— Nastenka, you surely haven’t eaten your fill—don’t make things up, — Elena Petrovna chuckled, setting a plate of pies in front of her daughter‑in‑law. — I still have some salad and cutlets; I’ll bring them out.
Nastya drew a deep breath and pushed the plate aside.
— No, thank you. I’m really not hungry anymore.
Elena Petrovna pursed her lips and vanished into the kitchen. Lately these Sunday lunches at her mother‑in‑law’s had turned into real torture. Nastya caught her husband’s sympathetic glance, but Viktor immediately looked away. Coward.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from Marina: “How’s it going? Hang in there! I’ll call in an hour with an ‘urgent work problem’ to rescue you.”
Nastya smiled. At least someone understood her.
— What are you smiling at? — Elena Petrovna returned with a fresh round of food. — Friend texting again? No time for me, but always time for friends. In my day daughters‑in‑law respected their mothers‑in‑law…
— Mum, let’s skip the lecture, — Viktor unexpectedly cut in.
Elena Petrovna threw up her hands.
— And now he’s being rude! I slave over a hot stove for them since morning, and they…
Nastya closed her eyes, silently counting to ten. Five years of marriage, five years of this absurd theater every Sunday. The first year had still been tolerable—her mother‑in‑law kept her distance. Nastya had even thought herself lucky. Her own parents had given her and Viktor a spacious three‑room flat in a good neighbourhood. They’d had a beautiful wedding. Life was looking up.
Then came the “harmless” requests.
— Nastenka, my back hurts; help me clean the flat, — Elena Petrovna would phone in the middle of a workday.
— Nastya, I need medicine from the pharmacy right away. I can’t manage on my own.
Soon the requests turned into demands.
— Viktor, can’t your wife help an old woman? — she’d complain to her son. — I’m not a stranger, after all!
And Viktor, once a loving, caring husband, began to change. First tentative questions: “Could you pop round to Mum’s?” Then reproaches: “You’ve grown heartless—she’s my mother!”
— Nastya! Are you listening? — Elena Petrovna snapped her fingers in front of her face. — I’m saying we’re going to the dacha on Wednesday. My friend invited us. Can you drive us?
Nastya blinked.
— Wednesday? Elena Petrovna, I have an important presentation at work. I can’t.
Her mother‑in‑law twisted her mouth.
— I see. Work is more important than your husband’s parents. Vitya, — she turned to her son, — did you hear how your wife speaks to us?
Viktor froze, fork mid‑air.
— Mum, not now, please…
— When then? — Elena Petrovna raised her voice. — When we’re completely written off? I helped you with the renovation last summer, remember! And now I can’t even get simple help?
— You didn’t help with the renovation, — Nastya said quietly. — You came with advice we never asked for.
Silence fell. Elena Petrovna blanched, then flushed, and did what she always did in such moments—burst into tears.
— I did everything with my own hands! And she… Vitya, do you hear? She’s insulting me!
Viktor jumped up.
— Nastya, apologise at once!
Nastya turned to stone. Each time the script repeated itself. Elena Petrovna pressed, Nastya resisted, and Viktor inevitably sided with his mother.
When no apology came, her mother‑in‑law sobbed and retreated to the kitchen. Viktor bent over his wife.
— Couldn’t you just keep quiet? — he hissed. — Did you have to ruin everything?
Nastya stared at him.
— And you couldn’t stand up for me just once? I only told the truth.
Viktor shook his head.
— You just hate my family.
At that moment a crash and the tinkle of broken glass came from the kitchen. They both rushed in.
Elena Petrovna was standing over a shattered vase, wearing a look of theatrical dismay.
— Oh, I accidentally knocked it over, — she drawled. — Looks like age is catching up with me.
— No big deal, — Nastya muttered. — Broken crockery brings good luck.
— Vitya, give me money for a new vase, — Elena Petrovna demanded. — I need a replacement.
She beamed instantly, then went on:
— By the way, Vitia dear, remember my birthday’s next month? I’d like a new dress, but my pension is so small…
Viktor pulled out his wallet at once.
— Of course, Mum. How much do you need?
Nastya watched silently as her husband counted out bills—a quarter of their monthly budget, and the third “jubilee” that year.
Her phone vibrated. Marina’s rescue call.
— Hello? What? Urgent? — Nastya feigned surprise. — All right, I’ll be there in half an hour.
She turned to the frozen family tableau.
— I’m sorry, I have to go. Work emergency.
Elena Petrovna rolled her eyes.
— On a Sunday? Naturally.
— I’ll see you out, — Viktor headed for the door.
Out on the landing he took Nastya by the elbow.
— You know what Mum’s like. She means well.
Nastya freed her arm.
— Listen, Vitya, five years ago I married you, not your mother. I thought we were building our own family, not still living in hers.
Viktor frowned.
— You’re over‑dramatising. She just asks for help sometimes.
— She doesn’t ask. She demands. And each time it’s more.
— Let’s talk at home? I don’t want her to hear.
Nastya nodded, though a knot of anxiety tightened inside. Talks at home always ended the same: Viktor promised to “talk to Mum,” peace lasted a couple of weeks, then everything started again—only with new demands from Elena Petrovna.
But this time Nastya felt the showdown was near—and it might not be the ending she wanted.
That evening Nastya was reading on the sofa when the front door slammed. Viktor came home late—almost eleven—smelling of his mother’s expensive perfume.
— What happened? — Nastya set the book aside.
— I dropped in on my parents. We had things to discuss.
— On a Monday? We were just there yesterday.
Viktor sat on the sofa’s edge, eyes shining with excitement.
— I’ve come up with a perfect solution to all our problems.
A chill ran through Nastya. Nothing good ever followed those words.
— Let’s sell the flat and move in with my parents! — Viktor blurted, eyes alight. — Think of the benefits! We’ll save on utilities, Mum and Dad won’t be lonely, and with the money we buy a car and a dacha.
Nastya blinked. Once. Twice. She’d heard right.
— You want to sell our flat? The one my parents gave me?
Viktor nodded vigorously.
— Exactly! Why do we need such a huge place? My parents’ flat is big—plenty of room for everyone.
Nastya stood slowly.
— And what do your parents say?
— They’re thrilled! Mum’s already preparing a room for us. It needs some renovation, but that’s nothing.
— Nothing. And my opinion—does it matter?
Viktor scowled.
— Nastya, it’s a win‑win. You keep saying Mum drags you over—well, you’ll be right there. It’s easier for everyone.
— Easy? — Nastya couldn’t believe her ears. — You seriously think it’ll be easy for me to live under the same roof as your mother?
— Well, it’ll be tricky at first, — he conceded. — But you’ll get used to it.
— Get used to it, — she echoed. — To what? To your mother controlling my every move? To going from mistress of my own home to household help?
Viktor rolled his eyes.
— There you go again, dramatizing. Mum just wants to help.
— Help? — Nastya threw up her hands. — She wants to control us! And now she’s found the perfect way—drag us into her house.
Viktor leapt up.
— Stop talking about my mother like that! She’s a saint! You just hate her. Admit it!
Nastya said quietly:
— I don’t hate your mother. I hate how she manipulates you. And you don’t even notice.
— Enough, — he snapped. — We’re selling the flat. I already called a realtor.
Nastya froze.
— You did what?
— An assessor’s coming tomorrow, — Viktor looked away. — Mum recommended a good agency.
— You called a realtor to sell my flat? Without my consent?
— Our flat, — he corrected. — We’re married; it’s joint property.
— It was a gift from my parents to me alone, — Nastya said evenly. — And the deed is in my name only.
Viktor paled.
— What?
— You heard me. The flat is mine. My parents wanted to be sure I’d always have a roof over my head. There’ll be no realtor tomorrow.
His face twisted.
— So you think you can dispose of “our” property alone? Wonderful! Just wonderful! — He seized his phone. — I’ll call Mum—she should know what kind of wife I have!
— Go ahead, — Nastya replied calmly. — And tell her I won’t sell my flat. And I won’t live with your parents.
Viktor stabbed the screen so hard Nastya wondered the glass didn’t crack.
— Mum! — he yelled. — Nastya refuses to move! Says the flat is only hers!
Elena Petrovna’s shrill voice screeched through the speaker. Viktor paced, nodding and agreeing.
After five minutes he thrust the phone at Nastya.
— Mum wants to talk to you.
Nastya shook her head.
— No, thanks. You’ve decided everything without me—I’m obviously superfluous.
— Nastya! — Viktor barked. — Take the phone!
— Don’t shout at me, — she met his gaze. — I’m not your property. And certainly not your mother’s.
Viktor flung the phone on the sofa.
— You’re impossible! A normal wife would back her husband!
— And a normal husband would discuss selling his wife’s flat before making plans, — Nastya shot back.
Viktor stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.
— You know what? Mum was right. You’re not the woman I need.
Five years of marriage. Five years fighting for the right to be herself. And here was the end.
Nastya spoke softly:
— I’m giving you a choice, Vitya. Either we set boundaries with your parents and live our own lives, or we go our separate ways.
Viktor shook his head.
— You’re giving me an ultimatum? Choosing between my wife and my parents?
— I’m asking you to choose our family, — Nastya swallowed a lump. — You and me. Like we planned five years ago.
Viktor was silent for a long time—so long that Nastya already knew the answer.
— They’re my family, — he said at last. — Always have been, always will be.
Nastya nodded.
— Then we have nothing more to discuss.
She turned and walked to the bedroom. Tomorrow she’d call a lawyer and start divorce proceedings.
— You’ll regret this! — Viktor shouted after her. — No one needs you on your own!
— Better alone than with someone who doesn’t respect my boundaries, — Nastya replied calmly, closing the door.
Three days later Viktor moved out. Two weeks after that he filed for divorce—probably at his mother’s urging. Nastya didn’t object.
Elena Petrovna called several times, alternating threats with pleas.
— How can you do this to my son? — she wailed. — You’re destroying a family!
— No, Elena Petrovna, — Nastya answered firmly. — The family was destroyed when you decided you could run our lives.
A difficult divorce lay ahead, but Nastya believed she’d manage. The most important step was already behind her: ending this unhappy marriage.
