— “Mom’s turning sixty in two days, so clear out for a week—she can’t stand the sight of you,” my husband announced…
Tatyana absentmindedly ran her finger over the fogged-up window, tracing strange patterns as the October evening slowly settled over the damp courtyard. The radiators hadn’t been turned on yet, and a clammy chill hung in the apartment. The two-room flat on the second floor of an old Khrushchyovka, inherited from her grandmother Klavdiya Ivanovna, had always been a quiet harbor for Tatyana. But over the past year something imperceptible had changed. She felt it especially sharply now.
In the corridor, the door lock clicked.
— I’m home, — the front door banged, and Kirill stumbled into the kitchen, shrugging off his soaked jacket as he went. — It’s pouring buckets out there, no point dragging that umbrella around…
He flopped onto a stool and buried himself in his phone without looking at his wife. Then he raised his eyes:
— Why are you standing by the window like it’s some melodrama? Got anything to eat?
Tatyana silently took a plate of yesterday’s cutlets from the fridge and set them to warm.
They had married three years earlier after six months of dating. Back then he had seemed the perfect choice—serious, hardworking, no bad habits. When Tatyana suggested he move in with her so they wouldn’t have to rent, he even pretended to hesitate out of politeness. And now he lorded it over the place as if he’d lived within these walls his whole life.
— By the way, I talked to Mom, — Kirill remarked casually, scrolling his news feed. — You remember her big day is coming up?
Tatyana twitched a shoulder.
— Thursday? Yeah, she mentioned it last time. We’ll need to buy a card, — she didn’t even know why a shiver ran through her.
Nina Petrovna, Kirill’s mother, was a sturdy, domineering woman with unyielding principles. She had raised four children alone after her husband’s early death; the youngest were still in college. She never allowed anyone to help—too proud. She lived in a village three hours away, where Kirill himself was from. After the wedding she’d started coming to the city more often—the commuter train ran regularly, after all.
Her visits turned into real trials. Nina Petrovna felt entitled to control everything—from the length of her daughter-in-law’s skirts to the arrangement of pots in the cupboard. At first Tatyana tried to build a relationship, but quickly realized: whatever she did, her mother-in-law would find something to pick at.
— Can’t you make potatoes properly just once? — the older woman would protest, tasting the stew. — At my age I don’t have the teeth to gnaw these rocks. And my Kiryusha has always liked his potatoes soft and falling apart!
— With hands like yours you should stick to clerical work, — she’d sniff, watching her daughter-in-law awkwardly chop carrots. — Cooking is an art—requires a delicate touch!
— Hey, are you even listening to me? — Kirill waved a hand in front of his wife’s face.
— I’m listening, — she started and came back to herself. — So what about her birthday?
— I invited Mom here, — Kirill said simply. — She’s coming on Thursday—sixty is a big deal—she wants to celebrate with friends.
Tatyana froze with the ladle in her hand:
— What do you mean “here”?
— Well, to our place, — Kirill explained in a tone one uses with the slow-witted. — What’s the problem? She’s my mother. Where else would she go? You know what her house is like back in the village—no room to turn around. And here it’s close to the station so her friends can get here.
— You decided this without even asking me? — Tatyana slowly set the ladle down.
— What is there to ask? — her husband was sincerely surprised. — She’s my mom and you’re my wife. It’s normal for her to celebrate at her son’s place. Ten people, tops.
— Ten people? — Tatyana tried to picture how their tiny apartment would hold that many. — Kirill, there’s simply no space for so many!
— They’ll fit, — he waved it off. — We celebrated in worse conditions in the village. The main thing is to set a good table; people will manage…
— But this is our apartment! — anger welled up inside Tatyana. — You couldn’t at least ask my opinion? Maybe I had other plans!
Her husband pushed the plate away, annoyed:
— What plans? A mother only turns sixty once! God, Tatyana, I don’t get why you’re so worked up. Are you ashamed to have my relatives over?
Of course that wasn’t it. It wasn’t about the “relatives.” It was about the way her mother-in-law barged into their lives, the way Kirill allowed her everything, and how Tatyana always ended up the scapegoat.
— Fine, — Tatyana ground out between her teeth. — Let her come. But you handle the arrangements.
— Sure, — Kirill smirked, — and I’ll cook too. Tanyusha, really? That’s women’s work. In our family Mom always cooked for the holidays. Never complained.
— I’m not your mother! — Tatyana burst out. — And I have no such “duties.” Besides, this is your idea—you host them.
Kirill shook his head in disbelief:
— This is ridiculous. Should I ask my friends if it’s normal that my wife is being difficult over nothing? You’re acting like a child. Set the table, and everyone’s happy.
Arguing was pointless. For Kirill, his mother had always been the ultimate authority, and Tatyana was starting to see that this was exactly why their marriage was slowly but surely falling apart.
The next two days passed in tense silence. Kirill pretended nothing had happened, and Tatyana—despite her words—began to get the apartment in order. The thought tormented her that her mother-in-law would find a speck of dust under the bed and spend the whole evening preaching about the “order” she’d maintained while raising four children.
The evening before Nina Petrovna’s arrival, Tatyana got home earlier than usual. She wanted at least a little quiet in her own home before the hurricane blew in. In the hall she noticed her husband’s shoes—Kirill had also come back early.
— Yes, Mom, of course there’ll be room for everyone, — his voice drifted from the kitchen. — Don’t worry about the presents, we’ll pile them in the bedroom. And anyway, many might not stay the night…
A nasty lump rose in Tatyana’s throat. Many? Stay the night? That had never been part of the deal!
Seeing her in the doorway, Kirill hurriedly said goodbye and set the phone down.
— You’re early, — he observed.
— How many people are coming? — Tatyana got straight to the point.
— Well… — Kirill hesitated. — Mom says it’s adding up to about fifteen. Maybe more; some haven’t decided yet.
— Fifteen?! — Tatyana couldn’t believe her ears. — Are you kidding me? Where are we going to put them? And who’s going to cook for them?
— Don’t exaggerate, — he winced. — They’ll sit, congratulate Mom, eat and drink, and some will go back. So a few will stay over—what’s the big deal?
Tatyana looked at her husband and didn’t recognize him. Where was the reasonable, considerate man she had married? Or had she made him up?
— What about me? Does my opinion matter to you at all? — she asked quietly.
Kirill sighed heavily:
— Tanya, it’s just two days. Cut us some slack—it’s a milestone! Not every day your mother turns sixty. Stop making it complicated.
Useless. She had lost this battle before it began.
That evening, Nina Petrovna arrived, escorted by her perpetual companion Lyubov Stepanovna—a wiry woman with a sharp gaze and pursed lips. The mother-in-law burst into the apartment with enormous bags and didn’t even greet Tatyana.
— Kiryushenka! — she cooed, hugging her son. — You’ve gone all skinny! Why are you so pale?
Kirill gave an apologetic smile:
— Work, Mom. I’m tired.
Nina Petrovna immediately turned her eyes on her daughter-in-law:
— Hello, Tatyana, — she drawled. — Your husband’s wandering around like a ghost; you don’t take care of him at all.
Without waiting for a response, she marched straight to the kitchen as if it were her rightful place:
— Well, I see nothing’s ready for my day! — open disapproval colored her voice. — So many people are coming, and you don’t even have any prep done.
— I’ll buy everything in the morning, — Kirill tried to intervene.
— You’ll buy it? — Nina Petrovna was astonished. — And who’s going to cook? You? Don’t be ridiculous! A man at the stove—what a disgrace! No, let Tatyana handle it—women’s chores.
Again they spoke about her in the third person, as if she weren’t in the room.
— I won’t be able to cook for fifteen people, — Tatyana said firmly. — We don’t have enough food, let alone dishes for everyone. Kirill said at most ten, and even then I didn’t agree. Maybe you should consider a café?
A deafening silence fell. Nina Petrovna turned crimson; Lyubov Stepanovna shuffled awkwardly by the door. And Kirill… Kirill looked at his wife as if she’d just strangled a kitten in front of him.
— I see, — Nina Petrovna said slowly. — My son’s mother has come for a milestone birthday, and the daughter-in-law can’t even make dinner. We’ve sunk low!
— That’s not what I meant, — Tatyana tried to explain. — Our apartment is just too small…
— Kirill, — the mother-in-law cut her off. — We need to talk. In private.
They withdrew to a room, leaving Tatyana and Lyubov Stepanovna in awkward silence. A few minutes later Kirill returned wearing a strange expression—a mix of shame and resolve.
— Mom lied down, — he reported. — She’s upset. Very upset.
— I’m sorry to hear that, — Tatyana replied, without much sincerity. — But I truly don’t understand why I must throw a banquet for fifteen strangers just because your mother decreed it.
Kirill stepped closer and, speaking quietly so Lyubov Stepanovna wouldn’t hear, said:
— Mom’s turning sixty in two days, so clear out for a week—she feels sick looking at you.
Tatyana couldn’t believe her ears.
— What did you say? — she asked, thinking she’d misheard.
— You heard me, — Kirill forced out. — Mom gets upset every time she sees your sour face. And it’s her holiday. Couldn’t you just go away for a couple of days? To a friend’s, to your parents—anywhere. It’ll be better for everyone.
Tatyana turned without a word and left the kitchen. In the bedroom she shut the door and sank onto the bed, trying to process what was happening. Were they really throwing her out of her own home? To make room for strangers?
She tossed sleeplessly all night. Memories spun in her head: how during her mother-in-law’s first visit she’d cooked a festive meal from her grandmother’s recipe. How Nina Petrovna had remarked loftily, “Well, it’ll do for a first time.” How she’d ironed the guest bedding, smoothing every crease. How she’d endured the mother-in-law rewashing the dishes after her, ostentatiously checking for cleanliness.
Staring at the dark ceiling, Tatyana wondered: after three years of marriage and all her efforts to build a relationship, were they really asking her to leave simply because she was… in the way?
In the morning she got up early, washed, and—to her own surprise, calm—walked into the kitchen where Kirill was hastily drinking coffee.
— I’m not in anyone’s way, — she said, enunciating, looking him straight in the eye. — This is my home. If you want—rent a hall, a café, an apartment by the day. But my apartment will not host your mother’s birthday. Period.
Kirill froze with the mug at his lips; his eyebrows shot up. Coffee spilled onto the table, but he didn’t notice. Disbelief on his face gave way to indignation.
— Tanya, are you serious? It’s always like this! — He dabbed the puddle with a napkin. — You blow nothing into a world-scale problem. You could have visited your parents, gotten some rest. Would’ve done you good to get some air.
Tatyana folded her arms, studying the teapot. So that’s how it was? They were just going to shoo her out for a while? And her parents lived far away—in the neighboring region, five hours rattling in a commuter train. Her mother hadn’t been well in recent months, and her father never left her side. Where was she supposed to go? To a friend’s couch like a homeless person?
— To my parents, Kirill? — Tatyana’s voice was deceptively calm. — Half a day on a train?
Her husband faltered:
— Well… Sveta has that little place out of town. Your friend—you went there in the summer.
Tatyana snorted. Svetlana, her school friend, was married to a first-class bore. They had gone to that dacha only once, over the May holidays. Alexei, Sveta’s husband, had thrown a fit over a couple of glasses of wine she’d had with dinner. They hadn’t tried it again.
— Let’s skip the fantasies, — Tatyana cut him off.
Kirill opened his mouth to argue, but at that moment Nina Petrovna walked in. Tatyana winced. She had no desire to talk to her mother-in-law, but hiding wouldn’t help either.
— Is it true?! — Nina’s voice slammed into her ear before Tatyana could even say good morning. — You made a scene! What are we supposed to do now? Send the guests away? Or did you decide to ruin my holiday on purpose?
No greeting, no preamble—straight to the attack. As always. Tatyana slowly counted to five. Yelling was useless—only made things worse.
— I didn’t make any scene, — she said evenly, stressing each word. — I simply said I won’t move out of my own home. And I won’t sacrifice my peace of mind to organize a party.
Nina clearly hadn’t expected that.
— So you’re against my birthday? — venom dripped from her words. — You know what…
She didn’t finish—she just turned and left. She and her friend gathered their things and went without another word, slamming the door.
Kirill watched his wife from under furrowed brows.
— Well, happy now? — he hissed through his teeth. — Mom’s in tears, the guests are already on their way, and now it’s all up in the air. It’s impossible to live in a house like this!
He jumped up, grabbed his jacket from the hook, shoved his feet into his shoes.
— I’m going with Mom, — he threw over his shoulder. — For a couple of days, till the birthday. Maybe I can calm her down.
The front door slammed so hard the china rattled in the cabinet. Tatyana stood in the middle of the kitchen without moving, without calling him back. Funny thing—she felt, for the first time in many months, that she was doing the right thing.
The apartment sank into unusual silence. The background murmur of the TV—which Kirill habitually switched on the second he crossed the threshold—was gone. No more familiar clink of a spoon against a cup as her husband stirred his sugar while endlessly scrolling on his phone. Tatyana looked around the kitchen—so ordinary and suddenly unfamiliar. When was the last time she’d been home completely alone?
A ray of sunlight slid through the window, lighting up dusty streaks on the sill, crumbs on the table’s edge, faint smudges on the floor she hadn’t noticed before. Tatyana pulled a rag from the cupboard. Work always helped put her thoughts in order.
The next twenty-four hours flew by in chores that unexpectedly brought pleasure. Tatyana washed the windows that had long needed cleaning. Changed the bedding, sorted the wardrobe, got rid of clothes she hadn’t worn in years. By evening she cooked dinner—not for two, out of habit, but exactly as much as she wanted to eat herself.
Amazingly, for the first time in a long while Tatyana didn’t feel the constant tension that had lived within these walls. She didn’t have to accommodate anyone else’s schedules, moods, or habits. She didn’t need to wait for her husband to come home from work, or flinch at every phone call, afraid it would be her mother-in-law’s voice.
Near midnight Tatyana poured a glass of red wine, took the book she’d been putting off forever, and curled up in an armchair. The realization came unexpectedly—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so at peace in her own apartment.
On the day of the celebration, Tatyana didn’t call either her husband or his mother. In the morning she sent a short, emotionless congratulation. No reply came; she hadn’t expected one.
Life flowed evenly. Tatyana went to work, met up with old friends for the first time in ages, watched her favorite films (without having to break off to cook dinner for her husband). Oddly enough, Kirill’s absence stirred neither anxiety nor a sense of loss. Instead there was an inner lightness.
A couple of days later, scrolling her social-media feed, Tatyana came across photos from the party. Nina Petrovna in a fancy dress, surrounded by guests. The celebration had taken place at a small café on the outskirts of the city. Tatyana recognized the interior—they and Kirill had once stopped in there to grab a bite on the way from the station. In one picture, her husband stood next to his mother, arm around her shoulders. The caption read: “My dearest person.” Kirill was smiling—openly, sincerely, carefree. Without Tatyana.
Strangely, the sight didn’t hurt. Kirill really did look happy beside his mother—and that was fine. Perhaps he was more comfortable where he wasn’t asked to change, where he didn’t have to compromise, where everything was clear and laid out.
On the third day after the birthday, Tatyana heard a key turning in the lock. Kirill stood on the threshold—slightly abashed, with a small gym bag in hand.
— Hi, — he muttered, stepping into the hall and taking off his shoes. — How are you?
— Fine, — Tatyana replied, watching him neatly place his shoes on the rack. — You?
— Also… fine, — he hesitated. — The party was great, by the way. In a little café near Mom’s friends. It actually turned out better than if we’d had it here.
Tatyana nodded without speaking, unsure what to add.
— Listen, — Kirill went into the kitchen and plopped onto a stool. — I’ve been thinking. Maybe Mom went too far, sure. But you could’ve been softer, too. You understand—sixty doesn’t happen every day…
Tatyana looked at her husband intently and suddenly realized—she felt neither outrage nor anger. Only fatigue and a deep, quiet regret.
— Do you really think you can throw me out of my own home and then come back as if nothing happened? — she asked.
Kirill frowned:
— Hold on, I didn’t throw you out… I only suggested…
— I’m not a couch cushion to be put away when I’m in the way and brought back when convenient, — Tatyana cut him off. — I’m a living person. And my apartment is not a thoroughfare for other people’s parties.
— For God’s sake, Tanya, don’t start! — Kirill smacked his palm on the table. — I apologized! What more do you want?
Tatyana slowly shook her head:
— You didn’t apologize, Kirill. You said I “could’ve been softer.” And you still don’t understand what was wrong.
Silence fell over the kitchen. Her husband stared at Tatyana as if seeing her for the first time.
— You know, — he said after a long pause, — maybe I’ll stay with Seryoga for a while. Will you let me pack my things?
Tatyana nodded. Surprisingly, the decision didn’t stir any protest or urge to fix things. On the contrary—inside spread a strange but pleasant sense of release.
Kirill didn’t move out in an instant. First he took the essentials, then came back a few more times for the rest. A week later, nothing in the apartment bore signs of his presence—except for a couple of joint photos, which Tatyana tucked away in a desk drawer.
Nina Petrovna called once—to report that her son was “completely worn down” and it was time for Tatyana to “stop being foolish and make up.” Tatyana listened, politely thanked her for the concern, and firmly said there would be no reconciliation.
— Kirill needs a woman who supports him completely, — Tatyana said without malice or resentment. — And I need a man who respects my boundaries. We both deserve what we want. Just not with each other.
Her mother-in-law snorted something unintelligible and hung up. There were no more calls.
The divorce went surprisingly smoothly, without fights or scandals. There was almost nothing to divide—the apartment belonged to Tatyana, and they had acquired little together. Kirill didn’t make a scene, he only asked to have back the laptop he’d once given her; Tatyana readily agreed.
Sometimes in the evenings, curled up in her chair and looking at the city lights outside the window, Tatyana wondered: had there been anything real in their marriage? Did Kirill truly love her, or had he simply found a convenient shelter where he was cared for and nothing was asked in return?
She didn’t know the answer. But with each passing day it became clearer—she wasn’t afraid of being alone. She didn’t fear the silence of an empty apartment; she wasn’t afraid to make decisions on her own without checking with anyone. Her home had once again become a fortress where she could be herself without bowing to someone else’s wishes and complaints.
Six months later Tatyana ran into Kirill by chance near a shopping center. Her ex-husband looked trim, with a refreshed wardrobe and a fashionable haircut. Beside him stood a petite blonde with porcelain skin and a delicate blush on her cheeks.
— Hello, — Kirill said, shifting awkwardly. — Meet Yulia. We’re… seeing each other.
The girl smiled shyly and offered her hand:
— Nice to meet you.
— Likewise, — Tatyana replied sincerely.
The girl looked remarkably like a young version of Nina Petrovna—the same features, the same dimples when she smiled, the same upward glance at Kirill. Her former mother-in-law must have been thrilled.
— How are you? — Kirill asked after an awkward pause.
— Great, — Tatyana smiled. — Truly, everything’s good.
It was the simple truth. She had really found her inner balance. She’d learned to value personal space, the freedom to choose, the right to say “no.” Only welcome guests now crossed her threshold. And no one ever again suggested that she “clear out for a week.”
