“Where are you going again? Mom is supposed to come!” — my husband couldn’t understand why I was doing this. And then I explained everything to my mother-in-law.
It all started with little things. But isn’t it always like that? Big problems grow out of tiny stings that at first seem insignificant.
The first time Lidiya Petrovna came to visit was a month after the wedding. I was happy — finally, I would get to know my mother-in-law better! Before that, we had only seen each other at the wedding, where she was politely formal but somewhat distant.
“Anya, dear,” she said as soon as she crossed the threshold, “why is your hallway so messy? The coats are hanging all wrong. My Seryozha always had everything perfectly in order.”
I looked at the hallway. Two coats on the rack and a pair of sneakers by the wall — where was the mess? But I kept quiet, deciding that my mother-in-law was just nervous in a new environment.
“And what’s that smell in the kitchen?” she continued, sniffing. “Are you cooking meat? Seryozha doesn’t like fried meat, he has a weak stomach. I always steamed it for him.”
“Mom, I eat fried meat just fine,” Seryozha defended me, putting his arm around my shoulders.
“You’re just used to it, son. But really, it’s bad for your stomach. Anya, don’t you care about your husband’s health?”
That time, I still held myself back. I remade the meat, cooked it on steam. Set the table, brought out the best china, bought a cake that, according to Seryozha, his mother liked.
But even then, Lidiya Petrovna found fault.
“You should have used cloth napkins, not paper ones. And this cake is too sweet, I can’t have it. Diabetes runs in our family. Didn’t Seryozha tell you?”
Seryozha shrugged awkwardly. No, he hadn’t.
At lunch, my mother-in-law launched into lectures on how to cook soup properly (“not like you, Anya, but first you sauté the carrot separately”), how to iron shirts (“those creases show you don’t know how”), and how to keep house in general (“in my time, women knew all this from childhood”).
Seryozha stayed silent, only occasionally nodding along. And I smiled, thinking: well, yes, she wants to help, to share her experience. That’s normal.
Lidiya Petrovna began visiting every two weeks. Then — every week. Each time she found something new to criticize. The flowers were in the wrong place, the books weren’t arranged correctly, I was washing dishes with the wrong detergent.
“Anya, why do you have such towels in the bathroom? Seryozha is used to soft terry ones. And he needs a different toothpaste — his teeth are sensitive.”
“Anya, why are you buying this bread? Seryozha has eaten only ‘Darnitsky’ since childhood. And the milk should have a different fat content.”
“Anya, these curtains don’t go with the wallpaper at all. I know someone who can help pick something more decent.”
I endured. Redid things. Bought new towels, different toothpaste, the right bread. Changed the curtains. But still, Lidiya Petrovna always found new reasons to be dissatisfied.
The worst was that she spoke about me in the third person, as if I weren’t even in the room.
“Seryozha, tell your wife she needs to wash the dishes with hot water. Otherwise germs will stay.”
“Seryozha, your wife should learn to cook proper soup. This one is too watery.”
“Seryozha, explain to her that guests should be received in a clean robe, not in home clothes.”
And Seryozha nodded, and then in the evening carefully passed along his mother’s ‘advice’: “Anya, maybe you really should wash dishes with hotter water? Mom says…”
Gradually, I realized: every visit from my mother-in-law was turning into an exam I was doomed to fail. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried — it was always wrong, not good enough, not the way it should be.
“Lidiya Petrovna, maybe you shouldn’t come so often?” I dared to ask one day. “We’ve just gotten married, we’d like to spend some time alone…”
“I have every right to visit my son whenever I deem necessary,” my mother-in-law snapped. “Seryozha is my only child, and I won’t let anyone limit our relationship.”
Seryozha said nothing. As always.
And a week later, Lidiya Petrovna came again. And again began teaching me how to live: how to brew tea, how to fold laundry, how to talk to neighbors.
“In my time, daughters-in-law respected their mothers-in-law,” she sighed. “And now young girls think the world owes them. Seryozha, you need to educate your wife.”
That’s when I understood: it wasn’t about my mistakes or lack of skill. It was about the fact that Lidiya Petrovna simply couldn’t let go of her son. She wanted to go on controlling his life, and I was the obstacle in her way.
The next time Seryozha told me about his mother’s upcoming visit, I said:
“Perfect. And I’ll go see a friend.”
“What do you mean?” he didn’t understand. “Mom’s coming!”
“So what? Let her come. You’ll have a great time together.”
“But who will cook? Set the table?”
“And what, have you forgotten how to do that yourself? Or maybe your mother can?”
Seryozha stood there, lost for words. I packed my bag and left.
I came back late in the evening. Seryozha met me with a displeased face.
“Mom was very upset. She came especially to see us, and you weren’t here.”
“She came to see you, not me,” I replied. “I hope you had a good time together.”
“Anya, you don’t understand. Mom is trying for us, she wants to help…”
“Help? Seryozha, in half a year your mother hasn’t said a single kind word to me. Everything I do is wrong. Everything I buy is not the right thing. Everything I cook is tasteless. And at the same time, she demands that I greet her like a dear guest, set the table, entertain her. Is that help?”
“Well… maybe she just wants everything to be perfect…”
“Seryozha, have you ever once told her that I’m a good wife? That you’re happy with how I cook, clean, and take care of you?”
He fell silent. And I understood the answer.
Next time, the story repeated itself.
“Where are you going again? Mom’s supposed to come!” Seryozha protested when he saw me getting dressed.
“To Natasha’s. We’ll sit, chat.”
“But what about dinner? Mom will be hungry!…”
“Seryozha, you’re thirty years old. You’re a grown man. Can’t you feed your own mother?”
“But that’s… that’s a woman’s duty!”
I stopped and looked at him. Had I really lived with this man for two years and not seen who he truly was?
“What duty exactly? Cooking for your mother, who can’t stand me?”
“She doesn’t… it’s just her character. She finds fault with everyone.”
“No, Seryozha, she only finds fault with me. And you know that perfectly well.”
His face turned red, but he kept insisting:
“You’re my wife! My mother has the right to expect your respect!”
“And I have the right to expect protection from my husband! But I don’t recall you ever standing up for me.”
And I walked out.
This war went on for a month. Every time Lidiya Petrovna announced another visit, I disappeared from the house. And Seryozha grew angrier and angrier.
“Anya, this can’t go on!” he declared after yet another visit from his mother. “Mom left in tears! She says you hate her!”
“She’s not wrong.”
“How can you say that?!”
“Very easily. Seryozha, in two years of our marriage your mother has never once called me by name. To her, I’m ‘your wife,’ ‘that girl,’ or simply ‘she.’ She criticizes every step I take, every decision I make. She demands that I redo the entire house according to her taste. And she treats me like a servant who must wait on her. And you support her in this.”
“I don’t support anyone! It’s just that Mom…”
“Mom, Mom, Mom!” I exploded. “Seryozha, she’s sixty-two years old! She’s an adult woman who can perfectly well take care of herself! But she prefers to play the role of a spoiled princess, and you indulge her!”
“She’s my mother!”
“And I’m your wife! Or at least, I was…”
We fought harder than ever before. Seryozha stormed off to a friend’s, and I sat down and seriously thought about our marriage.
What did we even have left in common? He always took his mother’s side. In any argument, in any situation. My feelings, my opinion meant nothing to him. He didn’t see me as a partner, but as domestic staff.
And I had spent two years trying to be the perfect wife for the perfect son of the perfect mother.
When Seryozha came back, I said:
“We need to talk seriously.”
“If you’re just going to complain about Mom again…”
“No. I’m going to talk about us. Seryozha, tell me honestly: do you love me?”
“Of course! What a strange question!”
“Then why do you never defend me from your mother?”
“Anya, come on… Mom doesn’t attack you. She just… gives advice.”
“Seryozha, she says I cook badly, clean badly, dress badly, behave badly. And at the same time, she demands that I entertain and serve her. And you call that advice?”
“Maybe you’re just overreacting…”
And that’s when I finally understood: he would never change. For him, his mother would always be right, and I would always be the hysteric who “overreacts.”
“Seryozha,” I said calmly, “your mother is coming again tomorrow, isn’t she?”
“Yes. And I beg you…”
“Fine. I’ll be home.”
He was surprised, but happy.
“Really? Anya, thank you! I knew you’d understand!”
And then I said:
“Seryozha, pack your things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tomorrow your mother will come, but you won’t be here. Because this is my apartment, and I don’t want to see either you or her in it anymore.”
“Anya, what are you saying?!”
“What I’ve been thinking for the past six months. You’re a wonderful son to your mother. But you’re a lousy husband to me. Pack your things.”
He tried to argue, persuade, threaten. But I was firm. By morning, he packed his suitcase and left.
At two in the afternoon, the doorbell rang.
Lidiya Petrovna was on the doorstep with a huge bag and a disapproving face.
“Where’s Seryozha?” she asked without greeting me.
“I don’t know. We divorced. Yesterday he moved out.”
“Divorced?! How could you?!” the mother-in-law gasped.
“Just like that. Come in, Lidiya Petrovna. I have something to say to you.”
She walked into the room, looking around suspiciously.
“Sit down,” I offered. “Will you have tea?”
“What’s this performance? Where’s my son?”
“Your son packed his things and left. Most likely to a friend’s, and then he’ll move back in with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact, Lidiya Petrovna, that you didn’t raise a man. You raised a mama’s boy. At thirty, he can’t make a single decision on his own.”
She flushed.
“How dare you!”
“Very easily. This is my apartment, and here I speak my mind. For two years you made my life hell. Picking on every little thing, criticizing every step. And at the same time, demanding that I treat you like a queen.”
“I wanted to help! To teach you!”
“You wanted to show who’s in charge. You couldn’t accept that your son got married. So you decided to turn me into a servant who would cater to both you and him.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is true, Lidiya Petrovna. Not once in two years did you ever thank me for dinner. Not once did you praise me. Not once did you even call me by name. To you, I was always ‘that girl’ or ‘your wife.’ And your son went along with it.”
My mother-in-law said nothing, but her eyes burned with anger.
“And now,” I continued, “your precious son is free. You can cook his steamed meals again, iron his shirts, and decide which curtains he should hang. Exactly what you always dreamed of.”
“You… you ruined his life!”
“No, Lidiya Petrovna. I freed him from an unsuitable wife. And freed myself from an unsuitable husband. Everyone’s happy.”
She jumped up from the couch.
“He’ll come back to you! You’ll regret this!”
“If he does, I’ll send him right back. I need a husband, not a child I have to raise.”
Lidiya Petrovna grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
“And remember,” I shouted after her, “don’t come here again. Next time, I simply won’t open the door.”
The door slammed. And I sat down on the couch and… laughed. For the first time in two years, I felt free.
Seryozha called for a week, trying to convince me to “talk things over.” But there was nothing left to discuss. I filed for divorce.
And a month later, I ran into a mutual acquaintance at the store.
“Anya!” she said happily. “I heard you and Seryozha divorced? He’s living with his mother now?”
“Yes,” I smiled. “They finally found their happiness.”
“And you don’t regret it?”
I thought. Do I regret the two years wasted? That I endured for so long? That I didn’t realize sooner you can’t build a family with someone who doesn’t see you as a person?
“No,” I answered. “I don’t regret it. It was an important lesson.”
Now I know: respect in a family isn’t a luxury — it’s a necessity. And if a man can’t protect his wife from his own mother, then he’s not ready to be a husband.
And Lidiya Petrovna got exactly what she wanted: complete control over her son. Let her enjoy it.
