Olga and Nikolai’s wedding was exactly the kind most girls dream of—grand and unforgettable. Guests danced to lively music, showered the newly‑weds with congratulations and wished them happiness. The bride shone in her white dress, gently holding her husband’s hand as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.
Yet Olga couldn’t shake the feeling that her day of triumph was gradually turning into someone else’s celebration. Angela Viktorovna, Nikolai’s mother, strode between the tables like a field marshal.
“Olga dear, could you check whether everyone has enough champagne?” Angela Viktorovna frowned. “And why is your Aunt Marina sitting so far away? Move her closer to us.”
Olga blinked in bewilderment.
“But Kolya and I drew up the seating plan together …”
“My dear, surely you understand I know best. Your relatives must feel comfortable,” Angela Viktorovna cut her off and turned to fuss over other guests.
Nikolai, standing nearby, only shrugged and gave an apologetic smile.
“Mother just wants everything perfect. Let’s not argue today.”
The honeymoon ended, and married life took an unexpected shape for Olga. Every Saturday the doorbell rang insistently. On the doorstep stood the ever‑smiling Angela Viktorovna—often with people Olga barely knew.
“Kolya, my son!” She hugged him, hardly noticing her daughter‑in‑law. “Meet Irina, my cousin from Voronezh!”
Nikolai would nod, mumble a greeting and disappear into his study, leaving his wife to cope.
“Olga, do you have tea for our guests? And perhaps something to go with it?” Angela Viktorovna was already leading her cousin to the living room. “Irina was so eager to meet my son’s wife!”
Standing in the kitchen, Olga prepared treats for the unexpected visitors, hands trembling. She felt less like the lady of the house and more like the help.
“Kolya, you can’t keep doing this,” she whispered to her husband that evening. “Why do you always run off?”
“Stop exaggerating,” Nikolai frowned. “Mother just loves company. She wants everyone to see what a wonderful wife I have.”
On Nikolai’s birthday Olga was up at dawn, planning a special evening—candles, his favorite dessert, and the gift he’d longed for.
One phone call ruined everything.
“Olga dear! I’ve called all the relatives—we’ll come at six. I hope you’ll make something special? Kolya loves your Napoleon cake,” Angela Viktorovna’s tone allowed no objections.
Olga spent the whole day in the kitchen, cooking for fifteen people, decorating the flat and laying the table, fighting rising irritation. Luckily she freelanced; juggling an office job with constant guests would have been impossible.
By evening the apartment was full. Nikolai accepted congratulations and gifts while Olga rushed between kitchen and living room, serving dishes, changing plates, refilling glasses.
Angela Viktorovna handed her a camera.
“Olga, be a dear and photograph us. Then print the pictures, will you?”
That night, after clearing the last traces of the feast, Olga looked at her sleeping husband. Before bed he had hugged her and thanked her for the wonderful party.
“You’re a magician—it was perfect.”
It was three in the morning. Olga’s hands smelled of detergent and her eyes stung with fatigue. Perfect—for whom?
Sighing, she cast one last glance at the gleaming kitchen and crept to bed. Nikolai slept sprawled across the mattress, utterly content. Olga lay on the edge, careful not to wake him. Tomorrow there were clients’ orders to handle; she needed at least a little rest.
The phone rang before her alarm.
“Good morning, Olga!” Angela Viktorovna sounded fresh, as though she hadn’t left Olga cleaning half the night. “Thank you for yesterday—my friends were delighted! Have you started planning the Easter kulichi yet?”
“Kulichi? But Easter’s a month away …”
“Precisely! There’s barely time. I need twelve—one for Kolya, one for me, one for Aunt Vera and Uncle Misha, for …”
Sitting in the kitchen with coffee, Olga jotted down the list of people who “needed” kulichi. The pen shook in her fingers; she had never baked them before.
“Strange that Mum asked you,” Nikolai yawned, pouring coffee. “She usually likes to cook.”
“She said a daughter‑in‑law must bake for her husband’s whole family. Tradition,” Olga replied, eyes tired.
“Well, Mum knows best.” Nikolai shrugged. “Don’t worry—you’ll manage.”
The kulichi were only the beginning. During the May holidays their small flat turned into a hotel for three second cousins from Saratov.
“Olga, Petya’s allergic to laundry detergent,” announced Angela Viktorovna, escorting the relatives inside. “Wash his things with baby soap, please.”
For three days Olga cooked breakfasts and dinners, washed clothes, cleaned and planned sightseeing routes—while Nikolai was seldom home.
“I want to show the guys our new office,” he said on the last day. “Then we’ll take them to football. They’re not interested in women’s chatter anyway.”
When the Saratov guests finally left, Olga thought things couldn’t get worse. She was wrong. In June Uncle Boris—Angela Viktorovna’s cousin—arrived.
“He has a special diet,” the mother‑in‑law warned. “No salt, sugar or dairy, and everything steamed.”
“Girl, this fish is overcooked!” Uncle Boris boomed at lunch. “And where did you get this swill? I asked for green tea with jasmine, not this muck!”
Olga scoured specialty shops, wasting hours hunting for his dietary needs.
“Kolya, I can’t take this anymore,” she confessed after Uncle Boris left. “Your relatives act like I’m the hired help.”
“Stop dramatizing,” Nikolai scowled. “You’re just not used to a big family. At your age Mother worked, kept a home and still found time for clubs.”
The final straw came with Angela Viktorovna’s October call.
“Olga, this weekend we’re celebrating Mum’s friendship anniversary with Galina Sergeyevna,” Nikolai announced after hanging up. “They’re coming with their husbands. Mum said you’ll organise everything.”
Olga froze, plate in hand; something snapped inside her.
“No,” she said softly, then louder. “No!”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Nikolai sank onto a chair in shock.
“It means I won’t cater for your mother and her friends!” Olga slammed the plate on the table. “For two years I’ve cooked, cleaned and washed for your relatives! I’ve become a servant in my own home, and you don’t even notice!”
“You’re exaggerating,” he tried to soothe her. “Mother just wants …”
“I don’t care what your mother wants!” Tears filled Olga’s eyes. “I’m your wife, not a cook! Why can’t we relax on weekends? Why must I always wait on your family?”
Nikolai stared, genuinely bewildered—he had never seen her like this.
“Olga, what’s got into you? You’ve never behaved this way.”
“Because I always kept silent! Why is it my duty to feed, serve and entertain your guests?”
His expression hardened.
“Because you’re the wife!” he raised his voice. “It’s a woman’s duty to keep a cosy home and host guests. My mother always did and never complained!”
Olga stepped back as if struck.
“So that’s how you see our marriage? I’m free help for you and your mother?”
“Don’t twist my words!” Nikolai slammed his fist on the table; a cup toppled, coffee pooling over the cloth. “You’re ungrateful! You have a roof over your head and a husband who earns well. What more do you need?”
Olga stared, recognising nothing of the man she’d married.
“Respect,” she whispered. “I need respect.”
“This is your gratitude for all I do?” Nikolai grabbed his jacket. “I’m going to Mum’s. We’ll all be here at six tomorrow. I hope you’ve come to your senses and behave like a proper wife!”
“Kolya, listen …” Olga tried to stop him.
“Have everything ready for our arrival,” he snapped and slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.
Alone in the living room she dusted every weekend, Olga suddenly knew she couldn’t go on. The decision was swift and final. She fetched a suitcase and packed only essentials—documents, a few clothes, her laptop. There was some cash; enough for now.
At the door she hesitated, then slipped off her wedding ring and left it on the hall table.
On the way to the metro she bought a new SIM card and tossed the old one in a bin—she didn’t want calls from Nikolai or Angela Viktorovna. She needed somewhere to stay and dialled an old friend.
“Marina? It’s Olga,” her voice sounded surprisingly calm. “Sorry to bother you, but I need help.”
“Olga? What’s happened?” Marina asked anxiously.
“I’ve left Nikolai,” Olga said simply. “Can I stay with you for a few days?”
“Of course! Come right away,” the friend answered without hesitation.
Monday morning Olga met a lawyer about divorce; he promised the process would be quick. On Tuesday she sent out her résumé and by evening had an interview lined up at a marketing agency.
“Lucky timing—we’ve just had a vacancy,” the HR manager smiled. “With your experience, you’re a perfect fit.”
By month’s end Olga had rented a small but cosy flat across town. Nikolai didn’t try to win her back; he seemed more upset about who would cook for his mother’s guests than losing a wife.
“Do you realise Mum was upset?” he complained at the notary’s office. “They had to celebrate the friendship anniversary in a restaurant.”
Olga merely smiled without reply.
A year passed. Olga marvelled at how her life had changed—an engaging job, new friends and the freedom to manage her own time. She’d learned that true happiness comes when you’re valued and respected, not used as unpaid help.
So when her colleagues invited her to the office party, she gladly accepted, knowing a completely different life now awaited her.
