Jingling keys in the lock, Margarita opened the apartment door. Voices came from the kitchen, and the familiar smell of borscht filled the hallway. Her heart started beating faster, and her teeth clenched involuntarily. Again. Viktoria Pavlovna had appeared in her home without warning.
“Olezhka, what kind of pilaf is she making you? That’s not food, it’s a mockery!” the sharp voice of the mother-in-law rang out from the kitchen. “I brought some homemade chicken. From Aunt Zina’s dacha, not that store-bought chemical stuff.”
Margarita slowly took off her coat and carefully hung it on a hook. Trying not to creak the floorboards, she sneaked to the kitchen doorway. Oleg sat at the table with an expression of complete bliss on his face while Viktoria Pavlovna was bustling about the stove as if she were at home.
“Mom, why are you doing this? Rita said she would make dinner,” Oleg said with his mouth full, taking another spoonful of soup.
“What does she know how to cook?” Viktoria Pavlovna snorted, continuing to chop vegetables. “I saw how she makes cutlets. Are those even cutlets? More like some kind of meatballs!”
Margarita clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Unable to hold back any longer, she entered the kitchen.
Trying to sound neutral, Margarita said:
“Good evening. I didn’t know we had guests.”
Viktoria Pavlovna startled and turned around. Displeasure flashed across her face, quickly replaced by a fake smile.
“Rita, dear! I just decided to feed you proper food. Olezhka comes home hungry from work, and you have no time,” the mother-in-law’s voice dripped with sweet poison.
Oleg got up from the table, kissed his wife on the cheek, and, rubbing his stomach contentedly, said:
“Mom made borscht. Want some?”
“Thank you, I’m not hungry,” Margarita stepped away from her husband. “We agreed that I would cook dinner today.”
“Well, mom already did everything,” Oleg shrugged. “Why stress yourself now?”
Viktoria Pavlovna smiled triumphantly and turned back to the stove.
“Oleg, can I have a minute?” Margarita nodded toward the living room.
In the living room, Margarita closed the door firmly and sharply turned to her husband.
“How long is this going to continue?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Your mother comes uninvited, bosses around in my kitchen, and I’m tired of it!”
“What’s so terrible about it?” Oleg spread his hands in confusion. “Mom cares about us. She brought groceries, made dinner. Others would be happy!”
“It humiliates me,” Margarita pressed her fingers to her temples. “She acts like I can’t do anything. She constantly criticizes. And you don’t even notice!”
“You’re exaggerating,” Oleg waved his hand. “Mom’s just used to taking care of us. She’s doing it for my good.”
“And who am I in this apartment?” Margarita’s voice trembled. “Let me remind you, this is my grandmother’s apartment! And your mother behaves like she owns the place!”
“Don’t start,” Oleg rolled his eyes. “I’m tired from work; I want to eat in peace. Can’t we just be glad someone cares about us?”
At that moment, the door opened without knocking, and Viktoria Pavlovna appeared in the doorway with a towel in her hands.
“Kids, what are you whispering about here?” Her tone was overly cheerful. “Rita, don’t just stand there like a statue, come eat. Olezhka, I made you compote, your favorite.”
Oleg lit up and, throwing a warning glance at his wife, headed back to the kitchen.
“Thanks, mom, you’re the best!”
Margarita was left standing alone, watching the departing pair—her husband and his mother. Sunday lunches, washed shirts, new clothes—all were just the visible layer of their strange relationship. Beneath it lay Oleg’s complete dependence on his mother’s care.
“Rita!” the mother-in-law’s voice reached her. “I noticed you ran out of salt! I’ll bring some more tomorrow, and sunflower oil too. The kind you buy is all chemicals!”
Margarita clenched her teeth. At thirty-five, her husband was still a mama’s boy, and she, without realizing it, found herself in a strange triangle where she clearly did not belong.
A week later, Margarita was slowly returning home. It had been a hard day at work. She just wanted to rest and think about nothing.
Approaching her house, Margarita noticed a brand-new black BMW proudly shining in the sun in the middle of the yard. Oleg stood near the car, childishly excited, waving his arms as if explaining something to an invisible companion. Viktoria Pavlovna circled her son like a hen around her most precious chick. Margarita stopped for a moment, watching the scene from the side.
“Rita!” Oleg, noticing his wife, rushed to meet her. “Look what mom gave! Can you imagine?!”
Viktoria Pavlovna beamed, smiling with all her teeth, and even from afar, it was clear how triumphant she was.
“Gave it as a gift?” Margarita looked confused, shifting her gaze from her husband to her mother-in-law. “Where did your mom get money for such a car?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Oleg waved dismissively, tugging on Margarita’s sleeve impatiently. “Come on, I’ll show you everything. Leather interior, navigation, climate control…”
Viktoria Pavlovna approached, staring straight into her daughter-in-law’s eyes.
“Nothing is too much for my son’s happiness,” the mother-in-law said, emphasizing each word. “That’s what true love means.”
Margarita’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re retired,” she said quietly. “Where do you get millions for a car?”
“That’s my business,” Viktoria Pavlovna cut in. “The main thing is my boy is happy. Not like with you—always saving on everything.”
Oleg, engrossed in exploring his new toy, didn’t hear the conversation. He was tuning the radio, trying to figure out the touchscreen.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Margarita insisted.
“Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Viktoria Pavlovna snapped, but then noticing her son turned around, softened her tone: “Olezhka, are you happy? I’m so glad to see your happy smile!”
At home, Margarita decided to clarify the situation.
“Oleg, we need to talk,” she said when her husband, finally satisfied with the new car, returned to the apartment. “Where did your mother get such money?”
“I don’t know,” Oleg shrugged, opening the fridge. “Maybe she saved up. What difference does it make?”
“A big one,” Margarita stood in front of her husband, crossing her arms. “Your mom worked as a librarian. She has a modest pension. Such a car costs a fortune.”
“Rita, you always find something to complain about!” Oleg slammed the fridge door. “Mom gave me a gift. Just be happy for me!”
“I’m worried,” Margarita lowered her voice. “What if she sold her apartment?”
“Nonsense,” Oleg waved it off. “Mom would have told me.”
“But…”
“Enough,” Oleg raised his hand to stop her. “I’m going for a drive. I want to get used to the new car.”
He grabbed the keys and left, leaving Margarita alone with her thoughts.
A month later, when the excitement over the new car had faded a little, Margarita came home earlier than usual. It had been a tough day—two classes of exams and a parent meeting. She dreamed of a hot bath and silence. Opening the door, Margarita stopped dead.
In the hallway stood three huge suitcases. On one of them sat Viktoria Pavlovna, flipping through a glossy magazine.
“What’s going on?” Margarita breathed out, not believing her eyes.
“Oh, there you are! I was waiting,” Viktoria Pavlovna put down the magazine.
Sweat covered Margarita’s forehead.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I sold the apartment,” Viktoria Pavlovna announced proudly. “Had to buy something for Oleg’s car.”
Margarita leaned against the wall to keep from falling. Her worst nightmare was becoming reality.
“You sold the apartment for the car?” Margarita barely managed to say the words. “And you didn’t even discuss it with your son?”
“Why discuss?” Viktoria Pavlovna stood up, brushing off her skirt. “I’m an adult; I decide for myself. Oleg always dreamed of such a car. You’d never buy it for him.”
“And where do you plan to live?” Margarita already knew the answer but asked anyway.
“Here, of course,” Viktoria Pavlovna pointed to the suitcases. “Oleg and I already talked it over. He said there’s enough room for all of us.”
Rage rose inside Margarita, eclipsing all other feelings.
“You spent all the money on your son, and now you want to live in my apartment?” Margarita’s voice sounded unexpectedly firm.
“Oh, don’t start,” Viktoria Pavlovna grimaced. “I’m Oleg’s mother, and I have the right to live with my son.”
“But this is my apartment,” Margarita straightened up. “My grandmother’s. Not yours or Oleg’s.”
Viktoria Pavlovna sang confidently:
“We’re family! Where my son is, I have the right to be.”
At that moment, the front door opened. Oleg entered, whistling a cheerful tune.
“Mom already told you?”
Margarita cut him off:
“Yes. And we need to talk. Right now.”
In the bedroom, Margarita closed the door, then turned to her husband.
“You invited your mother to live with us without discussing it with me?”
Each word was hard for her to say.
Oleg was genuinely surprised.
“What’s there to discuss? Mom sold her apartment; she has nowhere to go.”
Margarita hissed:
“She sold her apartment to buy you a car we can’t afford. And you think that’s normal?”
Oleg stubbornly replied:
“That’s her decision. And why do you always treat my mom like that?”
Margarita exclaimed:
“Oleg, your mother controls every aspect of your life! She decides what you wear, what you eat, and now she wants to take over our home!”
Oleg’s face flushed.
“Don’t say that! I know you’ve never liked her. But mom did for me what you couldn’t. She cares for me!”
“And who am I? A neighbor?” Margarita’s eyes sparkled. “I’m your wife, not a competitor for your mother. But you don’t seem to understand that!”
The bedroom door swung open, and Viktoria Pavlovna appeared in the doorway with a face twisted in anger.
“I heard everything!” she shouted. “You’re turning your son against his own mother! Ungrateful!”
“Mom, calm down,” Oleg tried to intervene.
“No, son,” Viktoria Pavlovna theatrically pressed her hand to her heart. “I gave everything for your happiness. And she… she wants to destroy our family!”
“Margarita, apologize to mom,” Oleg demanded, hugging his mother by the shoulders.
“Apologize?” Margarita couldn’t believe her ears. “For what? For not wanting your mother to live in my apartment? For thinking it’s abnormal to be a mama’s boy at thirty-five?”
“That’s enough,” Oleg clenched his fists. “Either you accept my mom, or…”
“Or what?” Margarita crossed her arms.
“Or we go our separate ways,” Oleg finished.
Margarita smirked unpleasantly.
“Good thing you said it! Get out of my apartment!”
A week later, Margarita filed for divorce.
Six months later, sitting in her renovated apartment, Margarita watched the setting sun. She had rearranged the furniture, changed the curtains, and finally hung the paintings Oleg had called “girly decorations.” Now it was completely her home—bright, cozy, filled only with the things and people she had chosen.
The phone rang, making Margarita jump.
“Hi,” a friend’s voice sounded cheerful. “How are you? Don’t you miss it?”
“No,” Margarita smiled, looking at her favorite books neatly arranged on the shelves. “I’m finally breathing freely.”
