My Mother-in-Law’s Words
My mother-in-law uttered those words between the “for the birthday girl” toast and the “for mutual support” toast, loudly and with a smile, as if she were talking about the weather.
I froze, glass in hand. The guests were laughing; some were reaching to refill their glasses, others were serving themselves “Olivier” salad, while my chest tightened. I felt as if I wasn’t sitting at a festive table but standing at an open hatch—and someone was gently inviting me to step inside.
A Simple Formality
It was my mother-in-law’s birthday. A long table, a floral tablecloth, three kinds of salads, roasted chicken, grapes in a vase, and the obligatory champagne glasses—it was all as usual. Sergei and I arrived at six, as agreed. Already present were my mother-in-law’s sister with her husband—Aunt Lida and Uncle Yuri, their daughter Sasha with her new boyfriend, and, of course, Ira—the daughter of my mother-in-law’s younger brother, Uncle Vova. Ira is twenty-two, studying at some institute (no one really knows which one exactly).
She came wearing a knitted striped sweater and sat closer to my mother-in-law. Sweet, smiling, and naïve—if you didn’t know how easily she forgets “borrowed” money and disappears from chats when it’s time to do something.
We had just raised our glasses “for the birthday girl,” everyone was a bit tipsy and laughing. And then came this phrase: “Go ahead and register Ira at your place; she needs to get her diploma.”
I turned to her in perplexity, as if I’d misheard. But my mother-in-law had already leaned back in her chair and was businesslike adjusting the napkin on her lap.
— What’s the big deal? It’s just a formality. She won’t be living with you, mind you! She’s in exam session, and without a Moscow registration they won’t let her. They’ve tightened everything up over there now. A couple of months, no more.
Sergei sat with an expression as if he had just been pulled out from under the ice. He clearly knew, yet hoped that his mother would say it “later.” Not in front of everyone. Not now. Not like that.
— You are such a kind soul, Lena, — my mother-in-law added, smiling as if handing me a medal for honesty.
— We… will think about it, — I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
— Of course! I never doubted it! — she raised her glass. — Here’s to mutual support!
Everyone smiled, even Ira—as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But inside, I felt a chill. Around me, people were talking, eating, pouring more drinks, and I felt as if I were in a movie where the sound is turned off and only one—the internal one—remains. That dull hum when you realize: someone has already decided something for you. And you haven’t even opened your mouth.
Sergei wasn’t looking at me. He was buried in his phone. Then in his salad. Then at the bottle.
I sat with a strained smile, staring at the sparkling garland on the window, thinking of only one thing—how quickly everything had lost its festive feel.
A Couple—How Many Is That?
We drove home in silence. Sergei kept his eyes on the road, as if hoping to dissolve in those streetlights. I looked out the window but saw nothing. My head was buzzing not from champagne but from his mother’s words. From how casually she had said it. And how he had said nothing in response.
The apartment was warm. I took off my coat, placed my bag in the corner, and, without turning on the lights, walked into the kitchen. I craved silence. Real silence. Without phrases like “just for a couple of months.”
Sergei and I had been together for eight years. We met when I was twenty-six and he was thirty. Calm, reliable, not a chatterbox. That’s what I loved about him—how he never wavered, didn’t make promises but simply did what he had to. Together we saved for this apartment, counting every penny, denying ourselves vacations, clothes, even modest gifts for our parents. Because the goal was clear—our own home. Without some random uncle, without neighbors, without relatives.
When our mortgage was finally approved, I cried with joy. Not because of the square meters— but because it was ours. Our hard work, our choice, our territory. Our own.
And now… now there was this Ira.
We’d met her only once. At some relatives’ place—the home of Sergei’s uncle, Ira’s father. Her sweater was the color of chewing gum, her nails a toxic pink, her phone in hand almost constantly—except at the moment when she was asked to help with the food. She mumbled, “Hold on, I’ll be right there,” and left to go out into the hallway to smoke with some guy.
All her reputation hinges on the fact that she’s an “orphan.” She studies remotely, works somewhere “creative,” never staying in one place too long. She’s constantly borrowing money again, but as the relatives say among themselves, “the girl isn’t malicious—she’s just disorganized.”
And now—there’s the registration.
When Sergei came into the kitchen, I was already making tea.
— Lena… — he began cautiously, — you must understand, Mom didn’t mean any harm…
— I know, — I replied calmly. — She’s just used to getting what she wants when she asks.
He fell silent. He sat down across from me and rubbed his temple. He looked tired, unconfident.
— She says that Ira won’t be a bother. It’s just paperwork. A formality.
— Uh-huh. — I took a sip. — But formalities sometimes have consequences. Register her—and that’s it. She’ll have the right to live with us. Whether we like it or not.
He sighed.
— You do understand, this is only temporary…
— No, Sergey. I understand something else. That you, it seems, have already agreed. Just waiting for me to play along, to be kind and understanding, nod, and do what is convenient. But I don’t want to be convenient.
He stayed silent. And that silence said more than any excuse.
— Let’s do it this way, — I said as I got up and grabbed a cup. — You’ll tell your mother that we will talk about it. Us. Not that she decides and you simply pass her orders on silently.
I went to the bedroom, leaving him in the kitchen. And for the first time in a long while, I felt that I was defending not only myself, but everything we had built together. Because if not me—then who?
A Pause
The next morning was uncharacteristically quiet. Sergei left early—he didn’t even pour himself coffee, though he always did. He just shut the door, and that was that.
I sat in the kitchen with a glass of banana smoothie, staring at my laptop screen. There was an unfinished report that was due yesterday. I looked at the table and thought of something else entirely. Of us. Of how quickly, almost imperceptibly, something had arisen between Sergei and me that we hadn’t even had time to name. Only a feeling—as if home had grown a little colder, even with the heater on.
Sergei didn’t write all day. In the evening a short message came: “Running late. Don’t wait.”
I wasn’t waiting.
I just sat by the window, watching other people’s windows. In some, the lights were on. Someone was cooking dinner, someone was laughing, someone was watching a series. I was just counting—thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…
How Many Is «A Couple» Anyway?
The next day, I met with Oksana from the legal department. We had been friends for a long time, and I knew she would speak frankly, without mincing words. We sat in a small café near the office. I ordered tomato soup with basil and an Americano; she ordered creamy mushroom soup and a cappuccino.
At first, we chatted about nothing in particular: the new boss, silly amendments to the contract, the weather. Then I cautiously asked:
— Listen, if you register someone at an apartment… that means they have the right to live there?
She wasn’t even surprised.
— Of course. If it’s permanent—consider it done. And if it’s with a child… then you’re nothing. Not even the owner. To unregister later—you’d have to go to court. And it’s not even certain you’d succeed.
I nodded.
— And what if it’s temporary?
— It depends on the phrasing, on how many months. But even temporary registration can complicate life. Especially when it comes to relatives. Then it starts with: “but you promised,” “now we have nowhere to go,” “we are family,” and so on…
She took a sip of her cappuccino and squinted.
— So, are you planning to register someone?
— Not yet. — I shrugged. — I’m just thinking about it.
— Then just think. Better yet—don’t think at all. Simply do not.
I returned home and stood for a long moment at the entrance. The key wouldn’t turn in the lock on the first try. It seemed trivial, but at that moment—it felt symbolic. As if even the apartment was resisting.
Sergei was in the shower. I turned on the kettle, took a cup out of the cupboard, and sat at the table. On the table were crumbs from something—clearly he had grabbed a quick bite. I swept them away with my hand into the sink.
And suddenly I realized: I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t hurt. It was as if I had shifted to a different mode. Not emotion—calculation. I wasn’t arguing anymore—I was holding the territory.
This isn’t a quarrel. Not a scandal.
It’s like a pause in a game: either someone presses “continue” or simply turns off the console.
And I knew for sure—I wasn’t going to be the one to press “exit.”
Just a Conversation
My mother-in-law arrived on Friday afternoon without a call. With a bag of pies and an expression on her face as if she’d just popped in on the way rather than to talk. I opened the door—and immediately sensed: this time she wasn’t going to leave without trying to push her way in.
— Lena, hello, sunshine. I baked these, Sergei loves them. I’m literally just here for half an hour, don’t be alarmed, — she smiled and was already heading toward the kitchen.
She placed the bag on the table, set out the cups, and silently took the jam out of her purse. Everything appeared homely—if not for the tension in the air.
— How are you, dear? Work, you must be tired. And I went shopping from the morning, then to the market—no minute of peace, — she recounted while I was pouring tea. — Can you believe buckwheat has gotten more expensive?
I listened and nodded as expected. But inside I already knew why she had come. She was leading the conversation, as always—first the weather, then health, then… the main point.
— Lena, here’s what I think, — she finally got to the point. — Don’t be mad at me, okay? But with Ira—it’s really just a piece of paper. She only needs it to get her diploma; without it, she won’t be allowed. A couple of months—and that’s it.
I said nothing and listened as she explained that it was all temporary, that the girl needed nothing more than a couple of months. That everything would work out. That “it’s all for the family.”
— And can’t you register her at your place? — I finally asked. — You have a bigger apartment. And you live an hour away from here. So what if it’s not in Moscow?
My mother-in-law paused for a second, but quickly composed herself.
— Oh, come on, dear, it’s all complicated on our side. Besides, she has to come here anyway. And besides, a Moscow registration isn’t just an address. There’s a clinic and an institute… It’s convenient. And you are so kind.
Kind. I remembered how Sergei and I saved for the down payment. How we ate noodles for weeks just to save. How I refused a summer trip to my parents because we needed to pay for repairs. This apartment didn’t fall from the sky—it was earned through our struggle. And now someone decided that she could just come in, say “you’re kind to us”—and that was it?
— I don’t think it’s a good idea, — I replied firmly.
— But we are family, Lena, — her voice softened, yet it carried that same note—a pressure masked as care. — We’re there for each other. Or aren’t we?
My mother-in-law spoke as if I should agree—simply out of respect, out of politeness, out of the notion that we are “one family.” I looked at her neatly folded hands and realized: she’d calculated everything. Registering her under her own name—it would be difficult to un-register later. But with me—it’s easier. Because I’m not “one of the family” in the way Sergei is. I’m convenient.
She left without saying a single hurtful word. On the contrary, she said goodbye warmly, even wishing us a good weekend. Only her smile was missing. And in her eyes—too.
I said nothing in reply. I simply saw her off to the door and slowly closed it behind her. Quietly. Without a sound.
Back to Back
On Saturday morning, Sergei and I went to IKEA. We needed to buy hangers, a box for laundry, and perhaps a new bedside table for the bedroom—we thought about replacing it if we found a suitable one.
I walked ahead, looking at the dishes, touching the towels. Sergei silently pushed the cart. We exchanged a few words about shelves, smiled near a display of silly stools. Then we found ourselves in the bedroom section. There was a stand with the sign “Home is where you feel at peace.” I looked at it and immediately turned away.
— Shall we take this one? — Sergei indicated a gray chest of drawers.
— Yes, it’s nice, — I replied.
At the checkout, I picked up another tray—a white one with little blue leaves; I just wanted something beautiful.
— Shall we go to the cafeteria? — Sergei asked as he put the receipt in his pocket.
— Let’s, — I shrugged. I wasn’t really hungry, just wanted to sit.
We took our trays. He had meatballs with mashed potatoes, and I had a salmon sandwich, salad, and a tiny cheesecake because “I’ll only have tea”—which never really works.
— Why is everything so perfect there, even the mashed potatoes shaped into a half-sphere, — he said, spearing a ball of potato with his fork.
— Because in their kitchen, they probably have a ruler, — I smiled. — Every potato goes by the book.
We ate in silence.
— I told my mom, — he said, looking at the ketchup, — that we aren’t going to register Ira.
I didn’t reply immediately. I just ate my salad, trying not to meet his eyes.
— She, of course, was upset. She said I had become “some kind of stranger.” But I explained. I said that we decide together, not her through me. And that you aren’t obliged to agree. And neither am I, honestly.
— Well… thanks, — I said, picking at a cucumber. — I thought you would just… stay silent. Like before.
He shrugged.
— Maybe I would have stayed silent before. But honestly, I’m feeling quite down about it. Why can’t she register her at her own place? There’s plenty of space—a whole train’s worth. No, let’s do it at your place; registration in Moscow is convenient. Just a piece of paper, they say.
— Uh-huh. And then another piece of paper—for registering the child at the mother’s address. And then it goes on.
— Exactly. — He fiddled with a meatball. — I weighed it all, too. Decided that it’s enough. It’s not like I’m refusing to help. It’s just that I don’t want to let someone with rights into our home. Just like that.
I looked at him. He didn’t pose. He didn’t make excuses. He simply spoke.
— I don’t want you to feel that your opinion wasn’t asked for. It’s stupid. Especially when it’s your home too.
We finished our meal in silence. Then he went off to put away the trays, and I watched him from afar. So ordinary. In jeans, in a jacket, a little unshaven. Mine.
When we stepped outside, it was a bit frosty. He handed me his mittens while tucking his hands into his pockets. It was cold, but it felt light.
In Our Own Way
Almost three weeks passed. Sergei’s mom no longer called. Neither “how are you” nor “have you thought it through”—not even “just to check in.” I didn’t ask whether it troubled Sergei. And he didn’t speak. At some point, I realized: this wasn’t an accidental pause. It was a stance. And in that silence was more meaning than in a hundred calls.
I learned from Sasha that Ira had moved in with another aunt. “For a couple of weeks,” of course. Yeah. We both rolled our eyes. And we didn’t discuss it any further.
In the evening after work, I was making soup—a simple one with chicken drumsticks. Potatoes, carrots, a bay leaf. Sergei came in, threw his jacket in the hall, took off his shoes, sneezed—again forgetting to put on his hat.
— Do we have any bread left? — he asked, peeking into the breadbox.
— A couple of slices. We’ll need to buy some.
— Alright, I’ll run to “Pyaterochka” tomorrow. And get some cottage cheese? I’d like to have some cheesecake for the weekend.
— Get it. And get some sour cream too—not the starch-based one, but the real deal.
He poured himself some tea, sat at the table, and took a couple of sips while looking out the window.
— You know… I was thinking. We always make decisions together. The mortgage, the repairs, work, even the cat. Even the bathroom tiles—you chose the color and I picked the pattern.
— Uh-huh. Teamwork, — I smiled.
He looked and nodded.
— And from now on, it’ll be the same. If someone comes with something serious— we decide together. No surprises. Even if it’s Mom.
— Agreed, — I said.
Later, over dinner, while he washed the dishes and I dried them, the cat jumped on the windowsill, causing a bit of chaos. On the refrigerator hung a shopping list written by hand. On the table lay remnants of bread and half a jar of raspberry jam.
It was quiet and mundane. And it was just the two of us. With the cat. With the door closed. And with the boundary—right where we had set it ourselves. No scandals. No noise. Just—in our own way.
