor.
She bent down, untied it—and went still.
Inside were her belongings. A pink off-the-shoulder blouse she’d bought last month. A coral dress—Andrey’s birthday gift. Three lipsticks—red, plum, berry. Eye shadow. Skinny jeans. A short skirt. High heels. Everything folded neatly, as if someone had packed it for shipment.
Marina sank slowly into a crouch, sifting through the contents. Her hands shook. This had been done methodically. Valentina Petrovna had gone through the entire closet, picked out everything she deemed “too provocative,” and set it aside to be thrown away. Like trash. As if Marina had no right to wear what she liked. As if she wasn’t the owner of her own home.
She stood up and walked to the office. Andrey sat with headphones on, discussing something with colleagues. Marina knocked on the glass door. He raised one finger—wait a minute.
She waited. Then another minute. And another.
Ten minutes later Andrey took off his headphones.
“What happened? Couldn’t this wait?”
“Your mother put my things into a garbage bag,” Marina said very softly, because she was afraid she’d scream. “My makeup, my clothes. She wants to throw them away.”
Andrey closed his eyes and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Marin… not now. Please. I can’t talk about this right now. In three minutes I’m back on a call with the client. This project is worth one and a half million. I can’t ruin a meeting because of… because of some bag.”
“Some bag?” Marina didn’t recognize her own voice. “Those are my personal things. Your mother went through my closet, rummaged through my belongings, decided she has the right to throw them out like garbage—and you’re saying ‘not now’?”
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, tired irritation creeping into his voice. “Start a fight right before a call? I’ll talk to her tonight, I promise. Just take the things out of the bag and that’s it.”
“You’ll talk,” Marina repeated. “Like you said yesterday, when she implied I was cheating?”
“She didn’t accuse you,” Andrey shook his head. “She expressed concern. That’s different.”
“To you, maybe,” Marina said, turned, and walked out.
In the living room she stopped in the center of the room and stared out the window. Down in the courtyard, young mothers pushed strollers. Life moved along as usual. And here, in this apartment, someone was systematically sorting through her private things, deciding what she could wear and what she couldn’t. And her husband considered it too insignificant to bother him.
Something inside Marina finally burned out.
She went into the room where Valentina Petrovna’s things were stored. She pulled her mother-in-law’s bag from the closet and carefully took everything out. A robe. A nightgown. Slippers. Spare shoes. Sweaters. Skirts. A toiletry pouch with creams. Everything Valentina Petrovna had brought with her.
Marina stuffed it into the same bags her mother-in-law had prepared for Marina’s things. Then she stepped onto the balcony.
They lived on the first floor. Below was only a neatly kept lawn.
She didn’t think. She simply acted, gripped by a strange calm.
One bag went over. Then the second.
They landed with soft thuds on the grass, spilling partly open—colorful sweaters, slippers, tubes of cream.
Marina stood on the balcony for a moment, looking down, then went back inside. She sat on the sofa, took her phone, and texted her mother: I’ll pick Alyosha up myself today.
That evening the front door opened with a lively slam. Valentina Petrovna’s voice rang out:
“Marinochka, I’m back! Where are you?”
Marina sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Alyosha was asleep—his day with Grandma and an evening walk had tired him out.
“Andryusha!” her mother-in-law called from the hallway. “Andrey!”
The office door opened.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Where are my things?” Valentina Petrovna’s voice jumped up into a shrill pitch. “I left them in the room, and now there’s nothing! No bag, no clothes!”
“What?” Andrey stepped into the hallway. “Marina!”
Marina finished her tea, set the cup down, and walked over. They stood by the guest-room door—Andrey looking lost, Valentina Petrovna red with outrage.
“Where are my mother’s things?” Andrey asked his wife, genuinely not understanding.
“I threw your mother’s things off the balcony,” Marina said calmly.
Silence fell. Valentina Petrovna opened her mouth, but no sound came out at first. Then—
“What did you do?! You… you threw them out?!”
“Yes,” Marina said, hands in the pockets of her robe, feeling oddly steady. “The same way you were going to throw mine out. Into a garbage bag and overboard.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Andrey grabbed his head. “Marina, what the hell?!”
“She packed my clothes into a bag,” Marina said evenly, holding his gaze. “My personal things. She went through my closet, pulled out my lipsticks, my clothes, and prepared it all to be thrown away—without my permission—in my home. I just did the same thing with her things.”
“I was trying to set you straight!” Valentina Petrovna screamed. “You’re behaving indecently! A married woman with a child shouldn’t dress like that!”
“And a married woman with a child should tolerate humiliation in her own home?” Marina’s voice rose for the first time. “She should listen to hints about infidelity? She should let someone rummage through her private belongings?”
“Marina, do you even understand what you did?” Andrey had gone pale. “Those were my mother’s personal things!”
“I understand,” she nodded. “I threw out someone else’s things without asking. Exactly what your mother was about to do with mine. Only I actually went through with it.”
“It’s not the same!” Valentina Petrovna gasped, shaking with fury. “I had good intentions! I wanted to teach you! And you… you…”
“I protected my boundaries,” Marina felt taller than her own height. “Valentina Petrovna, for a week you’ve been telling me I’m a bad mother, a bad wife—that I’m having an affair—that I dress like a slut. You went into my closet and decided you have the right to throw my things away. You don’t. This is my home, my family, my life.”
“Andrey!” the mother-in-law spun toward her son, tears streaming down her face. “Do you hear how she talks to me?! I raised you, I did it alone, and this… this…”
“Mom, calm down,” Andrey patted her shoulder awkwardly, but he looked at Marina with undisguised anger. “Marina, go downstairs right now and bring the things back.”
“No,” Marina shook her head.
“What do you mean, no?!” he stepped toward her. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I realize I defended myself,” Marina picked up her bag and phone. “I need some air. When I come back, I hope your mother won’t be here.”
“You’re throwing me out?!” Valentina Petrovna sobbed. “Out of my own son’s home?!”
“I’m asking a person to leave my home—the person who insulted me, hinted I was cheating, and tried to destroy my property,” Marina said as she put on her jacket. “Andrey, decide for yourself. But while your mother is here, Alyosha and I won’t be.”
She walked out to Valentina Petrovna’s shouting and her husband’s silence.
Outside, Marina stopped and leaned against the building wall. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from relief. She had finally said it. Finally done it. She hadn’t swallowed it. Hadn’t endured. Hadn’t postponed it for “later.”
She glanced at the lawn where her mother-in-law’s things lay scattered. A few neighborhood kids were staring at them with curiosity. Marina looked away and walked along the avenue.
She rang her mother’s doorbell again. Her mother asked no questions—she only poured tea and rubbed her daughter’s back.
“Did I do the right thing?” Marina asked at last.
“What do you think?” her mother studied her carefully.
“I think I did,” Marina hugged her cup tighter. “I think there was no other way.”
“Then you did,” her mother kissed the crown of her head. “Boundaries have to be defended. Always. Even with family.”
When Marina returned home, only a single lamp was on in the living room. Andrey sat on the sofa with their son asleep in his arms.
“Mom left,” he said without looking up. “She picked everything up from outside and went home.”
Marina nodded, went to the nursery, and laid Alyosha in his crib. When she came back, Andrey was still sitting the same way.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” he asked, and hurt and confusion filled his eyes. “That’s my mother.”
“I understand,” Marina said, sitting across from him. “And I don’t regret it.”
“How can you not regret it? She was crying. She…”
“Andrey,” Marina cut in, “your mother spent a week humiliating me in my own home. She implied I was cheating. She rummaged through my things and packed them to be thrown out because she decided I dress ‘indecently.’ And every time, you asked me to wait, not to disturb you, to endure.”
“I had an important project…”
“I’m your wife,” Marina’s voice trembled. “The mother of your child. I matter too. My feelings matter. My dignity matters.”
Andrey said nothing, staring at the floor.
“Did you ever take my side?” Marina continued. “Even once—did you tell her she was wrong? Or is my wanting to look beautiful for my own husband ‘suspicious’ to you too?”
“I don’t think you’re having an affair,” he lifted his head. “Of course not.”
“But you didn’t tell her that,” Marina felt tears rise. “You didn’t tell her anything. Because the project mattered more. Because ‘Mom is like that, you know.’ Because I’m supposed to tolerate it, and you two aren’t.”
“That was extreme,” he shook his head. “Throwing her things…”
“And packing my things into a garbage bag wasn’t extreme?” Marina stood up. “Andrey, I love you. I want to be with you. But I will not tolerate disrespect. From anyone. Even from your mother. And if you can’t understand that…”
She didn’t finish. She went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Andrey stayed in the living room until late at night. Marina couldn’t sleep; she heard him pacing, muttering to himself, sitting back down, getting up again.
When he finally lay down beside her, it was well past midnight.
“Mom called,” he said in the morning when Marina opened her eyes. “She was crying. She says I have to divorce you.”
Marina tensed, but stayed silent.
“I told her she was wrong,” Andrey went on. “That she shouldn’t have touched your things. That she shouldn’t have said… that. That you’re a good wife and a good mother.”
Marina turned toward him. In the morning dimness she could barely make out his face.
“And what did she say?”
“That I betrayed her for some woman,” he gave a bitter laugh. “That you bewitched me. That I used to be different.”
“Maybe you were,” Marina said quietly. “Maybe you used to be a mama’s boy who put her opinion above his wife’s.”
Andrey was silent for so long Marina thought she’d offended him. But then he spoke.
“You know… my whole life I did what she wanted. University—the one she chose. Work—the one she approved of. I even met you because she said it was time I got married. And I thought that was normal. That it was how it should be. But today I looked at her—standing there, yelling at you, calling you names—and for the first time I thought: she’s wrong. Completely wrong.”
Marina gently took his hand.
“I’m sorry it came to this,” she said. “Truly. I didn’t want a scene. I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I understand,” he squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you earlier. I was… I was a coward.”
They lay there holding hands, and Marina felt something shifting between them—something becoming stronger.
“Do you really think I look good?” she asked suddenly. “Blonde, manicure, tight jeans…”
Andrey turned toward her and wrapped her in his arms.
“I think you’re the most beautiful woman I know,” he whispered. “And I like that you take care of yourself. I like that other men look at you. And I’m proud of you.”
Marina pressed her face into his shoulder, and finally tears slid down her cheeks—relief, exhaustion, release.
“Go wash up,” he told her. “I’ll feed Alyosha myself.”
Marina paused in the bathroom doorway, watching as her husband clumsily but carefully tended to their son. Andrey caught her gaze and smiled—guilty, but warm.
“By the way,” he said, “we closed the project. So now I’m all yours. No more ‘not now’ excuses.”
Marina smiled back. She knew this was only the beginning—conversations with Valentina Petrovna would still be long and difficult. She knew boundaries would have to be defended again and again. But she also knew she wasn’t alone anymore. That beside her now stood not a boy hiding behind his mother’s back, but a man ready to stand up for his own family.
And the rest—would fall into place.
Marina looked at herself in the mirror. Light hair, bright lips, a woman pleased with herself. A wife. A mother.
