“So you’re suggesting I should drive over there and humbly thank your mother for daring to voice the truth about her own inadequacy?”
“Should I set the table with the porcelain?” Vera stood in the middle of the kitchen, nervously tapping her nails against the counter. “The wedding set?”
Ilya looked up from his phone.
“Mom won’t notice. Just make something normal.”
“Normal?” Vera let out a short laugh. “In five years, I still haven’t figured out what your mother considers normal.”
Ilya put his phone aside and walked over to his wife, placing an arm around her shoulders. He smelled of his usual cologne.
“Mom’s just… peculiar. She doesn’t nitpick you out of malice, you have to cut her some slack.”
“Cut her slack?” Vera slipped out of his embrace and turned to face him. “For the fact that she finds a way to humiliate me every single time? Last time she brought me an apron, saying, ‘You should probably learn to cook at least something decent.’ And before that, she sent me a book called ‘How to Be the Perfect Wife.’”
“So what?” Ilya shrugged. “They’re just gifts. Treat them as such.”
“They’re not gifts, Ilya. They’re hints. Very transparent hints.”
Vera opened the fridge and began pulling out ingredients. Today she wanted to cook something special. Maybe if the dish was refined enough, her mother-in-law would at least stay silent instead of immediately criticizing everything like she always did.
“You know, sometimes I feel like you deliberately search for hidden meaning in her words,” Ilya said as he poured himself coffee. “She just wants things to be good for me.”
“Then why can’t she accept that things are already good for you—with me?” Vera grabbed a knife and began furiously chopping vegetables. “In five years, she hasn’t said a single positive thing about me.”
“Well, I’m sure she has. You probably just didn’t notice,” Ilya waved her off.
“Really?” Vera set the knife down and looked at him. “Name even one time your mother praised me. Or at least didn’t find a reason to criticize me.”
Ilya stayed silent, stirring sugar into his cup with great concentration.
“Exactly,” Vera nodded. “Because it’s never happened.”
She returned to her cooking while Ilya walked out of the kitchen, tossing back over his shoulder:
“She’ll be here at six. Try to be… well, you know.”
“Be what?” Vera asked without turning. “Invisible?”
All she heard in response was a sigh.
Vera glanced at the clock—she had four hours left before her mother-in-law’s visit. Margarita Stepanovna was never late; she arrived precisely on time, as if just to scold her daughter-in-law if even one thing wasn’t ready.
She decided to make duck with apples and oranges—a dish she had once learned in cooking classes. Along with it: potato gratin and an arugula salad. For dessert—a chocolate fondant with ice cream. Not that Margarita Stepanovna would appreciate her efforts, but at least it would be harder to find fault.
Vera put on an apron, turned on some music, and immersed herself in cooking. It always helped her calm down—the rhythmic motions, the aroma of spices, the clear algorithm of actions. While working, she almost forgot about the upcoming visit.
By five o’clock, everything was ready. The duck was golden in the oven, the gratin oozed cheese sauce, and the fondants waited in the fridge. Vera quickly took a shower and changed into a beige dress that complimented her figure but was modest enough for meeting her mother-in-law. Margarita Stepanovna despised “vulgarity” in clothing—though her definition of vulgarity was very flexible.
Exactly at six, the doorbell rang.
“Get it, I’m not ready yet!” Ilya shouted from the bathroom.
Vera took a deep breath, exhaled, and went to the door. On the threshold stood Margarita Stepanovna—a tall, slender woman with perfectly styled hair. Despite being sixty, she looked fifty—a result of years of investment in cosmetologists and plastic surgeons.
“Good evening, Margarita Stepanovna,” Vera said with a strained smile. “Please, come in.”
Her mother-in-law gave her a scrutinizing look.
“Hello, Vera,” she said coolly as she walked into the apartment. “What’s with your hair? New hairstyle? It looks… interesting.”
Vera ran her hand over her perfectly styled curls. First jab delivered, she thought. The evening has only just begun.
Margarita Stepanovna walked into the living room, inspecting the space like a supervisor.
“Do you even dust the picture frames?” She ran her finger along one. “Is it really that hard to keep things clean?”
Vera clenched her teeth but stayed silent. She had cleaned just yesterday, and there was no dust anywhere.
“And where is my son?” Margarita lowered herself gracefully into an armchair, carefully adjusting the folds of her dark blue dress.
“Ilya will be out in a moment,” Vera replied. “Would you like an aperitif?”
“I don’t drink before dinner, you know that,” her mother-in-law pursed her lips. “At my age, one must watch one’s figure. Though—” she gave Vera a pointed look, “perhaps you should consider that as well.”
Vera felt anger boiling inside but forced herself to stay composed. Not today. Not yet.
“Mom!” Ilya appeared in the doorway, beaming. “I’m so happy to see you!”
Margarita Stepanovna transformed instantly. Her face lit up with a smile; she stood and opened her arms to her son.
“Ilyusha, my boy! Have you lost weight? Are they not feeding you properly?”
Vera rolled her eyes and went back to the kitchen to set the table. Through the slightly open door, she could hear her mother-in-law questioning Ilya about his job, his health, his plans—listening to his every answer with delight, gasping in admiration. Why couldn’t she at least pretend to be that polite with her?
When dinner was ready, Vera called them to the table.
“Oh, you even laid out a tablecloth,” commented Margarita as she took her seat. “Progress.”
Vera placed the plates of aromatic duck, gratin, and salad before them. The dishes looked like something from the cover of a culinary magazine—she had really put her heart into it.
“Duck with apples and oranges,” Announced Vera. “Bon appétit.”
Margarita looked at the plate, then picked up her fork and knife, cut off the tiniest piece of meat, and put it in her mouth. Vera and Ilya waited for the verdict.
“Dry,” the mother-in-law finally declared. “And lacking seasoning. Duck should be juicy.”
Vera exhaled slowly. The duck was perfect, and they both knew it.
“Mom, I think it’s delicious,” Ilya tried to defend her, stuffing a large piece into his mouth.
“You’re just not spoiled by good food,” Margarita waved him off. “At your age, your father was already a regular at the best restaurants in our city—he took me there every Friday.”
She dramatically pushed the plate away and took a sip of water.
“You’re not going to eat?” Vera asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.
“I’m afraid it’s inedible,” replied Margarita. “But don’t be upset—not everyone is meant to be a good cook.”
Vera felt something snap inside her. Hours of preparation, all her effort—and this was the response.
“Mom, stop it,” Ilya finally said. “Vera tried.”
“She did,” Margarita nodded. “But the result… Ilyusha, you need a proper wife, not this… misunderstanding who can’t even cook a decent dinner.”
Vera’s fork hit the plate with a loud clang.
“Margarita Stepanovna,” she said, looking straight into her mother-in-law’s eyes, “I’m asking you to stop insulting me.”
“Oh, she talks back now!” Margarita turned to her son. “Do you see what she’s allowing herself?”
“Vera…” Ilya began warningly, but his wife cut him off:
“No, Ilya. I won’t tolerate this anymore. For five years I’ve been listening to how useless, incompetent, and unattractive I am. For five years I’ve been trying to please someone who decided to hate me before she even met me. This ends today.”
Margarita shot up so abruptly that her chair fell backward.
“You dare order me around?! You stole my boy, and now you think you have rights?!”
She lunged across the table, trying to scratch Vera’s face with her nails. Ilya barely managed to jump up and grab his mother’s wrists.
“Mom! Mom, stop!”
But Margarita had gone mad. She thrashed in his arms, screaming and twisting:
“Let me go! I’ll show her! I’ll teach her a lesson!”
“You see now who she really is?” Vera backed away, staring at the enraged woman. “A deranged lunatic! No wonder your father ran away from her!”
Those words hit Margarita like a bucket of ice water. She went limp in her son’s arms, then suddenly burst into tears.
“Did you hear that? Did you hear what she said?!” she pointed a trembling finger at Vera. “And you let her speak like that about your mother?!”
Without waiting for an answer, she tore herself from Ilya’s grip, grabbed her purse, and stormed out of the apartment, sobbing loudly.
Silence fell over the dining room. Vera looked at her husband, waiting for his reaction. Ilya stood still, staring at the overturned chair.
“Happy now?” Vera asked at last. “Now you’ve seen who your mother really is.”
Ilya slowly turned toward her, and she flinched at the expression on his face.
“No, Vera,” his voice was quiet, but steel rang in it. “Today I saw who you really are.”
—
The morning was cold. Vera lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Ilya hadn’t returned that night—after his mother left, he slammed the door too, saying he needed to clear his head. She hadn’t asked where he was going. She knew.
The phone on the nightstand rang. Vera reached out, saw her husband’s name, and declined the call.
Not now. She wasn’t ready for round two.
A minute later, the phone rang again. Vera sighed and picked up.
“Listening.”
“We need to talk,” Ilya’s voice sounded tired. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Alright,” Vera replied and hung up.
She got out of bed, made it, washed her face, and brewed coffee. Her movements were mechanical, drilled into habit after years of living together. Fragments of last night kept replaying in her head—shouting, insults, the deranged look on Margarita’s face as she tried to claw at her.
The sound of a key turning in the lock pulled her from her thoughts. Ilya stood in the doorway—unshaven, red-eyed, his shirt wrinkled.
“You look terrible,” Vera noted flatly.
“You’re not exactly radiant either,” Ilya retorted as he walked inside. “Got coffee?”
Vera silently poured him a cup. They sat at the kitchen table, staring at each other like strangers.
“Mom cried all night,” Ilya finally said. “She had to call a doctor, her blood pressure shot up.”
Vera took a sip of her coffee.
“And you expect me to feel guilty?”
“I expect you to show at least some compassion!” Ilya slammed his palm on the table, making the cups rattle. “She’s an elderly woman with a heart condition!”
“And I have a shattered soul from her constant humiliation,” Vera replied calmly. “But that’s never bothered you.”
Ilya took a deep breath, clearly trying to restrain himself.
“Look, I understand things are complicated between you two—”
“Complicated?” Vera let out a dry laugh. “Ilya, your mother hates me. She does everything she can to destroy me emotionally and pull you back to her. That’s not ‘complicated,’ that’s abuse.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Ilya waved it off. “Mom’s just… the way she is. She has her own ideas about what a wife should be like.”
“And I don’t fit those ideas, and never will,” Vera finished for him. “So she thinks she has the right to insult me, humiliate me, and last night nearly scratched my face off.”
Ilya ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier.
“Vera, listen… Mom called me this morning after I left her place. She was still crying. She said she’ll never forgive you for what you said. You have to apologize.”
Vera stared at him in disbelief.
“Apologize? Me?”
“Yes, you,” Ilya straightened in his chair. “You’ll go to her and ask forgiveness for calling her… what was it?”
“A deranged psycho,” Vera reminded him. “Which is true.”
Ilya shot up from his chair, face flushing with anger.
“She’s my mother! You have no right to talk about her like that!”
“And she has the right to treat me the way she does?” Vera also stood, locking eyes with him. “Why do you never defend me from her, but always take her side?”
“Because she’s my family!” Ilya shouted.
“And what am I?” Vera asked quietly.
Ilya fell silent, turning toward the window.
“There’s your answer,” Vera nodded. “I already knew.”
“Let’s just go to her,” Ilya said tiredly. “You’ll apologize, she’ll apologize too, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”
Vera looked at his hunched shoulders—at the man who once swore to love and protect her. Something inside her finally broke.
“So you want me to go and kneel before your mommy because I dared tell the truth about how unhinged she is? Never.”
“But that’s what needs to be done!”
“I’m not going to apologize for defending myself from someone who attacked me. I won’t go—and that’s final.” She crossed her arms.
Ilya slowly turned, his eyes narrowing.
“Vera, this is not up for discussion. You insulted my mother—you will apologize.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m done being your and your mother’s punching bag. If you care so much about her feelings, maybe you should move in with her.”
Ilya stepped forward, looming over her.
“Have you forgotten whose apartment this is? Who pays the mortgage?”
“We both do,” Vera shot back. “And I won’t live with someone who doesn’t respect me.”
“Then pack your things and get out,” Ilya said coldly. “If you can’t manage a simple apology.”
Vera looked at the man standing before her and didn’t recognize him. Where was the Ilya she fell in love with five years ago? The man she once dreamed of building a future with?
“Oh no,” she said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere. This is our apartment. But you—” she pointed at the front door, “can go to your mommy. Since she’s more important than your wife.”
Vera had never imagined she could throw her husband out. But that’s exactly what she did—she packed Ilya’s things, put them in a suitcase, and set it by the door.
“This is insane,” Ilya stared at the suitcase in disbelief. “You’re seriously kicking me out of my own apartment?”
“No. I’m asking you to make a choice,” Vera leaned against the wall. “Me or your mother. Things can’t go on like this.”
“Is this an ultimatum?” Ilya’s face twisted.
“This is reality,” Vera replied calmly. “I will no longer put up with her behavior, and you will no longer demand that I humiliate myself in front of her.”
Ilya stared at his wife for a long moment. Something in his eyes shifted — from anger to confusion, from confusion to something Vera couldn’t decipher.
“Mom was always there for me,” he finally said. “When my father left, she raised me alone, worked two jobs…”
“And now she demands a lifetime payment for it,” Vera finished. “Ilya, I understand your gratitude. But that doesn’t mean you have to let her control our lives.”
“You don’t understand,” he shook his head. “You can’t understand.”
Vera sighed.
“Maybe. But I know one thing — I don’t deserve the way she treats me. And you know that too.”
Ilya reached for the suitcase handle.
“I can’t choose between the two of you.”
“You already did,” Vera said quietly. “Every time you stayed silent when she humiliated me. Every time you took her side against me. Every time you demanded that I endure and bend.”
She opened the door.
“If your mother is more important — go live with her. But I will not apologize for telling the truth.”
Ilya walked out without even looking back. Vera closed the door and leaned against it, slowly sliding down to the floor. Only now, when it was all over, did the trembling begin. She wrapped her arms around her knees and cried — for the first time in a long while.
A week passed in a strange daze. Vera went to work, came home, cooked dinner for one, watched shows. Ilya didn’t call. Didn’t text. She checked her phone. Got angry at herself for checking. Then checked again.
On the eighth day, the doorbell rang. Vera froze. Her heart jumped into her throat. She slowly walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Ilya.
“What do you want?” she asked without opening.
“To talk,” his voice was muffled. “Please, Vera.”
She hesitated, then unlocked the door. Ilya looked gaunt, exhausted. In his hands — a bouquet of her favorite pink roses.
“May I come in?”
Vera silently stepped aside. They went to the kitchen — the same place where their last argument had taken place.
“I’ve thought it all through,” Ilya began, setting the flowers on the table. “You were right.”
Vera crossed her arms.
“About what exactly?”
“About everything,” he sighed heavily. “Mom… She really did always treat you badly. And I ignored it because… it was easier.”
“Easier for whom?” Vera asked. “For you? For her? Certainly not for me.”
“I know,” Ilya nodded. “I talked to her. Really talked. I told her I won’t tolerate her behavior towards my wife anymore.”
“And what did she say?”
“That you bewitched me,” Ilya let out a bitter laugh. “That I’m betraying my own mother for a woman who will ruin my life.”
Vera shook her head.
“And you’re surprised? She’ll never change, Ilya.”
“I know,” he looked into her eyes. “That’s why I told her we’re cutting contact until she apologizes to you and starts treating you with respect.”
Vera stood silent, unsure how to respond. She had waited five years to hear those words.
“You really said that?”
“Yes,” Ilya rubbed his face with his hands. “I should’ve done it long ago. I’m sorry.”
Vera studied her husband, trying to understand what she felt. Anger? Relief? Doubt?
“Ilya,” she finally spoke, “I’m glad you talked to your mother. But this isn’t just about her. It’s about us. About the fact that you always chose her — always put her feelings above mine. How can I trust you not to do it again?”
Ilya reached out to take her hand, but she pulled away.
“No, let me finish. You went to her when I needed you. You demanded that I humble myself before someone who tried to attack me. You threatened to throw me out of our home. How can I trust you again?”
“I’m not asking you to trust me right away,” Ilya said softly. “I’m asking you to give me a chance to earn it back.”
Vera walked to the window, staring outside. She had loved this man once. Maybe she still did. But that wasn’t the point anymore.
“No,” she turned to him. “I can’t let you come back, Ilya. Too much has happened. Too much has been said. Your choice was already made.”
“Vera, I’m begging you…”
“Leave,” she pointed to the door. “Take your flowers and go.”
Ilya stood motionless, as if refusing to accept that it was over.
“I love you,” he said.
“And I loved you,” Vera replied. “But that wasn’t enough.”
She walked him to the door and closed it behind him — this time, for good.
