— Artyom, have you seen my earrings with the red stones? The ones shaped like teardrops? — Rita rummaged through her jewelry box, laying bracelets, rings, and chains on the vanity table.
— Check the top drawer of the dresser. I think I saw them there, — Artyom said, fastening his cufflinks in front of the bedroom mirror. — But… maybe you shouldn’t wear them today?
Rita turned, eyebrow raised in surprise:
— Why not? They go perfectly with my dress.
— It’s just, — Artyom hesitated, avoiding her gaze, — you know my mother. Those earrings are pretty… noticeable. And the dress is so bright. Maybe you could wear something a bit more subdued? At least for tonight.
Rita straightened slowly, understanding dawning on her face. She glanced around the room, stopping at the red dress neatly laid out on the bed. The dress she’d bought especially for her father-in-law’s anniversary—elegant, with an asymmetrical neckline, flattering her figure while remaining tasteful. At least, that’s what Rita thought.
— Here we go again, — she said, shaking her head. — Artyom, we’ve been married for two years. Two years! And all this time your mother has found something to criticize. First my skirt is too short, then my heels are too high, then my makeup is too bold. I’m a designer, after all! How am I supposed to look? Like a kindergarten teacher?
— Don’t exaggerate, — Artyom winced. — Mom’s just old-fashioned about these things. She cares about certain proprieties, especially at family events. You could show some respect by toning down your… style, just a little.
Rita went over to the mirror and tried on the earrings she’d found in the drawer. The deep red stones set off her fair skin and chestnut hair beautifully.
— Why am I always the one who has to give in? — she asked, looking at her husband’s reflection. — Why can’t your mother accept me as I am? Why can’t you stick up for me?
Artyom sighed:
— Rita, let’s not start this again. It’s just… Today is Dad’s birthday. His seventieth, by the way. Let’s not cause a scene, okay? Wear something more modest. This one. — He pulled another dress out of the closet. — It’s pretty too, and Mom approved it last time.
— Approved? — Rita spun around sharply. — Really? Do I need your mother’s approval to dress for an outing? What’s next? I’ll have to send her pictures of my wardrobe for her okay? “Excuse me, Zinaida Petrovna, may I wear these shoes today, or do you think they’re too provocative for the supermarket?”
— You’re exaggerating, — Artyom began to grow irritated. — I just want the evening to go smoothly. Without all those looks and comments.
— Our looks? — Rita waved her hands. — Our? Artyom, it’s your mother who keeps criticizing me, not the other way around! I’m always polite to her, always! Even when she says my design work is “child’s play, not real work.” Even when she asks if it’s not time for me to “settle down and have a baby instead of running off to your little exhibitions.”
Artyom pursed his lips but said nothing. He knew she was right. His mother never missed a chance to needle Rita. But admitting that out loud would be betraying his own mother—and he couldn’t do that.
— It’s just a special day today, — he said in a conciliatory tone. — Just today…
— Frankly, I couldn’t care less about your mommy, darling! — Rita snapped. — She’s a total stranger to me, and her opinion means absolutely nothing!
Artyom froze with his mouth half-open. In the sudden silence you could hear the clock ticking on the bedside table.
— Don’t speak of my mother like that, — he finally said, quietly but firmly.
— And how am I supposed to speak of her? — Rita moved closer. — How am I supposed to talk about a woman who, from the moment I met her, made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for her son? That I’m too flashy, too loud, too independent? That my profession is not serious, that my clothes are vulgar, that my outlook on life is wrong?
Artyom remained silent, and in his silence Rita saw, as she always did, his unwillingness to take sides. His unwillingness to choose between his mother and his wife.
— I’ll wear the red dress, — she said firmly. — And those earrings. Because that’s what I want. Because that’s who I am. And if you can’t accept that, then… — she left the sentence hanging, a threat in the air.
Artyom ran his hand over his face:
— Fine. Wear whatever you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you once Mom starts in on you.
— Oh, don’t worry, — Rita replied coldly. — I stopped expecting anything from you a long time ago.
The drive to Artyom’s parents’ house was tense and silent. Rita stared out the window at the passing houses and trees, occasionally brushing a stray lock of hair aside. The red dress clung to her figure, and the heavy earrings swung with each turn of her head.
Artyom gripped the steering wheel tightly. Bits of their recent argument kept echoing in his mind—those cutting lines she’d thrown at him. “A total stranger.” How could Rita say that about his mother? And yet, somewhere deep down, a part of him knew she wasn’t wrong.
— You know, — Rita finally broke the silence, — I really tried to be friends with her. For the first six months after our wedding I genuinely tried to win her over.
Artyom glanced at her briefly before focusing back on the road.
— Remember the three-tiered cake I made for her birthday? — Rita continued. — I spent three days on it, looking up that old recipe you mentioned. And she only said that in her day girls knew how to cook without any of that Internet nonsense.
— She just doesn’t know how to express gratitude, — Artyom muttered. — She never learned.
— And remember the handcrafted scarf I gave her? I knitted it myself, mind you, staying up nights after you’d gone to sleep. And she said it was “the last thing she’d ever wear,” then shoved it to the back of a drawer. I’ve never once seen her wear it.
Artyom sighed. He remembered it well—how Rita had been hurt, though she tried not to show it.
— And remember that New Year’s when she declared in front of everyone that our house was a constant mess? After I spent three days cooking a feast for your whole family and cleaning the apartment from top to bottom?
The car approached a red light, and Artyom stopped, staring at the signal as if it held all the answers.
— Mom’s always been like that, — he tried to explain. — She was raised strict, never saw goodness, and then my grandmother—her mother—made her even more rigid.
— So that gives her the right to humiliate me at every opportunity? — Rita turned fully toward him. — Artyom, it’s not about different generations or how she was raised. It’s about basic respect for another person. Your mother has never tried to get to know me. She decided right away I wasn’t right for you, and she’s been trying to prove it ever since. And you… you always stand by as an observer.
The light turned green, and Artyom drove on. Rita was right, and that realization hurt. He recalled every time his mother had criticized his wife and he’d stayed silent or changed the subject. He recalled the hope in Rita’s eyes at those moments, only to see it turn to disappointment.
— I didn’t want to come between you, — he said softly. — I thought that over time things would get better. That you’d learn to understand each other.
— In two years? — Rita said bitterly. — Artyom, it’s not a matter of getting used to someone. Your mother doesn’t want to accept me as I am. She wants to reshape me into her idea of a daughter-in-law—quiet, modest, always agreeing with her. But I’m not like that. And I never will be.
Artyom was silent, contemplating her words. The car turned onto a quiet street where the lights were coming on in the windows of the houses.
— “You’re right about one thing,” Rita said more softly. “Today is a special day for your father. I don’t want to spoil his celebration. I’ll be polite to your mother. But I won’t apologize for who I am, and I won’t put up with humiliation, even if it’s disguised as polite conversation.”
Artyom parked in front of his parents’ neat two-storey house. Lights shone in the windows, and several cars were already at the curb—guests had begun to arrive.
— “I shouldn’t have asked you to change your outfit,” he finally admitted, cutting the engine. “You look wonderful. And you’re right… Far too often I just ignore my mother’s remarks instead of standing up for you.”
Rita looked at him in surprise; she hadn’t expected such an admission.
— “Tonight will be different,” Artyom said firmly, taking her hand. “I promise.”
Rita squeezed his hand in return, and for the first time that evening a faint smile appeared on her face.
— “Let’s go congratulate your father,” she said. “Unlike your mother, he’s always been kind to me.”
They got out of the car and walked toward the house, where the conflict that had been brewing for years was waiting for them.
The door was opened by Artyom’s father, Viktor Semyonovich—a sturdy man with graying temples and a friendly smile. Despite his seventy years, he still carried himself like a former officer, with lively eyes.
— “The newlyweds!” he exclaimed happily, though Rita and Artyom had been married for two years. “Come in, everyone’s already here!”
He hugged his son and kissed Rita on the cheek, paying no attention to her bright dress.
— “Happy birthday, Viktor Semyonovich,” Rita said, handing him a neatly wrapped box. “It’s from both of us. We hope you’ll like it.”
— “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” he said, genuinely embarrassed as he took the gift. “The important thing is you came. Zinaida was starting to worry.”
At the mention of his mother, Rita felt Artyom tense. He squeezed her hand slightly—either to support her or to urge restraint.
The spacious living room was already full—mostly relatives and old family friends. Zinaida Petrovna bustled around the table, setting out appetizers and checking that everything was perfect. When she saw the newcomers, she straightened, and her gaze immediately fixed on Rita’s red dress.
— “At last!” she said with a strained smile. “We thought you’d be late.”
She hugged her son, then turned to Rita. Her eyes slid over the dress, the large earrings, the bright lipstick—undisguised disapproval.
— “Good evening, Zinaida Petrovna,” Rita said politely, trying not to react to the appraisal.
— “Good evening, Rita,” the mother-in-law replied, her voice carrying the notes Rita knew all too well. “What an… unusual dress. I believe I once mentioned that we don’t wear red here?”
— “Mother!” Artyom said warningly. “It’s a celebration.”
— “Of course, a celebration,” Zinaida Petrovna agreed quickly. “I just thought that for a family occasion people usually choose something a bit more… modest.”
Rita felt familiar irritation rising, but she took a deep breath; she’d promised herself not to ruin her father-in-law’s birthday.
— “Rita looks wonderful,” Artyom said unexpectedly firmly. “And the dress is perfect.”
Zinaida Petrovna looked at her son in surprise—he usually stayed out of their skirmishes.
— “Well, of course,” she said after a pause. “Come to the table; everyone’s waiting for you.”
Rita and Artyom were seated opposite Zinaida Petrovna—hardly a recipe for a peaceful evening. Beside the birthday boy sat his sister Anna Semyonovna and her husband; farther down were cousins and old friends.
Conversation flowed lazily: guests shared amusing stories about Viktor Semyonovich and offered toasts. Rita tried to join in, but she kept catching her mother-in-law’s assessing glances.
— “Rita is a designer,” Zinaida Petrovna suddenly announced loudly to an elderly couple across the table. “Contemporary art, you know. Not like us—we studied pedagogy in our day and taught children for forty years. Now… the young have different priorities.”
— “Design is interesting,” the woman replied politely. “Which field?”
Rita didn’t have time to answer before Zinaida Petrovna cut in again:
— “Oh, all sorts. Very abstract, not always easy to understand,” she laughed as if she’d said something witty. “Though for family life it might be more useful to choose something… practical.”
— “Rita is a talented interior designer,” Artyom interjected. “She has her own studio and many regular clients. Last month one of her projects was featured in a magazine.”
Zinaida Petrovna pursed her lips.
— “Certainly, dear. I’m not arguing. I simply think a young woman might do better to focus more on her family than her career.”
— “Why should one exclude the other?” Rita asked, keeping her tone calm.
— “Well, how shall I put it…” the mother-in-law drawled, cutting a piece of meat. “When a woman is absorbed in work, the home usually gets less attention. And it’s time to think about children. You’ve been married two years and still…”
— “Mother,” Artyom cut her off sharply. “That’s not a topic for a festive table.”
— “I’m only concerned about you,” Zinaida Petrovna said with feigned surprise. “Time passes.”
Rita felt her cheeks burn. The subject of children was sensitive—they and Artyom had not yet reached a decision. Discussing it in front of everyone?
— “Zinaida, let’s talk about something else,” Viktor Semyonovich suggested gently, sensing the tension. “It’s a celebration!”
— “Exactly,” Rita agreed. “Let’s drink to the birthday boy! To your health, Viktor Semyonovich!”
Everyone raised their glasses. Zinaida Petrovna shot Rita a displeased look but remained silent. Still, the air kept getting thicker, and Rita knew the real storm was yet to break.
The evening went on, tension building with every minute like thunderclouds before a storm. When dessert was served, Zinaida Petrovna, slicing the cake, seized the initiative again.
— “And Svetlana’s daughter,” she nodded toward a middle-aged blonde relative, “got married last year and already has a baby granddaughter. Twenty-five—right on schedule.”
Rita mentally counted to ten. This was already the third such remark that evening.
«And she always dresses so elegantly,» Zinaida Petrovna continued, smiling at Rita. «Modest, but tasteful. No loud colors. Her husband works at a bank, a respectable man, and expects a proper appearance.»
«Mom,» Artyom said tensely, «can we not?»
«Not what?» his mother feigned surprise. «I’m just saying that some girls understand the importance of family values instead of chasing after these fashion trends. Back in my day—»
«Back in your day, women didn’t even have a voice or a choice, it seems,» Rita suddenly said clearly, carefully placing her fork down. An awkward silence filled the living room.
Zinaida Petrovna straightened as if she had swallowed a rod:
«So, what are you saying—that I’m old? Or that I’m powerless?»
«I’m just saying that times change, Zinaida Petrovna,» Rita replied calmly. «And so do ideas about how a woman should look and behave. I respect you as Artyom’s mother, but I can’t constantly mold myself to fit your expectations.»
«All I see is disrespect,» the mother-in-law snapped. «Only a disrespectful daughter-in-law would come to a family dinner dressed so provocatively. Only a selfish woman would put her designer whims above family.»
«Mom, enough!» Artyom slammed his hand on the table, making the glasses jump. Everyone froze, staring at him in shock. «You’ve disliked Rita from the start, and nothing she did could change that. I saw how hard she tried! And all you did was look for reasons to criticize her.»
Zinaida Petrovna paled:
«How dare you talk to your mother like that? She’s turned you against me!» she cried, turning her gaze to Rita. «You see? She’s poisoned him against his own mother!»
«No one poisoned me,» Artyom said harshly. «I’m just finally seeing things clearly. Rita is my wife, and I love her as she is. With her red dress, her career, and her independent spirit. If you can’t accept that, that’s your problem, not ours.»
The guests exchanged uneasy glances, unsure where to look. Viktor Semyonovich tried to defuse the situation:
«Let’s not ruin the celebration…»
«What celebration?» Zinaida Petrovna said bitterly. «When your own son chooses some—»
«Don’t you dare!» Artyom cut her off, his voice trembling with tension. «Don’t you dare speak about her that way. Rita is my wife, and I won’t allow anyone, not even you, to insult her.»
Zinaida Petrovna stood up from the table, shaking with anger:
«So that’s how it is? You choose her? This woman, who doesn’t even respect your mother? Who dares to come into my home dressed like that?»
«She respects you as much as you deserve to be respected, Mom. And yes, I choose our family—me and Rita,» Artyom said firmly, rising as well. «And if you can’t accept that, I’m sorry.»
Rita, stunned by her husband’s sudden support, silently watched the unfolding drama.
«Then get out,» Zinaida Petrovna forced out, pointing to the door. «Both of you. I don’t want to see you. Not in this house, not in my life, as long as she’s by your side.»
«Zina!» Viktor Semyonovich exclaimed. «Come to your senses!»
«Be quiet!» she snapped at her husband. «You’ve always been too soft. And now we have a son who talks to his mother like this!»
«I’m sorry, Dad,» Artyom turned to his father. «I didn’t mean to ruin your birthday.»
His father helplessly spread his hands:
«Son, stay… Your mother will calm down…»
«I won’t calm down!» Zinaida Petrovna cut in. «They need to leave—right now!»
Without a word, Artyom reached out to Rita, and she stood up from the table. In complete silence, they walked out of the living room, under the stunned gazes of the guests.
In the hallway, Artyom helped Rita put on her coat. His hands trembled slightly, but his eyes were steady.
«Artyom!» came Viktor Semyonovich’s voice from deep inside the house. «Wait!»
The father appeared in the hallway doorway, looking lost and distraught.
«Son, don’t leave like this. Your mother just lost her temper. You know what she’s like…»
«I know, Dad. I know her all too well,» Artyom said quietly. «That’s why we’re leaving. I’m sorry. Happy birthday.»
He hugged his father, who weakly patted him on the back.
Already in the car, after they had driven away from the parental home, Rita broke the silence:
«You stood up for me for the first time.»
Artyom let out a deep breath:
«I should have done it long ago.»
Rita placed her hand over his resting on the steering wheel:
«What will happen now?»
«I don’t know,» he answered honestly. «But whatever it is, we’ll handle it together.»
The car slowly disappeared into the evening twilight, carrying them away from the house where broken family ties and shattered hopes for reconciliation remained. But inside that small car, something new was being born—a true family, where two people had finally become one.
