“Son, I found a stove for 175,000,” the mother-in-law said—and my husband silently took the money out of my wallet and handed it to her.
Svetlana came home late from work—outside, October twilight was already thickening, and the wind was driving wet leaves across the asphalt. Kicking off her shoes in the entryway, she walked into the kitchen and froze on the threshold. Her husband Dmitry was sitting at the table, and opposite him sat his mother, Galina Ivanovna, a cup in her hand and a self-satisfied look on her face.
“Ah, Sveta, finally,” her mother-in-law didn’t even turn her head. “We’ve been waiting here for half an hour already.”
“Hello,” Svetlana said, taking off her jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair. “Dima, you could’ve warned me your mom was coming.”
“I didn’t know myself,” her husband shrugged without looking up from his phone.
Galina Ivanovna took a noisy sip of tea and set the cup on the table with a light clink.
“Listen, Dimmy, I found such a thing,” her mother-in-law scooted closer to her son. “There’s a stove at the store on Sovetskaya—on sale. Can you imagine, only one hundred seventy-five thousand! My old one has completely died, the burners don’t work.”
Svetlana slowly lowered herself into a chair. The amount was said so casually, as if it were a kilo of apples and not money they’d been setting aside for months.
“That’s expensive,” Svetlana began carefully. “Galina Ivanovna, maybe we should look for something cheaper?”
“Cheaper?” her mother-in-law finally looked at her daughter-in-law, her gaze cold. “You want me cooking on some cheap Chinese piece of metal? My back hurts—I need decent appliances.”
Dmitry stayed silent, still scrolling through his phone. Svetlana looked at her husband, hoping for at least some reaction, but he didn’t even blink.
“Dima,” she called softly. “That’s our vacation money.”
“Mom, maybe we really should look for something simpler?” her husband finally tore his eyes from the screen, but his voice sounded uncertain, as if he were asking out of politeness.
“Oh, Dimmy, come on,” Galina Ivanovna placed her hand on her son’s shoulder. “I’m doing this for you. I’ll come bake pies for you, cook soups. And with an old stove, that’s impossible.”
Svetlana clenched her hands under the table. Her mother-in-law had never cooked in their apartment—she came to drink tea and complain about the neighbors, prices, her health. But now she was playing the role of a caring mother so skillfully that Dmitry was already nodding.
“Alright, Mom,” her husband said, getting up and heading to the entryway.
“Where are you going?” Svetlana rose after him.
“We need money,” Dmitry tossed over his shoulder without turning around.
She didn’t have time to object—her husband had already opened the dresser where her bag was. He pulled out her wallet, unzipped it, and took out a thick bundle of bills cinched tightly with a rubber band. His movements were calm, routine, as if Dmitry did this every day.
“Dima, wait,” Svetlana stepped closer, but her voice came out too quiet.
Her husband returned to the kitchen and handed the money to his mother. Galina Ivanovna took the bills, counted them with her finger, and nodded.
“Good boy, son. I’ll go arrange it tomorrow.”
“Galina Ivanovna, that was our savings,” Svetlana stood in the kitchen doorway, trying to keep her voice even. “We were planning a trip.”
“Sveta, what selfishness,” her mother-in-law stood up, hiding the money in her purse. “You’re young and healthy—you’ll go to the sea a hundred more times. But I need a stove now.”
“But why should I pay for it?”
“You?” Galina Ivanovna smirked. “My son handed over the money. Or do you think everything in a family is only yours?”
Svetlana looked at Dmitry, waiting for him to say at least one word in her defense. But he stood there with his eyes lowered and said nothing.
“Dima, say something,” she asked.
“Mom, really, don’t be mad,” her husband lifted his head, but he was speaking to his mother, not his wife. “Sveta’s just tired. Work was hard today.”
Galina Ivanovna nodded, zipped her purse, and headed for the door.
“Alright, I’ll go. Thank you, Dimmy—you’re the best.”
The door slammed. Svetlana remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at her husband.
“Why didn’t you ask me?” she said quietly.
“Mom needed help,” Dmitry shrugged. “You wouldn’t refuse.”
“I would’ve liked to be asked, at least.”
“Sveta, don’t make a mountain out of a molehill,” her husband waved his hand and left the kitchen.
Svetlana sank into a chair and looked at the empty countertop. The cup Galina Ivanovna had been drinking from sat there with tea dregs in it. Svetlana took the dishes to the sink, feeling a dull irritation growing inside her with nowhere to go.
The next two weeks passed quietly. Svetlana tried not to return to the subject of the money—Dmitry brushed her off every time, said, “It’s nothing,” and “Why ruin relationships over nonsense?” She threw herself into work, came home late, and went to bed earlier than her husband just to avoid talking.
One evening Galina Ivanovna showed up again—without calling, without warning. Svetlana opened the door and saw her mother-in-law with heavy bags in her hands.
“Oh, Sveta, help me,” Galina Ivanovna held out one bag. “I brought firewood—for Dima’s shashlik.”
“What shashlik?” Svetlana took the bag and set it in the entryway. “We don’t have a grill.”
“What do you mean you don’t?” her mother-in-law shrugged off her jacket. “No big deal, we’ll buy one. Dima loves getting out into nature.”
Dmitry came out of the room, saw his mother, and smiled.
“Mom, why are you here?”
“Well, I brought the firewood. And there’s one more thing,” Galina Ivanovna walked into the kitchen without waiting to be invited.
Svetlana closed the door and followed her. Galina Ivanovna was already sitting at the table, pulling some papers out of her purse.
“Look, Dimmy—my neighbor, Valentina Sergeyevna, is selling a refrigerator. Almost new, only three years old. She’s moving in with her daughter, she doesn’t need it.”
“Mom, we already have a refrigerator,” Dmitry sat down opposite.
“We do, but it’s small,” Galina Ivanovna unfolded a sheet with a photo. “And this one’s big, double-compartment. It’ll be more convenient for you.”
Svetlana leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Galina Ivanovna, we don’t need a new refrigerator.”
“Sveta, you don’t understand,” her mother-in-law didn’t even glance toward her daughter-in-law. “Everything you have is tiny, inconvenient. And when you have kids, where will you put everything?”
“We don’t have kids yet,” Svetlana snapped.
“Well, you will,” Galina Ivanovna smiled and turned to her son. “Dimmy, you want proper appliances in the house, don’t you?”
Dmitry was silent, studying the photo. Svetlana felt tension squeeze at her temples. This conversation was painfully familiar—her mother-in-law suggested something, her husband stayed quiet, and then agreed.
“How much is it?” Dmitry finally asked.
“Eighty thousand,” Galina Ivanovna folded her hands on the table. “Valentina Sergeyevna will even give a discount if we take it right away.”
“We’re not buying a refrigerator,” Svetlana said firmly.
“Why not?” her mother-in-law finally turned to her, irritation flashing in her eyes. “What, you want my son living in poverty?”
“In poverty?” Svetlana straightened up. “Galina Ivanovna, we have everything. An apartment, furniture, appliances.”
“Old appliances,” her mother-in-law cut in. “Dimmy deserves better.”
Svetlana looked at her husband, but he was studying the photo again, as if trying to disappear into the paper.
“Dima, tell your mother we don’t need a refrigerator.”
“Sveta, well… what if we really do buy it?” her husband finally looked up. “Ours is kind of old.”
“It’s four years old!”
“So what?” Galina Ivanovna stood up. “The sooner you replace it, the better. Otherwise it’ll break later and you’ll have to overpay for repairs.”
Svetlana clenched her fists. Her mother-in-law’s logic was absurd, but Dmitry was already nodding along.
“Alright, Mom—tell Valentina Sergeyevna we’ll take it.”
“Good boy,” Galina Ivanovna patted her son’s shoulder. “You’ll bring the money tomorrow?”
“Dima, we didn’t discuss this,” Svetlana stepped toward the table.
“Sveta, enough,” her husband stood up. “It’s a small thing. Why make a scandal?”
“A small thing? Eighty thousand is a small thing?”
“We’ll earn it back,” Dmitry looked away.
Galina Ivanovna gathered the papers, zipped her purse, and headed out.
“Alright, I’ll go. Dimmy, I’m waiting tomorrow.”
Svetlana watched her mother-in-law leave, then turned to her husband.
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Talk about what?” Dmitry shrugged. “We need a refrigerator.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Sveta, you just don’t want my mom involved in our life,” her husband walked past his wife and disappeared into the room.
Svetlana stayed standing in the kitchen, staring at the empty table. A feeling of powerlessness washed over her slowly, like thick fog with no solid ground to grab onto.
She went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and stared at the wall. Dmitry lay there with his back to the window, pretending to be asleep. Svetlana knew he wasn’t sleeping—he was just avoiding the conversation. It was easier that way: keep quiet, wait it out, and in the morning act like nothing happened.
Minutes dragged on. Rain rustled outside the window; somewhere below, the building entrance door slammed. Svetlana got up, took her phone, and texted her friend Katya: “Can I stay at your place tonight?”
The reply came almost instantly: “Of course. I’m waiting.”
Svetlana pulled a small bag from the closet and put in a change of underwear, her makeup bag, and a charger. Her movements were precise, without fuss. Dmitry remained motionless, but Svetlana saw his shoulders tense.
“Where are you going?” Dmitry finally asked without turning around.
“To Katya’s.”
“Why?”
“I need to think,” Svetlana zipped the bag and headed for the door.
“Sveta, are you seriously leaving over a refrigerator?”
She turned around. Dmitry propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her in confusion, as if his wife were throwing a childish tantrum…
“It’s not about the refrigerator,” Svetlana said quietly. “It’s about the fact that you don’t even see the problem.”
“What problem?” her husband sat up on the bed. “Mom helped—she found a good deal. What’s wrong with that?”
“You took the money without asking me. For the second time.”
“Svet, it’s not like it’s someone else’s money,” Dmitry ran a hand through his hair. “We live together.”
“We live in my apartment,” Svetlana reminded him. “And the money for the stove was mine.”
“Oh, here we go,” her husband leaned back against the pillow. “Your apartment, your money. Maybe the air in the apartment is yours too?”
Svetlana didn’t answer. She turned and walked out. She closed the door softly, without slamming it. The stairwell smelled of dampness and old paint. She went down the steps, stepped outside, and drew in the cold night air.
At Katya’s it was warm and smelled like coffee. Her friend opened the door in her pajamas, hair messy, and silently hugged Svetlana.
“Come in. Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea,” Svetlana said, shrugging off her jacket and heading to the kitchen.
Katya put the kettle on, took out two mugs, and sat down across from her.
“Talk.”
Svetlana told her everything: the stove, the refrigerator, the way Dmitry didn’t even think he needed to ask permission. She spoke evenly, without tears, but her voice trembled on certain words.
“Sveta, do you realize this won’t change?” Katya wrapped her hands around her mug. “Galina Ivanovna knows now she can show up and ask for anything. And Dima will give it to her, because that’s what he’s used to.”
“I know,” Svetlana nodded. “I just don’t want to believe it’s that bad.”
“Do you want to keep living like this?”
Svetlana was silent, studying the pattern on the tablecloth. The question hung in the air—heavy and unavoidable.
“No,” she said at last, barely above a whisper. “I don’t.”
Katya reached across the table and squeezed her friend’s hand.
“Then you know what you have to do.”
In the morning, Svetlana woke up on Katya’s couch, and the first thing she saw was her phone screen—five missed calls from Dmitry. She didn’t listen to them. She simply set the phone down and got up.
Katya was already in the kitchen with her laptop.
“Morning. Sleep okay?”
“Fine,” Svetlana poured herself water from a pitcher. “Thanks for letting me stay.”
“No problem. Listen, I was thinking,” Katya closed the laptop. “Maybe you should stay with me for now—until you figure out what to do.”
“No,” Svetlana shook her head. “That’s my apartment. I’m going back there.”
“And what will you say to Dima?”
“Nothing. I’ll pack my things and tell him it’s over.”
Katya nodded and didn’t argue. She knew her friend well enough: if Svetlana had decided, she wouldn’t change her mind.
Svetlana returned home closer to noon. The apartment was empty—Dmitry had probably gone to work. She went into the bedroom, pulled a large travel bag from the closet, and started packing: clothes, shoes, makeup, documents. She moved quickly, efficiently, as if following a plan she’d made long ago.
On the kitchen counter lay receipts. Svetlana picked one up—the stove really had been bought; 175,000 had gone to the store on Sovetskaya Street. Next to it was a second receipt: the refrigerator, 80,000, issued in Dmitry’s name.
She set the papers back down and went into the room. From a drawer she took a notebook, tore out a page, and wrote briefly: “If your mom matters more, let her do the cooking.”
She didn’t sign it. She left the note on the kitchen table beside the receipts. She left the apartment keys there too.
Svetlana looked around the room one last time. Three years of married life had passed here, but now the place felt чужим—foreign, as if she’d never lived there at all. She took her bag, walked out, and closed the door.
Dmitry started calling that evening. Svetlana rejected the first call. The second one too. The third time he texted: “Sveta, where are you? What’s with the note? Let’s talk.”
She didn’t reply. She set the phone face down and got on with things—unpacking at Katya’s, looking for a rental apartment, calling acquaintances. Katya offered to let her stay, but Svetlana refused. She didn’t want to be a burden.
Two days later Dmitry texted again: “Sveta, this is stupid. Destroying a relationship over nonsense. Let’s meet and talk it through.”
Svetlana read the message and smirked. Nonsense. To Dmitry, everything was nonsense—money, decisions, his wife’s feelings. She blocked his number and finally exhaled.
Another week later, Svetlana ran into Valentina Sergeyevna by chance—the very neighbor of Galina Ivanovna who had been selling the refrigerator. The woman was standing by the entrance with heavy shopping bags, and Svetlana helped her carry them to the door.
“Thank you, dear,” Valentina Sergeyevna set the bags down. “You’re Svetlana, Galina Ivanovna’s daughter-in-law, aren’t you?”
“Ex,” Svetlana said shortly.
“Oh, I see,” the woman nodded. “I heard you and your husband split up. It’s a shame, of course.”
“It happens,” Svetlana shrugged.
“Yeah… And that refrigerator, by the way, is still sitting there—unplugged,” Valentina Sergeyevna sighed. “Galina Ivanovna says the technician is expensive, and Dmitry just can’t get around to it. And they say the stove hasn’t been hooked up either.”
Svetlana nodded slowly. The picture came together perfectly: the money was spent, the appliances were bought, but no one was going to use them—because there was no one to cook, and no reason to.
“Thanks for telling me,” Svetlana said, turning to leave.
“Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” Valentina Sergeyevna called after her.
Svetlana stepped outside, and the autumn wind hit her in the face. She zipped up her jacket and smiled. A stove for 175,000, a refrigerator for 80,000—now all of it was gathering dust somewhere in a corner, useless and unnecessary. Galina Ivanovna got what she wanted, but she never started cooking for her son. And Dmitry was left alone—with appliances no one connected, and with a mother who only came to ask for things.
Svetlana walked down the street, and for the first time in a long while, she felt light. She had made the right decision. A life without constant уступки—concessions—and without чужие руки в кошельке—someone else’s hands in your wallet—was worth far more than any stove.
