— I saw it with my own eyes just yesterday: your “poor” mother was briskly strolling down the alley with her friend, laughing out loud. And today, on my birthday, she’s suddenly at death’s door? How convenient!
Larisa was a Scorpio. Not only by horoscope, but by her very nature—sharp, closed off, intolerant of hypocrisy and falsehood. She was already tired of how people, as soon as they learned her birth date, would immediately roll their eyes:
— Oh, a Scorpio! Well, that explains everything.
They slapped labels on her: jealous, vindictive, dangerous. Perhaps that was precisely why she preferred to celebrate her birthday—which fell on a gloomy November day—in an exclusively family setting. Or rather, in the company of just one person: her husband, Nikita.
She had been married for three years. She loved Nikita with that kind of devoted love. He was her safe harbor, the person who saw the vulnerable soul beneath the thorns and was not afraid of it.
But her mother-in-law, Olga Vladimirovna, had never been thrilled about their union from the very beginning. Larisa keenly sensed her cool, appraising attitude, but there was nothing she could do—and she didn’t want to. She had her own full, vibrant life: an interesting job at a design studio, hobbies like embroidery and sports, and loyal, time-tested friends. She had no intention of proving anything to anyone.
After two years of marriage, she and Nikita finally scraped together enough for a down payment and bought an apartment. Small but cozy—a one-room flat right in the city center, in an old but solid building with high ceilings. Larisa was over the moon.
As soon as Olga Vladimirovna heard the news from her son, she frowned at once:
— A one-room apartment? — she said with such disdain, as if they had bought a shed. — I told you, you should have gotten at least a two-bedroom, or even a three-bedroom in a new district. The air is better there, and there’s space for children.
— Mom, we like it here, — Nikita replied gently. — And it’s only a five-minute walk to Larisa’s job.
— Her job! — the mother-in-law snorted. — She won’t be going to work for much longer. You should be thinking about children. There probably won’t even be room for a stroller in that place.
Standing by her new fireplace (decorative, admittedly), Larisa felt the familiar shiver of irritation run down her spine as she listened to her husband’s retelling. She took a deep breath.
— We agreed that we wouldn’t have children until we’re thirty. First we need to get on our feet and build a financial safety net.
— I understand that. But Mom… she keeps insisting. Are you trying to make us fight or what? I don’t get it…
Larisa stubbornly pressed her lips together. She didn’t start a scandal. She simply stood her ground, and fortunately, Nikita was on her side. She looked around her small, bright apartment and then at her husband, who was smiling and holding her hand.
Olga Vladimirovna didn’t let up. Like a true strategist, she tested her son’s defenses again and again—calling to complain about loneliness, criticizing Larisa’s interior choices, hinting that normal women her age were already pushing strollers. But to her great disappointment, Nikita didn’t fall for the provocations. His love for his wife and their shared plans proved stronger than his mother’s manipulations.
And then the woman decided to strike at the most vulnerable spot—to ruin her daughter-in-law’s birthday, that hated holiday they celebrated without her.
Two weeks before Larisa’s birthday, Olga Vladimirovna called her son, sighing tragically:
— Son, disaster! The refrigerator has completely broken down! The repairman said there’s no point fixing it. And how are we supposed to live without a fridge? All the food will spoil! And on top of that, your father’s salary has been delayed, just our luck.
After lamenting her fate and hinting at financial hardship, she wheedled a new, rather expensive refrigerator out of Nikita. The expense seriously hit his and Larisa’s budget, and the gift Nikita had picked out for his wife—an elegant gold pendant—had to be forgotten.
Then Larisa’s birthday arrived. That morning, there was another call from his mother. Olga Vladimirovna’s voice sounded weak and sickly.
— Nikitushka, I feel so awful… My heart is stabbing, my head is spinning. Could you come over? I’m scared to be alone. Your father will be late today. He doesn’t think about me at all…
Of course, her son rushed over almost immediately. He took time off work, disrupting all his plans, and sat by his mother’s bed until evening, bringing her water, checking her blood pressure, listening to her quiet moans and complaints. Whenever he prepared to leave, Olga Vladimirovna’s condition would immediately worsen. She would clutch her heart, complain of weakness, and beg her son not to leave her.
Nikita was visibly nervous. He kept checking the time, anxiety tightening his throat. Larisa was waiting for him at home. They had planned a romantic candlelit dinner, and he hadn’t even bought flowers yet. In his pocket lay only a pitiful substitute for a gift—a cosmetics store gift certificate, bought in haste at the nearest mall.
— Mom, I really have to go home… — he tried to object, but the sight of his mother’s pale, suffering face made him fall silent.
In the end, unable to take it anymore, he quietly stepped into the kitchen and softly called his wife.
— Larisa, I’m sorry, Mom’s not feeling well, I can’t leave her, — he began guiltily.
At first, there was silence on the line. Then Larisa, barely containing her fury, hissed:
— I saw it with my own eyes just yesterday: your “poor” mother was briskly strolling down the alley with her friend, laughing out loud. And today, on my birthday, she’s suddenly at death’s door? How convenient!
Without listening further, Larisa abruptly hung up.
Nikita stood in the middle of his parents’ kitchen, torn between his duty to his mother and the woman he loved. He felt trapped. In desperation, he called his father, Pavel Petrovich.
— Dad, can you leave work a bit early today? Mom’s not well, and I really need to go home… It’s Larisa’s birthday.
His father snorted in surprise:
— What’s wrong with her? She was perfectly healthy this morning, stuffing herself with pancakes…
But Nikita was no longer listening. As soon as Pavel Petrovich stepped into the apartment, Nikita tossed out a hurried “thanks” and practically flew out the door, racing down the stairs with the ill-fated certificate clenched in his pocket. He understood he was late. That his wife’s trust—so carefully guarded—had cracked. And the cause was not illness, but his mother’s well-planned performance.
— And what did you come here for? — Olga Vladimirovna asked her husband bluntly as he stood in the bedroom doorway.
— Olya, what’s with the drama? The son is happy with this Larisa—so let him be. Why are you tormenting him? You’re not hurting Larisa, you’re hurting your own son.
Nikita opened the apartment door. The entryway was dark, but warm light spilled from the kitchen. He froze on the threshold, holding his breath. Larisa was sitting at a table set for one. Two candles burned in front of her, a single wine glass stood nearby, and she was calmly eating rolls and sushi—the meal they had presumably planned to share.
— Larisa… — he began softly, stepping closer.
She didn’t look at him, continuing her meal. The air in the kitchen was thick and icy despite the candle flames.
— Forgive me, I… — Nikita tried again, but the words stuck in his throat. He placed a luxurious bouquet of scarlet roses on the edge of the table, bought at the nearest flower shop. Larisa didn’t even glance at the flowers. Then he pulled the certificate from his pocket and placed it beside her plate.
Only then did Larisa slowly raise her eyes to him. There was no anger in them—only deep fatigue and disappointment.
— You understand that this isn’t about the gifts, — her voice was quiet and even, without a hint of reproach, which made it hurt even more. — It’s about your attitude toward me. I wanted to spend this day only with you. And you chose to spend it with your mother, who was simply pretending to be sick.
— I couldn’t just abandon her! — Nikita burst out, overwhelmed by guilt and excuses. — I wasn’t sure it was an act! What if she really was unwell? I’d never have forgiven myself!
Larisa took a sip of wine and set the glass down with a soft clink.
— Do you want to call your father right now? — she suggested. — Ask him what his seriously ill wife is doing at this very moment?
Nikita stubbornly shook his head. He knew perfectly well where this conversation was headed and was afraid to hear the answer. Without another word, Larisa pushed back her chair, stood up, and, without looking at either the flowers or the certificate, went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She didn’t even put the roses in a vase. They remained lying on the table like a silent reproach, slowly wilting…
And for several more days, an icy silence reigned in the apartment. Larisa barely spoke to Nikita, replying in monosyllables and acting as if he didn’t exist. He felt like a ghost in his own home.
The very next day, Olga Vladimirovna herself called her son, sounding radiant and pleased.
— Son, thank you for not abandoning your old mother yesterday, — she cooed sweetly. — I’m lonely, I’m sick… You’re my only support.
Nikita listened in silence, staring out the window at the gray November sky.
— By the way, — she continued casually, with a faint note of mockery in her voice, — how did Larisa’s birthday go yesterday? Did you celebrate well?
At that moment, everything finally fell into place in Nikita’s mind, forming one bleak, unmistakable picture. It wasn’t the event itself that mattered to her, but whether she had managed to ruin it.
— We celebrated well… — Nikita said very distinctly and hung up.
He stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the locked bedroom door. At last, he understood. He understood that his mother had been waging a war against his wife. And in that war, she was ready to destroy everything in her path—including his own happiness. And he, with his blind obedience, had been helping her do it.
For several days in a row, Nikita tried to make amends. He cooked breakfast, cleaned the apartment, and attempted timid conversations, but Larisa remained cold and distant. Her silence was driving him mad.
Then Nikita took a desperate step. One evening, he went to meet his wife right outside her office. When Larisa saw him, she was about to turn away, but he gently took her by the hand.
— Let’s just have dinner. No excuses, just dinner. Please.
She agreed without a word. They went to a rooftop restaurant atop a skyscraper, with a panoramic view of the night city. The lights of the metropolis shimmered below like a scattering of precious gems. At a table by the window, Nikita finally said everything that had been weighing on his soul.
— Forgive me, — he said, looking her straight in the eyes. — I was blind and foolish. I let my mother manipulate me and hurt you on the most important day. But I understand everything now, and I want to fix it.
He paused and smiled.
— Let’s celebrate your birthday now. Right here. All over again.
Larisa looked at him, and for the first time in days, something warm flickered in her eyes. The corners of her lips trembled into a faint smile.
— All right, — she agreed.
They ordered dinner—the most exquisite dishes on the menu. They talked about work, about plans, about everything in the world except his mother. The tension gradually melted away.
Then the waiter brought dessert—an elegant tiramisu with a single candle on it. Suddenly, several waiters surrounded their table and began singing “Happy Birthday.” Larisa, blushing deeply, shyly lowered her eyes, feeling warmth spread across her cheeks. It was the most spontaneous, unexpected, and in its own way beautiful birthday of her life.
That evening, she truly forgave her husband. On the way home, Nikita bought her an enormous bouquet of white roses, and she climbed the steps to her apartment holding it to her chest, happy and at peace.
At home, another surprise awaited her. Sitting on the doorstep was a tiny fluffy bundle—a gray kitten with huge green eyes. He looked at Larisa timidly and let out a plaintive meow. She had long dreamed of such a pet but had never dared to get one, afraid of the responsibility.
— This is… your main gift, — Nikita smiled. — You often said you wanted a kitten.
Larisa dropped to her knees, and the kitten immediately climbed into her arms and began to purr, settling comfortably on her lap. There wasn’t a trace of resentment toward her husband left in her heart.
When Olga Vladimirovna learned of her son’s latest reckless decision, she responded at once with another dose of criticism.
— A kitten? In such a small apartment? Have you lost your mind? That’s dirt, fur everywhere! Throw it out on the street before you get attached! You need a child, not a kitten!
But Nikita, for the first time in his life, replied calmly and firmly:
— Mom, this is Larisa’s and my home, and these are our decisions. We like our kitten. And yes, I’m no longer going to discuss our personal life with you. Because I don’t want to lose my family.
He hung up without listening to his mother’s indignant objections. For the first time, he felt not like a boy being controlled, but like a man building his own happiness. And in the living room, Larisa was laughing and playing with the newest member of their family. His wife’s happy laughter was the greatest reward he could have wished for.
