Seven in the morning. The phone beeps on the kitchen table. Alyona has not even had time to drink her coffee yet, and Valentina Yegorovna is already calling her son for her morning check-in. Ivan sits down at the table and puts the call on speakerphone, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.
“Vanechka, good morning! What did Alyona cook for dinner yesterday?”
“Spaghetti with chicken, Mom.”
“Pasta again? And where were the vegetables? You are a working man. You need proper food, not student meals.”
Alyona grips her mug tighter. Every morning it is the same thing. Her mother-in-law lives in her own apartment on the other side of the city, but behaves as if she is in the next room, watching their every move.
“Mom, Alyona works late. She gets tired…”
“And who doesn’t get tired? When I was her age, I was raising three children and cooking hot soup for my husband every day. Why are you taking out the trash yourself? That’s women’s work. And your laundry probably isn’t done on schedule either.”
Alyona gets up and goes to the bathroom so she does not have to hear the rest. But her mother-in-law’s voice is so loud that it seeps even through the closed door.
Alyona worked as a manicurist at a beauty salon in the city center. Her shifts lasted eight to ten hours without days off, with clients coming in an endless stream. By evening, her eyes watered from the lamps, her hands ached from repetitive movements, and her back throbbed from sitting in one position for so long. She came home exhausted, dreaming only of silence and peace.
But there was no peace. Instead, there were daily calls from Valentina Yegorovna with inspections and lectures. And a husband who, for some reason, always put those conversations on speakerphone.
“Why do you switch to speaker every time?” Alyona asked him one evening.
“What’s the big deal? Mom asks how things are, I answer. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I do mind. Every day she discusses how I cook, clean, and do laundry. As if I’m a maid who isn’t doing her job properly.”
“Mom is just worried that things are good for us. She’s used to controlling everything.”
“And you’re used to agreeing with her.”
Ivan shrugged and turned on the television. The conversation was over.
At first, Alyona tried not to pay attention to the daily calls. She understood: an elderly woman who had devoted her whole life to raising her son could not simply let him go into adulthood. She was used to controlling, interfering, giving advice. That was normal for a mother who was afraid of losing influence.
But when the comments and remarks began to sound like verdicts, Alyona’s patience quickly started running out.
“You’re not such a great master that dinner should be delayed because of you,” Valentina Yegorovna said during another call. “You work, sure, but there’s zero comfort in the house. Your husband is left without care, with nothing proper.”
Ivan listened to these speeches, nodded his head, and answered the same thing every time:
“Well, Mom, she gets tired at work… All right, I’ll tell her.”
He never defended his wife, never stopped his mother, never said that Alyona handled the house perfectly well. He simply agreed with every word and promised to pass everything along.
“You can see Mom is having a hard time,” Ivan explained when Alyona tried to talk to him about it. “People get harsh with age. You have to understand.”
“And what about me? Am I not having a hard time? I work ten hours every day and then have to listen to what a terrible housewife I am.”
“Don’t take it to heart. She’s just worried.”
But it was not just worry. Valentina Yegorovna would come over without warning, walk into the kitchen, and begin an inspection. She opened the refrigerator, shook her head at the sight of convenience foods, and pointed at crumbs on the table.
“There’s dust here,” her mother-in-law said, running her hand along the windowsill. “And water stains here. And why do you have so many dirty things in the laundry basket? Laundry must be done on time, not when there is nothing left to wear.”
Alyona remained silent, clenching her teeth. Ivan stood nearby and smiled apologetically, as if he were apologizing to his mother for his wife.
“Mom, Alyona was at work until nine in the evening…”
“Work is work, but the home must be in order. A wife is supposed to create comfort, not invent excuses.”
Gradually, Alyona began to understand: there were two people playing against her. A husband who always found a reason not to interfere, and a mother-in-law who kept inventing new complaints. Valentina Yegorovna behaved in their home not like a guest, but like the mistress of the house. And Ivan allowed it.
“Why don’t you stop her?” Alyona asked one day after an especially difficult visit from her mother-in-law.
“She’s an old woman. She’s used to giving orders. Just be patient a little.”
“How long should I be patient? Until retirement? Until death?”
“Don’t talk like that. She’s my mother.”
“And who am I? Some random tenant?”
Ivan did not answer. He went into the room and turned on the computer.
The breaking point came in the middle of summer. Valentina Yegorovna invited the young couple to a family dinner at her place. Alyona came straight after her shift, tired and hungry, carrying a box of éclairs from a pastry shop.
“At least you brought something sweet,” her mother-in-law muttered, taking the box. “Otherwise, you always count on everything being ready for you.”
Alyona went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Meat goulash was simmering on the stove; the kitchen smelled of dill and fried onions. Valentina Yegorovna served food onto the plates, talking nonstop:
“I look at young wives these days — all they think about are nails and faces. But how to cook for a husband, how to make a home — they’ve completely forgotten about that.”
“Mom, let’s just have dinner,” Ivan asked.
“Be quiet, son. I have something to say to your wife.”
Valentina Yegorovna placed a plate of goulash in front of Alyona and straightened to her full height.
“Freeloader,” her mother-in-law said loudly and clearly. “You eat everything from me and show no gratitude. Women like you have nothing but nails in their heads.”
Alyona froze with the spoon in her hand. Blood rushed to her temples, and her heart pounded so hard it felt as if it might jump out of her chest. Ivan sat opposite her and stared at his plate as if he had heard nothing.
Alyona slowly placed the spoon on the table. Such silence hung over the kitchen that the ticking of the clock on the wall could be heard. Valentina Yegorovna stood over the table with a satisfied look, as if she had said something especially clever. Ivan sat frozen, staring into his plate and pretending to be completely absorbed in his food.
Alyona rose from her chair. Her movements were calm and measured, but there was something dangerous in the air. Her mother-in-law even stopped smiling with satisfaction.
“You should shut your mother’s mouth, not mine,” Alyona said quietly, but so clearly that every word reached everyone present. “And if you can’t, then pack your things and run back under her skirt.”
Valentina Yegorovna turned so red it was as if she had been splashed with boiling water. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, but no sound came out. For about three seconds, she simply stood there, digesting what she had heard.
“How dare you?!” Valentina Yegorovna exploded. “I am older! I am a mother! You are not my equal! How dare you speak to me like that?!”
“You are not a mother — you are a warden,” Alyona interrupted without raising her voice. “And rudeness cannot be hidden behind old age. And you,” the woman turned to her husband, who was still sitting with his face buried in his plate, “if you stay silent again, you can go with her. The two of you seem to have the perfect living arrangement.”
Ivan finally raised his head. His face was confused, his lips moved, but he struggled to find words.
“Alyon, let’s discuss this at home… Why so harshly? This isn’t the right time…”
“We will discuss only one thing,” his wife stopped him. “You are either with me or with her. Just don’t even think about coming back afterward.”
Alyona turned and walked into the hallway. She pulled on her light jacket and took her purse. Behind her, she heard Valentina Yegorovna’s outraged shouting and Ivan’s timid attempts to explain something. But Alyona was no longer listening. She slammed the door and stepped out onto the stairwell.
Outside, it was stuffy, smelling of hot asphalt and blooming linden trees. Alyona got into a minibus and rode home, looking out the window at the courtyards drifting past. Inside, she felt surprisingly calm. No regret, no doubts. Only relief that she had finally said what she had been thinking for several months.
At home, Alyona took a shower, made herself tea, and sat on the sofa with a book. Her phone was silent. Ivan did not call or write. Apparently, he had stayed at his mother’s to sort out what had happened.
Her husband returned only late in the evening. He entered the apartment quietly, carefully. Alyona was sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and leafing through a magazine.
“Well, did you discuss it?” she asked without lifting her eyes from the page.
“Alyon, why did you say that? Mom is in tears. She says she has never seen such disrespect.”
“And I have never seen such rudeness. Or a husband who allows his wife to be insulted.”
“But she’s an elderly person…”
“You have until evening to decide,” Alyona interrupted, closing the magazine. “Are you a husband or a mama’s boy? I am not going to live with two grown women disguised as one man.”
Ivan sat down opposite her and rubbed his face with his hands.
“You understand how hard it is… Mom is alone, she’s used to giving orders. You can’t just reject her.”
“Yes, you can. And you should. She is not a commander, and I am not a soldier in her army.”
“But…”
“No buts. I am not your nanny, and I am not your shield from your mother. If you wanted to be a son, then be one. But not in this apartment.”
Ivan opened his mouth, wanting to object, but Alyona stood up and went into the bedroom. The conversation was over.
The next twenty-four hours passed in tense silence. Ivan walked around the apartment gloomy, muttering something under his breath. Several times he started dialing a number, but never called. Alyona went about her own business — doing laundry, cleaning, cooking only for herself.
In the evening, her husband packed his things into a large sports bag. Silently, he folded shirts, socks, and jeans. Alyona watched him from the doorway.
“I’m going to Mom’s,” Ivan said without raising his eyes. “For a few days. We’ll think about what comes next.”
“Think,” Alyona agreed. “Just leave the keys.”
Ivan placed the set of keys on the dresser, picked up his bag, and left the apartment. Alyona walked him to the door, but she did not look out the window to watch him get into the car.
The first week without Ivan felt unusual. Quiet. No morning calls from Valentina Yegorovna, no evening reports about what had been cooked for dinner and whether the laundry had been washed. Alyona walked around the apartment and wondered: it turned out one could live without reporting every day about one’s actions.
Two weeks later, Ivan sent a message: “Can we meet? Talk?”
Alyona replied briefly: “Why?”
“I want to come back. I’ve thought everything over.”
“And what will your mother say?”
A long pause. Then: “Mom has nothing to do with this. This is our relationship.”
“Mom has everything to do with this. As long as you don’t understand that, there is nothing to talk about.”
There were no more messages.
Alyona returned to her usual rhythm of life. Work, home, meetings with friends. She cooked what she wanted, watched films that she liked. She fell asleep when she felt like it and woke up without an alarm clock on weekends.
After a month, acquaintances began asking where Ivan was. Alyona answered briefly: “He lives with his mother.” She gave no further explanations.
“Are you two going to divorce?” asked her neighbor, Aunt Zina.
“We’ll see,” Alyona replied. “Time will tell.”
But deep down, the woman already knew the answer. A man who cannot protect his wife from his own mother cannot be a husband. And a woman who had endured daily humiliation for three years would not endure it anymore.
Valentina Yegorovna no longer called, no longer visited, no longer checked the refrigerator or the laundry basket. Alyona lived alone in her apartment, calmly and steadily. And for the first time in a long while, she felt at home — in her own home.
Because a normal woman is not obligated to tolerate someone else’s mother instead of her own husband. And she certainly is not obligated to apologize for defending her dignity.
