— If your wife doesn’t learn to speak to me properly, I’ll pull all her hair out, son!
The voice on the phone buzzed with barely concealed anger — so sharp and furious that it even drowned out the monotonous background noise of the office. Maxim instinctively pressed the phone closer to his ear and turned away from a colleague who was looking at him with interest. On the computer screen, the annual report froze — tables and graphs that now looked like just a meaningless jumble of lines and numbers. All reality was in his hands — hot, dense, full of aggression.
— Mom, what happened? — he asked tiredly and quietly.
— My friends came over! Lydia Markovna, Verochka! Decent women, not just anyone! I’m setting the table, cutting salads, the main dish is in the oven. I called Yulia, politely asked her: “Come over for half an hour, help me, I can’t manage on my own.” And what does she do?!
Tamara Pavlovna paused — theatrically, full of drama. Maxim mentally pictured her in the kitchen wearing her favorite best apron, holding the phone in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. In the living room, her long-time friends sat like spectators — witnesses and judges of this family drama.
— She said she was busy! — his mother blurted out. — Said I should have warned her in advance! Is that normal? What kind of tone is that? Can you imagine? She judges me, your mother, like I’m a child, right in front of my guests! They’re gawking there, and she’s lecturing me about planning!
Maxim rubbed the bridge of his nose. He already knew this story by heart. For his mother, any deviation from the plan was a catastrophe, and someone else was always to blame. He was sure Yulia really was busy. Her work from home often demanded more effort than his office routine. But for his mother, there was only one schedule — her own.
— Mom, tell me everything from the beginning. What exactly did she say to you?
— From the beginning? — metallic notes of hurt sounded in his mother’s voice. — She said, “Tamara Pavlovna, I can’t right now, I have an online conference. When I finish, in about three hours, I’ll come right away.” Just like that! She puts her work above my request! I’m running around here, and she’s sitting at the computer! You have to bring her here immediately. Let her apologize. In front of everyone.
It sounded like a verdict. Not a request, but a demand. Maxim pictured himself dropping work, rushing home, picking up his wife, and driving to his mother, where she would have to publicly repent before Verochka and Lydia Markovna. The thought was so absurd he almost laughed.
— I’m at work, Mom. I can’t go anywhere. We’ll talk in the evening.
— In the evening?! Don’t you understand? The humiliation happened just now! They’re discussing what kind of daughter-in-law you have — rude and disrespectful to her mother-in-law! You need to resolve this immediately! Call her! Make her come! Are you a husband or not?
He felt himself trapped again in his mother’s power games. She didn’t want a solution. She wanted a display of power — for her son to obey her command, and for his wife to acknowledge her authority.
— I’ll handle it tonight, — he said firmly, ending the call. — I have to work.
He placed the phone face down. His colleague pretended not to have heard, but Maxim felt his attention — as intrusive as the feeling of humiliation left by the call. The numbers on the screen blurred before his eyes. The evening promised to be long.
At home, he was greeted by the smell of coffee and fresh air. Not a trace of meaty smell or steam from pots — it was different here. Clean, strict, organized. Yulia sat at the work desk in the living room, completely focused on the screen. Only after a few seconds did she notice him.
Maxim went to the kitchen, poured some water, and drank it in one gulp. The cold inside somewhat cooled the internal heat. Finally, Yulia took off her headphones and turned to him. Her face showed no hint of guilt. Only tiredness and calm.
— Hi. How was your day?
— Mom called.
— I guessed. She hung up when I said I was busy.
— She wants you to apologize. In front of her friends.
Yulia carefully closed her laptop. She spoke measuredly, without emotion:
— I had a conference with clients from Germany. We were finalizing the details of the project I’ve been working on for three months. I told Tamara Pavlovna, “I’m in an important meeting now. When I’m free, in about three hours, I’ll come and help.” After that, she hung up. That’s all.
Her words were precise, like facts in a report. And in this calmness was an iron truth. Suddenly Maxim saw two pictures: one — his mother’s hysterics over a couple of salads; the other — Yulia’s professionalism, on which their shared future depended. And the choice he’d been forced to make his whole life suddenly seemed ridiculous.
— Understood, — he said shortly. He went to the phone and dialed a number. — Come here.
Yulia came over. He turned on the speakerphone, and almost immediately his mother’s tense voice came through:
— Well?! Will you come?
— Mom, I’ve sorted it out, — Maxim replied coldly. — Yulia was working. She couldn’t just drop everything because you decided to invite guests. She’s not a servant. She’s my wife.
There was silence on the other end, then an indignant intake of breath.
— How dare you…
— I’m not finished. You no longer have the right to speak to her like that. And certainly not to threaten her. If I hear it again — we will never see each other again. At all. Understand?
The silence on the line grew dense, frightening. As if the ground had been ripped out from under the person’s feet. Maxim hung up first. He looked at Yulia. There was no triumph in her eyes. There was understanding. That this was only the beginning. The first victory in a war his mother had already started.
Two weeks passed. Two weeks of oppressive silence. His mother didn’t call. Such a lull was more frightening than shouting. Maxim knew: his mother was not giving up. She was simply preparing a new attack.
And it came.
The phone woke him on a Saturday morning. His mother’s voice sounded strange — too soft, too sweet:
— Sonny, hello. I was thinking… my birthday is coming soon. Not a milestone, but still I want to gather close ones. Sisters, nieces. Will you and Yulia come? It’s very important to me…
Maxim looked out the window at the monotonous gray cityscape. Every word from his mother sounded like a step on a ladder leading straight into a trap. “The closest.” “Very important.” This was not an invitation to meet — it was a formal declaration of war, where she had already placed all the pieces and written the rules.
— We’ll come, — he said into the phone, knowing that refusal would be a victory for her, which she would present to the family as proof of her righteousness.
On his mother’s birthday, they entered her apartment. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, greasy meat, and old parquet polished to a shine. The living room was already full: Tamara Pavlovna’s sisters — Zoya and Nina, two women almost identical, like faded copies of each other; their daughters, Lydia Markovna — the main keeper of family secrets — and several other faces from the past, gathered here like actors in a play by a single director. All of them turned toward the newcomers, smiling with the same artificial benevolence.
Yulia entered confidently, holding her back straight. Her face was calm, without a hint of anxiety. She knew this would be a test. And she was ready to pass it.
The evening began with conversations thick as molasses. Aunt Zoya, putting meat on Yulia’s plate, sighed:
— Eat, Yulia, eat. You need strength. Modern women are all about work… but the main thing is family, home. And Maximka has always been with his mother.
— Yeah, — added Nina, exchanging a meaningful glance with Tamara Pavlovna. — He knew his place since childhood — next to his mother. Young people are different now. They have their own ideas, their own “I.”
Yulia smiled politely and carefully cut a small piece from the roulade.
— Times change, Nina Petrovna. Today many can combine work and family.
Her calm remark hung in the air. They expected embarrassment or excuses but got only unshakable confidence. For a moment this threw them off balance, but soon they resumed pressing — from another angle.
Tamara Pavlovna told stories. Stories about how she raised her son alone, how she sacrificed herself for the family, how she always kept the home open to guests. Each story was carefully crafted and ended with an invisible but obvious reproach aimed at Yulia.
— …and then I realized, — she finished another parable, — that the foundation of a family is respect. Respect for elders, for their experience, for their words. Without this, the home collapses like a house of cards.
The guests nodded, casting glances at Yulia filled with hidden condemnation. She was a stranger in this world built on traditions and mutual protection. Maxim tried to ease the atmosphere, but his voice was lost among the general chorus. Here he was not a son or nephew — he was simply the husband of a woman who did not fit their ideals.
The climax came when Tamara Pavlovna raised her glass.
— I want to toast to family, — she began, surveying everyone with a triumphant sparkle in her eyes. — To the young listening to their elders, not putting their own affairs above what’s important. I wish my son wisdom, and his wife… — she paused — to learn that wisdom. To understand that family is not work you can put aside.
It was a verdict. Pronounced publicly and without right to appeal.
Maxim waited until the toast ended. He didn’t argue. He just stood up and placed his napkin on the table.
— Thank you for the evening. We should go…
He took Yulia’s hand, and they left under the stunned gazes of the relatives. They expected hysteria, confrontation, tears. But Maxim’s cold calm was a blow to them. He wasn’t playing their game. He simply walked away, leaving them with an empty victory and the bitter aftertaste of defeat.
On the way home, they were silent. In the car, Maxim didn’t start the engine right away. Yulia sat beside him, looking out into the darkness. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t search for words of comfort. Her presence alone was the most reliable support. She trusted him. Completely.
— I have to go back, — he said into the silence.
— Alone?
— Yes. This needs to end once and for all.
He didn’t explain. She understood everything anyway. He turned the car around and parked by the same building. He didn’t ask her to wait. He simply got out, feeling everything inside him contract into a tight, cold core. The emotions were left behind. Now there was only action.
He called. Aunt Zoya answered, her satisfied smile fading at the sight of Maxim. He passed by without a word and entered the living room. The feast was still going on, though the mood had somewhat subsided. His mother, the center of the scene, was accepting another compliment from Lydia Markovna.
— …you’ve always been a smart woman, Tomochka. You know where to find the root of evil.
Seeing her son, she fell silent. Surprise mixed with anticipation flickered across her face. She decided: he had come to ask for forgiveness.
— Have you come to your senses? Decided to properly congratulate your mother?
Maxim stopped in the middle of the room. He didn’t approach the table. He just looked around at everyone present — his mother, aunts, her friends. A whole court that had already passed judgment.
— I came back to clarify something, — his voice was even and clear. — You spent the entire evening pretending I had to choose between you and my wife. You staged this spectacle to make me confirm your choice.
He looked directly at his mother. Her smile slowly faded.
— You made your choice tonight. In front of everyone. Now it’s my turn.
Pause. Everyone froze.
— This apartment came to us from father. My half — everything that connects me to this home. Tomorrow I’m putting it up for sale.
The room stood still. The sound of the refrigerator suddenly seemed deafening. Nina opened her mouth but could say nothing. His mother’s face became a mask.
— What? — she whispered. Not a question, but a breath.
— Because of the layout, we’ll probably have to sell the whole apartment. You’ll get your share. Enough for a one-room place somewhere outside the city. Yulia and I will buy a house. In another city.
He spoke calmly, without anger. It wasn’t a threat. It was a consequence. Cold, logical, inevitable. He looked at her one last time — at the woman who had tried to control him through guilt, scandals, and pressure. Now she sat among her allies but was completely alone. Her power had collapsed. And she herself handed him the tool for its destruction.
— That’s all, Mom. I choose my family.
He turned and left. No one stopped him. No one shouted. Only the click of the door behind him. This time — forever.
