In an old manor where the creak of a door betrays more than words, the young bride-to-be Varvara found herself caught in a web of family intrigue. Will she stand up to a mother-in-law who will do anything for control, or will love prove weaker than calculation?
— Who does she think she is, telling me how to live in my own house?
— Irene, please, calm down. Varya only wanted to help …
— Help? Sergey, are you blind? That girl is worming her way into our son’s confidence for his money, and you’re defending her?
Footsteps fell silent in the sitting room. A heavy door creaked shut, hiding two dark figures behind it. On the other side, pressed to the wall, stood a pale girl with large tears on her cheeks.
By mid-October the city had lost all its carefree summer air. Yellow leaves paved the streets with a soggy carpet, and a sky weighed down by thick gray clouds inspired melancholy.
On the sixth floor of an old brick building, in a small flat overlooking a park, Varvara was finishing her preparations. The girl’s small, delicate hands trembled as she fastened the buttons of her beige coat.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go today?” Varya asked, staring at her reflection in the hall mirror. “I have a bad feeling.”
A tall young man with a strong jaw stepped up behind her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“Stop imagining things, Varie. Mother’s really looking forward to meeting you. It’s normal to be nervous.”
The girl’s blue eyes met her fiancé’s brown eyes in the mirror.
“Maxim, what if she doesn’t like me?”
Warm lips brushed her temple.
“That’s impossible. I like you, so Mother will too. Genetics, you know.”
A faint smile crossed Varya’s face, and she finally dared to leave the apartment.
The trip to Maxim’s parents’ house took about forty minutes. All the way there the young woman rehearsed the first meeting in her mind—possible questions, the best answers … Deep down she hoped everything would go smoothly.
In front of the three-story villa on the edge of town, Varya froze.
“What if your mother thinks I’m not good enough for you?” she blurted out. “You said yourself your family is… well-off.”
Maxim frowned.
“Stop winding yourself up. Money isn’t everything. Come on, it’s starting to rain.”
The massive front door swung open and a woman of about fifty, with flawless posture and a neat bob, stepped out.
“Maximushka!” the lady cried, hugging her son. “I’ve missed you so much!”
Her sharp gaze moved to Varvara.
“So this is the young woman you’ve told me so much about?”
She scrutinized the girl from head to toe, lingering on her simple bag and modest shoes.
“Good afternoon, Irina Viktorovna. I’m very glad to finally meet you,” Varya said, offering a hand. The mother-in-law ignored it.
“Come in, don’t stand in the hallway,” she tossed over her shoulder and marched deeper into the house.
A thick, velvety carpet muffled their steps. Expensive paintings in heavy frames lined the walls, and a carved sideboard displayed porcelain figurines.
At the round table in the sitting room sat a middle-aged man with thinning hair and tired eyes—Maxim’s father, Sergey Petrovich.
“Good evening,” he said, rising to greet them. “You must be Varya. Maxim talks about you all the time.”
His warm smile and firm handshake calmed the girl slightly.
“Is Veronika here yet?” Maxim asked, looking around.
“Your sister is delayed,” Irina Viktorovna replied. “She has important business—unlike some people who abandon their studies for dubious hobbies.”
The last words were clearly aimed at Varvara, who had recently taken academic leave from the university to develop her small clothing-design business.
“Mama, we agreed …” Maxim murmured.
“What did I say?” She smiled innocently. “Just stating facts. Varya, dear, tell me—other than charming my son, what do you do?”
The casual question carried an obvious challenge.
“I’m building my own clothing brand,” Varya answered calmly. “I already have regular clients and my first successes.”
Irina Viktorovna feigned surprise.
“Ah, so you’re a seamstress! How sweet. It’s rare nowadays to meet a girl who can wield a needle and thread. And you can cook, I hope? Maxim is used to home-made food.”
Sergey Petrovich cleared his throat.
“Irène, perhaps the children would like some tea after the journey?”
“Of course, darling.” She smiled sweetly, then turned to Varya. “Would you help me in the kitchen? Women should stick together, right?”
In the spacious kitchen, Irina Viktorovna became a different person. The smile vanished; her gaze turned icy.
“Listen carefully,” she said softly while taking cups from a cupboard. “I don’t know what dreams you’ve made up, but my son deserves better. He has a brilliant future—a prestigious job, prospects. What can you give him with your rags?”
Varvara froze with the kettle in her hands.
“Excuse me, but—”
“Don’t interrupt your elders,” Irina snapped. “Maxim is infatuated now, fine. You’re pretty, no denying it. But you have no future with him, take a mother’s word for it.”
At that moment Maxim poked his head in.
“Everything all right? Need help?”
“Perfectly fine, darling,” Irina Viktorovna sang at once. “Varenka and I are getting acquainted. Aren’t we, dear?”
The young man looked at pale Varya.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” she forced a smile. “Just a bit tired.”
The evening continued in the sitting room, where Maxim’s sister Veronika soon arrived—a cold, haughty copy of their mother.
“So this is your new… friend?” she asked, sizing Varya up. “Interesting choice, little brother.”
She adjusted her expensive earrings.
“Where did you meet? Maxim usually doesn’t frequent places where you’d run into… girls like this.”
Varya clenched her fists under the table.
“We met at a charity gala,” Maxim replied. “Varya designed the costumes for a children’s play.”
“How touching,” Veronika drawled. “Charity is trendy now, isn’t it? By the way, about living arrangements—you said Varya has her own flat downtown?”
It was clear where the conversation was heading.
“Yes, I inherited a one-room flat from my grandmother,” Varya said. “Small but cozy.”
Mother and daughter exchanged identical smiles.
“You know, Maxim,” Irina purred, “I was thinking… Why rent when you could live with us? The house is big, plenty of space. Then the wedding is just around the corner. What do you say?”
Sergey Petrovich looked at his wife in surprise.
“Irène, we didn’t discuss—”
“We’ll discuss it later.” She cut him off. “Well, young people, how about it?”
Maxim glanced uncertainly at Varya.
“Maybe we should try. We could save more for the future.”
At that moment Varvara understood her life was about to change—and not for the better.
A week after moving in, Varya sat on the edge of the guest-room bed in the Volkov house, trying to focus on a new dress sketch. The door burst open without a knock.
“Have you seen my blue blouse?” Veronika marched to the wardrobe and began rifling through Varya’s clothes. “Mother thinks the maid might have put it here by mistake.”
Fury surged inside Varya.
“Veronika, I’d prefer you didn’t touch my things.”
“Oh, so sorry,” the sister-in-law said, all false sweetness. “I forgot you keep your treasures in here. Although…” She surveyed the simple T-shirts and jeans. “Looks like I have nothing to fear.”
That evening Varya caught Irina rummaging through her handbag.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
“Looking for Maxim’s car keys,” her mother-in-law answered coolly. “He said he might have left them with you. Why? Something to hide?”
Meanwhile Maxim spent more and more time at work, leaving Varya alone with his family. And when he was home, he chose to ignore the tension.
“Maxim, your mother went through my things again,” Varya complained. “I feel like I’m under surveillance.”
“Varyush, she just worries,” he said wearily. “Controlling things is how she shows care.”
“Care? Really? When she called my designs rags from a thrift shop—is that care too?”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Maxim waved her off. “She just has her own taste. Give it time, she’ll get used to you.”
One morning, when everyone had left, Varya overheard voices in Sergey Petrovich’s study. The door was ajar; her mother-in-law and sister-in-law were speaking clearly.
“Mom, you’re a genius,” Veronika gushed. “The idea of moving them in is brilliant! Now we only have to convince Maxim that after the wedding her flat should go to me.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” Irina answered smugly. “Maxim always listens to me. We’ll explain that a young couple should stay here, and she can rent out the flat—or better yet, sign it over to you.”
After three months Varvara perfected the art of avoiding her mother-in-law and sister-in-law. She left early for her small studio nearby and came back late. Even so, each day was an ordeal.
“Varenka, tomorrow is our wedding anniversary,” Irina announced, popping into the girl’s room without knocking. “I expect you’ll help with the table and the food.”
“Of course,” Varya put down her pencil. “What needs doing?”
“Oh, nothing special,” Irina waved a dismissive hand. “Just be useful. You do know how to be useful, yes?”
Every word dripped with poison, but Varya was used to it.
“I’ll do my best,” she whispered.
Anniversary day began in chaos. Varya spent the morning in the kitchen preparing dinner. Maxim left for work as usual, promising to be back for the evening.
“You’re slicing it wrong!” Irina snapped, watching her cut vegetables. “Can’t you even manage that?”
She shoved the girl aside and took the knife herself.
“This is how it’s done. See the difference? Of course you don’t.”
By evening the house glittered. A snow-white cloth covered the table, groaning with gourmet dishes.
“Here she is—our little worker bee!” Irina exclaimed as Varya entered in a modest navy dress. “I hope you don’t think you contributed anything significant tonight?”
“Mama, stop,” Maxim protested, slipping an arm around Varya. “She’s been helping all day.”
“But of course.” Irina gave a theatrical smile. “Just joking.”
Guests arrived—family friends and distant relatives. After a few glasses of champagne the mood relaxed, and even Irina softened.
“To thirty years together,” Sergey Petrovich toasted, raising his glass. “To the family we built.”
Everyone drank, and Veronika seized the moment.
“I propose a toast to mutual support!” She glanced meaningfully at her mother. “To the way we, the Volkovs, always share what we have.”
Irina smiled mysteriously.
“Speaking of support,” Veronika continued, turning to Varya, “I’m so grateful you agreed to our plan. Such nobility!”
Varya looked at her in confusion.
“What plan?”
“You know,” Veronika feigned surprise, “the plan about your flat. Maxim said you didn’t mind if I moved in after your wedding.”
Silence fell. Varvara slowly faced Maxim.
“What? I never—”
“Veronika, not now,” Irina hissed, shooting her son a glance.
“Why not?” Veronika, tipsy, pressed on. “It’s settled! Varvara and Maxim stay here, and her flat is mine. Perfect!”
Varya felt the ground give way.
“Maxim, what is going on?” Her voice shook.
He avoided her eyes.
“Varyush, I meant to talk to you later …”
“Talk about what? That you plan to take my flat?”
“Don’t dramatize,” Irina interjected. “No one’s taking anything. It’s just empty, and Veronika needs a place. A rational solution.”
“One that somehow never involved me,” Varya stood up. “Maxim, you knew?”
He stared at the floor.
“Mama and I discussed the possibility. I thought it wouldn’t be hard for you to help my sister.”
“Not hard?” Varya could hardly breathe. “You arranged, behind my back, to give away my only property!”
“Oh great, here comes the hysterics,” Irina rolled her eyes. “I told you she was only after money.”
“Irina, enough,” Sergey Petrovich said, his voice unexpectedly firm. “You’ve crossed every line.”
Everyone stared at the usually quiet host.
“What did you say?” his wife gasped.
“I said—enough,” he repeated, rising. “For thirty years I’ve watched you control every part of my life. I watched you manipulate our children. Now you’re wrecking our son’s happiness, as you once wrecked mine, and I can’t stay silent.”
Irina turned pale.
“You’re insane! Don’t you dare talk to me that way!”
“How should I talk to you, Irina?” His voice trembled with held-back emotion. “Since Varvara set foot in this house, you’ve been humiliating her and scheming. You won’t let our son live his own life, always bending him to your will.”
“Dad, what’s gotten into you?” Maxim cut in. “Mom just cares—”
“No, son,” his father shook his head. “That’s not care; it’s control. And the sad thing is you don’t see it. I didn’t either at your age. Look what it led to—I’m a prop in a house that isn’t mine.”
Varvara slipped off the engagement ring Maxim had given her and laid it on the table.
“I’m leaving,” she whispered. “Don’t come after me, Maxim. We’re finished.”
“Varya, wait!” He tried to stop her, but she pulled back.
“For three months I endured your mother’s and sister’s insults while you kept silent. And now I learn you were part of their plan. I’m done.”
Without saying goodbye, she left. In the hall she threw on her coat, grabbed her bag, and walked out, leaving the uproar behind.
Waking the next morning in her own flat, Varya felt a strange relief. Despite the pain of betrayal, she felt free for the first time in months.
Around noon the doorbell rang. Sergey Petrovich stood there with two large bags.
“Hello, Varya,” he gave a tired smile. “I’ve brought your things. May I come in?”
She stepped aside silently.
“Tea?” she offered when the bags were set down.
“Gladly,” he nodded.
They sat in the tiny kitchen that smelled of fresh pastries—Varya had baked rolls that morning to chase away gloomy thoughts.
“I want to apologize for everything you endured in our house,” he began. “And for my part in it. I should have stepped in much sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?” she asked softly.
He gazed out the window.
“You see, I once loved Irina very much. She was bright, ambitious, confident. But after the children were born something changed. She became obsessed with control—first in small things, then everywhere. I resisted, we argued, but… eventually I gave up. I decided it was easier that way—that for the children we had to keep the peace. I didn’t notice how I became an accomplice.”
Varya listened in silence, watching the sorrowful lines on his face.
“Yesterday, looking at you, I finally saw the whole picture. I don’t want Maxim to repeat my fate.”
“Maxim has already made his choice,” she said bitterly.
“Don’t judge him too harshly,” Sergey sighed. “Irina raised him to depend on her opinion. Not an excuse, but… perhaps this lesson will change him.”
After he left, Varya stood at the window for a long time, watching leaves fall in the park. Her thoughts were interrupted by another knock. Maxim stood there—pale, eyes ringed with sleepless shadows.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She hesitated only a second, then stepped aside.
“I won’t stay long,” he began, still in his coat. “I just want you to know—I’ve rented a flat. Mother and I… had a serious talk. For the first time I told her ‘no.’”
“Congratulations,” Varya replied coolly.
“I know I acted like a coward,” he went on. “And I won’t ask forgiveness—I don’t deserve it. But please believe: I never agreed to give your flat to Veronika. Yes, Mother suggested it, but I refused. I just… didn’t have the courage to tell you. I thought I could fix things myself.”
“That doesn’t change the fact you let them humiliate me for three months.”
“I know. I hate myself for it,” he bowed his head. “I came to say I still love you. And if you ever decide to give me a second chance, I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”
After he left, Varvara felt an odd emptiness. She still loved him, but wasn’t sure she could trust him again.
Two weeks passed. Varya immersed herself in work on a new clothing line. Her small studio became a refuge where she could forget her personal troubles.
One evening, walking home, she met Irina Viktorovna in the park near her building. The woman looked worn and far less polished than before.
“Good evening, Varvara,” she said in an uncharacteristically meek voice.
“Good evening,” Varya answered warily, gripping her bag’s strap.
“I…” Irina hesitated, clearly searching for words. “I know you don’t want to see me. But I must say something.”
Varya nodded silently.
“Sergey filed for divorce,” her voice quivered. “Thirty years of marriage… all because of my character. Maxim barely speaks to me. Even Veronika moved in with a friend.”
“I’m sorry,” Varya said sincerely.
“No need,” Irina shook her head. “I earned it. When you lose everything, you finally see what truly mattered. I… I came to apologize. For everything.”
In that moment Varya saw not a haughty mother-in-law but a lonely woman who had lost her family to her own pride.
“I can’t forgive you right away,” she admitted. “Too much was said and done.”
“I understand.” Irina nodded. “I just wanted you to know I see my mistakes.”
Months later Varya met Maxim by chance at an exhibition opening. Her small brand was gaining attention, and she was presenting her collection.
“You look stunning,” he said, approaching with a glass of champagne. “And your work… it’s wonderful.”
“Thank you,” she smiled. “How are you?”
“Better than before. I rented a place, started therapy. Figured I need to sort myself out.”
They talked a long time—about his mother, who had also begun therapy; about Sergey, who had moved to another city and finally taken up fishing and woodworking, things he’d always loved.
“Varya,” Maxim said at last, “I know I lost your trust. But could we… start over? Just as friends, to begin with.”
She looked at him—there was no trace of the old indecision. Before her stood a grown man who had faced his faults.
“Maybe,” she said. “But this time things will be different. I won’t let anyone decide my life for me again.”
Maxim smiled.
“Fair enough. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a designer whose pieces now hang in galleries.”
Varya chuckled, remembering how Irina had once called her creations “rags from a thrift shop.” Sometimes it takes a storm to set everything in its place. And though she didn’t know what lay ahead, Varvara was certain of one thing: never again would she let anyone choose her path.
“A mother-in-law is a woman who thinks no girl is good enough for her son, but rejoices that her daughter found such a wonderful husband.”
— Erma Bombeck
